CLUB MEDicine: A Novel

by Jack Kinsley

  Today, he was surprised to see Dani sunbathing next to Dallas. She lay on a lounger with her shirt pulled halfway up, exposing her pasty midriff. It looked like an unbaked loaf of bread rising in the heat. From a distance, one could imagine they were a couple on holiday, except for the fact that Dallas was her exact opposite, his tanned leather a direct contrast of hers. His skin cooked and glistened beneath a coat of suntan oil.

  Dallas caught sight of him arriving. "There's the wanted man...still duckin' the law and overdressed as usual I see."

  "I only wish I could throw a cannonball your way, my friend. This heat's a rarity this time of year." He felt a pinch of sweat from his armpits and the beginnings of a humid butterfly forming on his back.

  "Damn right," he agreed. "It's hotter than two shits on fresh asphalt."

  His comment drew a laugh from Dani that Travis had never heard before. Her loaf of bread jiggled with delight, and if he didn't know any better, he might believe she was a bit smitten with her new hick friend. He checked his watch and asked her, "Are you still going to make your one o'clock massage?"

  Earlier that morning she'd had the color of fire in her cheeks about her massage being canceled, but now seemed reluctant to give him an answer. "I suppose it's about that time," she finally replied, and turned her shirt back down.

  "Don't you worry, darlin'," Dallas said, and slapped her high on the thigh. "We can always catch a beautiful sunset together later. It ain't like we're really goin' anywheres."

  "Maybe over a romantic dinner?" She giggled, gathered her things, and left without saying goodbye to Travis.

  "Okay, you big smoothie," Travis said. "What do you need...other than more sun? Any longer and you'll turn to jerky."

  Dallas inspected himself. "Only a shade shy of bein' perfect. Beauty's in the eye of the beholder they say."

  "I'd say so." Travis looked back over his shoulder at Dani entering the house.

  "Oh, that." He waved his sausage fingers in her direction. "That just keeps me in practice. Ain't no more."

  "How are you feeling today? Any more bedtime anxiety?"

  "Not so much las' night. But I ain't keen on takin' that sleep med... Sera-somethin'. What the hell's that again?"

  "Seroquel. It's mostly for anxiety, but it'll put you down."

  "Knockin' me the hell out, I tell ya. Even this mornin' I was coming to like I was raisin' from the dead." He rubbed his palms up and down his face, as if he was continuing to fight its effects. "I don't want none of that much longer. What I need me is some good workouts." He checked his arms. "Gettin' a bit soft these days."

  Travis couldn't disagree more — the man looked like he'd been chiseled from a block of marble. But he did agree about the Seroquel. The stuff was potent; he remembered when Ana had taken it once to fall asleep. She swore to never touch it again. She had only taken half of a standard twenty-five milligram dose and was out for nearly two days, groggy and cursing its medicine cloud when she came to. She had always been hypersensitive to medication — unlike Travis, who seemed to have a natural immunity to any mind-altering substances. Most times, he had to double the standard dose.

  "Well, the doc will probably clear you for exercise in a couple days. Then, he'll most likely make the Seroquel a PRN."

  Dallas gave him a puzzled grimace.

  "An 'as needed' drug. You can take it if you need to."

  "As I see fit?" Dallas laughed. "Hell, that's what got me in trouble in the first place. By the way, what you do with them illegal items people be bringin' in?"

  Travis knew he was referring to the load of meth Dallas had brought with him. Just him mentioning it told Travis he was jonesing for his lost friend. Surely Dallas couldn't have wanted to talk with him in hopes of this.

  "It gets destroyed," he told him, which at Crystal Heights meant it got flushed down the toilet — a practice that was totally illegal, yet continued to be standard protocol. Travis hadn't destroyed his stuff yet, though. "Do you mind if we move into the shade?" he asked. The perspiration on his back had grown into a full, long-tailed butterfly, drops of sweat coming together at his blades and running down to the small of his back and into his pants.

  "And ruin the jerky?" he teased.

