"Listen, Jimmy, you got to get me to a hospital, I'm having troubling breathing. I think there's a busted rib stuck in my lung or something." To demonstrate, Dwayne starting coughing violently, the copious flow of tears increasing. The image of a shattered rib bone sticking through a soft moist lung galvanized me.
The only thing I hate more than seeing a grown man cry is seeing a woman cry.
"All right, all right, just hold on. I'll call 911, get you an ambulance—"
"No! No ambulance. No cops. Jimmy, you got to help me— get me to an emergency room."
"Okay, no cops. Can you stand up? We'll catch a cab in front to the hospital."
Dwayne half stood, then motioned me over to help.
"I can make it if you lend me your shoulder."
I got an arm around him and hoisted him to his feet. He leaned heavily down on my shoulder and together we staggered into the hallway. We made it to the elevator and down to the valet parking and taxicab area without anyone falling down.
I got in the front seat and told the cabdriver to take us to the nearest hospital emergency room. He started the meter and sped off without a comment. Dwayne curled up like a fetus and moaned in the backseat. I wondered if the cabbie would turn the meter off and offer me a deal. Or maybe they didn't use pancakes in Las Vegas.
Less than five minutes later we were at the emergency room entrance. I paid the driver and helped Dwayne inside. I had spent a lot of time in hospitals in the last year, and the smells that filled my nose were depressingly familiar— bleach, rubbing alcohol, urine, and the faint underlying odor of rotting flesh.
Directly in front of the admitting nurse's desk, Dwayne slipped from my grip and fell heavily to the floor.
Then two male orderlies in white were lifting Dwayne onto a gurney and wheeling him behind a curtained examination room. The nurse urged me to come to the desk to help fill out the insurance paperwork.
I told her that Mr. Hassleman would be able to take care of all that. I had no idea about his insurance information. Despite her protests, I took a seat in the waiting area where I could watch the curtained entrance to Dwayne's room. Every few minutes he let out a pitiful piercing groan which would carry down the corridors.
About ten groans and thirty minutes later a young intern trailed by a nurse parted the curtain and went inside. A few minutes of silence were broken by Dwayne's shout.
"Damn! That really hurts! Yeah… right there, I think it's busted… oh, please don't touch it…" Then some more pitiful weeping.
I wondered if he had somehow sustained massive internal injuries. Maybe he was bleeding internally. I was getting increasingly worried.
The doctor and nurse left, and an orderly wheeled Dwayne back out and through two swinging doors marked X-RAY.
I found a Time magazine that was only seven years old and settled in to wait.
When Dwayne was wheeled back behind the curtain, I went inside. He was flat on his back, his face all white except for the fading black shiner under his right eye.
"Dwayne, how are you doing? What did they say? Are the ribs broken?"
Dwayne used an elbow to struggle up and groan in pain just as the young intern came in and consulted the clipboard.
"Mr. Hassleman? I have good news. There doesn't appear to be a fracture. However, I understand that you were mugged in front of your hotel— kicked in the ribs— and you are in a great deal of pain. Are you allergic to morphine?"
"No, Doctor, thank you." Beneath Dwayne's grimace, the mask of pain, I detected the outline of the Monster in a brief twisted grin. Then, quick as a lightbulb blinking out, the smile was gone, replaced again by the agonized expression.
The nurse came in and gave Dwayne his shot. As soon as she left the exam room, Dwayne was sitting up and effortlessly lacing his jungle boots.
A miraculous recovery.
The Monster smirked up at me like a little boy who has just gotten away with stealing all the cookies from the jar.
"Hey, pal, nothing like a shot of morphine to take the edge off the coke."
I was angrier with myself for being fooled than I was with the Monster. Too angry to even speak.
The Monster adjusted the knife in its hidden ankle sheath and then bloused the cammy pants back over the boots, securing them with green elastic bands.
"Come on, pal, let's get the fuck out of here— let's go play some blackjack!"
