Desperate Measures

15

“I thought you said they were taking your father to another hospital,” the taxi driver said.

“They are.”

“Not in New York City, they ain’t. In case you haven’t noticed, we just reached New Rochelle.”

Pittman listened to the rhythmic tap of the taxi’s windshield wipers. As tires hissed on wet pavement, he concentrated to provide an explanation. “The ambulance has a two-way radio. Maybe they called ahead and the hospital they were going to didn’t have the machine they needed.”

“Where I live over on Long Island, they’ve got plenty of good hospitals. I don’t know why they didn’t head there. What’s wrong with your father, anyhow?”

“Heart disease.”

“Yeah, my brother has a bad ticker. Thirty years of smoking. Poor bastard. Can hardly walk across the room. You better hope your father’s strong enough to hang on, because it doesn’t look like the ambulance is gonna stop here in New Rochelle. Christ, at this rate, we’ll soon be in Connecticut.”

Headlights gleamed in the rain.

“I’d better let my dispatcher know what’s going on,” the driver said. “Listen, I’m sorry about your father and all, but buddy, this long a trip needs special arrangements. If we end up in Stamford or some damned place like that, I won’t be able to get a fare to come back to the city. I’m gonna have to charge you both ways.”

“I’ll pay it.”

“How?”

Rain tapped the roof.

“What? I’m sorry… I wasn’t listening.”

“How are you gonna pay me? You got the cash? Rough estimate-we’re talking over a hundred bucks.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll get paid.”

“But I do worry. I need to know if you’ve got the cash to-Wait a second. Looks like they figured out where they’re going.”

The sign at the turnoff heading north said SCARSDALE/WHITE PLAINS.