Three people sat together at the bar. A skinny, black-haired woman nursed an iced drink with a lime in it. She laid a hand on the leg of the man next to her – a Sean Penn lookalike but with jet-black hair. As she kneaded his thigh with her fingertips, he drank a Coke and talked with Rick Jacobson, who drank beer from a glass. On the other side of the bar, Frida the waitress arranged glasses on a white shelf.
She looked up when Kelson and Rodman walked in. She smiled in surprise and started to speak, then seemed to realize Kelson had come for someone other than her. Kelson said, ‘Hey there,’ then remembered why he’d come.
Rodman moved in. ‘Rick Jacobson?’ His voice couldn’t be gentler.
The skinny woman kept nursing her drink. The two men turned. Neither seemed intimidated by Rodman.
‘Which is a mistake,’ Kelson said.
Jacobson frowned. ‘Who wants to know?’
‘I’m DeMarcus Rodman.’ He offered to shake hands. Usually, his soft voice made people want to lean in. Usually, his enormous hands made them recoil.
Jacobson showed no reaction.
The black-haired Sean Penn, watching with lips parted, offered to shake hands too. ‘I’m Jeffrey Vargas. I own this place. What can I do for you?’ His teeth looked expensive.
‘My ex is a dentist,’ Kelson said.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Your teeth – whitened, right? I’ve been tempted. But whenever a dentist sticks fingers in my mouth, I think of Nancy – and it gets complicated. Plus, whitening might be working it too hard for a guy like you. Too obvious. Like walking around with your zipper down. Is the Porsche yours?’
Rodman put a hand on Kelson’s shoulder. ‘Sam …’
‘Right – sorry. So,’ he said to the man, ‘Rick’s daddy saved you by investing in the nightclub?’
Vargas looked amused. ‘We have a financial agreement.’
‘Well, congratulations on your success. Great looking place when you dim the lights.’
The man looked at Rodman. ‘What can I do for you? We don’t open until nine tonight, but if you’d like a drink …’ He signaled Frida, who drifted over.
Rodman gazed at Rick Jacobson. ‘We came by so I could meet this man. Sam told me about him – made me curious. We went to the hospital looking for him, but they said he was at a meeting off site. Sam knew right away where to look next. Sam’s smart that way.’
Frida eyed Kelson. ‘What can I get you to drink, Sam?’
‘Huh,’ Kelson said.
‘Yeah, he’s smart, all right,’ Jacobson said.
‘I should warn you,’ Kelson said to the waitress, ‘I have few inhibitions.’
Most women retreated when Kelson started talking. The waitress smiled, as if she got a kick out of him. ‘D’you promise?’
‘None, really,’ he said. ‘No inhibitions, to tell the truth – as I do.’
‘Sounds exciting,’ she said.
Rodman said, ‘That’s one word for it.’
‘Who names a kid Frida?’ Kelson asked.
The waitress looked used to the question. ‘My mom digs Frida Kahlo’s paintings.’
‘You don’t look like a Frida.’
‘What my mom says too. I’m a disappointment.’
‘Then, a Sprite, please,’ he said. ‘How about you, DeMarcus?’
‘Not what we came for,’ Rodman said. ‘Smart, but easily distracted.’
Kelson turned back to Jacobson. ‘What are the rules about contracting with an ambulance company?’
That unsettled Jacobson more than Rodman’s handshake. ‘The rules – about what?’
‘Come on, you’re Director of Security. You deal with rules all the time. Maybe a mom and dad go bonkers because their kid died. What’s the rule? Do you calm them down or get the cops to take them away? Maybe an upstanding citizen ODs and you need to keep it quiet. Maybe a dying gangbanger wants one last good time with his girlfriend, no nurses peeking. You must face hard questions every day. What are the rules? What counts as right and wrong when you contract with an ambulance company?’
‘You’re a bewildering man,’ Jacobson said.
‘Let’s say it’s a burn victim,’ Kelson said. ‘Since you have a contract, the ambulance brings the victim to you first instead of the burn unit at Cook County – because the victim is rich, and the company knows you’ll get insurance money. Then maybe you pay the company a second time later for a ride to Cook County if the burn victim needs it.’