  They took a seat at the patio, under the shade of the large ficus tree — the same tree Jordan had gotten drunk in. At its base were massive serpent roots, exposed and forked out in every direction. Travis glanced up into the tree before he sat and immediately found refuge from the unforgiving sun. He unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt, grateful for a decent breeze that funneled and shot at them from the side of the house.

  After a moment to cool with nothing said, Travis prodded him. "So, what can I do for you today?"

  "I like the way you shoot straight, Mr. Martin. And I like your program." He looked around the yard. "Beautiful place. A place where a man can get to thinkin' and start changin' some of his opinions of himself, maybe even start changin' his opinions on others too." His inquisitive eyes looked over Travis and vacillated between hard and soft.

  Then something zipped past them and froze in its path, drawing their attention. A hummingbird had come to drink from the feeder Chef Tom hung in the garden. It was just a few feet from them. The feeder was made of clear glass and was half full of a bright red sugar-syrup mix. At its base was a trio of yellow plastic blooms. They watched the magic in silence as the bird hung in mid-air with its not-to-be-seen wings, darting from one bloom to the next — defying the reality of sight and flight. It was nothing more than a five-second miracle being propelled by a pair of ghosts. The bird took a last drink from the third bloom and then vanished like an arrow shot into the clear blue sky. Both men stared into the heavens long after it was gone.

  "In a strange way, it feels like home here," Dallas continued. "Don't know quite how to describe it, but seems to be bringin' me closer to a family from long ago."

  "It doesn't have to make sense. You can expect a full range of emotions after getting clean: memories of childhood, loved ones, and even regrets you never thought imaginable." Travis hadn't given Jordan much thought since he'd kicked him out of Crystal Heights, but at this moment he felt ashamed for what he'd done to him.

  "I know my two weeks are startin' to wind down here," Dallas said. His mannerisms were modest and there was a hint of coyness in his tone. "But I'd like to stay."

  "We'd love for you to stay. You've come a long way in eight days, but there's still a lot of work to be done."

  "I knows there is," Dallas agreed, but something was holding him back.

  "A lot of people make the mistake of leaving too quickly," Travis told him, thinking at first it was convincing that Dallas needed. "What's two weeks in comparison to the amount of time you've been poisoning your body and mind? There's no greater demise than a false sense of confidence — thinking you're ready to walk out those gates and make it on your own. I've had a long line of clients walk out of here the moment they began to feel their feet beneath them again, and usually it was only a matter of months before they were back where they started and right back in here."

  As Dallas listened, he studied the red hummingbird glass swaying in the wind, catching a speckled shower of light filtering through the leaves of the ficus. Then a strong breeze lifted and twisted its canopy and created the sound of hard rain.

  "I appreciate what you sayin', and I believe you speak the truth." Dallas leaned forward in his chair and dropped his head. He started picking at his enormous nails and then looked up at Travis. "But what I have here, you see, ain't a dilemma of if I wants to stay, but if I cans stay." He sat back in his chair and knotted his fingers together. "I'm no charity case — never been, never want to be. But what I have goin' here is a cash flow problemo." He tried lightening the conversation with some Mexican flair. "I got the money. No questions about that. But it ain't gonna be liquid before the clock be runnin' out here." He paused and gauged Travis. "You pickin' up what I'm puttin' down?"

  Travis knew damn well
what was coming next, but had another idea.

  "How's your credit?" he asked. "We offer credit services through an outside company with reasonable rates — for that kind of money anyway. You could always pay it off once you have your money, and save yourself a lot on the interest." Travis hated this part of the business. He was never comfortable negotiating money in exchange for what could be someone's very life. Sarah handled these matters, and wasn't the bleeding heart he was reduced to in these situations.

  Dallas shook his head without hesitation. "Ain't gonna work. My little stint back in Mexico actually started in Vegas, and my mortgage ain't been paid for a good stretch. Afraid that door's been slammed shut and bolted — no chance they givin' me credit." He drew a hand down his sweaty face and then found a spring in his voice. "I mean, what kind of man still be payin' his mortgage when he's fixin' to die?"

  "I understand your situation and I can sympathize, but I am running a business here. And unfortunately, I also have bills to pay to keep the place going."

