Out Cold ddm-3

by Tom Schreck

  "Stan Getz? Wasn't he the white saxophone player? What about Bird or Coltrane?"

  "It's music, not a painting. It doesn't have color. It has to have soul not dark pigment."

  "Gotcha."

  "What were you in the office about?"

  "What am I ever in the office about…?"

  "Duff, why don't you just do the notes every day? It takes care of itself if you approach it that way."

  "I don't know 'Niquey. I just don't have the discipline."

  "Duff, you have discipline when you box."

  "That's different."

  "Only because you want it to be."

  "You're right." And she was. She was almost always right, but spoke in a way that didn't make you resent it. My desk phone rang.

  "This is Duffy," I said.

  "What's the guy's name you were looking for the other day here that went AMA?" It was Rudy and he wasn't big on 'Hello and how are you doing?'

  "Never mind, Rude. I found him."

  "It's was Karl Greene, wasn't it?"

  "Yeah."

  "He's in here again. Someone tried to cut his throat."

  "Is he dead?"

  "No, no, no. Actually he got barely cut," Rudy paused for a second and spoke like he didn't quite believe what he was about to say. "He wore a football helmet and they couldn't get a good angle on his throat, but they still beat the shit out of him. Any idea why the guy wore a football helmet?"

  "To render the governmental homing device, placed in his brain the last time he want to the hospital, ineffective."

  "Seriously, Duff. Why'd the guy have a helmet on?"

  "I was serious."

  "This guy's nuts, huh?"

  "The helmet saved him, right?"

  "Yeah, but Duff…"

  "Nuts is a relative thing," I said.

  I finished up with Rudy, decided I would start getting disciplined on files tomorrow, and headed to the hospital. On my way out, the lobby TV was replaying the explosion at the People of God's Kingdom.

  9

  Karl laid in restraints in his hospital room. His Redskins helmet sat on the vinyl chair with his rubber gloves neatly folded next to him. His eyes were closed and a bandage stuffed with gauze wrapped around his neck. The TV was fixed on CNN and the coverage was all about the People of God's Kingdom, although now it was being referred to as 'Massacre at God's Kingdom.' Ironically, the post-traumatic stress-debriefing guy was going on about the same shit he spouted about at the ROTC fire.

  I whispered Karl's name to see if he was aware of my presence and got nothing. I put my hand lightly on his wrist being careful to avoid the IV tubing taped there. I whispered again while I slightly tightened my grip. Nothing.

  "Kid, he's out of it. They got him on Haldol," Rudy said. He sweated and he had deep pit stains under his arms. He always did. He also had his customary stains down the front of his shirt made up largely of the menu of his last meal.

  "Haldol? That's pretty heavy duty in the tranquilizer family, isn't it?" I said.

  "Yeah, from what I heard it was warranted."

  "Why?"

  "He wouldn't let anyone touch him; he was flailing around so bad. He was mostly incoherent and getting dangerous."

  "Dangerous?"

  "He was throwing karate kicks and what not. The first orderly that came near him wound up in some sort of hold and got a broken wrist."

  "Score one for the underdog,"

  "Yeah, except this was an innocent orderly making about eight bucks an hour trying to help a guy with a slit throat."

  "Probably not in Karl's perception."

  "True, 'Course Karl believed he was with the government and wanted to check on the chip that was already implanted in his brain."

  "Yeah, he talks a lot about that shit."

  "He keeps up with current events, though. I'll give him that." Rudy took a second to wipe the sweat from his forehead with his tie. From the looks of the tie I could tell it wasn't the first time.

  "Current events?"

  "Yeah, he talked about this shit," Rudy said and pointed to the TV and the CNN coverage.

  "Really, how so?"

  "He knew it was coming, the CIA, same story as Waco…that kind of shit."

  I didn't say anything. I just thought about things for a second. The room got quiet except for one of Karl's monitors and they beeped continually at three-second intervals.

  "Hey, kid, you all right?"

  "Huh?"

  "You're swaying back and forth."

  "Just tired."

