Dr. Knox

by Peter Spiegelman

  “The fuck does that mean?” Cauliflower said.

  “It means if all of Siggy’s money isn’t there it’s on you.”

  Fear and confusion chased each other across the man’s thick features until Stevie spoke. “He’s messing with you, dickhead. Just check the fucking bag.”

  Cauliflower’s puzzlement turned into anger, and he snorted. He opened the backpack and rooted inside, then threw it back to Sutter. “Cunt,” he muttered.

  “I need to pat you down,” Stevie said. “Both of you.”

  Sutter spun his key ring some more. “Knock yourself out,” he said, chuckling, and he winked at the redhead, who winked back.

  After the frisk, Stevie led us through the club, which was as Sutter had described. The light was sepia-toned, the walls were bare brick, and the booths were dark leather and wood. The customers were silhouettes, leaning together or posing for each other, or for the lovely bartenders and waitresses, who came from the same casting agency that supplied the dour hostess. The cash register was a chrome beast crouched behind the bar, flanked by battalions of bottles and shining glassware. The music was Edith Piaf, but no one cared. We came to a padded leather door, guarded by Cauliflower’s uglier brother. Stevie whispered something and he moved aside, and we stepped from speakeasy fantasy into disco nightmare.

  It was a long room, with silver wallpaper and a mirrored ceiling. The carpet was white shag, the furniture Lucite, white leather, and tubular chrome. The music was Donna Summer, and the scent in the air was of cigars, powerful cologne, and sweat. Siggy’s lieutenant, Josef, was sprawled on a white love seat near the door, leafing through a catalogue from an auction house, and two more of his soldiers were on an adjacent sofa, watching a soccer game on a flat-screen. Siggy himself was on the far side of the room, at a desk like a wide white mushroom, in pursuit of his own interests.

  Fairly conventional interests, as it happened. There was a bottle of Belvedere vodka in a Lucite ice bucket on top of the desk, and some shot glasses, and next to them a half-dozen brightly colored vials of amyl nitrate that looked like prizes from a gumball machine. Next to these was a small berm of cocaine. Beneath the desk was a blond woman in a sports bra and yoga pants, bending her head to Siggy’s lap. She was energetic and noisy, if not entirely sincere, but Siggy was responding as he might have to dental work—with a look of impatience and mild discomfort. Our arrival didn’t change his expression, but his men looked up, grunted some Russian at each other, and laughed brutally.

  Sutter chuckled. “Didn’t know it was date night, Siggy.”

  Siggy glanced up and murmured to the woman, who ceased her labors, wiped a forearm across a bruised-looking mouth, and rose. She said something in Russian to Siggy, scooped a few milligrams of coke onto a long fingernail and into her nose, straightened her bra, and left.

  Siggy looked us over as he did up his fly. His gaze fixed on the backpack and he smiled. It was a nasty thing, with many large teeth. “It’s too small for her, unless you made pieces—and I know that’s not your thing. So I guess that’s my money.”

  Sutter nodded and held out the backpack. Siggy pointed to Josef. Sutter swung the pack in a neat arc, and it landed at the lieutenant’s feet. Josef unzipped it, tore open the envelope, and dumped the money on the love seat—ten packs of ten thousand. He picked up each one in turn, ran a thumb across the top and made two stacks while Sutter twirled his keys. Josef nodded at Siggy.

  The cash—or maybe the vodka, or coke, or the blow job—made Siggy more affable. “You start to listen to reason,” he said to Sutter. “That’s good.” He picked up the bottle of Belvedere. “Come on, soldier, sit down and have a drink.”

  Sutter and I traded looks. He shrugged, and I followed him to Siggy’s desk. We sat on Lucite chairs, and Siggy filled shot glasses. He pushed two toward us and raised his own.

  “So—what do we toast?” Siggy asked. “Old days? New opportunities? Endless demand for pussy?”

  “Still the poet,” Sutter said. “How about we drink to done deals?”

  Siggy tossed back his drink, and Sutter and I did the same. The vodka was a cold wire down my throat, and then a flame.

  Siggy made a contented sigh and refilled our glasses. “Except this one’s not quite done, is it, soldier?”

