After they hung up, Joe thought a moment. He and Allan spoke periodically, but he wasn’t kidding about Toby’s comment. Up until now, he couldn’t get Allan out to Palm Springs, even for a weekend. Actually, what bothered him the most was that Allan rarely asked about his family. He didn’t just now either, and Allan had been his best man!
What he didn’t tell Allan was that Toby couldn’t imagine why he and Allan had even remained acquaintances, much less friends.
“Let’s just say I get beside him once in a while and push that boulder up the side of the pit,” he replied when she asked him about it once.
“What? What pit? Never mind. Doctors,” she said disdainfully and walked away.
Frankie Vico had just hit the big Five-O a little less than three months ago. He knew he drank a little too much and he had smoked too much, but as the half-century mark loomed over him, he began To make significant cutbacks and pay attention to his doctor’s prescription to improve his chances for a healthy final trimester on the planet. He left the bowling alley and restaurant like clockwork at 2:15 p.m. and worked out with his personal trainer at his home. He had already made some strides improving his blood pressure, and just by cutting down on booze and eliminating chunks of bread at every meal, he had lost nearly twelve pounds off his 190-pound, five-foot-ten-inch frame the first month. He had his chef, Eddie, buy a variety of low-fat food products and even put some of the diet dishes on the regular menu at the restaurant, not caring if customers wanted them or not.
The restaurant made a small profit, even as other restaurants in Palm Springs and the immediate area went bankrupt during the economic recession, but it was only a front for his cocaine distribution. He was part of Danny Vico’s organization emanating from Chicago. It was practically a franchise operation. Danny’s father was Frankie’s father’s first cousin, and of course, despite the satirical way the movies treated it, crime families really did exist and really did care about each other. Blood was blood.
Frankie’s customers were all high rollers. Many were snow birds who got his address and made contact before leaving the north or the east for the spectacular desert winters and spring. Frankie was sure the CIA didn’t check an applicant any closer. He was proud of how tightly he ran his part of the operation, and he knew Danny was very satisfied with him as well.
“You’re not greedy, Frankie,” Danny told him last time he had come to Palm Springs. “That’s good. You won’t make the big mistake.”
Frankie knew Danny wasn’t referring to a drug bust. Many of Danny’s associates were busted and walking the streets soon afterward; he was referring to embezzling the organization or trying to do something independently. That was worse. In a drug bust, you had rights, legal representation, a trial by jury. When Danny busted you, you went directly to sentencing, which was inevitably capital punishment, family or no family.
But it was true. Frankie wasn’t greedy, at least when it came to Danny and the operation. Comfortable, even-tempered, optimistic—he enjoyed his life. He had been married and divorced twice, but he paid no alimony. With his second wife, Jackie, he had a son, Chipper, whom he was sending through law school, joking that he would have his personal mouthpiece soon. Recently, Frankie had met a new woman, Marilyn Chan, an ex—Las Vegas chorus girl. Her father was Chinese, but her mother was Italian. At forty-seven, she was still very attractive, with a dropdead figure. He kept her on the payroll as a hostess. She had a great sense of humor, too.
“You know how an hour after you eat Chinese, you’re hungry again?” he told his friends. “Well, an hour after Marilyn and me make love, we’re at it again!”
“Don’t believe him,” she said. “He needs more than an hour.”
Lots of laughter followed. There was always lots of laughter around Frankie Vico.
So life was good. He came to believe that he was really one of those chosen few born under a lucky star. What-ever difficulties and unpleasantness he had in his life, he had overcome with relatively minor damage. But then, suddenly, two days ago, while he was sitting in the restaurant enjoying some angel hair pasta, tomato, and basil, with a Diet Pepsi, his doctor called. Since Frankie had become health conscious, he had made it a point to have all the yearly exams. The last involved what he thought were routine chest X-rays. Dr. Reuben did not have good news.
“What does that mean, Doc?” Frankie said, wiping his lips clean.
