The Girl with the Man with a Plan Ch. 04

I had no idea how much a portable ventilator was worth. Online (when they had been available, only a month before), they had sold for anywhere from $600 to $8,000 depending on the model. In the U.S., due to its weird healthcare structure, Medicare paid far less for just about anything. The military paid far more. The actual cost of just about everything "medical" was wildly disparate. That's just the way things are here.

For almost ANY illegal commodity, you would expect to pay about half the market price (max) for an item you knew was stolen. I was going to pay $10,000 per unit for ten of them. They had to be purchased as a "lot." And, this was all I could find at such short notice.

With a bag of cash in hand, I signed for a small rental truck and finally hit the road about seven in the evening; destination: Lexington, Kentucky. At this point, I should probably apologize to non-U.S. readers (and some who are from this country) about listing place names. Geography sort of gets jumbled up in this portion of the nation. Due to mountains and other little impediments to direct travel, there is no easy way to get between some cities. Going south to Charleston, West Virginia, and then west to my destination was one option. But the quickest route (and the one I chose) was via Interstate Highways 70 and 71 to Cincinnati, Ohio, and then south on I-75. Any way you looked at it, I was going to spend six to seven hours each way, after you threw in fuel stops. And to make matters worse, about an hour west of Columbus, it started to rain.

The damned truck had a governor that kept my speed at sixty-five. I cursed it mightily, hour after hour. I phoned my prospective seller four times, keeping him updated on my progress. The truck got about seven miles per gallon, but it had a twenty-nine-gallon tank, which was of little comfort when I had to stop twice on the way there. At least the damned thing took regular unleaded gas. I went inside the little store (the one that was still open) to stock up on snacks, coffee and sodas, and I was surprised to find that it was selling face masks. That had turned into another hot-button political issue. The previous month (February), the CDC had actually asked people NOT to buy personal masks until they could fully replenish stockpiles in medical facilities. But that was past now, and wearing one had sort of become a fashion statement for many. Doing your part, protecting your fellow Americans, and all that. I bought one for the hell of it. As it eventually turned out, I was glad I did.

It was about one o'clock in the morning when I finally followed my cell phone's directions into what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse complex. My phone rang, and the man I'd been talking to all evening directed me to one large structure that looked more like an aircraft hangar. Huge doors were gaping open at one end, and I drove the little panel truck right into it. A flashlight signaled me at the far side. Very clandestine, I thought; but I drove over to it and parked. I got out and stretched. I also considered throwing up, but I held it back.

"You sick, man?" the guy inquired.

"I'm not feeling very how," I commented, but he obviously was not a Winnie-the-Pooh fan. "Yes, I might be sick."

"You got a mask?"

"Sure." I rooted around in the front seat and found the one I'd just purchased. When I turned back, I saw that there were two of them. One was a woman. They both wore surgical masks, as well.

"You got the money?"

I sighed and turned yet again to the truck. I'd put the money in a blue athletic bag. I started walking toward them.

"Don't come near me, dude!" the guy barked. He had actually backed up several steps as I approached. "Put it down! If you got Covid, I don't wanna' touch you!"

I set the bag down and walked back to the truck again. "I really need to get back on the road," I told him.

The guy felt the need to take control. "Oh, yeah? Well, you seem a little too anxious to me, dude! Things are about to change!"

Suddenly, my temper flared. "Change? Let me tell you... dude. If you change this deal now, I'll make sure you...."

"Shut up!" the woman barked. Her voice carried authority. She walked past the man and up to the bag.

"Don't touch that!" the man cautioned. "He might have...."

"I said shut up, Charlie," the woman screeched. She picked up the bag and tested its weight in her hand. "Is it all here?"

"I always follow MY end of a business deal," I stated flatly.

She nodded. "We got your stuff, mister. We're not goin' back on the deal, I promise. But, you see, the thing is, these items have suddenly gotten really hot. Too hot for us. If one of us screws something up..." her eyes rolled toward her partner, but only I could see that "... we could wind up in prison real soon."

"So?" I asked, keeping my voice neutral.

"So, instead of the ten we promised you, I want you to take them all. There are twenty-one of them. No extra charge. I just want them gone. I'd dump them in a swamp somewhere; but to tell you the truth, I'd rather know that they were being used by someone that needed them. I just want to make good and sure that they'll never, ever be traced back to us."

