by T. E. Woods
“I’m honored to be included,” Jim said. “Things getting better?”
Mort shrugged. “Most days I can’t believe she’s gone. I expect to pick up the phone and hear her chewing me out for working late. Maybe see her sitting in the dining room paying bills when I get home.” He signaled for the waitress. “But I haven’t smashed anything in six months.”
“I’m calling that progress.” Jim smiled at the blonde taking his order. “Whiskey and a beer, please. Something local, in a bottle.”
Mort ordered scotch rocks.
“How’s Robbie adjusting?” Jim helped himself to the salted cashews on the table. “Must be tough, him being so far away.”
“He’s got Claire and the girls.”
“He working on anything interesting?”
Mort nodded. “Branching away from insider trading and fraud. Remember Gordon Halloway? Robbie’s working a hunch the asshole was murdered. Hired hit.” Mort let his pride show. “He might be on to something.”
“And another Grant man falls victim to the seductive lure of homicide,” Jim said. “What’s he got?”
Their drinks were delivered before Mort could answer. They each lifted their glass.
“To Edie,” Mort said. “Happy Birthday, Baby Girl.”
“To the classiest woman I’ve ever met. Why she married you none of us will ever know.” Jim took a sip of whiskey. “So. Robbie and his hired hit.”
Mort settled back and brought his friend up to speed on his son’s theories. Jim reaffirmed Mort’s concern that a hired professional might leave him with no story at all.
“Might as well try to nail the wind,” Jim said. “But if he’s anything like his old man, that’s not going to stop him.”
The perky blonde came back carrying a bottle of Laphroaio and two crystal tumblers. She smiled as she set the fifteen-year-old scotch in front of them. “From the gentleman.” The waitress nodded to a thin man flanked by two barely dressed women at the end of the bar. “He asks that I tell you he appreciates the quality of your work.”
“Are you shitting me?” Jim moved his hand to the small of his back.
“Hands up top, Jim.” Mort smiled at the waitress. “No offense intended, Miss, but we’d prefer you returned this to that cockroach.” Mort shifted his focus to the bar. The man who sent the bottle kissed each woman full on the mouth before heading toward Mort and Jim’s table.
“Beat it, Junior,” Mort said to the jerk in leather jacket and jeans.
The man who liked to call himself Satan brushed aside the waitress clearing the scotch. “Leave it,” he said as he tucked a fifty dollar bill in her collar. “These poor schmucks are going to learn the joys of a two hundred dollar bottle of liquid gold.”
The waitress shot Mort a frightened look and hurried away.
Satan turned toward Jim. “Where’s your little doggie? I thought he was part of your act. Officer Numbnuts and his trusty pal. Doing tricks for treats.” Angelo Satanell, Jr. laughed and glanced around the bar. He looked disappointed that no one was paying attention. He focused on Mort. “And Detective Quick Draw, too. This place has lost its standards.”
Mort fixed a cold gaze on Satanell and lifted his own glass for a taste.
“You drink that swill while a bottle of heaven sits in front of you?” Satanell turned back to look at his women and grinned. “Your pay grade has warped your taste buds, my friend.”
“We don’t need your booze, Junior,” Jimmy said. “And we don’t need your shit, either. Now be a good little boy and go spend Daddy’s money on your whores.”
Satanell grinned at Mort. “You still pissed at me about that cello player?” He leaned forward, both hands on their table. “Little girls play with fire, they get their asses burned.” Satanell dropped his voice to a near whisper. “Miss Allie knew that, didn’t she, Papa?”
“Step back, Junior.” Jim slid closer to Mort. “Unless you want to see how fast I can have you in cuffs.”
Satanell glanced again to his women. He seemed pleased they were watching and tossed a wink before turning back to Mort. “Your cunt of a daughter knew what to do with top shelf liquor.”
Mort’s sudden lunge sent Satanell shuffling back in reflex. Jim grabbed Mort with both hands and shoved him back into the booth.
“Go ahead, old man.” Satanell was yelling now. “Touch me. Put a hand on Satan and wait for the fire.”
