by S. D. Thames
Better the phone’s guts than mine.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Monday Morning Coming Down
When my alarm sounded at seven o’clock Monday morning, I awoke to pain in most of my extremities and the innermost caverns of my brain. I killed the alarm. I should have slept in. The night before, Hector and I had agreed to postpone our bottling party due to my run-in with Mr. Chad Scalzo, but we still stayed up past midnight drinking from my existing stash while I told him about the Scalzo job and its aftermath. Hector said he regretted not tagging along, but I was pretty sure he was relieved he’d stayed home. Crawling out of bed that morning, I sure wished I had.
Swollen eyes and modestly bruised cheeks greeted me in the bathroom mirror. My regular appointment with Dr. J was in less than an hour. If there was ever a time I deserved to miss an appointment, I figured it was today. Hell, maybe she’d even waive the late-cancellation fee. But I’d never missed an appointment with the good doctor, and wasn’t about to start on account of Chad Scalzo and his incompetent goons.
Truth be told, Dr. Ellen Jasinski was one of the reasons I’d decided to stay in Florida after testing its warm waters a few years earlier. A nationally renowned expert in treating guys like me, she kept an office at the VA Hospital and taught at the University of South Florida. I’d been seeing her long enough that I had dibs on the first appointment of the week, Mondays at 8:30 A.M. I liked getting the appointment out of the way early and setting the tone for the rest of the week.
A minor fender bender had jammed northbound traffic on I-275, so I ended up being about five minutes late. For some reason, I still had to sit in the waiting room another five minutes before she poked her head out the door, smiled, and said my name.
Her eyes widened at the sight of my face, but she didn’t inquire until we were behind closed doors. And when she did so, it was in her usual blunt way: “Good morning, Milo. Tell me about your face.” She slipped her shoes off and curled her legs under her tiny rump as she settled into the plastic Art Deco chair she always sat in.
I got comfortable on my dais facing her. “I had a job last night that got complicated.”
She nodded. “Complicated?”
I nodded back.
“How many men did it take to do this to you?”
“Good question, Doc. Only three this time, and only two of them were armed. My skills are slipping.”
She looked down at the notes in her lap. I was pretty sure she did that from time to time just so she could articulate what to say next.
“Don’t you want to know how it made me feel?” I asked.
She tilted her head to aim her glasses at me. “I was hoping to lead up to that, Milo. I guess I need more coffee.”
“I could go for some, too.”
She nodded at the carafe and told me to help myself. “And while you’re at it, why don’t you tell me the answer to that question you just posed.”
I grabbed us each a Styrofoam cup and filled them with java. The pot was hot to the touch. I opened the small refrigerator under her cabinet. There was half-and-half for me and sweetened vanilla almond milk for her. “I’ll be straight with you,” I said, while stirring our drinks. “I liked it. I felt calm. Calmer than I’ve felt in a while, especially last night when I was hanging out with my neighbor and talking about everything that went down. It was like I’d just had a really good massage or something.”
I handed her coffee over and returned to my dais. She sipped hers and gestured for me to continue.
“So, I guess you’re right, Doc.”
“Right about what?”
“I know what you’re going to say. It’s just like you said before, I’m addicted to danger and adrenaline. I was calm because I finally had my fix.”
She took another sip and cleared her throat. In all honesty, she looked like she’d had her own bruiser the night before. He hair was usually tied up in a clean ponytail, her makeup done in the most understated way, and her simple clothes usually pressed to perfection. All of that was missing today. It made me wonder if we’d had a full moon the night before.
“Milo, I’d never want my diagnosis or any of my comments about your recovery to form some kind of self-fulfilling prophecy for you, if that’s even the right phrase. I take no pleasure in the fact that you think your experience lends credence to what we’ve talked about.”
“I don’t think there’s any doubt about it, Doc. I moved down here to the sunshine, the easy work. But I’ve known there’s been something missing. And this is what it is. I need things like what happened last night or I go nuts.”
She set her coffee on the table next to her and went about adding to the notes scribbled on her pad. Then she set the pad down in her lap and smiled in the way she usually did when it was time to change topics. “I have some news for you, Milo. I’m writing a paper. About you.”
“Really?”
She nodded. “About your recovery, really. It’s titled, ‘Pilsner, Powerlifting and Prayer: A Case Study in PTSD’.”
“I guess we have talked about those things a lot.”
She smiled and nodded in agreement. Then, she tilted her head with a hint of concern. “You look like you have your reservations.”
I shrugged. “Well, if we’re going to be honest, I don’t brew pilsners. That’s a lager. I only brew ales.”
“Ah, yes, in trying to arrive at a catchy title, I glossed over an important detail there, didn’t I?”
“Yeah. The alliteration does sound nice, though.”
“Are there any ales that start with P?”
“It’s a bit of a hybrid style, but my namesake is an ale that starts with a P.”
“A porter?” she said.
I nodded. “I’ve brewed one every once in a while. They’re a bit dark for most Floridians’ taste, especially during the summer, but I love a good one during the winter.”
“How about we keep it pilsner, then, and I’ll include a disclaimer? I’d rather not include your name in any way.”
