ST. JOE'S

  by Chris Laing

1

Frankie hated hospitals, especially this one: had his tonsils out here when he was eight, and those three slugs when he was eighteen.

But orders were orders and Mr. D. said find out what room the cop was in and take a look around, come up with a plan. So now he stood before this no-nonsense nurse at the admissions desk, clerks machinegunning their typewriters behind her, a sad-eyed Christ figure hanging from a big crucifix on the wall. Her name tag read Sister Albertus, R.N., standing tall and stiff in her starched white uniform, tiny black moustache, well, not that tiny, and black eyes glaring at him, looking to Frankie like one of God's drill sergeants. Jeez, the same goddamn eyes Sister Francesca fixed on him when he and Nicky Violi set that fire at St. Anthony's School.

“State your business, young man. Are you a member of Sergeant Belcastro's family?”

Shit. He held her stare, felt the sweat forming under his armpits but didn't give anything away. Just be casual, Mr. D. said, don't raise any suspicions. And now this Big Bertha was making a federal case of it.

“That's right, Sister,” he said. “He's my uncle. I came in as soon as I heard about the ... ah ... well, as soon as I heard.”

She continued her inspection, maybe thinking, Yes, he's short and dark, could be part of that Italian tribe, always shooting each other. Then she shrugged and cocked her head toward the stairway. “Second floor. End of the hall.”

He took his time crossing the lobby to the stairs, feeling the nun's eyes boring into him, and bowed his head as he passed the statue of St. Joseph holding a carpenter's square in one hand and resting the other on the shoulder of the boy Jesus. A sign on the second floor said ORTHOPEDIC WARD and that stopped him for a moment but he followed the arrow to the right. Frankie's nose twitched and his stomach lurched: the odor of ether and alcohol and hospital almost overwhelming him. Nurses' aides in blue uniforms scuttled in and out of rooms, clattering laundry carts and carrying bed-pans, paying no attention to him, the loudspeakers in the ceiling paging Doctor so–and–so

.He glanced along the hallway: rooms on both sides, a seating area at the end where a couple of old duffers stared out the picture window and smoked their pipes. Patriotic posters still on the walls a year after the war: BUY CANADA SAVINGS BONDS. And the faint strains from a radio somewhere, Perry Como singing “Chi-Baba, Chi-Baba”.

No cops in sight, the door to the last room stood open. He strolled past, saw there was just one bed in there, catching a glimpse of the guy, maybe sleeping, one leg in a cast held up by some sort of contraption with wires on it, the other wrapped in bandages from hip to knee. The name tag on the door read “Belcastro” and that delicious tingle buzzed up Frankie's spine; this was one cop who wasn't going to be a nuisance to the family for much longer.

Frankie nodded at the old-timers sitting by the window but they ignored him. He now noticed there were three of them: the third a skinny guy in a tired dressing gown and slippers, dozing in his chair, a copy of the Hamilton Spectator sprawled on the floor beside him, its headline blaring, “Adolph Hitler's Gang to Hang Tomorrow in Nuremburg”. My God, Frankie thought, if news like that puts you to sleep there's no hope for you.

He took the back stairs down to the first floor, followed along past the chapel and slipped out a side exit onto Charlton Street , checking that the door didn't lock behind him. Good, it didn't. But it might be locked after visiting hours, so he'd check that later.

2

Connie breezed into her dad's room, all business in her nurse's uniform with the perky cap bobby-pinned to her dark curls, its black band indicating she'd graduated from St. Joseph 's Nursing School across the street from the hospital on Mountain Boulevard . Sal watched his little girl reach for his chart and study it, biting her lower lip, her mother's dark eyes darting from one page to the next, worried about her old man lying here with both legs buggered up. He knew she'd give him the same kind of care his late wife would have: all the attention he really needed but no bullshit tolerated from a whining patient.

When Teresa died from tuberculosis in the Mountain Sanatorium in 1934, Connie was twelve: a tall, gangly, beautiful girl. And just as smart as her mother, God rest her soul. Maybe even smarter. Graduated first in her nursing class, thinking now of applying to medical school. By God, he'd miss her if she moved out of the neat brick house on Duke Street where she grew up, just a few blocks from St. Joe's Hospital.