The Monster ignored the shouts of the admitting nurse, who wanted to know whom to bill, and strode past me toward the exit. He pushed the glass doors and he was outside, immediately lighting up a cigarette. When I reached the glass doors, I crashed through them so hard that when they swung back the glass almost shat-tered.
I never saw the two hospital security guards trailing me out to the parking lot.
The Monster was waiting for me outside, grinning and smoking. I got up right in his face.
"Dwayne, I knew you had problems, but until tonight I didn't realize just how fucked-up you really are— you better find your own way back to Danville. Give me the car keys now!"
The Monster patted all the little pockets in his long-sleeved safari shirt and then went through the same process with the cammy pants. More a pantomime than a search.
"Sorry, pal, I must have left them back at the hotel." The Monster snickered and then I was shouting.
"You lying sack of shit! You're a pathological liar, Dwayne. You should be fucking killed!"
"Who should be killed?" Two security cops stood right behind me in the semidarkness of the parking lot. The older of the two, a heavyset man with wisps of gray hair peeking out from his cap, was addressing me.
The Monster had instantly metamorphosed back into the injured mugging victim, seeming to shrink before my eyes as he again clutched his ribs and moaned.
The younger guard shone a flashlight into my eyes.
"Did you know you almost broke the glass doors back there? What is your problem?"
The Monster, still clasping his waist, backed up from me as if in terror, limping in pain. He circled warily around me and got behind the guards and cringed— a frightened man seeking protection. When he spoke, his voice was soft and quivering with a mixture of fear and pain. Here was an injured man, a peaceful, soft-spoken man who was clearly being terrorized by a lunatic.
"Officers, I'm glad you're here. This man is threatening me, talking crazy, saying he's going to kill me."
"We heard." Both flashlights beamed into my eyes.
I couldn't believe this was happening. "He's the one who's crazy— hey, get that light out of my eyes!"
"Sir, have you been drinking?"
During the interrogation that followed, the Monster simply limped away into the darkness and got into a waiting cab in front of the hospital.
It took me a few minutes to calm down and convince the rent-a-cops that yes, I had been drinking, but no, I wasn't drunk and I wasn't threatening to kill anyone. All I wanted to do was get in my car and go back to California.
The promise of my imminent departure from Las Vegas finally seemed to satisfy the security guards. After checking my driver's license ID, they told me I was free to go.
After giving a warning about almost breaking glass hospital doors.
And threatening to kill people.
It was four in the morning when I hailed a passing taxi to take me back to the Excelsior.
I would grab my bag and my car keys and leave this nightmare behind. Leave the Monster behind. If the Monster wouldn't give me the car keys, I would call Triple-A.
That was my plan.
It seemed like a good plan.
But you know what they say:
If you want to make God laugh, just tell him your plans.
* * *
I entered the Diamond suite through the bedroom door and grabbed my overnight bag. Dwayne was not in the living room.
Silence. Then a series of smacking sounds.
The Monster was in his bedroom. Behind the closed door.
&
nbsp; I knocked and stepped back quickly. "Dwayne, I want the car keys. If you still want to play games, fine, 'cause either way I'm out of here."
Silence again. Then a rapid staccato series of chopping sounds. Followed by a more measured series of snorts. The Monster simply pausing to refuel the Colombian Express. Next stop: a town called Rage.
I was headed for the living room exit when the Monster yelled through the door.
"Hold on, pal, I got your fucking keys. Give me a second."
A minute later the Monster called out from behind his door. A singsong voice. Both mocking and menacing.
"Hey, pal, I hope you're not thinking of leaving just yet. Did you remember to turn your sprinklers off? The forecast calls for rain later. Red rain. Like maybe where your little bitches go to camp. Yeah, pal, the forecast is for red fucking rain up at Lake Tahoe."
A chill went through me like an ice pick. I dropped the bag (keep your hands free, Jimmy) and pounded on the Monster's door.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
Getting near the Monster's door was a bad idea.
