by
Steve Jordan
It was still light outside, but the curtains were drawn and all the lights in the office were off, and half the room was lost in darkness. The Information Station on the desk was on, and this provided the sole source of illumination for the other half of the room. The 15-inch screen of the IS displayed a mostly blank workspace, a blue-green background with a black tile pattern over it, and a few small icons lined the bottom of the field. The blue-green light gave an eerie gray caste to the side of the room it faced, the scotch perched on the edge of the desk, and the man slumped into the chair before it.
Morris Cole had not moved appreciably for over an hour. If anyone else had lived there with him and had walked in on him like that, they would have had to walk over and prod him, just to make sure he was alive. Or they would have been startled by the few times he did move, when he reached out to the glass next to him and took a sip from it. Throughout, he just sat and stared in the general direction of the IS, clearly not seeing anything at all.
A small icon on the bottom right of the screen, resembling an old-style telephone, began to flash. Next to the message icon, the number "13" was displayed. The IS could also issue an attention-getting tone, but Morris had switched that off hours ago. After a few seconds, the incoming phone call was shunted over to the messages file, and the icon stopped flashing. The number beside it changed to "14".
Morris seemed not to notice any of this activity before him. A minute later, however, he stirred. His eyes came into focus and blinked at the screen. After a moment, he croaked, "What day is it?" A small rectangle appeared on the screen, reading:
MONDAY, JUNE 14, 2015
7:43 P.M.
It was a moment before Morris realized the IS hadn't spoken the date, and peering at the small rectangle on the screen brought his own mind back to the present. Four days had passed, he realized. Two in San Francisco, two more here at home. 14 messages on his IS, and he didn't even remember them coming in. He looked at the glass of brown liquid on the desk, and he knew there would be very little scotch left in the liquor cabinet.
He straightened up in his chair. I can't believe I've been skulking around for four days, he considered disgustedly. He looked again at the drink, but he realized he was cold sober, so slowly had he sipped from it. He looked around the dark office, but couldn't bring himself to get up out of the chair. He felt listless, helpless, blasted. Stupid. Stupid. He shook off the feeling, managed to stand up, took a few steps towards the door. And stopped.
No good. I can't just walk away from it. I've got to do something, I'll never live with myself if I just let it... dangle like this. But what? He turned back towards the desk, and stood regarding the IS screen again.
Finally he came to a decision, and he straightened up. Yes. Yes: record it. Get it on record, at least. So I don't wake up one day and think I dreamed it all. Going over it all will be a sort of therapy. It should help. He sat down again in front of the IS, and after a moment, opened a new journal file. He paused when he considered what he would name the file, then realized there was only one thing to label it with.
"Robin Taft." Morris watched as the two words printed onto the screen, and saved them.
The IS waited for him to begin. Where to begin? He took a sip of the scotch while he composed himself. Realizing how close to empty the glass was, he drained it, then set the glass across the desk, just out of casual reach. After a moment's more consideration, he leaned forward and rested his arms on the desk. Again his eyes unfocused as he marshalled his thoughts, and he keyed the recorder on the IS.
It was, I guess, July of 2010 when I was notified of the death of Doctor Khan Taft.
Khan's death came as a blow to me, for a couple of reasons. First of all, because I knew him personally. We had met in Switzerland, where we were both working for our doctorates. He was from the New York area, and I was from St. Louis, and we were two Americans stuck in the middle of Geneva together, so it was only natural we'd become buddies. Thanks to our work, we kept in touch when we came back to the states, and of course, I was always proud to personally know someone who had done so much in the field to be internationally renowned. As it turned out, we hadn't communicated much that last year, so I didn't know at the time that he had been out of the country for awhile. Hell, I didn't even know he'd been sick.
The other reason it was such a blow, I'm sorry to say, was the impact I knew it would have on my practice. Anyone who knows anything about prosthetics knows that Dr. Taft's research and creations were the cream of the crop. Taft had managed to come up with over two dozen patents for prosthetic limbs and prosthetic interface control systems in his career, including building—by hand, mind you—an incredible prosthetic outer layer and shaping apparatus that made his prosthetics look and feel as close to real as an artificial limb could ever be. His work was incredible.
