“He hasn’t what?” he shouted into the phone and looked at his watch: 9:55 a.m. “Where the hell is he?” Merz looked through the glass doors leading to the conference room. Everyone was staring back at him, waiting. “Find him!”
He couldn’t believe that Eddie St. George had yet to arrive at Ridgewood General with the sample doses of Pneucanex-CW. The bastard knew a TV camera crew from CNN would be waiting to televise the presentation of the free medication to the ailing father of an indigent family.
Everyone – the CEO of CHEMwest, Ridgewood Administrator Alan Vasquez, the new Oncology Chief Michael Cliffords, and who knew who else – was there, waiting for St. George to arrive with the restructured chemo wonder drug.
CHEMwest’s public relations veep in New York had spent several months convincing the network to document the story even though the product was really only a variation of their existing drug. Not a real break-through.
And now Eddie Asshole St. George was screwing up the best possible publicity opportunity they could ever hope for. He knew he should have gone himself, but he had this committee to chair, a damn important meeting, and to have postponed it would have been a major inconvenience He didn’t like to be inconvenienced for one moment.
Merz hung up on the caller from Ridgewood’s PR department and had Michael Cliffords paged.
“I’ve just been informed that Eddie St. George is … uh … a little late for the presentation,” he told the oncology chief, nodding to himself as he listened to the angry response
“Where is he?” Cliffords demanded.
“We’re trying to locate him now, confirm his time of arrival.”
“This is an oncology unit, Mr. Merz. We’re trying to cooperate, but all these outsiders represent a significant danger to our immune-compromised patients. We need these people out of here as soon as possible.”
“Let me get back to you.”
But Cliffords wouldn’t quit, started going over the same territory again.
“I know, I know,” Merz said. “Mr. St. George explained the patient’s circumstances when he proposed this gesture. We are certainly empathetic with the man’s financial situation, and how the HMO wouldn’t cover the additional cost of the new drug.”
Merz wanted to hang up, but he needed to buy time. “The stats are solid, doctor. And they’re exciting. The best cure rate out there.”
“Yes, yes, but where is it?” Cliffords insisted.
“The medication will be there,” Merz said. “I’m sorry for this inexcusable delay, and for upsetting your patient, you, the Ridgewood staff, and, of course, CNN. I promise we’ll make it right. St. George will be there any minute. “
“Forget St. George. Bring the drug over yourself. Now.”
Merz tapped a pencil on his desk so hard the slim piece of yellow-painted wood splintered; he swept the pieces onto the rug and tried to rein in his fury. This was no time to let his short fuse catch fire. He had no choice but to confess another embarrassing fact to Cliffords. He took a deep breath and said, “St. George has the only supply of Pneucanex-CW in the area.”
He cringed as the receiver at the other end abruptly clicked off.
“Get that son-of-a-bitch St. George on the horn,” he yelled at his assistant. “Now!”
“He’s not answering his cell.”
“Well, for Christ’s sake, don’t just stand there like a limp dick. Look up his landline … try his goddam apartment … send someone to his apartment. Do I have to tell you everything?”
The assistant spun around and slid sideways through the doorway. Merz watched him depart, could tell he was pissed. For the umpteenth time, he wished he had a female assistant again.
Just as dumb but better to look at.
No, no more female assistants. One more harassment gig could cost him more than he cared to imagine.
His collar tightened the way it always did when his blood pressure was on the rise.
In the midst of all of this he pondered the nasty question again: Does it pay to fly the straight and narrow?
Fucking “A” it does!
His last female assistant, who was extraordinarily voluptuous, had threatened to go to the press. Cost CHEMWest a pretty penny to squash that whole sexual mess. Merz had thought she’d wanted it – he sure as hell knew he had! Stirred up a real hornet’s nest when she claimed he assaulted her. What the hell did these women want anyway? Prince Charming? Couldn’t afford to be in the middle of another mess like that again. Ever!
He took a loop around the desk.