Jim struggled to keep his friend seated. “Save it, Mort. Time will come to deal with this piece of shit. Save it.”
Angelo Satanell, Jr. tipped a two finger salute, grinned, and swaggered back to the two women feigning concern for their man.
Mort waited until his breath was close to normal before shrugging off Jim’s hold. He watched Satanell and the women leave the bar. “He thinks he’s bullet proof.”
Jim shook his head. “Daddy being Daddy and things being things, he just may be correct.”
Mort reached for his glass and drained his scotch in one swallow. “Correct doesn’t make it right.”
Woods, T E
The Fixer
Chapter Thirteen
Lydia Corriger got to work early the day before Thanksgiving. She defied the rainy gloom by clicking on two table lamps and settling behind her desk with her coffee and newspaper. The front page led with the city council’s debate regarding earthquake standards for homes. A photo of local food pantry volunteers filling charity bags reminded readers there was still time to donate. Lydia made a mental note to take the game hen she purchased for her own Thursday dinner out of the freezer.
The national section had an article on the latest finger-pointing in Congress. Lydia shook her head at a silly photograph of the president pardoning a turkey and moved on to an article about a significant donation to the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. An anonymous donor had given half a million dollars to the organization. No strings attached, according to the beaming chief executive.
She finished the paper and checked her schedule. She was booked every hour, straight through to Savannah Samuels at six. She unlocked her office at 7:55 and her first patient walked through the door three minutes later.
Mary Sullivan was 54 years old. Overweight. Greasy hair. Baggy sweat pants and a dirty red down vest. Mary’s employer had contacted Lydia. Despite her talent with children, parents were complaining and Mary was in danger of losing her job as a pre-school teacher.
Mary didn’t bathe.
She didn’t shower. She didn’t brush her teeth. She didn’t shampoo and she didn’t wash her clothes.
Mary stank.
Lydia ushered her into the office. Mary chose the sofa and Lydia was glad it was leather. She watched Mary pull folders out of a large canvas bag and set them on the coffee table.
“I made copies for you,” Mary said. “Here’s my chart from Dr. Roth. He’s my prescribing doctor. I’ve been seeing him for nine years. There’s an updated list of my medications on the inside flap.” Mary pulled a three-ring binder out of her bag. “This is a copy of my chart from Dr. Reschke. He was my talking doctor. I only saw him for three years.” Mary looked up at Lydia with rheumy brown eyes. “I wore him out. He didn’t know what to do with me.”
Lydia took her seat across from the malodorous woman. She counted seven files and binders on the table. And Mary’s bag wasn’t yet empty.
“I’ll begin with an overview of my mother.” Mary pulled out an expandable legal folder. “All the doctors agree she’s the root of my problem.” She snapped the elastic band open. “Now, my earliest memory is..”
“Stop.” Lydia held her hand up. “Just stop.”
Mary froze mid-movement.
“Put the folders down, Mary.” Lydia kept her voice quiet and firm.
“I want to tell you about my mother,” Mary said.
“And I want to hear it. But not today. Today we’re going to talk about why you’re here.”
Mary blinked several times. “But you’ll need to understand about my mother.”
Lydia leaned back. “How did you get here today, Mary? Not why, but how.”
Mary balked. “I drove. I don’t see the importance of…”
“A car?” Lydia interrupted. “You drove yourself here in a car?”
“Of course.” Mary set the folder aside. “Where are you going with this?”
“Mary, do you understand the physics behind an internal combustion engine?” Lydia feigned amazement. “I mean, think about it. There’s a fire going on inside your car’s engine. Doesn’t that freak you out? A fire… inside your engine.”
Mary’s eyebrows shot up.
Lydia leaned forward. “I’ll bet you don’t understand internal combustion. I know I don’t. And yet you were able to manage your car sufficiently to get here, is that right?”
“I…I don’t know what you want me to say.”
Lydia smiled. “I don’t want you to say anything, Mary.” She pointed to the stack of files and binders overwhelming the coffee table. “Look at this stuff. You’ve been trying to understand yourself for years.”
