CLUB MEDicine: A Novel

by Jack Kinsley

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1 / Little Jack

  Chapter 2 / Little Bella

  Chapter 3 / Time To Go

  Chapter 4 / On A Jet Plane

  Chapter 5 / Pattern Of Mayhem

  Chapter 6 / Spinning The Positives

  Chapter 7 / Cut Like A Diamond

  One Week Later

  Chapter 8 / Living In California

  Chapter 9 / Retrieving Gold

  Chapter 10 / Two Dumbbells Should Do It

  Chapter 11 / Shattered

  Chapter 12 / After Her Light Went Out

  Chapter 13 / Moons Over My Hammy

  Chapter 14 / A Salute To The Sea

  Chapter 15 / Into A Splinter Of Light

  Chapter 16 / A Single Grey Line Of Smoke

  Chapter 17 / I'm Not Saving You

  Chapter 18 / Pissing In The Wrong Grove

  Three Months Later

  Chapter 19 / The Devil Inside

  A Few Last Words

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  A NOVEL

  RANE BOOKS

  Where the Word Meets the Page

  by Jack Kinsley

  Copyright ©2015 by Jack Kinsley.

  All rights reserved.

  Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in review. Jack Kinsley greatly appreciates you taking the time to read his work. Please consider leaving a review wherever you bought the book, or telling your friends about it, to help him spread the word.

  Thank you for supporting his work.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  To learn more about the author, please visit his website at:

  www.JackKinsley.com

  In memory of my mother, Yolande F. Côté.

  Chapter 1 / Little Jack

  Crystal Heights was a hiding place for the rich. A rehab center disguised within the confines of a colossal, residential home consisting of five private suites, a lap pool, and sweeping views of the Pacific Ocean. From the outside it appeared to be nothing more than another extravagant hillside home, most likely containing a typical family blessed by success, but under the clay-barrel tile roof of 329 Cliff Drive lived a revolving door of clients bringing their darkest of secrets.

  It was early Sunday morning, just before six a.m., when Travis Martin pulled into the driveway. He'd built Crystal Heights six years earlier from the ground up, and his business philosophy was simple: don't push a wealthy peg into a poor hole. That meant allowing patients of privilege the necessary privacy to find their way in the luxury to which they were accustomed.

  Travis arrived before Sarah this morning, which was a rarity. Her car was normally parked in the drive long before sun up, and already the first arc of light drew black silhouettes of the towering eucalyptus trees that lined the east side of the mansion. Travis looked up at the top narrow branches wavering in the onshore wind as he approached the entrance.

  He carefully opened the heavy, iron latch on the front gate, not wanting to wake his sleeping clients, and stepped into the courtyard. Immediately, he noticed a patio chair tipped over at the east wing of the house, something the overnight assistant should have caught in their scheduled walk around the property. He was certain he would find Lucy sleeping on the couch again.

  After turning the chair upright, he looked down the length of the house. It led to the backyard of the rehab, illuminated by a bright rectangle of light from the expanse of the Pacific. Something caught Travis's attention between the horizon of the short, dark grass and the silver sea. A small, peculiar mound lay at the end of the house — possibly some wild animal that had ventured out of the Malibu hills looking for food.

  "Get." He tried to send it on its way.

  There was no movement.

  Damn it.

  The last thing he needed was a client opening their bedroom slider and being attacked by something feral.

  Travis marched at it. "Get out of here," he hissed. Still, it didn't move. His stride decelerated with every step as he gradually recognized which animal it was.

  "Hey, Little Jack," he called out. "Here boy." The Miniature Pinscher didn't lift his head.

  Travis squatted next to him. "Whatchu doin' out here by yourself, huh? How did you get over your dog fence?"

  The pup lay a foot outside the short metal playpen that corralled his small patch of paradise. The pen ran a half circle out from the glass patio doors of the Montecito suite, and Travis saw that one of the sliders had been opened just enough for him to get in and out.

  He looked back down at Little Jack. The dog was stretched out on his side, seemingly enjoying a nap in the cool grass. But after Travis pet him, he knew instantly the dog was dead — his heart still and his belly fixed in time. Travis pulled back one of the dog's eyelids to confirm it and, sure enough, the little life that had entertained the eccentric family living at Crystal Heights for the past two months was gone.

  He inspected the pup closely. There were no signs of any blood, none that he could see in the dim light, and no broken bones that he felt in his rudimentary examination. He recalled how Little Jack had eagerly eaten a piece of filet mignon from his hand during dinner last night. Not the sign of a sick dog.

  "What the hell?" Travis cried out, forgetting he was only a few feet from the clients' opened patio door.

  Within seconds, he saw the curtain inside pull sideways and Dani's round face look out at him. There was enough light now that she could see him and Little Jack easily. The curtain dropped back into place, and next came her pale, fat hand out the edge of the slider. She pushed it open a bit more, just enough for her to stick her head out.

  "What happened to Little Jack?" Dani asked, her eyes fixed on the pup.

  "Little Jack!" Travis heard Nathalie cry out in the room behind Dani.

