Need to get caught up on “The Formula” before reading part 3? Read them here:
The Formula – Part 1
The Formula – Part 2
And now, we continue with Part 3.
The three thugs in polo shirts closed in on me. I slugged one of them in the face, which was like tossing a paper ball against a brick wall. No effect. I was about to explain that I had three busted ribs on my left side, so if they could keep their punches away from that side, I would appreciate it. But I barely mumbled half of my request when one of the giants kicked me viciously in the knee.
I buckled and staggered away from them, stumbling through the parking lot back toward the entrance of the hospital. A teenage kid with a broken leg sat in a wheelchair in the passenger pick up area, and the only thing I could think to do was shove this poor guy at the three polo-clad killers on my tail. The teenager screamed as he and his wheelchair knocked two of the ogres down like bowling pins.
But the third of these hired monsters kept after me. An old lady stood hooked to her oxygen tank by the shuttle drop off point, and the only thing I could think to do was yank her life-giving tubes from the tank and use the heavy thing to defend myself. The old woman gasped as I swung her oxygen tank at the last of my thug assailants. The fool jumped backward, but I still caught him good in the stomach, sending him to the ground in a sad clump. I brought the tank back to the lady and tried to reattach her tubes, but I honestly couldn’t figure it out. As I saw the other two goons rise from the wheelchair mess, I promised that I would try to find someone to help her reconnect her oxygen flow when I had a chance.
I ran toward the hospital, when I passed a cafeteria worker pushing a large cart stacked with little dishes of butterscotch pudding. As the two killers moved toward me, I started flinging the little ceramic dessert cups at them. I’d never thrown dishes of pudding before, but I was quite the natural, nailing both of the attackers in the face, arms and neck. I didn’t count on the anger of the cafeteria worker though. She said something about not wanting to get fired as she dragged me by the hair away from my sugar-free arsenal.
The thugs grabbed me from her and ushered me to the black SUV limo. They shoved me inside, where I fell into one of the seats, face to face with my criminal associate and social acquaintance, Mr. Vladimir. “We lost quite a large shipment of baby formula today,” he said. “I’m sure there are a few things you could tell me about that.”
I adjusted my clothes and put on my seatbelt. “I left my car in the parking lot of the Panera Bread in North Hollywood. Take me there, and I’ll see if I can jog my memory.”
He said something in Russian to the driver, and the limo started to move. Mr. Vladimir then took a large can of baby formula from the wet bar and prepared a bottle. “Baby formula,” he said. “Children need it, and there’s only just so much of it in this city. That’s what makes it so precious. I’m sure you would like to have a nice big can of baby formula like this for your two babies.”
I watched the can of formula. “You know I would.”
Mr. Vladimir shook the bottle and began to drink. “Ahh. You know, there are various ways to get formula in this town. Even for you. You just have to play your cards right.”
“I usually do. I’m just waiting for you to deal.”
Mr. Vladimir smiled. “I think you’ve already been dealt a joker. That would be your friend. Tall Bill. Take care of him, and you will find life very comfortable for you and your family. This is for you.”
He handed me the can of baby formula. “What do you mean ‘take care’ of’ him?”
Mr. Vladimir smiled. “You’ve seen enough gangster movies to know what that means.”