by Andy Siegel
“What’s your problem?” he roars. I look up at him from my seat. When Mick turns around, he’s a full head shorter than our new companion.
“He’s hyper-reflexive,” Mick answers. “That’s the problem. It’s not a good neurologic sign.”
“Then take some motherfucking blood pressure pills,” the bouncer prescribes. “But I’m telling you, you either settle down or you’re out.” He adds an extra growl for emphasis.
Mick regards our new friend. “Don’t I know you?”
“Nah, man. You don’t know me.”
Mick nods knowingly. “Yes, I do. Crush Hampton. How’s your neck?”
“Oh, shit! It’s Dr. Mickey Mack! Yeah, man, you do know me. My neck? All better, except for a few kinks here and there. You said it would take time and it did. You got rid of the pain with those injections. I owe you, man. Surgery wasn’t for me.”
“Think nothing of it. But you really shouldn’t be doing this. You could reinjure yourself.”
“Nah, man. No worries. Take a look at these guys. They come here for the attention they ain’t getting at home. Needy mofos. Some of them think the girls are for real with them. Anyway, they don’t want no part of me.”
“I guess you’re right.” Crush is still grinning, so I decide I might as well add my five cents.
“Crush Hampton,” I say. “Middle linebacker for the University of Arizona Wildcats. I remember the hit that earned you your name. I was a big fan. I had high school buddies who were Wildcats.”
I turn to Mick. “I didn’t know he was a patient of yours.”
“I did my training out in Arizona. In fact, took care of him after that very hit.”
“I didn’t know that. Nice to meet you.” Cough, cough.
“Better take care of that,” he cautions. “Doesn’t sound good to me.” Hearing loud voices across the room, he’s off with a wave. “Later, guys! Have fun!”
Mick resumes his exam. “Do you have flu-like symptoms?”
“Yes.” Cough, cough.
Mick reaches for one of the beers now on the table and chugs it. He takes a napkin and wipes down the inside of the now-empty plastic cup. Shoving it at me, he commands, “Spit in this.”
“I’m not spitting in that. I’ll go to the doctor tomorrow, like I said.”
“Spit in it. I don’t like your lung crackles and that hyper-reflexia. I’ll have it grown out. No big deal. It gives me an excuse to see the old boys in the lab. Now spit in it. There’s nothing more definitive for a chest infection than a sputum culture. Spit!”
I take the cup, bend down under the table so no one can see how disgusting I am, and I hock a loogie while Mick chugs the other beer. I sit up.
“Give me that.” He takes the second empty plastic cup and slides it into the specimen cup as a cover. Gross.
Once this has been taken care of, I update Mick on my being substituted out of Cookie’s case. Right after, I go home—on doctor’s orders.
A KNOWN BUT UNSPOKEN RIVALRY
I fall asleep on the train home. That’s never happened. But I just don’t feel well. If I had spoken that last sentence aloud, it would have sounded like a whine. Men are such babies when ill. I turn into the driveway and watch my garage door as it opens. Before pulling in, I check my phone. There’s an e-mail from Pusska: Almost finished my snooping on Major. Interesting background. He’s son of army doctor. Not a doctor that makes you better, but kind that do experiment. More to tell when I see you.
Crap. I forgot to call her off Cookie’s case. And crap, that’s how I feel. I think tonight would be a good night to avoid Tyler Wyler.
When I get inside, she’s nowhere to be seen. Good. As I head toward the den, I’m summoned from up above.
“Is that you?”
“Yes”—cough, cough—“it’s me.”
“Come upstairs.”
“Do I have to?”
“Yes.”
“Can it wait until morning? I’m feeling terrible.”
“No. Come up.” Crap. I hike up the stairs one slow step at a time, losing my breath before reaching the top. I pause, inhale a few deep ones, then enter our bedroom.
“Where are you?” Cough, cough, cough.
“In my closet. Come in.”
So let me tell you about this closet—her woman cave—where Tyler spends a bunch of time. It’s bigger than Penelope’s bedroom and is filled with clothing, shoes, handbags, and accessories, organized in a very particular way with specific departments like Bergdorf Goodman. Many of its contents have tags on them, too, just like in Bergdorf’s. Oh, and one entire wall is stocked with shoeboxes from top to bottom. Eight shelves, ten boxes per shelf.
Time to say hello.
“What’s up, honey? What are you doing in your closet … with just your bra and thong on?” It’s her red thong with black lace. On the back, centered just under the elastic band, the script lettering reads: Friday. I should have that shit customized to say Tuesday.
“I’m trying on outfits for visiting day.”
“What?” Cough, cough.
“Visiting day. You know, camp, where our children spend their summer.”
“Yes, I know. Camp. I seem to remember writing out large checks to this organization. But why are you trying on outfits? Camp is months away.”
“I always start thinking about my outfit around this time. I want to look good.”
“The kids don’t care if you look good, honey. They want junk food. You bring tons of junk, you’ll look good.”
“Not for the kids, you idiot. Who cares what they think? I want to look good for the other parents.”
“The other parents?”
“Well, not parents exactly. I want to look good for the other moms.”
