Almost Infamous (Detective Damien Drake Book 9)

by Patrick Logan

  And it didn’t look half bad. With the tags removed, it could almost pass as a label-free Hugo Boss sweatshirt and not one from Old Navy. Not quite… but almost.

  After slipping into a pair of dark jeans, Tobin finally left his bedroom and headed to the kitchen. He sneered at Kenneth’s door as he passed, which remained firmly closed.

  The asshole uses up all the hot water, pounds his noodles, then… what? Goes back to sleep? Fucking dick.

  As he prepared a pot of coffee, Tobin’s eyes gradually drifted to the clock above the stove.

  “Shit!”

  It was nearly six.

  Tobin whipped his cell phone out and dialed Kevin’s number.

  “What you want, fuck boy?” the man demanded. “You ready to work?”

  “Kevin,” Tobin cleared his throat. “My arm… my arm hurts too bad to come in today. I’m sorry, but can you please tell Mr. Mel—”

  “Fuck that, if you’re being a pussy and skipping work, you can tell the man yourself. Who you think I am, fuckboy? Your goddamn gimp?”

  Tobin shut his eyes.

  “I—I—I know, I know, but you’re…” Tobin stopped talking when he realized that Kevin had already hung up. “Fuck.”

  Crestfallen, he poured himself a cup of coffee and leaned up against the stove as he sipped it.

  It tasted like shit, they were all out of Stevia and almond milk and he hated black coffee, but he needed the hit.

  Sleep hadn’t come easily and when it did, it didn’t stick around for long.

  Tobin grimaced and scrolled through his emails, eventually returning to the one from Dr. Alex Cratom.

  Bring cash…

  If Kevin wasn’t even going to let Mr. know that Tobin wouldn’t be coming into work, then the prospect of the fat ginger bringing him his paycheck was next to zero. Besides, even with check in hand, it wouldn’t nearly be enough to cover Dr. Cratom’s fee.

  And it wasn’t cash.

  With every cent from his paltry paychecks going to clothing, his bank account had been summarily drained. And any friends or family that still spoke to him were either broke or Tobin already owed them cash.

  No, there was only one place for him to get money on such short notice.

  He sighed and placed his half-empty coffee mug on the laminate countertop.

  Swallowing his pride, Tobin stepped out of the kitchen.

  “Ken? Ken, you still here?”

  When there was no answer, he walked right up to Kenneth’s bedroom and listened closely. When he still heard nothing, he gently knocked and repeated the man’s name.

  “You in there?”

  He tried the doorknob and when it turned freely in his hand, he slowly opened the door. The room was empty, and Tobin darted inside.

  Cash… I need to get cash…

  Chapter 8

  The bus ride to Dr. Alex’s Pet Shoppe was humiliating.

  Tobin had taken the bus before, of course—he didn’t own a car—but dressed the way he was, today he looked like someone who took the bus. Not someone worried about the environment, a socially conscious individual, perhaps, or an Instagram superstar trying to make a point, no matter how obscure, but, quite simply, someone who had no other options.

  And this curdled his empty stomach.

  But despite the crippling anxiety he felt at the prospect of being seen this way, Tobin’s mood was slightly elevated. In just a few hours, he’d go under the knife. In just a few hours, he’d finally deal with the one thing that had kept him from making it big for all these years.

  What he had planned was no minor surgery—Dr. Cratom had, on many an occasion, indicated just how dangerous this type of operation could be—but any fear he might have felt was easily dispelled by rereading Jan Dewalter’s email.

  Fucking bitch.

  And after he came out of surgery? Jan would be the one begging him to join her stupid show. Tobin planned on making her sweat, just a little, before accepting the offer. After all, Savage Money was just a stepping-stone into something greater.

  Not just stardom… but superstardom.

  With great effort, Tobin put his phone away for several minutes and stared out the window, daydreaming about how things would be different without the two bumps on his forehead.

  How good life would become.

