The Daisy Ducks

by Rick Boyer

  "See anything you like?" I asked.

  He spun around fast, then smiled.

  "Naw. Morning Doc. Hey, you look like I feel."

  We walked into the kitchen and he snagged a St. Pauli Girl from the refrigerator, downed it, and poured coffee. He chased that with a slug of neat malt. Roantis never missed a beat. He winked at us and kept pouring, then retired with his breakfast to the card table, where he proceeded to roll more cigarettes with my pipe tobacco. When he'd lighted up he took the deck of cards, shuffled it, and began to play solitaire. It was as if we'd never gone to bed. It was surrealistic, like a movie by Antonioni. It stunk.

  We had the sauna bath and deli breakfast. When we'd finished the pot of coffee, Roantis put on his fleece-lined leather flight jacket, wadded up a huge pair of leather mittens and stuffed them into the inside breast pocket, thanked us for the hospitality, and apologized for the rough stuff the previous night. He mentioned his offer of the hundred grand again, quite forcefully. If I could help him locate Ken Vilarde and get the piece, a big share of the loot was mine.

  "Think about it, Doc. No hurry. I'll wait even a week. Bye Mary. You sure been great to this old man." He kissed her on the cheek and she hugged him.

  I said I'd walk him to his car. We went out into the cold December morning. It was gray and gusty, with newly formed ice on the paths. We walked carefully along the brick path that runs by the side of the house to the front. From there you can look down the hill in any direction, to the gardens and orchards in back, or Old Stone Mill Road and the big orchard and woods in front. It's a pretty view, even in winter. We danced nimbly along the front walk, avoiding the slickest ice patches. A stone wall runs along the bottom of the yard, with a gate in the middle. We walked through this and out onto the road. There is no sidewalk. Roantis's car was a good forty yards away, parked against the wall. He had arrived late at the party. It was an old maroon Dodge with big splayed tailfins. It seemed odd and unfair that a man who'd continually risked his life for America over a twenty-year period should have to drive such a wreck. Then again, most of his personal and financial problems had been brought on by the lifestyle he'd chosen. I looked again at the old car: a bent coat hanger for a radio antenna. Two crumpled fenders. Trunk lid ajar and wired down. Rocker panels rusted clear through. Yeah, Roantis needed dough all right.

  Still, looking at the crumpled, rusty wreck, I couldn't help feeling a little envious of this broke and battered soldier of fortune. Sure, I had a nice family, big house, beach cottage, nice practice, community respect—all the things one is supposed to want and to work hard for. But possessions are chains, and I envied Roantis's free-wheeling life. Who else could take off to a small country for a month on a moment's notice? Who else of my acquaintances went through life doing what he damn well pleased, answering to nobody? Only Liatis Roantis.

  And once again in my responsible, suburban life, I wanted part of that action. Call it male menopause, midlife crisis, what-ever you want . . . I wanted a little dirt and danger for a change.

  But I kept these thoughts to myself as we walked along. Twice I slipped and almost fell. There was only spotty snow cover, but it was cold and slick underfoot.

  I was looking down Old Stone Mill Road, white-gray with snow and ice, and at the low stone fence alongside it, when Roantis did his big back flip. It was a beaut—right out of the Keystone Kops. As I leaned down to help him up, the world seemed strangely silent. Then, extending my hand to the man lying on the frozen road, I realized why. There was a great noise just dying away. An explosion. A fast-fading echo of a giant wallop.

  Just off my left ear came a crack: flat, dry, electric. A ferocious sucking of high-speed wind. A snapping crack like a muleskinner's whip. Bullet. Then the endless cavernous echo.

  I dropped down. Roantis had not moved. A geyser of rock and ice erupted a yard from my head. The pieces flying from it stung my face. Another one. Closer. Somebody was telling me to get off the road. I jumped up and sprang over the wall. I don't remember landing on the other side, but then there I was, in the bushes, scared as hell.

