Suicide Supper Club

by Rhett DeVane

  “She’ll sleep now,” Elvina said in a low voice.

  “I’m going to ask for a cot. I don’t want her to be alone tonight.”

  Elvina nodded. “It’s always good to have an advocate when you’re in the hospital. The nurses can’t be here every second.”

  Elvina pulled out a notepad and pen. “If you’ll tell me what I can get for you, and give me a house key, I can bring some clothes and toiletries back over here first thing in the morning.” She glanced toward the bed. “And if you don’t think she’ll pitch a fit, I can go into her house and bring a few things too.”

  Loiscell handed over her own house keys, and dug in Sheila’s small clutch for the other set. “As her sister, I’m giving you permission.”

  Glenn Bruner woke with the mother of all hangovers. He opened his eyes to thin slits, moaned at the barrage of fluorescent light, then snapped them shut. Something clung to the back of his skull. When he fumbled with one hand to the spot, his trembling fingers encountered some sort of padded bandage. Must’ve been a heck of a fight. Impossible. He wasn’t a mean drunk, except when it came to dealing with Sheila. Left to his beer or whiskey, he fancied himself an easy-going guy. Must’ve been a sucker punch to have ended up on the back of his head. What kind of yellow-bellied coward resorted to hitting a guy from behind?

  He opened his eyes again and looked around the room. He was lying on a single cot in some sort of a holding cell. What the hell? Those crazy prison guard buddies of his, this was their doing. The goons had gotten him drunk, dragged him into the unit, and slapped his passed-out self onto an unoccupied cot. Very funny. He would’ve laughed aloud, but he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of knowing they had pulled a good one. He’d deal with them, each and every conniving one. Paybacks were rich, and he’d make sure the revenge was quick and satisfying.

  But this room looked nothing like the ones at the correctional institution where he spent forty hours a week. Glenn had never seen this room. And when he looked down, he didn’t recognize his clothing. Those fools had even gone to the trouble to dress him in a standard prison-issue jumpsuit. Had to give them points for thoroughness. Must’ve been one hell of a party. Were there any loose women there? Maybe he had gotten lucky.

  Never—not once—in his drinking history had Glenn experienced total blackouts. Within minutes, his alcohol-soaked brain could call up most of the sordid details. He knew who required apologies, where his truck was parked, and what combination of spirits he could hold responsible for his pounding temples and the burning riot in the pit of his stomach.

  Now he searched for snippets of this last exploit.

  Flashes of the previous evening paraded by. Parking the truck, shopping in Publix, and slipping into the woods. And drinking rotgut hooch. Beyond that, the small pieces registered in a jerky timeline. Women, shots flying wild, screaming.

  Then falling, pain, and blackness. The back seat of a police cruiser, smelling of piss and vomit. The acrid scent of a hospital. Medical mumbo-jumbo. Struggling against people who strapped him down and shoved him into some sort of machine.

  Toddling, later, into a low block building, his hands cuffed behind him. The room: White. White walls. White linoleum floors. Being clamped to a rail while his personal items were recorded and placed into an envelope.

  By then, the fight had seeped out of him. He had taken note of a bright blue pad hanging on the adjacent wall, a place to cushion a prisoner if he happened to get rowdy and the officers had to use force to slam him into submission.

  The longer his mind grappled, the clearer the details became.

  There had been a strip search in a separate barren room. He was allowed to use the toilet. Then, on to a holding room with glass walls and two rows of plastic chairs. The faces of other arrestees swam in and out of focus, a flotsam of deadbeats caught up in the criminal justice system.

  He had slipped into a hunched-over sleep. A correctional officer shook him awake and led him to a machine where his fingerprints were scanned and recorded digitally. He managed to stand upright long enough for his full frontal and side booking pictures. An officer handed over a garish orange jumpsuit. At least it smelled better than his clothes. Finally, he was herded into a narrow room where he fell onto a cot. The last thing he recalled was the metallic clang of a secured lock.

  One purple-Jesus hell of a night, buddy boy.

  Glenn squeezed his eyelids shut as tight as possible. If he could just fall back into blessed oblivion, maybe he would wake up in his own bed, bellow at Sheila to get his coffee and breakfast going, and stagger to the bathroom to pee and maybe vomit.

