by Jack Bunker
TWENTY-SIX
After yet another missed call from Sonu Chugh, J.T. wondered if maybe the doctor didn’t have some legal quandary after all. J.T. dialed Chugh’s office and leaned back in his desk chair.
“Dr. Chugh,” boomed J.T. over the speakerphone, faking the enthusiasm he always did when he planned on keeping a call short. “How are you today?”
“I am veddy well, Johnny. Veddy well indeed. And yourself?”
“Can’t complain, Doc. What can I do for you?”
“Yes, of course. About the matter of our last consultation.”
“Yeah, I don’t know when he’s going to call, but I gave him your number.” J.T. swiveled in his chair and flipped through an online article about toxic mold resurfacing in Southern California.
“Oh, no, I have already met with Mr. McMahon.”
J.T. looked away from his screen and stared at the phone on his desk.
“Excuse me?”
“Yes, I met with Mr. McMahon in my office on Monday.”
“Monday?”
“Yes. I have to say I was quite surprised. From your rather cryptic description, I had assumed some sort of orthopedic injury.”
“On Monday.”
“Yes, Monday. A veddy simple diagnosis. Herpes zoster. Nothing to be alarmed about.”
“You saw McMahon on Monday. For herpes.”
“Yes, I see how you, too, associate herpes zoster with the sexually transmitted disease.” Chugh chuckled. “No, in this case, it’s quite a simple case of what we call shingles. Nothing more.”
“Shingles.”
“Just a rash. Not serious.” Chugh cleared his throat. “Ordinarily, of course, I wouldn’t discuss a patient’s medical condition, but seeing as you referred him in your capacity as a lawyer and so forth.…As we’re keeping the consultation private for the time being, I thought we might dispense with the formalities of a release for attorney disclosure.”
“Right.” J.T. chewed his lip.
“So with respect to the fee for the consultation. We agreed that it would be in cash.”
“Right.” J.T. thrummed his desk. Fucking Al.
“So if you can just drop by with two hundred and fifty dollars, we may consider the account settled.”
“Two fifty.”
“Yes.”
“Did you ask Mr. McMahon for the money?”
“He said he understood you’d already taken care of it. We don’t have a misunderstanding, do we, Johnny?”
“No, no,” said J.T. “We’re all good.” Well, at least he wasn’t out of pocket much. He shook his head. Fucking Al. “I’ll drop the money by this afternoon.”
“Excellent. Any time I can be of service. You just give me a call. We can keep our transactions discreet this way, yes?”
“Sure, Doc. I’ll be in touch.” J.T. tossed the phone into its cradle.
J.T.’s first thought had been that Mack had been lying about Vegas. When Chugh mentioned the shingles, he knew it was Al.
Which meant, of course, that now Al knew J.T. hadn’t paid Chugh the six grand. J.T.’s gaze bounced among the tchotchkes on his desk and his computer screen. He looked at the walls, then out the seventh-floor window, waiting, as he always had, for inspiration to strike. He called Al on one of the disposable phones. With Al at the office, it would put him off guard and force him to call J.T. back, giving J.T. a little more room to read the situation. He was surprised when Al answered.
“Hey,” Al said. “What’s up?”
“Just checking in with a status report. I heard from Mack. I also talked to Chugh.”
“Talked to Chugh, huh?”
“Yeah, he told me about the shingles. Guess that solves the mystery of the rash.” J.T. leaned back in his chair and looked at the haze floating about the San Bernardino Mountains in the distance. “I can’t believe that greedy fuck tried to hit you up for more cash.”
“More cash?” Al snorted. “You didn’t pay him dick.”
“He’s full of shit. I gave that skel six grand. Hope you got our money’s worth.”
“He didn’t call you for the money for the visit?”
“That’s what I’m saying: he was laughing about it. Figured since I’d referred you, he might be able to beat you out of a fee for the consultation. Claim that I’d said you’d pay. Fucking classic scam. I see this half the time I deal with guys like this.”
“Seriously?”