  I stumbled along the wall in a crouch. I was in a dream; the cracks and crevices and mossy gray loaves of stone that swept by my face were all the stuff that dreams are made on. I stopped and poked my head up over the wall for a second. I saw a man in a tan parka leaning against a great gray beech. His hood was up and he wore a balaclava helmet and dark aviator glasses. His face was totally hidden. He held a jet black rifle to his cheek. When he spied me, he swung the muzzle fast and shot. He was so fast that I saw the spark of flame before I moved. The slug whined off the top of the wall not two feet away, spewing up a little gray shower of shattered stone. I ducked down again and scampered toward the house as fast as I could. Roantis had not moved, not even a little.

  Twenty yards from the house, I stood up and sprinted for the side door. I crossed the lawn and yanked at the brass handle. When it gave, I turned and looked back down the hill. The man in the tam parka was kneeling over Roantis. He had a knife in his right list. A black knife. He looked up. The huge, shiny black lenses stared up at me like the eyes of a gigantic praying mantis. In an instant the rifle was up and sparking. A slug tore into the doorframe above my head.

  I yanked the door full open and skipped inside, stopping just long enough to slam the bolt shut behind me, then rushed into the kitchen to tell Mary to phone the police. But she'd obviously heard the shots and looked out the window. She had the phone to her ear, her face pale with shock. She drummed on the receiver button and clenched and unclenched her fist.

  "Nothing, Charlie! The line's dead!"

  "Figures. He sneaked up here early and cut the wire. Lock the front door, then lie down on the floor and don't move!"

  I was about to go upstairs when I remembered Roantis's strange request of the night before. At least it had seemed strange then. I dashed into the porch and grabbed the Browning from the coffee table. When I drew the slide back, a cartridge flew out. So Liatis had primed it. I ran back to the side door. Cautiously, I leaned around and peered out the window. There was nobody in sight, but I couldn't see over the stone fence to the road. I marched through the entire downstairs, looking out all the windows. The man in the parka didn't seem to be anywhere around. I opened the door and went out. As I left, I heard Mary scream at me. It almost made me change my mind. I knew the pistol was no match for a rifle, especially in the hands of an expert like the fellow in the parka. But Roantis was in trouble.

  I crept to the big oak that stands in our front yard and edged my face around it. I still could not see far enough down the road. I ran back to the house and told Mary to run through the orchard to the Burkes' and use their phone. She didn't like the idea, but when she heard Roantis had been hit she threw on her parka and skedaddled out the back. I crept back to the oak, then went on down to the stone fence. I saw Mr. Parka jog-trotting down the road. I stood, ready to go over the wall and help Roantis. I looked at the prone form. Hell, Liatis Roantis was dead.

  Just then I saw a flicker of motion from the corner of my eye. Old insect eyes had turned to cover his retreat. He now saw me and swung the rifle low, shooting from the hip. There was a great popping and crashing among the stones of the wall, and I found myself down on the ground again, eating dirt for safety. An automatic rifle. I lost my temper then. Within two seconds I was hidden in a holly bush that was right behind the wall, the automatic held up in both hands. Aiming low, I pumped off two quick shots at the departing figure. As he turned again I pumped off two more, and saw him grab his thigh. He spun around like a ballerina and began a spastic hopping and jumping up the hill. I squeezed a careful one, aiming low, and took a big divot of turf just in front of his feet. He was hopping around like crazy now, plenty scared. Leave it to a bully to panic once the tables are turned. He finally disappeared into the woods, and I knew it would be stupid to follow.

  I went to Roantis. He raised his right arm, then dropped it. He moaned once, then again. He wasn't dead . . . yet
. Within a minute I heard sirens. Two police cruisers swung around the curve, lights flashing. They were followed by an ambulance. The ambulance attendants and I knelt over Roantis as the two cruisers sped away to search for the rifleman. Although I had no doubt slowed his departure, I had a feeling he was long gone. Mary came down in time to see them place Roantis on the litter and carry it toward the ambulance. Her face was all puckered up and her eyes were wet. She clutched the down coat around her throat; her hair was blowing all around her head. Just then Roantis reached out and grabbed her sleeve. He squinted his half-open eyes at Mary.

  "Daisy!" he whispered. "Daisy."

  4

  I LISTENED to Mozart's "Little G Minor" symphony as I drove home the syringe plunger, injecting a full cc of lidocaine into Arnold Lutzak's lower jaw. He was listening to the music too, through earphones. I've found that the earphones distract my patients. This is helpful, particularly during any procedure that results in what we physicians euphemistically call "discomfort."

