But before he could make a move to take Mick to the driver, four men that looked to the administrator like beefy Italian mobsters were rushing toward the hospital room with a small nurse hurrying behind them.
“Sir, I told them they couldn’t come back here,” the flustered nurse said to the administrator.
“They’re with me,” Mick said.
The nurse looked at the administrator. He nodded. “It’s okay, Nurse. You can go back to your station.”
The nurse glanced at Mick. She knew him from press reports too. She went back to her station.
“Boss, boss, how is he?” It was one of the four capos asking. He seemed nearly out of breath.
“We don’t know yet. They’re running tests. Is there coverage inside and out?”
“Yes sir. I tried to call Nikki to see what she wanted to us to do, but she wouldn’t answer my calls.”
“Nikki’s in no condition right now to give any orders,” Mick admitted.
The capos glanced at each other as if their belief that a husband-and-wife tag team in the mob world was always a bad idea. “Yes sir,” the capo said. “I assumed as much. That’s why I kept it four in and four out. Do you think we’ll need more men?”
“Not at this point, no. But I want two of you to stay with Nikki and my wife. Guard this room. Nobody goes in or out without my authorization.”
“Yes sir.”
Then Mick looked at the administrator. “I want two of my guards to remain at my son’s side at all times.”
“But he’s in Xray, sir.”
“I don’t give a fuck if he’s . . .” Mick calmed back down when he saw the terror in the administrator’s eyes. “Two of my men will stay with my son at all times.”
The administrator exhaled. What had he gotten himself involved with? This was unprecedented! “Yes, sir,” he said. “I’ll take them to Xray and give the order.”
“Where can I find the driver?”
“Down this hall, the second room on your right. I can take you there first.”
“No. Escort my men to my son.”
“Yes sir,” the administrator said, and he and two of the capos left.
Mick followed his directions to where the driver’s room was located inside the ER. When Mick opened the door, he saw a thin black man seated on a gurney buttoning his shirt. His eyes were in a wild stare as if he was still reliving the incident. Mick entered the room.
“Are you the driver that hit that Porsche?”
“I am. Who are you?”
“I’m Mick Sinatra. My son was driving that Porsche.”
Mick purposely said his name to assess the driver’s reaction. And there was a definite reaction. Mick could see him tense up.
And for good reason. A man in Philly saying he was Mick Sinatra was like a man in New York saying he was JohnGotti when Gotti was alive and king of the hill: There would immediately be fear in the room.
I couldn’t stop, sir,” the guy started saying. “He ran that red light and I was already going full speed. I couldn’t stop.” Then his face revealed his inward torment. “He dead, ain’t he? Is that why you’re here? Because he died?”
Mick exhaled. He was satisfied. “No sir,” he said. “He’s not dead.”
“Oh, thank God!” Relief filled the room. “I don’t want nothing like that over my head ever. I couldn’t live with something like that over my head.”
“Are you okay?” Mick asked him.
