The Clinic

37

Big Micky was anything but.

He sat facing us under a huge live oak. Nothing grew under the tree, and the ground had reverted to sand. The rest of the yard was perfect bonsai grass around a half-Olympic black-bottom pool with a spitting-dolphin waterfall, herringbone-brick hardscape, statuary on pedestals, blood-red azalea beds, more big trees. Through the foliage, a spreading, hazy view of the San Gabriels said money couldn't buy clean air.

The old man was so shrunken he made the wheelchair look like a high-back. No shoulders, no neck- his smallish head seemed to sprout from his sternum. His skin was legal-pad yellow, his brown eyes filmed, the skin around them bagged, defatted, jeweled with blackheads. A fleshy red blob of a nose reached nearly to his gray upper lip. Bad dentures made his jaws work constantly. Only his hair was youthful: thick, coarse, still dark, with only a few sparks of gray.

Milo's warrant had opened the electric gate of the house on Mulholland but no one had come up to greet us and he'd taken out his gun and let the uniforms come on like an army. Just as we'd reached the front door it had opened and the ponytailed frog I'd given the medicine vial to was leaning against the jamb, trying to look casual.

Milo put him against the wall, cuffed him, patted him down, took his automatic and his wallet, read his driver's license.

“Armand Jacszcyc, yeah, this looks like you. Who else is in the house, Armand?”

“Just Mr. K. and a nurse.”

“You're sure?”

“Yeah,” said Jacszcyc. Then he noticed me and his head retracted.

The uniforms went in. A sergeant came back a few minutes later, saying, “No one else. Lots of guns, we're pulling an arsenal.”

Another uniform came out with Nurse Anna. Her tight face was glossy with sweat and her big chest was emphasized by an electric-blue angora sweater.

She kept her head down as they took her away.

“Okay,” said Milo. “Leave me a couple of guys to tear up the place for dope.”

“No dope so far,” said the sergeant.

“Keep looking. And bust this one for concealed weapon.”

Frog was hustled off and we stepped in. The center of the house was one sixty-foot stretch of dark-paneled space clear to the back, sparkle-ceilinged and gold-carpeted, filled with groupings of green and brown couches, ceramic lamps with fringed shades, heavy, carved tables full of souvenir-shop porcelain and crystal. Clown paintings and Rodeo Drive oils of rainy Paris street scenes said all talent should not be encouraged. The rear wall was covered by pleated olive drapes that locked out the sun and sealed in the smell of decay.

A screech-bird voice from the back yelled, “Where's that water, Armand!”

A wheelchair sat next to a fake Louis XIV commode with an obscenely inlaid front. The marble top was crowded with medicine bottles. Not like the vial I'd showed Jacszcyc. Big white plastic containers. No prescription blanks. Drug-company samples.

“Armand!”

“He had to run,” said Milo. “Nurse Anna's gone, too.”

The old man blinked, tried to move. The effort turned him green and he sank back.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Police.” Milo flashed ID. Two uniforms came over and he told them, “Over there.” Pointing to the open doorway of a big brown kitchen. The counter was piled with water bottles, soft-drink cans, takeout cartons, dirty dishes, pots and pans.

“What the fuck you moe-rons doin' here?”

His accent was interesting: the broad farmer drawl of Bakersfield tucked up at the final syllables by a hint of Eastern Europe. Lawrence Welk without the cheer.

“Gimme some water, moe-ron.”

Milo filled a glass and held it out along with the warrant.

“What's that?”

“Drug paper. Anonymous tip.”

The old man took the glass but ignored the warrant.

He drank, barely able to hold the glass, water dribbling down his chin. He tried to put it on the table, didn't protest when Milo took it.

“Drug paper? Wrong customer, moe-ron. But what do I give a flying? Tear up the place, it's rented anyway.”

“Rented from you,” said Milo. “Triage Properties. That's a medical term. Interesting choice for a doing-business-as. My-son-the-doctor's idea?”

The old man put his hands together and closed his eyes.

“Triage,” repeated Milo. “DBA the Peninsula Group, DBA Northern Lights Investments. Northern Lights traces to Excalibur Properties, which traces to Revelle Recreation, which traces to Brooke-Hastings Entertainment. Your old skin biz. Before that, your old manure-and-meat biz. You musta really liked the name, giving it to wife number two and the so-called charitable institution you established in San Francisco: rehab for street girls. What, Junior treating their VD and doing their abortions and helping the cute ones get into dancing?”

“You prefer welfare?”

“So what else did Junior do that year? Practice his surgical technique?”

