A Man Named Doll

by Jonathan Ames

  I woke up in a hospital bed.

  I wasn’t fully conscious at first, but I slowly became aware that my wrists were cuffed to the railings on the side and that my ankles were cuffed to the railing at the end.

  I was under a thin blanket and a bedpan was between my legs. I was in a paper hospital gown and an IV drip was attached to my right arm. My left arm, where I had been cut, was freshly bandaged, and out of the corner of my eye, I could see a new bandage on my face.

  Then I remembered everything, like an avalanche of reason, and I yanked my wrists to no avail in the handcuffs and screamed out: “Monica!”

  My dry voice came out cracked and weak, and the response was silence.

  I didn’t know where I was, but I wasn’t in a hospital, of that I was certain. I craned my neck as much as I could, with my arms secured to the railings, and I could see that I was in a large semidarkened room with a Spanish-tile floor, an old-style stucco ceiling with wooden beams, and a thick wooden door.

  Then, twisting my neck, I was able to see that behind me a shade was pulled three-quarters of the way down the room’s one window, letting in sunlight along its edge, like yellow fire.

  Which meant it was no longer Friday. When they had come to my house, it was dark out.

  In front of me, on the other side of the room, there were door-length white-painted shutters that looked like closet doors, and then there was another door, which was open a crack and seemed to lead to a small bathroom. Flush against the wall to my right, in the shadows, was a metal table with medical supplies on it, but there wasn’t any other furniture.

  Then I tested all the metal cuffs.

  I was no Houdini.

  I was thirsty and my lips were dry and coated in film. I called out again: “Monica!”

  I was hoping she was somewhere nearby and would let me know, but I heard nothing. The only sound was a strong wind hitting the window.

  My face was itchy, but there was no pain.

  I looked at the IV bag hooked to my arm. They had me on something. Maybe a sedative. There were two other bags on the metal stand, but they were not attached to the port in my arm. What were they? Food? Water? How long had I been like this? And where was I? I was in a house, probably Spanish-style, based on the tile, but where?

  Then the wind rattled the window some more and I knew where I was: Malibu. On top of that ledge, where Maurais had gone, the wind would be strong off the ocean. That’s where Madvig had brought me. To his house on Encinal Canyon Road. But why? What were they doing? And where was Monica?

  I tried to slide my wrists out of the cuffs, but it was no use.

  I figured they had kept me alive because they wanted to know if I had told anyone that they had killed Lou Shelton and were on the dark web offering black-market surgeries.

  One thing they could be pretty certain of was that I hadn’t been honest with the cops, because no cops had gone up to Belden Drive. Madvig and Dodgers Hat must have gone back to the house at some point, saw it was safe, and cleared out the bodies, which meant two things: they knew I had killed the second blonde, Madvig’s son Paul, and that I hadn’t talked to the police.

  But I could have told someone else, and that they would want to know.

  Which meant that Rick Alvarez was in danger. He was the only person I had spoken to who could make any link to Madvig. Rick didn’t know why I was interested in the doctor, but he knew enough. Enough to get himself killed, and I was cuffed to a bed and they’d be able to get anything out of me they wanted. I didn’t kid myself about how brave I might be. I’d give Rick up no matter how hard I might fight, but if I could hold out a little while…he was taking off for Costa Rica today and maybe he’d be all right…

  But they had Monica, if she was even still alive, and in frustration, I yanked on my wrists and ankles. I wanted a miracle of strength that would never come, and I raged in the bed, fighting the cuffs like a child throwing a tantrum.

  Then I tried furiously to wiggle my right hand out. Wasn’t there a way to dislocate the thumb and get free like that? But I knew from being a cop that this was an urban myth. Still, I tried. Maybe it wasn’t a myth.

  So I yanked my wrist toward myself, trying to put pressure on the thumb joint, and I fantasized that if I got my hand out, I’d find a pin or a piece of metal and free my other hand and then my ankles…

  But all I did was rub a bunch of skin off.

  Then I closed my eyes and stopped trying and my self-hate burned like acid.