“There might be something there, Mr. Vico,” Dr. Reuben said. Frankie didn’t want to comprehend.
“Something? Like what? Something I swallowed?”
“No, Mr. Vico. There’s something of serious concern in your right lung.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, Mr. Vico. I’m sorry. We have to address this issue promptly.”
“What? Lung cancer?”
He had been coughing on and off, but he ascribed that to an allergy.
“We need to do a lung biopsy in radiology. We’ll use a CT scan,” Dr. Reuben said. “I’ve arranged for you to have it this afternoon.”
Frankie kept chewing. Across the room, Marilyn was laughing with a middle-aged tourist couple. She had no idea about the phone conversation he was having. She didn’t even know he had gone for a checkup and blood tests.
Over by the entrance, sitting at his table, Frankie’s right-hand man, Tony Marino, read the comics in the newspaper, chuckling gently, his jelly jowls trembling. He was six-foot-three, about forty pounds overweight, a heavy smoker and drinker, and, right now, as healthy as a horse. What about his lungs?
“You’re kidding me. This afternoon?”
“The sooner the better for you, Mr. Vico,” Dr. Reuben replied.
“Jesus. This is fucking unbelievable.”
“I’m sorry,” Dr. Reuben said, his voice growing thin and impatient. “But you want to get after these things as soon as possible. It could be nothing, some explainable shadows, perhaps.”
“Maybe they read someone else’s X-rays by mistake, huh?”
“The sooner we do the biopsy, the sooner we’ll know if anything’s cooking,” Dr. Reuben said, without commenting on any such possibility. “All right?”
Frankie nodded.
“Mr. Vico?”
“Oh, yeah. Sure. Thanks,” he replied. He heard the doctor hang up, but he held onto his receiver, driven by the urge to club someone to death with it just the way he had clubbed that creep Carlo Denardo to death with a tire iron in Los Angeles behind the Royal Flush club five years ago when he tried to stick him for three thousand after poker.
He cradled the phone slowly and walked over To marilyn, who had just turned from the tourists.
“You ain’t gonna believe this,” he said. She smiled, waiting. Tony looked up from the comics. Frankie turned to him, too. “You ain’t gonna fucking believe this.”
“What’s that, boss?”
“I might have lung cancer,” he declared.
“What, Frankie?” Marilyn tossed her long black hair back over her shoulder. “You don’t even smoke anymore,” she said, “and I don’t smoke, and there’s no smoking in here.”
He looked at her as if she were the queen of stupidity.
“Tony, get the fucking car. I gotta get over to the hospital right now,” he ordered. Tony stared a moment too long. “NOW!” Frankie screamed.
Tony Marino wasn’t normally a fast-moving man, but anyone watching him get up and turn toward the door would think he was first cousin to Superman.
Joe Weber made the phone call right after speaking with Allan Parker. A man answered, and he assumed it was the donor’s father.
“Mr. Petersen?”
“No,” he said.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Is this 555-4434?”
“Yeah, but I ain’t Mr. Petersen.”
“Is there a Mr. Petersen or Mrs. Petersen at home? This is Doctor Weber,” Joe said quickly.
“Mr. Petersen died. Heart attack years ago,” Warren said dryly. “Mrs. Petersen’s not home from work yet.”
“What’s this about?” Warren demanded.
“Well, I have to speak with a member of the Petersen family. Are you—”
“I’m not related,” Warren interrupted.
“I see. My number’s 555-2322. I’m Jodi Walker’s doctor,” he added.
“Oh. How is she doing?”
“Tremendously,” Joe said, not able to subdue his enthusiasm when it came to talking about Jodi Walker, even with someone he didn’t know.
“Tremendously? What do you mean? Doesn’t the kid have leukemia or something?”
“Not any longer,” Joe said.
“She’s better?”
“Completely. Please give Mrs. Petersen my message. Thank you,” he added and hung up.
