The French Formula (LSD, #3)

7. Whole Lotta Rosie

Whole Lotta Rosie

I stay on Doc's side during the entire final of Waste Paper Basket Ball; he's the official doctor and I'm his hands and feet because he's not able to save lives when he's in a wheelchair. It's frustrating. It's frustrating to see how Luxembourg loses, it's frustrating to waste my time here, doing nothing while I have such an important mission waiting, and most of all, it's frustrating how today's game absorbed all my attention, so I forgot to visit Manny and ask him what he knows about that drug G.O.D. he talked about yesterday in the bar.

After the medal ceremony, I return Doc to his room. He has a guest room in the hospital, one of those rooms for family and friends of terminal patients on the seventh floor, the patients who are medicated with morphine and the love of their loved ones for the rest of their lives.

"Tomorrow, I have office hours from 10:00 AM until 12:00 AM. After that, we have to be present at the Shopping Trolley Race at the supermarket. Please, study the rules of the game this time, Bugs. You can't interrupt the semi-finals by jumping on the field because one of the players acts like he's badly hurt after being hit by a crunched sheet of paper."

"He was hit by a coffee mug, Doc, wrapped in paper and thrown with full force. That man was bleeding."

"According to the rules, the referee decides when the medics enter the field, Bugs. If you want to do this work, study the rules. Those rules aren't there for nothing, you know. What would happen if everyone thinks: «those rules only exist for the others, not for me»?"

"Yes, Doc. You're right, Doc. Sorry, Doc."

Lack of sleep, caused by working three jobs simultaneously, is no excuse for making mistakes. The rules are the rules and they have to be followed. One rule says: all information about employees is confidential. Therefore, Mister Kurzawa locks his hospital-employee file cabinet, and his office too. The good news is there's nobody around at night. I pick the locks with my spy tools and take my time to read Tong Au's file. It's a short story; there isn't much to read. Tong Au's recommendation comes from Doctor Yun-Fat Chow of the Macao University of Science and Technology Hospital. It looks authentic, but when I check the Macao hospital's website, there is no Toxicology and Chemistry department, and Doctor Yun-Fat Chow doesn't exist. The only other document is a labour contract with the hospital and the European Games for one month, no salary, just food and lodging. No copy of a passport or any kind of ID like in every other file. No home address of the employee or bank account. Not even a phone number or an email address. Strange...

My next stop is the Intensive Care wing, where Tong Au is being monitored. The guard at the door tells me only doctors and nurses have permission to enter.

I have one last stop before my night shift starts: Manny's room. When we brought him in, 24 hours ago, he was positive on every drugs test they tried. The doctor in charge ordered to take Manny to the Closed Department and to make sure he stays there. In France, the usage of drugs is reason enough for an arrest, followed by up to one year of imprisonment and an obliged treatment to kick the habit. After yesterday's trip, Manny won't be going anywhere for a while.

The room is locked, but this is a hospital and not a prison: the key is in the lock, on the outside of the door; it's not to avoid others coming in, just to avoid Manny getting out. I find him fast asleep. What do I do? Come back later? Wake him up? I need info from him. I slap him in the face a few times: "Hey, Manny. Wake up."

Even when I hit him with my shoe on his head, it doesn't work. He's faster asleep than Sleeping Beauty, and also a lot uglier, so I won't wake him with a kiss. When I turn to leave, I see the exit blocked by a nurse, and WHAT a nurse: forty-two, thirty-nine, fifty-six, nineteen stone of muscle, skin and bone, a head taller than I. They couldn't find a uniform with sleeves wide enough for her arms, so they took them off (the sleeves, not the arms). At the end of those arms, one of the huge hands raises a finger at me: "What are you doing here? Why are you slapping my patient?"