Mary nodded. “I’ve been in therapy since I was 22.”
“Then let’s stop doing what hasn’t been working.” Lydia tossed the folders off the coffee table, leaned back, and replaced them with her feet. “Now tell me. Are you afraid of water, Mary?”
“But my mother used to..”
Lydia interrupted again. “We’re not talking about your mother today. Answer my question. Are you afraid of water?”
“No. No, it’s my lack of motivation. My mother always said…”
“Soap?” Lydia tilted her head to one side. “Shampoo? Deodorant? Afraid of those?”
Mary shook her head. “Of course not. I have lots of potions and lotions.”
“Great.” Lydia swung her feet off the table and grabbed her notebook. “Then let’s set up a schedule for the rest of your morning.” She smiled at her confused patient. “Mary, you’re going to take a shower today. And you’re going to call me when you’re done.”
“But my mother…” Mary’s voice lost its volume.
Lydia interrupted with a gentle insistence. “Your mother’s not here. And you’re about to lose your job.” She leaned closer. “I will never lie to you. Nor will I sugarcoat things. Mary, you stink. And we’re going to fix that today.”
“Just like that?” Mary’s smile was tentative.
Lydia held her gaze. “Just like that. Now I know you’re on suspension. So,” Lydia began writing. “If you left here at nine and drove straight home…”
“With my internal combustion engine.” Mary interjected.
“That’s right.” Lydia gave her a big smile. “What time would you get home?”
“About nine forty, I assume.” Mary’s voice hinted at co-conspiracy.
“Great.” Lydia allowed her enthusiasm to build. “You go straight to your bathroom. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. Strip off your clothes and you’re in the shower by ten til ten.” She glanced up at her patient. “Your bathroom’s clean enough for this?”
Mary nodded. “It’s just me who’s dirty.”
“Bingo. We’re going to fix this, Mary.” Lydia returned her attention to the notebook. “First you’ll shampoo. And when the bottle says ‘lather, rinse, repeat’, I want you to do that twice, okay?”
Mary smiled again. “You’re not the typical shrink, are you?”
Lydia winked. “Mary, you’re not going to talk your way out of this pickle. You’re not going to think your way out or understand your way out. You’re going to do your way out of this. Right?”
Mary stared at Lydia for several heartbeats. Lydia held her gaze. Mary let out a hearty laugh.
“No one’s ever done this,” she said. “Do you know how many doctors I’ve been to? Not one of them has told me I stink and need to go home and take a bath.”
Lydia leaned back and smiled. “I don’t like to dally, Mary. If there’s a way to fix something, I don’t like to waste time. Are you with me?”
Mary chuckled and a boa of fat jiggled beneath her dingy sweatshirt. “I’ve got some really fancy face cleanser I’ve been dying to try,”
“Brilliant. Next comes the body wash…”
Lydia’s day marched forward in one hour segments. John McKenna wanted help finding meaning in the recent cancer death of his nineteen year old son. Alexander Quinton couldn’t shake his conviction he would die in an airplane crash before his fiftieth birthday. Marilyn Martinella discovered when her youngest daughter left for college that she hated her husband.
Her four o’clock was Jackie Vincent, a single mother of a 17 year-old gangster wanna-be. This was her second visit. She came saying she needed to develop skills for coping with what she described as her “headstrong and spirited” child.
“He called me a mother-fucking bitch last night.” Jackie sobbed into her lace handkerchief. “Why would he do that, Dr. Corriger? I give him everything.”
“What did you do when he called you that?” Lydia asked.
Jackie’s shoulders racked with her sobs. “I went to my bedrooom. Then, when I thought his mood was better I made some popcorn and we watched a scary movie together. It was nice.”
“How old was he the first time he called you a name?”
“This one?” Jackie dabbed her eyes.
“Any name. How old was he the first time he disrespected you?” Lydia asked.
Jackie thought back. “I can remember him calling me ‘Poopy Head’ when he was about two.”
“What did you do then?”
Jackie shrugged. “He was two.” She smiled. “I thought it was cute.”