  I had been bitched from the moment I was born. I had brought ruin on everyone and everything I had ever touched. Now Alvarez was going to die, and Monica had to already be dead. They had to have killed her. She was a loose thread, a witness. I was only alive because they needed to know if I had spoken to anyone.

  I pulled on all my cuffs again, throwing another tantrum. Please, God, give me a miracle, I thought, and just then, Madvig, his son, and Dodgers Hat, who was no longer wearing a Dodgers hat, came into the room. Madvig had on a white doctor’s jacket over a shirt and tie; Dodgers Hat was wearing blue nurse’s scrubs; and the son was in jeans and a thin leather jacket.

  Madvig flipped a switch near the door, turning the ceiling light on, and said, full of cheer: “Good morning, Mr. Doll.”

  2.

  I didn’t return his greeting, and the three men crossed the large tiled room and approached my bed, and I got a better look at my captors than I did when they had surprised me at my house:

  The son, late twenties, was handsome and fit: his hair was black and sleek, like the wing of a crow. He was at least six two, built like a swimmer, and he looked like he wanted to kill me. He knew—they all knew—that I had thrown his brother Paul off a six-story balcony, and like a wannabe tough guy, he had his .22 tucked into the front of his pants.

  Dodgers Hat, in his midforties, was also big, at least six four, 250. He was thick-chested where the son was lean, and he had enormous, meaty hands that hung by his sides, with the fingers slightly curled in.

  He had little brown eyes, brown hair, small curdled ears, and a strange nose. It was almost flat to his face, like it had been pushed in early in life when the bone was soft, and his lower teeth, jutting out at least an inch because of his underbite, were gray and packed in tight.

  And next to him, Madvig, a small man in his midsixties, looked even smaller.

  He was maybe five six, neat and compact, but his head was overly large.

  It didn’t seem to match his body: it was too heavy and ponderous and it burdened him, making him lean forward ever so slightly, which is what gave him the aspect of a vulture. And his lead-colored hair was very thick, which made his big head seem even bigger.

  His nose was also big, Roman and arrogant and dotted with blackheads, and two deep creases ran from his nostrils down to the edge of his thin pale lips. It was an unhappy mouth, and his intelligent eyes were dark under thick, wiry brows.

  At my bedside, he put his finely boned hands on the railing near my right handcuff, and he smiled brightly, like a phony, and said: “And how are you feeling?”

  He was still playing it all chipper, and he spoke with a slight trace of an English accent, some affectation from his days as a big shot, and he put a purr in his voice, the purr of the warm doctor, the one who makes you feel cared for.

  I said: “Where’s Monica?”

  “You know you’ve had a lot of trauma to the left side of your face,” he said, ignoring my question. “The wound was infected, but it’s already clearing up. We’ve put you on antibiotics.” He motioned to the IV bag. “And I imagine you were injured the night you killed the football player. We read about it in the paper. You’re quite the celebrity.”

  “Just tell me where Monica is.”

  He smiled patiently. “She’s here,” he said. “You have nothing to worry about.” Then he hit a switch on the side of my bed and got me into a sitting position. “That’s more comfortable for you,” he said. “For a conversation.”

  “She’s a
live?”

  “Of course she’s alive.”

  “Thank God,” I said out loud, not meaning to, and Madvig’s son smiled perversely. Then trying to cover, I said, “I want to see her right away.” And I tried to make it sound like a demand that had to be fulfilled.

  Madvig shook his head. “That’s not possible, Mr. Doll. We need to talk.”

  “I’m not going to tell you anything,” I said, and I could feel how hollow and pathetic that was, but all I had were clichés. I was chained to a bed.

  “But you’ve already told us everything. Don’t worry about that.”

  I felt the back of my neck go cold, and suddenly there was a shadow in my mind, the sense of something missing. “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, you’ve been very forthcoming, very accommodating,” Madvig said. “You’ve already told us about Mr. Alvarez, who is on vacation and not really a threat, and nothing else was of interest, though the mystery of Ken’s death was explained, and thank you for the two hundred thousand dollars, which Ben picked up yesterday.”