Shit!
He wasn’t going to wait for his assistant. He snatched up the phone and tapped in St. George’s automatic dial.
* * *
Eddie stared at his cell phone; the chiming had been incessant. He gritted his teeth, finally answered.
“Why the hell aren’t you at Ridgewood with that friggin’ drug?” Merz shouted.
The question was shrill. Eddie held the receiver far from his ear. He’d expected it to be Father, not Merz.
“Angie’s supposed to be handling it,” he lied. “I’m sick, have a fever.”
“I don’t give a fuck if your balls are melting and running down your leg. You’re due at Ridgewood. Past due! Get your ass over there!”
Eddie’s hand shook as he let the phone slip from his fingers onto the glass tabletop. He broke out in a bubbling sweat, eased himself down onto the floor. This was the first time Merz had ever yelled at him.
A wheeze exploded from his mouth. He couldn’t breathe. The harsh sounds grew louder.
Megan Ann, naked, rushed out of the bedroom, a glass full of vodka clutched in one hand. She sloshed the booze over the brim, ignored the spill
“Eddie, what’s the matter?”
She grabbed for his hand, missed, and spilled more vodka on the polished bamboo.
He jerked his head towards the desk, where an inhaler was perched on the edge. She grabbed it, flipped off the cover, and put it to his lips. Holding it there, she lowered herself onto the floor next to him.
“Use it, baby.” She compressed the inhaler. “Breathe!”
His eyes were swimming in tears, his chest collapsing. Megan Ann caressed his head, rubbed his back, crooned words he couldn’t grasp.
…over the rainbow …somewhere…
Sound contracted, expanded. Didn’t Mother sing that song to him?
He gasped in air, and with it came the metallic taste of the medication that had saved him so many times. The room stopped its crazy spin.
Eddie got up, moved slowly to the dining room table, sat down, and remained perfectly still. He looked out at the penthouse patio. He was afraid to move, afraid to interrupt the even flow of air that was rhythmically filling his lungs.
“Feeling better now, Eddie?” Megan Ann asked.
“Yes. Thanks.”
“I know there’re better medications than this out there to control your asthma. You were in pretty bad shape.”
“I’m supposed to be the drug rep, remember?” He smiled weakly at her as his shoulders sagged in relaxation. He was almost himself when his cell chimed – it shattered the silence
They both stared at it.
“Please don’t answer it, Eddie.”
He let it ring several times before putting it to his ear.
“You’re fired!” Robert Merz yelled.
“Bob–“
“It’s Mr. Merz to you, dickhead. When I told you to get down to that hospital, I meant right then. Not when you fucking well felt like it. And don’t talk to me about Angie. I called her; she didn’t have the foggiest idea of what I was talking about. You’re a goddam liar. You have the dosages, not that simpering cunt.”
“I can’t help it. I told you before, I’m really ill.”
“If you think you’re sick now, wait till the bill collectors come after that fancy Jaguar of yours.”
“How can you fire me?” Eddie said. “Haven’t I always come through for you, for CHEMwest?” He couldn’t stop him
self. “Haven’t I always done the job? My stats are better than any other rep.”
“Well, Mr. Goodjob, that was yesterday.”
“But I’ve never failed you,” Eddie pleaded.
“Never’s just a long time, St. George,” Merz said. “And again, that was yesterday. Today, in case you’ve forgotten, I have a CNN reporter and camera crew at Ridgewood, ready to film our generosity in providing a drug that, goddam it, isn’t there, or even close to being there.”
“I … I haven’t forgotten.”
“This whole friggin’ affair was entrusted to you, Mr. Super Salesman.”
“I can’t move, Bob.”
“Marketing’s all set up to key this event into a national promo.” Merz laughed harshly. “Fuck! And here I am, wasting my time yakking at an ex-employee who talks about never letting me down?”
“Bob–“
“Shove it, St. George! I’m sending a courier for the Pneucanex. You’d better be there!”