  Another pale hand grabbed the lower edge of the slider. This one was bone thin, and it opened the door completely. She pushed past Dani, jumped over the small fence, and picked up her dog. Nathalie only wore a t-shirt and a pair of men's boxer shorts, her long black hair tousled around her face.

  "What's wrong with him?" she asked, and took Little Jack in her arms, looking for him to respond. Tears rolled down her face at her dawning realization.

  She looked at Travis, who didn't say a word — he didn't know what to say. He only shook his head at the two women to express his certainty the dog was dead.

  "No. No. No!" was all Nathalie could say. She held the dog out in front of her so she could look at him, then held him tight against her chest. She did this repeatedly, while Dani and Travis watched in disbelief.

  "When was the last time you saw him alive?" Travis asked Dani, who appeared oddly composed as she witnessed her girlfriend falling apart, holding their dead puppy.

  It was really Nathalie's dog, but still, Travis found Dani's mild reaction unnerving — just a square piece of meat with two eyeballs and no sign of affection. He'd come to accept Dani's stoic presence in the house, but never found any comfort in it. There were never any displays of real human emotion from her and today was no different.

  "Last night, I guess. Before we went to sleep," Dani answered. She remained standing inside the suite with only one shoulder leaning outside the slider.

  "I always leave the door cracked for him," Nathalie told Travis. "You know, to handle his business late at night." She k
issed the top of the dead puppy's head again and again. More sobs followed.

  Travis revisited the disturbing fact that he'd found Little Jack outside the playpen. He mentally measured the height of the fence, and concluded it was impossible for the pup to have gotten out on his own. The women hadn't taken notice, and Travis decided against sharing his observation.

  "What do you think happened to him?" Nathalie asked Travis. She held Little Jack by his shoulders. The sight of his limp body dangling in front of her brought a fresh round of tears.

  "What are we all doing up so early?" A voice called out from a distance. It was a voice that commanded authority, and everyone sharpened their attention toward it. Sarah stood twenty yards away in the middle of a massive brick patio that gave her an even more formidable presence.

  Travis waved his program manager over instead of shouting to her about their terrible find.

  Client Devon suddenly appeared behind Sarah, creeping in his normal fashion. The dark bags under his eyes could be seen from clear across the yard as he followed Sarah toward them. He was always a step behind her — always pretending not to be stealing looks at her ass and legs. It hadn't made a difference that his therapists had addressed his stalker issues in their numerous sessions together.

  Assistant Lucy suddenly appeared behind the two of them, disheveled, trying to pull the wrinkles out of her blouse. She caught up with them.

  When they arrived, Travis stood and told Sarah, "Little Jack is dead."

  "Dead! How?" she demanded.

  "We don't know." Travis said. "I just found him lying out here."

  "Outside the fence?" Sarah asked immediately, her suspicious mind already working the scene.

  Travis only nodded.

  Lucy had her hand over her mouth in horror. Devon had no reaction at all. He stood at a distance and lit up a cigarette.

  Nathalie turned and watched him smoke, possibly waiting for him to say something, but she gave up when he held his hands out to her as if to say, what the hell do you want from me? Sarah and Travis noted the exchange between the two of them and briefly shared a look.

  "Maybe it was a coyote?" Sarah asked Travis.

  "No. No way." He shook his head. "No blood. No signs of foul play. Nothing I could see, anyway."

  Travis knew Sarah wasn't buying the 'no foul play' part. A healthy dog dying for no reason? Not a chance. He didn't believe it either.

  She knelt down beside Nathalie and rubbed her back. "There, there, dear. I'm so sorry. He—"

  "I'm so sorry, too," Lucy butted in. She had the social graces of a Saint Bernard, never knowing the right time to speak, sit, or be quiet. It was a quirk that drove Travis nuts.

  Sarah simply smiled at Lucy and nodded. She continued to rub Nathalie's back and told her, "He was such a wonderful little guy. It's just a terrible shame. We're all going to miss him." She turned and asked Dani, "Did you guys hear anything?"

  Dani shook her head no, but Nathalie told her, "I heard him bark, only a couple times, and then he stopped. I didn't think anything was wrong...and I took one of those damn Seroquel's last night. Those pills knock me out." Nathalie kissed the puppy on the edge of his mouth a few times and then tucked him back into the fold of her neck.

  Her excessive affection drew a tight lip across Sarah's face. Travis knew her well enough to read her thoughts: she needed to put a stop to all the caressing and smooching of this dead animal.

  "And you?" Sarah looked over to Lucy.

  "I didn't hear anything," she replied. The wrinkles in her clothes were a clear indication that she hadn't heard anything because she'd been sleeping on the job, as usual.

  "How long ago did you find him?" Sarah asked Travis.

  "Just now, but who knows how long he's been dead."

  "Let us have him," Sarah told Nathalie, and swept the black tangled hair away from the poor girl's face. "Give him to Travis. We'll see to him now."

  Travis reached out to take him.

  "No." Nathalie twisted away from him and pulled the pup closer to her as tears erupted.

  "What's the big deal?" Devon suddenly spoke. "It's a fucking dog. You can get another one." He flicked his cigarette into the yard.

  Everyone glared at him.

  "You're gonna pick that up," Travis told him.

