The Clinic

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Sleepy expression, except for little piggy eyes that never left me.

  The black shirt was silk, oversized, untucked, and he kept his right hand in front of him, as if protecting something. Plainclothes cops wore their shirts out to conceal guns and I supposed thugs did the same.

  “Yeah?”

  “Delivery for Mr. Kruvinski.”

  I held the druggist's bag out.

  “What's in it?”

  “Medicine, I guess.”

  “He gets his medicine from his doctor.”

  I tried to look apathetic.

  “Lemme see.”

  I gave him the bag and he pulled out a small amber bottle filled with yellow tablets. The right color, but the wrong shape. My Physicians' Desk Reference chart showed Imuran as a scored doublet, these were singles. Vitamin Cs. Black shirt didn't react. As I'd hoped, not observant.

  The label was a work of art. I'd steamed off an old one for penicillin, whited out all the specifics but left the pharmacy's name and address and the RX, DATE, and PRESCRIBING PHYSICIAN blanks. Photocopied it, typed in the new information, put some glue on the back, stuck it back on the vial. Pretty good job, though I wasn't ready for twenty-dollar bills.

  He read the label now and his mouth pursed when he got to PRESCRIBING PHYSICIAN: M. CRUVIC, M.D. Followed by Cruvic's real license number, obtained from the medical board.

  Confusion seamed his meaty forehead.

  “We just got a big box of this shi— who ordered this?”

  Bingo.

  I tried to look stupid and peeved rather than elated. “Dunno, I just go where they tell me. You wan' me to take it back?”

  Dropping the bottle back in the bag, he kept it and started for the house.

  “Hey,” I said.

  Stopping short, he looked over his shoulder at me. His shoulders were enormous, his elbows dimpled. Pink scalp showed through the hair; the ponytail was a sad thing.

  “You gotta problem?”

  “COD,” I said. “You gotta pay for it.” Keeping it going for realism; I'd already learned what I wanted to know.

  Lifting his free hand, he made a skin-gun and aimed it at my face.

  “Wait, bucko.”

  I did. Til he got inside and closed the door.

  Then I ran back to the Seville and was pulling out by the time he got back. Along with Anna the tight-faced nurse.

  The two of them standing behind the iron gate, perplexed, as I got the hell out of there.

  35

  So much to do with the movie business is bland, mundane, characterless. The casting studio said it all.

  A muddy brown lump of a one-story building on Washington Boulevard in Culver City, it sat between a Cuban seafood restaurant and a Chinese laundry. The stucco was lighter where graffiti had been oversprayed. No windows, a warped black door.

  Inside was a no-frills waiting room crowded with perfect-body hopefuls of both sexes, sitting in folding chairs, reading Variety, fantasizing about fame, fortune, and cutting some obnoxious restaurant customer's throat.

  The inner room was much larger, but all it contained was a card table and two chairs under cheap track lighting, and a rear wall of flyspecked mirror.

  I sat in a tiny storage closet, behind the mirror, watching.

  Two casting directors sat behind the table: a heavy, sloppy-looking, puffy-faced man with bad skin and greasy hair, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and grubby khakis, and a thin woman with not-bad blue eyes, wearing an obvious black wig and clad in red sweats.

  Nameplates in front of them.

  BRAD RABEPAIGE BANDURA

  Two Evian bottles, a pack of Winstons, and an ashtray, but no one was smoking.

  “Next,” said Rabe.

  A hopeful entered. Audition Number 6 for the male

  lead.

  He looked at Rabe and Bandura, smiled with what he probably thought was warmth.

  I saw tension, fear, and contempt.

  What was he thinking?

  Frick and Frack?

  Hansel and Gretel?

  Who were they to judge—both of them dressed like slobs— typical. Dressing down to show they had the power, couldn't give a shit.

  The hopeful knew the type— God, did he.

  Waiting out there in that zoo for three fucking hours for the privilege of being judged by eyes that never changed through the bullshit smiles and the nods and the phony words of encouragement.

  The judging.

  “Okay,” said Paige Bandura, looking at her fatso partner. “How about the scene in the middle of forty-six?”

  “Sure.” The hopeful grinned charmingly and flipped the script's pages. “From “But Celine, you and I?' ”

  “No, right after that— from “What exactly is it you're after.' ”

  The hopeful nodded, took a deep breath in that covert yoga way that no one could see. Closed his eyes, opened them, and glanced down at the script before raising them. Show them he could memorize instantaneously.

  Looking into little Paige's eyes, because she seemed to be on his side.

  “ “What exactly is it you're after, Celine? I thought our friendship had grown to something more.' Shall I read her line, too?”

  “No,” said Paige. “I'll be her.”

  Big, warm smile. Maybe . . .

  Lifting a script from the card table, she read:

  “ “Maybe, Dirk. Maybe not. But the bottom line is I need a man right now and you just may fill the bill.' ”

  Flat voice. Ugly voice. It came out Buddaboddomlion is I needa mayan.

  The ones who judged were inevitably ugly in some way. The hopeful hated ugly.

  “ “Is that so?' ” he said, softening his tone, “ “because I think you feel more than that, Celine. I feel it and I think you feel it, too. Here.' ” Touching his heart.

  “ “Do you, Dirk?' ”

  Dooyoodirk.

  “ “Yes, I do, Celine.' ” He smiled at her again. “The script says he puts his hand on her—”

  “That's okay,” said Paige. Saucy laugh. “We'll just pretend. Okay, what's Celine's next line—“But, Dirk—' ”

  “ “I know, you feel it here, Celine. From your inner being. The place where love grows.' ”

  He dropped his arms. Connotation of vulnerability. Stood there. Waiting.

  Paige smiled at him again, turned to Fat Sloppy Brad.