‘That would never happen,’ Jacobson said.
‘Or let’s say the company is named AZT, and you pay them to bring in a patient who it makes no sense to have – for reasons I, for one, can’t figure out. But what’s good for AZT is good for Clement Memorial and what’s good for Clement Memorial is good for AZT.’
Jacobson stared until Kelson finished. ‘I’m not sure what you’re accusing Clement Memorial of.’
‘Me either, to tell the truth,’ Kelson said. ‘Which, as I told Frida, I do – I tell the truth. Which might be my point.’
Frida set a glass on the bar. ‘Your Sprite.’
He asked, ‘Do you paint?’
She showed him her fingernail polish. ‘I did body paint once at a contest in Key West. I got third prize. Jell-O shots for the night. I ended up having my stomach pumped. I can’t win.’
‘I know the feeling. We should get together sometime.’
Vargas stared at Rodman. ‘What the hell?’
Rodman shrugged and said to Jacobson, ‘From now on, keep your hands off Sam.’
Jacobson smirked. ‘So this is an intimidation visit?’
‘That’s about it,’ Rodman said.
‘As long as your boy stays away from my family, we’ve got no problem,’ Jacobson said.
‘No, we’ve got no problem unless you make a problem.’
Jacobson turned away and handed Frida his glass for a refill.
The black-haired Sean Penn frowned at Rodman. ‘Let’s keep trouble out of my club, OK?’
Ninety-nine percent of the time, Rodman lumbered away from a conflict. The other one percent, there would be blood, bodies, and crime scene tape. If the cops learned about his involvement, he might need to go into hiding until the blood was washed away.
This time, he said, ‘C’mon, Sam – let’s get out of here,’ and he lumbered toward the door.
Kelson said to Frida, ‘I’ll come by.’
‘Do,’ she said.
He followed Rodman out into the cold. When he started the car, he realized Rodman was grinning at him. ‘What?’ he asked.
Rodman shook his head. ‘I love going places with you.’
TWENTY-FIVE
‘Yeah,’ Rodman said as they drove back toward his apartment, ‘something’s screwy with Rick Jacobson.’
‘I don’t think you scared him.’ The early-afternoon sky shimmered as if ice crystals hung high toward the sun. But the streets were gray, the exhaust from the bus they followed thick and brown.
‘Some guys you meet and you know they’re off,’ Rodman said. ‘Nothing particular stands out. They look normal. They talk normal. They act normal. But you know it.’
Kelson said, ‘Vargas seems OK, though.’
‘You see what his girlfriend was doing to him?’
‘No.’
‘’Cause you were too busy getting it on with Frida.’
‘I like her.’
‘The girlfriend was kneading Vargas’s thigh with her fingernails. Weird kink or something. He didn’t seem to mind.’
‘I didn’t see.’
‘Pay attention next time.’
‘I paid attention.’
‘To Frida.’
‘I like her.’
When they climbed the stairs to Rodman’s apartment, Marty LeCoeur was lying on the couch with his eyes closed. The paintings of Malcolm X, Cindi, and Martin Luther King Jr watched over him. Before coming into money, Marty shopped at TJ Maxx. Now he bought designer – Ralph Lauren pants, Versace socks, and a variet
y of Nat Nast bowling shirts.
‘Who ever heard of a one-armed bowler?’ Kelson asked a week before Renshaw shot him.
‘Woody Harrelson,’ Marty said.
‘What?’
‘You never seen Kingpin? Woody Harrelson’s a one-handed bowler. Hooks up with this Amish guy—’
‘A pretend role, Marty. Woody Harrelson’s got both hands.’
‘Doesn’t.’
Kelson looked for help. ‘DeMarcus?’
‘Don’t put me in the middle.’
Now, lying on the couch, Marty opened his eyes and let his gaze wander from Kelson’s good arm to his wounded one. ‘Hey, gimp,’ he said, ‘who’s laughing now?’
‘I never laughed at you, Marty,’ Kelson said. ‘Never would.’
‘You lacked sensitivity.’ He sat up, wiggled his toes in his socks, and slid his tiny feet into a pair of Gucci loafers. ‘When I heard about Renshaw, I hoped you’d lose your arm too. With the problems you got with your head, it would be nice to look down on someone.’
