Malpractice in Maggody

by Joan Hess

  Once I saw the chaos of the construction site, I pulled over to plan my approach. A red brick wall was being constructed across the front, with an opening for a driveway paved with matching brick and lined with flower beds and low shrubs. Trucks and vans were parked both inside and along the edge of the county road. Workmen scampered around like agitated elves.

  As promised, a guard in a uniform was standing at the foot of the driveway. A German shepherd was seated on its haunches, doing nothing more ominous than watching the mockingbirds in a tree. It was, however, a very large dog, which meant it probably had very large teeth.

  I put on my best cop expression and walked across the road. “I’m Chief of Police Arly Hanks,” I said, smiling politely. “And you are…?”

  He consulted a clipboard. “No se le permite entrar a esta propiedad.”

  I shrugged and said, “Sorry, but I don’t speak Spanish. Now if you don’t mind, I’ll just go up there and find someone who can answer my questions.”

  “Tengo mis órdenes. Usted debe irse ahora.”

  The guard, who was hardly a rough-and-tough bandito stereotype, looked no happier than I about the situation. He was short, pudgy, and in his very early twenties. He tried not to stare at my badge, but the tiny wisp of a beard on his chin was quivering and sweat was beading on his forehead. Had it not been for the dog, I would have patted him on the shoulder and continued past him.

  “I need to speak to a supervisor,” I said slowly, hoping the final word might sound familiar to him.

  “No puedo ayudarle. Esta es propiedad privada.”

  As I took a tentative step forward, the dog growled. I stepped back. Spanish classes had never been offered at the local high school, since most of the students were in dire need of English. Very few of the backwoods Buchanons are familiar with the concept of conjugating verbs, and their vocabulary, although picturesque, focuses on anatomically improbable barnyard activities. I couldn’t remember any English teachers who’d stayed for a full school year; the majority of them lasted only a few weeks before disappearing.

  “Por favor, señorita,” he continued, looking as if he might cry. “Mi perro está muy nervioso. Usted debe irse ahora.”

  The conversation was going nowhere. I’d deciphered enough of his remarks to agree that the dog was indeed nervous, and although the guard might buckle if I shoved him aside, the dog would not. At this point, however, I was just as curious as the rest of Maggody to know what was going on behind the red brick wall. But it was not in my jurisdiction, I reminded myself sternly. I had no more right than Ruby Bee and Estelle to storm the site and demand an explanation. Sheriff Dorfer did have the right, but he either wasn’t interested or wasn’t telling.

  “Arly!” bellowed a voice behind me.

  A familiar voice, to my regret. I turned around and walked across the road to where Jim Bob had parked his pickup truck. He’d already climbed out and was leaning against the door, his arms crossed and his eyes slitted. He had some of the characteristics of the Buchanon clan—apish brow, sallow complexion to match yellow-tinged eyes, thick lips—but he was among the wilier ones. Others were easily mesmerized by inanimate objects.

  “Mr. Mayor,” I said without enthusiasm.

  “I hope you found out what the hell’s going on over there.”

  “Since when did I get appointed to the welcome committee? Why don’t you go over and introduce yourself to the gentleman and his dog?”

  Jim Bob sneered. “The spic don’t speak English, that’s why. Just trot your sorry ass back over there and show him your badge.”

  “I’ve already tried that,” I said as I leaned against the back fender. “Did you call Harve?”

  “’Course I did, and more than once. That smart-mouthed dispatcher keeps saying he went fishing. Heard you did, too, but not by yourself.”

  “How kind of you to take a personal interest in me, Jim Bob. I never would have suspected you might care what I do while I’m on vacation. I feel like I ought to give you a big ol’ hug.”

  “Try it and you’ll find yourself ripping out gizzards at a poultry-processing outfit,” he said. “I don’t give a rat’s ass what you do on your own time, but now you’d better start earning your salary.”

  Believe it or not, this was one of our more amicable conversations. “You know as well as I do that this is outside my jurisdiction. What have you heard?”

