Page 78 of Filthy Lovin Heroes

“We’re stopping by La Salle’s first. After that, we’re heading downtown.” Oliver had taken charge of our first stop that evening, which would be a brief visit where we’d grab a beer, congratulate Mancuso, and then hit the door. We could be in and out in half an hour.

La Salle’s wasn’t my kind of place, mostly because it was a few blocks from the hospital and, therefore, popular with staff after hours. I’d only been inside the below street level bar a few times briefly and recalled with a cringe the themed décor that borrowed heavily from the “Cheers” TV show.

Inside, the bar was packed. This surprised me as, given Mancuso’s history, there’d be another one of these for her next year.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

Lucas looked at me with pity in his dark eyes. “You really have no idea?”

“I don’t.” We squeezed our way to the bar and everyone we passed knew at least one of us. Most, knew us all.

Great. The entire hospital had shown up. That was a testament to Dr. Mancuso. To me, it set my teeth on edge. I wanted to say my bit and get the hell out of here. I’d be happier wandering down in the blessed anonymity of Greenwich Village.

I jockeyed my way to the bar. Dr. Mancuso perched on a barstool. She was a petite woman with the tight perm favored by grandmothers everywhere. Her smile widened when she saw me.

“Malcolm! This is an honor.” She held out her hand to me. “You never come to my retirement farewells.”

Her hand was bony, and her cheekbones were more pronounced. She’d lost weight. Some time off would do her good. As a doctor, I couldn’t help assessing everyone I met.

“I know you don’t like these things, so you better grab yourself a drink,” she continued.

I ordered a whiskey, then sat down when the seat next to her opened up.

“I’m sorry that you’re retiring, but you’ll be back. I know your type.” I had to lean close so that she could hear me over the noise. I sipped my whiskey.

She smiled ruefully. “This time, it’s going to stick.”

“You don’t look like the type to take up knitting.” I studied her amidst the chaos of the bar.

For the first time ever, the word ‘frail’ came to mind. She was sick. Her recent weight loss gave her away.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

Dr. Mancuso sipped her white wine, then set it on the counter. “What gave me away?”

“I was trained by a fantastic teacher.” I pushed my drink away. The whiskey was overrated, plus this news gave me a sour stomach. Though we are trained to deal with bad news, it was never welcome. “What is it?” I asked.

“Nothing that concerns you.” She patted my hand in a grandmotherly way.

I was shocked. I’d never considered that my mentor probably was a grandmother. She didn’t wear a wedding ring. She’d never talked about a family or shown off any pictures to the staff. Whatever was going on, must be serious indeed.

I wanted to press her for her diagnosis, to know what the plan was, and ask how I could help.

“I’m afraid I’ve been a poor tutor, Malcolm.” Dr. Mancuso’s fingers smoothed the edges of her wrinkled cocktail napkin. “I was so busy teaching you about medicine, I never talked to you about life.”

“If this is ‘the birds and the bees’ talk, you don’t have to worry. I’m all caught up.” I flashed her a grin.

Sadness flitted across her face.

“Work has been my identity my entire adult life. But there is more out there than work for people like us. Don’t be afraid to search for it.”

My mind was spinning, and not from the drink. Mancuso was sick. Really sick, if she was giving me a life lecture. I wished we weren’t in such a public place so I could find out what was really going on.

But my horror at this information, which she rather casually delivered, competed with someone at the corner of my eye trying to wedge into this conversation.

People needed to learn how to fuck off.

I hoped they got my mental message.

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