₪ CHAPTER 35
Before St. George could fully digest what had just happened, the phone rang again. He grabbed up the receiver, hoping against hope that Merz had merely lost his temper, thought it through, and changed his mind.
“WHERE IS SHE?”
“I …”
“YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BRING HER BACK YESTERDAY.”
“Father!” He dug a nail into a scar under his arm, making it burn like a cigarette ground against his naked skin. “I’ve been sick.”
“BRING HER!”
“I’m too sick.”
“SICK?”
Father’s voice exploded in his head, reverberated through his brain. “I’m the one who’s sick. You’re the puny little nothing who can’t stand the sight of blood.”
“Yes, Father.”
“My head’s on fire. Do you hear me? I need the woman; Milty wants his packages.”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“I’ll do it.”
* * *
Jacob St. George slammed down the telephone, cutting off his pathetic son’s voice.
“Whiner!” he screamed at the sides of beef awaiting his attention. “Always making excuses.”
Goddam it, why couldn’t I have gotten a real son, one with backbone?
He smacked one of the slabs of beef with the flat of his hand.
Yeah, but what else could I expect from that bitch? She never did anything right.
He hated his son, had hated the kid right from the day he was born – a redheaded, sickly, sniveling, mama’s boy.
He’d found it disgusting that Lola made excuses for the boy’s sissy ways, for his nightmares. She would even take the punches that were meant for the kid. Then he discovered that he enjoyed beating her much more than he did smacking around his pantywaist son. Her lily-white skin would turn bright scarlet, then flip into multi-colored bruises. And each time he worked her over, it became more difficult to stop himself from doing it again.
The effects became so exciting, one day he covered her with cow blood and finger-painted fiery patterns across her nude, shivering body, all the time whispering gutter talk about his contempt for her.
She became his personal punching bag. Spunky Lola? She stopped fighting back – changed from defensive to submissive.
And her thick, flaming hair? Every time it grew out four or five inches, he would hack it all off, making the ritual a part of whatever new fantasy jumped into his brain.
Humiliating her became the only way to make him feel anything.
After the last time he beat her, he awoke in the middle of the night to find her standing over him, her eyes wild and fierce. She was ready to stab him with a large chef’s knife.
“You think you’re going to kill me?” he sneered.
“You’re through being cruel to Eddie! You’re never going to yell at my son again! I’m going to stop you from making him cower. From beating him. You’re an evil man, Jacob St. George.”
She thrust downward with the knife; he rolled out of the way, leaped from the bed, and squeezed her tight against his body with one arm.
Her eyes widened into pools of hatred; he grabbed her wrist and twisted until she dropped the knife. He scooped up the weapon and slit her nightgown from neck to hem, leaving a thin line of seeping blood down her chest and stomach.
“I’m not the adulterer,” he shouted.
St. George threw her onto the bed, positioned himself over her, and lowered his body until her stiffened nipples rubbed against his chest. He entered her and thrust in and out of her limp body until he climaxed with a guttural, wall-shaking roar.
After a moment, he rolled off the bed; he picked up the knife again, and jammed the blade up between her ribs and into her heart.
There was only a slight gasp as her breath caught and ceased. He watched her life ebb, come to an end.
Jacob St. George leaned over his wife’s face, licked her cheek, and swallowed her last tear. She was dead. He was alive. Alive with … with joy!
He had the power.
He stood, hovered over her – a beast with a new kill.
His skin was taut, every pore tingling. He admired her attack, her defiance; he wondered if there was even a hint of that hidden strength in his son. But to what end? He would always prevail.
Standing at the bedside, looking down on his wife’s wilted body, the joy ebbed. He already missed that feeling of exaltation and power.
In the wee hours of the morning, he snuck his wife’s body out of the apartment and took it to the butcher shop. He wrapped the body in butcher paper and stored it in the back corner of the walk-in freezer, piling boxes of steaks and chops in front of it.
