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  To Sleep . . . Perchance to Die

  DONALD GRIPPO

  Published by Turn the Page Publishing LLC

  P. O. Box 3179

  Upper Montclair, NJ 07043

  www.turnthepagepublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, with the exception of Hubie Santos, are fictional, a composite drawn from several individuals and from imagination.

  Other than Attorney Santos, any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental and unintended. Though certain locations are real, the events, locales, dialogue and scenes that figure in the narrative, including events associated with Attorney Santos, are products of the author’s imagination and are used factitiously.

  The name and characterization of Hubie Santos used by permission of Hubert J. Santos, Esquire, a criminal defense attorney practicing in Hartford, CT.

  Copyright © 2013 Donald Grippo

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including printed or electronic versions now known or hereinafter devised, without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address: Turn the Page Publishing, P. O. Box 3179, Upper Montclair, NJ 07043.

  Midnight Train to Georgia

  Words and Music by Jim Weatherly

  Copyright © 1971, 1973 UNIVERSAL - POLYGRAM INTERNATIONAL PUBLISHING, INC.

  Copyright Renewed

  All Rights Reserved Used by Permission

  Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation

  ISBN-13: 978-1-938501-12-8

  ISBN ebook-13: 978-1-938501-13-5

  To Sleep … Perchance to Die

  Library of Congress Control Number 2012950541

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  Editor Ann Kolakowski

  Cover Design Robin McGeever, McB Design

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

  The transition from oral and maxillofacial surgeon to fiction writer was arduous and rewarding. My medical/technical background didn’t provide the skill to write a novel. As with all professions, writing has to be learned.

  Roseann Lentin and her team at Turn the Page Publishing provided invaluable assistance in the creation of To Sleep … Perchance to Die. They have lessened my weaknesses and increased my strengths. Their job is not finished.

  Much of the credit for this novel goes to my greatest help in all things, Pauline. Her plot suggestions and countless hours of proofing make this book as much hers as mine.

  DEDICATION

  Connecticut: Unbounded beauty from sea to mountain.

  Table of Content

  Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments...

  When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state …

  Love’s fire heats water, water cools not love...

  And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare...

  When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past …

  Two loves I have of comfort and despair …

  Some glory in their birth …

  What potions have I drunk of Siren tears …

  When my love swears that she is made of truth I do believe her, though I know she lies …

  So shall I live, supposing thou art true, Like a deceived husband...

  No longer mourn for me when I am dead...

  ’Tis better to be vile than vile esteem’d, When not to be receives reproach of being …

  How like a winter hath my absence been From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year...

  How heavy do I journey on the way...

  Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments...

  When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state …

  She’s dead. Everything’s changed. How could it have happened?

  In a dark room, sunk in an overstuffed chair, the killer cried into his hands, silent sobs heard through intermittent squeaks of leather as his body jerked in rhythm with his sobs.

  She’s on a slab, cooling. I want to touch her and feel her warmth once more before it’s lost forever.

  He rubbed his face and smelled his hands. Her scent. Shaking his head, they’ll open her up and look for answers. Like peeling the lid from a can of sardines.

  He had turned off the lights and closed the blinds to isolate himself from the world. The room was as dark as his thoughts. Mechanical noise from the ventilation system remained, but it was white and helped him think. Leaning his head back, he stared into the darkness. “I’ve got questions too,” he said to the empty room, his voice small.

  My wife? My best friend? How can I tell them? He’ll understand. She won’t.

  Another squeak of leather. All I worked for. The life I earned and deserved. Lost.

  Looking to the ceiling, “I’m sorry. Forgive me for what I did.” His words sent a shockwave that hit the walls and returned, a hurtling stone that took his breath. Trembling, he sank into the chair. His heart was being crushed.

  Love’s fire heats water, water cools not love...

  New York City: Three years earlier. Summer, less than a week old, enveloped the Northeast in gentle heat. A cloud layer filtered the sun painting the sky rose-colored, like a canvas of one of the city’s countless artists. Trees in the grass between street and sidewalk boasted new greenery. As he left the hospital, 28 year-old Dr. Bret Manley stood a moment enjoying the sun’s rays on his face, and sighed. Too bad his jog through the park was going to be delayed on such a Goldilocks afternoon.

  Jake Warden had called and asked to meet him at a local pub. Said he wanted to talk. No way could he skip it. Jake was about to become chief resident in the Department of Oral and Maxillofacial Surgery at Manhattan Memorial Hospital, and wanted a strategy meeting with his second-in-command.

  Craving fresh air, Bret shunned his usual walk through the subbasement tunnel from the hospital to the upscale building across the street where he had an apartment on the sixth floor, two floors above Jake. The doorman, who was assisting a brunette with a knockout figure, saw him and waved. The air wasn’t as clean as in his rural Connecticut hometown, but it was as good as you get in the city.

  Waiting for the light, he yawned. The day started at three a.m. when he was called to the emergency department to see a drunk driver who had done a number on his face. He took the jerk to the O.R. and spent the morning and part of the afternoon fixing broken facial bones.

