by Nick Totem
“That’s what I thought,” Thomas said.
“He had surgery three months ago, so that was the reason why you didn’t think it was necessary to do a cardiac workup?” Mike raised his eyes to Thomas’s.
“I know I screwed up, Mike,” he said.
“Well, you know at least you can use that as a reason for not having done a cardiac workup.”
“No, I can’t. Just because he didn’t have a heart attack last week doesn’t mean he couldn’t have one tomorrow. I mean, just look at the guy, three hundreds pounds, smoker. What was I thinking? We both know I screwed up.”
“Thomas, I’m with you, man. I guess the guy got lucky with the last surgery, but his luck ran out.”
“No. No. My luck ran out. He never had a cardiac workup. I should have sent him.”
“So what do you think happened during surgery?” Mike’s voice was sharp, like a detective.
“I was freeing the thyroid gland. That must have emptied a load of thyroid hormone into his bloodstream; it must have triggered an arrhythmia. His heart probably had an undiagnosed ectopic sinus node or something, or it had severe vessels stenosis. Who knows? It must have been the excess thyroid hormone that tipped him over.”
“Makes sense.”
“I dropped the ball. That whole business with that girl really fucked me over. Can’t think straight.”
Mike remained quiet, thinking, and then said, “Hm, now that you mention it. I got some news for you.”
“What?”
“I told you I got a detective friend and he ahh . . .”
“Yeah, yeah. C’mon.”
“He ran a background check on that license plate. That guy with the baseball cap is bad news. He has convictions for assault and fraud. He’s been charged with extortion, racketeering, armed robbery but not convicted. My friend thinks that the guy is connected to the gangs.”
“My God, really. Well it confirms what I suspected,” Thomas said.
“Get this, he’s known on the street as Chau. I think it means dog in Chinese.”
“Damn.”
“And get this. This will blow you away, all right. His father . . . get this . . . his father is a pastor.”
“A what?”
“A pastor. Can you believe it? And not just any pastor. The man is a great believer, a great elder in the church, and his son is a crook. Unbelievable. The father even founded a church in Rowland Heights. My friend couldn’t believe it either.”
“You’re kidding. That’s why the guy kept mentioning Jesus. He must have found that bringing up Jesus made it easier to rip people off.”
“Yup. He was convicted for fraud. In that case he colluded with a pastor’s wife, a woman by the name of Van. And get this, they ripped off a doctor, too. There must be a ring of crooks hiding in that church.”
“I’m not surprised. So I’m not the only one. Was there mention of . . . the girl at all?”
“No.” Mike squinted at him.
“Nothing?”
“No, her name didn’t come up. But that’s enough. I told you, so you should just forget them, forget the girl. She’s not worth it, no matter how pretty she is. They’re dangerous crooks. All right. Not for you to get more involved.”
“You’re right. Thanks for telling me. It really helps to put closure on the whole thing.”
“Why don’t you take some time off? Go and relax somewhere. Get yourself together. I’ll take care of this Jeffrey Marshal business and the office until you get back.”
“I was thinking about that myself. It’s late to cancel the clinic next week, but after that I’m going to take a couple of weeks off. Thanks, man.”
Mike got up and headed to the door.
“Thank you, Mike. I’m sorry I involved you in all of this,” Thomas said as Mike went out the door.
“You’re welcome. You’re my brother, man. Brother’s keeper right?”
He watched as Mike’s car disappeared down the road, and then went back inside and sat down with the chart.
His head collapsed into his hands that dug into his hair and yanked.
“Fuck,” he groaned. “Something is worse than a physical death.”
Despite what Mike had said, he admitted to himself now that he was no saint, that with the twenty thousand dollars he had wanted to buy Lana more than to save her; he had used money to get on top of her. He had wanted to take the girl from Chau the Dog. He had wanted to be her sugar daddy so that he could enjoy her beauty and her body. And he deserved what he got.
What about love? What part did it have in this sordid affair? It was as if that person with whom he had fallen in love had dissociated herself to remain chaste and beautiful forever, but locked in those few days, to him at least, she had been good.
Suddenly, he jumped up. He must get out of the house, just to keep his mind straight. Aimlessly, the car went through the city as though it was driving itself. Slowly, it was turning toward that place, making him cringe at his overwhelming helplessness. Toward Torrance, toward that working-class neighborhood. When the car finally turned onto the street of her apartment, he stopped. From the back he retrieved the gun box and took out the gun. He put it under his seat where he could reach it easily. Then he drove on slowly through the streets and inspected the parked cars, looking for the black truck. He wiped his glasses. Seeing nothing familiar, he turned around and parked in front of the apartment complex with the engine running. Up at her window, there was only darkness.
A car passed by. A woman and a child walked along the pavement. Nothing else. After a while Thomas steered away from the curb and drove on, this time very fast. Soon, he was on the 110 North heading to downtown Los Angeles. The night sky was clear and cold, and the lights from all the high-rises glowed brightly. It was past nine o’clock. The usual traffic was thinning out at this hour.