  He opened his eyes for a brief moment and fought the cloak of claustrophobia threatening to stifle his breathing. The white cell walls, still there. Here he was on the wrong side of authority. He was not the one with the badge, gun, or keys. He wasn’t the one shoving a man’s face into a blue-cushioned wall.

  This time, he had really screwed the pooch.

  Abby McKenzie’s eyes traced several long loops of white plastic-sleeved wire and clear tubing extending from her body. Twin monitors on either side of the spongy bed chirped and whirred like contented yard chickens.

  Her lips felt like she hadn’t touched moisture in days. As much as she wanted to lift the white sheet to check out whatever lay beneath, Abby couldn’t muster the energy. Any pain? She sent the inquiry out to her body. Possibly, it answered. Not enough to warrant drama. Kudos for pain meds.

  Faces swam into memory. A young, dark-haired RN starting an IV. People hovering, anxious expressions. A surgeon called in. People telling her they would take good care of her. Had Choo-choo been there? If she could just stay awake for a few minutes, she could get a grip.

  She slipped from consciousness.

  When she awoke, her body ached as if she had been hit by a truck. Not just a pick-up, either. Something major. Something heavy. A semi-tractor truck. Maybe even one of those double-trailer models people blamed for ruining Florida’s roads.

  Funny thing about pain medications and her body: what made most people pass out cold turned Abby into a babbling wild woman. She would sleep for a while after depressing the button, only to awaken, ready to chat up any poor medical person who ventured into her intensive care room. Whether it was a nurse, doctor, or someone from housekeeping, it didn’t matter. Tell me about your life. How’s your mama and them? How do you feel about our current president? Do you like sushi?

  Abby could imagine her nurse huddled behind the centralized monitor desk, pondering ways to slip in for the mandatory check without having to answer forty-eleven questions. The staff was probably surprised Abby didn’t have some kind of long shepherd’s hook to drag unsuspecting passers-by into her room.

  She consulted the plate-sized wall clock beside the mounted television. Two-oh-five. Was it morning or afternoon? The room had no windows, and she had lost track of time. Her mid-section throbbed. Abby pressed the PCA button and drifted off into a hazy half-sleep.

  When she opened her eyes again, she glanced first to the clock: four forty-seven. At this rate, it was going to be a long night, or day. She could turn on the television and figure it out based on the programs, but noise and flickering lights made her nauseated. The last thing she wanted to do after major abdominal surgery was vomit.

  “Hi, sunshine,” A familiar voice said.

  She twisted her head to the right. The motion caused the room to tilt in an uncomfortable way.

  Choo-choo Ivey sat nearby in a taupe, upholstered chair.

  “How long have you been there? Was I asleep?”

  The older woman rose and stood by the bed. “I’ve been here off and on since you went back for surgery. I did take a little break for a bite of lunch.”

  “Is it morning, afternoon, night? What?”

  “Early afternoon,” Choo-choo answered.

  Abby touched the area around her abdomen. “Feels like I’m about twenty-four months pregnant.” She lifted the sheet and cotton gown. A bandage spanne
d most of her midsection, with a strange looking contraption held fast to her skin on the left side.

  “You have a pretty long incision, from what the doctor told us,” Choo-choo said. “The other thing—the one that looks kind of like a clear plastic baggie with a long clip at one end—that’s your colostomy bag.”

  Abby tried to wrap her mind around the changes. “Something is stuck to my inner thigh.”

  “That’d be your catheter tubing. You’ll have that in for a couple of days. A bit of a bother, once you get to feeling a little better. But it keeps you from having to get up to the bathroom every time you have to pass urine. With as much fluid as they flooded you with during the surgery, you’ll be doing a lot of that as your body throws off the excess.”

  Abby plucked at one of a series of white, opaque wires snaking from her gown. “And these?”

  “Monitors that go to little patches on your skin. For your heart.” Choo-choo slid one of her hands beneath Abby’s and lifted. “The little clip on your index finger is to measure your blood oxygen level. They’ll have someone in here from the respiratory therapists’ group soon, I’m certain. You have to do breathing exercises to make sure you don’t develop pneumonia. You can build up fluid on your lungs pretty easily when you’re not up moving around. Which, by the way, they will have you doing tomorrow.”

