by John Decure
The Major also frequently imbibes like a frat boy when the notion seizes him. Which is often—and which is why I know his wimpy armed forces history. The Major likes to talk when he’s lit.
So yes, the good Major was rewarded for being a pussy with a ticket home from Nam and a purported rank he’d never earned. The irony is that the man sees no problem with this rosy outcome. In fact, he’s shamelessly proud of how well he made out.
“Got a doozy of a problem this time, Ray-ool.”
“Let’s hear it,” I said flatly enough to let him know I didn’t care for the purposeful mispronunciation.
“Now, son, I’d like to speak with total candor.”
“I’m alone in my office, behind closed doors.”
“That is, with the assurance of utter confidentiality.”
My tryst with Myrna had distracted me from eating breakfast, and I felt woozy, not my usual self.
“Kindly think who you’re talking to, Major,” I said. “Think what I already know.”
That shut him up for the moment, at least. Let me explain why.
At times I hate his guts; I despise his superciliousness, the careless, condescending way he calls me “Ray-ool,” the deportation cracks he makes lest I do his personal bidding. But we’re tied together at the waist, the Major and I, and we’ve been that way ever since we met last year at a board meeting in south San Francisco.
Stars seemed to align and events to conspire in order for us to be brought together the way we did. We hadn’t crossed paths at the meeting itself; no, I was there to deliver a scintillating update on proposed medical-experimentation statutes, a presentation attended by a few wandering physicians and lonesome senior citizens, but no board members. Opening the floor to questions and answers, I got not a single raised hand—a relief, as I was more than ready to race back to the airport for an early flight home. But while I’d been wowing them with my PowerPoint magic, a wall of tule fog had rolled down the Central Valley, causing pile-ups on the Interstate 5 and shutting down the airport. I was stuck for the night and a wine and cheese tasting event the board sponsored at the hotel seemed the best way to pass some time. My mistake: it was a bore, too many people talking shop instead of grapes, and when I finally had a chance to sneak out of there, I didn’t look back. I’d only gone a mile or two down the road, five miles an hour through the fog, my head out the window, when I came upon the Major and his rental car, a bright red Mazda convertible, upside-down in a shallow ditch, the front wheels still spinning. The good Major was so blasted that when I tried to extract him from the scene, he climbed behind the wheel of my rental and insisted on driving so I could get some rest. Then he threw up all over the dash.
I knew who he was, what was at stake for a man of his position, and I reiterated those points as I shouted some sense into him. Wiped the puke off his mouth with his shirtsleeve. Eventually he listened, and on my advice we ditched the car and kept clear of his hotel room. Back at my less fancy, half-abandoned hotel, I ordered an extra cot and blankets from room service, camping the Major under a shower nozzle until he stopped rambling. About ten coffees later, the medical board’s president was thanking me profusely, fully aware that if not for me, he’d have faced an embarrassing, high blood alcohol DUI bust and the scandal to go with it.
Of course, if not for him, an attorney of my modest capabilities and reputation would not have been promoted to supervising DAG. But it had happened, just as he’d promised it would.
The Major. Whatever—I’d call him the Lord God, Creator of Heaven and Earth if he could use his pull to recommend me for the senior assistant attorney general position about to come open when our current SAAG, Harry Albert, retires next fall.
In my office, when the issue of Albert’s retirement comes up, the wags like to say “Hoary Harry needs to hurry.” No one ever mentions me as a possible replacement, but I’ll show the bastards, I’ll show them all.
Now, back to the phone call with the Major.
“You’ve heard of ‘Dr. Don.’ The inimitable Donald Fallon, the smoking jacket smoothie psychiatrist, used to have his own TV gig?”
“Sure.” Of course I’d heard of Dr. Don. Who in LA hadn’t? “I’ve seen his show. He does this golden-throat thing that’s supposed to be soothing.”
“That’s him. If you ask me, he sounds like he’s talking underwater.”
“I thought he got cancelled.”
“About a year ago, but it was a time slot thing. They tried to put him on at 2:00 a.m., move him from midnight. He threatened to sue, so they didn’t renew his deal. I heard he’s working on something new, another show with a different channel. He’s a slick operator. If there’s a route to getting back on the air, he’ll find it.”