“They’re fucking notorious. They figure if they don’t get caught, no harm, no foul.”
“What a scumbag.”
“What do you expect from a crooked doctor?” J.T. had regained his momentum. “By the way, aren’t you at work right now?”
“No, I stayed home today because of the shingles.” J.T. heard the rattling of dishes in the background. “I guess I got a free diagnosis out of it.”
“I don’t know about free. You realize what this means, right?”
“What?”
“Because you went to Chugh claiming to be Mack, now we can’t use Chugh.”
“Oh, shit.”
“When Mack fucked up the first flop, there was no need to tell him. When we greenlit the second adventure, Chugh didn’t know that it wasn’t the first one. Get it?”
“Yeah.”
“So now, your ‘free’ medical advice means we have to find another doctor. What that’s going to set us back, I don’t know. Chugh was my first option.”
“Jesus, I’m sorry. I didn’t think of that.” Al cleared his throat. “So what’s going on with Mack?”
“He finally left Vegas. He’s at Fuente Dorado.” J.T. could tell that Al was still buying the Chugh story. “He pissed away the four grand I fronted him and I had to send another four. That shit’s not coming out of my end.”
“Absolutely. Hotel’s one thing, but this is ridiculous.” Al sniffed. “So when is his accident taking place?”
He bought it. “Any time now. I decided that they shouldn’t have the accident on the first day. Makes selling the honeymoon story more plausible.”
“That’s good thinking. I guess it would be kind of suspicious if they checked in and got hurt a few minutes later.”
Why didn’t you say that when you came up with this plan, asshole? “Anyway, it still leaves us with the problem of paying for another doctor.”
“Yeah.”
“Any ideas?”
“I guess we could go back to Frankie Fresh for more cash.” Al sighed. “God, I hate to get in deeper with that fat bastard, though.”
“Well, unfortunately, since you’re the one who stirred the pot with Chugh, I don’t know what choice you have.”
“What choice I have?”
“Hey, I’m not the one that fucked up the medical trying to get cute.”
“I’ll call him and get some more. How much do you think we need?”
“Get ten. Let me recoup some of the cash I fronted Mack and Chugh.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
With Mack cleaned up and Buddy gone, Wanda shepherded Mack out to her car and drove the eight miles to Eisenhower Medical Center in Rancho Mirage. After scratching out a medical history on a form, Mack was guided into an examination room where a tanned doctor in his early sixties soon joined them.
“Well, now,” Dr. John Garvey announced, rolling a small three-wheeled stool up to where Mack stood leaning against an examination table. “What have we got here? Can you lower your shorts for me?”
Mack let his shorts drop to the floor. The doctor tilted his head to one side, then the other. With his gloved hand he moved Mack’s member slightly. Mack’s whole body jerked back.
“Hurts, huh?” asked Garvey. “Sorry about that.” The doctor looked at Wanda. “What happened?”
“I don’t know, I wasn’t there.”
Mack grimaced as he tried to get comfortable. “I got hit by a runaway tractor.”
“It ran over your penis?”
“Not exactly.” Mack winced. “I was in a portable toilet on the golf cou
rse at Fuente Dorado when—”
“Which course?” asked the doctor.
“Uh…Tesoro.”
“That used to be a nice track. Very nice. Too bad it’s taking them so long to get it back into shape.” Garvey pulled a tongue depressor from his pocket and lifted Mack’s penis slightly while looking underneath. “I think they may host the Dinah Shore there next year.”
“Uh-huh,” Mack said.
“So you play there often?” asked Garvey.
“No. We’re here”—Mack winced again—“on our honeymoon.”
“Hey, congratulations!” He turned to Wanda. “How about that?”
“Yeah,” said Wanda. “How about that?”
Garvey turned back to Mack. “So how bad is the pain?”
“Pretty fuckin’ bad.”
“Right.” Garvey stripped off his gloves and threw them into a plastic garbage can labeled MEDICAL WASTE. He clicked a ballpoint pen emblazoned with the logo of a pharmaceutical company. “Okay, first thing we’re going to do is get you something for the pain. I can give you a local; then I’ll write you a scrip for some painkillers.”