Thomas’s BMW sped. Singularly focused and driven on by rage, he remembered the route exactly. He exited and after a couple of turns was cruising near 5th Ave and Broadway. The old building, the white door, the wide window with the sculpture of a pig dissected by household items appeared just as he remembered, but the art gallery was closed. Beyond the window, all the other lights were off. He pulled over right in front of the gallery and waited. He closed his eyes and drifted. When he opened his eyes again, his surroundings appeared unknown to him, as though he didn’t know how he had gotten there, or what he was doing there. His head floated, light and feverish. A nausea roiled up from his stomach. He hadn’t eaten at all since breakfast and was very tired.
He could do other things to find her. He could come back to the art gallery and question Dominic Savoir. But when would it end? How far would he go? He didn’t know.
Finally he drove away. “Time to end it all,” he said to himself.
12
In the following week, Thomas worked with a bee-like intensity, seeing a full schedule of patients, generally trying to immerse in all sorts of activities during his waking moments so that the emotional chaos could wither away through neglect. He didn’t succeed. Instead, he sensed his life becoming darker than ever. Jeffrey Marshal’s death had only increased the cancerous guilt that was metastasizing into all his organs, so much so that he paid a visit to Crystal, seeking solace and peace. He also went surfing, because being on the waves allowed him to forget, or he would exercise until exhausted. Finally he fell into bed, into short spans of nightmare-filled sleep, and soon he would jerk awake to the same wounds, still very raw, that had festered much worse than he could remember. For every pixel the dreams lacked in the firmness of reality, they were compensated by overpowering emotions and accompanied by overwhelming helplessness. Just as trees and grass made up the real world, raw emotions must constitute that dreamworld in which perhaps his soul had wandered.
At last he decided that he must get away. Being away from his office and routine would help him heal and allow him to forget. So he tried to put his business in order and made a list of errands that Mike would have to follow u
p.
On the Friday morning of that long, taxing week, the clinic was fully booked. He went from room to room without allowing himself to stop, but inevitably now and then, in between patients, he would stand still to pay his respects to Jeffrey Marshal. His conclusion about the death bounced from opposite extremes, from an unavoidable mishap to willful neglect. But as the days went on, Thomas was more intent on blaming himself, that it had been a case of neglect. The hospital informed him that the Medical Board had begun a formal investigation, immediately reminding him of the Iraqi boy whose death had never been investigated.
He was standing in front of an exam room with a chart in hand, when a receptionist, Kathy, called him, “Doctor Wilde. There is someone here to see you.”
He expected someone from the Medical Board, but it was early.
“Who is it? I’m very busy. Tell them to make an appointment.”
“She said she just wanted a moment. Probably a drug rep.”
“Can’t she see Mike?”
“She asked to see you.”
“All right, tell her to wait,” he told her.
He went into the exam room to see a patient. The patient was an old man, Mr. Anderson, who had been his patient over ten years. They exchanged pleasantries as Thomas checked his ear. He told Mr. Anderson that the infection had cleared, and Mr. Anderson said, “Great, doctor. What have you done to me? Now I can hear everything my wife says. There is no way to avoid taking out the garbage now.” They both laughed as Thomas walked him out.
At the front office, the receptionist and other nurses were busy processing new patients.
“Please check Mr. Anderson out. He can come back as needed,” he said. “And where is the person who wants to see me?” And not waiting for an answer, he opened the door to the waiting room as he usually did whenever there was a drug rep there. The waiting room was fully occupied. She was sitting with a straight back and head held high, a red purse on her lap, and a book held close to her face. As he opened the door, she looked up at him expectantly and smiled gently. His head floated away like a balloon only to crash back with the weight of hatred, anger, and sadness. It was Lana. She rose and came toward him.
“Step into the hallway,” he said.
In the hallway, Thomas walked away from the door, knowing that the patients inside the waiting room could hear them.
Lana followed him. After a few steps, as if finally unable to restrain herself, she said, “How are you, Thomas?”
He turned around. Through his glasses, his eyes glued onto her. His stomach bubbled with curses that he’d longed to hurl into her face, to scream into that pretty face what he really thought of her. But nothing came out, while she, too, scrutinized his face.
“I’m sorry, Thomas. I should have called or texted but . . .”
“Call and text?” his voice screeched.
“It was all so sudden. I wanted to let you know. It was rude of me to suddenly disappear, considering how generous and trusting you were . . .”
“Call and text. That’s all you’ve got to say.”
Now, standing next to her, her beauty still came to him clearly and exceeded anything that his mind could conjure up when he was away from her.
“No, I also have something,” she said and opened her purse. She took out what looked like a check and handed it to him. “Thank you very much, Thomas.”
Even now when anger reawakened and took control of him, her beauty could shear through that anger and temper it. And because he felt the soothing effect of her beauty, his pain increased in proportion, since behind that beauty was nothing but deceit.
“What’s this?” He took the check gingerly, as though it was an object imbued with some surreal qualities, and began to inspect it as he would a cancerous specimen.
“I endorsed it over to you on the back.”
