by Jack Kinsley
Oh yeah, the Valium inside Travis had definitely taken its full effect.
Suddenly client Dani's voice boomed from the living area. "Hey Nat, whatever you're having, I'm having!" Although she couldn't be seen, her husky, bellowing voice alone seemed to make an impression on Dallas. His sharp eyes stared intently out the doorway until she was finished, and there was a realization in his expression that suggested he understood there was more man than woman in that voice.
"Okay!" Nathalie screamed back. Her tone was less than cordial and far from considerate. Travis wasn't certain, but he would have bet a large sum he'd heard the word 'bitch' under her breath.
Nathalie made a few special requests to Chef Tom about lunch — no pickle, extra mayo, and light on the pepper — and then turned to greet Dallas with a handshake. He wasn't expecting the gesture and her hand hung lifeless in front of him for a few extra seconds. He took her hand in his oversized mitt and flashed a brief smile, the first since he'd been there. It not only broke the ice between them, but seemed to loosen him up in general. His posture changed from crooked and awkward to more upright and open, and the tension in his face slackened. He gave up reading the wood grain and raised his chin to his surroundings.
Sometimes all it took was an unexpected, kind gesture from another client or staff member to make them feel part of it and bring them into the fold. Travis actually loved this part of his job: seeing the most unlikely of dysfunctional people living in relative harmony; his very own island of misfit toys. It rekindled inside him a bizarre, yet fleeting, sense of hope and faith in mankind by bringing these people together.
Standing there in the aroma of the tomato soup, Travis had a strange smirk on his face while a song began to play in his head:
I love you, you love me
We're a happy family
With a great big hug
And a kiss from me to you,
Won't you say you love me too?
It was one of the first songs Bella learned, until Elvis rocked Barney's world.
"So, how about that early lunch?" Sarah asked Dallas.
"Not hungry," he answered without hesitation. The insatiable beast may have softened, but he still wasn't taking bait from anyone. A lamb could have walked up to the lion and he would have looked the other way.
Then there was a flicker of life inside him. "Can I get some of that Valium I brought in?" he asked Travis, electricity running excitedly behind his eyes.
It looked like client Nathalie was making her exit from the kitchen, but she suddenly did a one-eighty to get a drink from the fridge. Clients were always interested in the details of other clients, especially anything having to do with medication. Travis was certain she was buying time to get the skinny, since her recent request for additional meds had been denied.
Travis wished she hadn't stayed in the kitchen. He still had the daunting task of keeping Dallas busy for what was looking like a long afternoon, and a good dose of Valium would have been just the thing to ease his mind and get him propped in front of the TV.
Sarah looked as if she was just about to grant Dallas's wish, but Travis put his hand firmly on her shoulder and signaled to Nathalie with a flick of his eyes. She understood at once. It wasn't only Nathalie he was concerned about, but the legal connection to Blake Cunningham. Devon may have been gone from the rehab, but Nathalie had cell phone privileges and she could easily get him into legal hell and high water. Mr. Cunningham had yet to contact Travis about his son's discharge from Crystal Heights, but Travis knew it was coming eventually. It was only a matter of time until Devon's daddy ran out of babysitters, and he'd find some legal crowbar to shove up Travis's ass and get his son back in the mix.
While he was at the rehab last night, Travis had overheard Nathalie talking with Devon on her cell — even though, at that point, Devon was still on the premises. She had been hiding in the common bathroom with the light off, and they were like kids on a pair of walkie talkie radios — only she was giving the son of a bitch some pretty decent phone sex. Travis was disgusted to think of the dirty bastard giving himself a five knuckle shuffle while he was anywhere near the vicinity. Travis nearly busted down the door and gave her phone a Goodfella stomp.
Travis had to be vigilant. Dallas's inappropriate request for Valium (before seeing the doctor) in front of Nathalie was a glaring reminder of how legally vulnerable Crystal Heights was.