“I’m not much on late-night TV. I’ve got little kids at home.”
The Major sighed. “I assure you, dear boy, my call today bears no relation to your nocturnal viewing proclivities. Let me be brutally honest. There’s a sexual misconduct case bouncing around down there, Raul. I need it over and done with, quickly and quietly. And you’re my man to see to that. Am I right?”
At least he’d pronounced my name right. I asked the Major straight up why he gave a damn about Donald Fallon, MD, though I really didn’t care to hear the ignoble reason, whatever it was; it would just feel good to put the screws to the Major, rather than the other way around.
“Don’t push it, son,” he said. “I have my reasons. But he’s a decent fellow.”
“Yeah, a real good guy,” I said. “Dr. Don, the celebrity psychiatrist best known for the cheesy exhortation to call-in patients to ‘feel the love.’ Myrna, my wife, she watched his show a couple of times and liked it. I watched with her. Guy was creepy. He told this caller, Betsy from Reseda, that she should think about leaving her husband if she wasn’t ‘feeling the love.’ The man’s self-confidence in telling total strangers what to do with their lives was… I don’t know.”
“Scary.”
“What was even more disturbing was how ready those same strangers were willing to follow his every last word of advice.”
“Well, if he’s on TV, he must be right.”
“Okay, Major, the show’s off the air. Maybe Dr. Don still does the look-at-me laps here in LA, riding on hospital parade floats and doing ribbon-cuttings at pet hotels. Why do you care?”
“He’s in trouble, charged with having intercourse with a vulnerable female patient in his own office. If charges like that are proven, no amount of celebrity status will save him.” I heard the Major snap his fingers as he said, “His career’s kaput.”
“Who cares?”
“Dr. Don was an expert witness for the board not too long ago. A high-profile case against a San Francisco behavioral psychiatrist whose ideas on treating autistic children with medication regimens were well outside the standards recognized by the medical establishment.”
“I remember that.”
“Dr. Don was a sort of point man for the board, and he came through.”
“So what? Since when does the board do favors for former experts?”
“For him to take a public beating in an ugly sex misconduct scrape, well, think how bad that would look.”
I wasn’t biting. “You still have yet to explain why I should give a crap about this guy.”
The Major’s reason for helping Dr. Don didn’t strike me as compelling; the board uses all sorts of doctors as experts, and though they may testify for the board, they more or less speak for themselves. That’s what witnesses do. There had to be something more.
“All right, you want to pester me this way, I’ll tell you. In strictest confidence, though—and I want your word.”
He seemed genuinely angry, which pleased me. Not that I’d tried to piss him off. All I wanted was to get Bradlee back on medical board cases, and suddenly the Major’s doozy seemed to have possibilities.
“We’re… related.”
“You’re too old to be his dad,” I said, dicking with him.
“Very funny, Men-dibbles. He’s married to my sister.”
“Oh.” I hadn’t seen that one coming.
“What’s with the gasp? Trust me, she looks nothing like me. Ever heard of the Tournament of Roses?”
“Duh,” I said. “I grew up in LA.”
“Not in Pasadena, I’m guessing.”
“Let’s not get personal, Major.”
“Then don’t suggest I’m thick.”
I bit my lip and counted to ten.
“Still with me?”
“Dangling by the rich narrative thread you’re weaving, sir.”
“Smartass. In her day, my kid sister was once the Rose Queen. Beauty, brains, poise—she had it all in spades. Why she hooked up with that buffoon… ah, never mind. Pushing fifty by now, but she’s still a head-turner. Like that French actress, Catherine Deneuve. You’ve heard of Catherine Deneuve, Raul?”
Holy Mother of God, I’d had eneuve of this insipid conversation and could not hold back.
“Think I saw one of her films at an art house in… where was it… oh yeah: Pasadena.”
“Touche, Men-dibbly-doo. Guess I had it coming. Now, enough with the niceties.”
“If these are niceties, remind me to never get on your bad side, sir.”
