Chapter 37

At that moment the door opened and a distinctive aroma filled the room. The smell, closer to a stench than anything pleasant, was so intense it made your eyes water the first time you experienced it. I had experienced it many times and still couldn't quite get used to it.

"Hello, Gertie. It's been a while."

"Hello, to you too, Mr. Sampson. I see you've been up to your usual stunts. Rescuing fair maidens now, are we?" came the booming response.

I was still sitting. I tilted my head back to look up at an enormous block of a woman who was smiling warmly down at me in a motherly fashion. She was as large as her unique perfume was intense. There was nothing small about her.

As far as I knew, there was still a sizable reward open in the NIH labs for anyone who could duplicate the odor of her stench and make an antidote. God knows why she insisted on bathing in the stuff. She was an intelligent woman, a world-renowned medical researcher. She was published in more than one field, she had a likeable personality. She just smelled. It was rumored that certain airlines had banned her from flying with them. She caused too many customer complaints.

She was accompanied by an officious lab coat; the local hospital administrator, was my bet. He started right in on me.

"Yes, Mr. Sampson, I demand to know what is going on in my hospital. Will you please explain to me what you did to this young juvenile and why you were carrying her naked though the streets? What is your relationship to this black fellow and what were you two planning on doing to her? I have several important questions I would like to have answered, mister. You're going to be in real trouble if I don't get the truth I'm after and I'm talking criminal charges, here. Your accomplice here has been particularly insistent in trying to leave. Why? I want to know what's going on and right now!" he ended emphatically.

"And you would be... ?"

"Carl Jones, Assistant Administrator."

"Well, Mr. Jones, in the first place, you'd better get a lawyer real quick. I don't take kindly to insinuations, aspersions or allegations, especially the kind you have just made about my friend, this 'black fellow, ' as you called him, and me.

"Now, I'm sure that Dr. Schwartz here will put you into contact with some nice government people who will satisfy your curiosity as to who I am. Of course, that would be after you prove to them that you have a security clearance capable of handling that information, which could take several years of their asking some very personal questions. In fact, I'm sure those same government people would be happy to bring several of their nice friends along who will have questions of their own for you about your tax records for the last 25 years."

I stood up for effect. I don't think the pompous little snot knew how big I was.

"Now then, I would suggest you leave before I really get mad."

He was actually preparing to spout off again until I mentioned the IRS. Blanching, he left the same pallid color as his lab coat.

When the door was shut Gertie said, "Done with your usual light touch, Sampson. Oh, by the way, we don't use the IRS to threaten the populace anymore."

I looked at her, an expectant smile on my face. I knew a punch line was coming.

"Uh-uh. Now we threaten them with the INS, ATF, or Janet Reno. They go in with machine guns and point them at your children."

She said this with such a straight face that, had I not guffawed, Mac would have taken her seriously. Gertie always was the one person who could be relied on to have the latest sick government humor. As with most sick jokes, however, there was entirely too much truth in her statement.

"Excuse me, are you really Dr. Gertrude Schwartz of NIH?" asked Simone from the bed.

The huge lady turned her considerable attention to the girl in the bed. "Yes, I am, child. Do you know me?"

"You wrote a book, 'The Dynamics of Hemoglobin Under Physical Stress' published in 1985."

"Yes, I did," Gertie said with surprise. "How did you know?"

"I read it," she stated simply. Simone could see the disbelief in Gertie's face. I knew if it was Gertie's book, it was undoubtedly a very thick and very technical book. Simone continued, "There were only four typographic errors. I thought it was very well written."

"Well, thank you, I think. And there were only three in the text!"

"You misspelled Claude Coutier's name in the references. That was the fourth one. So you are correct in saying there were only three in the text," said the girl.

"Dr. Coutier is an arrogant sycophant," Gertie muttered.

Simone giggled, "He said nearly the same thing about you! Only in French, of course."

Gertie sat on the edge of the bed, fully taken with this amazing young girl. "You know Claude?"

Simone nodded, "I knew him. We corresponded until he died last year. I had written to him to ask him if he thought your radical theories were correct, as they differed so much from his. He grudgingly admitted to me you were most likely correct. Did you know him, Dr. Schwartz? He would never say why he had such strong feelings about you."

I had never seen the big woman this vulnerable. She was as tough as they came, solid and dependable. I had leaned on her for strength more than once after returning from a hard mission. This young girl had her near tears.

"Yes, I did know him, long ago at the University. Very well, in fact. He and I were engaged. His mother didn't like me and we, he..." She didn't say what, but it was clear.

"Oh, I am so sorry, Dr. Schwartz. I did not mean to bring up sad memories. I know he would have liked it that you did it on purpose, as a joke on his mother. He said many nice things about you in his letters, like he missed talking with you. I can see why he loved you."

Gertie sat quietly for a moment, alone with her own thoughts. She wheeled on me suddenly.

"I hear one word of this from anyone, mister, and I will draw so much of your blood for lab tests at your next physical you'll blow away in a puff. Understood?"

I nodded, suitably threatened. My lips were sealed. For now.

With that, Gertie was back to business.

"What's his clearance?" she asked me, nodding her head at Mac.

I looked at Mac. I shrugged.

"I don't know. What do you think, Mac? 410 feet? 415?"

He snorted, Gertie just looked puzzled.

"Mac is my oldest and closest friend, Gertie. From before my Agency work. He, uh, he is a ball player. Baseball. Gertie, this is Mac Washington, third baseman for the Yankees. Mac, Gertie, my own personal government doctor."

They shook hands, then Gertie's eyes widened in sudden recognition. "You! You're THAT Mac! You're the one who showed up out of nowhere and cost me all that money in the Orioles game. Damn! Nobody can move that fast on the bases. You must have stolen four or five bases that game alone!"

Mac grinned, taking the praise, tainted as it was, in stride.

"Gertie, you continue to amaze me. I didn't know you followed baseball. And betting? Does the Agency know about that?"

She glared over at me.

"Screw you, Mr. Sampson. It was a $10 bet with the director that went to double or nothing when Mac got walked. He was an unknown who had just been moved up from some hick Triple A club to replace that injured player, what's 'is name. Who was I to know he could run like the wind? Besides, $20 won't get you a hot dog and a beer there, so shove it. We went to the game on official business, too. Maybe one of you will tell me, since we're on the subject, why do they call you two 'The Twins?' That name kept coming up in some of your old teammates' interviews."

She turned to Mac. "It's an honor to meet you in person. Excuse me for not recognizing you, Mr. Washington. I didn't recognize you without your tight pants..." For the second time she stopped short, not finishing what she was saying. It was a most unusual occurrence.

As much as she blushed when she realized what she had just admitted, that she had only looked at his butt during the game, Mac and I were still trying to recover from her sudden unexpected question about our nickname. The reason for the name was rather personal and, thank goodness, our teammates, though truthful about the name, had had the loyalty to conveniently forget the reason for it. I gave her the standard bullshit answer we told anyone who asked.

"Well, it started out when we were in high school. He would get a hit, I would get a hit. I would pitch a no-hitter, then he would. Whatever happened to one of us, happened to both of us. Ergo, 'The Twins!'"

Gertie looked at me carefully. She knew me too well. My answer had been too pat, too prepared. "Is that your final answer?"

I nodded.

"Bullshit."

I shrugged. Take it or leave it.

Shaking her head in resignation, she finally got on with why she had come in to the room in the first place.

"Well, first the good news. You, Mr. Sampson, are as healthy as a horse. As usual. Even that little scratch on your arm should heal nicely. That is due in large part to me, as you well know."