  Although my patient received two hefty jolts of the local, I wanted the distraction of the music as well. My psychiatrist friend Moe Abramson—who is crazy—likes to lull his patients with music too. And if that isn't enough, he has a tank full of hideous fish to ensure distraction.

  It had been almost two weeks since Roantis had taken the rifle slug in his chest, and he was still alive. Not only that, he was recovering nicely. Why? God only knows. Considering the life he's led and the fact that he's still hanging around this planet, he must have a guardian angel somewhere up there. Or maybe down there. But there was another reason: he was wearing a leather jacket when he was shot, and he had stuffed a pair of thick leather mittens in the inside breast pocket. All that leather and fleece lining had helped to slow the slug. But mainly, I guess, Roantis survived because he's as tough as old hunting boots.

  After the lidocaine took hold, I tapped the floor switch with my foot and summoned my assistant, Susan Petri. She appeared, complete with surgical mask and smock, and stood at my side holding the suction tube ready. I took the elevator and tweaked Arnold's third molar, then fastened the HuFriedy "Cowhorn" forceps around it and rocked it right out of its cradle. Blood flowed from Lutzak's mandible like the Hoover Dam had burst. I had almost finished suturing when Susan popped her head around the corner to inform me that Chief Brian Hannon was on the phone. I finished the suture and inserted the gauze packing. Susan handed me the phone.

  "Hey Doc, I'm here outside the Emerson Hospital OR. Doctor Nesbit—you know him?—who just finished working on Roantis, just gave me the slug they finally dug out of his rib cage. He says it's a good thing they waited; it was lodged right up against his spine. Our ballistics man says it's a three-o-eight slug. That's the same as the seven-point-six-millimeter round. It's the NATO round."

  "Makes sense, Brian. It was an automatic rifle, and it looked like military issue to me, even from the fleeting glance I got of it."

  "Oh yeah? Well, I don't know too much about rifle ammunition except the old stuff. Your friend's come around now and he wants to talk to you. Can you stop over when you're finished?"

  "Uh-huh. I'll be there within the hour."

  I stopped in to see Moe before I left the Concord Professional Building; his office is two doors down the hall from mine. I found him reclining in one of his Eames chairs. Two grand a crack. He was swiveling back and forth, back and forth, like the inertia wheel on one of those air clocks, humming Haydn to himself. His first patient had just departed.

  He stared at me, head bowed slightly forward so he could see me over his half glasses. His face was covered with a close-cropped dark beard streaked with white. He had a high forehead that was straight and made more prominent by the thinning hair. Lots of gray matter in there. A bit warped, but plentiful. I was amazed that he made his living unwarping other people's heads.

  "Yeah well?" he said.

  "Just thought I'd pop in. My move?"

  He swiveled ponderously in the great chair, pointing it in the direction of the chessboard like the gun turret of a battleship.

  "Your move," he answered. "You lose in six."

  "Bullshit. You're cooked, Moe, and you know it."

  I examined the board closely for several minutes. I had been very cautious in this game because I was sick to death of losing to him. This time it was not going to happen. After several more minutes I advanced my knight. There. A nice cautious move. Offensive, but not bold. My pieces controlled the center and protected each other. I was in good shape. I grabbed the big beach stone with the arrow painted on it and turned it to face his side of the board. Moe leaned over and moved his bishop without studying the board. Then he turned the rock around.

  "You lose in four," he said.

  "Hmmmmmmmm," I said. It was the only comeback I could think of. "What makes you so sure?"

  "Simple. Bishop to king four. You counter with pawn to king four. Knight to bishop six, check. King to bishop two. Bishop to knight six, check and mate."

  During this quick discourse, his thin fingers raced nimbly across the crowded board, picking up pieces and rearranging them like lightning. He laid out several scenarios in a twinkling, then took the game back to its present position. He had memorized it all, of course, just the way he had memorized all the previous twenty-some moves. He made me sick. All the scenarios he demonstrated looked very bleak for yours truly.

  "So I lose in four, eh?"

