Out Cold ddm-3

by Tom Schreck

  Out Cold

  ( Duffy Dombrowski Mysteries - 3 )

  Tom Schreck

  Tom Schreck

  Out Cold

  1

  "Duffy…Duffy…do you know where you are?" Smitty said.

  "Shit, right on the chin. Did you see his head whip, around?

  Shit," some other guy said.

  I went to sit up and felt my head slosh around like a bowl filled with some sort of goo.

  "No, no, no, don't try to sit up. Lie back down," Smitty said. They pushed me back down, but they did it gently and I didn't resist. I knew I was in a gym with painted red walls. I heard the sounds of the gym though they were off a bit and the place had a hush to it. Things were happening and I knew what was going on-sort of any way. I felt removed from it.

  "I want to get to the hospital. Which one should I take him to?" Smitty asked, but he wasn't talking to me. He was talking about me.

  I sat up straight fast and the blood rushed to my head with a gigantic throb. It wasn't painful in a sharp, burning pain. It was dull and livable.

  "Whoa, don't get up," Smitty said.

  I didn't like the sound of hospital. I got up from the sitting position to show everyone I was all right.

  My legs buckled and I staggered into the ropes. I fell backward into them and went halfway through the bottom two. Smitty sprang up and hugged me awkwardly.

  "Duff-shit. Somebody get me the stool." He sounded panicked. Smitty never sounded panicked.

  My legs must've been on the same circuit as my mouth, because I kept trying to say something and my mouth wouldn't move. Things felt murky. Around the ring, guys starred at me. Out of the meshed conversations I heard something like; "Did you see that fuckin' hook?"

  My answer would've been, "No."

  2

  I sat at my desk drinking the brown stuff the staff at Jewish Unified Services referred to as coffee. A Monday and I had five back-to-back appointments this morning, because I had to catch up. A few sick days last week to go to Gleason's Gym and spar had put me behind.

  I went to see Trina, the office manager.

  "Who's my 9:15?" I asked. Before I could get an entire sentence out of my mouth, I tripped over something. I lost my balance a little and banged into the wall.

  "Walk much?" Trina said. "Karl is your 9:15."

  "Oh, very nice. I almost do serious bodily harm to myself and you find it funny."

  "It was pretty funny."

  I looked at the box that used to contain a case of Campbell's Chicken and Stars soup. Now it had cans of various meat and fish in it.

  "The Mission looking for canned goods? It's August," I said.

  "It's for the soldiers oversees."

  I looked in the box and saw cans of Spam, sardines, and Vienna sausages.

  "Apparently, fatty foods loaded with salt are going to help the war effort."

  "No, it's for the soldiers to have snack foods, and canned goods keep the best. They're calling it the 'Snack Attack'," Trina said. She checked the clinic's answering machine.

  "Have you ever eaten Spam? Wait a minute. Can you even say that to a woman and still be considered a gentleman?"

  "When did you start considering yourself a gentleman?" Trina asked.

  "You doubt my chivalry? By the way, who's my 9:15?"

  "I already told you-are you gonna keep asking me all morning?" She feigned annoyance.

  "C'mon, it's Monday," I said.

  "Yeah, maybe you shouldn't take stupid pills for breakfast on Mondays."

  "Hmmm… and you work in human services…"

  "No, I'm the secretary."

  I went to the files to get Karl's chart. His last name is Greene and it wasn't near the 'Gs'.

  "Does Claudia have Karl's chart for signatures?"

  "Duffy, you got that file fifteen minutes ago."

  "That's right. I need more coffee," I didn't remember anything about getting the file. That felt a little weird. So did my head.