“It’s your paper, Doc.”
She took another superficial sip of coffee. “Any other concerns with the paper’s title?”
I knew it was a loaded question. She was good at throwing those out there, more interested in seeing how I answered than what I answered. “The powerlifting is going well,” I admitted.
“Oh, yes, weren’t you supposed to compete over the weekend? How’d that go?”
“Well, I didn’t get the 800 deadlift, but I finally broke a 2,000 total.”
“You lifted a ton, Milo?”
“Yes, combined on the squat, bench, and deadlift.”
She arched her brow as if to say c’est la vie. “And what about the prayer?”
I shrugged again. “I don’t know, Doc. I guess it was just a phase. It’s not really my thing anymore.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Well, I look at my friend Rico, the faith he has. I mean, it makes sense when he prays or whatever he does. I don’t have that. I don’t know that I ever did or will. I just have a hard time reconciling things, things I’ve seen and done, with this idea of a God you can talk to like that. I mean, if I could believe that, sure, it would help things a lot, maybe calm me down.”
“Which you said it was doing a few months ago.”
“Right. It was, but it’s just an exercise, like the breathing you told me about. And I feel silly doing it.”
She went about writing more, and I wondered when she was going to turn the page for more empty space.
I waited for her to speak. She didn’t, so I called her bluff. “So I hope that doesn’t mess up your paper too bad.”
She set her pad down and met my eyes. “No, Milo, it does not. Not at all.”
I glanced at the clock on the wall, saw our time was coming to an end.
But she had another question. “So tell me, Milo. How’s your book coming along?”
After leaving Dr. J, I headed to the east wing at the VA for another Monday-mor
ning ritual. I usually start with a visit with Eddie Riles on the fifth floor, who lost both legs to an IED outside of Kirkuk. That morning, I snuck into his room and handed him a Louis L’Amour paperback I’d picked up at Goodwill during a lunch break the week before.
He took it and smiled. “Thanks, Milo.”
“You don’t already have that one, do you?”
He shrugged. “At least this one’s in better shape.”
“I’m pretty sure you have all of them, Eddie. What do you say we find a new author to read?”
He shrugged again. “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”
There was no arguing with Eddie. “If you say so.”
“You know what I’d really like to read?” he said.
I knew where he was going with the question, but it was my turn to shrug and play dumb.
“Your damn book. When the hell do I get to read it?”
I thought of the talk Dr. J and I had just had, and the countless hours I’d spent staring at a blank screen. “I’m working on it, Eddie.”
“Well, don’t work too long, or everyone’s going to forget about the war.”
“You don’t have to worry about that, Eddie.” After a little small talk, I left his room, feeling uneasy about what he’d said. I also felt guilty, because I knew people had already started forgetting the war. Hell, I wanted to forget the war.
But there would be no forgetting it in Tom Nicholas’s room on the sixth floor. Whereas Eddie liked books, Tom preferred music and audiobooks. That was because Tom was blind.
Today, though, he wanted me to read to him.
I wished I’d brought one of Eddie’s books with me. “What do you want me to read, Tom?”
Lying in bed, he pointed to a table under a mounted TV. “How about that book over there?”
I eyed the Bible on the table. I took the book and felt uneasy holding its hard cover. I was short on recommendations. My run-in with Pastor Evans the day before had left me curious to read the Parable of the Lost Sheep, but I had no idea where to find it. I doubted I’d find the parable in the index. “Any requests?” I asked.
He chewed on that for a moment. “You ever just open a Bible and see what it says?”
I shook my head, and then I remembered he couldn’t see me.
Before I could say something, he spoke up and told me to just open it and read. “I do it all the time,” he said. “Besides, didn’t what’s his name, Luther or Augustine”—he pronounced the latter’s name like Florida’s oldest city—“didn’t Augustine do that? And look what it did for him.”
I didn’t follow the reference to Saint Augustine. Still, I ran my thumb along the pages of the book. “So you’re saying just pick something at random.”
“Sure, I do it all the time.”
I played along and stopped my thumb a little past what felt like the midpoint. Then I opened the book and set my finger at a random spot on the page. The words looked like poetry, and I read them aloud.
Do not be quickly provoked in your spirit,
for anger resides in the lap of fools.
Do not say, “Why were the old days better than these?”
For it is not wise to ask such questions.
Wisdom, like an inheritance, is a good thing
and benefits those who see the sun.
Tom reached for my hand, and whispered my name. I stopped reading. “Something wrong?” I asked.
“What is that? What are you reading?”
I had to look at the top of the page to answer. “It looks like a proverb.”
“That was cruel,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ll never see the sun again, Milo. What does that mean? That I have no inheritance?”
It took me a moment to recall the words I’d just read. I held Tom’s hand and squeezed. “You’ll see it again, my friend. You’ll see it again.”
I was usually in a better mood by the time I concluded my Monday morning ritual with lunch at Mr. Dunderbak’s, a German restaurant north of USF that offered dozens of brews on draft and served some awesome expressions of German-cuisine-meets-American-bar-food. But nothing about that morning had left me in a particular good mood. I knew it was unfair to expect Dr. J to provide me with some nugget of hope or wisdom to get me through the week. Between her description of the paper she was writing about me and my disappointing visits with Eddie and Tom, I felt like I was walking blindfolded toward a cliff. So it was up to lunch to cheer me up.