“Why do you want to look good for the moms? You thinking of playing for the other team?”
“No, you moron. I want to look better than the other moms.”
“Better? Why?”
“Because it’s a competition.”
“What’s a competition?”
“Which camper has the hottest mom—that competition.”
“What are you talking about? I’ve never heard of this.” Cough, cough.
“No one has. It’s just a known but unspoken rivalry among the moms.”
I take this in as I watch the show. Tyler goes about her business as if she hadn’t said something absurd. The crazy thing is it’s probably true. She steps into a pair of cutoffs. Short shorts. They highlight her tiny little bottom, which is almost peeking out. She slips on a white tank top that has an extremely low neckline exposing a tad much for the day in question. Her arms and shoulders are well toned yet feminine. She looks at herself in the full-length wall mirror, rotating from side to side. She goes over to the shoebox wall and runs her finger left to right across the top shelf, then repeats the procedure moving down shelf to shelf. She stops on the fifth row, pulls out a large gray box, and puts it on the floor just in front of the ottoman stationed in the center of her closet. She takes out a pair of sexy brown boots with three-inch heels, sits, inserts her feet, laces them, pops up with confidence, and goes back over to the mirror, turning this way and that again.
“Well,” she says, “how does Amber Sizzle look?”
“Like a slutty camp mom.”
She smiles, then responds. “Perfect.”
Chapter Seventeen
After a restless night’s sleep owing to a major breathing issue, I hardly make it through my morning routine. I avoid Tyler, and I don’t say good-bye to the kids—which I always do—since, I have to say, I don’t think I could handle it.
During my commute in, there are moments on the train where I feel my head is literally going to pop off my neck. And the coughing doesn’t ever stop. The only thing positive about the ride is that no one dares sit next to me.
“That’s a good boy,” she answers. “Now that wasn’t so hard. Pusska’s here. She’s waiting for you in your office.” I nod, then head there. I turn in and there she is.
“Vhat’s up?” I ask.
“Vhat’s up? I tell you vhat’s up. You gonna pay me for my investigation on Major. I don’t care Cookie fire you.”
“No problem. Chillax. I’ll pay you.”
“Good. You also going to listen to vhat I find on him.”
“No need. I’m not handling the case anymore. What’s the point?”
“Point is, Pusska proud of effort. I vork hard on this and find lot out. Difficult to find out because involve US military.”
“Fine. I’ll listen to whatever you’ve got, as long as you promise me you didn’t go off and bone some general in exchange for the information.”
“General?” she repeats in a questioning manner, as if searching her brain for the rank of whatever informant she’d banged. “No. No general.”
“Well, did you use sex on anyone of military rank to obtain this info?”
“Does that include retired military? I just kidding. I vas good girl. Ready?”
“Ready.”
“You see, Major is son of army doctor, like I told you. Major’s father spent many years in California vith armed forces developing chemical varfare. He name son Major because he make career in army. Okay, that not part of investigation, that educated guess. Anyvay, like I say, Major’s dad experiment in developing biological veapon. It receive military symbol O.C., but I don’t know vhat O.C. stand for. Okay, anyvay—”
“Stop right there, Pusska. Please. I really don’t need to know about Major’s dad. You were going to investigate Major, not his father. Come on now, I’m really not in the mood, since I’m off the case.” Cough, cough. “My lungs are ready to collapse.”
“You say you listen, so listen. Interesting. Anyvay, so Major’s dad vas developing O.C. to use as spray like nerve gas so people can’t move. But too dangerous, have too many problems vith general population. You know, unintended victims with also environment effects. So army—how you say?—abandon.”
“What does any of this biological weapon development have to do with Major?”
“Major and father have same interest. Major vork as army doctor in same place dad vork.”
“Well, did they work there at the same time?”
“No. Major dad retire before. But interesting, because Major vork on team that make vaccine antidote to O.C. father developed, just in case fall into enemy hands.”
“Well that is interesting. But again, not relevant.” I need a time-out. I suck in a deep breath of air, which hurts as it enters my lungs. I hock up some green phlegm and spit it into the wastebasket.
“Okay, last thing.” Pusska’s patience with me is unusual. Maybe she’s actually sorry I’m feeling lousy.
“Go on.”
“Major and Cookie make bad couple.”
“Really? How’d you find that out?”
“Just my opinion. I don’t know how she have sex vith him. I make good personal progress, no?”
“Yes, you’ve made good personal progress. Anything else?” Cough, cough, cough.
“One thing, unrelated.”
“Go on.”
“Your dogs. They give you kennel cough.”
Chapter Eighteen
It’s two days since my doctor told me I have a bad chest cold. I explained to him my neurologist friend heard rales in my lower lungs, but he said he didn’t. Anyway, I’m expecting Mick to get back to me about what my sputum culture grew out. So I let my guy slide. Besides, he took a chest X-ray and read it as negative.
I didn’t even want to come into the city today, but one of my referring attorneys has a new client for me to meet this afternoon so I had to. I can’t rely solely on representing HICs.