“Ha, ha.” He cleared his throat with a jagged growl. “Okay, here comes the hammer and nails, son, so listen closely. No admissions to wrongdoing, Raul. Only that he’d inappropriately engaged in touch therapy with the patient without her informed written consent. A year of probation, just long enough for Dr. Don to complete a few brush-up courses in professional boundaries and record keeping.”
“What?”
“I say something wrong?”
“That’s a gift. None of the board will vote yes to that deal. And you can’t even vote because you’ve got a direct conflict of interest.”
“Oh, they’ll get in line, son, leave that to me. Your job is to bang out a quick filing, and Dr. Don and his lawyers will be at the first settlement conference accepting the deal. As for who you assign, just put somebody on it that won’t ask questions and won’t give us any headaches.”
“You want a hack. We’ve got a few of those in the stable.”
“A ‘hack’? Did I suggest anything of the sort?”
“You did, indirectly. Because the settlement is a joke, Major. Why not go all the way, throw in some flowers and a letter of apology?”
I’d read the case file and didn’t like this phony asshole Dr. Don, a man who’d wreck a woman’s marriage—and probably, her life—just to get his cheap horny-boy jollies. On the other hand, at this stage of my career, I wasn’t in a position to get too self-righteous with my sole professional benefactor. Our relationship was based on give and take.
Quid pro quo, they called it in law school.
“Stay with me on this,” the Major almost pleaded. I’d probably pushed him too hard, but somehow, it had worked.
“I’ll do you way better than a hack,” I said. Then I rolled out my brilliant idea: Bradlee Aames.
Hmmmmmmmm….
He liked my thinking, to use a prosecutor feared for her courtroom skills, which would bring the defense closer to the table, but a gal—the Major’s words—with an image problem of her own, needing to make nice with MBC management. She wouldn’t be inclined to put herself through the wringer of an ugly court battle, not when the client agency would be happy with a stipulation.
And not when bringing in a signed stip will get her back in the board’s good graces, I said. Paving the way for her return to working MD cases.
“I dunno about that last part, Raul. She’s a loose cannon, a liability. You said so yourself, you—”
“No, Major, now it’s my turn to be direct. I’m not offering Bradlee Aames as an option. I’m saying she’s the one. This is nonnegotiable.”
Whoa. I had to stop and take a breath. I’d never pushed my point this forcefully with the Major, not since I’d helped him sidestep that DUI.
“I hope to high heaven you know what you’re doing.”
“Don’t worry; she’ll do as I say. She has to.”
The Major chuckled with decided pleasure. “Nobody has to do anything, son, not without a gun to their head. It’s called free will.”
“I’m aware of the concept.”
“And one more thing, Mister Nonnegotiable. You scratch my back, I scratch yours, that’s the arrangement the two of us enjoy.”
‘I’m aware of that, too.”
“Good. So don’t let me catch you scratching your balls instead. Got that, Ray-ool?”
Of course I was offended. Oddly enough, I found myself looking down to check the placement of my free hand, which was near my lap. Moved it away.
3
DONALD FALLON, MEDICAL DOCTOR
We were having our fun, my three lawyers and I, yessirree, we surely were, a good old time chatting it up with the court reporter. She was a young thing named Kasey or Kaylee or KC or… hell, I don’t even know what she said it was, her elocution was so poor, her cute little tongue, which looked made-to-order for fellatio, it just swam in marbles the way so many young peoples’ do today—but say, the girl surely could flash the cutest little dimples at me, perky little rosy-cheeked gal with dishwater hair and slightly spooky caterpillar eyelashes. Little walk on the wild side, there, but nice, hard, no-pantyhose bare legs and supple calves. Oh, there you go, those legs! The legs of a distance runner, like that doll at the coffee place on the corner near the office, Susanna, I wouldn’t mind going the distance with that Susanna, let her gift-wrap my face with those creamy inner thighs, put that on the to-do list, Donny, yessiree. Dear little Kerry here is blushing, as she’s seen me before on TV, even read one of my books, and oh, I can feel it coming, the glorious high, my loins tingling, the load building!
