O Is For Outlaw

By the time I woke again at 5:59, the storm had passed. I pulled on my sweats and went out for my run, returning to the apartment only long enough to toss a canvas duffel in the car and head over to the gym. I lifted weights for an hour, working my way through my usual routine. Though I'd only been back at the process for two months, I was seeing results, shoulders and biceps taking form again.

I was home at nine. I showered, ate breakfast, tossed some items in my fa

Overhead, two bright yellow aircraft circled, one following the other in an aerial surveillance focused on those of us down below. The berm was littered with trash, and at one point I passed one of those perplexing curls of tire tread that defy explanation. Once I reached Sherman Oaks, I turned right on the San Diego Freeway. The foliage along the berm was whipped by the perpetual wind of passing vehicles. Several towering office buildings obstructed the view, like sightseers on a parade route with no consideration for others. I took the off-ramp at Sunset and drove east until the UCLA campus began to appear on my right. I turned right onto Hilgard, right again on Le Conte, and right onto Tiverton, where I paid for a parking voucher. There were no parking spots available in the aboveground lot. I began my descent into the underground levels, circling down and down until I finally found a spot on C-1. I locked my car and took the elevator up. The extensive grass and concrete plaza served both the Jules Stein Eye Clinic and the UCLA Hospital and Medical Center. I crossed to the main entrance and entered the lobby, with its polished granite walls and two-tone gray carpet with a smoky pink stripe along the edge. The reception area on the right was filled with people awaiting word of friends and family members currently undergoing surgery. Two teenage girls in shorts and Tshirts were playing cards on the floor. There were babies in infant seats and a toddler in a stroller, flushed and sweating in sleep. Others were reading newspapers or chatting quietly while a steady foot traffic of visitors crossed and recrossed the lounge. The lobby chairs and adjoining planters were boxy gray modules. On the left, the gift shop was faced in a curious hue somewhere between mauve and orchid. A large glass case contained sample floral arrangements in case you arrived to see someone without a posy in hand.

Dead ahead, above the information desk, the word INFORMATION was writen large. I waited my turn and then asked a Mrs. Lewis, the patient information volunteer, for Mickey Magruder's room. She was probably in her seventies, her eyelids crepey as a turtle's. Age had cut knife pleats in the fragile skin on her cheeks, and her lips were pulled together in a pucker, like a drawstring purse. She did a quick check of her files and began to shake her head with regret. "I don't show anybody by that name. When was he admitted, dear?"

"On the fourteenth. I guess he could be registered as Michael. That's how the name reads on his birth certificate."

She made a note of the name and consulted another source. Her knuckles were knotted with arthritis, but her cursive was delicate. "Well, I don't know what to tell you. Is it possible he's been discharged?"

"I doubt it. I heard he was in a coma in ICU."

"You know, he might have been taken to the Santa Monica facility on Sixteenth Street. Shall I put in a call to them?"

"I'd appreciate that. I drove all the way down from Santa Teresa, and I'd hate to go home without finding him."

I watched her idly as she dialed and spoke to someone on the other end. Within moments, she hung up, apparently without success. "They have no record of him there. You might try Saint John's Hospital or Cedars-Sinai."

"I'm almost certain he was brought here. I talked to police detectives yesterday, and that's what they said.

He was admitted early Wednesday morning of last week. He'd been shot twice, so he must have been brought in through Emergency."

"I'm afraid that doesn't help. All I'm given is the patient's name, room number, and medical status. I don't have information about admissions."

"Suppose he was transferred? Wouldn't you receive notice. "

"Ordinarily," she said.

"Look, is there anyone else I could talk to about this?"

"I can't think who, unless you'd want to speak to someone in administration."

"Can't you check with Intensive Care? Maybe if you describe his injuries, they'll know where he is."

"Well," she said hesitantly, "there is a trauma social worker. She'd certainly have been alerted if the patient were the victim of a violent crime. Would you like me to call her?"

"Perfect. Please do. I'd appreciate your help."

By now, other people were lining up behind me, anxious for information and restless at the delay. Mrs. Lewis seemed reluctant, but she did pick up the phone again and make an in-house call. After the first couple of sentences, her voice dropped out of hearing range and she angled her face slightly so I couldn't read her lips. When she replaced the receiver, she wouldn't quite look at me… "If you'd care to wait, they said they'd send someone."

"Is something wrong?"

"Not that I know, dear. At the moment, the social worker's out of her office, probably on the floor somewhere. The ICU charge nurse is going to try paging her and get back to me."

"Then you're telling me he's here?"

The man behind me said, "Hey, come on, lady. Give us a break."

Mrs. Lewis seemed flustered. "I didn't say that. All I know is the social worker might help if you want to wait and talk to her. If you could just have a seat…

"Thanks. You won't forget?"

The man said, "Hell, I'll tell you myself."

I was too distracted to engage in a barking fest, so I let that one pass. I made my way over to an empty chair. Driving down to L.A., I hadn't pictured things turning out this way. I'd fancied a moment by Mickey's bed, some feeling of redemption, the chance to make amends. Now his latent paranoia was rubbing off on me. Had something happened to him? Had Detectives Claas and Aldo been holding out? It was always possible he'd been admitted under an assumed name. Crime victims, like celebrities, are often afforded the added measure of protection. If that were the case, I wasn't sure how I was going to sweet-talk my way into his alias. All I knew was I wouldn't budge until I got a lead on him.

Someone had left behind a tattered issue of Sunset Magazine. I began to leaf through, desperate for a diversion from my anxiety about him. I needed to get "centered." I needed serenity, a moment of calm, while I figured out whose butt I was going to kick and how hard. I settled on an article about building a brick patio, complete with layouts. Every ten or fifteen seconds I looked up, checking the clock, watching visitors, patients, and hospital perso