CLUB MEDicine: A Novel

by Jack Kinsley

  Chapter 3 / Time To Go

  Back at Crystal Heights, the rain had completely subsided and a shot of sun was making quick work of the wet mosaic of red brick leading to the front iron gate. Travis followed the lightening, scattered puzzle of faded rose into the large open pool area and courtyard.

  The place was buzzing at full throttle: Lucy was returning the cushions back to the pool loungers while Diane, another assistant, served client Nathalie and the life coach cups of tea at the east corner of the yard (they were hunkered in the shade at a patio set under the olive tree). The gardener, who had just fired up his weed whacker (the buzz already getting on Travis's nerves), tipped his sweaty hat at him and began ripping through a tall edge of grass. Chef Tom was again carrying bags of groceries — they were almost permanent fixtures on him — he would use to prepare the requested lunches. Travis slipped past the masseuse who was standing and looking a bit impatient next to her portable massage table (she didn't need to bring one, but always brought her own anyway). And inside the house, Travis caught a glimpse of the nurse, who passed the opened front door.

  Sarah was talking with client Dani outside the door and caught sight of Travis coming in; she held up a finger at him to let him know she would need a minute. After finishing with Dani, she excused the masseuse, who limped out awkwardly with her table. Before Sarah could make her way over to Travis, Rick — the personal trainer — stepped out of the house and gave her a thumbs down. Travis knew this sign meant Devon had canceled his session — for the third time in a row. Rick waved goodbye to Sarah, then caught up with the masseuse and graciously took the foldout and carried it out for her.

  Travis's cell phone vibrated angrily in his pocket, but he didn't have the chance to fish it out before Sarah came over to him. Lucy quickly joined her.

  "Client Jordan is missing," Sarah informed him. "We haven't seen him since he went to bed last night."

  "I knocked on his door at five-thirty this morning," Lucy said. "He asked me last night to wake him up at five-thirty. So I went to his door at five-thirty. I set my alarm on my cell phone. Just to be sure I would wake him at the right time, you know."

  Travis cringed, listening to Lucy's report; she had an innate talent for making a short story long. Sarah read his impatience and widened her eyes at him to be patient.

  "I knocked on his door a bunch of times," Lucy continued. "Maybe like for five minutes, but he never answered. And I thought I didn't hear anything and then I thought I did. You know, like the toilet flushing, or maybe running water in the sink. I'm not really sure though if I did—"

  Travis put a hand up for her to stop.

  "Did you see him or not, Lucy?" he asked, exercising a great deal of self-control.

  "No. Not since last night. But I don't think anything was wrong. He seemed happy and was cracking his usual jokes. Smiling—"

  "It's okay," he assured her. "We're not a lockdown facility. It's not your job to chase him down, even if he is heading for the exit. Thank you, Lucy. Now, can you please tell Chef Tom that I will be here for lunch?"

  "Okay, Mr. Martin. Any requests for lunch? Something you have a taste for? I think he's making crab salad for most of the clients, probably going to make that homemade dressing that's so good. You know the one—"

  "That'll be fine, Lucy. Tell him whatever he has left over. Thank you."

  After she left, Sarah gave him a grin. "She adores you. But she's always worried you don't like her."

  "I don't like her. Especially when I'm in a hurry."

  The staff at Crystal Heights was just as diverse and perverse as the clients were; call it human nature or contagion, but Travis believed there were airborne spores of neurotic behavior emanating from the clients and infecting his staff.

  Initially he thought he could hire staff that would be immune to the contagion, but soon he realized no one could escape. The only thing to do was pair staff and clients to account for their strengths and weaknesses. What he ended up with was one big, mad family; the Barnum and Bailey of rehab centers.

  Sarah would sometimes refer to it as a retarded square dance, but dance they did. She was a near exception to all this — far from perfect, but certainly the most reliable. He trusted her more than anyone he had trusted in his life.

  "Did Jordan go anywhere last night?" he asked.