  "What do they have Karl on that makes him so out of it anyway?"

  Rudy just looked at me. His face lost expression and he walked over to me.

  "What?"

  He took out that little pen thing with the light on it and shined it in my eyes until I pulled away. I hate that thing.

  "You get knocked out recently?"

  "What?"

  "Don't bullshit me, kid. When did it happen?"

  "When did what happen?"

  "Fuck you Duffy. When did it happen?"

  "I took one last night over at Ravenwood. Got me on the point of the chin-nothing really, just one of those shots."

  "Uh-huh. And at Ravenwood-why were you at Ravenwood and not at the

  Y?"

  "I don't know."

  "Was Smitty there?"

  "No, I-"

  "So you got knocked out before and Smitty wouldn't let you spar…"

  I didn't say anything.

  "Stupid ass. Duffy, you ever hear of post-concussive syndrome? You know better than to mess with this shit," Rudy was pissed. "Now, you're standing there all wobbly, eyes fucked up, and repeating yourself like a mental case. Damn, you piss me off."

  "C'mon Rude. I've been doing this for years…"

  "Exactly. Who would ever think getting hit in the head over and over could be bad for you…" Rudy shook his head. "Get your head out of your ass while you still can." Rudy walked out of the room.

  Rudy knew me and he knew boxing. A lot of people don't get boxing, but Rudy did, at least on some level. It got me thinking.

  10

  "They got to me," I heard Karl rasp. It brought me back out of my head.

  "Easy Karl," I said.

  "They got to me."

  "Who are they?"

  "The usual. Call them what you want." Before I ran out and got my own Redskins headgear, I reminded myself Karl was schizophrenic, fried from years of drug use, and was currently on painkillers and the massive tranquilizer Haldol. It kind of made me pause before I went with his theories.

  "Take it easy, Karl. Does it hurt much?"

  "Not physically. What hurts is they get away with it, over and over and over."

  "Yeah," I said, without really knowing what I affirmed.

  "You don't believe me. You think I'm a doped up whack job."

  "How could you say that Karl?" The word hypocrite came to mind.

  "Because I am a doped up whack job. I know it; we don't have to pretend I'm not."

  "Karl…"

  "I wasn't always though. You can look it up." Karl raised his eyes and grinned a resigned smile.

  "Karl, take it-"

  "Just remember Duffy, just because you're paranoid doesn't mean people aren't out to get you." He closed his eyes.

  "Karl, take it easy. Just get some rest. It's not worth…" He was already asleep. I touched his hand and said goodbye.

  I drove back to the clinic knowing I was in Michelin's shithouse and it probably wasn't the time to start blowing off work. A quick cruise around the parking lot though told me her car wasn't in. That's when I remembered she had her monthly podiatry appointment and the county planning meeting. I thanked God for Claudia's recurring corns, and decided to try to find out a little bit more about the shit Karl was going on about. It was Wednesday afternoon and the day Kelley, my cop friend, got his haircut. I had a few cop-type questions for him. Even though he wasn't always thrilled to be answering them, he eventually did.

 
; "You know what I'm fuckin' sayin'? You know what I'm fuckin' sayin?" Junior, the young barber, was sayin' when I came in. It wasn't a coincidence because Junior punctuated everything he said with 'You know what I'm fuckin' sayin?' After awhile it became the white background noise of Ray's.

  Kelley was there, next in line. Before I could speak to him, there barbershop protocol demanded the exchange the inane conversation with both barbers before addressing anyone else.

  "Hey, Duff," Junior stopped cutting some cop's hair. "We got the new Penthouse in. It's got some real fuckin' snatch in it. You gotta check that shit out. You know what I'm fuckin sayin'!"

  "Junior, you know I can't look at that shit in the middle of the day. Next thing you know I'll be borrowing some hair gel and heading off to your bathroom-then my day is shot."

  "Duff, you're a pisser, you know what I'm fuckin' sayin."

  "Hey, Duff," Jackpot, Ray's other barber, said without looking up from the racing form.