  The light changed and Bret crossed. It was two blocks to the restaurant. In a way, he was glad of having the get-together. Jake had been moody. Seemed distracted. The meeting would give him an opportunity to discover what was bothering the man.

  From a distance, he saw his friend waiting on the corner. Jake was a year older and at six-one, an inch taller than Bret. His swimmer’s body and chiseled face made him an imposing figure. In addition, Jake was an exceptional surgeon with hands meant to hold a scalpel.

  Bret had his fair share of admirers—women told him he was good looking in spite of his unruly hair and the slight irregularity of his nose. The latter was the result of a high school football injury. As with his prominent chin dimple, he thought it made him look rugged. Although solid, he was not in the same condition as Jake, who worked out several times a week in the hospital gym. Amazing, given the constraints of the residents’ training program.

  “Hey,” he said when he reached Jake.

  “Good timing,” Jake said, pointing at his watch.

  “Almost didn’t make it. Been in the O.R. since early this morning.”

  “Oh? What was it?”


  “Auto accident. A bag of broken bones, but the left eye was the challenge. Asshole was drunk. Police said it wasn’t the first time he crashed his car after swimming in booze.” Bret shook his head, “The muscles were entrapped, so I put in an implant.” Balling his fists, “Damn, I hope they take his license away for a long time. Could have killed someone.”

  Jake shrugged his shoulders and turned to the pub’s entrance. Opening the door, he asked, “Hey, did you see the news about your Uncle Hubie?” Hubie Santos was a famous litigator whose practice was in Hartford, Connecticut. “Seems he’s got a high profile criminal case in Federal Court here.”

  “No, haven’t heard, but he’s in the news a lot. Argues most of his federal cases here. I don’t get to see him much, but sometimes when he’s in the city, he drops by. We do dinner or something.”

  Jake nodded, “Must be nice being related to a high-powered lawyer like Santos.”

  “Yeah, he’s a great guy and was like a father to me when mine passed.” Bret knocked his fist against the side of his head, “Hope I’ll never need his services.”

  The Ale and Beef advertised itself as an authentic English pub, except it featured classic American food, French dishes, and about twenty micro-brewed regional beers. The lone English dish was fish and chips. A popular hangout for hospital personnel, they referred to it as the “A and B.”

  A mahogany bar with cushioned stools dominated the outer room. A bartender was busy drying glasses with a striped cloth towel. In a few hours he’d be facing a crowd of boisterous drinkers. For privacy, Bret and Jake walked past the bar and sat in the back at a table covered with brown paper.

  A twenty-something blonde waitress approached. Bret did a double-take. She could be Nicole Kidman’s shorter sister. Her name tag read “Liz.” His gaze progressed from her tight fitting jeans to the clingy jersey that accentuated ample breasts.

  “What can I get you boys?” A pleasant smile matched a pleasing voice.

  Without looking at her, Jake said, “Double scotch, neat.”

  To Bret, “And you?”

  “I’ll have a Boston Homebrew, Liz,” adding a few extra z’s to her name in an attempt to appear cool. When she left to get their drinks, Bret looked at Jake, “Scotch? You’re usually a beer or wine guy. And no vulgar comment about the waitress? Who, by the way, I’m thinking I need to know.” Bret glanced toward the bar. Liz stood waiting for their drinks, and he admired the view.

  Jake grunted.

  Trance broken, Bret said, “Okay, what’s going on? You haven’t exactly been talkative lately.”

  Jake frowned. “We’re always talking.”

  “I don’t mean hospital stuff. I’m talking about you stuff. It’s been a while since you’ve filled me in on Rachel and things going on at home.”

  Letting out a long breath with pursed lips, Jake said, “Okay, there is something … but let’s take care of business first.”

  “If that’s how you want it.”

  Jake glanced at a side wall, folded his hands on the table, and nodded.

  Before he could speak, Bret said, “I know what you’re worried about. Let me just say, you don’t have to concern yourself about Tuttle. I’ll keep the fire going under his butt.” He was referring to Jim Tuttle, the current intern who was a year behind Bret. Tuttle was lazy and had to be monitored to ensure he did his job.

  “You better. When Ed leaves next week, it’ll be my chance to do the cases I’ve been waiting for, and I don’t want anyone fucking it up.” As an afterthought, Jake said, “I’ll miss Ed. He’s been a great chief resident. I hope I’m half as good.”

  Bret pointed a finger at Jake and said, “I told you. Don’t worry about Tuttle.” After a pause, he said, “Don’t take this as ass kissing, but you’re going make a terrific chief resident.”

  Jake smiled, “Sounds like ass kissing to me.”

  “Stick it. At least I got a smile out of you.”

  “Sorry for the attitude,” Jake said. “Look, I appreciate how you’ve kept Tuttle under control, and I know you won’t let him screw up.” His hands drummed on the table, “God, I don’t know what’s going to happen to this program when he’s chief resident.