For years we'd collaborated. My clientele has always been the well-off sort, and rich people are as prone to bodily harm as anyone else. My patients wanted nothing but the best, and had the money to pay for it. All I had to do was send the vital measurements to Taft, and he'd fabricate the limbs and send them to me. I'd fit them, send them on their way, send follow-up data back to Taft, and he'd incorporate that back into his work. So not only was I profiting from Taft, I was assisting him to improve his product, as it were.
When Taft died, I knew I was going to get a lot of flak from my patients, who just wouldn't understand why suddenly their money wasn't enough to get them the product they'd gotten used to. Knowing them, they'd probably sue me. And although I'd gotten a lot of notes collected on Taft's work, I wasn't ready to start duplicating his results myself. I was looking at a serious impact on my standard of living.
So it was with mixed feelings that I went to New York, to attend his funeral. I was sorry to be saying goodbye to an old friend and colleague, but at the same time I couldn't help but agonize about what I was going to do to protect my own practice. In fact, I suppose the chance that I might be able to get my hands on some of Taft's work was at least a small incentive for my coming to New York at all.
Not altogether altruistic, I admit, but I never claimed to be a saint.
The funeral was scheduled for 11:00 A.M., and I arrived about fifteen minutes early. Taft's funeral was being held at a huge old church in town, one that took up the entire city block... and in New York, that's saying something. I've forgotten the name, but it was one of the most beautiful churches I've ever seen before or since. I remember thinking how much I hoped my funeral would someday rate this kind of pomp and circumstance.
I climbed the stairs and went inside, curious to see the turnout. The church was almost nothing but main hall, and was it ever a hall. The interior was at least six stories high, with lots of those flying buttresses, but still very open and airy. Stained glass windows on the far wall bathed the hall in rainbows of light and color. It was so bright that I had to squint for a moment, after I took my shades off.
While I was taking all this in, someone had entered the church behind me. He started to walk past me into the church, but he stopped when he got a look at me. "Morris Cole?"
I looked over, and could just make him out in the half-light. "Uh... March, right? Keith?"
"Kevin... close enough," he said, and we shook hands. "It's been a long time, Morris. Where are you practicing, now?"
"St. Louis. You?"
"Boston," he said. "Nice to see you made it up to see the Master off."
"Yeah," I smiled, "Khan was incredible. I don't know how we're going to replace him."
"Tell me about it," Kevin nodded. "I know a few people who're gonna scream bloody murder."
"You must know some of my clients," I told him, and we made our way into the church. The place was big enough that, even with all the people who had come to pay their respects, there were still about half the seats open toward the back of the hall. We found some seats partway into the last occupied rows and sat down. Along the way, I noticed a few other old colleagues from Geneva, and a few I've met at conferences and such, and we all exchanged polite waves or smiles, the kind that people do to suggest they'll get together after the service, but often don't. Kevin and I passed the next few minutes before the service, talking about our practices.
The service started about five after eleven. It wasn't a Catholic funeral, but it was long enough to qualify by default. I wasn't the only one to get a bit fidgety by noon, and I had taken to furtively checking out the rest of the people in the church, which wasn't too noticeable since we were near the last occupied row, anyhow. I'd realized early on that there were no family members in the reserved seating up front, and I remembered Khan telling me that his father was the only one of his parents still around. That was years earlier, of course, and I guess he'd passed on since. I also knew he was an only child, but I was a bit surprised to see no cousins, no aunts or uncles there, and I wondered who'd actually made the funeral arrangements.
The next natural thing for a mid-thirties bachelor like myself to look for was the unescorted females in the room, and soon I was checking out every woman whose face (or at least their figure) I could see. This didn't take long, there weren't many there.
But it was at this point that I first saw the girl who is the subject of this journal. She was seated in the back of the church... the last row in the back, in fact, so I couldn't see her too clearly from where I sat. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, maybe, and she had medium-length brown hair, but that was about all I could tell. She sat very still back there, head down a bit, like she might have been in prayer, or just in deep mourning.
Kevin noticed my interest over my shoulder... he had taken to checking out the room, too... and he stole a glance to the back. When he looked back, he smiled at me and tried to concentrate on the service again.