  Sutter didn’t freeze beside me; he played with his keys some more, then reached for his glass. But there was a change in the room, as if the atmospheric pressure had suddenly fallen and a storm was going to break. Siggy’s men felt it, and looked over and shifted in their seats.

  Sutter sipped his vodka and smiled. He cocked his head toward the sofa and the money. “That was the only thing on my to-do list, Siggy.”

  “Then I guess you weren’t paying close attention.”

  “No?”

  “Or else you forgot about me wanting the other whore”—he looked at Josef—“what’s her name?”

  “Shelly,” Josef called.

  “Her. You forget I want her too? ’Cause I don’t see her in that backpack.”

  Sutter sighed deeply, and sat back in his chair. “Did you forget that I said she wasn’t on my radar? I’m not looking for her; I have no business with her. I’m—”

  “You got business with me, and I got business with her—the math isn’t hard, and you’re a bright guy.”

  “My business with you is done.”

  Siggy pushed the Belvedere bottle around in the ice bucket. “You keep saying that.”

  “But somehow I’m not getting through.”

  It was Siggy’s turn to sigh. “You didn’t want to work for me back then; all right, that’s something I guess I understand. I was a risky proposition then: it was hard to say how things would break, or if I could make payroll week to week. But now it’s not hard. Now everything breaks my way, soldier—everything. So you’ve got nothing to worry about. A solid payday, and zero risk for you—not to mention for your friend here.” Siggy looked at me as if I was a fish of dubious freshness.

  Sutter shook his head. “He’s not in this.” His voice was low, and I felt my heart rate spike.

  “But here he is anyway,” Siggy said, and turned to me again. “You have an opinion on this, doc—anything you want to add? Some particular way you’d like things to work out, maybe?”

  I swallowed some vodka, and the flame in my stomach burned hotter. “Peacefully?” I ventured. “That’s better for business, isn’t it?”

  Siggy pointed at me and bared his big teeth. He made a barking noise that I eventually realized was laughter. “Peacefully—that’s not bad. Yeah, peace is good for business. Unless you’re in the business of war. Right, soldier?”

  “But that’s not your line of work, Siggy—not anymore. It’s not mine either.”

  “No?”

  “From what I see, you won all the wars. And now you’re enjoying the spoils.”

  “That’s the way it looks to you? Then you don’t look hard enough. There’s always shit that needs doing. That’s how you keep the peace.”

  “But it’s low-level stuff, right? And you’ve got Josef and all the Mouseketeers for that. They’re more than enough.”

  Siggy filled his own glass and offered the bottle to Sutter, who declined. “I decide what’s enough,” Siggy said, and then he sipped some vodka.

  Sutter sighed. “You’re still carrying a torch? Is that what this is about?”

  Siggy barked again. “Yeah, soldier, I got a broken heart right here,” he said, and grabbed his crotch.

  Sutter laughed too, then leaned forward and rested his arms on the desk. He spoke softly, nearly in a whisper. “Seriously, I’m not worth the heartache.”

  Siggy leaned in. “No?” he whispered back.

  “Not at all.”

  “Because…?”

  “You said it yourself—I’m a pain in the ass. My boss from when I was private sector would tell you, so would my old CO, if he was still walking the earth. And, really, nobody needs another pain in the ass.”

  “So maybe
I just take you off the board.”

  Sutter’s voice got lower. “We keep coming back to that, and I gotta tell you, Sig, the cost to do it might be steep. Might make it not worthwhile.”

  Siggy leaned in closer. “Yeah? See those guys there? I snap my fingers, they’ll empty their clips in you and your pal, right here, right now. Wouldn’t cost me a thing.”

  Sutter looked over at Josef and the soldiers, still lounging on the sofas, absorbed in the soccer game, laughing, pointing, and cursing. He looked back at Siggy and held up his Lexus remote key. “See this button over here—this red one?”

  Siggy laughed. “What’re you going to do—flash your lights at me?”

  Sutter smiled and his voice dropped to a whisper. “Sort of, but instead of the car alarm it sets off a frag charge I tucked in the shoulder straps of that backpack on the sofa. It’s small enough that we’ll be fine over here—nothing worse than blown eardrums—but those guys will be seriously fucked, and of course your cash will be confetti.”