  As the bus traveled deeper into Manhattan, the quality of pedestrians that they passed began to change. Soon, Burberry scarfs, camel Mac coats, and double-monk shoes became commonplace. A small smile started to form on Tobin’s lips, but this was quickly dashed when he saw the neon lettering above a store with blacked-out windows.

  Moxy’s.

  Tobin grunted and the woman seated to his right offered him a strange look. He glowered at her until she averted her eyes.

  Why is a place like that here, in the middle of—

  As his eyes naturally drifted down the alleyway adjacent Moxy’s, he spotted something that took his breath away.

  Tobin rocketed to his feet and started toward the door. He bumped into a man with a long white beard but barely noticed. When he reached the door, however, it wouldn’t open.

  The bus was, after all, still moving.

  “Let me out,” Tobin gasped. “Let me out.”

  The man with the white beard grumbled something unintelligible.

  “Hey! Hey, driver! Let me out!” he was shouting now.

  Tobin looked toward the front of the bus. The driver’s eyes met his in the convex mirror, but the man behind the wheel quickly looked away without acknowledging him.

  “Hey! Stop the bus!”

  When the vehicle continued to roll on, Tobin tried to wedge his fingers between the two doors and pry them open.

  “You gotta wait for a stop, buddy,” White Beard informed him.

  Tobin ignored him and continued to try and open the door. Just as he managed to slip a finger beneath the rubber safety flap a hand came down on his right shoulder, sending a dart of pain up to the base of his neck.

  He pulled his hand free and whipped around.

  “Don’t you fucking touch me,” he warned White Beard. “Don’t you ever fucking touch me!”

  The man was shocked by this outburst but while his hand fell away from Tobin’s shoulder, he didn’t back up.

  White Beard might have been in his eighties, and so thin that his ratty Disney World T-shirt hung loosely on his shoulders, but this was New York.

  “Wait for a stop.”

  Tobin’s face contorted.

  “What? Don’t you tell me—”

  A bell pinged and the bus jolted to a halt. Then Tobin heard the audible hiss of the door opening behind him.

  “—what to do,” he finished as he backed off the bus.

  The man hurled a curse at him, but the doors closed, and the bus started to move again before Tobin could volley an insult back. Still fuming—How dare that degenerate touch me?— it took him several seconds to orient himself, which he eventually managed by focusing on the neon Moxy’s sign.

  As he walked toward the alley, Tobin pulled his cell phone from his pocket.

  This is gonna make for the perfect photo, he thought.

  Parked in the alleyway was a bright red Lamborghini.

  Tobin glanced around quickly, guessing that whoever had parked it here likely hadn’t ventured too far. After confirming that he was alone, he sidled up next to the car. The gold and black bull emblem on the hood was smooth and polished.

  I wonder what kind of Lamborghini this is… Tobin chuckled. Lamborghini Expensiavo, that’s what kind. One day, I’ll have any make, model, or brand of car I want.

  Still laughing to himself, Tobin crouched near the hood, making sure that the emblem was visible next to his face. Then he switched his camera phone to Portrait Mode and lined up the shot.

  The first one was a test, and it didn’t come out half-bad. For the next series of photographs, Tobin made a concerted effort to pout his upper lip, which was a little thinner than he would have liked.
/>   So lost was he in capturing the perfect photo, that Tobin didn’t even hear the man with the dog approach.

  “Excuse me.”

  Tobin jumped.

  “Yeah, uh, uh, sorry,” he grumbled as he backed away from the car.

  The dog barked, but the man only stared.

  “Whatever.”

  Tobin, already having acquired what he needed, hurried back toward the bus stop. Once there, he propped himself up against the glass partition and started to go through his new photos. He selected his favorite and applied several filters.

  Next came the caption.

  For some reason, his thoughts turned to the troll who had fucked up his last two posts.

  He grunted as the caption came to him.

  Even though my new whip is red, let’s be honest… y’all are green with envy.

  Tobin posted the photo and then smiled.

  How much do you wanna bet that Anon doesn’t have this kind of ride?

  Tobin was still grinning when the bus pulled up to the curb and he got back on to continue his trip to the veterinary clinic.

