Beat the Reaper: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

of nickname is Squillante? ”
    “It’s from Jimmy Squillante.”
    “That shitbag from the garbage industry?”
    “The man who reinvigorated the garbage industry. And watch your mouth. He was a pal to me.”
    “Wait a minute,” I say. “You’re called Squillante because Jimmy Squillante was a pal to you?”
    “Yeah. Though his real name was Vincent.”
    “ What the fuck are you talking about? I knew a girl named Barbara once—I don’t ask people to call me Babs.”
    “Probably wise.”
    “What about ‘Eddy Consol’?”
    “That’s another nickname of mine. From ‘Consolidated.’” He chuckles. “You think somebody’s real name is ‘Consolidated’?”
    I let go of him. “No, I got that part, thanks.”
    He rubs his chest. “Jesus, Bearclaw—”
    “Don’t call me that.”
    “Okay...” He trails off. “Wait a minute. If you didn’t know I was Squillante, how’d you find me?”
    “I didn’t find you.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “You’re a patient in a hospital. I’m a doctor.”
    “You’re dressed as a doctor.”
    “No. I am a doctor.”
    We stare at each other.
    Then he says, “Get the fuck outta here!”
    I find myself waving it off. “It’s not that big a deal.”
    “Bullshit! Mazel Tov, kiddo!” He shakes his head. “You fuckin Jews. What, they don’t let wiseguys become lawyers?”
    “I was never a wiseguy.”
    “I’m sorry about that.”
    “I’m not asking you to apologize.”
    “It was an oversight. No insult intended.”
    I’ve forgotten that mob guys talk like that—like there was some unified and democratic meeting they all attended. “Don’t worry about it,” I say. “Half the guys I shot for David Locano were wiseguys.”
    He swallows, which isn’t that easy when you’re getting all your fluids through your arm. “You gonna kill me, Bearclaw?”
    “I don’t know yet,” I tell him.
    His eyes shoot to his IV bag.
    “If I do, I’m not going to put air in your IV tube,” I say.
    If getting a small amount of air in your IV tube really killed you, half the patients at Manhattan Catholic would already be dead. In real life the LD50 of air—the dose that will be lethal in 50 percent of people—is two cubic centimeters for every kilogram of weight. For LoBrutto, or whatever his name is, that would be about ten syringes. *
    Maybe I should stick a cork down his throat. Light woods are invisible on X-ray, and no pathologist at Manhattan Catholic is going to go to the trouble of dissecting Squillante’s voice box. But where am I going to find a cork?
    “Stop thinking about it!” he says.
    “Relax,” I say. “Right now I’m not even sure I’m going to kill you.”
    A moment later I realize this is true, because I’ve figured out how to do it if I have to.
    I’ll just jack him with potassium. If I do it slowly enough, it will stop his heart without spiking his EKG, * and after he’s dead so many of his cells will burst that his whole body will be flooded with potassium.
    “Jesus,” he says. “For all I know I have cancer anyway.”
    “You do have cancer,” I say.
    “What do you mean?”
    “I just read your biopsy results.”
    “Jesus! Is it bad?”
    “No, it’s fantastic. That’s why everybody wants it.”
    Squillante, with tears in his eyes, shakes his head. “Such a fuckin smartass. From the time you were a kid.” He grabs my ID badge. “What are they calling you these days, anyway?”
    When he reads it he boggles. “‘Peter Brown’? Like in the Beatles song?”
    “Yeah,” I say, impressed. †
    “They changed your name from Pietro Brnwa to Peter Brown? How stupid do they think we are?”
    “Pretty fuckin stupid, apparently.”
    An announcement comes out of the PA in the ceiling: “Code Blue. All available medical staff to 815 South.” It repeats a couple of times.
    Squillante realizes what’s up. “I won’t say shit, Bearclaw,” he says. “I promise.”
    “If you do, I’ll come back and kill you now. Are you