“Don’t open that door! Keep that witch out of this room!” shouted Gordon. He slammed his fist down upon the side of the gurney, sending dull rings throughout the room. “I don’t want to hear a single word from that she-wolf’s mouth.”


“Please sir, your wife’s been waiting for hours,” said Nurse Davis calmly. “She flew out from San Diego as soon as she heard the news.”


“On a broomstick, I’m sure,” muttered Gordon.


He raised his bald head off the starched white sheets to glare at her. His eyebrows pushed themselves together, and his mouth pursed into a thin, pink slit. His intimidating glower was famous. Headshots could be viewed on the back of hefty, well-worded novels invariably classified by literary critics as “American masterpieces.” It could be seen by fans from Seattle to Miami as the face thrilling them from the lecture podium. Now it was plastered on countless magazines, newspapers, and websites: “AUTHOR ROSS MAXWELL UNDERGOES SURGERY: CURRENTLY IN CRITICAL CONDITION.”


“I haven’t seen my wife for fifteen years, and I don’t intend to speak to her now. I don’t want to see her, I don’t want to see you, I don’t want to see anybody. I’d like to sit here by myself. and contemplate life matters. I get sick looking at your repulsive visage. Out! Out!”


Johnson stiffened. “As you wish, Mr. Gordon. I’ll leave if you want.”


“I do want! I want now! And I get now! Out the door!”


Johnson was accustomed to this treatment. With an exasperated sigh, he let the Operating room door slam shut behind him as he stalked out. His footsteps faded down the tiled hall.


“As for you, Miss--”


Nurse Davis quivered. “Yes, Mr. Gordon?”


“You are employed for the sole purpose of attending to my medical needs. You are a disgrace to your profession. Admit no one to this room. If the Queen of England and her entire Parliamentary Cabinet wants to see me, throw them out. Am I understood?”


“Sir, there’s a dozen people downstairs,” observed Dr. Graham calmly. He sat perched on his black leather stool while reviewing the heart monitor, like a bird unsure whether to fly. “Many of your old friends are here to see you, Mr. Gordon. You’re not being courteous.”


“My genius entitles me to a lack of courtesy should the circumstances be appropriate. I feel no obligation to see anyone.” He chuckled, then flinched at the pain. “I’m still suffering!” he shouted. “I’m listed as critical! I can die! Why would I care about visitors at a time like this?”


“Nobody says you have to see anyone,” Nurse Davis noted cautiously.


“Of course I don’t. I’m Ross Gordon. Who’s out there anyways?”


“Sam and Daisy,” the doctor replied. “Casper, Oliver, that little Bell man you like so much--”


“Bell!?!” Gordon boomed, propping himself up on his elbows. “Why didn’t you tell me Bell was here? He’s the only man on this planet worth seeing--”


Nurse Davis tilted her head to one side, and glanced at the doctor inquisitively. “Who is Bell?”


“Some little man in the waiting room,” responded Dr. Graham distastefully.


“Don’t listen to him. William Bell is the steadiest, brightest flame in this dim, twisted world—”


“From what I’ve gathered, he appears to be Mr. Gordon’s Number One Fan,” Dr. Graham explained, pressing his stethoscope against Gordon’s chest. “Or Number One Sycophant, depending on your point of view.”


“Your ignorance is sickening, Graham. William Bell is a truly devoted admirer, the only genuine fan I have.”


“Well then,” Nurse Davis mumbled, “He’s apparently something--”


“He’s something?” screamed Gordon, startling Graham. “He’s something--that’s all you can say? That man has dedicated his life to me and my work. Why, may your stupid little minds ask? Because he is truly devoted to genius, that’s why. Not for any personal gain. There’s nothing in it for Bell, is there, Dr. Graham?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir,” responded the doctor. “If you should need me, just call.” He stood and prepared to exit the room.


“All I need is for you to send Bell in here, immediately.”


“But Mr. Gordon,” Nurse Davis objected, “I thought you said--”


“I said ‘immediately!’” Gordon roared. “And I meant immediately. I’ll see Bell now! Alone! Out, both of you blubbering fools!”



William Bell entered moments later. He was a small, shabby little man with a poorly tended moustache. He spoke as if he had a constant cold, and he had a habit of cracking his knuckles. He greeted the invalid cordially, but Gordon roared, "Bell! Nice of you to come see me!"


“How are you feeling, Mr. Gordon?” Bell inquired. “I can’t tell you how shocked I was to hear about your surgery. I flew out as soon as I heard.”


