SOME CUTS NEVER HEAL: The 2nd Lenny Moss Mystery by Tim Sheard - $15.00
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ONE
“Yo, Lenny, come help me move the stiff!”
“Okay, Fred, hold on!”
Plunging his mop into a bucket of soapy water, Lenny Moss ambled across the hall to the opposite room, where he found the old morgue attendant leaning across a battered steel gurney tugging on a sheet.
“I wouldn’t bother you,” Fred explained, “but I got a big tomato here, and nobody’s got time to help me.”
“It’s the damn hiring freeze,” said Lenny. “Everybody’s working short.”
“You telling me? Every Friday they ask me for overtime; I need time off.”
Lenny eyed the large mass wrapped in a white plastic shroud as he approached the bed. An unprepossessing man dressed in custodian’s blue work clothes and black, steel-tipped shoes, Lenny had thick black eyebrows arching over dark eyes that could change in a flash from impish to deadly serious.
Pressing his hands against the cold, soft flesh, he bent his knees, saying, “Okay, Fred, on three. One . . . two . . . three!”
Crack! The cadaver’s head made a hideous sound as the two men jerked the body from the bed onto the metal stretcher.
Fred attached a weathered canvas canopy over the stretcher to conceal the body, saying, “Man, this is gonna be one juicy son of a bitch. You got to come down the morgue and see when Dr. Fingers slices him open. Why-”
“Uh, Freddie, I don’t mean to cut you off, but I have a shit load of work to do.”
“Right-o!” answered Fred, as he maneuvered the stretcher out of the room. “Hey, I got a new joke. Knock, knock.”
“Who’s there?” said Lenny with a groan.
“Ivana.”
“Ivana who?”
“I vana hold your h-an-d. . . ”
“Har, har,” said Lenny, laughing more from the pain than the humor. “Tell me. Is the supervisor giving you any more grief about your sick time?”
“Nah. Childress ain’t said boo to me ever since you won that last grievance.”
“Good.” Lenny watched the morgue attendant slowly wheel the body away, noting his protruding belly and skinny legs, and recalling the many battles he’d waged to keep Fred’s job.
Alcoholism was a bitch.
He’d just finished mopping the hall, when Gary Tuttle, RN, asked him to strip the floor in room 709.
“Jeez, Tuttle, I don’t have time for that, they have me covering three areas.”
“I’m sorry, Lenny, but the floor is disgusting from that GI bleeder. Since the admission was canceled, now is the only time you’ll be able to do it.”
Grumbling under his breath, he gathered the materials and began the job. He poured out the strong-smelling stripper and worked it into the floor. Once the old wax was removed, he began pouring out a puddle of new wax just as the Central Supply clerk came in carrying an admission kit.
“Ain’t there a new patient in this room?” she asked.
“Admission was canceled.”
“Nuts,” she said. “I ain’t got time to come back for the next one. I’ll leave the kit.” She placed the plastic-wrapped washbasin in the bedside cabinet, then hurried out of the room.
Lenny resumed spreading the sweet-smelling liquid wax with his mop. He’d covered half the floor when he spied his friend Moose Maddox, a dietary aide, standing in the doorway, holding a tray of food. Moose was a tall, muscular black man who had played football in high school and, for a time, tried his hand at amateur boxing.
“Where’s the patient?” asked Moose. “I got a late breakfast tray for a Mrs. Blackwell . . . Blakewill . . .something like that.“
“Gary says the admission was canceled.”
“You sure?”
“Hey, ask him, I’m just the custodian.”
“Okay,” Moose said, and walked away.
Bending down, Lenny used a putty knife to pry from the floor a piece of gum? Tissue? Snot? It was hard to tell. He poured out more of the wax, inhaling the bubble-gum scent, and thinking it was funny that, after years of working in James Madison University Hospital, he’d actually gotten to like the smell. It wasn’t as if he had to deal with the putrid odors that Freddie had. Like rotting flesh. Old blood. Formaldehyde.
Moose stuck his head back in the room. “You were right, the admission’s canceled. I left the tray in the pantry just in case. You coming down for morning break?”
“I will if people stop interrupting me.”
“Bitch, bitch,” said Moose, with a grin. “I’ll see you later.” He turned and headed down the hall.
After spreading the wax, Lenny set a fan in the doorway to speed up the drying. Next, he placed a yellow sign reading, CAUTION! WET FLOOR beside it. Dropping his mop in the rolling bucket, he stood looking over his work, a nondescript man in work clothes, unnoticed by the doctors hurrying by.
A pharmacy tech came up to Lenny holding a Ziploc bag.
“Damn, ” said the tech, seeing the shiny wet floor, “where’s the new patient? I got a drug profile I’m supposed to put in the serving drawer.”
“Don’t jump on my ass,” said Lenny, his dark eyebrows furrowed in irritation. “I was told the admission’s canceled.”
“So how come my computer printout says there’s a Mrs. Blackwell in the room?”
“Ask Gary, he’s the charge nurse. I’m just a simple custodian.”
