Clothes, But No Cigar

Clothes, But No Cigar

“It's difficult to guess what Sterling will do once he finds out Mr. Ronald Roman survived the operation to remove a bullet near his heart,” Amanda said.

“He's one person I find difficult to outguess,” Brennan said.

“Well, I imagine he might case the joint, so to speak, and look for Ronald's clothing. Once he sees it in the closet, it will be difficult to resist donning his clothes and taking immediate action.”

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I need Ronald's street clothes, Sterling thought, so I can walk around without attracting too much attention. I can't be seen going in Roman's room without wearing street clothes, but the street clothes I need are in Roman's room. It's a catch 22.

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Why did they take my street clothes, in the first place? Sterling thought. That wasn't necessary. All the surgeon had to do was get to my hand and stitch it up. Maybe they thought I was a flight risk.

I bet they didn't take Ronald's street clothes. Well, maybe they did. They had to get his clothing out of the way so they could operate on his heart.

Just think. A lousy quarter of an inch in the right direction and all his troubles would have been over. And some of my troubles, as well. But now I got to worry about Ronald waking up from his operation and blaming everything on me.

Right now, I need a sidekick, a helper, a cohort. Someone who will do me a small favor. Oh, I'll pay the person, alright. I'm no cheapskate, Sterling thought.

The key to success is to get the choice right the first time. I can't audition volunteers, because I can't confide in more than one person, only the person I choose for the task.

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It's quiet at this end of the hall. Except for the screamer. I can cross her off the list. Wait. She might be a man. Ha. That's funny. She's a he. Forget them both.

Initially, Sterling considered putting the job out for bids, with the dubious honor of the chance to be his cohort going to the lowest bidder. On second thought, no bids. I can't waste my valuable time having to kill the runners-up.

The thought of giving the task to a person who sweats profusely and speaks broken English would be the last person I would be apt to employ, but Chico kind of grew on me.

I observed him walking the corridor in one direction or the other, every six and a half minutes. I timed him to pass the time. Ha, ha. That's sounds funny too. They must have given me laughing gas. Everything seems funny.

Despite the language barrier, he seemed to understand exactly what I required of him. When Chico told me he was given only three months to live, I was sure I had my man. I have a feeling three months might be overly optimistic.

Sterling was elated when he and Chico shook hands on the deal and felt it was the best twenty dollars he'd ever spent.

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It was five after nine when Chico left the dimly lit corridor and tiptoed into Sterling's room. “OK, boss, who you want me to keel?”

Sterling says, “I don't want you to . . . wait a minute. For twenty dollars, you'd keel, I mean kill somebody?”

“We shake, have deal.”

“I guess I didn't read the fine print,“ Sterling said, smiling.

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