Free A Thorn in the Bush by Frank Herbert

to take the model over to Miss Romera when …” He closed his eyes, fell silent.
    Dr. Herrera bent beside Mrs. Ross. “I must administer the sedative now. It is not good to leave him thus.” He swabbed a Merthiolate-odorous daub of cotton across Hoblitt’s bare arm. A red smear appeared on the flesh behind the cotton.
    Mrs. Ross could not take her attention from Hoblitt’s face. What a fool I’ve been! she thought. She said: “What are you going to do, Mr. Hoblitt?”
    The artist opened his eyes, swallowed convulsively as Dr. Herrera sank the hypodermic needle into his arm, depressed the plunger. Presently Hoblitt began speaking in a low voice: “In the old days artists had their patrons. You’re going to become a patron of the arts.” He stared at her, a cold, commanding expression. “Right here in San Juan. You’re going to support a starving young artist. Won’t cost you much. Couple thousand a year. Give me time to paint what I want … like those portraits.” He cleared his throat, attention yawing across her face. “What’d he give me? Feel woozy.”
    He’s going to blackmail me! thought Mrs. Ross.
    Hoblitt found a reserve of consciousness, held his gaze on her face. “Not gonna walk under your balcony ever again!”
    “That was an accident,” murmured Mrs. Ross. And she thought: He’s going to blackmail me for the rest of my life!
    Dr. Herrera lowered one ham-like hand, pulled her upright—gently, firmly. “We must put him on the stretcher now.” He patted her shoulder. “Do not feel too badly. The bones will heal.”
    Hoblitt stared up at Mrs. Ross, eyes, glazing from the narcotics. “Tell y’ somethin’ else,” he slurred. “Gonna marry tha’ g’l across’ street!” He summoned inner reserves, “Don’t care what you or her crazy aunt think!” He fell silent while Dr. Herrera and the police shifted him onto the stretcher. Bits of dirt fell off his trousers onto the cobblestones. Then, “All y’r dough! Never gettin’ her a wheelchair!”
    Mrs. Ross watched the police carry the stretcher up the sidewalk, around the corner. Dr. Herrera remained standing beside her. “Which hospital, Señora?”
    “The Foreign Clinic in Guadalajara,” murmured Mrs. Ross. “Specialists should be called in, if you believe it advisable. See that he has the best of care. Anything he requires.”
    Her mind was resuming its usual alertness. She thought: Blackmail? He’ll see. I’ve never met the man yet I couldn’t beat in a deal. She squinted. He sold the portrait of Paulita. And Jaime bought the one of me. That means the work is marketable. Given proper handling, he can get top prices. She began mentally calculating how much commission she could charge. And part of her mind started working out a plan to get her portrait away from Don Jaime.
    Dr. Herrera cleared his throat.
    But Mrs. Ross’s attention was lost in her plans. Can’t let Hoblitt enter any more mixed shows, she thought. Divides attention too much. He’ll need some one-man shows, good advance publicity. She nodded to herself. This could become quite profitable—much better than a couple thousand a year just in commissions. She suppressed a smile at the thought of self-supporting blackmail.
    Another idea struck Mrs. Ross. She turned to face Dr. Herrera, who was studying her with a puzzled frown.
    “You feel all right, Señora?”
    “Perfectly all right,” she assured him. “How long before the young man will be able to resume his painting?”
    “How simpático!” blurted Dr. Herrera. He shook his head in wonder at this magnificent woman whose thoughts were only for the young man injured in the regrettable accident.
    “How long?” demanded Mrs. Ross.
    “It is the left shoulder,” said Dr. Herrera. “He paints with the right hand, does he not?” The doctor nodded. “He should be up and around in a week or so. Wearing a cast, of course.”
    “Good!”
    And Mrs. Ross thought wryly: Well, it won’t be the first time