Gideon

by Grant Rosenberg

  The correlation between Randall’s affairs and Catherine’s deteriorating state of mind was obvious to Nathan, and there was no end in sight. The more his mother spiraled downward, the more his father cheated, perpetuating the cycle of familial destruction.

  Nathan entered Randall’s home office to find his father working the phones. It was 11pm on the West Coast, but there was always business to be done somewhere in the world. Randall snapped his fingers, signaling his son to take a seat while he wrapped up his call.

  Nathan glanced around at the familiar surroundings. The walls were lined with photos of Randall with politicians. Senators, Governors and a few Presidents. There was a single photo of a thirty-two-year-old Catherine on Randall’s desk, and Nathan knew it was there for show, not out of affection. The charade stopped with Catherine; there were no photos of Nathan to be found.

  Randall hung up the phone with a smile. “Just closed a deal with the tech division of Wanda in Beijing to co-finance a new ride-share startup. If it works, we’ll blow Uber out of the water in Asia.” He lit his tenth cigar of the day, contentedly blowing the smoke toward the ceiling. “This thing with David Harper was a stroke of good luck, huh?”

  Nathan was constantly surprised at how callous his father could be. After all these years, he thought he’d be immune to it by now, but Randall never ceased to amaze. “By ‘this thing’, you mean his death?”

  “Of course I mean his death.”

  “It was tragic. Dr Harper was a good man.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter how ‘good’ he was, does it? He’s dead, and we need to move fast to take advantage of that. You heard the other night at dinner that there’s talk of a major gentrification project for that part of the Mission. If we can fold the clinic into the Wallace Group, it’ll be a home run.”

  “Why that clinic? Why not just open another one in the same area? There are a lot of empty storefronts.”

  “Because the Wallace Group doesn’t want competition. They have a pricing structure that only works if they have a geographic monopoly.”

  “What if the Mission Street Clinic were to close?” Nathan asked, instantly regretting the potential consequences of his suggestion.

  Randall shrugged. “That’s a fallback scenario. One of the reasons that clinic is so attractive is because it has an excellent reputation. Have you looked at the Yelp reviews?”

  “It’s gotten that rep because of the physicians, not because of the location.”

  Randall exhaled a blue cloud of Cuban smoke. “You really think the illegals who go there would care, or even notice, if the doctors were different? Not a fucking chance.”

  Nathan cocked his head slightly, like a dog hearing a high-pitched sound and racking its canine brain to make sense of it. How could his father be so clueless and yet so damn successful?

  Randall continued, “Do you think the daughter’s going to keep the clinic going?”

  “She’s idealistic enough, but it sounds like she’s having money issues.”

  “Excellent!” Randall said with glee. “You’re Mister Inside, my ace in the hole. For once in your life, I’m hoping you can come through for me and make something happen.”

  “I’m already working on it. In fact, we had a long and very productive conversation about it this afternoon.” If Nathan learned one thing from his father, it was to embellish the truth. Despite the emotional and sentimental disconnect between father and son, Nathan was hard-wired to seek his father’s approval. He knew theirs was a textbook dysfunctional relationship, but some things are genetically programmed.

  “Great. I’ve already done my part, so I’m counting on you to do your part. Try not to fuck this up.”

  12

  It was one in the morning when Kelly finally left the clinic. The police and coroner had come and gone, along with Ruben Garcia’s body.

  She was utterly exhausted. Even locking the back door on her way out felt like a complex task. Generally after a long shift she was mentally fatigued, but her body was adrenalized. It was a valuable mind-over-matter discipline that was drummed into young doctors in medical school. Regardless of how many hours you worked, it was critical to develop a reservoir of energy that could be tapped in the event that a major catastrophe occurred and medical help was needed. On most nights she dipped into that reserve just to get herself home.

  Tonight that reserve was already sapped. The long day at the clinic, ending with losing a patient, culminated a miserably long week, and all she wanted was to get home, take a hot shower and collapse into her bed. Was that asking too much?

  Evidently.

  She heard a scuffling sound and turned to locate the source, but visibility in the heavily shadowed parking lot was extremely limited. The only illumination came from the low-wattage bulb that hung over the rear door of the clinic. The scuffling got louder, and Kelly could barely make out vague outlines of three people, slowly approaching.

  Her paranoia ratcheted up several notches. After the events of the past few days, every sound and every shadow made her jumpy. She wondered if she’d be able to make it to her car before being assaulted.

  As the trio got closer, Kelly could see they were young, and they were carrying weapons. Bangers! They had to be the Sureños, coming to see what happened to Ruben. Once they found out he’d died, there was no telling how they’d react, but Kelly guessed it wouldn’t be a joyful outburst of appreciation.

  She glanced over to her car. It was at least thirty yards away. One hundred feet. Could she get there in time?

  She looked back at the gang, who had quickly closed the gap. As they stepped into the weak light, Kelly’s paranoia gave way to confusion. They were in their late teens, all wearing long red t-shirts and red, flat-billed SF 49ers hats; red was the color of the Norteños, the dominant street gang in the city.

  “Hey, Doctor,” the leader said in a wispy, sing-song voice.