‘You already do more with one arm than most men could do with four,’ Kelson said.
‘Who ever heard of a four-armed man?’ Marty said.
‘Woody Harrelson?’
Marty grinned at him with his little teeth. Which meant they were friends and he wouldn’t kill him.
‘Which is good,’ Kelson said.
‘It’s all good,’ Marty said, then told Rodman, ‘I took apart the Barrett carbine and put it together again.’
Kelson mumbled, ‘One-handed.’
‘That’s a fucking killing machine,’ Marty said. ‘What did Cindi’s brother want with it? Young kid, his balls don’t drop yet – what’s he think, this gun’s going to make him a man?’
‘I think that explains it,’ Rodman said.
‘If he pulls the trigger on that motherfucker, his balls’ll shrink like he’s swimming in ice. The kid’s misguided.’
‘You didn’t know that when you talked to him last night?’ Rodman said.
‘I just thought you wanted me to scare the fuck out of him.’
‘By explaining to him how misguided he was.’
‘You do it your way, I do it mine. Hey, I hope it’s OK I crashed on your couch while I waited. Cindi said it was no problem.’
‘You know you’re always welcome, Marty. What’s up?’
‘Janet and me had a disagreement. She’s having second thoughts. Doesn’t like my lifestyle.’
‘Coming in at three in the morning after hanging out with me?’ Rodman said.
‘Right? What’s not to like? I tell her, this is the way I am. I’ve got self-esteem. I tell her if she don’t like it, she knows what she can do.’
‘Kick you out.’
‘I guess that’s what she figures.’
‘Well, you’ve got a place here any time you need it.’
‘Thanks,’ the little man said – then eyed Kelson. ‘How about you? If it’s late at night and I’m in the neighborhood?’
‘I have a studio,’ Kelson said. ‘My daughter sometimes sleeps over.’
‘You don’t think I’m good with kids?’
‘I think you’re good at scaring them.’
‘Now I’m insulted.’ He looked it.
‘OK, Marty,’ Kelson said, ‘any time day or night, if you don’t mind sleeping on the floor.’
The insult vanished from the little man’s face. ‘Thanks, gimp.’
The three of them sat at Rodman’s dining table for the rest of the afternoon. Marty showed how he took apart and put back together the Barrett assault rifle. ‘Now, do it blindfolded,’ Kelson said.
‘That’s just stupid,’ Marty said.
‘Anyone hungry?’ Rodman said.
‘I’m always hungry,’ Marty said.
They ordered in Chinese and ate with the Barrett carbine in the middle of the table.
Then, a few minutes after five, Kelson’s cell phone rang.
Jose Feliciano was on the other end. ‘I got it, but I don’t like it, amigo,’ he said.
Kelson chewed a bite of General Tso’s chicken. ‘What’ve you got, and what’s not to like?’
‘The girl I know in Transport Services is on vacation. But I talked to the guy in Admissions. He showed me the file for Daryl Vaughn.’
‘Does it say who brought him over from Northwestern?’
‘Why d’you think I’m calling? The name on the file was Suzanne Madani.’
‘Wow – Dr Madani?’
‘It’s worse than that, man. You know how that ambulance picked up Patricia Ruddig before she hit the ground? It was an AZT ambulance. You know where the AZT depot is? A mile south of the hospital – other way than Patricia Ruddig. You know why the ambulance was two blocks from Patricia Ruddig’s building when the bike hit her?’
‘Don’t tell me Dr Madani was involved.’
‘Her name’s on the order. The records say the ambulance was supposed to pick up a bariatric patient. It was one of the big rigs – for heavy people. But no emergency, so it redirected and picked up Patricia Ruddig. Thing is, I don’t see they ever rescheduled the fat guy.’
‘Huh. How about the file for Josh Templeton?’
‘That’s what hurts me. There’s no transport file for Josh Templeton. The record starts when he came in the door.’
‘Is that unusual?’
‘Not unusual if a patient walks into the ER. Not unusual if a friend carries him in. But Josh Templeton came in at four in the morning. He couldn’t walk in himself, and no one brought him in. Yeah, it’s unusual. No one gets paid if there’s no record. Everyone wants to get paid.’