  I got knocked out for the first time Saturday afternoon. I've been boxing my whole life and I've never been knocked unconscious. I've had my nose broken a bunch of times, I've been cut, and I have had my bell rung, but I never went out for a few minutes. It happens and it happens to the best fighters. I'm not one of the best fighters and have almost as many losses as wins. I sparred with a heavyweight contender all last week and made an extra thousand bucks. I used eighteen-ounce gloves and he used fourteen, which is bullshit, but when they pay you to be cannon fodder, bullshit comes with the territory. The buzzer on my phone jarred me out of my reverie. Trina announced Karl was here for his appointment. Karl was a tough session when I felt fresh and rested, but on an under-caffeinated Monday morning equaled torture. This was only his second time in, but his first had been a little, let's say, out of the ordinary.

  "Mornin' Karl," I said and extended my hand.

  "Yeah, that's what you'd like wouldn't you?" Karl said with a laugh. It wasn't a happy laugh, though I couldn't say if he smiled or sneered because his Michael Jackson style surgical mask hid his expression.

  "Whatyamean Karl?"

  "Don't play games with me. I get what's going on, you know."

  I wasn't sure if he did actually. Karl and reality parted company sometime between high school and a short stint in the Marine Corps. That stint included a trip to Iraq.

  "Well, whatya say we head into the counseling room, then?"

  "I'll follow you," Karl said.

  I think they call it paranoid schizophrenia. Karl recently hit his mid twenties and had started getting delusional a few years back, which is just about the typical age schizophrenia starts to develop. I'm guessing dealing with Parris Island, wacky military discipline, and RPGs, IEDs, and whatnot might have sped up the process a little bit. I didn't know much more because the Veteran's Administration, that super efficient federal organization, had yet to send me any info on Karl.

  "How's the week been?" I tried to be casually therapeutic.

  "The week has been just fine-for the NWO."

  "The NWO? The angry rap group with the inappropriate name?"

  "Don't play coy, Dombrowski."

  "Coy, me?" My head started to throb. I couldn't tell if it was from Saturday or from Karl.

  "New World Order," Karl said and snickered.

  "Not sure I'm down with what the NWO is about there, Karl."

  "Yeah-and the World Trade center collapsed when two hijacked planes flew into it. Ha! You people kill me!"

  "Ah, Karl, have you been taking your meds?"

  "That's what you want, isn't it? That's what they've all wanted since I enlisted. Keeps me in the program."

  "The program?"

  "Oh, you don't know about the program, ha! When did they get you?"

  I didn't remember getting into the program. I did remember Karl was just about due for a psych consult and I thought maybe we could put him number one with a bullet on the waiting list.

  "Karl, how's your drug use been lately?" I said, temporarily trying to steer the session away from all things conspiratorial.

  "The drugs have kept me a slave at times, but it's a slavery I welcome compared to the other choices," Karl said.

  "What does that mean, Karl? The part about slavery?"

  "As long as you're hooked they can control you. Shit, why do they introduce you to the stuff? It's just another way for the man to get you under his thumb."

  "But Karl, it's your choice to use drugs, isn't it?"

  "It is now, but it wasn't then," Karl said and punctuated it with a sneer.

  "Huh?"

  "Never mind, Dombrowski," Karl looked me straight in the eye. "Never mind."

  My advanced psychological training, which amounted to my junior college diploma from an online school of hi
gher learning, told me I should continue to provide unconditional positive regard to my client by moving to a subject we mutually agreed would be more beneficial.

  That and the fact the current line of conversation drove me up the fucking wall.

  "How's life at the Mission?" I asked, inquiring about Karl's department of social services financed living situation.

  "It's great because I left."

  "Why? Does that mean you're out on the street?"

  "I like the street. They can't keep such a close eye on you when you don't have an address. The man likes it when you have an address."

  "Yeah, but isn't there something to be said for warmth, shelter, and three squares a day?"

  "It's August, it gets a little cool at night, but it's worth the freedom."

  It's sessions like this that make me question the overall utility of human services. I wasn't sure what exactly I did for old Karl except piss him off and make him more suspicious. I also wasn't sure what kept him coming, but I hazard the guess even Karl, despite all his talk, liked his monthly DSS check.

  "Have you formed any positive relationships in the last week?" I hated asking cliched human services questions, but Karl had me kind of stymied.