  Dodgers Hat—Ben—smiled and said: “Was in the closet, just like you told us.”

  “What day is it?” I asked, scared of the answer.

  “It’s Sunday morning,” said Madvig.

  I had lost thirty-six hours and remembered nothing but had told them everything. I said again: “I want to see Monica.”

  “I’ve already told you that’s not possible,” said Madvig.

  “You have to let me see her.”

  “No. I want her calm and I want you calm.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about? Calm? Torture me, whatever the sick fuck you want, but you gotta let her go.”

  “You’re not being realistic, Mr. Doll.”

  “Well, you’re fucked,” I said. “The cops are going to come here. They are going to be looking for us.”

  “We don’t want the police here, that’s true,” said Madvig, “which is why it’s time to close up. But first we need to make a little money, which is what I want to explain to you. It’s important for you to understand what is going to happen so that you can prepare yourself mentally.”

  Madvig then took out a pen and began to tap my body with it, in all the corresponding spots, like he was giving an anatomy lecture and I was the cadaver.

  “Your kidneys,” he said, tapping me on the right side of my body and then the left, before going elsewhere, “will bring in two hundred thousand each, but the second one will wait until we are done with you. Your heart will fetch seven hundred and fifty thousand, your lungs half a million total; we can also repurpose your cornea and middle ear and parts of your small intestine. Some of the organs we’ll simply harvest and then sell to fellow practitioners.”

  “Fuck you,” I said, pathetic and helpless, not wanting to believe him—it was too mad. But I did believe him.

  “There’s also your pancreas,” he said, “and bone marrow, and, naturally, your liver is quite valuable. I imagine you had no idea how much you are really worth. You’re going to save many lives. Help so many people…and your friend—she’s even more valuable. Lungs, heart, liver, ovaries, but we can’t use either of your faces for transplantation. You’re both too scarred—”

  “Don’t fucking touch her!” I screamed helplessly, and I yanked my arms and legs.

  “Of course we will keep you both as comfortable as possible for as long as we can. A living donor makes for the most successful transplants, and Wednesday morning will be your first procedure. Someone, who is also O positive, needs your kidney. So it’s good timing you’re here, but it’s an easy surgery and you will recover quickly—”

  Then I went truly nuts, fighting the cuffs, thrashing my whole body, and Madvig said: “Stop it, Mr. Doll! I don’t want you hurting yourself.”

  Then to his son, he said: “John, hook up the fentanyl,” and to the big man, he said, “Ben, hold him down,” and Ben put one of his large hands around my neck, choking me, but I kept fighting: he was going to have to kill me.

  And he nearly did.

  I felt myself starting to black out: his fingers were like iron, and I didn’t want to but I stopped resisting, and Ben let go, and I was gasping, and the son, John, put another line—which must have been the fentanyl—into my arm port, and I said to him, out of breath, but hoping, pitifully, to wound: “Doesn’t it bother you that your father killed your mother like this?”

  But he just smiled at me, and I looked at the .22 tucked into his pants. “That gun make you feel like a man?”

  “Keep talking,” he said. “We’re going to strip you and sell you for parts.”

  Then I could feel the fentanyl—it came on all at once; it was like dropping down an elevator shaft, but without fear—and Ben lowered the bed, and the three of them seemed to be standing in smoke, and all the fight had already gone out of me. I only had begging left, and I said to Madvig: “Please let her go.”

  He smiled beneficently at me but didn’t say anything.

  Then I whispered, fading out: “Why are you doing this?”

  “I lost two sons, Mr. Doll,” answered Madvig. “You owe me a great deal. I think this is more than fair.”

  3.

  When I woke up next, the room was pitch black, and I was in a straitjacket and secured to the bed with tight straps across my shins, thighs, chest, and forehead.

  I couldn’t move at all—they really wanted to make sure I didn’t harm myself—and the port had been relocated to my neck, and I was hooked up to something. Probably something to keep me hydrated and fed.

  And just to be extra thorough, they had put a ball gag in my mouth to go with my straitjacket.