The old man's hands shook a bit. “Go ahead, moe-ron, finish. Then go back to your boss and tell him you found nothing. Then, go fuck yourself.”

“I'd rather talk.”

“About what?”

“Bakersfield. San Francisco.”

“Nice towns, both. You wanna know where to eat, I got recommendations.”

Milo touched his gut. “Food isn't what I need.”

“No,” said the old guy. “You're a fat fuck- here's a tip: Lay off the meat. Look what happened to me.” He reached up with effort, flicked a chicken-skin jowl. It fluttered as if paper.

“Big meat eater, were you?” said Milo.

“Oh, yeah. Meat, meat, meat.” A purplish tongue tip cruised along a gray lip. “I ate the best. Ate the fat, too, every bit. Now my arteries and everything else are clogged and I gotta sit here and put up with moe-rons like you.”

“Tough,” said Milo.

The old man laughed. “You give a flying, huh?”

Milo smiled. “So. The new kidney making life any easier?”

The gray lips turned white.

“I also want to talk about Junior,” said Milo. “His sudden holiday.”

“Fuck off.”

“We also served paper for his place in Beverly Hills. Alleged medical offices. Except the only thing we found in there were rooms full of porn videos ready for shipping.” Smiling again. “And that operating room. Must have cost a fortune.”

The old man pushed a button on the wheelchair's arm and the contraption began reversing slowly.

Milo held it in place and the chair whined, wheels scraping the carpet.

“We're still talking, Mr. Kruvinski.”

“I want a phone. I got a right to a fucking phone.”

“What rights? You're not being arrested.”

“Leggo of the chair.”

“Sure,” said Milo. Pushing another button, he locked the tires.

“You're in big trouble, pigass,” said the old man. “Lemme see that paper.”

Milo gave him the warrant again and he unfolded it.

“I need my glasses.”

Milo stood there.

“Gimme my glasses!”

“Do I look like Armand?”

Cursing and squinting, the old man held the warrant at arm's length with palsying hands. The arms lost their strength and the paper slipped and fell to the floor.

I picked it up and tried to give it to him.

He shook his head. “You guys are no good. Rotten, no honor.”

“Oh yeah,” said Milo. “Honor among thieves. Spare me.”

“What do you want!”

“Just to talk.”

“Then get yourself a psychiatrist!”

Milo grinned at me.

“Fuck off, clown.”

“Why so hasty, Kruvinski? Maybe we could help each other.”

“In hell.”

“Maybe there, too.”

Milo leaned over him. “Don't you godfather types make a big thing about gratitude? You're looking at the guy who saved Junior's life.”

Something flickered behind the cloudy eyes.

“Unfortunately, I couldn't save Hope Devane. Or your grandnephew, little Casey. But I did get the guy who did them. Stopped him before he got to Junior.”

The clouded eyes were wide now. Unblinking.

“Who? Gimme a name.”

Milo placed a finger on Kruvinski's lips, gently. “That doesn't mean I'm going to forget about what Junior did. Which you can bet the scumbag will use as his defense. Odds are any jury's going to sympathize with him. Especially one of our idiot L.A. juries. Or we won't even have a trial 'cause the D.A. will plea-bargain it down. Meaning sooner or later the scumbag's gonna be out and guess who he's gonna be looking for? So unless Junior plans to stay on vacation forever, he's gonna be looking over his shoulder a lot.”

The old man smiled. “I give a-”

“Right,” said Milo. “You're Don Corleone.”

Silence. “So what do you want from me?”

“I need to know if Junior operated on anyone else for your sake. And what was the connection between Hope and your family? Why'd you pay her allowance?”

Silence.

“It's gonna come out. Better we let the prosecution have it before the defense.”

“Yeah,” said the old man, “we're all on the same side.” He tried to spit, produced only a belch.

“God forbid,” said Milo.

Soft conversation drifted from the kitchen. Then loud snaps. Cops opening and closing cabinets.

“Shaddup!” screeched the old man, to no effect.

“Your people are all gone,” said Milo. “Some people. Armand and Little Miss Anna- the former Storm Breeze. Closest she ever came to an R.N. was playing one in that movie of yours- Head Nurse. Junior teach her the fundamentals of renal care?”

No answer.

“Little blur between reality and fantasy, Mr. K.? Like Junior's Beverly Hills office, all those diplomas, business cards advertising fertility medicine, but no patients. Anything to make the kid feel important, huh?”

The old man spat.

Milo stretched and looked around. “That operating room. Those dialysis machines. A clinic for one man. At least Junior had his fling at medicine over in Santa Monica. Because the chance of him ever practicing again when all this comes out is zippo. Assuming the scumbag lets him live.”