  “Pretty much everything, from it being a whorehouse to a federal prison for white-collar criminals. Idalupino says someone told her it was bought by a cult, one of those groups with shaved heads. Mrs. Jim Bob’s second cousin Antsy Buchanon has been telling everybody it’s one of those places where they cut off dead people’s heads and freeze them. Roy’s hoping for a spa so he can sit in a mud bath all day.” He paused to scratch his head. “I told him to go find a patch of mud alongside Boone Creek. Wouldn’t cost him anything, neither.”

  “Presuming it’s none of those, what do you think?” I asked, not because he was insightful but because he’d been around the previous week and I hadn’t.

  “Mrs. Jim Bob and her gaggle of friends have been keeping an eye on it, and they saw some pretty fancy stuff being lugged inside. Lots of carpet, wallpaper, and porcelain bathroom fixtures, paint, tiles, gym equipment, and heavy-duty kitchen appliances. Larry Joe said they were digging a swimming pool.”

  “It could be a spa,” I said.

  “Out in the middle of nowhere? It’s not like Farberville’s packed with rich broads with nothing better to do than get pedicures.”

  “A private residence, maybe?”

  He resumed scratching his head. “Mrs. Jim Bob ain’t gonna like that, even if it’s not actually in Maggody. Gawd, I’ll probably have to put in a swimming pool, only bigger than whatever they’ve got, and hire some moron like Kevin to stand at the bottom of the hill to keep gawkers from trespassing. Now how in hell’s name am I supposed to pay for that?”

  “Try doubling the price of canned corn,” I said, more interested in the limousine that was moving slowly toward us, the driver justifiably worried about ruts and potholes. The windows were tinted so darkly that anybody, from a general in full ceremonial drag to a street mime, could have been sipping champagne in the back. “Know anything about that?”

  “It showed up a couple of weeks ago, and again last week.”

  We stayed where we were, watching as it turned into the driveway. The guard snapped to attention, but stopped short of saluting. The dog stared balefully, as if it knew who was paying for its daily ration of kibble. Once the limousine was out of sight, the guard turned back and glared at us.

  Jim Bob poked my arm. “Go over there and find out who it is.”

  “You’re the mayor,” I said as I moved out of range. “You go over there and find out who it is. I’ll wait right here in case I need to drag your bloodied carcass across the road and toss it on the flatbed of your truck.”

  “It’s only a dog, fercrissake. Didn’t they teach you how to handle dogs at the police academy?”

  “Short of climbing a tree, no. You got any beer?”

  He opened a cooler that was conveniently located on the passenger’s side of the cab. He thrust a beer at me, then opened one for himself. “You allowed to drink on duty, Miss Chief of Police?”

  “You allowed to park out in front of the Airport Arms Apartments on Saturday nights and scuttle up to the second floor, Mr. Mayor?”

  He chugged half his beer. “Ain’t none of your damn business.”

  We resumed watching the activity across the road. Surveillance has never been one of my more popular pastimes, and standing in the hot sun as dust blew over us was only marginally tolerable. After a while, Jim Bob fetched another couple of beers and mutely tossed one to me. The guard was now gazing longingly at us, but I doubted he could be bribed while the boss was on the premises.

  “This is ridiculous,” I said at last. I lobbed the empty beer can into the back of his truck. “I’m going to go take a shower and find
an air-conditioned haven. If you get invited across the road for wine and cheese, take notes so you can call me later and tell me about it.”

  He crumpled his beer can. “Yeah, I got better things to do than stand here like a fence post so cowbirds can shit on me.”

  We got into our respective vehicles and left without so much as a peck on the cheek. Hizzonor and I prefer to maintain a professional relationship—when we’re not cussin’ up a storm at each other, anyway.

