Q Is for Quarry

hadn't seen him since Friday night and I was amazed at his progress. He was out wandering the hall, wearing a pair of paper slippers and a light cotton robe over his hospital gown. He was freshly showered and shaved, his hair still damp and neatly combed to one side.
    As soon as he saw us he said, "Let's use the waiting room at the end of the hall. I'm sick of being cooped up."
    I said, "You look great."
    "I'm lobbying the doc to let me out of here." Dolan seemed to shuffle, but it may have been the only way to keep the slippers on his feet.
    "What's the deal at this point?"
    "Possibly tomorrow. I'm supposed to start cardiac rehab and he thinks I'm better off doing that on home turf," he said. "Joe Mandel called me this morning with good news. They picked up the guy on that triple homicide."
    Stacey said, "Good dang deal. Now they can concentrate on us." We had the waiting room to ourselves. Up in one corner, a wall-mounted color TV was tuned to an evangelist, the sound turned down low. There was a white-robed choir behind him and I watched the vigor with which they sang. Lieutenant Dolan seemed restless, but I thought it was probably the lack of cigarettes. For him, work and the act of smoking were so closely connected it was hard to do one without the other. We chatted about the case. None of us ever tired of rehashing the facts, though there was nothing new to add.
    He said, "Right now, Pudgie's our priority. Time to lean on that guy."
    "Waste of time," Stacey said. "He's an old family friend. His prints are easy to explain. Might be bullshit, but nothing we can prove either way."
    We moved on to idle chitchat until Dolan's energy began to flag. We parted company soon afterward. Stacey and I spent the remainder of Sunday afternoon in our separate rooms. I don't know how he occupied his time. I read my book, napped, and trimmed my hair with my trusty pair of nail scissors. At 6:00, we went out for another round of junk food, this time Taco Bell. I was beginning to crave alfalfa sprouts and carrot juice; anything without additives, preservatives, or grease. On the other hand, the color had returned to Stacey's cheeks and I'd have been willing to swear he'd gained a pound or two since he arrived.
    Dolan was released from the hospital late Monday afternoon just as the dinner trays were coming out. Stacey and I arrived on the floor at 5:00 and waited with patience while Dolan's doctor reviewed his chart and lectured him at length about the importance of staying off cigarettes, eating properly, and initiating a program of moderate exercise. By the time we saw him, he was dressed in street clothes and eager to be gone. We tucked him in the front seat of Stacey's rental car while I climbed in the back. He carried a manila envelope with copies of the ER report, his EKGs, and his record of treatment. As Stacey turned the key in the ignition, Dolan said, "Bunch of bunk. They exaggerate this stuff, trying to keep you in line. I don't see what's so bad about an occasional smoke."
    "Don't start on that. You do what they say."
    "How about I'll be as compliant as you were? As I remember it, you did what suited you and to hell with them."
    Stacey turned off the key and threw his hands up. "That's it. We're going right back upstairs and talk to the doctor."
    "What's the matter with you? I said I'd do as I'm told... in the main. Now start the car and let's go. I'm not supposed to be upset. It says so right here," he said, rattling his envelope.
    "Does not. I read that myself."
    "You read my medical records?"
    "Sure. The chart was in the slot on your door. I knew you'd lie about things."
    I leaned forward, resting my arms on the front seat between them. "Guys, if you two are going to bicker, I'll get out and walk."
    All three of us were silent while they thought about that.
    " Finally, Dolan said, "Oh, all right. This is making my blood pressure go up." At the Quorum Inn over dinner, Dolan's mood improved and the tension between them eased. Dolan made a pious display of ordering broiled fish with lemon, steamed vegetables, a plain green salad, and a glass of red wine, which he swore he was allowed. After our day of junk food, Stacey and I both ate broiled chicken, salad, and the same steamed vegetables. We all pretended to enjoy the dinner more than we did. By the time our decaf coffee arrived, it was clear we'd run out of conversation. In the morning, Stacey would drive Dolan back to Santa Teresa in the rental car, leaving Dolan's