Devil's Waltz Read Online Free PDF

the third floor. Waiting, always the waiting…
    Stephanie moved through deftly, nodding at familiar faces but never stopping. I followed close behind, avoiding collision with I.V. poles.
    When we entered the basement stairwell, I said, “What kind of crime problems have there been?”
    “The usual, but more so,” she said, climbing. “Car thefts, vandalism, purse snatchings. Some muggings out on Sunset. And a couple of nurses were assaulted in the parking lot across the street a few months ago.”
    “Sexual assaults?” I said, taking two steps at a time in order to keep up.
    “That was never made clear. Neither of them came back to talk about it. They were night-shift floats, not regular staff. What I
heard
was that they were beaten up pretty badly and had their purses stolen. The police sent a community relations officer who gave us the usual personal safety lecture and admitted that, bottom line, there was little anyone could do to guarantee safety unless the hospital was turned into an armed camp. The women on the staff screamed a lot and the administration promised to have Security patrol more regularly.”
    “Any follow-through?”
    “Guess so — you see more uniforms in the lots and there’ve been no attacks since then. But the protection came with a whole bunch of other stuff no one asked for. Robocops on campus, new badges, frequent hassles like the one you just went through. Personally, I think we played right into the administration’s hands — gave them an excuse for exercising more control. And once they get it, they’ll never relinquish it.”
    “C students getting revenge?”
    She stopped climbing and looked down at me over her shoulder, smiling sheepishly. “You
remember
that?”
    “Vividly.”
    “Pretty mouthy back then, wasn’t I?”
    “The fire of youth,” I said. “And they deserved it — talking down to you in front of everyone, that ‘Dr.
Ms
.’ stuff.”
    “Yeah, they
were
a pretty cheeky bunch, weren’t they.” She resumed the climb, but more slowly. “Banker’s hours, martini lunches, sitting around shmoozing in the caf and sending
us
memos about increasing efficiency and cutting costs.”
    A few steps later she stopped again. “C students — I can’t believe I actually said that.” Her cheeks were aflame. “I
was
obnoxious, wasn’t I?”
    “Inspired, Steph.”
    “More like
per
spired. Those were crazy times, Alex. Totally crazy.”
    “Sure were,” I said. “But don’t dismiss what we accomplished: equal pay for female staff, parents rooming in, the playrooms.”
    “And let us not forget free coffee for the house staff.”
    A few steps later: “Even so, Alex, so much of what we obsessed on seems so misdirected. We focused on personalities but the problem was the system. One bunch of C students leaves, another arrives, and the same old problems go on. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve stayed here too long. Look at you — away from it for all these years and you look better than ever.”
    “So do you,” I said, thinking of what she’d just told me about trying for the division-head position.
    “Me?” She smiled. “Well, you’re
gallant
to say so, but in my case, it’s not due to personal fulfillment. Just clean living.”
     
     
    The fifth floor housed children aged one to eleven who were not in need of high-tech care. The hundred beds in the east ward took up two thirds of the floor space.
    The remaining third was set aside for a twenty-bed private unit on the west side, separated from the ward by teak doors lettered THE HANNAH CHAPELL SPECIAL UNIT in brass.
    Chappy Ward
. Off limits to the hoi polloi and trainees, maintained by endowments, private insurance, and personal checks; not a Medi-Cal form in sight.
    Private meant Muzak flowing from concealed ceiling speakers, carpeted floors instead of linoleum, one patient per room in place of three or more, TVs that worked almost all the time, though they were still black-and-white antiques.
    This morning,