  By the time Vincent Stonebridge reached his home in Malibu, it was nearly eight. He showered and put on a thick robe, poured himself a drink, and listened to messages on his answering machine while he gazed at the last of the surfers dragging their boards along the beach. Most of the callers were women—but not patients, since cosmetic surgeons were not on call during weekends. Pity the poor ob-gyns who delivered babies seven days—and nights—a week. What kind of a social life could one lead if one were continually interrupted? Besides, none of his patients could call him at home, weekend or not. If the clinic was closed, callers were directed to make an appointment during office hours or, in a crisis, head for an emergency room. Since Vince no longer had hospital privileges in the area, he was never called in to take over a case. And if truth be known, he no longer had any patients, since he’d transferred all of them to his partners until certain sticky issues were resolved in court or by his insurance company.

  He remained at the window for a few more minutes, then refreshed his drink and went into his office. After looking over the notes he’d made on the return flight and making a few additions, he picked up the telephone and punched in a familiar number.

  “Randall,” he said when the call was answered, “I just wanted to give you an update. You’re not busy, are you?”

  Randall Zumi was not busy, and rarely was so outside of his office hours. Weekends, unless he was on call, were interminable exercises in tedium. “No, Vince, just watching a video. How was your trip?”

  “Tiresome, of course,” said Vince, “but certainly more bearable than commercial flights. I don’t know how those bovines survive standing in long lines and being frisked by pompous jerks posing as airport security. You really ought to look into a private jet, Randall.”

  “I can’t afford to buy a jet. These days I’m squeezing the last dollop out of the toothpaste tube.”

  Vince hid his annoyance. “Randall, we’ve been over this time and again. Yes, your initial investment was substantial, as was mine, but a year from now we’ll be home free. You don’t have to trust me on this, my boy. You’ve got the figures. Once we’re operating at full capacity, we’ll be showing a net profit of at least three million dollars a year. Half of that will be yours. With a little creative accounting and prudent financial management, you’ll be rolling in it. You’ve got to keep the overall picture in mind.”

  “The overall picture is I’m up to my neck in debt,” Randall said with a sigh. “I’ve mortgaged my house, emptied my pension fund, sold all the stocks and bonds in my personal account, and borrowed money from my father-in-law. I have two hundred dollars in my checking account. I should never have gotten into this crazy scheme in the first place.”

  “Well, it’s too late to back out now. If I could, I’d juggle the numbers and get you some cash, but it’s risky when you’re dealing with hard-nosed contractors and suppliers. Tell you what, Randall, I’ll send you a personal check to tide you over.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll get by, presuming we can start drawing salaries next month.” Randall did not add that the last check he’d received from Vince had bounced so hard it had yet to fall back to earth. “Toothpaste is supposed to be nutritious.”

  Vince chuckled. “That’s the spirit, and I can assure you that our so-called salaries will be a hell of a lot more than what you’ve been making at that crappy state hospital in Little Rock. You’re a board-certified psychiatrist, not a janitor, although I’d be hard pressed to tell the difference from what they pay you. Private practice is the only way to go, my boy. Five years from now you’ll own a fleet of jets, as well as a yacht and a Rolls with your monogram on the door.”

  “Sure I will, Vince.”

  “That’s what I like to hear,” boomed Vince, although inwardly he was getting fed up with these weekly pep talks. If he didn’t need Randall to facilitate state licensing, he would have crushed him like the insignificant ant that he was. It was no wonder the hospital paid him less than a hundred thousand a year. Randall was short and prissy, with all the personality of stale beer. Dandruff glistened like snowflakes on his oily black hair. Although he was in his late thirties, he had the posture and deliberate caution of an arthritic octogenarian. No doubt his treatment of patients consisted of overmedicating them to keep them docile and oblivious to his incompetence. “Well, then, I’ll see you Friday at noon so we can get settled in and have staff meetings the rest of the day. Everything has to be perfect when our patients arrive on Saturday.”