By the following noon, Jacob St. George and Milton Hiller had found each other. They’d come to an agreement on what was supposedly a one-time deal.
* * *
Jacob tugged at the collar of his turtleneck, loosened it from around his Adam’s apple. He was burning up, even in the refrigerated air of the cutting room. He looked at his knives, all honed razor-sharp, lined up, and ready to use. Next to them were the cleavers and handsaws.
His cell vibrated inside his pants pocket. He slipped a hand under his blood-smeared apron, pulled out the phone, and read the caller ID.
Fucking Milty Hiller again.
He kicked viciously at the padlocked cooler where he stored the packages. For the first time in years it was almost empty on a day Hiller was scheduled to make a pickup.
Damn Eddie!
His right foot felt numb, or was it his imagination? No, his toes felt icy, hard; the fingers of his right hand were tingling; and his tongue seemed large and floppy. The radiation wasn’t working.
“Yeah, yeah!” he said into the phone.
“It’s time,” Hiller said, his voice firm, threatening.
“I don’t have the whole order, yet. How many times a day do I have to tell you?”
“Listen, I promised those packages for tomorrow,” Milty Hiller said. “One of my best accounts. You let these universities down and the money disappears forever. It’s not like I’m the only show in town.”
“Don’t keep singing that sad song to me, Milty. I told you, I don’t have it all put together. Maybe later on today, or tonight.”
St. George’s tongue was suddenly so swollen he couldn’t speak.
“That’s not good enough. Do you understand?”
St. George tried to respond, managed only a soft, unintelligible sound.
“Jacob? Are you there?”
St. George folded the cell, returned it to his pocket. His heart thumped in his ears, pounded like a locomotive gone wild. He pulled a vial of tablets from a pocket, tapped out four into his palm, wondered if he could even swallow them.
May have waited too long.
He placed the pills one by one on the back of his engorged tongue, uncapped a bottle of water, and tried to swallow. After three attempts, the pills finally washed down.
He sat on the stool, laid his head on the wooden
table, and stared at the array of cutting tools. It was hypnotic the way they shone back at him. St. George’s eyes drooped shut.
As he drifted off, he thought about his father, who long ago had given him the matched set of knives, said they were the best in the business. He then unexpectedly demonstrated their quality and efficiency by slicing open Jacob’s forearm. Cruel, but instructive.
Oh, yes, my knives are sharp; they hold their edge. I can fillet any piece of meat without tearing or damaging the flesh, or anything else.
He awoke with a start, checked his watch. He had conked out for almost an hour. His tongue was almost normal again. He pulled the phone out of his pocket and punched Eddie’s number. It rang and rang.
“Pick up, damn you!”
When he heard the phone at the other end click on, he said, “Don’t give me a bunch of bullshit excuses, Eddie. I need a woman tonight. Hear me? Tonight!”
“Yes, Father.”
Jacob St. George hung up, shivered. No matter how much he tried, he couldn’t stay warm. He watched his right arm jerk uncontrollably as though it didn’t belong to him; he was starting to have trouble talking again.
He’d complained loudly about the symptoms the last time he’d gone to his doctor, but it was the same old spiel – pills to make him comfortable, retreat to some kind of home where feed him, tuck him in, and watch him in to die.
What did they call it? Not a hospital. Not a hostel. Hospice! That was it. Well, no matter what they called it, he wasn’t ready to go there.
The phone rang. He read the display and saw Milty’s name again. “Shit!” But he lifted the receiver to his ear.
“Jacob, what’s with you? Don’t ever hang up on me like that again.”
St. George said something garbled that didn’t even make sense to him.
“What’s with the mumbling? I need answers.”
St. George cleared his throat, swallowed more water, and croaked out, “Haven’t been feeling too great lately.”
“None of us are as young as we used to be. Hell, you’re just getting old, Jacob.”
“Can the stupid jabber. I’m doing what I can.”
Sin & Bone: A Medical Thriller (The Gina Mazzio Series Book 2) Page 20