“What about the rest of it?” His voice was loud and rough, enough for the patients inside the waiting room to hear, but he couldn’t control himself.
“Well yes. It’s not quite five thousand . . . It’s a few dollars short.”
“What about the twenty thousand that Chau the Dog took from me? You still owe me twenty thousand.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You know you’re very good at acting, but I don’t buy your bullshit anymore. Your superior air, your philosophical talk, it’s all bullshit. You’re just a scam artist.”
“Doctor Wilde. I appreciate what you did for me, but I will not stand here and listen to your abuse. I’m sorry I ever borrowed money from you in the first place,” she said and turned away from him. She walked very quickly, almost running down the hallway toward the stairs, and disappeared.
Thomas stared after her as if in a daydream. Then he looked at the check and read the numbers again and again, as though he couldn’t get himself to understand. He studied it closely to see if it was a real check. She was right; the check was short twenty seven dollars. And things no longer fit his conception; a doubt surfaced that he could have misjudged her. He turned to the exit, and as if sucked by a whirlwind, he ran. At the front of the building, he halted as he saw her standing there. He walked up to her. From the corner of her eye, she could obviously see him but didn’t turn around.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have raised my voice,” he said as he stood behind her.
She fumbled through her purse and then turned around. In her hand were two twenty dollar bills, and she flung them at him. “This should cover the rest of what I owe you. This should conclude our business.”
He bent down to pick up the bills.
“So you don’t know anything about this guy? They call him Chau the Dog on the street. He said you owed him twenty thousand dollars. He was there waiting outside your apartment; he followed you to the art gallery that night. You weren’t paranoid.” Thomas took out his phone, tapped on the photos, and scrolled down to the picture of the license plate.
Lana turned around, and her eyes squinted at the phone.
“He was in front of your apartment. He knows your name.”
Just then a car honked, and they both turned to look at it.
“I’ll get to the bottom of this.” She went to the car.
The driver appeared to be one of the artists, full of tattoos.
13
“That was her,” Thomas told Mike, when he went back inside.
He walked past Mike and the other staff. He went into his office. Mike followed behind him and closed the door.
“I got a peek at her. She’s damn gorgeous, man. No wonder you got screwed,” Mike said, but then he saw the look on Thomas’s face and stiffened. “But I don’t understand. I thought she was conspiring with Chau the Dog. What’s she doing here?”
“I don’t know,” Thomas slumped into the chair, still holding the check in his hand.
“Do you think they’re up to some other tricks?”
“I don’t know anymore.”
“What’s that?” Mike pointed the check.
“It’s a check for the money she borrowed from me.”
“What the? How can that be? If she was working with Chau the Dog, she wouldn’t come back and pay you back the money, would she? Scammers usually don’t give back the money. Something is not right here.”
Thomas didn’t reply. Even though his mind was trying to hold too many things together, Mike’s point was obvious enough. He looked up at Mike and said, “I’ve got to go.”
“Where? What about the rest of your patients?”
“Please see them. I’ve just got to go.” Thomas stood up and threw off his lab coat.
“No problem at all. But at least tell me where you’re going.”
“To the bank,” Thomas said and headed out the back door.
Thomas raced to the bank. The teller ran the check and cashed it for him. So everything that Thomas had been so certain about was suddenly no longer so.
For the rest of the night, Thomas resumed one of those unpleasant states of
existence, one tangentially connected to the concrete world. He went about doing things, and afterward he had to concentrate hard to remember what he had just done. The same questions, worked up in countless different ways, taxed his mind. Uncertainty harkening back to those dark days revived and redoubled, but nothing new came. He tried his darnedest not to let himself think about the chaos, but it came through all the same, the high of elation and contentment and the crash into despair and anger. Just hearing her voice again and looking into her eyes had rekindled all that, as though he could still find salvation.
That night, while sitting at home, he wanted to call her to talk, to hash it all out. What harm could a phone call do? Thinking again and again resolved nothing, and he was getting very tired. At least he would be sleeping soon. Just then the phone rang, making him jump, but it was only Mike.
“Yeah, Mike,” he answered.
“Hey, bro. So was it real?”
“Yeah, it was. The bank cleared it and they cashed it.”
“Sweet. At least you got some money back. That’s good, right?”
“Yeah.”
“What about her? Has she tried to contact you again?”
“No . . . but . . . I was thinking . . . hah . . .”
“Do not call her. Promise me,” Mike said loudly. “Not until we can figure out what the hell is going on. Do not call. Okay?”
“Okay, I won’t.”
“I don’t want to make you any more paranoid, but I’ll be a devil’s advocate anyway.”
“Go on.”
“What if . . . what if she just came back to give you the money so they can set you up for another scam.”
“What?”
“Just hear me out. Maybe it was so easy to get that twenty grand from you that they might just be giving you the five back to set you up for the next one.”
“You think?”
“I could be wrong. Completely wrong, but I got to think for you. No offense, but I don’t think you’re in any condition to think these things through right now, what with Jeffrey Marshal.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Thomas admitted. “If you’re right, that’s really evil.”