dead!” he shouted. “Calla de police.”
(God, oh God! Stop the pain!) Masters’ mind shrieked.
Angelo Foretti, picking his teeth, came out of the house directly behind them. He took one look and ran down the steps.
“What’s the matter, Tony?”
“He’sa dead.”
Angelo kneeled to peer into the pale, clammy face. “He sure is. Who is he?”
“Insurant man, from de Metropolitan.”
(Stop! Please stop!)
“He had a heart attack,” explained Foretti. “I saw the same thing with my Aunt Mary. Bang! Just like that. One minute she’s reaching across the table to pour some wine, and the next minute she’s lying over all the food. I thought Mom would have a fit.”
(God!) the scream started. Then a merciful curtain of darkness cut it off.
A thin, colorless ray of light bored into the brain cell. The cell quivered under the violent impact, then passed on the vibration to the cells surrounding it. The motion spread out like a circular ripple triggered by a pebble dropped into a motionless pool as it rolled faster and faster in its rush to sensibility.
“Can you hear me, Mr. Masters?”
Masters’ eyes flickered, his head turned slowly to one side, his face muscles relaxed, his shallow breathing grew more steady.
“I think he’ll be all right,” said the cardiologist as he closed the flap of the oxygen tent. He turned to the nurse standing at the foot of the bed. “Keep him under constant observation and call me the moment he stirs.” He left the room with a younger doctor trailing behind. “That was a close one,” he commented in the hallway. “Imagine, a cardiac infarction and angina pectoris at the same time. What a massive shock he must have experienced.”
The younger doctor nodded. “Three days. I never thought he would make it.”
A short, gray haired man was waiting at the end of the hall.
“Doctor Martin?” he inquired of the approaching physicians.
The older doctor stopped. “Yes.”
“I’m George Brighton, manager of the Metropolitan Life Insurance Company, Northeast District. Keith Masters is one of my assistant managers. How is he?”
“He’s doing as well as can be expected, Mr. Brighton. I believe one of your people was in a day or two ago, to arrange for his hospitalization insurance.”
“Yes. I sent over one of our other assistant managers. I realize it’s somewhat premature to make a definite statement, but what is Mr. Masters’ actual condition?”
The doctor hedged. “It’s quite uncertain at this point.”
Brighton smiled wryly. “Doctor, I am an attorney by training. Furthermore, in my profession as an insurance company manager, I deal with these matters extensively.”
Martin raised an eyebrow. “All right, Mr. Brighton. His attack should not be fatal, but we won’t have a complete evaluation of the damage to his heart until a few more tests have been made. The one thing we can guess is that the next attack will be much more severe. It could come tomorrow, or in ten years.”
“Will he be able to return to work, or would you consider it a permanent disability?”
The doctor pursed his lips. “As an educated guess, I think he should be up and around in three or four months. But if he should do any kind of work except, light, part time duties, he will be back rather quickly.”
“Then we may conclude that he is permanently disabled?”
“If he were on my staff, I would order him to remain at home for a year and search for a hobby.”
The insurance manager nodded. “Thank you, doctor.” He left the hospital and drove directly back to his office. There he picked up the phone and dialed a number taken from an information card.
A woman’s voice answered.
“Hello, Gloria. This is George Brighton.”
“Why, hello, Mr. Brighton. This is quite unexpected.”
Brighton did not hesitate. “Gloria, Keith is ill.”
There was a moment of silence. “Oh?”
“It’s quite serious. A heart attack. He’s in City Hospital.”
There was a longer period of silence, then a sigh. “Why don’t you call Keith’s whore, Mr. Brighton? I’m no longer related to him. I even have a divorce certificate to prove it.”
“Take it easy, Gloria. You know they broke up five years ago. I thought perhaps that Bert should know.”
The woman’s voice was suddenly angry. “Look, Keith walked out on us seven years ago. Bert was only eleven years old then, and he’s grown up fully convinced that his father is nothing better than a worthless bastard. Furthermore, I’m remarried, and my husband and Bert are great friends. Frankly, we don’t care if we ever see Keith Masters again.” She hung up.
A choir was singing Silent Night on the television set when a knock came at the door. “Come in,” called Masters.
The door opened and George Brighton entered. He adjusted his eyes to the dimness of the room. “Hello, Keith. I was just driving by and thought I’d drop in to wish you a Merry Christmas.”
Masters grinned. “I bet you were just driving by, George. How far out of the way was it? A couple of miles?”
Brighton grinned back. He took a seat facing Masters, huddled in his chair with a shawl around his shoulders. “You’ve put on some weight,” he observed.
“I’m up to one hundred and thirty now. Still twenty pounds under.”
“Well, you don’t look too bad for a guy on full pension. How are you making out?”
“I should have gotten sick sooner. It’s the first time I ever caught up with my bills.” He studied the gray haired man. “George, did you call Gloria when I became ill?”
Brighton nodded. “She was still pretty angry.”
Masters pursed his lips, his face still slate looking. “Just like her. She’ll carry the grudge right to the grave, fighting like a son of a bitch to drag everyone else along. How about Bert?”
“She said he didn’t want to see you. Bert didn’t say it. She did.”
“Then you can bet your bottom dollar that it’s true. He was a fine little fellow until she got on his ear. I hope he never realizes what kind of a mother he has. Hating his father is bad enough.”
“What ever happened between you two? You and Gloria were a real handsome couple.”
Masters