Connie returned the chart to its hook at the foot of his bed and shook her head. Here it comes again, he thought, she's got that look in her eye. “Why don't you leave this gun-slinging business to the young guys, Dad? You know damn well you're too old to shoot it out with mobsters.” She sat on the edge of the bed, taking his hand and stroking it. “Should be ashamed of yourself. Scared the wits out of me when they wheeled you in, blood all over the place.” Connie leaned forward, kissed him on both cheeks. “My God, I thought I'd lost you.”

“Now don't get all mushy on me.”

She straightened the lapels of his pyjamas, patting him on the chest. “Big strong cop. Ice water in his veins.” She held both his hands in hers and squeezed. “Don't tell me you weren't scared, you stubborn old coot.” Pecked him on the tip of his nose, smiling now, her eyes telling him she was proud of her old dad standing up to the mob guys, not taking any shit even at his age.

“Of course I was scared,” he said, reaching up to touch her cap, his eyes misting up. “My daughter, the nurse.”

He paused for several moments, swallowed hard. “They surprised us in this warehouse down off Barton Street . My partner went down, you remember Billy Nelligan, and I shot them both. Thought I'd die too, waiting for our backup to arrive.”

She passed him a tissue from the bedside table and he wiped his eyes, blew his nose. Sal's voice croaked when she hugged him. “I thought of you the whole time, baby.”

Sister St. Martin tapped on the door and walked right in. “How's your patient today, Nurse? Just as feisty as ever, I hope.”

Connie stood back from the bed, smiling at her supervisor and shrugging toward her father. “Can't teach an old dog, Sister. You know what that's like.”

“Indeed I do. My father was just as stubborn.” She winked at Connie and approached the bed. Sister and Sal were pals from their school days and an “item” during their teen years until the former Gillian Kyle joined the Sisters of St. Joseph. “I'm sorry, Sal, but Dr. Osbaldeston says you'll be here at least another week or two. Risk of infection is still high from the gun-shot wounds and he's ordered more X-rays on that broken leg.”

Sal groaned, rolled his eyes to his daughter, pleading with her to rescue him.

Connie gripped his hand once more. “It's OK, Dad. We'll do everything we can to keep you comfortable.” She kissed his cheek and stood, straightening her uniform. Sister moved to the drip bottle hanging beside his bed and adjusted the flow into his arm. She patted his hand, fluffed his pillow and the nurses left the room.

Sal closed his eyes, gritting his teeth. Another week or two. At Least. Goddamnit. He suspected that was probably hospital-speak for three or four weeks, maybe more. Talk about rotten luck.

He'd spoken with the saw-bones yesterday: two bullets were removed from his left thigh and after the wounds healed, no long-term damage was predicted. But his tumble down the stairs had broken his right leg in three places and another operation might be necessary to re-set the bones with a long period of rehabilitation to follow. Judas Priest, not what he needed. Crutches for who knows how long, relegated to a desk job, maybe for the rest of his career. He sighed and turned to the window.

Unusually hot for early October, almost eighty degrees according to the radio, like a steam-cabinet in this room even with the window open. He gazed at the traffic along James Street: a stream of cars heading up the Mountain, visitors being dropped off at the main entrance, a streetcar driver clanging his bell at a couple of kids riding their bikes along the tracks. Life going on without him. And like the streetcars about to be replaced by buses, maybe he'd be retired to the car barns as well. Then what would he do? Well, the hell with moping about it. He'd recover; get back on the job as good as new. Even better.

He reached for the newspaper, keeping himself occupied, his mind off his pain, and a lightning bolt zapped along his elevated leg to his brain. When he unclenched his jaw a moment later he decided that “even better” wasn't likely but, goddamnit, he'd get back to work one way or another.

He flipped through the first section of the Spectator , filled with coverage of the Evelyn Dick trial winding up at the Hamilton Court House. And here was Evelyn, right there on the front page, waving like a movie star at supporters from the rear seat of a car, dressed smartly in a tailored suit, hat at a jaunty angle, smoking a cigarette. What a beautiful dame. What jury in their right minds could convict her of murdering her husband, dismembering him, then tossing his torso over the Mountain's edge like a bag of garbage?