  “Feels like every part of me has something attached,” Abby said.

  Choo-choo smiled. “That’s because there is. You have these wrap-around things that pump up and release to keep you from forming blood clots in your legs. You have an IV in both hands, normal saline and a couple of different kinds of antibiotics, looks like. With the catheter and monitor cables, the drain coming from your incision, the automatic blood pressure cuff, and your pain pump . . . needless to say, you couldn’t escape easily.”

  “How do you know so much, Choo-choo?”

  “Some of it, from when my husband was in the hospital. Other stuff, from my hospice work. I’ve seen about every contraption medical science makes.” She leaned closer. “Try to remember to refer to me as Auntie Choo-choo, dear.”

  “Right. Forgot we’re supposed to be related.” Abby smiled. “Where’s everyone else? Sheila? Loiscell?”

  Choo-choo pursed her lips. Nodded once, as if she had reached an important decision. “Last night, Sheila was shot. She’s okay. I’ve talked to Loiscell, who’s over at the other hospital with her. Elvina’s there too, so they can take turns staying with her.”

  “Shot! So it did happen.” Abby tried to rise up, but the combination of morphine and the lingering aftereffects of anesthesia sent the room into a tailspin.

  Choo-choo pushed gently on Abby’s shoulders. “I shouldn’t have said a word. I’m a silly old woman sometimes. I’ll tell you about it, but you have to promise to try to stay calm.”

  Abby moved her head up and down once.

  “After we got your message last night, we were on our way over here. Glenn Bruner stepped out from beside the little eatery where we had gathered for our . . . dinner. He shot Sheila, and unfortunately, some poor woman who had stopped to give us good directions to the hospital from Fifth Avenue. I know how to get to Tallahassee General blindfolded. That’s where Charlie was always taken. But this hospital is another story.”

  “Was—” Abby frowned. “So that wasn’t the hired—?”

  “No. No.” Choo-choo glanced at the fancy equipment, all beeps and clicks. She lowered her voice. “At least, I don’t think it was.”

  “Somewhere, the real one is still out there?”

  Choo-choo’s gaze flicked around the room. “I suppose so.”

  The sliding glass partition opened, and Ben Calhoun stepped in. “Well, look who’s back with us.” He walked over and stood by the bedside, a loopy grin on his face. A flood of mushy emotions washed over Abby. Love, lust, hope. What was up with all that?

  Abby glanced from Ben to Choo-choo and back. “How’d you find out I was in here?”

  “Elvina Houston. Who else?” He chuckled under his breath. “She’s already alerted every prayer circle this side of the Mason/Dixon line, plus a handful on the Internet.”

  Choo-choo said, “Elvina called Ben and asked him to drive over with her last night after she talked to Loiscell. Besides, Ben needed to be here, since you made him your medical power of attorney.” Choo-choo’s left eyebrow arched.

  “Oh, that . . . , ” Abby said. “My attorney suggested it. I can explain . . . ”

  Ben held a finger to his lips. “Shhh. It’s okay, Abby. Rest. We don’t have to go into all of that right now. Later, there’ll be plenty of time.”

  Time. Abby’s spirit felt as sore as her body. Do we have that luxury?

  Abby fought to keep her eyes open, but the gentle cadence of Choo-choo and Ben’s muted conversation—familiar and comforting—lulled her into a dreamless sleep.

  Glenn Bruner finished lunch: boiled potatoes, shriveled green peas, a hard roll, and a slab of overcooked chicken. Even Sheila on her worst days could beat jailhouse cooking. Still, it helped somewhat to settle his queasy stomach. Now if he could force his brain to work on a way he could get out of this quagmire.

  The offer for one phone call stood. Who could he dial? Not his wife. Was she dead or alive? Dead, she was no good to him. Alive, she might be of some use, if she would even come after he had tried to gun her down. He couldn’t call his boss at the correctional institution. Glenn swore under his breath. The boys were going to have a freaking field day over this one.