  "An AA meeting at the Bay Club. You know how old school he is. He still feels like he needs to stand in front of the firing squad of his peers sometimes." Sarah snapped her finger at the gardener and pointed at a bag of leaves he was leaving behind.

  Travis nodded, knowing Jordan's MO very well — also recalling Jordan had been a devout Catholic at one time and was big on repenting.

  "Did they go anywhere after?"

  "They made a stop at Baskin Robbins, but that was it."

  "Hmmm... Okay. I'll have a look around the local pubs. Maybe he's back over at Moon Shadows again."

  Sarah checked her watch. "Not at this hour. Wait a bit and then go looking for him. He'll most likely end up somewhere he knows we'll find him. Just a big damn kid looking for a little trouble. He'll be back." Sarah called to Diane, who was refilling a hummingbird feeder. "Can you change Jordan's linens while he's out?"

  Diane nodded and disappeared into the house.

  "Hey!" Sarah continued, returning her attention to Travis. "There was some good news this morning. We have two new intakes tomorrow."

  "Are you serious?"

  "Yep."

  "That means we'll have a full house. Anyone we know?"

  "Well, one new and one old."

  "Which old one?" he asked. Returning clients were, unfortunately, a major artery that kept the business alive.

  "I'll tell you more about that one in the office," Sarah told him. She had a look of concern and then carried on, "The new one is going to take the Palermo suite. He's coming in from San Diego by taxi, and should be here for dinner."

  "What's his script?"

  "Single male, mid-forties, heavy meth user for at least a year...but you wouldn't know it to look at him."

  Travis eyeballed her curiously for more info.

  "We talked briefly on Skype," she said. "He might be rotting on the inside, but he's definitely a gym rat; cut like a diamond."

  Travis smiled at the description. "I see. Acquiring a taste for older men now?"

  "Peter's almost forty. That reminds me, I need a couple days off next week. He's flying in from Miami, a red eye. He planned a romantic getaway, a bed and breakfast up in Solvang. He sounded funny."

  Travis only hoped it wasn't a proposal. Sarah and her boyfriend had managed a long-distance relationship for nearly two years; it could be that time. He didn't know how Crystal Heights would manage without her.

  "Sure, no problem, whatever you need. After all, what kind of life do I have? Just do me a favor, make sure you call him out on that bullshit he pulled last week. The guy disappears for two days without a word? I don't need my house manager in tears again."

  "Tears? Ha! Think again."

  Travis handed her the vet's business card.

  She snatched it from his hand. "Speaking of Devon the Dog Killer, he requested his lunch in his room today." Then, after a pause, she reminded him, "I'm counting on you, Travis." And she turned and headed for the house.

  "Which old client?" he yelled to her.

  "Come to the office!" she yelled to him and disappeared into the house.

  Travis poked around in his left pants pocket to make sure his little black box was still there. The phone in his right pocket vibrated a second time. He pulled it impatiently from his pocket and read his messages; both were from Ana.

  The first text: Don't ever come to the house without calling first.

  The second text: I mean it.

  He shoved the phone back into his pocket and headed for the office, remembering the story he'd heard on the radio earlier that morning. What is it called if it wasn't a crime of passion? A hate crime? Then he settled on the more appropriat
e term — premeditated murder.

  — — —

  Inside the office, Sarah sat behind her desk, her full attention on an opened file as she reviewed someone's medical records. She didn't look at Travis, who plopped down in the chair across from her.

  "So?"

  "So, what?" she said absently, scanning a few more documents.

  "So, who's the client?"

  Sarah closed the file and leaned back in her chair. "Betsy Starling."

  "No, really? This will be, what...her fourth time back? Which Girls Scout promise did she violate this time?"

  "Yep, it'll be her fourth." Sarah stood and placed Betsy's file back in the cabinet. "Who knows, maybe she had half a glass of wine this time. But—"

  "Christ, she's nowhere near being an alcoholic. Hell, she couldn't even be categorized as a social drinker."

