Page 6 of Deep Cover

"Surgery is tomorrow morning," she said. "Will you be here for that?"

I didn't even need to translate that one.

I called the hospital, proved who I was, proved it again, told them I didn't give a shit about their HIPAA privacy laws, called back because apparently life and death hospital stuff is all dependent on us not swearing like good little grade school children.

That time, I got a doctor who knew what dad had done and who he was, and who was willing to talk to me.

"It's not good, Ms. Knox. He's got a lot of issues with blockage, which is the usual reason we do open heart, but worse, his heart has been weakened from years of it."

When I could make my mouth work, I said what dad had said. "Fifty-fifty?"

A silence, and then he said, "Thirty-seventy. Maybe thirty-five."

I hung up and sat down on the floor beside my clothes. The need to go the hospital was tempered by the facts: I couldn't do anything once there. I was still a little afraid of blowing my cover by running into somebody who knew me and equally afraid that would put my family in danger. Waiting with my sisters was in no way better than waiting alone.

Eventually I got to my feet and went back to picking up my clothes, shaking out the pockets, finding a key to the clubhouse (which was never locked), a wad of cash (which probably couldn't be traced and didn't have to be turned in for evidence because I was undercover).

And some packets full of white powder.

China white.

---