“Great.”
“What then?” asked Wanda.
“Well, we need for the swelling to go down just a little bit to determine the extent of the damage. I’ll schedule you for an MRI in the morning.”
“So what’s the diagnosis?” Wanda asked.
“Preliminarily, it looks like a penile fracture. Possibly an early onset of Peyronie’s disease.”
“Jesus,” said Mack.
“So what do you do?” asked Wanda, now gently rubbing circles on Mack’s back.
“Leeches!” said the doctor, grinning. “The problem is all that blood trapped at the head of our friend’s penis there. Leeches take down the swelling like you wouldn’t believe.” Garvey walked to the door. “Mary Ann,” he hollered down the hall, “can you bring me two of the six-gram leeches, please?”
“What the fuck?” shouted Mack.
Standing erect, Garvey was well over six feet, maybe six-four. He was kind of handsome in a way that reminded Mack of one of those old cowboy shows. His teeth matched his hair—eggshell white—and were set off by his tanned, barely lined face.
Garvey chuckled. “I’m just kidding.”
“Thank God,” said Wanda.
The doctor leaned in and smiled. “They’re not really that effective.” Garvey stood up and stepped back to the door and stuck his head out. “Mary Ann! Make that four of the six-grammers, please.”
“Holy shit! You ain’t really putting leeches on my cock!”
Garvey threw his head back and laughed. “C’mon,” he said. “Frank Sinatra used to come to this hospital. You think we’d really use leeches? I’m just playing with you. Relax.” Garvey put his hand on Mack’s shoulder. “You’re in the best possible hands.”
Mack and Wanda started chuckling together until Mack winced.
“So seriously, what happens now?” asked Wanda.
“Well, there are a couple of ways we can go,” said Garvey. “Immediate surgery, naturally, is one option. There are possible postoperative effects, however, that a specialist can explain better than I can.”
“What kind of effects?” Mack and Wanda asked together.
“Well, for one, there’s a risk the procedure will not be successful. Then of course there’s always a risk anytime a patient undergoes general anesthesia.”
“But what else?” said Wanda, who watched Mack staring at his fractured member.
“Inability to achieve erection and sexual function could be one result. Permanent dislocation another.” Garvey picked up a chart on the counter and made a notation. “The most important thing right now is to rule out a ruptured artery or torn urethra. Have you been able to urinate?”
“Hasn’t even occurred to me.”
“Well, at this point, we’d have to knock you out to insert a catheter anyway.”
“Jesus.”
“So what were you shooting?”
“Excuse me?”
“At Fuente Dorado. What’d you shoot before the tractor?”
“I don’t know. I think I was maybe six or seven over after thirteen. Playing from the tips.”
“Not bad. I played in a Pro-Am there with Ben Crenshaw years ago.”
Mack shifted up onto his elbow as he leaned against the examining table. “Ben’s from Texas, you know.”
“Great guy. Not long off the tee by today’s standards, but could he putt.”
“Yeah, I just fucked up my shoulder the other night too, or I’da been lower.”
Wanda nudged Mack.
Garvey made another notation on his chart. “Well, while surgery is an option, my recommendation—at least for this evening, unless there’s a sudden negative reaction—would be simply to ice the area down. Give the tissue a chance to ameliorate some of the swelling. If things don’t look better by tomorrow, I think a specialist will recommend surgery. He might anyway, but at least it might not be the de-gloving procedure.”
“De-gloving?” said Mack.
“Just what it sounds like. They make a cut and then peel back the—”
Mack raised a hand. “Stop. ’Less you want me to puke right here.”
Garvey nodded and held up both of his hands.
“What’s the risk of waiting?” asked Wanda.
“If there is a tear, things could get bad quickly. Frankly, though, I think if that were the case, we’d be seeing a lot more swelling below the bend here.” Garvey pointed with his pen and circled Mack’s penis.