We endured another twenty minutes of testimonials, eulogies and prayers. When the ceremony ended, quite a number of people almost flew out of their seats from relief. Kevin and I stood up, but I decided to take my time about leaving, in order to catch up with a few of the familiar faces I'd noticed. Quite a number of people remembered me, although I think the fact that I was one of the few Black men in their field with such a well-heeled clientele earned me most of my notoriety. I remembered most of them by at least one name, and after introductions we all discovered we were mostly all still in the prosthetics and cosmetics end of the medical profession.
While we were still there talking, I noticed one of the priests who had officiated the service had walked over to the girl I noticed in the back, who was still sitting in the same seat she had occupied during the ceremony. He handed her a bouquet that had been up front during the ceremony, and spoke to her for a moment. At that point, a man and woman who had attended walked out of the church, passing between me and the girl. I saw the woman look at the girl, then lean toward her husband and say something. I couldn't hear what she said, but I've seen that womanly, disapproving "That Little Tramp" look she flashed her husband a hundred times.
I turned back to my colleagues and asked, "Hey, anyone know who the girl back there is?"
All of them looked, trying to be polite about it. Not all of them immediately turned back around, but one of them, a surgeon, looked to me and said, "That's Robin Taft."
"Taft? As in Mrs. Khan Taft?"
"No, as in Miss. I think she's a foster child, or ward, or something like that."
"Well, what's she doing in the back of the church? She should've been up front."
"Beats me," the surgeon shrugged, glancing back her way. "I think she's trying to keep a low profile, though."
"Why?"
Another doctor turned to me and said, sotto voce, "I heard she and Taft were sleeping together."
"With his ward?"
"Yeah, pretty low, huh?"
"And she's pretty young..."
"I dunno. Look at her. Nice work when you can get it..."
"She's probably just some gold-digger, who managed to get in Taft's bed," Kevin said, "and now she's got all his money."
And all his equipment, I suddenly realized. "You think she got the whole estate?"
"Unless Khan had other relatives we don't know about," someone said.
That gave me an idea. I was going to have to talk to her about Taft's equipment. If I hit her up before anyone else, I might be able to get her to unload his stuff on me, cheap. I mean, it wasn't as if she was going to use the stuff, after all. She was probably already trying to figure out how to get rid of the stuff in Taft's lab: That gear would buy quite a number of pretty rocks, evening dresses and airline tickets.
But when I looked back over to her, she wasn't in the pew. I turned to the door, and sure enough, she was just stepping outside. I made my excuses and broke off from my colleagues, but I wasn't fast enough. By the time I got to the top of the stairs, she was gone.
I could only hope she was going back to Taft's house, since I had an address for it. If not, I was going to have to spend some time hunting her down. And although I could think of worse things to chase around town, I did have a practice to get home to.
I found a bank of phones across the street from the church, and made a long distance call.
"Morris Cole's office. May I help you?"
"Hi, Becky Ann, it's Morris."
"Oh, hi, Morris. How was the funeral?"
"Long, too damned long. How are things there? Any calls?"
"Well, you had a call from Mr. Janson this morning, but he said it could wait until you got back to town."
"About that," I said. "I might be taking a later plane back. I have to see someone who knew Taft, and I don't know how long I'll be. So don't expect me back tonight. I'll call you tomorrow and let you know what my schedule is. Did Janson say what he needed?"
"No, he just asked if you were here, and said it could wait."
I considered a moment. Janson was one of those people who liked to live on the wild side, which was how he managed to lose his left leg three years ago. If he had done something stupid, he might be to embarrassed to tell Becky Ann about it. Still, if he was really messed up, he would have said something... "Fine, then. Hold the fort, and I'll call you tomorrow."
"Okay. Bye-bye."
That done, I had to see this girl Robin Taft. Of course, I wasn't going to talk to her right after the funeral and all, so I took a cab into a restaurant district and picked one. I hadn't eaten since the flight in... if you could call airline food eating... and I was ready for a good lunch.
I took my time eating. Afterward, I walked a bit through a nearby shopping district, and killed another two hours. When I figured I had given things enough time to cool, I hailed a cab and headed for Taft's home.
Taft lived in a very exclusive neighborhood, fairly secluded, lots of trees and no sidewalks. I was surprised there was no guardhouse at the front gate. Anyway, the cabby and I found the house courtesy of a sign on the street, and proceeded up a driveway longer than most suburban lawns. The drive ended in a circle in front of the house. I told the cabby to wait, got out, and walked up to the front door.