  Siggy cocked his head. “What the fu—”

  “And before the smoke clears, I’ll be on your side of the desk. And I bet I can find a piece back there, and if not, I’ll have plenty of time to break your neck.”

  Siggy squinted. He was quiet for a while, and then he shook his head. “Do you have any fucking idea what you’re starting?”

  Sutter smiled, and winked at him.

  Siggy shook his head some more, and smiled nervously. “You’re full of shit,” he said slowly.

  Sutter grinned wider, and leaned in again. “Sure I am,” he whispered. “Or maybe not. Who the fuck knows? Should we find out?” He glanced over at Josef, who was gesticulating at the television and saying something to the soldiers, who laughed. The backpack was beside him on the sofa. Sutter put his keys on the desk. “Or maybe it’s not worth it,” he continued, “having to explain to your missus how her big brother’s head got turned into so much borscht.”

  Red patches bloomed on Siggy’s face, and his lips disappeared. His eyes flicked to me, to his desk, to his men across the room. My pulse spiked again, and adrenaline sizzled through every vein. “You fuck,” he said, his voice a low rumble. He took a deep breath and reached for his glass.

  Siggy drank, hand shaking, and worked a hideous smile onto his mottled face. “You are so full of shit, Sutter—it’s fucking funny. You’re unbelievable.”

  Sutter sat back, nodding. “Like I said, I’m a pain in the ass.”

  Siggy smiled at Sutter for an endless minute. When he spoke, his voice was loud, and full of manufactured good humor. “Now get the fuck out, you and your pal both. I got more important things to do than screw around with you two.”

  Sutter smiled back. “So we’re done now, yes? I mean done done, Siggy.”

  Siggy went back to a whisper. “I said get out—so go, before I change my mind.”

  “Dr. Knox first,” Sutter said, and looked at me. He flicked his head toward the door. When I stood, one of the soldiers did too. He looked at Siggy, who nodded. I crossed the room on legs that were suddenly rubber, and opened the door, and stepped back into the sepia-toned saloon.

  I made my way to the bar and found a stool and looked at the office door. One of the slinky bartenders came over and spoke to me, but I couldn’t make sense of what she said. I must’ve looked as shaky as I felt, because she brought over a glass of ice water. I drained it in one swallow, and as I put the glass down, the office door opened and Sutter strolled out, the backpack on his shoulder. He walked over to the bar.

  “I wasn’t sure you were coming out,” I said. “And I wasn’t sure what to do if you didn’t.”

  “Have a little faith, brother. But now we roll—unless you want another drink.”

  I shook my head and climbed off my stool. “Was that for real—that business with the backpack?” Sutter smiled but said nothing. We crossed the room and made for the door, pausing only once, so that Sutter could exchange numbers with the hostess, who seemed surprised to see us again.

  CHAPTER 40

  My pulse was thrumming all the way back to the clinic, and my left knee was bouncing. Sutter pulled his car into the alley.

  “So that’s it with Siggy, then?” I asked as he rolled up to my Dumpster. “He’s going to leave Elena alone?”

  “Us too, I hope.”

  “Hope? I’d think a hundred grand would buy something more definite.”

  Sutter shrugged. “Siggy’s a dick, and his ego is bruised, but he’s a businessman. He understands costs and benefits.” I nodded. Sutter watched me and chuckled. “You look disappointed,” he said.

  “Me?”

  “You. But not to worry, brother—the Brays have plenty of guns too. More than enough to keep you entertained.”

  I flipped Sutter the bird and climbed out of his car. He laughed some more and drove away.

  Lydia or Lucho had slipped my personal mail under the door, and it slid across the bare floor as I entered my apartment. There wasn’t a lot—a couple of medical journals, a donation, please, letter from my college, catalogues of things I had no interest in and anyway couldn’t afford, a postcard meant for someone else. I gathered it up and stood in my gloomy living room for a while before I switched on the lights and the television. I drank a beer and flicked through the channels.

  It was the same old shit—a lot of noisy nothing. I stopped on a nature channel and sat, but couldn’t sit still. Monkeys chattered and screamed at each other, and it felt like they were in my clothes. I got up and checked the answering machine. There was nothing.