  " 'Fraid so. You should've kept that bishop's pawn back a rank earlier. That's where you blew it."

  I kicked his desk, shaking all the pieces on the board, and cussed. Then I cussed because my foot hurt. Then I cussed him, saying I wasn't going to play anymore. So there.

  "Now c'mon Doc. No need to be immature about it."

  "Who's being immature?" I shouted. Then I told him if he called me immature one more time, I was going to hold my breath.

  "Where are you going gin such a huff?"

  "I'm going gah, " I said, "to see my friend Liatis Roantis, who's recovering from a bullet wound in his chest."

  "Oh yeah. Him. Heinrich Himmler's nephew. You hang around wit' some weird guys, Doc."

  "Uh-huh. Like the present company."

  "Hmmmmph! You should be so lucky." He sniffed with his nose elevated. He rose and went over to the enormous tropical fish tank. He dropped in a pinch of Tetramin food and the tank boiled to life with scores of darting fish. They winked and glowed in the light and spun around the tank quicker than the eye could follow, grabbing the food flakes off the surface and diving back down among the plants and rocks. The plants and rocks held some loathsome sea creatures. I looked in warily.

  "Now where the hell's that ugly thing? That bottom-feeder sea snake. Where?"

  "You mean Ruth? My loach?"

  "That's the one. jeez Moe, even the name's repulsive. Loach. Sounds like a cross between leech and roach. Ugliest damn thing I ever —"

  "Ruth died," he said plaintively.

  "Well, hot damn. First good news I've had in weeks."

  "I got a replacement. Of course he'll never take her place . . ."

  "What's he look like?"

  "Uh, interesting."

  I rose to leave.

  "Wait Doc. Here he comes now. See, behind dat coral fan? Here he comes. C'mon Charlie . . . C'mon boy . . . He's shy."

  "Why do you call him Charlie?"

  "Named him after you, Doc. Who knows? Maybe I'll teach him to play chess. C'mon. Atta boy —"

  A horrid, flat-headed creature oozed out from behind the coral. It was purplish gray and blotched. Its wide head had two popeyes. Its sucking mouth sprouted whiskers: long, pointy tendrils of pink flesh that waved and flipped about obscenely. Suddenly it snapped upward, wriggling snakelike through the water, then slammed itself against the side of the aquarium, affixing its mouth and flat belly to the smooth glass. In thc center of this pink-gray nightmare of flattened tissue, a raspy radula pulsed. On its back, just behind each glaring eye, a foul hole snapped open and shut, op
en and shut, with its breathing.

  I wanted to puke.

  "Whaddayuh think, Doc?"

  "What do I think? I can't think. I'm too nauseated. I'm leaving. Moe, you need professional help."

  "But I am professional help."

  I left the lost chess game, my cuckoo-genius friend, and my repulsive namesake and hotfooted it over to the hospital. I timed my arrival perfectly; Brian Hannon had just finished speaking with Roantis and was talking with the surgeon, Bill Nesbit. They said I could go on up to see my battered soldier friend.

  Roantis was sitting up in bed watching a TV game show. It was some kind of association game. "Ready?" said the host. "Okay: banana. " As soon as he said the word, a big clock started ticking with chimes. The young housewife clenched her lists and jumped up and down, her eyes shut tight in concentration. "Uh . . . uh . . . ape!" she screamed. But the clock kept going.

  "Ohhh! . . . Uh . . . uh . . . Chiquita."' Nope. Still incorrect.

  AWWWWWNK! came the buzzer, and the poor housewife went limp. "Awwwwww!" said the audience. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Kemp," said the host, "the correct word was split. " The crowd murmured in sympathy. "But," he retorted, "before you go away mad, look what you've won!" Bugles sounded. A big curtain swept up to reveal a trash compactor. The crowd said, "Ooooooooooooo!"

  I flipped the set off.

  "Hey Doc – Why'd you turn off my show?"

  "You weren't really watching that trash, were you?"

  "Why not? It's kinda cute. See, each player tries to think of a word. Then they —"

  "I don't want to hear it. I see you've been making excellent progress. Hard to believe that two weeks ago I would've sworn you were dead. They were smart not to remove the slug until your strength was back. When do you go home?"