"We actually can't give you any meds until you've seen the doctor," Travis told Dallas. Nathalie had her head inside the fridge, but not deep enough that she wouldn't be able to hear every word. "I'm sorry, but it's a legal liability that's in place for both our interests. We don't know if you're supposed to be taking those meds or not." And he ironically shoved a hand into his pocket where his fingertips greeted his little black box. "And only the doctor can give us the green light on that one. So, unfortunately, we're just going to have to wait."
Immediately the electricity that had danced behind Dallas's small, inquisitive eyes went cold and black. The light was out again and what remained was a mountain of muscle running on mystery and madness.
"Why don't we go talk privately in your room?" Travis suggested.
Dallas glanced up, a faint buzz of life emitting.
"That's a great idea," Sarah said. "You two boys get acquainted. I've got a ton of paperwork to do, but I'll check in on you guys shortly." Travis knew damn well she wasn't coming by later.
Nathalie apparently came to a decision and removed her head from the fridge with a grape Propel in hand. She turned to Chef Tom, who was absorbed in rolling a turkey wrap with the care usually given to a Christmas present, and held up two fingers to him. "Make that order, Ditto." she told him.
Chef Tom looked up from his perfectionism. "I got it. Go on now. Get!" he said in his best country twang; Nathalie vanished.
Dallas stood and this time his stool let out a loud cry of relief. The giant seemed to appreciate Chef Tom's hillbilly accent. "I think I'll take that lunch early too," he decided, and revealed for the first time what seemed to be a natural twang. "If it don't put you out none."
Chef Tom did a double take, trying to ascertain if Dallas was playing along or not. "My pleasure," he said in his natural accent. "I'll bring it to your room."
Dallas nodded to him and then to Sarah and Travis, and left the kitchen for his room. Travis was getting ready to pick up Dallas's trail when Sarah tugged at the back of his shirt for him to stay for a moment.
"I'll catch up with you in a minute," he told Dallas.
"Do you want me to pull a couple V's from the reserves?" she asked in a whisper.
Travis instantly realized he was getting sloppy. He'd nearly thought to give Dallas a couple from his own private stash. He wondered if he would have actually done it. And how he would have explained that one to Sarah. It's what Sarah had meant earlier when she'd said, I'll check in on you guys shortly.
"I'll come to the office and get it myself," he told her.
— — —
After getting the V's and a last good-luck-you're-gonna-need-it look from Sarah, Travis cautiously cut across the living area, behind the shadows of the six-foot house plants, trying to avoid Dani and Nathalie (waiting for Helen, again) watching TV on the couch. For all the unpredictability that existed at Crystal Heights, there was one immutable consistent trait that never changed, and that was the insatiable requests made by the clients; from the mundane to the extraordinary, and they had a mile-long scroll of them.
Travis thought he was in the clear until Lucy caught him in the east wing. Her horrible bangs were in front of him again and her usual timid demeanor had the extra scent of some dreadful concern attached to it.
Lucy was the only staff member who hadn't been handpicked by Travis. She came to work at Crystal Heights as a package deal through the recommendation — and otherwise strong suggestion — of Helen Ross. Travis hadn't even personally interviewed her, which he had done with every other employee.
"Mr. Martin," she sai
d, short of breath as she pressed and dried her palms down the length of her saddlebags. "I was wondering about what happened earlier this morning. You know, when I did the bag check for client Dallas?"
Travis simply remained quiet — sometimes it was best, knowing any rebuttal could potentially throw the mouse off the wheel in her head.
"Anyway," she continued, looking around worriedly, her eyes panicked. "I can't stop thinking about what you said. About touching the gun." And she recoiled her hands toward her chest in regret. "Without really thinking about it, I touched the knife too."
I'm sure you did, said a voice inside Travis that he didn't fully recognize.
"And, well, I uhh... I was worried, if there was... something...you know...if I should..." she was stammering without conclusion; her little mouse was definitely in peril.
