“Where is this prick, anyway?” Chopper said.
“We early.”
“You got this, right? If he comes at us I don’t wanna be sittin’ here with my dick in my hand.”
Herzog continued to read the menu.
“They have one of them plant-based hamburgers supposed to taste like a real burger,” he said. “Ever eat one of those?”
“Fuck no.”
“I might give it a try. Comes with avocado.”
“They here.”
Herzog didn’t even turn his head to watch the two groups of men approaching.
“I see ’em,” he said.
He pretended to study the menu some more as the group coming from the south entrance of the pavilion, two black men and one white, separated and scattered themselves among the table and benches, effectively blocking any retreat in that direction. The other group came in from the north entrance. It was led by a tall, good-looking white man with the hale and hearty appearance of someone who spent the first hour of every day in the gym followed by a breakfast of oatmeal with berries and nuts. Jamal Brown walked a step to his right and two steps behind him; a salt-and-pepper team brought up the rear. Halfway before they reached the table, the group stopped and the white man glanced about as if he were surveying a building site.
“You got this?” Chopper asked again.
“Uh-huh.”
“I see seven of them.”
“I can count.”
“Maybe he brought so many cuz he’s afraid we’re gonna bushwhack him.”
“He should be.” Herzog glanced up from the menu and found Chopper’s eyes. “That’s an interesting word—‘bushwhack.’ Where’d that come from, you know?”
“I look like an etymologist to you?”
“Etymologist?”
“Person who studies the origin of words. You know that.”
“Would I speak the way I do if I be well versed in the science of linguistics?”
“This banter shit, this is your way of sayin’ not to worry, isn’t it?”
“Fuck, Chop, I always worry when I hang with you. Never know what’s gonna happen.”
The white man waved his hand, a commander to his troops, and the two men trailing behind him separated and found seats with an unobstructed view of the table where Chopper and Herzog sat. The white man and Jamal approached cautiously. Chopper smiled brightly as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
“Hey, Jamal,” he said. “Who’s your friend?”
The white man spoke with the irritation of someone who had expected to be addressed before anyone else.
“I’m Dr. Hammel,” he said.
“Doctor your first name?” Chopper asked.
“Dr. Hammel, this is Chopper,” Jamal said. “And Herzog.”
Chopper extended his hand. Hammel raised his own the way fake TV Indians do when they say “How.”
“Germs,” he said. “Nothing personal.”
Chopper glanced at Herzog who was still studying his menu.
“We got germs,” he said.
“Everybody got germs.”
“Gentlemen, should we get to it?” Hammel asked.
“You nervous, Doc-tor?” Chopper said. “I thought we were gonna have a quiet conversation and here you bring an army.”
“We’re aware of your reputation.”
“Some of it might even be earned,” Herzog said.
Chopper gestured at the chair at the head of the table. Jamal pulled it out like a servant might and Hammel sat in it so that his back was to the stage and his front toward the lake. After a quick glance around himself, Jamal grabbed an empty chair from the nearest table and positioned it so that he was one step over and one step behind the doctor. Herzog smiled slightly, dropped his menu on the table, and gazed out at Lake Como as if he was already bored.
“Tucker,” Hammel said.
“Hmm?”
“My first name is Tucker. Dr. Tucker Hammel.”
Chopper set a hand on top of the menu and eased it toward the doctor.
“Since we be friends now, what’ll ya have?” Chopper asked. “On me.”
Hammel pushed the menu away.
“No, thank you,” he said. “We didn’t come here to eat.”
“You don’t know how happy that makes me.”
“You’ve been interfering in my business. I want it to stop.”
“Not interfering. Just askin’ questions. Ain’t that right, Jamal?”
Jamal glanced at Hammel as if he was seeking permission to speak, but none came so he shrugged and said nothing.
“Doc-tor Hammel,” Chopper said. “You a medical doctor?”
“I have that privilege.”
“Not surprised a doctor be dealin’ opioids,” Chopper said. “After all, it was you medical people what started the epidemic in the first place. Only wouldn’t it be much safer to sell outta your office instead of on the street?”