“Either way,” he continued, “if you opt for surgery, you’re going to want a specialist, and that would likely take several hours to arrange anyway. I want to keep you here tonight for observation. You can just chill out, take one of the muscle relaxants and an anti-inflammatory, and ice the area down. If it gets worse, we can operate tonight. If the swelling goes down, we’ll take another look in the morning. What do you think?”
“I think this is some shitty honeymoon.”
“It’s a tough lie, that’s for sure,” said Garvey.
“You said it, Doc,” said Wanda.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Al swung by the club that afternoon to meet Frankie Fresh to take out another loan against the payout. Frankie was in the 19th Hole eating a meatball sub with a basket of fries. Al sat down and Frankie pushed an inch-thick envelope across the table.
“You guys aren’t letting your expenses get away from you, now, are you?” Frankie asked.
“No, we’re okay.”
“If you say so,” Frankie said between mouthfuls of sub. “Thirty percent seems like an awful high investment for a hundred-K return like you’re expecting.”
“Thirty?”
“Your original five, the other five, and this ten, plus the ten the counselor hit me for the other day.”
J.T. hadn’t told Al about taking out ten from Frankie. “Yeah, that ten he got must’ve been on his own account. I don’t know anything about that.”
“Uh-huh. Now I suppose he’s going to tell me the same thing about this. Listen,” Frankie said, stuffing a wad of fries in his mouth, “I personally don’t give a shit who’s doing what with the money. If you guys are borrowing at a point a week to buy chicks’ underwear, I don’t care. Just remember the golden rule.” He pointed at his chest with his two greasy thumbs. “First dollar payout. Me.” Frankie leaned in so close, Al could smell the potatoes on his breath. His blue irises were darker and cloudier than Al had ever seen them. Bloodshot capillaries textured the whites of his eyes. “I will get paid, Al. First.”
Al’s sphincter tightened. “Understood.”
“Which raises another point: vig’s due.”
“Already?”
Frankie wiped his mouth with a napkin and raised his eyebrows. “The first ten you guys took out?” He sipped the iced tea in his right hand and extended his open left palm. “That’s a hundred this week and three hundred next week, got it?”
“Got it.”
J.T. had nearly worn a groove in his office carpet pacing back and forth, waiting for a call from Mack or Wanda. Unable to bear it any longer, he called Wanda.
“So, how’s it going? Did he execute his gainer in the lobby?”
“Not exactly.”
“What the fuck is going on over there? This is bullsh—”
“He really got hurt.”
“What?”
“I’m at Eisenhower Medical Center. He got hurt on the golf course. A tractor rolled down a hill and knocked over a portable toilet when he was inside.”
“You’re kidding.”
“He’s got a fractured penis. He’s lying knocked out on the bed here in the hospital room. He’s going to need surgery.”
J.T. whooped. “Fan-fucking-tastic! You’re not kidding me, right?”
“Nope. He’s really hurt.”
“Any witnesses?”
“No. It was the middle of the day. Just him and Buddy on the course.”
J.T. bounced on his toes. “So you’re with him at the hospital and everything? He really got hurt on the resort property?”
“Yes.”
“And the fracture? It’s been confirmed by MRI?”
“No, the doctor wanted to wait and let the swelling go down. They’re worried there might be an arterial tear or a tear in the urethra. At a minimum, he’s got to have some kind of surgical procedure done.”
“And on his honeymoon! That is just terrific! I knew you wouldn’t let me down.” J.T. thought about what wine he should celebrate with.
“Nice to see you take such an interest in your client’s wellbeing. You realize he’s seriously injured, J.T. Not to mention this means we have to stay out here another day.”
“Yeah, sure. Don’t worry, I’m coming out tomorrow.”
“You?”
“You kidding? I’m the lawyer, babe. The first responder.” J.T. pumped his fist. “God, I knew I was overdue for a break!”
“You’re not going to shaft Mack on this, are you?”
“Ooh, nice one.”
“You know what I meant.”