  "Yeah, but we both know that's not the real reason she's coming in. She's all alone in that huge house of hers. How many square feet is that monstrosity...twenty thousand?"

  "Something like that."

  Betsy's husband had been extremely successful at a very young age and his luck and hard work had continued until his death four years ago. He'd been a big drinker, died from complications of liver disease and heart failure. He left Betsy a staggering sum of money.

  "The only people keeping her company are the house staff," Sarah continued. "And the maid doesn't even speak English that well. Betsy turned sixty-eight last month, and you know what she told me? She spent it alone. She didn't even realize her birthday was coming until she received a birthday card in the mail from her dentist. Can you believe that? Reminded by a cheap sales pitch for a free teeth cleaning disguised in some cheesy Happy Birthday wish."

  Travis watched Sarah pace around the room. He knew her well enough to know that something else was eating at her. It was just a matter of time until she came out with it.

  "It's a goddamn shame. Very sad," he said.

  Betsy was an adored client at Crystal Heights, by other clients and staff alike. Personally, Travis had never met a purer soul. It was shocking that she was alone, no family left — her only son had committed suicide last year.

  "What time is she coming in?" he asked. "Do we need to go pick her up?"

  Sarah sat back down in front of him. She stared past him, across the office, deep in thought — as if she'd just been teleported somewhere remote.

  "What is it, Sarah?" he asked. "There's something you're not telling me."

  "I don't know." She hesitated. "I'm running purely on a woman's instinct here, and there's really no basis for it. She didn't say anything, but..."

  "But what, for Christ's sake?" Travis asked irritably. There were way too many things on his mind to deal with this right now — he respected Sarah's instincts, but his patience was already at its limit.

  She glared at him, conveying clearly that his tone wasn't appreciated. "I just had this strange intuition that... She's coming here to die."

  The thought made his mind seize like an oil-starved engine.

  "She didn't mention her health or anything of the sort," Sarah continued, "but it was the way she described how she had been. And it wasn't so much the words, but the feelings behind them... A kind of self-examination of one's life." She shook her head, as if to rid the thought. "I don't know. Don't listen to me, Travis. It's probably nothing. There's just a hell of a lot going on right now."

  But he did consider it — all of it, and more seriously than he let on to Sarah. "Well, let's not get carried away here. She's an old, lonely woman, so it could have just been her having no one to talk to and getting caught up in the past. And with what happened with Little Jack this morning..." He let his thoughts drift, and then asked, "Will the doc be in tomorrow evening?"

  "Of course he'll be here. He's scheduled himself five evenings in a row. Oh, and I just caught his office double billing us again."

  Travis wasn't going to let himself get worked up about the doctor again. He needed to prioritize his emergencies. "We'll deal with his shady billing later, but the doc can have a look at Betsy when she comes in, and we can go from there."

  "Betsy joked about bringing a lot of luggage with her — said she's going to stay a while," Sarah whispered, half to herself. Her mind still looking for clues to support her instincts.

  Travis headed for the door.

  "Where are you going?" Sarah seemed to snap back into the moment.

  "I think I have an idea where Jordan might be."

  "Where? There aren't any bars open this early."

  Yeah, but there's a mini-mart at the gas station down the hill and there's a park not far from that."

  "It's a pretty long walk. What makes you think he'll be there?"

  "Let's just call it instinct," he told her, and left the office.

  — — —

  Outside, the activity in the courtyard and the pool area had settled, and Travis could only see Nathalie and her life coach at the opposite end, still in their session under the olive tree. They didn't acknowledge him. Travis went the opposite direction and followed the secluded concrete strip that led around the east side of Crystal Heights. He stopped under the large canopy of a massive ficus tree.

  He took out his little black box, checked his surroundings a last time, popped it open, and tossed two light blue pills into his mouth. Just as he was forcing them down his dry throat, an empty airport bottle of liquor dropped from above and bounced around the exposed serpent roots of the ficus tree. The bottle rested label-up near his feet. It read Smirnoff. Travis looked up into the tree to find Jordan looking down at him. The client sat on a large thick branch with his legs hanging off the sides, shirtless and shoeless, smiling drunkenly at Travis.