“Safer, but not as lucrative. New government regulations have significantly curtailed the health care industry’s ability to meet the growing needs of our customers.”
“Don’t you mean patients?”
“Patients,” Hammel said. “Of course. Because of the restrictions recently placed upon the medical community, many patients have been forced to rely on more unconventional sources to satisfy their requirements, at a much higher price I might add. You could say that I am merely providing market equilibrium.”
“Supply and demand, the essence of microeconomics,” Chopper said.
“You understand our business model…”
“Fuck you say, man? Don’t pretend you’re a humanitarian. You dealin’ shit to people who can’t say no cuz of genetics or psychology or social factors or fuck all in order to turn a profit just like a million other people who’ve come before you, just like I used to do.”
“You sold drugs? When?”
“Before I knew better. So let’s stop talkin’ shit, ’kay, like you providing a public service.”
“It’s a victimless crime.”
“Whatever lets you sleep at night, Doc-tor. I don’t give a shit ’bout that, anyway. What I want to know—”
“What I want to know—”
“Don’t interrupt me, Doc-tor.”
“Who do you think you’re speaking to? Do you honestly believe I’m frightened by you and your thug? Look around.” He held his arms wide as if he was embracing the entire park and not just his men. “I came here as a favor to RT. Not to be threatened by a, by a…”
Chopper leaned back in his chair and waited for the word that would make further negotiations impossible.
“By a petty criminal,” Hammel said instead.
“What are you?” Chopper said.
“Chop,” Herzog said. “Man’s gotta medical degree. Show some respect.”
“My mistake.” The way he smiled, you’d think that Chopper was suddenly humbled. “Doc-tor Hammel, I apologize if my manner offends you. I assure you I have no interest in your business. I merely seek your assistance in learning the identity of the individual who shot my friend.”
“Why should I help you?”
“Call it professional courtesy.”
“I require more than that if I’m to compromise one of my—patients.”
“So you do know the person’s name.”
“Why is this so important? Why would you care if a white man was shot?”
“Let’s just say I owe him and let it go at that.”
“If I do this thing for you, then you will owe me.”
“Within reason,” Chopper said.
“No. You will do what I tell you to do when I tell you to do it.”
Jamal visibly winced at Hammel’s words and looked away.
Chopper smiled just so.
“That’s unacceptable,” he said.
“Then we have nothing further to discuss,” Hammel said.
“There’s my reputation that you seemed to be concerned about.”
“T
hat doesn’t frighten me. I could have you killed like that.” Hammel snapped his fingers. “Given your reputation, do you think the police would care? Do you think they’d even bother searching for your killer? They’ll write it off as just another drive-by shooting. Just another street crime.”
Chopper spun toward Herzog, his eyes wide and his hands spread as if he was asking him if he was going to do something about this. Herzog sighed dramatically.
“Can’t we all just get along?” he said.
“I would be doing you both a favor having you killed,” Hammel said. “Punks like you, your time has passed.”
Jamal winced again.
Herzog planted his elbow on the table and raised his arm and spread his five fingers apart.
Two red dots centered on Dr. Hammel’s shirt just over his heart.
A third dot appeared on Jamal’s shirt.
The dots were emanating from three different laser sights attached to three different high-powered rifles held by three different sharpshooters hidden in the foliage along the far shore of Lake Como, the reason that Herzog had chosen that exact table for the meeting.
“Please,” Jamal said. “I’m just trying to pay my tuition.”
“What is this?” Hammel waved at the dots with his hand as if he expected to brush them away. “What are you doing?”
“Like I said, some of our reputation is deserved,” Herzog said. “Don’t make any sudden movements and you’ll be fine.”
“You’ll never leave this place alive,” Hammel said.
“First you die, then him.” Herzog gestured at Jamal. “After that, do you really care what happens to us?”
“This is insane.”