Sal hadn't worked the case until it was learned that Evelyn's little black book listing “respected Hamilton businessmen”, as the papers liked to call them, contained the names of several mob bosses. Sal and his partner had run down a few of these leads but nothing had come of them.

And now, it seemed, the entire city, even the country, was focussing attention on this grizzly business, titillated by the juicy revelations of Evelyn's shenanigans with the city's high rollers. He marvelled at the party atmosphere which seemed to surround the courthouse proceedings.

In the Spectator's World section, the Nuremburg Trials dominated the news. Here were pictures of Hitler's henchmen ordered to face the gallows. Mug shots of Hermann Goering and von Ribbentrop and ten more of the bastards; it's too damn bad, he thought, they could only die once.

He skipped to the sports pages, searching for news of the World Series, this year it was the St. Louis Cards taking on Boston . Hell's bells, why did he bother? The Red Sox never won the Series so he already knew the outcome.

A quick knock announced the return of Sister St. Martin and Sal dropped his paper. She moved the visitor's chair to the side of his bed and sat, frown lines showing around her eyes where her white habit was tight along her brow.

He gave her a drowsy smile. “Gillian. What's up?”

“I didn't want to mention it with Connie in the room.” She shifted forward and lowered her voice. “Sister Albertus at the admissions desk is worried. Thinks she might have sent a suspicious looking character up to your room. Did you notice anyone come by in the last half hour?”

His mind felt foggy and he tried to concentrate, aware of the concern in his friend's eyes. “I don't ... think so. I'm still kinda groggy, must be that medication. Why'd he appear suspicious?”

“Just a hunch on Sister's part. He looked sort of shifty, she said. As though he didn't quite belong. And dressed like one of those gangsters.”

“Tell her not to worry about it. It's probably nothing.” He extended his hand and she held it. “And don't be concerned about Connie. She's a strong girl, just like her mother.”

“I hope you're right, Sal.” He was aware of Sister observing him at close range, probably noting the droop of his eyelids, his hand limp in hers and she stood. “Now get some rest.”

Later he swam like Johnny Weissmuller, long strong strokes, trying to reach the dock before the sharks zeroed in on him. His fingers gripped the slippery ladder and he pulled himself awake, no longer Tarzan but plain old Sal, strung up here in St. Joe's, sweat in his eyes, his pyjamas soaked, clutching the side rung of his bed and panting hard.

The door to his bathroom was ajar, a quiet rustling from inside. What the hell? He recalled Sister's concern that someone “dressed like a gangster” might be lurking around. The door banged open and a dark shape backed into his room.

“You OK, Mister? Looking white like ghost.” A short man in work clothes pulled a cleaner's cart from the bathroom and paused. “Sorry to disturb,” he said. “I knock but you sleep.”

Sal waved him away, “I'm OK. Just a bad dream.”

The cleaner left in apologetic silence, almost on tip-toe, and Sal dried his face and neck with a towel from his bedside table.

His nerves were on edge, he couldn't deny it. Despite what he'd told Sister, he'd spotted a guy cruising past his door after Connie left. Might've been Frankie ... Rizzo, he thought, part of the new mob muscling into town, the same gang which included the two mugs he'd shot when his partner was killed. But they wouldn't be dumb enough to attempt to pop him in the hospital, would they?

Sal's old sergeant used to say there were three things you could count on: the sun coming up in the morning, the sun going down at night and, sooner or later, criminals will always show you how stupid they are.

When his boss came to visit today maybe he'd mention his suspicions, or premonitions, or whatever the hell they were. Might not be a bad idea to post someone at his door.

3

That evening Frankie entered St. Joe's from Charlton Street , the side door still open, visiting hours almost over. On the second floor, the chairs facing the big window were empty but when he glanced down the hallway, a fat cop perched on a chair outside Belcastro's door.

Shit, what prompted that, he wondered. Was he spotted earlier? Not likely. Maybe it was bureaucratic incompetence, cops just getting around to protecting a guy who became a target when he killed two family members. That sounded about right to Frankie.

Back outside, he stood in the deep shadows behind a maple tree and kept an eye on the Charlton Street door. At eight o'clock he observed a janitor slip out for a smoke. After a few puffs he flicked the butt in Frankie's direction, set the door's lock and pulled it closed with a clank.