I rang the bell. After a moment, a voice on the intercom by the doorbell asked, "Who is it?" It sounded like I expected Robin Taft probably would.
"I'm Doctor Morris Cole. I'm an old friend and colleague of Khan Taft." I did not volunteer anything else, and hoped she would take the hint and come to the door.
She took the hint. The door opened just about a foot, and she moved into view just behind it.
This was the first time I'd seen Robin Taft up close, and now I was glad I had gone to this much trouble. She was young, and very pretty. She had an oval face, innocent-looking brown eyes, full lips and brown hair which just reached to her shoulders. She had changed out of her black dress, and now had on a black V-neck sweater and tan slacks, the kind that only go down halfway past the knee and hug the curves. She certainly didn't look like a gold-digger... more like a co-ed just back from State U.
She looked me up and down, too, and said, "Can I help you?"
"I'd like to express my condolences over the death of Dr. Taft. I would have done so at the funeral today, but I didn't get a chance to, before you left." She stood there halfway behind the door, just listening to me. I couldn't quite read anything on her face... something was there, but it didn't seem to be grief, or irritation at my being there. I decided to keep going. "Dr. Taft and I studied together in Geneva, and have collaborated ever since then. I have a practice in St. Louis, you see... Surgery, prosthetic application. Dr. Taft's work was the best there was." Still she did nothing. "I'd like to talk to you, Miss Taft, if I can."
She considered a moment, then stepped back and opened the door all the way. "All right, Dr. Cole. Come in, please. Would you like something to drink?"
"You don't have to go to any trouble," I shrugged, as I stepped into the foyer. Taft's house was rich, but tasteful. He clearly lived well, and I couldn't help but notice a few similarities between his home and mine.
"No trouble at all, Doctor," Robin smiled as she led me into a kitchen larger than some living rooms. "Tea? Coffee? There's liquor in that cabinet." As I happened to be standing next to the cabinet, I opened it, and saw a particular brandy I've always liked. I pulled it out, just as Robin stepped up to me and handed me a snifter. I took it and smiled my thanks. She smiled back, and walked over to a stool at a high counter. I poured my brandy, replaced the bottle and walked over to sit next to her.
"Did you fly up here from St. Louis for the funeral?" she asked, and I nodded. "That was very nice of you. It was gratifying to see so many of (there was a barely noticeable pause, as if she started to say something, then reconsidered... I gave no sign that I'd noticed) his colleagues at the service. I've met so few of them myself."
"Really? Hard to believe Khan would hide you from the people he knows around here."
"It wasn't that," she said. "We met while he was traveling overseas, and he fell ill not long after we arrived in America."
"Oh, I see." After we arrived in America... the kind of thing you might say if you had come for the first time. Yet she didn't have any trace of an accent, that I could hear. "Where are you from, if I may ask?"
"Cairo."
I smiled. "You seem awfully light-skinned for an Egyptian."
She smiled back. "You seem awfully dark-skinned, for an American." I smiled wider behind my drink. I could hear that ice breaking. "My parents died when I was young. I think they were Americans, but I've never found out for sure."
"Is that why you have no accent?"
She regarded me before she spoke. "Yes. I lived near an American Embassy. If you spoke English, you spoke it with an American accent."
"Mm. Was Khan traveling on business, or pleasure?"
"A bit of both, I guess," she shrugged.
That felt like a toe stepped-on. I decided I'd better move on. "Miss Taft, how familiar are you with Khan's work?"
"Well, I'm not a doctor, or anything, but we've talked about his work quite a lot."
"Good, good... y'know, Khan's prosthetics work couldn't be matched by anyone. That's why I always used his appliances, electronics and mechanics for my patients. To this day, I've never seen better artificial skins or simulated musculatures on a limb. And his neuro-muscular monitors and amplifiers were cutting edge. For years, I've studied his work and taken notes on the limbs he's prepared for me. I know I'm not as well-versed in his work as he was, but I think I'm close."
She was looking at me expectantly, now. She knew I was pitching something at her. "Still, Khan was the best. And his death is a serious blow to the prosthetic field. No other lab can match his custom equipment and personal set-up here. No one else will be able to provide the product he could make."