  Bret added, “Not to mention when you’re out of here. I’ll be the only one outranking him. Probably have to bypass him and work with the new intern who’s arriving next week. A real crackerjack, by the way.”

  Jake stopped drumming and placed his elbows on the table and interlocked his fingers, “Yeah, I was impressed with Elaine when she interviewed.”

  “Likes to be called Lainey.”

  “Whatever. Hope she works out for you. We have to cover each other’s backs like Navy Seals. When somebody doesn’t do their job, makes it tough on the rest of us.”

  Thinking business was concluded and Jake satisfied with his promise to see things would run well, Bret saw an opening, “How are you and Rachel getting along?” Jake and his wife had a volatile relationship.

  Jake shook his head. Bret sensed his friend was about to clam-up.

  Hospital gossip had it that Rachel agreed to a divorce. The couple’s arguments were frequent and loud, and more than once neighbors called Bret and asked him to put a stop to the fighting. Most who knew Jake and Rachel were amazed they had remained together.

  In truth, Bret was concerned about Jake’s fiery and quick temper. He remembered the time he had to keep Jake from beating a homeless man. Not an easy feat for Bret. The man had been looking for a place to sleep on the sidewalk, and Jake didn’t want him near his car. The look of fear on the homeless man’s face as he fled for his life remained with Bret.

  You’re not going to give me the silent treatment this time. I’m going to fill you with drinks until you spill your guts.

  As if beginning a serious conversation, Bret leaned across the table and said, “Word is the house specialty of escargot with garlic bread is responsible for half the heart attacks in the neighborhood.”

  Jake frowned and looked at Bret.

  Hiding a smile, Bret continued, “Yeah, and you know what else? Their half-pound bacon-cheeseburgers with Cajun fries also claim a respectable number.”

  Jake leaned in, his shoulders a few inches from the table top, “What are you doing?”

  Pretending to be surprised by the question, Bret said, “Trying to make conversation. Lighten things up a little.”

  Jake sat back. “Can’t we just have a drink together?”

  “Sure, but remember, you promised to talk about more than just what’s happening at the hospital.”

  Liz brought their drinks. Jake took his from her hand and kicked it back in one gulp before she placed Bret’s on the table. “Another double,” he demanded.

  Liz ignored him and turned to Bret. “Do you want something to eat?”

  “I’ll have a plain burger and Cajun fries,” he answered.

  To Jake, “And you?”

  “Maybe later. Just bring another scotch for now.”

  Looks like he intends to get shit-faced. Good. After this beer, it’s club soda for me. I’ll tell him I’ve got emergency call. Pretty sure he doesn’t know Tuttle is covering.

  After Liz brought Jake’s scotch, the men drank in a silence marred by inane comments from Bret.

  “How about those Yamomami. You know, the primitive tribe in South America.” Bret paused while Jake motioned to Liz for another. “They only have three numbers in their language, one, two, and more than two. Sure makes things easy. Would have come in handy in my calculus classes.’”

  Jake raised an eyebrow but didn’t smile. He poured the third scotch into his gullet while his drinking buddy nursed his beer. Bret was about to put a ketchup-laden fry in his mouth when Jake blurted, “Fu-uck!” It was loud enough to make Bret jump and to cause the couple several tables over to glare at them. The fry flew to the floor.

  Leaning forward and with glistening eyes he looked at Bret. “I’ve fallen in love.”

  Bret understood in an instant
why his friend had been acting weird. The outburst gave him the opening he was waiting for. He wiped his hands on a napkin and said, “So, tell me.”

  There was a silence during which Jake twirled his glass and looked down at the table. “We met on the Circle Line Ferry about six months ago. I’ve wanted to ride it since I came to New York and it was chilly and rainy so I figured there wouldn’t be many people on it. I know it’s touristy, but . . . ”

  Attempting to keep Jake focused, Bret said, “I’ve wanted to ride it myself. Go on.” He took a big bite of his burger.

  “She was leaning on the stern rail looking into the water. I saw her look left then right. There was no one near her. She leaned farther over, and it dawned on me. She was going to jump.”

  “No kidding. What happened?” Bret forgot about his food remembering when he pulled an old man out of the way of an oncoming truck.

  “Well, I ran to her, of course. Got my arms around her and pulled her back. She fought, pounding her fists on my chest, but I held on. After a while she gave up and collapsed in my arms. I half-carried her to a bench, away from prying eyes.” Jake’s expression became vacant as if he was recreating the moment in his mind. “She had the most beautiful face I’d ever seen.” He pointed and shook his index finger at Bret, “You know because of what we do that when I say that, I know what I’m talking about. The most beautiful face, exquisite bone structure, but a big bruise right here.” Jake rubbed his fingertips on his cheek.

  Bret waited for Jake to continue.

  “I got her talking, and she began to cry, saying she wanted to drown herself because she couldn’t deal with her abusive boyfriend anymore. She didn’t know why he hit her. Said she did everything she could to please him, but it was never good enough. He criticized her all the time.”

  “What an asshole,” Bret said, his cheeseburger growing cold.