“Custodian, yeah, but, simple? No frickin’ way.”
As Lenny watched the young man walk away, a mischievous grin erased the irritation from his face. Hurrying to the nursing station, he found Gary Tuttle, RN, accepting a stack of lab reports from the hospital messenger.
“Tuttle, I have a great idea!” said Lenny.
“I’m afraid to ask what you’re cooking up this time,” said Gary, who leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. He was a stout fellow with receding, sandy-colored hair and soft features.
“The computer still has that admission coming into seven-o-nine, right?”
“Maybe the patient is scheduled after all,” said the nurse.
Celeste, the ward clerk, spun around in her chair. “Gary, I told you, the HMO didn’t pre-approve Dr. Fox’s admission. That lazy-ass girl in Admissions hasn’t bothered to take the name out of the damn computer!”
“Perfect,” said Lenny. “Everybody thinks there’s a patient in seven-o-nine. Central Supply sent up an admission pack, dietary sent a breakfast tray, pharmacy sent a printout.”
“And . . .” said Gary, eyeing Lenny with suspicion.
“Let’s act like there really is a patient in the room!”
With a smile like carnival lights, Celeste threw back her head and laughed. She was a tall, smartly dressed black woman who loved costume jewelry. “Oh, Lenny. You’ve come up with some goofy ideas, but this one’s the best. I love it!”
Gary’s face was rigid with doubt. “I’m not at all comfortable with this,” he said.
“Why not?” Lenny asked.
“We could get in trouble if somebody found out.”
“So we’ll act dumb.”
“Easy for you,” said Moose, “we got to fake it.”
“Look,” said Lenny, ignoring the jibe, “while we’ve been busting our ass for over a year working short-staffed, the hospital’s been operating at a hundred percent capacity. Right?”
“More like a hundred fifty percent,” said Celeste, “the way they discharge one patient in the morning and admit another one by noon. Shoot. You know they bill both patients for the whole day.”
“Work has been awfully stressful lately,” admitted Gary. “All the mandatory overtime . . .the hiring freeze. . .” He looked at the others. Fidgeted. Shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, all right, we’ll keep the room empty, at least for a couple of hours.”
“I’ll fill out a menu for lunch and dinner,” said Moose.
“I’ll order a consult,” said Celeste, turning to the computer.
Looking over the clerk’s shoulder at the computer screen, Gary asked, “Whose access code are you using?”
“I got Mother Burgess’s own log-on number,” she said, giggling.
“Oh, Lord,” said Gary, “not the director of nursing.”
Lenny clapped Gary on the shoulder. “Be strong, Tuttle. It’s just a little joke.”
“Yo, Lenny, come help me move the stiff!”
“Okay, Fred, hold on!”
Plunging his mop into a bucket of soapy water, Lenny Moss ambled across the hall to the opposite room, where he found the old morgue attendant leaning across a battered steel gurney tugging on a sheet.
“I wouldn’t bother you,” Fred explained, “but I got a big tomato here, and nobody’s got time to help me.”
“It’s the damn hiring freeze,” said Lenny. “Everybody’s working short.”
“You telling me? Every Friday they ask me for overtime; I need time off.”
Lenny eyed the large mass wrapped in a white plastic shroud as he approached the bed. An unprepossessing man dressed in custodian’s blue work clothes and black, steel-tipped shoes, Lenny had thick black eyebrows arching over dark eyes that could change in a flash from impish to deadly serious.
Pressing his hands against the cold, soft flesh, he bent his knees, saying, “Okay, Fred, on three. One . . . two . . . three!”
Crack! The cadaver’s head made a hideous sound as the two men jerked the body from the bed onto the metal stretcher.
Fred attached a weathered canvas canopy over the stretcher to conceal the body, saying, “Man, this is gonna be one juicy son of a bitch. You got to come down the morgue and see when Dr. Fingers slices him open. Why-”
“Uh, Freddie, I don’t mean to cut you off, but I have a shit load of work to do.”
“Right-o!” answered Fred, as he maneuvered the stretcher out of the room. “Hey, I got a new joke. Knock, knock.”
“Who’s there?” said Lenny with a groan.
“Ivana.”
“Ivana who?”
“I vana hold your h-an-d. . . ”
“Har, har,” said Lenny, laughing more from the pain than the humor. “Tell me. Is the supervisor giving you any more grief about your sick time?”
“Nah. Childress ain’t said boo to me ever since you won that last grievance.”
“Good.” Lenny watched the morgue attendant slowly wheel the body away, noting his protruding belly and skinny legs, and recalling the many battles he’d waged to keep Fred’s job.
Alcoholism was a bitch.
He’d just finished mopping the hall, when Gary Tuttle, RN, asked him to strip the floor in room 709.
“Jeez, Tuttle, I don’t have time for that, they have me covering three areas.”
“I’m sorry, Lenny, but the floor is disgusting from that GI bleeder. Since the admission was canceled, now is the only time you’ll be able to do it.”