Warren shook his head, disdainfully thinking that doctors were so full of shit, and hung up the phone. Then he went to the refrigerator to get himself a beer. He had just sat down when Taylor entered, returning from school. The mother of his friend Jay Kasofsky drove him home. He and Jay were on the school’s junior high debate team—something Warren ridiculed. When he gazed into the kitchen and saw Warren, he raised his head as a greeting but didn’t say anything.
“Hey!” Warren called after Taylor had started away.
“What?”
“What’s this about your cousin Jodi getting better?”
“Huh?”
“The doctor just called. Wants to talk to Demi. He said Jodi’s all better.”
Taylor stared at him with a smirk on his face. Surely Warren had gotten the message wrong.
“Didn’t you go over to the hospital and donate blood?”
“Platelets and white cells,” Taylor said.
“Ain’t that blood?”
“It’s in the blood.” Since he was asked to donate them, and since Jodi needed them, he had looked up the pertinent information on his computer that night. “They’re needed for blood clotting and to fight infections. If you don’t have enough platelets, you could bleed to death.”
“So if she’s all better, why’d she need them?”
“Why don’t you ask the doctor?” Taylor replied.
“Cause I’m asking you, Mr. Know-it-all. You’re the debate team star, ain’tcha?”
“Well,” Taylor said shrugging, not the least bit intimidated by Warren’s gruff manner. “I guess I don’t know it all.” He remembered a Mark Twain joke the team used. “Actually, you and I know it all. I know everything there is to know, and you know the rest.”
“What? That don’t make any sense.”
Taylor shrugged.
Even though he was dying to pour himself some cold milk and have an Oreo or two, he turned and walked away before Warren could figure out Twain’s joke. He would wait until Warren left the kitchen. In the meantime, he retreated to his room and searched again on the computer to dig out more information on leukemia. He had just booted up when the phone rang. He and Warren picked it up at the same time.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’re both there,” Demi said.
“What’s happening, Mom?” Taylor asked.
“Aunt Lois called. Jodi’s made a miraculous recovery. The doctor said it was a miracle!”
“She’s all better?”
“Yes, it looks that way.”
“We heard. He called,” Warren said.
“Who called, Warren?”
“The doctor. Left a number. He wants you to call him.”
“Me? Why?”
“He wouldn’t tell me because I’m not related.”
“Smart doctor,” Taylor said.
“Are you going to shut this kid up? Are you?”
“Taylor, please. What’s his telephone number, Warren?”
Warren gave it to her.
“All right. I told Lois we would go out to celebrate with her and Ralph. Is that all right?”
“I hope this ain’t no mistake,” Warren said.
“You could always get a refund,” Taylor quipped.
“I’ll be home as soon as I can,” Demi said quickly. “Be nice to each other. Please. Let’s be happy. It’s wonderful, just wonderful!”
Taylor returned to the computer and ran the search. He read about leukemia and sat back, wondering.
Maybe Warren was right. Maybe everyone misunderstood what the doctor was actually saying. He hoped and prayed not, mainly for Jodi’s sake, of course, but also because it would be something else he could rub Warren’s nose in, and that prospect was delightful.
Less than a half hour later, record time for Demi, she was at his door. From the look on her face, he assumed his suspicion was correct. It had been a mistake.
“She’s not better?” he asked as soon as she had knocked and entered.
“No, she’s better.”
“So?”
“The doctor wants you come in to give him and the researchers a blood sample,” she said.
“Researchers?”
“Yes, an important doctor is driving down from L.A.”
“Really? Why?” His first thought was that they thought he had leukemia, too.
“They want to see if there was anything about your platelets and white blood cells that could have possibly…” The idea was so overwhelming she had trouble saying it.
“Possibly what?”
“Made her better.”
Taylor sat back. Then he gazed at the computer screen where the words describing leukemia still lingered. Platelets corrected a symptom, not the disease, and white blood cells were needed when patients weren’t responding to antibiotics. For attacking the cancer, there was only radiation, chemotherapy, bone marrow transplants….
“That’s dumb,” he finally said.