“It’s unnecessary, is what it is,” Chopper said. “You could have answered my questions very easily, but oh no. You had to prove that you’re the toughest gangster on the street. I think my friend is right. Somethin’ about you doctors—is it medical school that teaches you be such arrogant assholes? You have this omnipotent power over people who are ill or injured so you…”
“Chopper.” Herzog gestured with his head. “My hand is getting tired.”
“Yeah, yeah. You. Doc-tor. Who shot my friend? And don’t think you can give me any name and then send your people to come for me later. You give me the wrong name and I promise I’ll be coming for you.”
“You can’t shoot me,” Hammel said. “The police…”
“The po-lice will check into your background, discover that you’re dealin’ Oxy and write you off as just another casualty in the drug wars. ’Cept since you’re a doctor, you won’t be considered a victim. You’ll be a dealer. Bet your family’ll love hearing that said out loud at your funeral.”
Hammel sighed his compliance.
Herzog lowered his hand and the red dots disappeared. Jamal started to rise slowly.
Herzog barked at him.
“You know better than that,” he said.
Jamal reclaimed his seat.
“RT’s Basement is only one of my distribution centers, my St. Paul location,” Hammel said. “I have three others and usually I don’t go anywhere near them.”
“This is important because…” Chopper said.
“I’m merely attempting to explain that it was unusual for me to come into contact with one of my patients outside the office. I recognized her—I had treated her at the clinic in Orono; that’s how I knew who she was. Severe sprain. She twisted her ankle while jogging. I prescribed a thirty-thirty, thirty-milligram tablets of OxyContin to be taken three times a day for thirty days.”
“A thirty-day supply of opioids for a sprained ankle? Let me guess—by the end of the month she was hooked.” Chopper nodded as if he was impressed. “Expand your customer base; the goal of any retail business, am I right?”
“I didn’t actually see her pull the trigger,” Hammel said. “I merely saw her running around the corner of the club after the shot was fired. I didn’t even see a gun.”
“I still haven’t heard a name,” Chopper said.
Hammel turned in his chair to face Jamal as if seeking support. Jamal didn’t want to answer.
“She’s one of my best customers,” he said.
“We talked about this, remember?” Hammel said.
“Who?” Chopper asked.
“Name Jenna King.”
Hammel nodded his head to lend confirmation.
“Lives on Lake Minnetonka,” Jamal said.
* * *
Instead of her usual ponytail, Emma King was wearing her auburn hair down around her shoulders when she walked into the waiting room outside the Surgical Intensive Care Unit at Regions Hospital. The room was empty except for the two women facing each other near the window. One was wearing blue hospital scrubs, so Emma assumed she was a doctor. The other had short black hair and the most amazing silver-blue eyes she had ever seen. They were speaking as if they were both trying to hide how annoyed they were with each other.
Emma gave them a wide berth and moved to the desk. There was no one sitting behind the desk, so she decided to wait. While she was waiting she listened to the conversation between the two women. The way they were speaking to each other, Emma couldn’t really help but listen.
“All this takes time,” said the doctor.
“How much time?”
“It depends on the individual. You need to remember that powerful anesthetics were used to induce the coma. We can’t just turn them off. Instead, we’ll gradually reduce the drugs while carefully monitoring brain activity and other vital signs. Your critically ill loved one should be able to come off the respirator as the anesthetics are minimized…”
“Critically ill loved one? Swear to god, Lilly—it’s not what you say that makes me want to throw you out a window, but how you say it.”
“What?”
“He isn’t my critically ill loved one. He has a name. McKenzie. His name is McKenzie.”
That caused Emma to snap to attention.
“You’re right, Nina. I’m sorry. Sometimes I slip into doctor lecture mode. What I’m trying to say is that waking up is a gradual process; it won’t happen straight away. After the drugs have been removed from his system, McKenzie should slowly but surely wake up. Once he does, though—the man was shot. McKenzie isn’t going to get up and walk out of the hospital and take you dancing…”
“As if he ever does.”
“His body will need time to heal, too, not just his heart and brain.”
