9. Salvatore
SALVATORE
No wonder these patients are in hysteria when they’re trying to sleep next to beeping machines.
I wander through hospital corridors, searching for my informant’s room.
The receptionist told me to take a short-cut through the emergency department, following signs for the inpatient ward.
Turning the corner, I see a woman rise in her seat behind the desk, tuning out of the conversation with her coworkers to glare at me. Women usually melt to the floor when they see me unexpectedly, asking for photos, for autographs, but this particular woman looks like she holds a grudge against me.
I glance at the badge on her scrubs: Sapphire, Emergency Department.
“Are you here to see a patient, sir?” she says, cutting me off.
“Yes,” I reply, registering the young woman. “Lenny Foster. I believe he’s currently in one of the inpatient wards.”
“Follow signs into the main hospital and take the stairs up to level two.”
Which I was already in the process of doing…
“Thank you,” I say, continuing down the corridor, pushing open the double doors.
Hospitals are more depressing than graveyards.
Being dead is better than dying. I can vouch for that after killing many men, seeing the terror disappear on their face as their spirit leaves their body.
Death is cathartic. Living can be a nightmare if you’re doing it wrong, and ninety percent of people in this city are doing it wrong by reproducing, teaching their offspring how to live safe, mediocre lives.
Mediocre values create mediocre people. It was easy for me to build an empire in a sleeping city.
My parents being deported back to Italy was a blessing in disguise. The Crows saved me, teaching me useful life skills. Why bother learning algebra, slaving away for years at school when there are easier, faster ways to make something of yourself?
I hated the world as a boy, desperate for the government to pay. They sent my family away, orphaning me. Without that pain, I would be no one.
I thrive in a world of mediocrity. Pain is uncomfortable. Nobody wants to feel it. Stick a tube in someone’s vein and you can wash everything away, the hurt, the deep yearning for change; morphine removes everything that can make a person great.
But by default, the human brain is wired to seek comfort, to avoid hardship. Too many people take their doctor’s words as gospel. The medications, the need for comfort; it all destroys what little drive people have to become something great.
But as I enter the ward, seeing patients struggling against tubes, refusing to listen to what their doctors are telling them, I realize Robert is right.
People are starting to get tired of the comfort, hating billionaires like me who have the power to make a difference, because nothing we do will ever be enough for them.
For a while, seeing celebrities on the cover of Vogue can feel like a novelty. But novelties fade, motives change. I lock eyes with a patient across the hall and feel dread seep into my bones.
“What is this rich bastard doing here?”
“Calm down,” soothes the nurse, turning away from the computer to check on her patient. “The doctor will be here soon to—”
“Fuck the doctor.”
I grind my jaw, heading to reception, moving swiftly on from the sick patients. The lady points me in the right direction of Lenny, and before I know it, I’m walking into the correct room, locking eyes with my very pissed off informant.
“Trust you to pay me a visit when I’m in the process of being discharged.”
I grimace down at him. “You may need to book in for a rhinoplasty.”
“Sure, I’ll find the most expensive plastic surgeon, since you’re paying for all of the damage caused.”
“The unit was a fucking arm and a leg to purchase. You can forget the rhinoplasty and learn to take a joke.” I take a seat in the visitor chair, stretching out my legs. “If any new information has come to you since the attack, please tell me now.”
“I already told you everything.”
Which was basically fucking nothing.
“You sure you didn’t get a glimpse of this man? Perhaps the color of his eyes? His age? Young or old?”
“No,” says Lenny. “But the attacker was definitely male.” He rises in the bed with much effort, grimacing as he shuffles up to the headboard.
I turn and watch the news broadcast playing on TV, a good-for-nothing journalist repeating the same shit as his co-workers. Killing is illegal, and yet repeating lies is no problem at all.
“I thought you were better than this,” I say, signaling to the TV. “I would rather watch paint try than this nonsense.”
“Ten minutes ago, you were the nonsense,” chuckles Lenny, watching me with amusement. “Your dealings with the stock exchange is everyone’s business, as is your face on the latest issue of Vogue Men. Congratulations on being Mr. Worldwide.”
I grind my jaw. “You know I don’t give a fuck about publicity.”
“Perhaps not, what did you expect? You’re a rich womanizer. That makes you very marketable.”