Bare-chested and screaming, the Monster burst through the door and crashed into me like a linebacker on a steroid rage, knocking me halfway across the room and against the wall beside the big-screen TV.
I got to my feet slowly and watched the Monster take a few steps back and pull out a knife from the ankle sheath. His bare chest was like the heaving hull of a small ship, knotted and bulging with ropes of muscle.
The Monster advanced in his tiger-striped cammy pants and jungle boots, the knife slashing arcs in the rapidly shrinking space between us.
"HOW DO YOU WANT IT, COCKSUCKER!" The Monster was closing in behind the chest-high swings of the knife blade.
Screaming:
"I SAID, HOW DO YOU WANT IT? UP THE ASS FIRST? HUH? CAN'T HEAR YOU, PAL? NOT TALKING YOUR SOCCER FIELD SHIT NOW, ARE YOU, COCKSUCKER? HOW ABOUT IN THE BELLY? THAT WAY I CAN HEAR YOU SCREAM FOR A COUPLE OF HOURS BEFORE I CUT OUT YOUR FUCKING EYES… THEN YOUR BALLS! OH, YEAH, YOU COCKSUCKING SPRINKLER-STEALING PIECE OF SHIT! FAKE SPONSOR HYPOCRITE MOTHERFUCKER! THE KNIFE IN THE BELLY FIRST, NICE AND SLOW…"
The Monster was trying to back me up into the corner by the TV. I didn't dare take my eyes off the knife, now just an extended arm swipe from my stomach. But I knew if I backed up another step against the wall, it was highly unlikely I would ever have another Megabucks day.
The Monster raved nonstop, knife slicing the air between us.
"CALL ME A PATHOLOGICAL LIAR? NOBODY FUCKING TALKS TO ME LIKE THAT… I'M TALKING ABOUT A DIGITAL TOP-OF-THE-LINE SPRINKLER SYSTEM! NEW YORK STEAKS, YOU COCKSUCKER! I THINK YOU WANT THIS KNIFE UP THE ASS FIRST!"
I backed up, eyes on the knife, heart pounding like a trip-hammer.
"Put the knife down, Dwayne. We can work this out, whatever the problem is." Hoping to calm the Monster, talk him down. Try to get Dwayne back in the room. Or at least back on this planet.
The Monster slashed at my face with the knife.
Missing by an eyelash.
I felt the wall against my back now. Old rock song lyrics rattling crazily in my head— nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
The Monster was pulling off his wide leather cowboy belt.
"OR MAYBE I'LL JUST WHIP YOUR MOTHERFUCKING ASS FIRST. COCKSUCKER TELLING ME TO GO TO— WHAT?— FUCKING FAGGOTS ANONYMOUS? BET YOU AND LUTHER AND THE A.A. BOYS AND GIRLS GOT A GOOD LAUGH WHEN YOU TOLD THEM ABOUT MY FIFTH STEP!"
The Monster roaring, knife flicking in constant motion like a snake's head. Slashing the air in front of my chest. His eyes had the color and expression of mud.
"YEAH, FIRST THE BELT, THEN THE KNIFE… YEAH, HOW 'BOUT MR. KNIFE DEEP UP YOUR ASS!"
Right hand still waving the knife between us, the Monster yanked off the belt with the OUR EAGLE FLIES IN CHAINS buckle. Holding me at bay against the wall with the knife, he whirled the belt in a circle above his head— just another drugstore cowboy looking to rope himself a sprinkler-munching steer.
Then gut it.
The big brass buckle struck my forehead, the sharp metal edge tearing open a gash in the flesh. Another savage swing and my right eyebrow split open, raining blood.
The forecast is for red rain.
Blood was pouring down into my right eye. And the belt was swinging again.