  Devon stood defiant.

  "Now!" Travis yelled at him.

  Devon dragged his feet over to the cigarette butt, picked it up, and then chucked it over the small retaining wall where it sailed down the hill and into some brush.

  Travis wanted to throw Devon after it, but he'd deal with him later.

  "Come on, Nathalie. Give him here." Travis held his hands out for the pup. "We'll take him to the vet and find out what happened."

  Sarah caressed Nathalie's back in slow, concentric movements while she reluctantly handed the pup over to Travis.

  "We'll take care of him," Travis told her. He cradled Little Jack like a baby in his arms.

  Sarah helped Nathalie to her feet, and then told everyone, "Let's all go to the kitchen now. I'll get some coffee going, and Chef Tom should be here any minute to start breakfast."

  Slowly, everyone did as they were told and headed for the kitchen. Everyone always did what they were told when it came from Sarah. The only person who didn't follow was Dani. Her feet were still planted firmly inside the suite, and she waved Travis over to her.

  "Come inside for a minute," she whispered to him.

  Travis didn't want to, but reluctantly agreed, thinking she may have some information she wanted to share with him privately about what happened to Little Jack. Instead, he watched her dig through a heap of crap in her closet. When she finally emerged, she held a shoebox in her hand. She shoved it in his direction, but then reconsidered, walked over closer to him, measured the shoebox along the length of the pup, and then finally gave it to him.

  "He'll fit nicely in here," she told Travis.

  — — —

  After Dani left the suite to join the others in the kitchen, Travis opened the wide stretch of curtains hiding the sliders and revealed a stunning panorama of the Pacific Ocean. The sun had just peaked over the mountain range of Malibu and a soft pinkish hue hung lightly in the whisper of clouds over the sea.

  Travis laid the pup on the king-sized bed and briefly inspected him again — but again, saw no obvious indicators of his cause of death. Little Jack's short black coat still held its shine in the early-morning light and Travis could see the small veil of rusted fur that usually hid under his neck, kept a secret until you became part of his trusted circle — a circle that included everyone in his immediate world. Travis had never known a more trusting little soul. Travis's eyes paused there now and he reached down to pet it a last time, while looking at Jack's snaggle tooth peeking out from his upper lip. He half expected the pup to suddenly wake, give him a joking wink, and lick his chops. The little guy did have a unique sense of humor — but no such luck.

  Little Jack had become the favorite member of the neurotic family living in Crystal Heights. There wasn't a client or staff who could resist his silent requests from the dinner table. His demeanor wasn't greedy. There were no demands made on his hind legs. Little Jack simply sat patiently, cocking his pear-shaped head artfully to the right, and that was enough to bring down a morsel of gourmet food from the table, his velvet head usually getting a little pat while he leisurely nibbled the gift from above.

  It was the first death at the rehab center — not a single detox had ended in the loss of life. Thank God it wasn't a client, Travis thought. The following thought was the realization that he probably felt more sorrow in his heart for the death of the beloved pup than had it been an actual client. Something he wouldn't admit openly, but felt certain was the truth.

  Next to Little Jack was the shoebox Dani had given Travis, the container the pup would travel in to the vet — Gucci, no less. The fanciest shoebox Travis had ever come across. It was a rich, dark brown made of heavy cardboard; wrapped around its ex
terior was an engraved polish of Gucci logo lace. On top of the sturdy lid was a bright gold GUCCI stamp that flashed in the morning light. All it needed was a couple of gold handles and it could have been a proper coffin for any beloved Miniature Pinscher.

  Travis wasn't ready to see him go in the box just yet, but the air in the suite was quickly becoming stifling — the temperature seemingly rising in relation to the anger and resentment building inside him. He opened the slider further for more air and immediately felt the rush of a cool morning breeze, but it did little to soothe him. He then quietly opened the bedroom door of the suite for better airflow and at once could hear client Nathalie sobbing faintly out in the dining room. Dani was trying her best to console her.

  "It must have been an accident," Dani said to her. "He's going to the vet. They'll get to the bottom of this."

  Next he heard Sarah interject. "You better damn well believe we're getting to the bottom of this. The necropsy report will reveal the culprit. And someone's going to pay. That's a guarantee." There was a small pause, and then she sweetened her voice. "I'm so sorry, Nathalie."

  Travis knew Sarah would honor her guarantee. She'd be kicking some ass and taking names later. It was a preference of hers — better to inflict an ounce of pain at the outset and then begin the interrogation. That's how you got to the bottom of things in Sarah's world. Life was too short to dance with meaningless details — get to the heart of it, rip it out, and watch it beat in front of your very eyes. And even though she was as hard as nails, she had a genuine compassion for client and staff, and knew when to soften her edges. But it was instantly apparent when meeting her that Sarah wasn't someone to tangle with. Even Travis knew his limits.

  He had met Sarah Daley during one of his Las Vegas excursions, trips that often included a mix of business and pleasure. It was a common occurrence for him to fly out and rescue, yet again, another client who'd been sucked into the vortex of the sinful patch of desert. He began to believe there was a gigantic magnet buried under the city's crust that pulled steadily at all those in possession of addictive genes from around the globe.