“I’m not a womanizer,” I grumble.
“Says the man who hired a hot, blonde Victoria's Secret model to be his executive assistant.” Lenny sniffs a laugh. “Her face said it all when she stumbled into your office at the wrong time. Excuse me for interrupting your one-to-one meeting…”
“Miss Bennett is a very resourceful young woman. I hired her because she does a good job for me.”
“With her mouth.”
I rise from the chair, glancing at Lenny pointedly. “How’s the broken nose holding up? I’ll gladly finish the job your mystery attacker started if you continue degrading my assistant.”
“Whatever you say,” drawls Lenny, rolling his eyes. “You should take publicity tips from David Hale,” he suggests, gesturing to the TV as the camera pans. “At least he tries to make a lasting impression with the public.”
“Tries,” I repeat, studying the screen. “Keyword. Even philanthropists are seen as the devil in the eyes of the public.”
“Everyone with a bit of money to their name these days is seen as the devil,” adds Lenny.
“Which is ten percent of the population.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “Money polarizes people, and this city is starting to become an economical disaster.”
I grind my jaw, wishing people would just take their medication and stay in the boxes their families put them in. They should be grateful they actually have a family, people to relate to, to call home.
I watch the TV, deciding to stay quiet about David Hale for now. My informant doesn’t need to know that this man was also in the Crows, capitalizing on the skills he was taught as a boy, building wealth.
David will be at risk too, which explains why he is talking about raising money for orphaned children, wanting them off the streets.
“Every child deserves a roof over their head,” he preaches in front of his audience. “My mission is to ensure every young person has access to clothes, food, shelter and education. No child will be left behind.”
Of course, that’s his mission.
I turn away from the TV as the news cast ends, watching my informant. “When your health is back to normal, I need you back at the storage unit.”
“You purchased the fucking unit,” says Lenny. “Feel free to check the contents out yourself.”
“Even if I cover my face, my identity will still be known to people,” I say. “We spoke about this before.”
“Send one of your men to Queens instead."
“You know the risks.”
“I also know how easily the most powerful things in this city can break… which is why you hired an independent contractor to take care of business for you.” Lenny looks me dead in the eye. “You’re afraid.”
“I came here to discuss next steps, not be psycho-analyzed.”
“Indeed. The latter would take too long.”
I pull out five hundred in cash, slapping it in Lenny’s hand. “Upfront payment.”
“Another five hundred and we’re clear.”
I flash him a look.
“I’m being discharged shortly. I can check the unit out again, but I’ll need an additional two thousand on top of the upfront payment.”
“You can walk your broken ass out of here and forget it.”
“And you can forget about the unit, or risk hiring another informant who might not be as discreet as me,” he says, pinning me the dirtiest look.
Son-of-a-bitch.
“Deal.”
“Great.” Lenny flashes me a smile—not a good look for him with the broken nose. “I’ll make sure to keep an eye on the unit when the doctor sets me free.”
I head to the door, bidding the informant goodbye, and navigate my way out of the hospital.
Fresh, summer air fills my lungs as soon as I leave. I might be in the middle of the city, surrounded by high-rises, the air laden with fumes, but anything is better than breathing in the same air as the sick.
Before heading back to the office, I make a detour, walking alongside the Hudson, feeling the wind blow through my hair.
The Brooklyn Bridge grabs my attention, stalling me for a second as I remember the cold winter nights I spent sleeping on this bridge, being moved along by unsympathetic cops, the harsh wind reaching my bones and testing my patience for how much longer I could go on like this.
I wolf down the pizza slice and gulp the rest of my water, crushing the plastic.
According to my sources, the nearest homeless shelter is a twenty-minute walk away, across the Brooklyn Bridge. Being open twenty-four hours, a day is a massive help, meaning I can have fresh water around the clock… if only my seized-up legs will cooperate.
My bones feel like they could snap. Lifting myself up is a challenge, especially with this backpack.
Living on the streets for two months builds character.
That is what I tell myself every time I feel like walking into a foster care agency.
Giving up my pride just to sleep in a warm bed every night is not fucking worth it as I become tied to the government, to people like Richard Campbell who think they’re improving the city, when they’re actually making it worse.