  The package Anne Crane had sent—the video and transcript of Elena’s statement—was on the kitchen counter. I stood there and leafed through the transcript again. I paused at the section about her journey to the States—the truck ride into Greece, the repeated rapes. Then I skimmed backward, to the part about her grandmother’s apartment—the smashed furniture, the blood. Then forward again, to the apartment in West Hollywood, where she met men. I took a deep breath. The transcript was the size of a small phone book, but you couldn’t turn three pages in a row without a new horror. I went to the fridge for another beer.

  I should have felt some comfort now that we’d dealt with Siggy—relieved that there was one less danger to worry about. But somehow I didn’t. Somehow it made the Brays loom even larger in the landscape of threat.

  It was time to call Amanda Danzig, I knew—time to meet with her and make my pitch for Elena’s and Alex’s freedom—but something stopped me. It wasn’t Elena’s story, which was awful and compelling, powerful and powerfully told. If that didn’t convince the Brays to make a deal, it wouldn’t be because it lacked in dreadfulness. And though I hadn’t yet heard from Nate Rash at Jiffy-Lab, I was certain that the DNA results would bolster her tale. No, it wasn’t what I knew of Elena’s story that worried me, it was what I didn’t know—the nagging sense that there was a chapter that I hadn’t read yet, but which the Brays perhaps had.

  I drank more beer and went back to the television. The monkeys were gone, and in their place was a sea turtle, dragging through the sand of an empty beach to lay her eggs in the moonlight. The ocean was flat and black behind her, and she herself was inky and gnarled against the pristine sand—scarred, barnacled, and exhausted, but still grinding through the ancient dictates of her genes. Her eyes were black and shining, at once dogged and resigned, and I walked closer to the screen to look at them. There was something familiar there, I thought. I knew that look somehow, but from where? The bottom of a beer bottle, I thought, and my laugh echoed stupidly off the bare walls. Then, suddenly, Mandy’s voice was in my head: What wouldn’t a parent do for a child? What indeed.

  I paced some more, trying and failing to slow the racing engine of speculation and suspicion in my head, and soon it felt as if the monkeys were going through my pockets again. My watch said almost eleven, and I knew Nora would be home from an evening clinic at UCLA but not yet asleep. I reached for my car keys.

  —

/>   Nora’s Lexus was in the driveway, so I parked farther down the hill, on Berendo Street. There were deep shadows on the sidewalks as I walked back to Nora’s house. Porch lights were on outside many of the bungalows, and windows were dark or glowing blue with television. A little wind blew in the trees, no more than a sigh, and then I heard the faint throb of an engine behind me. I turned and saw headlights rounding a far corner.

  I turned left on Cromwell Avenue, walked past three dark houses, and stopped at Nora’s brick path. There were ground lights along its edge, and big cactus plants in terra-cotta pots, and it curved up to three brick steps and the front door of her Mission-style cottage. Her lights were on, and an angular shadow moved across the big window. I texted her—Out front—and sent a smiling frog too. In a minute, the door opened and Nora was there. She was barefoot, in black yoga pants and a black tank top, and she was holding her phone.

  “You don’t call first?” she said, as I came up the path. “And, seriously, an emoji? What are you—in middle school?”

  I stood at the bottom of the steps. “Middle school kids are too cool for that. Besides, I wasn’t sure you’d take my call.”

  “I’m not sure either,” she said, smiling ruefully. “It wasn’t exactly the perfect date.”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  Nora’s smile broadened. “Come on—I’ve got Chinese.”

  I smiled back. “Cold noodles?”

  “Yes, cold—” Then there was sound behind me—footsteps on brick—and movement, and Nora Roby’s eyes went wide. I crouched reflexively and spun, and something like a bowling ball glanced off my right shoulder. My arm went numb and then burned, and my feet went out from under me. I was on my ass on the bricks, looking up at a broad-shouldered silhouette.

  “You fuckin’ pussy—you had to go cryin’ to him! I talk to you on the street, and you get scared and cry like a fuckin’ baby to him.” Kyle Bray’s voice was shrill and drunken, and his face was a mask of rage. His arm swung down and there was a whipping sound, like a golf club cutting air. I scuttled backward, and stumbled on the steps.