“I know, but they really want to study your blood. Just to see, I suppose.”
“Forget it,” Taylor said. “I ain’t getting stuck with needles again. I’m not a voodoo doll. Maybe the doctor’s a vampire. Tell him to forget it, Mom.”
She nodded.
“Okay, honey. Don’t worry about it.”
“I’m not worried. I just don’t want to do it; that’s all. They can’t make me, right?”
“Right. Well,” she said, smiling, “let’s get ready to go to dinner with Aunt Lois and Uncle Ralph, okay?”
“Warren coming?”
“Sure,” she said.
“He gonna pay for everyone?”
“I’ll pay. It will be the happiest money I’ve spent in a long time,” she said.
Taylor nodded. After she went downstairs to report everything to Warren, Taylor sprawled on his bed and looked up at the ceiling. His father was unconscious in the ER the last time he had seen him. His eyes were closed, and already he looked like a corpse. Taylor recalled touching his father’s arm just to see if he was still warm. Then he reached slowly for his father’s long finger and held it for a moment.
That was his good-bye.
That was all the good-bye he had.
Why couldn’t the doctors save him? Why couldn’t the medicine work for him?
They don’t know everything, he thought. They don’t know anything.
But his mother said Jodi was better. It wasn’t a mistake. How did they do it? Could it really have something to do with his blood?
He lifted his hand and followed the embossed vein along the inside of his wrist. The blood was flowing through him, doing its normal work. Nothing unusual was visible.
Why did they want to look at it under a microscope? It made him feel…freakish. Warren would just love that.
No, he wouldn’t go back there. There was no point anyway. Jodi was better. Why wonder how come?
Let it be just a miracle, he thought. What’s wrong with that?
“Naturally, we kept asking the doctor questions that amounted to the same one: Are you sure?” Lois said. She was crying with happiness, and Ralph was embarrassed but smiling. Warren ate as if it w
ere going to be his last meal. Taylor envisioned a wild dog feasting on roadkill. It turned his stomach.
“Aren’t you hungry, honey?” Demi asked him.
“Not as much as someone else here,” he quipped, shifted his eyes to Warren, and then looked down at his food.
Warren stopped eating and looked at everyone. He took a deep breath, ashamed himself at how he was going at the food.
“This is damn good Risotto ai Funghi,” he said in defense, and pumped his fork at his plate.
“Fungus? Doesn’t that give you athlete’s foot?” Taylor asked. He knew the answer but pretended he didn’t.
Warren sat back and smirked.
“Fungi,” Ralph said softly, “you know, are mushrooms, actually, Taylor. They’re a delicacy, especially when they’re made as well as this.”
He had the same dish but was not anywhere as close to cleaning his plate as Warren was.
“Oh, yeah,” Taylor said. “But I heard mushrooms could be poisonous.”
“Not these,” Ralph said, smiling. He knew what his nephew was doing.
Demi eyed Taylor angrily. She, too, knew he was quite aware of what fungi were. He was just teasing Warren. She poked him gently with her knee, and he started to eat.
“Look,” Warren said, returning to his food, “I don’t want to throw cold water on anything, but how could your daughter be so sick and cured practically in hours? Did you ask the doctor that?”
“Of course we did, Warren,” Lois said. “He showed us the lab results, and he showed us how he had reconfirmed everything. He wasn’t the only one looking at the results.”
“That’s why I’d rather not go to a hospital. Billy Morris’s father nearly had his gall bladder removed before someone noticed the doctor was given the wrong test results. And Gerry Marcus’s uncle Pete is still fighting the damn staph infection he got in the hospital. Nearly killed him. Your daughter probably had the flu or something,” Warren added.
No one spoke for a moment. Then Demi smiled.
“Whatever the reason, we’re all grateful Jodi’s well and coming home.”
“When is she coming home?” Warren asked.
“The doctor wanted to keep her for observation another forty-eight hours.”
“Maybe we’re celebrating too soon,” Warren muttered.
The Magic Bullet Page 3