  Dallas shook his head to indicate that he also understood.

  "What are you proposing exactly?" Travis asked.

  "Well, my house been sold, and minus what the bank's owed, I'll still be gettin' a good chunk. I'm figurin' on havin' my money in about two weeks, and that leaves me a week shy here, but once I get it, it's yours. I'll pay you two months up front, cash in hand."

  Travis quickly started doing the math in his head. Considering his current financial position, if Dallas's money didn't come through, Travis would be forced to pull from his personal account (which was next to nil) to cover expenses. And borrowing from the bank was becoming more difficult and wasn't smart business. Things would get pretty skinny around Crystal Heights. Travis couldn't believe he was even entertaining the loan. Damn. He wished Sarah would magically appear in the yard like the hummingbird had.

  "What do I have, Dallas? Only your word?"

  "I know it don't mean much these days — about as worthless as tits on a nun. But that's what I can give ya. That, and another two months' payment the second I get it."

  Travis wanted to tell him his own finances were tighter than a nun's asshole, but then came the familiar distant call tugging at his psyche again — mostly echoes of unintelligible thoughts encouraging him to hoard his options and not burn a single bridge. He didn't know if it was some bizarre side effect from the combination of Valium and Adderall, but he knew it came from somewhere deep and dark inside him that carried fragmented pieces of wisdom.

  Then the crowd of voices, his own voices, suddenly silenced like a crowd turning to one speaker, and he thought: Self-preservation, Travis... Having a depraved man in your debt may one day help you get out of a tight spot.

  Travis buttoned his shirt back up to a professional level and then brushed off an assortment of dust and debris the wind had carried and deposited onto his lap.

  "Okay," he told Dallas. "I'll give you the personal loan because I believe in your recovery. I also believe people will often do more for others than they do for themselves. So, not only will you owe me the money, on time, but you will also owe me your recovery. If you don't do it for yourself, consider yourself obligated to do it for me. Understood?"

  Dallas considered this, nodded in agreement, and then held out his catcher's mitt to shake Travis's hand. Travis reached over and buried his hand to seal the deal.

  Chapter 9 / Retrieving Gold

  It was close to ten p.m. when Travis pulled into the parking lot of the Latter Day Saints Church next to Devon's condominium. The lot was nearly empty, except for a couple teenagers caught by Travis's headlights getting busy in the backseat of a car. He parked facing away from them, cut the engine, and watched in his rearview mirror as they quickly dressed, jumped into the front bucket seats, and fled the scene.

  Sorry guys... Hate to interrupt the Immaculate Conception.

  He remained in his car and scanned the balconies along the third floor through the windshield, not sure which unit was Devon's. But then he spotted the pup's head sticking through the grey metal railing as he looked down at Travis. The patio was small, around four-by-six, and there was no roof except from the balcony on the story above, which provided little to no cover. The pup sat on an old matted towel, one of its dirty faded corners draped over the edge of the balcony; it looked like a stiff breeze would soon pull the rest of it down and leave him with nothing. They kept their eyes fixed on each other. The pup seemed to be saying, What the hell took you so long?

  Before leaving Crystal Heights, Travis had accidentally doubled up on a dose of Adderall, forgetting he had taken one twenty minutes earlier. Now, his mind drove a straight line at two hundred miles an hour without a streetlight in sight. Pedal to the metal, hotter than a tea kettle ran through his mind. Where the hell did that come from? Then, he remembered the half-dollar genius.

  He still didn't have a concrete plan as to how he was leaving with the dog, but one thing was for sure: he wasn't leaving it behind. He briefly considered scaling the balconies. There was a row of birch trees running up the condo façade that could act as a ladder and give him coverage, but he concluded it was too high and too risky; he didn't want to end up a splattered saint in the parking lot of Jesus Christ. And even if he did make it, he could see the drapes were open to the glass sliders of the balcony, where blue flashes of incandescent lights emitted from a TV. He'd most likely be seen instantly.

