* * * * *
From the springboard of this incident, there emerged several occurrences
of note. The first in sequence took place in the Park Hill Hospital. The
time of that particular ambulance's arrival was 11:15 P.M. At
that hour the harvest of violence in Manhattan was being delivered to
its logical granaries in the form of broken heads, slashed bodies, and
dazed, shock-strained eyes. The examining rooms at Park Hill were full,
and some cases of lesser import were waiting on stretchers and benches
in the corridors.
That was where the pedestrian waited. Unlike others, he was very
patient. He seemed to understand that this sort of thing took time; or
perhaps he didn't. At any rate, he lay staring up at the ceiling,
unmoving, seemingly uncaring, until an intern named Frank Corson stopped
beside his stretcher and looked down at him in moody-eyed weariness.
Then Corson managed a smile.
"Sorry about the service, mister. Full house tonight."
"That's quite all--right."
Corson touched the broken leg. "I can give you a shot if the pain's
hitting too hard."
"It does not--pain."
"Stout fellow." Frank Corson probed with fingers that were growing more
expert day by day. "Good clean break. Not swelling, either." He touched
the patient's wrist, then put a stethoscope to his chest.
Actually, he was thinking of a different chest and different legs at the
time--the ones belonging to a copper-haired girl named Rhoda Kane.
Rhoda's legs were far more alluring. Her chest had added equipment that
was a haven of rest under trying circumstances, and Corson yearned for
midnight when he would quit this charnel house and climb into Rhoda's
convertible and--perhaps later--do a little chest analysis without
benefit of stethoscope.
Now he sighed, commandeered a passing orderly, and went to work.
Twenty minutes later he saw his patient deposited in a ten-bed ward. He
transcribed his data onto the clipboard at the foot of the bed, and
looked guiltily into the hall to see how things were going. He felt
guilty because he was tempted to dog it. And he did. He headed for the
locker room where he punched a cup of coffee out of the machine and
thought some more about Rhoda's legs.
Fifteen minutes later, Corson climbed into the convertible and leaned
over and kissed Rhoda Kane. "Hi, baby. You smell wonderful."
"You smell of disinfectant, darling." She wore a yellow print dress that
exposed a lot of healthily tanned skin. "Did you have a rough day?"
He leaned back against the seat and pushed his legs as far under the
dashboard as possible. He sighed and closed his eyes. But then he opened
them again and his face went blank.
She waited a few more moments and then said, "Honey--I'm here. Little
Rhoda. Remember me?"
The vague, thoughtful look vanished as he jerked his head around. "Oh,
sure--sure, baby." He grinned. "A rough one. If I'd known doctoring was
like this I'd have been a nice prosperous butcher."
"Do you want to drive?"
"No, you drive. I'll sit here and look at your beautiful profile."
They drove to Rhoda's apartment--Frank couldn't afford one--and he put
Rhoda at one end of the sofa and stretched out with his head in her lap.
He unbuttoned her blouse, put a hand over her breast, and teased the
nipple.
"Mr. Corson, you're a wolf."
"Kiss me."
"Well, I don't know," she teased.