Kruvinski didn't speak for a long time.

“Push me outside,” he finally said. “Under that tree.”

Waving a claw hand toward the olive-green drapes.

“What tree?” said Milo.

“Behind the curtains, moe-ron. Open 'em, get me out in the air.”

In the shade of the oak, he said, “Gimme a name.”

“Don't know your own donor's name?”

“I don't know any donor.”

“You could be forced to submit to a checkup.”

“On what grounds?”

“I'm sure the defense will find one.”

“Good luck.” Gnarled hands rested in his lap. The jaws worked faster.

“How many other kidneys has Junior harvested for you?”

“You're crazy.”

“Fine,” said Milo. “Play hard-to-get. Other victims start coming forward, Junior's going to be in the hot seat and the scumbag'll start looking like a hero. Maybe you don't care about Hope, just another hooker's kid. But little Casey- try explaining that to his grandma, your sister Sonia. San Francisco cops told me you bailed him out of those meth-manufacturing busts at Berkeley, smoothed his record, got Hope to sponsor him into grad school. Which wasn't that big of a stretch. He was a smart kid, top of his class, just like Hope. Just like Junior. But look where it got all of them.”

The old man looked up through the tree. A hairline of light had pierced the branches, creating a hot, white scar down the center of his degraded face.

“When it comes out that Casey died because of his association with Junior, how are you gonna explain that to your sister Sonia and Casey's mommy, her daughter Cheryl? They trusted their baby to you. How you gonna explain why he's cooling in the coroner's fridge instead of writing his thesis?”

The old man gazed out at the pool. The black bottom gave it a mirrored surface, no visibility of the depths. Ten years ago, black bottoms had been the thing. Then a few kids fell in and no one noticed them.

“Family ties,” said Milo. “But Don Corleone took care of his people.”

“My son is-” said the old man. “You'll never have such a son.”

“Amen.”

The cloudy eyes popped. “Fuck you! Coming in here, thinking you know, you don't fu-”

“That's the point,” said Milo. “I don't know.”

“Thinking you know,” repeated the old man. “Thinking you- moe-ron- lemme tell you”- a finger wagged-“she was good people, Hope. And her mama. Don't shoot your mou- don't disrespect people you don't know. Don't- you don't know so shaddup!”

“Was she family, too?”

“I made her family. Who the hell you think paid for her schooling? Who the hell got her mama outta hooking and into managing a club, regular hours, a paycheck, goddamn pension plan? Who? Some fucking social worker?”

The finger curled laboriously, managed to point at his caved-in chest. “I been working my whole life helping people! And one of the ones I helped most was that girlie's mother. When she got cancer I helped with that, too. When she died, I paid for the funeral.”

“Why?”

“Because she was good people.”

“Ah.”

“The girl, too. Little blondie, body like that, you think I couldn'ta got her into club work if I wanted to? But, no, I could see she was finer. Had a brain. So I told Lottie we keep her far from the clubs. We make sure she gets schooling. I figured she'd be a doctor, like Mike. Botha them did the science projects together, geniuses. She changes her mind, decides to be a shrink, okay, it's almost the same. I treated her like she was my daughter.”

“Smartest boy, smartest girl,” I said.

The wizened face snapped toward me. “You bet, pal. My Mike was the smartest thing you ever seen, you shoulda had such a kid, reading at three, saying stuff people couldn't believe. And you know where brains come from? Genes. They proved it. All the kids in my family are brains. Casey skipped two grades, got a brother studying at MIT, nuclear physics. I came to this country with nuttin', no one gave me shit. Greatest country in the world, you're smart and you work, you get what you want, not like the niggers on welfare.”

“Why'd you make Hope family?” said Milo. “ 'Cause you liked her mama?”

The old man glared at him. “Get your mind outta the gutter. If I wanted that kinda thing, I had plenty of others. You wanna know? I tell you. She helped Mike. Botha them helped Mike. Lottie and Hope. After that…” He crossed his index fingers. “Family.”

“Helped him with what?”

“He had a accident. Memorial Day picnic, I threw it every year for the employees- big barbecue on my land near the Kern River. Hot dogs, sausage, the best steaks from the plant.” Smiling. “Like I said, I ate the best.”

He licked his lips again and his head lolled as if he was dozing off. Then it snapped up. He flinched. I tried to picture him swaggering, bull-necked and muscular, into the slaughterhouse late at night. Swinging the bat at trussed hogs.