“It’s a plot, Bell, the whole thing’s a plot. That day-nurse out there, I’ll bet you she’s with the FBI.”


He guffawed at Bell’s astonished face. “Oh, Bell, they’ve cut me to pieces, haven’t they?”


“Are you sure you’re okay, Ross?” asked Bell. “Do you want the nurse?”


“No, no, just tell me the news. How is the Ross Gordon Fan Club getting along?”


“Well, I’m sure you can imagine, Mr. Gordon. I’ve written to all the chapter presidents on an emergency basis. There’s some talk about starting a gift fund--But I know how you feel about wicker baskets with scented candles and things.”


Ross gave him a rare smile, and motioned for him to continue.


“I must admit,” Bell said quietly, “I did bring you something. Just from me. It’s nothing much, but you know how grateful I am--”


“No need, no need. You shouldn’t be grateful, Bell. You’re probably the only true friend I have.”


“Don’t you say that, Mr. Gordon. Why, the entire nation’s your friend.” He took a small package from his pocket, and undid the thin gold ribbon. Inside was a box, containing a blue velvet pouch. From the bag, Bell produced a cigarette lighter with porcelain sides depicting a forest scene. “It’s not much,” he said again.


“Not much?” Gordon said. “It’s a lovely memento of why here to begin with.” He turned it over and saw the small sticker that read: $4.99. “Thank you, Bell. But you shouldn’t be spending your hard-earned money on me. I know how rough things are for you. Here, I brought you something too. I knew you’d stop in sometime. It’s in my briefcase.”


William Bell stooped next to the black leather bag. He rifled through the papers, and removed a thin package wrapped in brown paper. He carefully took off the scotch tape, and revealed an autographed first edition of Gordon’s latest novel.


“Thank you, Mr. Gordon. I simply--”


“You’re welcome, Bell. Please, don’t bore me with the formalities. It doesn’t matter as long as I have your friendship…”


“You do, Mr. Gordon. You do.”


“Mind if I close my eyes for just a minute? I’m still a little off from the medication.”


The great man collapsed heavily into the pillows, promptly sending them askew.


“Let me fix those for you, Mr. Gordon.”


Tenderly, Bell adjusted the pillows. “What if I were to take this one pillow off, Mr. Gordon? There may be too many.”


“Of course, old friend, please, do whatever’s best…” Gordon trailed off.


“Do you want to sleep, sir?” asked Bell. “Would you like me to go?”


“No…” said Gordon, folding his hands over his ample stomach. “Stay. Tell me what the news channels have reported…”


“Of course, Mr. Gordon.”


“Only true friend I have…” he mumbled.


“Yes,” said Bell, holding the unwanted pillow upon his lap. “I’m the only true friend you have.”


Once the author’s audible breaths turned to snores, Bell approached the author and asked, “Mr. Gordon?” When no response came, Bell cracked his knuckles and carefully lifted the pillow from the chair where he had left it. He placed the pillow above the sleeping man’s bald, bullet-like head, and pushed as hard as he could with his thin arms. The pillow enveloped the man’s face. Gordon’s screams were undistinguishable from the traffic outside the window, the hiss of the radiator, or the clatter of gurney wheels in the hallway. When the author’s form went limp, Bell carefully eased off the pressure, and stared at his handiwork.


He bent his head to the author’s chest and listened. Satisfied at the silence, he lifted the author’s head and placed the pillow beneath it. Then he ran to the door, crying, “Help! Nurse! Nurse to room 201!”



Martin Brown bit his lip as he leaned forward to examine the contents of the worn suitcase upon his desk. He picked through the papers delicately, not wanting to damage a single scrap of the precious documents. Brown looked across the desk at William Bell and smiled the smile of a satisfied businessman.


“That’s an impressive collection,” he said. “I didn’t know anyone possessed such a large file of such valuable Gordon memorabilia…”


“It’s taken many years,” Bell said. “Mr. Gordon became quite a close acquaintance. We wrote each other often.” He cracked his knuckles. “If I may ask the value--”


“Oh, it’ll be a good amount, I promise you. You’ll feel as if you had just won the lottery. Do you remember what I told you the last time you were here?”


“Yes,” Bell said softly. “You said these papers would be worth fifteen times as much after Mr. Gordon’s death.”


Brown sighed. “Very true, Mr. Bell, very true,” he said. “How sad to think he has passed away…”


“Yes,” said William Bell, Ross Gordon’s Number One Fan.