“There’s your answer, Jackie.” Lydia hoped her patient would hear her. “He called you a mother-fucking bitch because you allow it.”
On they came. A succession of sorrow hoping for comfort or direction. As the day wore on, Lydia wondered if she’d have energy left to deal with her last patient of the day.
Savannah Samuels was five minutes late. She pulled a bottle of wine out of an oversized leather tote, tossed her raincoat across a chair, and settled onto the sofa.
“For your Thanksgiving, Dr. Corriger.” Savannah placed the syrah on the coffee table. “I don’t know what you’re serving but a hundred-dollar bottle of wine goes with anything.”
Lydia took a seat across from the tired-looking beauty. “Why do you do that?”
Savannah frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“You lead with money. You carry large amounts of cash. You tried to tip me on your first visit and bribe me on your second. Now you bring a bottle of wine.”
“It’s Thanksgiving.” Savannah pushed a blue-black curl behind her ear. “A holiday gesture.”
Lydia sensed her patient’s unease. “But you made sure I knew the price. Why?”
“Look, no offense intended.” Savannah pushed farther back into the cushions. “Give the wine to the cleaning lady for all I care.”
Savannah stared at a chipped fingernail.
“Do you want me to know you’re rich, Savannah? Is that it?”
Savannah crossed her legs and stared into nothingness.
“Do you think I’ll like you more if I know you’re wealthy? Perhaps bring my ‘A’ game to our sessions?” Lydia pressed despite her patient’s obvious discomfort.
Savannah rubbed the back of her neck and closed her eyes. Two minutes passed before she opened them. “Maybe money’s not a big deal for you anymore, Dr. Corriger. But remember, it wasn’t that way on my side of the tracks.”
“I know nothing about your side of the tracks, Savannah. Tell me what it was like for you growing up.”
Regret danced across Savannah’s face and settled into disappointment. She raised a sculptured brow. “You want to know about my mother? Maybe my trials and tribulations with potty training?”
Lydia challenged Savannah’s defensive posturing. “You hired me, remember?” She forced her voice to a calmness she didn’t feel. “You came here cry
ing. Told me you’re broken. You drop by without an appointment. You ask for my help and I agree to work with you. It’s been like this for months.” She leaned forward. “And now you insult me. Do you think we’re getting closer to fixing you or farther away?”
Savannah’s blue eyes softened, revealing the terror that lurked beneath her sophisticated mask. She bowed her head and a teardrop fell onto her suede skirt. “I’m sorry. I was rude.”
Lydia dropped to a near-whisper. “You can be rude, Savannah. I can handle that. But let’s not waste time.” Lydia watched her patient reach for a tissue, blot her eyes, and twist the tissue into a tight coil. “Tell me what it was like growing up. Let’s start with Dad.”
“That’s easy.” Savannah looked up and smirked. “Never met him. My mother told me he was a soldier. Killed in Viet Nam.” She bit her lower lip and looked away. “She didn’t have a clue who he was.”
“That must be difficult for you.” Lydia kept her eyes on her patient’s face.
“Not at all.” Savannah pushed away another errant wisp of hair. “You can’t miss what you never knew.”
Lydia let her hold that fallacy for the moment. “And Mom? What about her?”
“I don’t have enough money to pay for the hours it would take to tell you about her, Dr. Corriger. And I have a lot of money.” Savannah grimaced. “Sorry.”
Lydia smiled. “We’ll call it an insight moment, how’s that?” She leaned back. “Give me some broad strokes. Help me see your mother. Is she as beautiful as you?”
Savannah’s face contorted again. “It’s hard to think of myself as beautiful. That’s not false modesty. I’m well aware of the effect I have on men. Women, too.” She turned her attention again to empty space. “I use it to my advantage whenever I can. But I know who I am underneath. And as they say, ugliness goes to the bone.”
“I asked about your mother, Savannah. Not you.”
Savannah nodded. “So you did. No. My mother wasn’t beautiful. Not outside. Not inside. She loved the men, though. Did whatever she could to make sure there were always a few in her life. ‘My bullpen’ she called them.”