  "How you doin' with the trotters, Jackpot?"

  "I hit the superfecta at Vernon Downs-a nice pot."

  "Wow, again?"

  "No, that's the same fuckin superfecta he told you about two months ago, you know what I'm fuckin' sayin'. Fuckin' Jackpot keeps bringing it up like it was this morning. You know what I'm fuckin' sayin'?" Junior said.

  Jackpot rolled his eyes and shook his head without saying anything.

  "Duffy you here for a cut?" Jackpot said.

  "No, I'm just here to see Kelley."

  I sat down next to Kelley, who was reading an article about the Yankees latest losing streak and why it spelled the end for life as we know it.

  "Not looking at Penthouse?" I said.

  "Why don't you borrow some of Junior's hair gel," Kelley said without looking up.

  "Hey, let me ask you something," I said. Kelley didn't look up from The Post. A lot of conversations with Kelley started out with me doing all the talking.

  "One of my guys has gotten beat up twice in the last two days or so. One time it was in the park and this last time I'm not sure where he got beat, but someone tried to slit his throat."

  "Guy's name is Greene?" Kelley said. He read about the Yankees woeful middle relief issues.

  "Yeah, how'd you know?"

  "A guy gets his throat slit, it draws attention."

  "What do you know about it?"

  "I just told you all I know about."

  "Is it weird the same guy gets rolled in such a short period of time?"

  "No, maybe someone out on the street is pissed off at him. Maybe he owes money or stiffed someone on a deal. It could be a whole host of things."

  "He's also paranoid schizophrenic," I said.

  "Here we go. What does that mean in cop terms?"

  "Well, for instance he wore a Redskins helmet and rubber gloves the last time he got attacked."

  Kelley laid the paper down in his lap and looked at me for the first time.

  "That'll get your ass kicked, just on general principles."

  "He also tends to go on and on about conspiracies and how the government is always doing things to us, and we have to wake up from our ignorance."

  "So this guy is hangin' on the streets of Crawford sportin'

  Redskins gear and telling everyone they're ignorant. Hard to figure why some of Crawford's finest citizens might find that offensive."

  "The thing is, Kell, in his ramblings, he's kind of predicted a few things that have come true."

  "Here we go…"

  "I'm serious. The ROTC fire and that WACO thing in Alabama."

  "He said they were going to happen?"

  "Well, sort of. He said something like it would happen."

  "Duff-something like that shit happens every day."

  "I probably should mention he is paranoid schizophrenic." Kelley looked at me for the second time in the conversation. He didn't say anything-just looked at me.

  "What?"

  "You just said that."

  "So"

  "I mean you just repeated yourself." I didn't say anything. I had gotten a little tired of people pointing this sort of thing out to me.

  "Look, Kelley, I guess what I'm asking, is there any chance some bigger force is out there against Greene, and they're making it look like random street beatings?"

  "There's a chance there's a Bigfoot."

  "Never mind," I said.

  "Kelley, you're up. How about those Yankees?" Junior snapped the apron from the last guy's cut. "They gotta get some relief, you, know what the fuck I'm sayin'?" I started to feel like the Yankees weren't the only ones.

  11

  I got back to the office a little after lunch, and, lucky for me, the Michelin Woman remained at the County Planning meeting. It was one of the myriad of meetings she went to on a daily basis with a host of other social workers cut from the exact same cloth. I had a vision of the group of them sitting around a table eating donuts and drooling over the chance-and the power-to create a new form.

  In the parking lot I tried giving Rene a call and her voice message picked up immediately. I left a message for her to call me and I got a creepy feeling something wasn't right. Rene was one of those people who almost surgically attached herself to her cell phone and if you got her voice mail she'd always call right back.

  I sat in the car for fifteen minutes listening to Mad Dog Russo go on and on about the Yankees overpaying for players and how it was bad for baseball. A caller from Yonkers countered with the fact the Yankees were good for baseball no matter what and the Dog should understand that by now. Fifteen minutes went by and there was no call from Rene. I headed into the clinic, comfortable in knowing Claudia was out, and I beat this system once again.