“We had races,” he said, nearly inaudible. “Potato-sack, three-legged. I hired a band. Flags all over the place, best fucking party in town. Mike was thirteen, went over to the river, where the water was strong. He was a great swimmer- on the school team. But he hit his head on something, a piece of wood or something, went down, got pushed out into the white water. No one heard him yelling except Lottie and Hope 'cause they were down there by themselves, talking. They both jumped in, pulled him out. It was hard, them being girls, they almost drowned, too. He swallowed a lotta water but they gave him the respiration, got the water outta him. By the time I got there, he was okay.”

Moisture in the glazed eyes.

“From that time on, she was a queen and she was a princess! Cutest little blond thing, coulda been a movie star but I said using the brain was better. I started this prize for science. They earned it, Mike was always straight As, never needed help on the homework, track and field, swimming, baseball, you name it- gotta fourteen hundred on his SAT test. So that's it, Mr. Cop. Nothing dirty. Smart kids being smart.”

“Until Mike got himself into trouble in Seattle.”

Healthy color finally came into the old man's face. A pinkening around the edges of his mouth. Clarity in the eyes- the health benefits of anger?

“Moe-rons! What'd he do, take some stiff and try to get something good outta it?”

“Minor technicality. The stiff wasn't dead.”

“What, no brain waves and it's ready to get up and do the fucking mamba? Bullshit! It was dead as your dick- they do it every day- what do you think they give the medical students to practice on? Their fucking girlfriends? Stiffs they give 'em! They got hundreds of 'em stored, pickled like pigs' feet. They take 'em apart, throw out the crap they don't want, like garbage. So what was Mike's crime? Not filling out the right forms? Big fucking deal. It was a put-up job. They didn't like him from day one 'cause he was too smart for them, showed them up all the time, pointed out their mistakes. I wanted to go up there, tell 'em they better cut out the bullshit but Mike said no, he was sick of 'em anyway, fuck 'em.”

“So he left and spent a year with the Brooke-Hastings program.”

“Fuck you, it was a program. Those kids were starving junkies in the Tenderloin, getting butt-fucked in the alley by perverts and niggers. We cleaned 'em up, got 'em medical care- Mike's a goddamn fine doctor.”

“Vocational training,” said Milo. “So they could get fucked by perverts who paid you.”

The old man made another unsuccessful attempt to spit. “You know everything, moe-ron- if they were being abused how come the city never charged us with nothing? Because the city knew we got 'em off the welfare rolls. Those with talent we encouraged to go onstage. So what? Others we sent to school- I musta sent fifteen, twenty girls to college, secretarial school. What the fuck did you ever do for society?”

“Nothing,” said Milo, exaggerating a grimace. “Just a civil-servant leech.”

“You got that right.”

“Why'd Mike switch from surgery to gynecology?” I said.

“He liked delivering babies- he delivered hundreds of 'em. How many lives you ever brought into the world?”

“Deliveries and abortions,” I said. “And sterilizations.”

“So what? You don't believe a lady's got a right to choose?”

“Where'd he go after the residency at Fidelity hospital?” Milo said.

“Back to me. Helping me with the business, taking care of the girls and building up a practice. Then, when I got sick, he concentrated on taking care of me. I tried to talk him outta it, said Mike, you got your own life, let me be. He said, Dad, I got plenty of life aheada me. I'm gonna take care of you.”

Another quick turn toward the pool.

“Fuck you,” the old man said. Softly, almost genially. “Fuck you, fuck your drug paper, fuck your life. You got no right to come in here under bullshit pretenses, insult my family.”

“Talk about gratitude,” said Milo.

“So what? You're telling me the scumbag walks.”

“If Mike has a history of stealing people's organs he sure does.”

“Mike's a better man than you'll- Mike's dirty diaper when he was a baby had more class than you'll ever have. You say stealing. I say bullshit. Experts cut me up twice, put in kidneys that were worth shit. I was on the fucking machine, no veins left, listening to myself pee all day. One day I pass out, wake up, Mike tells me I don't need to be on the machine anymore.”

“Just like that.”

“Just like that.”

“What did Hope have to do with it?”

“Who says anything?”

“She visit you after the operation?”

“Why not?”

“Casey, too?”

“Why not?”

“What did Casey have to do with the operation?”

“Who says anything- and that's all I'm putting up with from you, so fuck off.”

Waving a hand.

“Where's Mike hiding out?”

No answer.

“The old country?”

Nothing.

“He planning on ever coming back?”

No answer.

The old man closed his eyes.

“Suit yourself,” said Milo, getting up. “But you still got a problem.”

The old man kept his eyes shut. Smiled. “Problems can be solved.”