  Kelly’s heart raced. When she spoke, it was a soft, trembling sound that belied her fear. “What do you want?”

  The alpha of this trio was Francisco Ramos. On the street they called him Gizmo. Whippet-thin, cold eyes and gold-capped front teeth, Gizmo had the mien of a hardened banger. There was something familiar about him, but Kelly had trouble finding his face in her fuzzy memory banks.

  Gizmo’s voice didn’t fit the killer image he tried hard to project, but given his stature in the gang, it was almost certain that he’d taken a life or two. In a weird way, his melodic speech pattern made him scarier.

  “What happened to the Scrap who was dropped off tonight?”

  ‘Scrap’ was just one of the derogatory terms Norteños used for the Sureños, their mortal enemies.

  “I don’t talk about my patients,” Kelly said with an edge of irritation.

  “Just want to know if the puto walked out or was rolled out.”

  Kelly hesitated. She knew word of Ruben Garcia’s death would be old news throughout the Mission by breakfast. “He didn’t make it. He was critically injured when he arrived.”

  Gizmo’s posse traded high-fives, but their celebration was cut short by a scorching look from Kelly.

  “A young man died tonight, and that’s tragic.”

  Gizmo shrugged. “Shit happens, you know?”

  Kelly finally placed Gizmo/Francisco. Years ago, when he was fourteen, he’d come into the clinic bleeding from a brutal slash across his abdomen. Kelly patched him up, and tried to impress upon him how fortunate he was. If the knife had penetrated his stomach a quarter inch deeper, Francisco would’ve spent the rest of his life with a colostomy bag… not a good look for an up-and-coming gangster.

  She’d optimistically hoped the incident would convince him to find his way clear of the gang, but she knew he was destined to fall into the life like his brother, uncle and father before him. The life they knew; it gave them a larger sense of family and stature. More importantly, being in the gang was a source of income that they couldn’t match elsewhere without an education and a lot of
hard work… and, in reality, most of these kids didn’t have any desire to break away from what they considered to be their destiny. The irony was that while joining a gang was the easy route, it resulted in the hardest life.

  Gizmo’s neck was inked with a large Roman numeral 14, which stood for the letter N (for Norteños). His left arm bore the words “Nuestra Familia” in heavily scrolled script, and his right arm featured the names of his hermanos who had been killed or put away for life.

  “Francisco, right?” Kelly said.

  “My homies call me Gizmo.”

  “How’s your stomach, Gizmo?”

  The duo behind Gizmo snickered at the sound of his name coming from this guera. Gizmo made a short chopping motion with his hand and they immediately went silent. There was no question who was in charge.

  “My stomach?” He raised his shirt and showed his scar with pride. “The chicas love it,” he said with a lascivious grin. “You did good, Doctor. We want you to do the same for Diego.”

  “Why are you concerned about Diego?”

  “Because we take care of our own. The Sanchez blood runs deep with us, you know.”

  “I know. What I don’t know is why ten-year-old kids are in the line of fire.”

  Gizmo shrugged. “Like I said, shit happens. Like when pendejos come across the line looking for trouble.”

  The Norteños were affiliated with Nuestra Familia, while their rivals, the Sureños, were an offshoot of the Mexican Mafia. The original factions were formed in a Fresno prison in the mid-1960s, and since then, the two sides engaged in a never-ending battle for power and territory. Too frequently, an innocent person was caught in the crossfire.

  Case in point, Diego Sanchez.

  Gizmo continued, “Norteños cruise up past 24th, they lookin’ to start something. We gotta hold our line. They open up and Diego catches it. Spider tole us you gonna take care of him, but then we see him on the street and he lookin’ ill.”

  “Diego needs to go to the hospital. I already explained that to him and to his mother.”

  Gizmo shook his head. “Diego is tough. He don’t need no hospital. You can just give him some drugs and shit and make him okay.” It wasn’t a question. It was a command, tinged with a threat.

  “‘Drugs and shit’ aren’t going to make him okay,” said Kelly. “I wish it was that easy, but it’s not. You have to trust me on this.”

  Gizmo took a step forward and Kelly could smell the stale beer and cloying aroma of pot on his breath and clothing. “We do trust you. We don’t trust the hospital. Too many times one of our own goes in and ends up dead or in jail. Diego’s not going to any hospital, so you need to make him right.” He punctuated this statement by lightly jabbing his finger into Kelly’s chest.

  “Hey! Who do you…?” Before she could finish her question, Gizmo shot out his hand and grabbed her face. “We like you, Doctor, but don’t fuck this up. You take care of our little hermano. It’s best for everyone, you know?”

  The night’s temperature dropped a few degrees when Gizmo smiled, his gold caps glinting. He released Kelly’s face from his grasp, and then turned and strode away, his posse falling in behind him.

  Kelly watched as the three of them disappeared back into the darkness from whence they came. She felt that her world was collapsing around her, and yet she had no idea what to do to put the pieces back together.

  She desperately missed her father.

  13

  One of the most popular breakfast spots in the city was Mama’s in North Beach, known for its French toast, warm family-owned atmosphere and long lines. Kelly and Alexa sat at a small table near the kitchen. The aromas of baked goods and fresh ground coffee had mystical properties, making them impossible to resist, and their table was littered with the remains of blueberry scones and orange-cranberry muffins.

