Page 70 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
A name and two numbers.
Lawyer.Backup.
“Ground rules,” I say while I lace my shoes. “No lying that drags my license. No asking me to move a chart. If something touches a patient, I make the call.”
“Done,” he says.
“And if an agent asks me about you at work,” I add, “I ask for the hospital’s counsel and I call your number. That stays on the record.”
“Good,” he says. “Keep it on the record.”
I look at him over the rim of my mug.
“You walk me down or you stay here.”
“I walk,” he says. “I'm not letting you hit that lobby alone today.”
The morning is clear.
Trucks on the avenue.
A woman with a stroller.
We move like any couple late for life.
He peels off at the corner.
I head for the hospital entrance.
My phone buzzes before I reach the doors.
A text from him.
Call me if anything looks wrong.
I type back,Work first. Then coffee.
The sliding doors open and a gust of cold air hits my face.
The security guard sits on his stool with a clipboard.
Two men in suits stand a step inside the threshold.
Neat ties.
Shined shoes.
One flips a badge for the guard.
The other scans the lobby.
My stomach tightens, then goes calm.
They turn as the doors close behind me.
Their smiles are polite.
Their eyes are not.