I contemplated this. "Do you have any connection to this building?" I asked, gesturing to the structure around us.

"Nope. We got nothing to do with this place."

"So, a week from now, if I tell the feds this is where I got them, would that be a problem?"

She considered that for a moment. "That would be acceptable."

I nodded. "Where are they?"

She pointed across the crumbling asphalt floor toward a pile of indistinguishable objects. I nodded and got back in the truck without another glance or word.

On the road, heading north toward Cincinnati, I began to wonder if I was going to make it. I really felt like crap. Going in this direction, I was now headed the same direction as the warm front I'd driven into when I was coming the other way. That meant the rain was going to be with me the rest of my trip. Six hours. Six more hours.

I worried about hitting morning rush hour traffic in Columbus, but I discovered something that was to be new to most people this year: rush hour no longer existed. People had started staying home. It was the dawn of a new era that everyone hoped would end very soon. (The president had declared that we would be back to "business as usual" by Easter.)

I stopped for gas one last time and picked up a hamburger from a steam rack inside the store area. Back on the road again, I considered spitting out my first mouthful; but, after experimenting with my soda and bag of chips, I concluded that the problem was not that it was spoiled. The truth of the thing was: I had apparently lost my sense of taste. Well, shit. I filed that thought in yet another compartment, and I drove on.

I marched right past the huge line of people in the emergency room and up to the desk, where I announced loudly that I had a special delivery for Doctor Griswold. Wrong entrance, they informed me. Go this way, down that hall, turn right, through a double-door, down another hall, talk to the nurse.

The place was a madhouse.

The nurse refused to let me see him. I countered that I had to get his signature in person, no exceptions. We argued. I threatened. She threatened back. I finally showed her what I had to deliver, and things changed immediately. I found myself in an office, concentrating only on remaining upright until he came in. And finally, finally, he was there.

"This is for a patient of yours," I told him. "Polly Pike."

He was so shocked, he had to sit down. "This... this has a military serial number," he stammered. "Where did you get it?"

I'd prepared for this. I prepared for everything. "It was sold to me as obsolete army surplus. I bought it because I thought you could use it. Now... put Polly on the ventilator."

He shook his head slowly, then went to the door and opened it. "Nurse Johnson!" he bellowed. The woman was there in four seconds flat. "Do we have any nurses in the unit that are military trained?"

"Sarah Jackson," she answered.

"Take her and have her set this thing up in room six for Mrs. Randolph, ASAP!"

I walked over and rested my hand on top of the box. "Nope," I told him flatly. "I brought this for Polly. Period." I ignored the alliteration.

The doctor gave me that "doctor look." I gave him one of mine in return. I won, and he staggered back a step, clearly shaken. He decided to change tactics. "Please, look, Mister...."

He let the title hang for a long time. I decided that playing word games wasn't worth it, so I caved. "Baxter."

"Mister Baxter. Miss Pike doesn't need this. But I have ten patients that do. Desperately!"

I shook my head. "Nope. I got this for her."

"She's not even intubated!" he screamed at me.

See? That's the problem with medical people! Why do they always do that?! Every profession has its own language. But only medical experts automatically expect other people to understand theirs!

"I don't know what you're talking about!" I screamed back at him in exactly the same tone of voice he had used with me.

He sobered immediately and looked slightly chastised. "Mrs. Randolph, in room six, is in an induced coma. We've inserted a tube down her throat and directly into her esophagus. All of her breathing is being done through that tube. Miss Pike is not in an induced coma because she doesn't NEED to be. We haven't intubated her because she can still breathe without it. Mrs. Randolph, on the other hand, is going to be dead in about fifteen minutes unless we hook that tube of hers up to the machine you just brought us."

I felt stupid and placated. That's the way they want you to feel in hospitals. I sighed and removed my hand so that Nurse Johnson could take away my bargaining chip. Maybe I could still get my way. I turned back to the doc.

"I have twenty more."

Well, if I'd been looking for a reaction, I certainly succeeded. The problem here was that we were both wearing those damned masks. I couldn't really judge him. He couldn't really judge me. I imagined his mouth opening and closing like a fish, and that's very probably the reaction I had elicited. He seemed incapable of speech, so I carried on.