Still famished from the night before, I splurged on a Von Dunderbomb, a hoagie loaded with fried schnitzel, a fried egg (I preferred mine runny), a few onion rings, crumbled potato pancakes and bacon, and a spicy sauce. Even that made me feel guilty as I ate, and I could hear Dr. J saying that my diet was proof positive that I had a death wish. Needless to say, I needed something to wash down the cholesterol bomb. I saw they had my favorite one on tap, so I paid homage to my namesake and ordered a Smutty Nose Robust Porter. The beer hit the spot, but the sandwich hit too hard. I drove home in a stupor. The aspirin I’d had with my morning smoothie was wearing off. I was ready to pop a few more when I got home before I got to work.
When I saw Mattie’s car in my driveway, I got the feeling that my afternoon plans were about to change. I held out hope that he was just there to pay me the rest of my fee, but something about the way his legs were shaking and he held his gut told me that was wishful thinking.
“Where the hell have you been?” he said before I was out of the car.
“I had an appointment.”
“I’ve been getting your voicemail all morning. I thought you skipped town.”
“I wouldn’t leave without getting paid. Besides, I lost my phone last night. My deductible will be on your expense report.”
I got out of the car, and he looked me up and down, paying close attention to my camo shorts, black T-shirt and Chuck Taylors. Then he homed in on my face. “What the hell happened to you?” he asked.
“There’s a reason you were paying me six grand for this job, right?”
He sighed and grabbed his stomach. “We don’t have time for you to change. Get in.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Porter, get in the car, and I’ll explain.”
“Sorry, Mattie, I’m not going anywhere until you explain.”
He seemed ready to cry or scream as he checked his watch again. “Scalzo’s attorney filed an emergency motion to quash this morning. Judge Sanders is going to hear it at one.”
“That’s in twenty minutes,” I said.
Mattie’s glare said No shit.
“I don’t really have time for this, Mattie. I have to be to work in a while.”
“This is your work, Porter. It’s part of the deal. You know how it goes. You serve the paper, you have to testify about it.”
He was right. More importantly, I felt sorry for Mattie, and feeling sorry for a scumbag like him made me feel like a better person. I needed something to cheer me up.
I barely fit in the Porsche. It smelled like leather and bad cologne, which pretty much included all cologne in my opinion. He drove like a lunatic.
“You know, a speeding ticket’s only going to make you late,” I reminded him.
“Whatever, Porter. So what the hell did you do last night to serve this guy? They’re accusing you of committing fraud, bullying security at the condo, and starting a fire at a restaurant.”
I felt a knot twist in my stomach. “All lies, Mattie.”
“Well, let’s hope the judge believes you and not him.”
Fat chance, I figured.
I followed Wilcox into Courtroom 515. It looked like the other lawyers were already lined up for battle, and Judge Sanders came out just as we were taking our seats. I joined Mattie at the otherwise empty plaintiff’s table. The defendant’s table looked crowded, but that was because Scalzo’s lawyers were there, too. This was a lawyers-only hearing—no need for clients to attend.
The judge called for appearances and I realized who Sc
alzo’s lawyer was: Dane Parker, a well-respected business litigator with Tampa’s biggest corporate law firm, Hinkle and Knotts. He was also the front-runner for winning the Republican nomination for Florida Attorney General. I skimmed the courtroom and made sure Scalzo wasn’t present. There was no sign of Kiki or Jimmy either. The judge finished the pleasantries and got to business: “This is your emergency motion, Mr. Parker. Please proceed.”
Mattie nodded for me to pay attention. Parker gave an overview of why the subpoena should be quashed, and most of the bus-track marks were laid directly across my back. Most of his argument centered around the antics I’d pulled to gain access to Scalzo’s apartment the day before. Then he was concluding in no time flat.
“So, as our affidavits show, the process server not only lied to the security man at the residence, he also gained access to my client’s private property. Not the common area as permitted by the statute, but my client’s actual residence.” The judge nodded, seemingly in agreement. “In addition, your honor, as stated in my client’s affidavit, Mr. Scalzo is scheduled to fly out this evening on a flight to Los Angeles to attend to urgent business. If he’s required to stay for this trial, he may lose a very valuable, and time-sensitive, business opportunity.”
Judge Sanders nodded again, this time a bit more impatiently. He looked to Mattie. “Mr. Wilcox?”
Mattie stood. “Your honor,” he started, before glancing in my direction. “I’d like to call the process server who served the subpoena on Mr. Scalzo.”
Parker grunted.
Judge Sanders turned to him. “Do you have an objection?”
Parker looked like he sure wanted to, but he said, “No objection.”
Mattie waved me forward. I really had no idea what to expect. Mattie hadn’t prepped me to testify during the drive to the courthouse. He’d just kept the radio loud, presumably to cover the rumbling of his stomach.
Mattie seemed hesitant, like he wasn’t quite sure what he was going to ask, either. He looked to the judge. “Your Honor, may I have a minute with the witness?”