  No, he was going to talk the pup out of there with a winning argument of commonsense, using his mental prowess to convince the two rocket scientists to give him up. And if that didn't work, he had a bundle of their favorite candy in his back pocket worth three times the cost of the dog.

  He really hoped Nathalie wasn't going to be there, as it would be one less witness, and she would be the one to really object; Devon obviously didn't give a rat's ass. Although they weren't the sharpest tools in the shed, between the two of them they could possibly come up with an interesting story Blake Cunningham could embellish and make into a fascinating story; Devon's father had called Crystal Heights two days ago, but Travis never returned the call.

  Travis sat in his car building his argument for fifteen minutes before he finally decided to pull the trigger. The moment he exited his vehicle, he heard a woman approaching from behind a hedge talking on her cell phone, and he swiftly sat back inside his car. He knew the voice — it was Nathalie. He leaned his seat back just enough to ensure he was out of sight, but could still see her in the side mirror. She was smoking and talking impatiently, whirling a set of keys on her index finger as she paced around a white Lexus LS 460. Then she absently walked into the church parking lot, coming dangerously close to Travis, but turned back and the LED headlights flashed on the Lexus. She got in, and he heard the engine roar and fade down the street.

  He waited a minute to be sure, but decided not to wait any longer in case she was only doing a cigarette run at the local 7 Eleven on the corner. He would only have a small window to get in and get out with the pup.

  Travis used the stairs instead of the lobby elevator, thinking the fewer eyes on him the better. When he reached the second floor he heard a car approaching. He bobbed his head through the jigsaw of birch leaves, trying to get a clear view out to the street. The car was white and similar in outline, but it turned out to be a new Toyota with a body profile queerly similar to that of a Lexus. One homogenized market of innovation, he thought.

  He continued up to the third floor. As he approached Devon's door, he could hear the blare and rumble of the TV inside. He gave the front door a hard knock and waited. Nothing. He tried again and waited. Nothing. Then he hit the door with the ball of his fist. Still nothing.

  Travis smiled, as he had prepared for this. He produced a copy of Devon's key from his front left pocket, given to Sarah by Devon himself, in case one of the assistants needed to fetch something for him while he was at Crystal Heights — or perhaps a sexual invitation for Sarah to visit him after he had returned. She'd been right about
him, Travis was sure. Devon always had some sick infatuation with her, given away by his nervous twitch while he stole looks at her figure.

  Travis slipped the key slowly and quietly into the lock, even though shouts and explosions screamed from the television inside. He wondered how many complaints the neighbors must have filed, but then noticed there weren't any other doormats in sight except for the one at Devon's. It read WELCOME, but was facing in.

  The knob clicked. He cracked the door open and peered inside. Right away he recognized the movie playing: Star Wars Episode 1: The Phantom Menace. Devon had predictably shitty taste.

  One of the toys Devon had chosen to bring to the rehab was a replica, 'real-life' light saber. It was actual size and, according to Devon, had a T-6 aircraft-grade aluminum handle and a durable crystal chassis. Travis remembered how excited Devon had been when he'd shown it off, describing it in every detail. He'd turned it on to display a bright glowing red LED light — of course it was red. It was super realistic and designed for full impact; customer satisfaction guaranteed, he had even added.

  Travis opened the door a little wider, searching for any sign of Devon. The Adderall had kicked in at full bore now, his stomach muscles clenched and hard as a washboard; he could almost picture it, but knew there was no six-pack down there. Then his eyes caught something off the end of the couch. It was the back of Devon's melon, hanging off the arm of the sectional where he had apparently passed out.

  The condo was a disgrace, cluttered with shit everywhere — déjà vu of how Devon had lived back at Crystal Heights, except for the addition of take-out boxes and containers everywhere, surrounding an overflowing trash bin. The carpet that had once been white now looked like stubborn dirty snow on the side of the road, and there was a stench of cigarettes and a permanent cloud of smoke that hung above and pulled the corners of the room out of focus. Devon and Nathalie had gone on several shopping sprees based on all the bags, boxes, and receipts strewn about — as if they had walked through the front door and immediately torn their purchases open and discarded everything else on the spot.