Pool_1

>> Coming Storm <<

In a room of raised eyebrows, congresswoman? Macaluso just shrugged... mmm, Woodrow... whoever the hell that was, thinking Christ it never ends. Then, "Oh, let me guess, another fund raiser." He mused that doctor Wang might get to reprise his last soprano performance of Lovely to Look At, which broke the room into song - Ruvree ter rook at, derightfur ter seeeee.... That was good for a minute's yuk. Wang had this deep baritone Cambridge scholastic inflection as his trade mark, making it all the funnier. Gerry Yount, the anesthesiologist, suggested that more than likely they'll do the coersion table in the lobby deal. "They'll get fifteen so called volunteers together - for eight friggin hours - twisting arms to raise as much money as the volunteers would have paid to not be there." Yount's arm twist reference brought out a chorus of Shannon. "Yeah, I'll bet... well... no," Marcus wasn't so sure, "I dunno. I think she would'a told me. Nnn-no. She would have said something." There was a pause of OR silence capped by his throaty grumble, "nnnnnn You think, another late night?" There was a taint of hope struggling for life in that expression of dread minimized as a question. Kathy didn't want to be a killjoy, trying to discretely eyeball the circulator about calling Mina for a rain check. Macaluso stopped that with a wagging finger - no. Maybe it's just a cloud, he thought. Yeah. Right. There are clouds and then there are CLOUDS. "Doctor Macaluso," the wall announced in clipped walkie-talkie static. Button three on the intercom telephone was flashing. "please pick up on line three." "Ohhhhh. Jesus."