by Harry Bryant
Her car was a older-model sedan, and something rattled in the engine as she drove. It didn't look like it would get anywhere near the hundred and twenty MPH the speedometer suggested it was capable of, and when the wheels hit a bump, the entire front end rocked long after the bump was gone. It wasn't a getaway car—not by any stretch of the imagination—but it was a generic grey color, and would be invisible in any parking lot. Just like every other no-name sedan on its third owner.
"Why aren't you telling me anything?" she asked. Her voice was whisper-quiet, like she had been shouting for hours the night before.
"There's nothing to tell," I said. "Nothing that isn't speculative."
"Where's David?"
"I don't know."
"What happened to him?"
"I don't know."
"Is he dead?"
"I don't know."
"What do you know?"
"That my primary objective right now is getting you safe."
Her eyelids fluttered a little, and she glanced at me briefly before returning her attention to the road ahead of us. "Thank you," she whispered.
"Don't thank me yet," I said. "I'm just making things up as I go."
Her purse lay on the console between us. "Is your phone in there?" I asked. When she nodded, I opened her purse and rummaged around. "Can I use it?"
"What for?" she asked.
"Give me a sec," I said. I found her flip phone, and dug out the flyer from Hidden Palms from my back pocket. I dialed the number listed on the brochure, and when someone answered, I asked to be transferred to Natalie's desk. The operator asked me to hold for a moment, and then Natalie came on the line.
"Hi, it's Robert Bliss," I said. "I came out and had the tour yesterday."
"Yes, Mr. Bliss," she said. "I recall our meeting."
"Look, I wasn't completely honest with you," I started.
"Imagine my surprise," she said somewhat archly.
"I wasn't asking for myself," I said, ignoring her tone. "I really was asking for a friend of mine." I glanced over at Dolly. "Look, this is all very sudden, but look, I liked what I saw, and I'm not sure I'm going to get another chance at this, but can you do me an enormous favor and intake my friend this afternoon?"
"I don't know about this, Mr. Bliss. It's highly unusual—"
"I'm driving up there right now. I've got her in the backseat. She's out of it right now, and I figure I've got about two hours before she comes down off this high, and whoo! I don't think I'll be able to keep her under control. Not by myself. I need some help, Natalie. I really do."
Dolly was staring at me like I had lost my mind. As Natalie hemmed and hawed about the irregularity of it, I put the phone to my chest and tried to reassure Dolly. "It's just for a day or two," I said. "You'll be fine. No one will look for you there. They've got good security."
Before Dolly could protest, I put the phone back to my ear. "—not something we normally do, but—"
"I'm happy to pay cash," I said quickly, interrupting her spiel. "I've got almost two grand on me. Will that help with the paperwork?"
"That will—well, Mr. Bliss, this is all terribly unusual . . ."
"Come on, Natalie. Are you trying to tell me I'm first client who has shown up suddenly with an out-of-sorts friend and a fistful of green?"
"It's not the way we do things at Hidden Palms."
"Not ever, or not normally?"
"Not . . . not normally," she admitted.
"Perfect," I said. "I'm a big fan of flexibility and circumspection."
"We do strive for both here at Hidden Palms," Natalie said, the hesitation disappearing from her voice. All professional, now that we were past the awkward part of the conversation.
"We'll be there within the hour," I said. I snapped the phone shut before Natalie could say anything else.
"What are you doing?" Dolly asked.
"Checking my dear heroin-addicted sister into rehab. I just love her so much and I had to drag her away from her evil drug-dealing friends and get her somewhere safe. Think you can play the part?"
"This isn't going to work."
"Well, you're not coming with me to find David," I said. "And with him in the wind, I don't want anyone thinking they should grab you so as to lure David back from wherever he's run off to."
Which was a total lie, but whatever. Just add it to the long list I was stacking up.
"Do you think David is—"
"I don't know," I interrupted. "I really don't know, but I'm going to find him, okay? I promise you that."
That wasn't a lie.
We ran into actual traffic—a line of cars coming and going as if there was some obstruction in the road a little farther ahead. I knew what it was, and kept my mouth shut as we queued past a rubber-necking opportunity with police lights and fire engines.
"Some sort of fire?" Dolly asked as we eased through the gauntlet.
"I guess so," I said. I slouched in my seat, keeping my face back from the window.
Not far from the road, a greasy smear of grey smoke drifted lazily into the sky.
"Is that your car?" Dolly asked.
"Was my car," I corrected her.
When she looked at my face, she was reading the bandage across my forehead in a different light. "What happened?" she asked.
"I missed a turn," I said.
She looked out at the smoke again. "You don't strike me as the sort who misses a turn," she said.
"There were extenuating circumstances."
"Such as?"
"Bullets," I said. "And some bikers."
"And my brother?"
"He was making a lot of noise too," I admitted.
"Is he up there?" she asked, nodding back at the lights and smoke.
"I don't think so," I said. "He wasn't in the car when I woke up. And I couldn't find his bo—him."
"He's still alive?"
"I hope so."
"You hope so?"
"Those bullets weren't coming out of nowhere," I said.
"Who?"
"Who do you think?" I asked.