Unflustered, Frankie returned to his car parked on Herkimer to think about this development. Still possible to stick with his plan but he'd have to distract the guard cop's attention, get him away from the room for a minute and do it. But it would have to be during visiting hours. Unless he got a key to the side door. Maybe wait for the janitor, tie him up and stuff him in a closet, go upstairs after hours when the cop on the door might be off duty.

Or, how about this, staying with the janitor idea? Hide in the hospital until after closing, knock out the janitor and leave him gagged in a closet, change into his clothes, go up to Belcastro's room on some trumped-up emergency, maybe a busted pipe, take a couple of wrenches with him. If there's no guard on duty, he'd be home free. Otherwise he'd have to bullshit his way into the room and take his chances. Afterward, he'd come downstairs, leave by the Charlton Street door which would lock behind him. Job done and Bob's your uncle.

Frankie laughed out loud. Mr. D.'s first name was Roberto, so in this case, instead of Bob's your uncle, he could've said: Roberto's your godfather. He repeated his quip to himself and laughed again. Not bad. Maybe he'd try it out on Mr. D. in the morning.

They met at the Connaught coffee shop for breakfast. Frankie told the friendly waitress, “Gert” printed on her nametag, he'd have the number one, two eggs over easy, bacon, toast and coffee. Mr. D. told Gert he'd have coffee, black, and told Frankie to give him a run-down on the cop in St. Joe's and make it snappy.

Frankie called Gert back, changed his order to coffee, black, and got on with it. “He's on the second floor, private room, end of the hall, number 222. Ain't goin' nowhere, boss. One leg trussed up, the other one covered in bandages.”

Mr. D. could've been carved in marble, his scowl forever preserved. But he made a slight rolling motion with his hand and Frankie continued.

“Well, on my first pass I saw a lot of activity, nurses, orderlies, but no cops. Came back later and there's a fat dick snoozing by his door. Figure if I take care of the janitor who locks the doors at night, I can use his work clothes to get past the guard and wish sweet dreams to the man inside. Forever.” He tried a smile to lighten the mood.

“Nothin' funny about this, Frankie. I want this guy dead. Do it tonight.”

Frankie lost his smile and gulped. “Sure, boss. Tonight it is.” He changed his mind about telling his little joke about Roberto's your godfather.

“And if there's the slightest trace back to me,” Mr. D. rose to leave, leaning across the table, “There's a place reserved for you in Hamilton Bay .”

Frankie watched Mr. D. leave the coffee shop, impeccable in a grey business suit, early edition of the Spectator under his arm, a polite nod to the manager. He slumped in his chair and stared up at Gert when she delivered the coffee. She smiled and said, “Your nice friend'll be right back, eh?”

4

Connie liked the four to midnight shift, the ward quieter at the end of the day, patients nodding off by nine or so, some earlier. Gave her a chance to visit with her dad, fuss over him, listen to his chatter as he told her about the news of the day. Sal was her own talking version of The Spectator .

“Hear about the settlement of the Stelco strike?” he'd asked her as soon as she arrived. And she got all the details while she straightened up his room, checked his chart, and sat for a few minutes.

“I'm glad it's over, Dad. But, hold on. I'm on meds tonight and won't finish my rounds ‘til later. Then I'll be back to visit.”

She had a few words with old Mick stationed at the door, tipped back in his chair. He set aside the Daily Racing Form and stuck his pencil behind his ear. “Now don't you be worryin', little lady, with Mick on duty we'll be havin' no trouble here.”

She gave him a hundred-watt grin and patted his shoulder. “Sure, ‘tis so,” she imitated his brogue and returned to the nurses' station, wondering why he'd been posted here at all. Surely her dad was safe at St. Joe's. Good grief, if the hospital wasn't secure, she thought, well, what was?

When she returned, Sal was dozing, the newspaper scattered on the floor and she picked it up. “Been waiting for you,” he said. “Just resting my eyes.”

He reached for the paper, pointing at the full page of pictures. “Lookit this, sweetheart. Hitler's henchmen dead on the gallows. Except that bastard Hermann Goering, he cheated the hangman by biting into a vial of potassium cyanide, died in his cell.”