  Back at the office at least by Trina noticed my absence.

  "Where the hell have you been?" Trina said when I set foot in the door.

  "The hospital," I said.

  "Thank God. It's about time you got that head thing checked out."

  "I visited Karl. What head thing?"

  "C'mon, Duff."

  "I'm serious-what head thing?"

  "You're wobbling around, complaining of head aches, you lose things, and you repeat yourself."

  "C'mon…"

  Trina just looked at me. Our eyes locked for just a couple seconds longer than usual. I couldn't say for sure, but I thought she welled up a little. She shook her head in disgust.

  "Why?"

  "Why, what?"

  "Why do you insist on doing something that hurts you so," She looked away.

  "Because I can't sing or dance…"

  "It's not funny-and aren't you supposed to be getting married? I mean, doesn't that change anything for you?" Trina busied herself with stuff around her desk. I got the message women are so good at sending, that the interaction was over. Back at my cubicle the voice mail left me four messages. Two from the Department of Social Services, most probably looking for some documentation I hadn't sent them, and one from the probation department also probably looking for documentation. There was also one from the Veteran's Administration medical records department. I called the VA

  "Medical records," the voice droned.

  "Yes, I'm returning a call. My name is Duffy Dombrowski. I had requested the record of Karl Greene. I'm a counselor at Jewish Unified Services in Crawford, New York," I said as officially as I could muster.

  "The file you requested is currently under review at another site and there will be a delay in getting it to you."

  "Isn't there a copy you can send or a summary?"

  "We don't keep copies, sir."

  "Can you just send me the discharge summary?"

  "The discharge summary is with the chart, sir."

  "Can't they send me a summary?"

  "They don't do that, sir."

  "Well, when can I expect the chart?"

  "I have no way of knowing, sir."

  So it went, a shining example of government efficiency. I looked in my appointment book. I saw my first appointment of t
he day was with 'Sparky'. I look forward to meeting with him because he was really trying, and it is energizing to do that kind of work. I mean Eli was great and I felt for the Abermans because they were chronically unhappy, but honestly, they weren't going to change. Eli liked getting high and running the streets. It was what he was into, and playing the clinic so he would get his welfare check was part of it. He wasn't mean or obnoxious about it, but I knew the role I played with Eli.

  The Abermans somehow either enjoyed-that seems too strong a word-maybe they bonded to being unhappy. Mr. Aberman is stupid enough to keep his porn stash out in the open and he uses his wife's status olive oil for lubricant. If I was Freudian trained, I could make some sort of inference about the role of Mrs. Aberman's olive oil, but the more I thought about it, the more the mental image of Mr. Aberman in his cold, dank garage rubbin' one out started to bother me. I guess my point is, if you don't want your wife finding your stroke mags, hide them better like the rest of us do. Don't put them in Tupperware with the extra extra virgin olive oil on top. I think Mr. Aberman sent a message and I think the message said something along the lines of 'I resent having sex every solstice, and so you'll feel bad, I'm heading out to the power tools to grease up my tool…and by the way I'm using the goddamn overpriced oil you buy instead of the generic!'

  I had difficulty shaking the visual associated with Mr. Aberman and became worried a particular mental image would be stuck in my consciousness forever. Thank God, Trina buzzed me to let me know Sparky arrived.

  I met Sparky in the multi-purpose room. I could tell right away something wasn't right. Rail thin and fidgety to begin with, but today somehow he ramped it up a notch. The circles around his eyes darkened and when he blew into the room so did the smell of cigarettes. It hit me like a jab, almost like Sparky himself morphed into one giant cig.

  "Duff," Sparky looked over his shoulder and then at me. "I need a favor."

  "Shoot, Spark."

  "I ain't never told you this." He snapped his gum, looked over his shoulder and back again. "I got a kid."

  "Yeah?"

  "Yeah, a five-year-old little girl. I ain't never married her mother, but I used to stay in touch until I went in the joint."