Chapter 3

I got back to the clinic a bit early, just in time to hold the door for what looked like the last departing person – a young Anglo lady in scrubs. If nurses ever did wear the white uniforms and the weird hats, which I've never seen except on TV, they don't now. Everyone wears scrubs, and the only way you can tell who's a doctor and who's a nurse is the nametag or what you see 'em doing.

Dr. Bernard was there with keys in her hand, and she locked the door before taking me on the tour. She didn't explain and I didn't ask – I knew that even with people inside, the place was closed and the locked door would make that point if anyone thought maybe the sign only provided general guidelines.

There were no windows in the sides of the establishment, since there were other businesses on either side. In the back there was a small window in the staff bathroom, too high to be a convenient access, and too small anyway for anyone but a child. I lowered the lid on the toilet and stood there, and saw that the window had once opened, but the seam had thick paint on it, probably several layers. You could break the glass more easily than you'd be able to open the window.

There was a fire door in the back wall, but those don't open from the outside, and they're pretty strong metal That wasn't a feasible way in either. The only real window in the back of the building was in the break room, frosted glass that let in light but didn't provide a view. It was one of those modern jobs that don't open at all, the kind they've been installing ever since air conditioning became ubiquitous. It was certainly tall enough to admit a human being, but narrow. Someone could conceivably squeeze through it, but he'd want to be sure to get all the glass out of the frame first, or he'd cut himself to ribbons. Being skinny would be a help.

The back, then, was relatively secure. The front was another matter. It was a typical storefront, with a glass door and sidewalk-to-eaves glass windows on either side, with aluminum struts – or whatever the right name is – holding the glass. Anyone with a crowbar could smash his way in without any more trouble than the noise would cause. And then he could either just toss in a device of some sort – explosives, a firebomb, a rabid skunk, a bag of dog droppings, several bags of garbage, whatever. Harassment takes many forms, and I hadn't yet read the letters or heard the tapes so I didn't know what the threatener had threatened to do.

I looked the glass front up, down, and sideways, and turned to Dr. Bernard. "Y'all don't have a burglar alarm?"

"No."

"This whole bit here," I said, waving at the expanse of glass, "is an engraved invitation to anyone who wants to get in after hours. Y'all need a burglar alarm ASAP." I pronounced the acronym rather than spelling it out, the way I'd learned it from my brother Memphis, who'd been in the Air Force. "Right now anyone could bust out any of this glass and get in, or toss something in. Every single pane needs wiring. And for that matter it wouldn't hurt to wire those windows back there. Getting in through the back would be a pain, but someone could still toss something in. They're not nearly as urgent, but it wouldn't hurt."

"And how do we pay for such a system?"

I regarded her for a moment. "They's two vehicles out front just now – my Blazer, and a Mercedes. What you wanna bet you drive the Mercedes, and pay good money for it? And that haircut can't be cheap, nor those clothes. Maybe you earn every dime you get, but maybe you could make a bit less, and put more into the operation itself."

"My salary is not your concern."

"You asked me a question, I answered it." I shrugged. "Y'all are gonna be paying my fee and expenses, so a burglar alarm ought not fill you with dread. And the alarm would make my job easier, or at least the security company's job. I'm surprised they didn't already tell you to get one."

"As you say." It wasn't an agreement, I thought, so much as it was a way of dismissing the subject. "If you're done with your survey of the facility, I have a check and the information you requested in my office."

Dr. Bernard had indeed had what I had requested, all in a stack on her desk. She hadn't made the check out yet, and when I told her what I wanted for a retainer she hesitated – but then signed it without saying anything, perhaps remembering my snide remark about her car and clothes and hair. It had been snide, too, but I have little patience with people who complain about how little money their organizations have to spend, when their personal compensation would support two or three ordinary working families. If you're earning oodles of money, fine – what you've earned you have a perfect right to accept, and use as you please. But don't then whine about how much money you don't have.

I took the check, and the file of letters and envelopes – copies, not originals – and tapes. It was one of those accordion files, which sit on their bottom and expand as you put more into them. The letters were in a manila folder inside the accordion folder, while the tapes – half a dozen cassettes – were jumbled together. I looked at 'em and saw they had dated labels, so that was all right. I told Dr. Bernard I'd have a contract over to her for her signature within a few days, and until then I'd work as though she'd already signed it.

Out in the Blazer, I made sure the accordion file's string closure – the kind where you wind the string around a button – was secure, and set it on the floor on the passenger side. While I was doing that Dr. Bernard had come out, locking the door behind her, and driven away in her Mercedes. I chuckled a bit, wondering if she remembered as she pulled out of the driveway what I'd said about the car. It had been fun. Not only do I dislike people who keep big bucks for themselves while pretending they care about people who don't have money, but I find it simply enjoyable to gig people for conspicuous consumption. I had no doubt that I was much richer than Dr. Bernard, but I don't make a point of being rich – I don't drink champagne, you couldn't pay me to drive a Mercedes, I get my haircuts at a neighborhood barber shop, and what clothes Cecelia doesn't make for me I buy at Wal-Mart or an independent western store down on Central at Wyoming. My money's for other things – I have no need or desire for a gold bathtub or a 95-room house.