Connie examined the photos and shivered, shocked by the graphic coverage. Here was a chart showing how long each of the ten Nazis dangled by their necks before they died. Ten minutes for von Ribbentrop, seven minutes for Jodl, etcetera, 101 minutes in total.

She looked at her dad, his eyes gleaming as he devoured the pictures, maybe for the tenth time. Connie shook her head and thought for the umpteenth time, my God, this war has changed us all. She folded the paper and set it aside. “Lean back,” she told him and passed a cool washcloth over his face and neck. “Time for sleep, oldtimer. I'll sit here and read for a while.”

He grumbled and pooh-poohed her concern, but was snoring in ten minutes.

Her ears pricked up when she heard Mick speaking with someone at the door, his voice gruff and too loud for a hospital. Then he tapped on the door and entered with a young guy in work clothes toting a tool box.

Mick glanced at Sal, saw he was asleep and bobbed his head at Connie. “Plumbing emergency,” he spoke in a whisper. “This guy says there's a flood downstairs, maybe caused by a burst pipe in the bathroom wall up here. He's gotta check.”

Connie led the repairman to the bathroom and Mick returned to his post.

“How long'll this take?” she asked from the doorway as he set down his tool box and withdrew a wrench. He seemed pleasant enough, a nice smile, maybe a bit embarrassed to be upsetting hospital routine so late in the evening. But there was something about him that wasn't quite right … his black hair slicked back, a too-trim moustache and his work clothes seemed too big. She shook off her suspicion, too busy to worry about it.

“Shouldn't be long, ma'am. Finding the leak's the hard part, then it won't take a minute to fix it.” He turned on that warm smile again. “If it ain't too much trouble, maybe you get me a cold drink. Gonna be awful hot in here. But don't hurry on my account.”

He was right, of course, it was already like a furnace in the cramped room. Connie shrugged and left, asking Mick if he needed anything to drink. “I do,” he said. “But they don't serve it at St. Joe's.”

She made up a pitcher of ice water at the nurses' station and was about to return when Sister St. Martin called her over.

“Connie, be a dear and help me out,” she said. “Mother Superior wants to see me right away and Mrs. Mancini in 220 needs this morphine.” She passed her a tray containing a filled syringe. “But finish what you're doing first.”

Mick still dozed in his chair so Connie didn't disturb him. She eased open the door to Sal's room and froze.

The repairman leaned over her dad, poised to smother him with a pillow. When Connie gasped, he snapped his head in her direction but forced the pillow over Sal's face and pressed down hard with his arms.

The scene unfolded in slow motion, Sal lifting his hands and grasping for his attacker's arms, muffled grunts from under the pillow, the phony plumber flicking his eyes like a ventriloquist's dummy between Connie and her dad. With his left hand, he applied more pressure to her dad's throat cutting off his cries and with the other he withdrew a pistol and pointed it at her.

“Get the hell over here where I can keep an eye on you.” His voice strained, as though he were the one being suffocated.

Connie came back to life, her mind accepting this was no hallucination.

She placed the water pitcher on a table and gripping the syringe, still covered by a clean cloth on the tray, she approached the ... murderer, yes, damnit, that's what he was, trying to kill her dad.

“Put your hand on the pillow,” he said in a malicious whisper. “You're gonna help me.”

Connie angled her body to keep one arm behind her and reached toward the pillow with the other. When the attacker made a grab for her hand she pressed against him and in one smooth motion she drove the needle deep into his neck, depressing the plunger.

He looked up at her, his eyes spinning, as though he were trying to understand why his body was turning to Jello. The gun clunked to the floor as he tried to wrestle the syringe from her, but he was fading fast. He opened his mouth as if to scream at the same moment Sal cast off the pillow, his face blue, lungs pumping, gasping for air and staring at the tableau above him.

The intruder hit the floor like a sack of dirty laundry and didn't move.

Connie sank to her knees, holding the side of her dad's bed and sobbed.

Sal gulped deep breaths, trying to breathe, trying to slow down his heart, trying to live.

When Connie managed to struggle to her feet, she wrapped her arms around him and gasped. “I love you, Daddy.”

Her nursing cap had fallen off, crushed under the unmoving lump at her feet, and her dad stroked her hair, his eyes brimming with pride.

“My daughter”, Sal said. “The bodyguard.”