  For a white-hot second, he considered phoning Clay. Right. Like Clay would come running to help out someone who had mucked up a job. He’d snuff Glenn with his bare hands.

  Glenn knew his rights. Legal counsel would be provided. He’d surely lose his job, and with no job and bills coming out the butt and a five-hundred a month plus truck payment, Glenn could kiss the notion of a fancy lawyer goodbye.

  His truck! Was it still parked by Publix? By now, they had surely located it and hauled it off to some impound lot. If the wrecker had scratched the paint, he would sue.

  Right. He’d sue. With what, charm and good looks?

  Glenn raked his fingers through his sweat-stiff hair. The situation couldn’t possibly get any worse. The clang of metal against metal jarred his sore head. A guard slid the door aside. “Get up, Bruner. You have visitors.”

  Bless her stupid little heart. Sheila was alive after all. He could sweet-talk her, down on his knees if he had to, and she’d find a way to post bail. Get him out of this shit-hole. The officer led the way to a cramped room, barren except for a table and four chairs. Glenn sat as ordered.

  The door opened. Two men in dark suits walked in, closed the door, and stood on the opposite side of the table. Even before they flashed badges, Glenn knew who they were: Feds. They all had that same look. Chiseled jaws, blanched complexions, and expressions like they hadn’t gotten drunk or laid in a month of Sundays. Glenn would place even odds that a dark-hued Crown Vic with tinted windows stood outside.

  The men introduced themselves. Agents Wickler and Hurst. Wickler: the older one with a slight paunch and a fatherly manner. Hurst: mid-thirties, obstacle-course-trim body, with his shoulders poked back like a bandy rooster itching for a cockfight. These two—whatever their mission—would no doubt act out the age-old, good cop/bad cop routine. Big surprise there. Glenn fought back the mocking smirk threatening the corners of his lips. It was one thing to joke with a Fed when you were on the same side of the bars, quite another to piss them off when you weren’t.

  “Well, son.” Agent Wickler leaned down and rested his hands on the table in front of Glenn. “You’ve gotten yourself in a bit of a mess, haven’t you?”

  Yep. The old guy’s going to play the good cop. Glenn nodded. Best to keep his mouth shut. The less said, the better.

  Agent Hurst huffed. How long would this young buck allow his partner to kid-glove before getting all up in Glenn’s face?

  The senior agent slipped his hand into
his jacket, withdrew a short stack of photographs, and flipped them onto the table facing him. Glenn’s eyes reacted before he had a chance to swipe his expression to bored contempt.

  Wickler didn’t miss a beat. “Okay. So you know him.”

  Glenn shrugged. “Am I supposed to?”

  “Figured you might.”

  “Might not, too.”

  The second agent stood with his hands fisted at his sides. Tiny muscles worked around his temples. Any other time, Glenn would’ve told him not to clench his teeth so hard. Bad for the joints. He ought to know. Most mornings, Glenn’s jaws were so blasted sore from grinding, he was amazed he had any teeth left.

  The older agent continued, “You see, Glenn. We got a call first thing this morning. Seems you said a few things last night to your arresting officer. About how you weren’t some poor beleaguered husband who finally snapped and shot his wife. About how it wasn’t your fault. How you had some help.”

  Glenn’s pulse stammered. He could’ve said most anything. His mouth ran like a bad case of diarrhea whenever he had a few.

  Agent Wickler pulled out a chair. Sat down. Tugged his tie until it loosened a little. Crossed one leg and rested the ankle over the other knee. The old let’s-all-settle-down-and-talk-like-good-buddies move.

  “You kept telling the arresting officer to ‘call Clay.’ Said this Clay fellow set up the whole deal.” The senior agent paused. “Any of this sounding familiar?”

  Glenn cleared his throat. “I don’t recall.”

  The agent pointed to one of the pictures. A military identification photo. Several years had passed since, but the identity of the soldier was unmistakable.

  “He’s had so many aliases, his real name is all but useless. He was Special Ops. Only for the past few years, he’s had a new chosen profession. He moves around. Finds others to work beneath him. Banks the cash in some offshore account. Disappears again to resurface in another place with another face.”