Now sitting at my desk, I decide I’m just going to chill for a while. I recline and up go my feet. I buzz Lily.
“What do you want?”
“I need to relax. I’m not feeling well. Hold all my calls.”
“Hold all my calls, what?”
“Hold all my calls, please.” Cough, cough.
“I will after this one. Pick up line two.”
“But I don’t feel up to speaking to anybody.”
“It’s your mom. She says it’s an emergency.”
Mom’s been battling cancer for two decades. Every time she calls me, it’s an emergency. Not to sound insensitive, but after all these years her crying wolf has become quite unnerving. One time, for example, the crisis was a can of dog food that had gotten stuck on the electric opener. But since she was hospitalized after getting the results of her latest blood work, there’s always the chance it’s truly bad news she has to tell me.
“Hi, Mom.”
“I’m not going to die. Come pick me up.”
“Glad to hear it. You thought you were this time.” Cough, cough, cough.
“Well, I’m not. Come pick me up. Now! And keep your distance if you’re sick.”
“I will. So it’s not an emergency?”
“Don’t be cute. Come pick me up. Hurry.”
“When were you discharged?”
“Stop asking questions and get a move on. I’m not one of your witnesses.”
“Okay.”
“Now! Let’s go!”
“Easy, Mom. I’ll grab a cab.”
“Well, grab it now!”
It’s not long before I’m stepping onto the sidewalk in front of Lenox Hill Hospital on 77th Street.
But just before I enter, a familiar sight catches my eye. It’s Robert Killroy. He’s pedaling up to me super fast on the sidewalk. His thick legs are pumping up and down but freeze as he hits the brakes. He skids several feet sliding up to me, stopping six inches away. We’re face-to-face. That was impressive biking.
“Hi Robert,” I say as he launches into his usual spiel.
“But I didn’t kill no Roy, and I didn’t kill nobody.” He’s panting and seems excited.
“Thank you for reminding me of that, but what are you doing here?”
“I told you if you didn’t pay Mr. Wang his fourteen dollars and seventy-nine cents, I’d have to sue you, so that’s what I’m doing.” He takes out some papers and thrusts them at me.
“You are hereby served with … um, I forgot the word. It ain’t no good unless you say the right word, and I can use that fifty dollars I get to help Granny pay the rent.”
“Process, Robert, served with process.” Cough, cough.
“Okay, thanks. Served with process.” I look at the papers without taking them. I’d meant it when I told him I’d accept service, but right about now I’m not feeling that. Right now, I’m not feeling anything but sick. I can’t shake this thing, and my morale’s in the toilet from singlehandedly losing one giant legal fee on Cookie’s case.
“Robert,” I ask with admirable patience, “do you have your process server’s license on you?”
“No,” he answers.
“Then you can’t serve process on me. You need to carry your license with you when serving someone. Just like a driver of a car has to have his license on him when driving. If you serve me now it will be no good. It’s called improper service.”
Of course, none of that’s true. At least I don’t think it is. I just don’t have time for it now. “You come down to my office tomorrow, and I’ll accept service. Or better yet, no need to make a special trip. Come in twenty days when your settlement check has arrived on your up-front money.”
He doesn’t seem to understand. No surprise. He puts the legal papers back in his carrier bag and pulls out some kind of manual.
“What’s that?”
“It’s my directions.” He opens it up to page one and
starts reading. Out loud.
“Robert, what are you doing?”
“Reading my directions.”
“Why?”
“To see if you be dodging service. I’m gonna look for that license thing.” I could advise him to go to the index to speed up his search if, in fact, such a rule actually exists. Then again, it might not be so bad if he begins from the start.
“Robert, how did you know where I was?”
He looks up. “My investigating skills.”
“I see.” A sickly older man is wheeled out of the hospital past us. Cough, cough. I pat my chest.
“You come here ’cause you sick, Mr. Wyler?”
“No, Robert. My mother has the cancer just like Granny.”
“Oh, man. I’m sorry. I hope she feels better.”
“Thank you, Robert.” He returns his focus to the manual.
“Good luck, then. See you around.” I leave him standing there, bike between his legs, with his finger moving slowly across line three. I didn’t think it would come to this: that Robert’s collection agency would pay him a fifty-dollar service of process fee on top of filing and legal costs to collect on a fourteen dollar debt.
I enter the hospital and go directly up to seven. I walk past the nurse’s station, which is emptier than normal and down the hall. I approach Mom’s room and walk in. First thing I notice is her roommate’s been discharged.
Mom’s sitting in a wheelchair, with her overnight bag on her lap. Hanging off the handgrips are two triple-layered plastic grocery bags filled with the stuff she’s stealing. Standing behind her is a uniformed orderly holding onto the handgrips, waiting for instruction. White skin, chiseled masculine face, and a crew cut. Eastern European’s my take. His tattoo-filled arms ripple with muscles as he squeezes the grips.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Let’s go. Now.”
“I see you wasted no time, huh? You got …”—I take another step forward to read his nametag—“Branislav over here ready and waiting for an immediate departure.”
She looks up at Branislav. “Lawyers talk too much.” She looks back at me. “Let’s go.”