"The bikers?"
"Yep." I rolled my tongue around my mouth for a second. "You know why they'd want to get all bang-bang with your brother?"
She shook her head disgustedly. "I can guess."
"Drugs?"
"Of course."
"Was he using?"
"No!" She calmed down after that outburst. "Not the hard stuff," she clarified. "He was—is; Christ, he'll always be—a pothead."
"So, he was part of the infrastructure that moved it, then."
She nodded. "I guess so. I guess . . . I just didn't want to see it."
"At the garage?"
Her face was tense, and she was fighting back the urge to cry. I put my hand on her arm, and we didn't say anything for a few miles.
There was a second gauntlet rubber-necking at emergency vehicles. In this case, there was just a tow truck and a pair of SBSO cars. I didn't see Hack among the uniforms who were supervising the tow truck guys as they pulled a mangled bike out of the ditch.
No ambulance, though. Either it had come and gone already, or the bike had been abandoned.
"Turn here," I said, pointing at the exit that would take us to Hidden Palms.
She slowed down and signaled—bless her heart. After the cars passed in the other direction, she turned and we headed up the hill, away from all the excitement.
I hoped it would all stay down in the valley, but I felt that was a naive hope.
We parked outside the gate, and Dolly leaned against the wall as I called in on the black phone. A pleasant voice acknowledged our arrival, and after I hung up the phone, I turned to Dolly, who was staring up at the darkening sky. "You ready to play Dear Sister, Zonked on Heroin?"
; "'Zonked'?"
"It's a technical term."
"Can I be 'flying' instead?"
"It's better if you look like you're walking away from a terrible crash-landing in the middle of an ocean," I said.
"Walking away? Like, on water?"
"Well, okay. Maybe an unexplored jungle somewhere."
"Do we really need to do this?" she asked.
"I don't have a better idea, and if we can sell this to these folks, then you'll be safe for a few days. Think of it as a spa vacation."
"I've never been to a spa," she said. "Not like this."
"Well, my treat, then," I said.
"What if—what if you don't come back?"
"If I'm not back in less than forty-eight hours, just tell them everything. Get the police involved. Because . . ." I trailed off.
"Because you'll be dead?"
"Well, I hope not."
"Me too. Why can't I go with you?"
We had been over this in the car, and I knew she knew the reasons. She wasn't asking to have that discussion again. She just wanted me to reassure her that everything was going to be all right, because she would have no control over anything once I left. She was just going to have to sit and wait, and no one liked being left behind with their imagination running wild. "Because I need to know you're safe," I said. "Otherwise, what am I doing this for?"
She offered me a fleeting smile, and pushed away from the wall as the gate started to open. "Do I stagger a bit or just list to the side?" she asked as she started toward the open gate.
"Listing is good," I said.
"Do I need to drool?"
"Don't oversell it."
"Fun wrecker," she said as she leaned against the edge of the gate and rolled herself into the compound.
"This is the voice of experience talking," I said as I followed her.
"Is it now? Did you do terrible things to yourself as a young man?"
"Define 'terrible,'" I quibbled.
"Things you did that you won't tell me now," she said.
"In that case, the answer is 'absolutely,'" I said.
"Fun wrecker," she repeated as she—listing to the left, like a good heroin junkie—staggered down the drive toward the main house.
I walked with her, hovering close like I couldn't quite trust her to not rabbit at the first opportunity. I didn't list or stagger, and I carried the paper bag with the money bundles in my right hand.
The air was clear and clean, and the sky was the color of bruised eggplant. The sound of music and laughter drifted toward us from the amphitheater behind the house, and it was easy to imagine we were wandering into another world entirely.
A pair of men in white were waiting, and as soon as I spotted them, like glowing ghosts outlined by the yellow lights along the front of the house, I was worried that it was the Terror Twins. This was the only real flaw in my plan: that Wilson and/or the two knuckleheads who escorted me out last time had found out I had been back. But, when nothing untoward had happened during my interview the other day, I surmised Wilson was one of those administrators who was too busy sitting in his office, drinking scotch, to bother with the minutiae of day-to-day operations. And, as we got closer to the waiting pair, I let out a sigh of relief that my luck still held. I didn't recognize either of the orderlies who were waiting for us.
"Mr. Bliss?" one asked.
"That's right," I said.
"I believe you spoke to Ms. Davis about an intake fee?"
"I did." I glanced around. "Right here?"
He shrugged, like my concerns weren't his concerns. He was just following orders.
"Okay," I said. I opened the bag and held it up. He looked inside and nodded at what he saw. "Very good, sir," he said, taking the bag.
He glanced at Dolly. "If you'll come with us, miss," he said. His pal came down the steps and moved around behind us—creating a clear direction for Dolly to go. Addict herding.
Dolly looked at me, crossed her eyes slightly, and then collapsed in my arms. "I'm sorry, Butch," she sobbed on my shoulder. "I'll try to be good." Playing it up for the benefit of the orderlies.
"I know you will," I said. I squeezed her back, not in a rush to let go.
"And I'll find your friend," she whispered in my ear.