‘Is Dr Madani’s name anywhere in his file?’
‘Nowhere, my friend.’
So, after eating a fortune cookie, Kelson drove to Clement Memorial, rode the elevator, and knocked on Dr Madani’s door. ‘Because this is what I do,’ he said.
No one answered.
He tried the knob. ‘Though I shouldn’t do some things I do.’
The door was unlocked. He opened it and stepped inside.
‘Holy shit,’ he said.
Suzanne Madani lay on the daybed. Her head rested on the airline pillow. Her bare feet rested on the folded crochet blanket. It was the stuff in between that bothered Kelson. Her red dress was hiked up to her waist, exposing a pair of underwear decorated with little red hearts. A syringe stuck from her left thigh. Two empty fifty-milliliter vials, each labeled fentanyl citrate, lay on the rug by the daybed. Another vial, full, lay in her left hand. Some dead people look like they’re sleeping. Not Suzanne Madani. She looked dead.
‘Some things I never want to see,’ Kelson said. ‘Some things I never want to know.’
He eased the door closed and went to her body. He touched her forehead and wrist. Cold and cold. He wanted to pull her dress down over her legs but stopped himself.
He moved around the office without touching anything.
He considered the photographs of canyons and mountains on the walls. ‘Arizona,’ he said.
Dr Madani’s white medical coat hung from a hook on the back of the door.
Her shoes lay side by side under her desk.
Three neat stacks of paper rested on the desktop. Kelson leafed through them. None of the papers mentioned Patricia Ruddig, Josh Templeton, or Daryl Vaughn.
Kelson kept his fingers off the desktop computer. The screen showed a picture of Madani and another woman, wearing hiking boots and backpacks, smiling into a camera on a mountain trail where the rocks and soil were burnt red and the sunlight soft. ‘Once upon a time,’ Kelson said.
He pulled out his phone and dialed Venus Johnson at the Harrison Street police station.
She picked up and said, ‘What?’
‘I’ve got something for you,’ he said.
TWENTY-SIX
‘Stay where you are,’ Venus Johnson said.
‘Right,’ Kelson said, and hung up.
He left the office, clicking the lock on the door, and rode the
elevator down. ‘I don’t need it,’ he told a Pakistani man who rode with him between the fifth and third floors. ‘I don’t like it. I don’t want it.’
That night, when Kelson turned off his phone and got in bed, sleep seemed to slam into him. But he dreamed that thousands of insects bit and stung his face, and he snapped awake in a panic. Payday was kneading his cheek. ‘Dammit,’ he said, and swept her off the bed.
He lay in the dark and listened to the sounds of the building – the tap and hiss of plumbing, a deep, quiet hum in some invisible shaft, the refrigerator motor in the kitchenette.
A soft rush and hush of distant traffic came through the walls – and then a far-off siren whined like a locust busy in a summer tree, unconcerned with men lying awake in their beds.
Kelson slept again – and dreamed of the skinny, black-haired woman kneading Vargas’s thigh with her clawed fingernails.
Look at that, Rodman said in the dream. You see what she’s doing?
Kelson stared. She looks like a knife.
Shh, Rodman said.
Then She looks like a knife became She has a knife – though she didn’t have one, not even in the crazy logic of the dream.
He snapped awake again. Payday and Painter’s Lane were cowering elsewhere, as they did when Kelson had bad dreams.
Kelson got out of bed and went to the window. It was four o’clock in the morning, and the neighborhood was quiet.
He left the window and sat on the carpet, leaning against his bed.
Painter’s Lane came first, emerging from the kitchenette. She rubbed against Kelson’s arm, purring. She climbed on to his lap. He petted her, and the purr became a gentle roar.
Payday came from under the dining table. She rubbed. He petted. She purred. She leaped on to the bed and settled close enough to Kelson that he could rest his head against her.
With the cats purring in front and behind, he closed his eyes. Now he slept until the winter sun brightened the apartment and his neighbors passed noisily in the hall outside his door. Then Payday meowed behind him.
Head Case Page 13