"ARE WE HAVING FUN YET, COCKSUCKER? I'M GOING TO POUND YOU LIKE A FUCKING PIÑATA BEFORE I STRING YOUR GUTS ACROSS THE ROOM! THEN I'M GOING CAMPING! GOING TO TAKE MR. KNIFE TO VISIT YOUR LITTLE BITCHES UP IN LAKE TAHOE. OH YEAH, PAL, THEY'RE GONNA LOVE TAKING MR. KNIFE UP THEIR TIGHT LITTLE ASSES! HEY, WHAT'S WRONG, MR. SPONSOR? NOT TALKING NOW ABOUT MY GOING TO A SPECIAL INTEREST A.A. GROUP, ARE YOU, COCKSUCKER?"
Smack!
This time the heavy buckle smashed against my nose, and there was an instant geyser of blood. Blood filling my mouth, soaking my chin, my chest, turning the blue diamond carpet a bright red.
I timed the next swing.
When the brass eagle descended again at my battered face, I snatched the belt in midair.
And pulled. Hard.
Yanking the Monster— and the knife— toward me.
Off balance, the Monster lurched forward and I did my best kung-fu Bruce Lee imitation, kicking him squarely in his belly.
Mr. Knife dropped to the carpet.
And I was all over him, my fists, fists of fury fueled by a raging flood of adrenaline, by a horrifying image in my head of my little girls screaming in their bloody and shredded pajamas beneath the Monster.
I no longer felt the pain in my neck or my back. I pounded the Monster's face, delivering a whirlwind of blows to the mouth, the eyes, the nose, until red rain misted the air and soaked us both. My hands, hands that coaxed "Heart and Soul" from ivory keys, were strangers to me— dual juggernauts savagely hammering the Monster to his knees.
I was the Hammer.
And I hammered away until the Monster fell back hard on his camouflaged ass, his right hand searching blindly for his buddy, Mr. Knife. I kicked the knife across the room, but the Monster was snatching up the eagle belt. Still on his ass, he had no leverage to swing.
I drove two more solid rights into his nose and heard the crunch and snap of bones— his bones. More red rain.
And then he was on his back, still groping around for a belt, a knife, anything— still raving through his bloody mouth.
"BETTER NOT LET ME GET UP, COCKSUCKER! 'CAUSE WHEN I DO GET UP, YOU'RE FUCKING DEAD— THEN YOUR PRECIOUS LITTLE TIGHT-ASSED BITCHES!"
I believed him.
In seconds I had the cowboy belt cinched around the Monster's neck, eagle buckle tight against his throat as I pulled the makeshift noose— tight. The Monster tried scuttling ass-backward on the thick, blood-soaked carpet.
With one powerful wrenching motion, using both hands, I broke the Monster's neck. It made a sickening cracking sound, like a rotted branch being snapped from a tree by a vengeful wind.
And I was the wind.
I dropped the end of the belt.
Sat down on the blood-soaked carpet. Beside the Monster. Wondering why I was so cold. Shivering and shaking so hard I thought I was going into convulsions.
Wondering when I would wake up from this nightmare.
Wondering when I would be able to breathe.
Wondering if I was having a heart attack.
When the violent tremors subsided a bit, I opened my overnight bag and pulled out my shaving kit, where my small pharmacy was located. My hands shook so bad that to get the childproof cap off the Xanax bottle I had to use my teeth.
Got two blue pills under my tongue. Dr. Shekelman said they work faster if you let them dissolve under the tongue.
Eventually I went to the living room phone.
I tried to remember the telephone number for one of my A.A. sponsors. The only number that came to mind was Luther's.
He picked up after three rings.
"Jimmy, it's six in the morning— are you drunk?"
I told
him what had happened.
I don't remember much of the conversation except Luther telling me to call 911. The receiver became too heavy to hold. My eyelids too heavy to keep open. I hung up after telling Luther that I would call the police.
I woke almost two hours later. Kept my eyes closed. Praying that when I opened them I would be home, safe in my bed in Danville. Delivered intact from this horrible nightmare.
You Got Nothing Coming: Notes From a Prison Fish Page 39
