shirt-leaned against the wall reading The Christian Science Monitor.
Someone cried out. Someone laughed.
The air was frigid, a good deal colder than down in Swig's office. We passed an obese, gray-haired man sitting on a bench, soft arms as thick as my thighs, face flushed and misshapen, like an overripe melon. He sprang up and suddenly his face was in mine, blowing hot, sour breath.
"If you're lost, that's the way out." He pointed to one of the brown doors.
Before I could respond, a young woman appeared and took him by the elbow.
He said, "If you're lost-"
The woman said, "It's okay, Ralph, no one's lost."
"If you're lost-"
"That's enough, Ralph." Sharp voice now. Ralph hung his head.
The woman wore a green-striped badge that said H. OTT, PT-I.
Claire's group-therapy tech. She wore a long-sleeved cham-bray shirt, rolled to the elbows and tucked into snug jeans that showed off a tight shape. Not a large woman-five-six and small-boned. She looked maybe twenty-five, too young to wield authority. Her dishwater hair was gathered in a tight knot, exposing a long face, slightly heavy in the jaw, with strong, symmetrical features. She had wide-set blue eyes, the clear, rosy complexion of a farm girl. Ralph had six inches and at least a hundred and fifty pounds on her. He remained in her grasp, looking remorseful.
"Okay, now," she told him, "why don't you go rest." She rotated him. Her body moved smoothly. Taut curves, small bust, long smooth neck. I could see her playing volleyball on the beach. What did the men in khaki see?
Ralph tried again: "If you're lost, that's the way..." His voice caught on the last word.
Heidi Ott said, "No one's lost." Louder, firmer.
A tear fell from Ralph's eye. Heidi Ott gave him a gentle push and he shuffled off.
A few of the other men had watched, but most seemed oblivious.
"Sorry," she said to us. "He thinks he's a tour guide." The blue eyes settled on
Hatterson. "Keeping busy, Phil?"
Hatterson drew himself up. "I'm giving them a tour, Miss Ott. This is Detective
Sturgis from the LAPD, and this is a doctor-sorry, I forgot your name, sir."
"Delaware."
Heidi Ott said, "Pleased to meet you."
Hatterson said, "The thing about Ralph is, he used to cruise the freeways, pick up people having car trouble. He'd offer to help them and then he'd-"
"Phil," said Heidi Ott. "You know we respect each other's privacy."
Hatterson let out a small, tight bark. Pursed his lips. Annoyed, not regretful.
"Sorry."
Heidi Ott turned to Milo. "You're here about Dr. Argent?" Her lips pushed together and paled. Young skin, but tension caused it to pucker.
"Yes, ma'am," said Milo. "You worked with her, didn't you?"
"I worked with a group she ran. We had contact about several other patients." The blue eyes blinked twice. Less force in her voice. Now she seemed her age.
Milo said, "When you have a chance, I'd like to-"
Screams and thumps came from behind us. My head whipped around.
The two dreadlocked men were on the floor, a double dervish, rolling, punching, clawing, biting. Moving slowly, deliberately, silently. Like pit bulls.
Other men started to cheer. The old man with The Christian Science Monitor slapped his knee and laughed. Only Phil Hatterson seemed frightened. He'd gone white and seemed to be searching for a place to hide.
Heidi Ott snapped a whistle out of her pocket, blew hard, and marched toward the fighters. Suddenly, two male techs were at her side. The three of them broke up the fight within seconds.
The dreadlocked men were hauled to their feet. One was bleeding from his left cheek.
The other bore a scratch on his forearm. Neither breathed hard. Both looked calm, almost serene.
The old man with the newspaper said, "By golly
Someone cried out. Someone laughed.
The air was frigid, a good deal colder than down in Swig's office. We passed an obese, gray-haired man sitting on a bench, soft arms as thick as my thighs, face flushed and misshapen, like an overripe melon. He sprang up and suddenly his face was in mine, blowing hot, sour breath.
"If you're lost, that's the way out." He pointed to one of the brown doors.
Before I could respond, a young woman appeared and took him by the elbow.
He said, "If you're lost-"
The woman said, "It's okay, Ralph, no one's lost."
"If you're lost-"
"That's enough, Ralph." Sharp voice now. Ralph hung his head.
The woman wore a green-striped badge that said H. OTT, PT-I.
Claire's group-therapy tech. She wore a long-sleeved cham-bray shirt, rolled to the elbows and tucked into snug jeans that showed off a tight shape. Not a large woman-five-six and small-boned. She looked maybe twenty-five, too young to wield authority. Her dishwater hair was gathered in a tight knot, exposing a long face, slightly heavy in the jaw, with strong, symmetrical features. She had wide-set blue eyes, the clear, rosy complexion of a farm girl. Ralph had six inches and at least a hundred and fifty pounds on her. He remained in her grasp, looking remorseful.
"Okay, now," she told him, "why don't you go rest." She rotated him. Her body moved smoothly. Taut curves, small bust, long smooth neck. I could see her playing volleyball on the beach. What did the men in khaki see?
Ralph tried again: "If you're lost, that's the way..." His voice caught on the last word.
Heidi Ott said, "No one's lost." Louder, firmer.
A tear fell from Ralph's eye. Heidi Ott gave him a gentle push and he shuffled off.
A few of the other men had watched, but most seemed oblivious.
"Sorry," she said to us. "He thinks he's a tour guide." The blue eyes settled on
Hatterson. "Keeping busy, Phil?"
Hatterson drew himself up. "I'm giving them a tour, Miss Ott. This is Detective
Sturgis from the LAPD, and this is a doctor-sorry, I forgot your name, sir."
"Delaware."
Heidi Ott said, "Pleased to meet you."
Hatterson said, "The thing about Ralph is, he used to cruise the freeways, pick up people having car trouble. He'd offer to help them and then he'd-"
"Phil," said Heidi Ott. "You know we respect each other's privacy."
Hatterson let out a small, tight bark. Pursed his lips. Annoyed, not regretful.
"Sorry."
Heidi Ott turned to Milo. "You're here about Dr. Argent?" Her lips pushed together and paled. Young skin, but tension caused it to pucker.
"Yes, ma'am," said Milo. "You worked with her, didn't you?"
"I worked with a group she ran. We had contact about several other patients." The blue eyes blinked twice. Less force in her voice. Now she seemed her age.
Milo said, "When you have a chance, I'd like to-"
Screams and thumps came from behind us. My head whipped around.
The two dreadlocked men were on the floor, a double dervish, rolling, punching, clawing, biting. Moving slowly, deliberately, silently. Like pit bulls.
Other men started to cheer. The old man with The Christian Science Monitor slapped his knee and laughed. Only Phil Hatterson seemed frightened. He'd gone white and seemed to be searching for a place to hide.
Heidi Ott snapped a whistle out of her pocket, blew hard, and marched toward the fighters. Suddenly, two male techs were at her side. The three of them broke up the fight within seconds.
The dreadlocked men were hauled to their feet. One was bleeding from his left cheek.
The other bore a scratch on his forearm. Neither breathed hard. Both looked calm, almost serene.
The old man with the newspaper said, "By golly
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