Grumbling under his breath, he gathered the materials and began the job. He poured out the strong-smelling stripper and worked it into the floor. Once the old wax was removed, he began pouring out a puddle of new wax just as the Central Supply clerk came in carrying an admission kit.
“Ain’t there a new patient in this room?” she asked.
“Admission was canceled.”
“Nuts,” she said. “I ain’t got time to come back for the next one. I’ll leave the kit.” She placed the plastic-wrapped washbasin in the bedside cabinet, then hurried out of the room.
Lenny resumed spreading the sweet-smelling liquid wax with his mop. He’d covered half the floor when he spied his friend Moose Maddox, a dietary aide, standing in the doorway, holding a tray of food. Moose was a tall, muscular black man who had played football in high school and, for a time, tried his hand at amateur boxing.
“Where’s the patient?” asked Moose. “I got a late breakfast tray for a Mrs. Blackwell . . . Blakewill . . .something like that.“
“Gary says the admission was canceled.”
“You sure?”
“Hey, ask him, I’m just the custodian.”
“Okay,” Moose said, and walked away.
Bending down, Lenny used a putty knife to pry from the floor a piece of gum? Tissue? Snot? It was hard to tell. He poured out more of the wax, inhaling the bubble-gum scent, and thinking it was funny that, after years of working in James Madison University Hospital, he’d actually gotten to like the smell. It wasn’t as if he had to deal with the putrid odors that Freddie had. Like rotting flesh. Old blood. Formaldehyde.
Moose stuck his head back in the room. “You were right, the admission’s canceled. I left the tray in the pantry just in case. You coming down for morning break?”
“I will if people stop interrupting me.”
“Bitch, bitch,” said Moose, with a grin. “I’ll see you later.” He turned and headed down the hall.
After spreading the wax, Lenny set a fan in the doorway to speed up the drying. Next, he placed a yellow sign reading, CAUTION! WET FLOOR beside it. Dropping his mop in the rolling bucket, he stood looking over his work, a nondescript man in work clothes, unnoticed by the doctors hurrying by.
A pharmacy tech came up to Lenny holding a Ziploc bag.
“Damn, ” said the tech, seeing the shiny wet floor, “where’s the new patient? I got a drug profile I’m supposed to put in the serving drawer.”
“Don’t jump on my ass,” said Lenny, his dark eyebrows furrowed in irritation. “I was told the admission’s canceled.”
“So how come my computer printout says there’s a Mrs. Blackwell in the room?”
“Ask Gary, he’s the charge nurse. I’m just a simple custodian.”
“Custodian, yeah, but, simple? No frickin’ way.”
As Lenny watched the young man walk away, a mischievous grin erased the irritation from his face. Hurrying to the nursing station, he found Gary Tuttle, RN, accepting a stack of lab reports from the hospital messenger.
“Tuttle, I have a great idea!” said Lenny.
“I’m afraid to ask what you’re cooking up this time,” said Gary, who leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. He was a stout fellow with receding, sandy-colored hair and soft features.
“The computer still has that admission coming into seven-o-nine, right?”
“Maybe the patient is scheduled after all,” said the nurse.
Celeste, the ward clerk, spun around in her chair. “Gary, I told you, the HMO didn’t pre-approve Dr. Fox’s admission. That lazy-ass girl in Admissions hasn’t bothered to take the name out of the damn computer!”
“Perfect,” said Lenny. “Everybody thinks there’s a patient in seven-o-nine. Central Supply sent up an admission pack, dietary sent a breakfast tray, pharmacy sent a printout.”
“And . . .” said Gary, eyeing Lenny with suspicion.
“Let’s act like there really is a patient in the room!”
With a smile like carnival lights, Celeste threw back her head and laughed. She was a tall, smartly dressed black woman who loved costume jewelry. “Oh, Lenny. You’ve come up with some goofy ideas, but this one’s the best. I love it!”
Gary’s face was rigid with doubt. “I’m not at all comfortable with this,” he said.
“Why not?” Lenny asked.
“We could get in trouble if somebody found out.”
“So we’ll act dumb.”
“Easy for you,” said Moose, “we got to fake it.”
“Look,” said Lenny, ignoring the jibe, “while we’ve been busting our ass for over a year working short-staffed, the hospital’s been operating at a hundred percent capacity. Right?”
“More like a hundred fifty percent,” said Celeste, “the way they discharge one patient in the morning and admit another one by noon. Shoot. You know they bill both patients for the whole day.”
“Work has been awfully stressful lately,” admitted Gary. “All the mandatory overtime . . .the hiring freeze. . .” He looked at the others. Fidgeted. Shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, all right, we’ll keep the room empty, at least for a couple of hours.”
“I’ll fill out a menu for lunch and dinner,” said Moose.
“I’ll order a consult,” said Celeste, turning to the computer.
Looking over the clerk’s shoulder at the computer screen, Gary asked, “Whose access code are you using?”
“I got Mother Burgess’s own log-on number,” she said, giggling.
“Oh, Lord,” said Gary, “not the director of nursing.”
Lenny clapped Gary on the shoulder. “Be strong, Tuttle. It’s just a little joke.”