  So I lay there for hours, utterly immobile in the darkness, and thought of prisoners of war being tortured, and I called upon myself to be brave. I tried to be measured in my breathing, to feel each inhalation and each exhalation, and it worked for maybe a few minutes at a time. Mostly there was panic and horror, like a mouse in a glue trap.

  And to know that I had brought this on Monica…

  At some point in the middle of the night, Ben came in and saw that my eyes were wide open. So he flipped the switch on the fentanyl, and as I began to disappear again, he said: “We won’t keep you on this all the time. We want your kidney function to be good. But tonight, I’ll let you sleep.”

  In the morning, he gently woke me and pulled open the shade behind me, flooding the room with light. I was glad that there had been no dreams.

  He removed my bedpan, undid the strap across my chest, and unfurled the right side of my straitjacket. Then he grabbed my right wrist and cuffed it to the railing. I didn’t have a chance to try anything. Then he undid the left side and got that wrist cuffed.

  “I want to wash you,” he said. “You going to be good? Not going to yank?”

  I was still gagged and my head was still strapped to the bed and so I said yes with my eyes. I wanted to play along. I had to find an advantage.

  He removed my paper gown and brought in a bucket of soapy warm water from the bathroom and proceeded to gently bathe me with a sponge.

  He even smiled at me with his tormented mouth, happy with his work, and so I began to think that he was simple, somewhere on the spectrum, like Lennie in the Steinbeck novel.

  When he was done bathing me, he put on latex gloves and applied an antibiotic cream to the wounds on my arm and face and put on fresh bandages. I was being attended to like a cow before slaughter.

  Then he got a paper gown on me, put the straitjacket back on, and restrapped me to the bed. He was very careful, each step, to make sure I was always too restrained to try anything, and he kept the ball gag in my mouth the whole time, the strap of it running just below the wound on my left cheek and around my head.

  Then he left the room for a while, and I fantasized that Thode and Mullen would be showing up any minute. It was Monday morning and I figured they would have started looking for me by at least Saturday, at which point one of Monica’s friends might h
ave reported her missing. Maybe she had even told someone she was coming to see me.

  They’d then make the link between Monica and me, which would make finding me even more urgent—maybe I had done something to her—and I might have been connected, by Saturday or even Friday, to the death of Maurais. The woman in 5H could have easily identified me, and there were surely cameras in the lobby.

  So: Monica’s disappearance, Lou’s death, the Pakistani boy’s murder, Maurais—they’d be desperate to track me down, and they’d get hold of my text messages and phone calls from Sprint, which would further link me to Monica and lead them to Rick Alvarez down in Costa Rica, and he would lead them to Madvig.

  He’d tell them I had been looking into a Dr. Madvig who had killed his wife and had properties in Beachwood and Malibu.

  So they had to come! Even if it was to arrest me because they didn’t understand what was going on—let them come!

  Then Ben came back to the room, wheeling in a tall, L-shaped tray table with a plate of food on top of it: scrambled eggs, toast, and some fruit. He got my bed into a sitting position and swung the tray over my lap. Then he ungagged me, and because my arms were still bound, he fed me, sitting on the edge of my bed, one forkful at a time. It was my first food since Friday, and I thought for a second of going on a hunger strike but decided it was best to continue to be compliant. To observe him. To find an angle.

  “How are the eggs?” he asked. He seemed to enjoy caring for me.

  “Very good,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “My secret is a little bit of milk. Put the milk in with the eggs in a bowl and stir it up. Make ’em fluffy.”

  “You do the cooking, too?”

  “Oh, yeah. I love to cook.”

  When I was finished eating, he had me stand up. I was still in the straitjacket, and he bound my ankles, loosely. “We need you circulating,” he said. “Good for your kidneys, your whole body. And we don’t want you to get bedsores.”

  He kept an iron hand on the back of my neck, and with my feet partially bound all I could do was shuffle, and there was no way to escape. I thought momentarily of trying to throw myself from his grip and brain myself on the floor, but if I did that I would be of no use to Monica.