"This is the point where I tell you that I'll give them to you when, and only when, Polly walks out of your hospital happy and healthy. But you're going to start spouting a bunch of ten-dollar words that I'll need a medical encyclopedia to understand; and you're going to try to appeal to a certain level of humane and compassionate benevolence that will allow you take possession of my only influence in this transaction."

He blinked. "Transaction?"

"You have what I need," I implored. "All I want is Miss Pike. I'd give you all that I have to get her. Forgive me if I can only speak in terms of business instead of medicine. The truth of the matter is that I don't give a flying fuck about Mrs. Randolph or anyone else here." I put my hand to my head, which was pounding.

He cleared his throat. "Please give me a second. Just wait here." And he was gone.

Three minutes later, a nurse was there. I assumed it was Nurse Johnson, but her voice was muffled by a different kind of mask and a face shield. She was wearing some sort of garment that covered her from head to toe. She had another of these suits, and she began dressing me in it. Baggy yellow fabric-like paper pants covered my bottom half, and a top garment wrapped around my upper body and tied. There were paper foot coverings that went over my shoes, blue rubber gloves, and a shower-cap looking thing that covered my head. There were even goggles.

I was led out and down a hallway, through a set of doors and down another hall. This one was very narrow because a row of wheeled beds lined one entire side, one after another, each with an assortment of IV drip bags hanging from a tall metal rod with crosspieces at the top. Halfway down this passageway, the nurse stopped and checked the occupant. "We've gotten to know her very well," the nurse told me. "We all love her. We'll take good care of her, I promise." She pulled me over.

Polly looked up, uncomprehending at first, and then her eyes flashed with recognition and filled with tears. "Mr. Baxter! Oh, my gosh, sir! I never thought I'd see you again!"

Her voice and sobs were muffled by a hissing oxygen mask that covered her nose and mouth. I held her while she cried, but the bulky garment I was wearing was like a barricade between us. She was gasping for breath, like she'd been when I brought her in, and she paused once to cough; but she held my hand to her breast like a cherished possession. I was worried that the snaking IV tubes would become entangled in our clutching, fumbling embrace. Eventually, she controlled herself.

"You read my journal?"

I nodded mutely.

"Poor Mister Baxter. You mustn't dwell on my ramblings."

"You really think that I could...?"

"Accidents happen," she replied with a shrug. "I love you. I don't want anything to happen to you, even after I'm dead."

"Nobody's dying," I told her sternly. "You are going to come home to me; and after I get out of prison, we're going to live happily ever after."

She smiled. "What are you going to prison for?"

"Embezzlement."

She nodded. "For the ventilators. How much?"

"A hundred thousand. I can probably pay it back; so, with a good lawyer, I might not be gone too long."

"Tell me, sir. Tell me everything."

And, I did. I left off the part where I was feeling sick. And, I left off the names of those I had called and the one name I'd overheard during the exchange. But I told her everything else. She listened intently.

Finally, she sighed and nodded yet again. "Give me your cell phone."

"Why?"

"Remember our first day together?" she asked. "Remember when you told me to give you my shoes?"

Somehow, I knew she could see my smile, even through the mask I wore. I stood, fumbled underneath the paper suit, and produced my phone. She took it.

"Now," she said. "Go give Doctor Griswold his ventilators."

"HIS ventilators?"

"Yes," she told me. "Go. I'll see you soon."

Griswold was in his office when I got there. We faced each other for a long moment without speaking. "Where do I take them?" I asked.

"I'll have someone go with you. He'll show you how to get to the loading dock. I'll pick them up there."

I heaved a sigh and tore the paper suit from my body. "Isn't there anything else you can do for her? How about that Hydroxy-whatzit they've been talking about?"

He shook his head savagely. "The government has ordered testing be done, but there is no WAY hydroxychloroquine is going to prove to be any more effective than orange juice."

"Why not? If it works on malaria...."