Now, do not begrudge me my pick-of-the-litter prowess, my top spot here above a scrum of striving male wannabes, for these legal gladiators, amassed to strike back at the ignorant forces of state bureaucracy, these men on my team, the Don Squad, they all know their place. They are paid, and paid handsomely, to do my bidding, and so they shall. As for dear, dear, supple-kneed Katie, well, let her be free to gush all she likes. I have earned my preeminence through years of perseverance and toil and professional dedication, and if I were to parlay that hard-won stature into a post-hearing soiree as—what? Let’s say, as uh… the perfect complement to a young lady’s deep-seated nascent emotional reactions to a high-status male. Let’s just say I predict our lusty union will likely represent not only a rollicking good time, but a personal, emotional breakthrough for the young lady: win-win! That is, despite the fact that Kelsey, here, likely never even dreamed she might possess a single such feeling. Well, if that’s what it comes to, the pleasure will be mine, and just as freely accepted as a debt collected.
My lead counsel, Terrence Heidegger, the original Bad Boy himself, now he is your Type-A alpha dog, and I love the job he does for me, but he was in pain. Little Miss Whatsername was laughing it up at my very worst lawyer jokes and all but ignoring his superior offerings, and yet, Heidegger had little choice but to smile a little, wince a little as my playful bon mots repeatedly strafed their intended target. Heidegger’s right-hand briefcase-carrier, Arnie Chesterfield, was too short in stature and too used to sucking up to his boss to fully throw in behind me, so he sat there at counsel table, patting his hairpiece and grimacing to suppress his guffaws as the point total ballooned in my favor.
“… cause they got no sole!—oh, ho, too much, Dr. Fallon!”
Arnie had choked that one out a few jokes back, tossing me the home run ball I was waiting for the instant he said my name.
Dr. Fallon.
“Donald Fallon? The Donald Fallon?”
“Why, yes, I am.”
“Ohmigod! You’re ‘Doctor Don’?”
“Guilty as charged.”
Crack! Home run, straight over the centerfield wall.
By the way, women love that
line, “guilty as charged.” And no, of course I wouldn’t mind signing her book, but since it was at home, I said I’d be glad to mail her another copy, my compliments, and oh no, it’s no trouble, I’ve got a few lying around—a few thousand remaindered copies on a pallet in the garage to be exact, but she’d never know the difference—so if she wouldn’t mind providing me an address—
Which, of course, she didn’t mind providing.
Oh, Donny, you are incorrigible! the old gang in my high school chemistry club would be saying if they could see me now. Donny the horny but hopeless perpetual virgin; Donny, whose mom dropped him off to volunteer at the prom, bathroom duty two years in a row; Donny whose pubic hair didn’t really come in until he was in second-year medical at USC, as if it made a difference by then; Donny, who married a refined, connected, beautiful young lady about a hundred points above his batting average, an all-time catch. She was someone with whom he could slowly gain experience in bed, build up his confidence, and enjoy a steady love life—only to find, as the years rolled by and they found that they could not procreate, that like a cruel cosmic joke involving extinction of a species, she secretly harbored an almost pathological aversion to sex. Which eventually played itself out, a real-life horror show without end.
I will not digress on the topic of Hilary, the delicate flower I so luckily plucked in marriage. You need not know the depths of human degradation she endured at the hands of every opportunistic fertility doctor in the state; these men should have been prosecuted, then taken out and shot for what they did to her, such was her suffering. But suffice it to say that the aftermath of our failures was to yield no further pleasure in the bedroom, only workmanlike grit, and tears, and raw shouts of recrimination, my only call to action brute force and domination.
Which is perhaps not much of an explanation as to why I’m trying to put the moves on a court reporter while here, in court, defending myself on charges brought by the medical board against my license to practice psychiatry, my very right to ply my trade! I mean, they’re saying I exploited a female patient, committed sexual misconduct upon her person under the guise of professional care and treatment… and I’m thrilling to the fact that yes—Yes! A sexual connection is there, I can feel it. Oh, to slurp up the view of little Kaydee, those round mounds almost bursting from her furry white sweater, those bare creamy thighs parted just enough, like a special invitation just for me, an invitation to nuzzle my face in there until the rest of the world just… fades away into nothing.