  Chapter 9

  The anchor of a faded, gray strip mall, Dr. Alex’s Pet Shoppe spanned six large, frosted windows. Above said windows was a blue sign with the veterinary clinic’s name and the image of a man with a wide smile pressing a cat to his cheek: Dr. Alex Cratom.

  There was no indication that in addition to performing his standard veterinary duties, Dr. Cratom also specialized in plastic surgery on a very specific cohort of bipedal mammals. In addition, rumor had it that if you were seeking medical attention that required the utmost of discretion, the good doctor was also a viable option.

  If you paid cash, there was no surgery that Dr. Cratom wouldn’t at least attempt to perform.

  Except for one… until now, that is.

  And, seeing how this was Tobin’s fourth visit to the clinic, he knew the routine.

  Tucking his chin to his chest, he walked past the front entrance and made his way down the alley behind the clinic. As expected, the rusted red door was unlocked, and Tobin pulled it open without knocking. His nostrils were immediately flooded with the characteristic smell of wood shavings and animal piss. Crinkling his nose, Tobin navigated slowly down the narrow hallway while he waited for his eyes to adjust. He’d just made it to the first of two operating rooms when someone grabbed his arm and he shrieked.

  “You’re early,” a man hissed in his ear.

  Tobin inhaled sharply and tried to break free of Dr. Cratom’s grasp, but his entire right arm had gone numb.

  “What the hell is wrong with your arm?” the doctor asked, thankfully releasing his hold.

  It took Tobin a few seconds to catch his breath before he could answer.

  “Hurt it… think it’s… broken or separated… something…”

  Dr. Cratom was a big man with a dark beard that wasn’t quite as full as depicted on the banner outside.

  “Can you lift it?”

  Tobin didn’t even try.

  “No chance.”

  “How did you hurt it?”

  Tobin sighed, picturing Kevin’s grinning face in the side mirror of the moving truck as he pulled away from the curb.

  “I fell.”

  “Sideways? Forward? What?”

  Tobin finally met the man’s dark eyes.

  “Forward—on my palms.”

  “Likely separated, then. I can put it back in, no problem.”

  Tobin nodded, but he made no move toward the steel gurney off to the right that Dr. Cratom indicated with his thick chin.

  The man, whose expression had been neutral to this point, started to frown.

  “Lemme guess… you hurt your arm, but that’s not why you’re here, is it, Tobin?”

  Tobin held the man’s stare.

  “No, it’s not.”

  An uncomfortable silence fell over the modest operating room.

  Eventually, Dr. Cratom broke and sighed.

  “Tobin, I told you last time and the time before that: your forehead… there’s nothing wrong with it. It’s all in here, Tobin, not here.” As he spoke, Dr. Cratom first tapped his temple, then his brow.

  Tobin frowned.

  Yeah, and if that were true, then Jan Fucking Dewalter wouldn’t have passed me up for Savage Money. Isn’t that right, doc?

  With his good arm, Tobin reached into his pocket and took out the wad of bills he’d acquired from Kenneth’s room.

  “I brought cash this time.”

  To his credit, the doctor managed to avoid looking at the money for a good three seconds. On the fourth, the allure proved too great and his eyes dropped.

  “How much is it?”

  Tobin thought he saw the man’s tongue dart out of his mouth and quickly lick his lower lip.

  “It’s—it’s—I’ll bring more. This is, like, a down payment.”

  Dr. Cratom grunted.

  “Tobin, I told you… your skull… it’s too thin. Frontal eminence shaving isn’t like a simple eyelift.”

  Tobin raised the cash in his hand and Dr. Cratom looked genuinely torn.

  “Down payment,” he repeated.

  Eventually, the big man sighed.

  “I can’t. I can’t do it. It’s too dangerous, too risky.”

  Tobin had hoped that it wouldn’t come to this, but he thought that it might. And he’d come prepared. Because this time, he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. This time, he was going to get the surgery he wanted.

  This was Lucas Lionell’s time to shine and no overweight veterinarian was going to hold him back from the fame that he deserved.