"Covid is viral! Malaria is parasitic!" He heaved a sigh. "Look. There's another drug that's been around for a while. Remdesivir. Used to treat Ebola, and a few other viruses. We... Everybody... started doing trials on it almost immediately, starting in January; though I have to stress that it's still being tested and that it might have no effect at all on Polly. But I'll see if I can get her a dose. That's truly all I can do unless her situation worsens. And, if it does, we finally have the ventilators that can ease her suffering. She has an excellent shot without one, anyway. She's young and in fairly good shape. Please, stay hopeful."

I simply nodded and walked out. I never saw the man again.

In another ten minutes, my financial leverage was all gone. I drove the empty truck back to the rental place, picked up my car, and I somehow navigated it to my apartment building and into its assigned space; then, I rode the elevator non-stop to my floor. I never bothered to undress, but sprawled onto the bed and immediately passed out.

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I have no idea what time it was when I awoke, but it was very dark. I was painfully thirsty. I drank directly from the faucet in the kitchen, then returned to the bedroom. This time, I stripped out of my clothing and pulled back the covers before crawling into bed.

It was still dark when hunger drove from my rest again, but I didn't think I could keep anything down. I drank half a quart of grapefruit juice that tasted like water and stumbled back to bed.

Incessant pounding made me get up. I ignored it long enough to use the bathroom and drink three glasses of water, but the banging at the door wouldn't cease. I was dizzy. I opened it.

"Alexander Baxter?" a man said, very loudly. He held up a badge in a leather wallet.

"Go away," I told him.

He pushed his way forward, shoving me to make me back up.

"I need to talk to you," the man said sternly.

I threw up on him.

"Jesus Fuckin' Christ!" the guy screamed, backing away and looking down at the mess I'd made all over the front of his grey suit. "What the fuck is the matter with you?"

"I'm sick," I told him calmly. "Covid. Got it bad."

"Fuck!" the man yelled. He started taking off his jacket while he backed out into the hall. "Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck!"

He backed into Pickening, the porter, then careened around him and sprinted toward the elevator while loosening his necktie.

Pickening walked into the apartment while I was down on my hands and knees, wiping up my puke from the tile floor with a bath towel. There wasn't much of it. My stomach had been empty, save for the water I'd consumed; and most of it seemed to have stayed with the cop, or agent, or whatever he was. I finished and wandered back into the kitchen, where I got another glass of water.

"I told him he couldn't come up here without a warrant," the porter told me. "He insisted on coming, anyway."

"He sure left in a hurry," I commented offhand.

"That he did. Oh, by the way, Mr. Baxter, I brought you a copy of yesterday's newspaper. Thought you might like to keep one." He set it on the kitchen table.

Yesterday's newspaper. One of the most worthless items on earth. Shit, most kids didn't even know what a newspaper was anymore. "Thanks. I'm going back to bed now."

"Pleasant dreams." He turned and left.

I lay awake in bed, thinking. Was it still night? It must be, since Pickening was on duty. This night was starting to seem as long as the day had been. I awoke to extreme thirst yet again. In the dark kitchen, I drank glass after glass of tap water before going back to bed. I was shivering with cold, so I pulled the covers up, wishing Polly was there. She was always warm. I decided to close my eyes again, and when I opened them, she was there, sitting on the side of the bed, looking down at me.

"I'm hot," I told her, peeling back the blankets.

"That's a good sign, I think," she said. "Your fever has broken."

I frowned and tried to concentrate. That was her voice, no doubt about it. I looked toward the window, and it was still dark. Nothing made sense, unless....

"You're going to tell me that it's not Tuesday, aren't you?"

She smiled and shook her head. She must have just done her hair, because it looked shiny and fresh as it bounced and settled on her naked shoulders. "It's six thirty, and it's Sunday evening. It's been five days since you held my hand in the hospital. They released me about noon today. They told me that they needed the hospital bed for someone who was actually sick."

I propped myself up on an elbow and studied her. She looked radiant. The earrings were in her ears again, but that sort of made sense. I'd left all of that on the table after I'd retrieved the locket with the key. Her nipples sported the old gold studs that she'd worn that week or so before we went to get the rings.

I reached up and stroked the side of her face. "Polly, I...."

"I love you, too, sir."

She slid under the covers, stretched out beside me, and we lay there for a long time. I think I dozed. Finally, she stood and pulled until I sat up.