I set down my glass. "Well, I want to be able to continue to provide the best possible prosthetic devices to my clients. After all, I have a responsibility to my patients to do the best I can for them. But I can only do that with Khan's prosthetics. What I'm proposing, Miss Taft, is to purchase Khan's lab equipment from the estate, and have it transported to St. Louis."
She didn't seem inclined to say anything, she just stared at me with a perfect poker-face. But I had to keep going. "I'd be glad to discuss an equitable price for the equipment directly with you... unless you'd rather have a lawyer in on this. Of course, lawyers are going to take their time, then take their cut..." I added, trying to lightly push any greed buttons she might have. "...and I'd much rather be able to work things out quickly, with you. But I'll leave that up to you. In fact, if you'd allow me to take a look at the lab, I can give you a preliminary figure right now."
That was my pitch, and understand, I'm no salesman. But I was hoping this girl would be willing to part with a roomful of medical equipment for a quick profit, without worrying about the actual value of that equipment. Hell, she didn't look old enough to have a good idea what it would all cost, anyway. I was willing to bet that if I offered this kid enough money to buy a couple Ferraris—which wouldn't be a quarter what the equipment was really worth—her little foreign foster co-ed eyes would light up, and she'd all but blow me to get the cash in her little hand.
Imagine my surprise, then, when she looked up at me with those innocent little foreign foster co-ed eyes and said, "I'm sorry, that's impossible."
I almost fell off of my stool. When I recovered, I managed to get out, "Uh, well, did someone else beat me to it, then? I didn't realize I had competition... but if you haven't closed the deal, please let me make a counter offer. At least let me know who I'm competing with..."
"No, no, it's not that," she said, slipping off of her stool and walking across the kitchen to the liquor cabinet. I followed her over, as she took the brandy from the cabinet. "I'm not planning to sell any of Dr. Taft's laboratory equipment."
"But... you said you weren't a doctor... I mean..." I realized she had refilled the snifter I still held, and I downed it to calm myself. The burn helped. "What possible use could you have for such valuable medical equipment, Miss Taft?"
She had filled another snifter with brandy, and she sipped it before responding. "I'm sorry if you came out all this way just to inquire about Dr. Taft's equipment."
"But..."
"It's not for sale, Dr. Cole." She fixed me for a moment with a very determined look, and I felt my resolve ebb away. Then, as fast as it had come, the look went away, and she was suddenly looking away, seeming very embarrassed about the whole thing. "I'm sorry," she whispered, and stepped around me and out of the kitchen.
I helplessly followed her out of the kitchen, trying to think of something else I could say. Before I could think of anything, before I realized it, I was at the front door. She stood there, hand on the knob, regarding me quietly, and something about her expression had me buffaloed. "Miss Taft... please reconsid—"
"I'm sorry," she shook her head. "Good day, Dr. Cole."
It seemed like I was back in the cab and heading for town before I knew what happened. I'd expected to spend half the evening there, haggling over equipment and prices, maybe even charming the girl (hey, I didn't know for sure she wasn't a gold-digger), but instead I was heading for the airport without the goods or the girl. Actually, I didn't mind that much being snubbed, Hell, it'd happened before. I just didn't understand why. What could she plan to do with that equipment? Could she maybe be planning to sell them to the highest bidder, and was playing hard to get? Or maybe she was planning to use the equipment as leverage to get something else.
Or someone else?
I hardly realized it at the time, but I was already beginning to believe the worst about this girl who had so mysteriously thrown me out of her house. She was either stupid, scheming, or just a plain whore. Either way, I still wanted that equipment, and I wanted some way to get it. But if she was playing some kind of game or con, I needed to know what I was up against before I did something stupid.
I leaned up to the cab driver. "Uh... where did I tell you to go?"
"You said the airport, bud," the cabbie replied. "Didn't you want to go to the airport?"
"Never mind the airport," I said. "I need a hotel for the night."
"Lots of hotels right by the airport," the cabbie shrugged.
I thought about it. "Fine. Pick one and drop me off there, okay?"
"Okay by me."
I had an idea, and it seemed a bit silly, even to me. But at the time, I couldn't think of anything else.
Robin e-Book edition is copyright ©Steve Jordan. All rights reserved.
This site is designed to be fully functional to those with disabilities. Is yours?