  Alexa was deeply worried about her friend. Kelly looked exhausted, her skin was pallid, and her face was puffy. Maybe from crying (which was understandable) and maybe from drinking (which was also understandable, but more problematic). Alexa was eager to do whatever it took to help Kelly get her life back on track.

  Kelly had never asked Alexa for financial advice and was slightly embarrassed to do so now, but she didn’t know where else to turn. After Kelly laid out the facts of the clinic’s financial troubles, she sat back and waited for any sage guidance that her friend could impart.

  “Do you have a full accounting of the clinic’s assets versus debt?” Alexa asked.

  Kelly shook her head. “I spoke to our CPA this morning. She’s pulling together the financials and didn’t have all the answers yet. She made it clear that the clinic was deep in the red and Dad put just enough in the business account each month to keep the wolves at bay. Barely.”

  “And that was money generated by the clinic?”

  “I guess. According to his will, he didn’t have any other assets. He mentioned some investments he had, but I have no idea what he was talking about. As far as I can tell, he didn’t have a brokerage account or any hidden savings.”

  “How much do you need to keep the clinic afloat?”

  Kelly shrugged. “All I know is we have a stack of bills, we’re short one doctor, and I’ve got to make sure that Jess continues to get the best care possible.”

  Alexa leaned in. “I’ve got some money put away and…”

  “Lex, I didn’t come here to borrow money. I came for advice.”

  “My advice is you let me loan you money until you can get some financing in order. Seriously, it’s not a big deal, and I’d feel so much better if you didn’t have to agonize over this right now.”

  “That’s extremely generous, and I love you for it, but it’s a non-starter. My life is complicated enough. The last thing I need is to worry about paying you back.” Kelly took a sip of her latte and asked, “Does your company do these kind of loans?”

  Alexa shook her head. “Unfortunately, no. Our minimal investment is ten million.”

  “What do you know about Vantage or the Wallace Medical Group?”

  Alexa’s reaction was immediate and unmistakable. She spent the next ten minutes detailing how Vantage was the poster child of unscrupulous and exploitative business practices. There’d been an unending string of lawsuits over the years from clients who’d been mercilessly ripped off. Randall Curtis, the CEO of Vantage, employed more lawyers than financial analysts and had enough cash reserve to outwait and outmuscle every plaintiff. More than ninety percent of the suits ended in paltry settlements. Basically, Curtis was well known in the financial community as a bottom-feeding piece of shit.

  “There are reputable companies out there who’ll extend you a loan, but the interest rates may not be tenable for a small clinic. Kel, I know how much it means to you to keep the clinic open, but it may not be economically feasible.”

  “It was my father’s dream. I have to find a way to keep it going. For him, for me, and for the community.”

  “I get it. Just promise me you won’t make a deal with the devil.”

  Kelly hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but she was running out of options. She managed a smile for Alexa’s benefit. “Promise.”

  14

  Kelly approached the clinic in an optimistic mood, comforted by the knowledge that if she had absolutely nowhere else to turn, she could take Alexa up on her offer. For now, she desperately hoped there’d be no more surprises.

  It didn’t take long for that hope to be obliterated.

  The back door was ajar. Strange. The staff didn’t arrive for another thirty minutes. Why would someone be there now, and why would they leave the door open?

  She approached tentatively, before coming to an abrupt stop. The back door was normally secured with an electronic alarm, which had been prised off and tossed several feet away, along with fragments of the doorframe. What the hell was going on?

  Kelly began to tremble. She didn’t know if it was anger or fear or a combination of both. Did this have something to do with the car
that tried to run her down? Was this the work of the Sureños because she couldn’t save Ruben Garcia?

  She took out her phone. Her hands were shaking so badly she had trouble hitting the speed dial for Pete. In a voice that was somewhere between panic and hysteria, Kelly explained what she was looking at. Pete responded in a soothing, controlled tone. He’d notify the Burglary Detail and they’d have a squad car there in a few minutes. In the meantime, under no circumstances was she to go inside. In fact, she should move away from the building and wait someplace safe for the police to arrive.

  Kelly hung up and stared at the damaged door, trying and failing to wrap her head around what was happening. Just a week ago everything was going along fine, and now the fabric of her life was unraveling, a little more each day. If this continued, there’d soon be nothing left but a pile of mismatched threads.

  Her thoughts turned dark. She fantasized about confronting whoever might be inside. A razor-sharp scalpel in each hand, she’d rain hell down upon the intruder, meting out justice and leaving behind a bloody mass of human carnage. Her father would be avenged.

  Kelly’s violent fantasy was cut short by the piercing sound of police sirens. She shook her head to help cleanse her mind. She’d never experienced anything resembling these murderous thoughts, and they scared the hell out of her.

  A short time later, two uniformed officers emerged from the clinic, holstering their weapons. There were no intruders inside, but someone had definitely been there. Also, the power was out. Kelly took a moment to process this bit of news. Why was the power out? Did her father neglect to pay the electric bill as well?