"That's—" I started, but I was interrupted by her lips covering mine. She hammed it up a bit, setting her teeth on my lower lip and tugging.
"I don't want to go," she pouted.
I extricated myself from her embrace, as the second orderly approached and lightly turned her toward the steps. She hung her head, looking back over her shoulder, as she shuffled up the steps and toward the door. I remained where I was and watched her go. Part of me was suddenly afraid that I wasn't going to see her again, but I shoved that fear back down into the darkness and smiled bravely.
After she and her new friend had gone inside the house, the remaining orderly indicated I should follow him. We went into the house too, and I looked for Dolly as we walked through the foyer, but she had already been spirited away behind one of the other doors. The orderly led me down the hall to the Consultations room, where he left me alone with the glaring picture of El Illustro. I poured myself a glass of water from the side table, and drank it greedily, wishing it was bourbon instead.
A few minutes later, Natalie entered the room with a folder and a clipboard in her arms. She was just as impeccably attired as yesterday, and seemed completely unruffled by my unexpected arrival late in the day. "Good evening, Mr. Bliss," she said, offering me her hand.
"Good evening, Natalie," I said.
"I see you've had some water," she said, indicating we should sit on the couch.
"Yes," I said. "I figured I might as well make myself at home." As soon as I said it, the turn of phrase struck me as slightly wrong, and I must have made a bit of a face because Natalie immediately tried to assuage my concerns.
"It's okay, Mr. Bliss. We'll take good care of . . ."
"My sister," I said.
"Your sister," she echoed. "Yes, we'll take care of her. She will come to love Hidden Palms during her stay with us. We have had many satisfied clients refer to us as the home they always dreamed of."
"Of course," I said. "And I'm sorry about all that nonsense the other day. I was just . . . nervous about all this. It's one thing to talk about it, you know? And another thing entirely to do it, but when I got back to LA, I went to see her—to try to talk to her about getting some treatment—and she was gone. Her roommate—oh, man, what a piece of work that girl is—said she had gone out with friends, but I could tell . . ." I trailed off, and did a passable impression of a worried brother who didn't quite know what to do with his hands. "I'm sorry," I said again. "You don't care about all this."
"I do, Mr. Bliss," Natalie said smoothly. "But there is some paperwork we need to fill out. And we need to discuss the full range of services that you'd like to engage for your sister."
"Oh, right, right," I said. I glanced toward the door. "Did you get my—what did he call it? My intake fee?"
"I did," she said.
"Is that enough?"
"Let's not worry about that right now," she said. She opened the folder and took out a stack of papers and put them on the clipboard. She offered me the clipboard, along with a pen. "Why don't you start on these," she said.
I lied more often than not on the paperwork, and I suspected Natalie could tell where I fudged the facts in a few places, but she was good at closing a deal, and she didn't say anything. Like last time, she walked me halfway back to the gate. I went on out and stood in the parking lot. As I watched the gate close, I tried to convince myself this was a good idea. This was the right course of action. And then the gate stopped running, and it was all done.
Dolly was safe.
I got into Dolly's car, adjusted the seat and th
e rearview mirror, and switched on the overhead light so that I could look at some of the paperwork Natalie had given me, kind of like a party gift. It was a dozen pages of legalese which she had brushed over earlier, and I took some time to study it now. As I did, I saw why Matesson had hired me in the first place, presuming that Gloria—or whoever had dropped her off at Hidden Palms—had signed similar paperwork.
The documents set up a designated responsible party. In Dolly's case, this was me, and Hidden Palms insisted all of its billing be done via electronic banking. They would have the right to bill automatically, and the only way it could be stopped was by the patient—who was not the designated responsible party. The patient had to voluntarily check themselves out of Hidden Palms for the account to be closed.
And if the Center prevented you from access to the patient, then how would they ever know who was paying the bill? And how much it was?
No wonder Matesson wanted me to get Gloria out of that place. He couldn't tell his bank to stop paying Hidden Palms. The contract clearly said they had every right to bill until such time they were no longer treating a patient entrusted to their care. If he got lawyers involved, they'd probably respond in kind, and maybe even accidentally tell one of the gossip columnists at the LA Times.
It was a pretty clever setup. The only problem was I had given them a bogus checking account and bank routing number. When they tried to use it in the morning, they'd figure it out. The cash deposit I had given them might give me a day or two of leeway, but beyond that, they'd likely shove Dolly out the front gate.
I put all the paperwork aside, and started the car. The engine sputtered and nearly died on me before catching. It coughed and wheezed, sounding more and more like an experiment thrown together at the last minute for a school science fair. "Come on, you old nag," I muttered, patting the dash.
That's what the hero always did in the western, right? Outnumbered and outgunned, he got back on his horse—and it was usually a decrepit animal that just wanted to hang out in the pasture and eat grass. He rode that horse back into town and faced the bad guys.
What about that Spanish fellow who had gone riding around the European countryside, all delusional about giants? He had a crap suit of armor and a broken lance and the giants were nothing more than windmills, but he was, like, perpetually stoned or something—some kind of metaphor, probably. What was his name? Sancho? No, that was his sidekick. Quixote. That was it. Don Quixote.