“Excuse me,” Emma said.
Lilly spun toward her. “What?” She saw the young woman take a step backward, an expression of alarm on her face. She raised a hand and lowered her voice. “I’m sorry. What can I do for you?”
Emma hesitated a moment before she answered.
“I apologize for eavesdropping but you said—you mentioned McKenzie,” she said. “A man named McKenzie. Could you tell me—is he going to be okay?”
“Do you know McKenzie?” Nina asked.
“Yes. Well, kinda. We met only once. I’m pretty sure he’s my uncle, though.”
That caused the two women to glance at each other.
“Who are you?” Nina asked.
“My name is Emma King.”
Nina burned through her emotions like a highway flare, starting with anger seasoned with a pinch of hate and eventually settling on curiosity. She knew from what little she had been able to drag out of Bobby Dunston that the King family was involved with the shooting. She told herself that if she remained calm, if she supported my lie, she might just find out how.
“I’m Nina Truhler.” She offered her hand; Emma shook it reluctantly. “If McKenzie’s your uncle that makes me your aunt.”
“My aunt? Oh, God, I am so sorry.”
“What are you sorry about, Emma?”
“About what happened. About—I heard you.” She was talking to Dr. Linder now. “You said it would take a long time for him to heal.”
“Yes.”
“He’s going to be all right, th
ough?”
“Barring unforeseen complications.”
“That’s a relief. I’m happy about that, but it means he can’t help.”
“Help what?” Nina asked.
“My uncle. My other uncle.”
“Why don’t we sit over here and talk?”
Nina gestured Emma toward a chair in the center of the waiting area. Dr. Linder glanced at her watch.
“I need to go,” she said.
“When will you begin?” Nina asked.
“Begin weaning McKenzie off the anesthetics? When the anesthesiologist arrives.”
Nina made a production of looking at her own watch.
“Yes, I know,” Lilly said.
A moment later, she was gone. Nina sat next to Emma. She told me later that it took her a few moments to compose herself; for her to turn her thoughts away from me and to the young woman sitting by her side. She rested her hands on the arms of the chair, closed her eyes, and practiced one of the deep-breathing exercises that Shelby had taught her. Slowly she opened her eyes.
“Are you okay?” Emma asked.
“I’m trying to be. You said McKenzie is your uncle?”
“You’re married to McKenzie?”
“Yes.”
“But you call him by his last name?”
“He doesn’t like his first name.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“One day I’m sure he’ll tell you the story, Emma.”
“I am so, so sorry.”
“You keep saying that. Emma, why are you sorry?”
“I might have caused all this. I mean—I can’t really believe it. It would mean my family—but that doesn’t make sense to me. My uncle…”
“Tell me about your uncle,” Nina said.
“I met McKenzie last Monday…”
“Not that one.”
“Charles. Charles King. He owns KTech, a company that works with artificial intelligence. He’s famous. Some people call him King Charles like he’s some kind of royal despot or something only he’s not. He might be the kindest person I’ve ever known. He’s always been kind to me.”
“What about him?”
“He has primary sclerosing cholangitis. That’s a liver disease. If he doesn’t receive a liver transplant soon, he’ll die. I took some tests to see if I was compatible. It was the least I could do after all the things he’s done for me, only I wasn’t a match because of my blood type. Elliot, she’s my best friend. She’s also my cousin. Second cousin. She took the tests, too. She wasn’t compatible, either. Her size. Most of my family took tests. My other uncle, Porter. Elliot’s father, Marshall. No luck. My mother couldn’t donate because—just because. Then we met McKenzie and we thought—Elliot and I thought—maybe he could help. He’s family after all. At least that’s what the DNA results prove. So we drove back to the Cities. We went to Elliot’s house. Her father was there, Marshall. After we started telling him what we thought, he called my mom and she came over and it was just us and the two of them. I don’t know why they didn’t call Charles or Porter. It doesn’t make sense.”
What Doesn't Kill Us--A McKenzie Novel Page 25