"Don't worry," he told her. "I carefully wiped down both with a towel. Your tracks are covered." And he smiled. He didn't know why he lied — or why he hadn't done what he said. He wasn't consciously planning anything — especially anything that would implicate Lucy. But there was some strange remote force at work, as if he was acting on some distant primordial call of self-preservation that advised him to keep his options open.
"Oh," Lucy gasped in relief and held her heart. "Okay, thank you. Thank you so much, Mr. Martin." She stood there just beaming at him.
"You're welcome," he told her and continued his course down the wing to meet with the mysterious giant.
Along the walls were exquisite black and white photographs of abstract images and patterns of light that Ana had personally taken around the premises of Crystal Heights. The subjects were beautifully disguised and made for playful intrigues as to what had created the captivating effects of light and shadow. She had an undeniable talent and a wonderful imagination. She had also lent a heavy hand in a considerable remodel of the home décor throughout Crystal Heights; a remodel that wasn't at all necessary, but had proven to be a wise suggestion on Travis's part. It was a deliberate attempt to make her feel welcome, as well as needed, in his personal and business life. It couldn't have been more successful. When she was finished at Crystal Heights, he'd given her near carte blanche at their Victorian home.
One of Ana's large prints hung next to Dallas's shut bedroom door. It was a distorted low angle of netted light from the laced canopy that hung above where Travis and Helen had talked earlier that morning. Standing at the door for a near minute, Travis considered a dose of Adderall; he'd taken a Valium not long ago and now felt he needed to fire up the synapses. He settled on five milligrams and forced it down his parched throat while having a last look at Ana's web on the wall.
Travis entered the Palermo suite.
Inside the room was an articulated design of luxury, comfort, and a touch of femininity. A massive king-sized bed with a heavy but delicate carved wood frame held most of the real estate in the northern end of the suite, while at the southern end were five panels of tall glass punctuating a picture-perfect view of the Pacific. In front of it was an inviting seating area that had been cleverly disguised from its intended purpose of one-on-one therapy. Ana's touch and taste were everywhere.
There were two occasional chairs of white premium down blend made of solid maple wood and sinuous steel spring seats. Between the chairs was a small but functional accent table with a custom iron foot that supported a generous slab of black granite with white vein; on top was a Chinese traditional blue and white porcelain bottle vase with a painted five-clawed dragon among peony blossoms.
Dallas was already squeezed into one of the white occasional chairs; he looked like Jack the Ripper seated inside a dollhouse. Travis sat opposite him and pushed the vase back so they could have a clear path to communicate.
"So, that's quite the arsenal you came in with," Travis said.
"Damn straight. Like I told ya before, I ain't hidin' nothin'...not no more. That's why I come in here, lookin' to get me a handle back on them reins and makin' right from wrong. I need to get me back to the truth and thinkin' about these hasty assumptions I be havin'." He fixed his beady eyes on Travis. "What's been done, been done, and can't be taken back, but there may be hope yet."
His words flowed easily now and there was an unexpected, thick southern drawl Travis hadn't picked up on earlier. Although it made him seem dimwitted and friendlier, there was a definite street-smart sense about him that sustained his dangerous edge.
"What's been done?" Travis asked. He wasn't sure what the hell he was talking about, but felt the same sense of judgment Dallas had given him earlier that morning at poolside.
"Were you an addict?" Dallas asked him directly.
Travis's anxiety level rose. He should have expected the conversation to turn into a two-way street, but he hadn't mentally prepared to share anything about himself. "Yes, I've had my own personal challenges. I've been there, if that's what you want to know," he answered hesitantly.
"Good, because nobody who ain't been there is gonna help me none. I might as well confess to a priest and say my Hail Marys — which I done, but that don't do no good. They said I'd be forgiven, but it ain't happenin' in this lifetime or the next. Don't care what they say."