  Tobin tossed the money at Dr. Cratom and then pulled out his cell phone. The vet dropped the cash and by the time he bent over and picked it up, Tobin was already playing a video.

  “Five grand for the rhinoplasty. I’ll even throw in a little eye lift for free. Cash only.”

  “When can you do it?”

  “As soon as you pay up, Tobin—cash.”

  Tobin slipped the cell phone back into his pocket. Another silence fell over the room, this one lasting longer than the previous one. It was clear that Dr. Cratom was waiting to see if Tobin would break, back down, give up.

  Tobin dug his heels in; he wasn’t gonna leave this foul-smelling place without his new profile.

  After nearly a minute, Dr. Cratom’s shoulders sagged.

  “The risks… Tobin, it’s a very risky surgery,” he said at last. “Normally, a surgery like this would require a surgical team of at least three people, not including nursing staff.”

  Despite the man’s words, Tobin grinned.

  He’d won, and they both knew it.

  “I get it… I know the risks… I know the risks, and I’m willing to accept them. All of them.”

  Because the risk of not being famous, of not getting what I deserve, is far greater than anything that can result from your scalpel, doc.

  “Alright, fine,” Dr. Cratom finally relented. “But I’m warning you… ah, fuck it. Let’s just get this over with.”

  Chapter 10

  “Is it… is it done?” Tobin asked groggily. He tried to sit up, but Dr. Cratom placed a hand on his chest, forcing him back down. “Is it done?”

  “Yeah, it’s done. I even fixed up your shoulder, free of charge. But I gotta tell you, Tobin, there was a lot of—”

  “Mirror! Give me a mirror!” Tobin begged.

  Dr. Cratom leaned forward.

  “Tobin, your skull is—”

  “The fucking mirror!”

  Dr. Cratom produced a handheld mirror of the like that a barber might use to show you the back of your head and Tobin reached for it. Still woozy, it took him three swipes to grab it. Despite the sedatives still coursing through his system from the IV drip embedded in the back of his hand, his heart was racing.

  Please… please, please, please.

  He blinked twice and when his reflection finally came into focus, his jaw went slack.

  Dr.
Cratom said something, but Tobin didn’t hear a single word.

  Part of him had expected a butcher job reminiscent of Jack Nicholson in Batman, but this was… next level.

  “Tobin, I warned you…”

  Tobin reached up with his right hand, which was surprisingly devoid of pain now, and very gently probed the skin above his eyebrows. It was soft and slightly mushy, like boiled pork belly, but it rebounded nicely following each touch. He didn’t dare get close to the incision just below his hairline that ran from temple to temple. Closed tightly, almost seamlessly, with thick black sutures, he was surprised that there was minimal discoloration on either side of the wound. On their many previous conversations about this surgery, Dr. Cratom had warned him that there might be extensive bruising that would keep him inside for a week, maybe even longer.

  “Tobin? What—”

  Tobin hushed the man and slowly turned his head to one side, then the other.

  “Once the swelling goes down, it will—”

  “It’s amazing,” Tobin gasped. “It’s fucking amazing.”

  Someone breathed a sigh of relief, and for the life of him, Tobin didn’t know if he’d made the sound or if it had been Dr. Cratom.

  Already, he could see a noticeable difference: the bumps, his horns, appeared dramatically less pronounced.

  Let’s see Jan pass me up for Savage Money, now. Shit, I wouldn’t be surprised if she sees my next post and calls me back. Tells me that she made a mistake… begs me to join her stupid fucking show.

  “Did you hear me? Tobin, did you hear anything I just said?”

  Tobin shook his head, his eyes still locked on his reflection.

  “Hey!” he shouted when Dr. Cratom snatched the mirror from his hand. He tried to grab it back, but Dr. Cratom held it just out of his reach.

  “You need to listen to me, Tobin. You need to pay close attention. This is serious.”

  Tobin’s gaze drifted to his left where he spotted a second gurney that hadn’t been there before he’d gone under. There was what appeared to be a pair of cut-up pants covered in blood draped over the side.