  "Positive relationships," Karl smiled out of one corner of his mouth. "Counselor, Dombrowski, do tell me what makes a relationship positive."

  "You know, uh…relationships marked by…" He'd caught me spouting bullshit and he knew it. So did I. An awkward silence hung and Karl gave me a self-satisfied smile while I squirmed with really nothing of substance to say. Finally, he broke the silence.

  "Do you know about the fires? Or, are you going to play dumb?"

  "What fires?"

  "Yep, I knew you'd play dumb."

  I looked at Karl and kind of squinted, which made my head throb a bit. I really wasn't up for another go around.

  "You know Karl, we've probably covered enough for today," I said.

  "What ever you say commandant-I know better than to disobey. I remember what you did last time I did." I didn't.

  I walked Karl out and went to see Trina about getting Karl in for a psych session with Dr. Meade as soon as possible. Trina stood at the file cabinet, up on her tiptoes, trying to water her spider plant. She wore a pair of 501's and the denim hugged every turn her body took. Her stretching to take care of her plant gave me an extra treat for which I offered the good Lord gratitude. She had the radio on the FM classic rock station.

  "Trina can we get Karl into to see Meade ASAP?" She recoiled from her watering position.

  "ASAP is six weeks."

  "Oh, come on-really?"

  "You can get him in for a med review Thursday, but for only fifteen minutes."

  We only had Meade, the shrink, one day a week. It wasn't enough, but that was the world of non-profit human services in Crawford, New York.

  "I'll take the med review."

  "Med reviews are not to be used as a substitute for therapeutic psych visits," I heard from over my shoulder.

  "Good morning, Claudia," I said to the Michelin Woman. Claudia Michelin, the clinical director and my nemesis who lived for the bureaucratic paperwork I detested. She had been trying to fire my ass for the last six years and had come close plenty of times.

  "Trina, don't schedule Karl in med review spot. Give him the next available therapeutic session," Claudia said. Claudia, nearly six feet tall, with a black perm was a rice cake shy of 250 lbs, hence, my private nickname 'The Michelin Woman.'

  She turned and headed toward her office. Trina rolled her brown eyes at me and I shrugged my shoulders, which made my head throb again.

  "You all right?" Trina said.

  "Yeah, why?"

  "You just wobbled."

  "Wobbled? I didn't wobble."

  "You wobbled."

  "Bullshit."

  I didn't feel much like arguing about my gait, especially as the throbbing returned, so I turned to head toward my cubicle, when Clapton's Layla faded out, and the radio news came on.

  "Six dead, twenty more hospitalized in a fire at ROTC training camp believed to be deliberately set…"

  3

  I started to think Karl might be on to something. Then I realized everyday there's a fire someplace, and mentioning a fire might occur somewhere in the world-with no other reference point what so ever-didn't exactly put Karl on par with Nostradamus.

  I headed to the 'Y' for a quick workout and to blow off some steam. Still stiff from last week's work, but I knew if I got a workout in, the body would start to loosen up a bit. I had my sweats on and went through the process of wrapping my hands when the throbbing around my temples went up a gear. It didn't hurt a lot, but I did notice it. After a minute or two it subsided, or at least I thought it did.

  The Crawford 'Y', built in the 1920's, remained an old time 'Y'. No aquamarine colored exercise machines, no tanning beds, and generally a complete absence of fad type stuff. On the other hand it had no shortage of the sort of stuff that made old time YMCAs creepy. It had too many guys in the health club who just spent too much time in the nude, walking around and doing nothing else. I'm not sure where they read watching TV with your nutbag on a vinyl couch for two hours qualified as good cardio work, but no shortage of guys who did just it every single day.