  Travis snapped his pill box shut and shoved his dirty little secret back into his pocket. Without a word or another look, he walked around the back side of the property, cut through the kitchen — only nodding at Chef Tom again, who gave him the same curious look he'd given him earlier that morning — and then Travis went into the office.

  Sarah was on the phone, just finishing her conversation. "Okay, Mr. Vallero, we'll touch base again tomorrow morning. Sure thing. Okay. Take care." She hung up and immediately read the dread in Travis's face. "What is it?"

  "He's in the fucking ficus tree...drinking mini bottles of vodka."

  "Wait. What... Who?"

  "Jordan. He climbed the ficus on the side of the house. He's up there getting crapulous right now. You said he went to Baskin Robbins last night... Isn't there a mini-mart right next to it?"

  "Yes." She stood and pulled down her pencil skirt. "Where is he now?"

  "Still in the damn tree."

  "You didn't get him down from there?"

  "You know how much that son of a bitch weighs? I thought I'd get a few more human safety nets before I ask him to come tumbling down."

  "Okay, I'm going to talk to him right now. You go get Chef Tom, and Rick just called. He's driving back right now; forgot his paycheck."

  Within minutes, a circus had congregated around the base of the large tree. Every member of staff was on hand, Nathalie ringside and Dani from a distance. Devon poked his head briefly through the curtains, then poked back in after meeting eyes with Travis, and Rick showed up just in time. Sarah had the idea of using an extra mattress stored in the garage, one a past client had specially ordered for his bad back. Now, it lay on a pile of root and dirt in an effort to soften the blow when Jordan came crashing back to earth.

  Hopefully he's wasted and blind as a bat, Travis secretly wished.

  "Okay, that's it," Travis said, and began coaching Jordan down from the tree.

  Jordan inched his way to safety, his large, hard belly drawing him down with the weight of a medicine ball. Chef Tom held his position in the east, Rick at the west, Travis at the north — and south was the custom mattress. Travis was closest. He reached out, trying to get a hold of anything he could on Jordan.

  Some of the early-morning rain had penetrate
d the dense leaves and parts of the trunk were a slippery dark grey. Jordan was now at the lowest branch, his right hand stretched out to meet Travis's hand. Their fingertips were almost touching — like in Michelangelo's fresco The Creation of Adam. Jordan's cracked dry heels and straining bare toes were finding it difficult to hold their vertical course.

  "There we go..." Travis assured him, "almost there."

  "Lot easss-ierr goin' up," Jordan slurred.

  "Don't talk... Almost down." Travis tried to keep him focused.

  "You got it," Chef Tom encouraged him, both his arms out, but still too far to reach.

  Sarah watched intently from the sidelines, biting her fingernails. "Get in there, Rick," she ordered.

  "Is that a Posturepedic?" Jordan read the label on the mattress and started laughing. It ignited his smoker's cough, and his body began to retch and convulse. Within seconds, he lost all contact with the tree and dropped like a bag of dirt. He hit the mattress face first and when his belly followed it launched him a good four feet into the air and landed him squarely onto the adjacent concrete. It all ended with a loud smack from his great, bare back. And like a drunk emerging unscathed from a car wreck, Jordan sat up and laughed some more.

  "The bigger they ares, the harder they falls." He spat and continued his infectious laugh.

  Everyone shared his laughter — partly relieved he was okay, and partly because of his popularity at the rehab. Jordan was one of the favorite clients to come through the program. It was his third extended stay at Crystal Heights and the staff treated him like a beloved uncle, especially Sarah.

  She ran over and squatted beside him. "Are you hurt?"

  Jordan checked himself in amusement and shook his head.

  "Lunch is ready," Chef Tom announced. "Crab salad and fresh fruit for dessert."