retrieve the doctor and he sees in the faces of its crew that he's become a leper.
"Ray Amano," Gardner said.
Behind him on the radio someone said "You've cleared this with the family, I assume," someone else "But he is long dead, in
the war."
"Just a moment. Let me jot this down. There. For a project of mine, images of war in popular culture." The radio shut off.
Gardner's voice seemed of a sudden eerily loud. "I'm afraid that I don't represent Mr. Amano anymore. Or publish him, for
that matter."
When he stopped speaking, static rushed in tofill the quiet.
I waited.
"I do know he's still not been heard from. Kid name of Gilden's editing an edition of Bury All Towers for one of those subscriber-only paperback clubs, talking about doing others. He's called me up a couple of times. The Hollywood
interest is long gone, of course."
"Can't be too long gone. Everybody in such a hurry to let go?"
"It's been almost two months. Burners cool quickly in this business, Mr. Griffin."
"YOU COULD HAVE told me," I said.
"I did tell you, Lew. I told you, the doctors told you, LaVerne told you, Hosie told you. We told you two or three hundred times.
Every other way, you were fine, but you just couldn't hold on to time. Time passed right through you, left nothing behind.
Doctors say it's the kind of thing that can happen with concussion, severe trauma—or with hypoxia. One of the rounds nicked
your femoral artery, Lew, you remember that? You'd bled out pretty bad by the time the paramedics got there."
"Of course I remember." Remembered them telling me about it, anyway.
"Physically, you were well enough to be released some time back."
"But it's only been a few days, a week at the most. I know that."
"That's how it seems, Lew. To you—which is precisely the problem."
I'd been Doo-Wopped. Every day was today. I was on Hopi Mean Time.
"Doctors held off discharging you because of that. They say usually the sensorium rights itself, gets back on track without
much help from diem. Just a matter of time.
Or in the case of hypoxia, other parts of the brain learn to take over."
"Or maybe they don't."
"Yeah," Don said. "Maybe."
After a moment I tripped the call bell. Cindy responded.
"I'm leaving, Cindy. Any paperwork has to be signed, they need to get it up here."
"Head nurse'll flip out over this, Mr. Griffin." Her tone suggested that this was not an altogether unwelcome prospect. "Course,
she flips out over almost anything."
"Closet's to your right, about five paces," Don said once Cindy was gone.
I found it and fumbled the door open, one of those push hard and let go affairs. "Anything in there?"
'Ten or twelve empty hangers. Clothes—T-shirts, jeans—folded and stacked on the shelf above, to the left. Socks and underwear
right."
"Thanks, Don. I don't suppose there'd be a suitcase, anything like that?"
"Matter of fact there is. Same shelf, far right. I brought one up a couple of days ago. Had a feeling you might be needing
it soon."
Within moments clothes were stowed away. Retrieving razor, shaving cream, toothbrush and toothpaste from the phonebooth-size
bathroom—not to mention a fifth of Scotch Hosie had smuggled in—I threw them into Don's suitcase and zipped it shut. The suitcase
bumped against my leg as I started for the door and walked into the corner of the nightstand. I'd go on collecting bruises
for some time.
"Nothing fair about any of it, is there, Don?"
"You ever thought any different?"
At which point Head Nurse pushed imperiously in to begin reciting the litany of reasons I could not, absolutely could not, leave.
"Probably shouldn't block the door," Don said. "And I'd stand back if I were you. I know this man."
She ignored him. "You insist on this, I'll be forced to call Security."
Her beeper went off. She ignored that as well.
"Call whomever you want. But you'd be well advised to call your administrator first, to check on legalities."
Exasperated: "It's five in the
"Ray Amano," Gardner said.
Behind him on the radio someone said "You've cleared this with the family, I assume," someone else "But he is long dead, in
the war."
"Just a moment. Let me jot this down. There. For a project of mine, images of war in popular culture." The radio shut off.
Gardner's voice seemed of a sudden eerily loud. "I'm afraid that I don't represent Mr. Amano anymore. Or publish him, for
that matter."
When he stopped speaking, static rushed in tofill the quiet.
I waited.
"I do know he's still not been heard from. Kid name of Gilden's editing an edition of Bury All Towers for one of those subscriber-only paperback clubs, talking about doing others. He's called me up a couple of times. The Hollywood
interest is long gone, of course."
"Can't be too long gone. Everybody in such a hurry to let go?"
"It's been almost two months. Burners cool quickly in this business, Mr. Griffin."
"YOU COULD HAVE told me," I said.
"I did tell you, Lew. I told you, the doctors told you, LaVerne told you, Hosie told you. We told you two or three hundred times.
Every other way, you were fine, but you just couldn't hold on to time. Time passed right through you, left nothing behind.
Doctors say it's the kind of thing that can happen with concussion, severe trauma—or with hypoxia. One of the rounds nicked
your femoral artery, Lew, you remember that? You'd bled out pretty bad by the time the paramedics got there."
"Of course I remember." Remembered them telling me about it, anyway.
"Physically, you were well enough to be released some time back."
"But it's only been a few days, a week at the most. I know that."
"That's how it seems, Lew. To you—which is precisely the problem."
I'd been Doo-Wopped. Every day was today. I was on Hopi Mean Time.
"Doctors held off discharging you because of that. They say usually the sensorium rights itself, gets back on track without
much help from diem. Just a matter of time.
Or in the case of hypoxia, other parts of the brain learn to take over."
"Or maybe they don't."
"Yeah," Don said. "Maybe."
After a moment I tripped the call bell. Cindy responded.
"I'm leaving, Cindy. Any paperwork has to be signed, they need to get it up here."
"Head nurse'll flip out over this, Mr. Griffin." Her tone suggested that this was not an altogether unwelcome prospect. "Course,
she flips out over almost anything."
"Closet's to your right, about five paces," Don said once Cindy was gone.
I found it and fumbled the door open, one of those push hard and let go affairs. "Anything in there?"
'Ten or twelve empty hangers. Clothes—T-shirts, jeans—folded and stacked on the shelf above, to the left. Socks and underwear
right."
"Thanks, Don. I don't suppose there'd be a suitcase, anything like that?"
"Matter of fact there is. Same shelf, far right. I brought one up a couple of days ago. Had a feeling you might be needing
it soon."
Within moments clothes were stowed away. Retrieving razor, shaving cream, toothbrush and toothpaste from the phonebooth-size
bathroom—not to mention a fifth of Scotch Hosie had smuggled in—I threw them into Don's suitcase and zipped it shut. The suitcase
bumped against my leg as I started for the door and walked into the corner of the nightstand. I'd go on collecting bruises
for some time.
"Nothing fair about any of it, is there, Don?"
"You ever thought any different?"
At which point Head Nurse pushed imperiously in to begin reciting the litany of reasons I could not, absolutely could not, leave.
"Probably shouldn't block the door," Don said. "And I'd stand back if I were you. I know this man."
She ignored him. "You insist on this, I'll be forced to call Security."
Her beeper went off. She ignored that as well.
"Call whomever you want. But you'd be well advised to call your administrator first, to check on legalities."
Exasperated: "It's five in the
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