  The Y also featured the dying breed of handball players. The same six or eight guys who played every day for the last 90 years and appeared to hate one another. The white hoop players and the younger black hoop players who, without really anyone saying anything, segregated themselves into two different court like at Selma, Alabama in the mid-60s. They played two styles of ball. On those rare occasions when the games somehow got integrated games the white guys tended to call more traveling calls and the black guys tended to call more fouls. Then there was Fat Eddie, the old gay guy who passed out towels from a cage located right by the showers. I'm guessing when he took his career aptitude test it recommended he throw towels to naked athletic men while sitting in a chair, eating Fritos all day. Fat Eddie had the perfect job. Recently, they added to Eddie's responsibilities and identified his station as the place to drop off the can goods for the soldiers. So, in addition to getting the chance to dry off in front of the fat man, you could also hand in a can of Spam for his 'Snack Attack' collection. Some how it made sense.

  I headed down the stairs to the boxing gym, a dank room with low lighting and layers of fermented BO from years of training. No ventilation in the boxing room meant the body funk had seeped into the concrete and leather, and permeated the atmosphere. All of this made it perfect for my sport. I got in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror to warm up with shadowboxing and danced around the crack that went straight down the middle of the mirror. The crack had been there as long as I remember, and if I ever had to throw punches into a mirror without a crack I think I would get confused.

  It took a long time to get warm and I couldn't figure out why. I threw jabs and methodically moved to my right-what a left-handed fighter should do-but I felt awkward from the soreness. I started to pick up the pace to get a sweat going when I heard Smitty come out of his office.

  "Duff-Hold up," he said. He stood in the threshold of his little office with the plastic window so old it had yellowed. He folded his and scrunched up his forehead. Balding, his curly grayish hair framed his haggard brown face. He sighed and unfolded his arms and walked toward me.

  "Go on home, Duff," he said without any expression or inflection.

  "What?"

  "Go on home."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "You ain't right, kid. You're balance is off."

  "Just loosening up."

  "Go on home, Duffy."

  "I'm fine, really."

  "Go on home-now." He increased the inflection in his voice just slightly, but that's all he ever did. I knew not to question him, but I didn't understand what the big deal was. When Smitty said you had to do something you had to. He didn't see a ton of grey in life, and I respected him even when
he was wrong. Besides, I had no fights on the near horizon, so there wasn't much point in arguing.

  It's about ten minutes to my converted trailer on 9R and Elvis came along for the ride as he always did. I loved the King's early sixties period, and he went from One Broken Heart for Sale to Please Don't Drag that String Around — both songs by Otis Blackwell, the guy who did Don't Be Cruel. Or, come to think of it, maybe it was Leiber and Stoller, the guys who did Hound Dog. I always got that shit mixed up.

  My domicile gleamed in the sun, as aluminum Airstream trailers tend to do. I had christened it the Moody Blue after the Elvis song, and also because I thought it lended some class to living in a trailer. It made it kind of yacht-like-in a white trash kind of way the customized addition coming out the back of it gave it a special appeal, so please don't make the mistake of assuming it is just a trailer.

  My girlfriend's…er…uh…my fiancee's-yeah that's right, the future Mrs. Duffy Dombrowski's-car was parked outside on the gravel. This hadn't been a four star day, but there was still a chance to turn it around with a ninth inning rally. Rene and I had been seeing each other for almost a year, and for a guy who has had a lifetime of bad relationships, she was a welcome relief. She wasn't diagnosable with any major psychiatric illnesses, she hadn't stolen anything from me, and she enjoyed sex. That put her in a very small percentage of the women I've gotten involved with.

  Rene was a graphic designer, which made her a little artsy, but not enough to make her a whack job. I liked artsy-fartsy, I liked avant-garde, and I even liked a woman with a little bit of a dark side. Dark side, in the sense she gave life some thought and didn't always see things as uncomplicated, easy to define, or static. She was also a hot red head with green eyes, an ample bosom, whose legs came all the way up to there. I guess you can tell a guy like me is in love when he chooses 'ample bosom' over 'a great rack.'

  The best part was she was crazy about me. She knew the kind of money I made and it didn't matter. You see, she was brought up with money, but with a couple of emotionally distant parents who, honestly, just sounded like assholes. The fact I worked with poor people and lived in a trailer didn't turn her off; she actually kind of liked it. She said I was 'genuine.'