  Vince turned off the phone and went into the kitchen to find something to munch on until he took Melanie or Melody or whatever her name was out to dinner. All Randall did was whine incessantly, as though he were the only one making a sacrifice. It was hardly surprising that his wife had taken the children and fled to her parents’ home. But in truth, he, Vincent W. Stonebridge, M.D., member in so-so standing in the ASAPS, master of the tummy tuck and breast augmentation, sculptor of flabby thighs, maestro of facial wrinkles and sagging chins, a veritable Michelangelo to L.A.’s richest women (and an increasing number of men), was the one who was giving up his spacious beach house, black-tie dinners, charity affairs at museums, and membership in an exclusive country club. Temporarily, at least, until the Stonebridge Foundation was running smoothly and he could escape the hellhole of a little town in the boondocks of Arkansas. He’d yet to meet any of the local citizens, but he was quite sure they all drooled. Fistfights probably occurred over fresh roadkill. Their condiment of choice would be lard. From what he’d seen from the backseat of the limo, the storefronts were boarded up and the drab houses landscaped with clotheslines and plastic windmills. His driver had been obliged to brake on several occasions for a mangy hound asleep in the middle of the road.

  With luck, he could stay within the compound, and they would be left to sniff along the fence and scratch their lice-infested heads in bewilderment. He’d been assured the fence was high enough to keep them out.

  After Randall Zumi hung up, he made himself a mug of tea and flopped back on the couch. The living room was dim, but some of that could be attributed to burned-out light bulbs. There was no reason to replace them, since he was moving out on Friday. He didn’t know if his wife would take immediate possession of the house, or remain with her parents. She’d mentioned that she might take the children to India to visit relatives. Since the divorce had yet to be finalized, she had full custody and there was nothing he could do to stop her. He certainly couldn’t afford another court battle; he already owed his lawyer several thousand dollars. And what would he do if she suddenly sent the children for a weekend? They couldn’t stay with him at the new facility, where he would be living in a small apartment with limited space. And would be on call 24/7 until profits allowed the hiring of a couple of interns.

  He wasn’t sure he even wanted to see his children, both of them spoiled, disrespectful, and mercenaries at heart. He had no desire whatsoever to see his wife, who was unable to so much as discuss the weather without blaming it on him. The marriage, although not arranged in the traditional manner, had been strongly encouraged by both sets of parents. Somehow or other, it had evolved into an offer he couldn’t refuse. He’d been a struggling med student, and her parents had offered to pay his debts and help him set up a private practice—in exchange for the right to brag that their daughter was married to a doctor, living in the most exclusive neighborhood in Little Rock, and sending their children to the finest private schools. Unfortunately, the private practice had flopped, and his hospital salary had been inadequate to maint
ain the lifestyle his wife desired. She’d whined, cried, sneered, berated him, and even struck him before stalking away with the children.

  Vince had made him an offer he couldn’t refuse, either, but at least the money made it palatable. Randall doubted he’d be purchasing any private jets or pricey cars, but it would be nice not to have to lie awake at night trying to figure out how to juggle credit card limits to pay for his wife’s and children’s endless extravagances. And his admitted lack of charisma would not be a factor with the patients he’d be treating.

  He was trying to remember how much cheese he had in the refrigerator when the telephone rang again. Gloomily assuming it was Vince with yet another bright idea, he answered it without enthusiasm.

  “Randall? This is Brenda, Brenda Skiller. Am I calling you too late?”

  “No,” he said, relieved. “Is something wrong?”

  “I just got off the phone with Vince. He said we’re all arriving on Friday at noon, but I don’t think that will allow us enough time for training. Not one of the maids or orderlies speaks English. We are going to have to walk them through every step, demonstrate precisely how things are to be done, and make sure they understand. What’s more, the chef I hired has backed off because he simply doesn’t approve of the dietary program I’ve put together. Do you know how much time I spent interviewing—”

  “We’ll find someone else,” Randall said soothingly. “Did you tell Vince?”

  Brenda sighed. “I tried to, but he was in a hurry. He doesn’t appreciate how difficult it is to find a chef who understands high-fiber macrobiotics. I’ve spent months planning the dietary regime to best aid our patients in their recovery. I cannot allow some fry cook to come in and totally destroy the entire program out of ignorance and laziness. Even a single greasy french fry could set back their rehabilitation for weeks.”