His conversation filter from earlier had been completely eradicated, and now that it was just him and Travis — man to man — he seemed to speak freely.
"So, we're gonna talk, you and me," he continued. "But we're gonna share. You're gonna tell me some things and I'm gonna tell you some things. And we'll have some things on each other," he stated, then stared intently across the room at nothing but paint on the wall, seemingly digging around the basement of his bulbous head for the right words.
The king-sized bed had been cleared of all the shit from his bag check, but the weapons were burned on Travis's brain, and he was pretty sure the topic of conversation was going to lean toward the black and steel. He could only wish it would be about what Dallas shot in his veins, snorted, and shoved down his hatch.
"There is that client—" Dallas paused, and then his mind served him quickly. "—that client-therapist privilege, right?"
He didn't even wait for a response from Travis before he continued. "I'm expectin' none of this is leavin' the room or gettin' into the ear of the law. And you have my promise too, none of what you tellin' me is gonna leave this room either."
What I'm gonna tell you? Travis thought.
"My word's on that." Dallas drew two banana fingers along the line of his jaw, and then shot one of them at Travis. "And don't think of lyin' to me. I might not be the brightest kid on the block, but I sure as hell know when someone's chokin' my chicken."
His hillbilly accent had grown comfortable and easy and, surprisingly, there was a curious charm starting to form around his new client. Travis eased back a bit in his chair, but couldn't think of what he was going to possibly share about himself. He also began to wonder if the money Dallas had paid for his first two weeks had been earned legally.
"Well, I don't know what you're about to tell me, Dallas. And I sure as hell don't know what I'm going to tell you, but—"
"That's all right. We can start small and go from there. Test the waters as they say — and see if we like the current and the temperature." He hopped his chair a quarter turn to better face Travis and then asked, "What got you into trouble?"
Travis had no idea where this conversation would lead, but felt the lazy river they were starting on had a perilous waterfall waiting for them at the end. But he decided the question was harmless enough.
"I was a victim of vodka," Travis told him. "I used to drink it by the pint in the back pew of Saint Irenaeus Church. It would warm my heart for the very Lord himself."
"Holy shit! Of all places!" Dallas slapped his thigh and there was a dull, heavy thud, as if he'd just smacked the side of a horse. He laughed for the first time. It was an unexpected, charismatic laugh that was deep and genuine and contagious. Travis felt himself relax further back into his chair.
"Why the hell you be pickin'
a church to be drinkin' in?" he asked.
"Well," Travis smiled sheepishly. "In some weird way I felt it was okay to be drinking under the protective and watchful eye of the Lord. The man above didn't have to go looking for me. No sir, I was sitting and sinning right there under his gable roof, bearing the failure of my spirit, and silently confessing while committing. And I was as quiet as a church mouse." Travis laughed at the thought and then added, "It actually made sense at the time."
Dallas shook his massive head at him in amusement. His eyes, too small for his head already, grew even smaller and his thoughts seemed to turn toward his own future. "It sound like you done right by the Lord, though. You cleaned yourself up real good, got yourself this here business."
"Yeah, but it took me a long time to come around. It was nearly a decade where I had a river of vodka flowing through my veins like a happy-hour log ride."
This brought a smile back to the giant's face. He licked his big lips and then rubbed them together in appreciation. An atmosphere of trust started to fill the room, and Dallas appeared content that Travis was sharing a part of his own story with him.
Travis was surprised at how freely he was able to share with his new client. He carried on, "But I had my moment of clarity, and it finally dawned on me that a functioning alcoholic doesn't equal a functioning and profitable business." But this was only a small piece of why Travis had quit drinking — he wasn't ready to share his more personal reasons, though.
"What about you?" Travis asked. "What was it that started your landslide?"
The giant chuckled at this. "Well, it started with the drink, then I got to movin' on to bigger and worse things. We know how that goes," he nodded at Travis. "Goddamn snowball turned into a mighty meteorite and damn near took the life from me!"