  Brad looked him over. Rubbed his face. Grunted.

  “Not bad,” he finally pronounced.

  “I'd say excellent,” added Paige.

  Brad said, “Okay, excellent.” Grudgingly.

  “If you'd like I can read more,” said the hopeful.

  The two of them exchanged glances.

  “No, that won't be necessary,” said Paige. “That was really good.”

  The hopeful shrugged. Boyishly. He had a great boyish grin.

  Another look between him and Paige.

  “Onward,” she said. “Some practical issues. The show is going to be fairly physical for daytime. Lots of love scenes— steamy stuff. Any problems with that?”

  “Not at all,” said the hopeful, but a tightening above his navel had begun— someone— some little demon screwing up his insides. Smile. Acting!

  “We mean skin,” said Brad. “It's cable so they're going to stretch the standards. Nothing worse than NYPD Blue, but there's gonna be plenty of body shots. How about taking your shirt off?”

  The hopeful didn't answer. His heart rate had climbed to over 120. Despite all the cardiovascular training . . . fuck, fuck, fuck.

  “Is there a problem?” said Paige.

  Rooting for him. Maybe he could work it out.

  “No problem,” he said. “I've got a scar. Some people think it's actually pretty masc—”

  “A scar where?” said Brad.

  “No big deal—”

  “Where?”

  “On my back.”

  Brad frowned.

  The hopeful had to think fast. Play to Flat-voice Paige. Look casual— ac
ting! Brilliance!

  He reached around. “Just below the waistband, so if it's only partial—”

  “Let's see,” said Brad. “Take your shirt off.”

  The hopeful looked to Paige for support.

  She nodded. Sleepy-eyed. Losing interest.

  Bitch!

  He slipped his sweatshirt over his head.

  “Turn around and pull your jeans down far enough for us to see the whole thing,” said Brad.

  The hopeful did.

  Silence.

  Long silence.

  He knew why.

  Both of them staring. Grossed-out.

  He put his hands on his hips, trying to distract them by showing off the big, defined muscles of his shoulders and back. Flex the triceps, flex the glutes. Nice, tight butt, he could control every muscle.

  “How'd you get it?” said Brad.

  “Hiking. Rock climbing. I fell, tore my back up, got stitched.”

  “Not stitched very well,” said Brad. “That's some scar.”

  And the hopeful knew what he was thinking. What both of them were thinking:

  Ugly.

  Because it was. Pink, puckered, glossy. Keloid fibrosing. Especially conspicuous because the surrounding skin was so smooth and bronze. So perfect.

  Severe keloiding. Crappy surgical technique, the books said. And genetics. Black people keloided a lot. In Africa it was considered a sign of beauty.

  Well, I'm white!

  The treatment: shots of cortisone right into the wound early on. Too late, now. The only hope, more surgery, and that was a big maybe. Not that he could afford it yet. In more ways than one. Open that can of worms . . .

  “Must have been quite a fall,” said Brad. Smugness in his voice.

  It set off the feeling.

  Like turning on a steam spigot.

  Hot, boiling, iron-foundry rage. Foaming up from his gut and working its way to his chest. Like a heart attack, but he'd been through the nights of panics, cold sweats, knew his heart was fine. His heart . . .

  His hands wanted to clench and he forced them to remain open. Forced the sweat to remain inside.

  No one talked.

  The hopeful kept his back to the two of them, knowing the smallest glimpse of the rage would kill any chance he had for a good-guy part.

  Like there was still a chance. But keep going. In this business, you just keep going. . . .

  “What mountain were you climbing?” said Paige, and he knew she was mocking him.

  Okay, thanks, babe. Ciao.

  Don't call us, we'll call you.

  “Does it matter?” he said, slipping the sweatshirt on and turning around.

  Nearly falling over in surprise.

  Because Brad and Paige were holding guns and badges.

  “Looks more like a surgical scar,” said Brad. “Looks more like some kind of serious operation. Isn't that part of the back where the kidney is?”

  The hopeful didn't answer.

  Brad said, “And the Oscar goes to . . . okay, put your hands behind your back, Mr. Muscadine, and don't move.”

  Smiling. Judging.

  Some of the rage must have leaked through because Brad's smile died and his green eyes got even brighter. Yet colder. The hopeful had never known green could get that cold. . . . He took a step backward.

  “Easy, pal,” said Fat Brad. “Let's make this easy.”

  “Up with the hands, Reed,” said Paige. Sharp voice, hostile, no longer on his side. Never on his side.

  He stood there. Looked at them.

  Poor specimens. Pathetic.

  He was very big, very strong, could probably do some damage.

  Not that it would make a difference in the long run.

  But what the hell, might as well get something out of this shitty afternoon.

  He dove for Paige.

  Because he really didn't like women.

  Tried for a jaw-breaking punch but only managed to slap her fucking face before Brad hit him on the back of his head and he went down.

  36

  After the uniforms took Reed Muscadine away, I came out from behind the dirty mirror.

  Milo drank Evian water and plucked at his Hawaiian shirt. “Sleek, huh?”

  Detective Paige Bandura said, “I think it suits you, Brad.”

  “That right?”

  “Sure. Nice and caj. Joe Beachbum.”

  “Caj.” He looked at me. “So what do you think?”

  “I think you could have a new career. Hell, maybe you can be Dirk.”

  “Spare me.”

  “I mean it, I really like the shirt,” said Paige. “If you don't like it you can donate it to the Ivy. The one at the beach. They've got Hawaiian shirts hanging on the wall.”

  “Hoo-hah,” said Milo. “How do you know about such things, Detective Bandura?”

  “Rich boyfriend.” She grinned, removed the black wig, and fluffed her clipped chestnut curls. “Need me for anything else, Milo?”

  “Nope, thanks.”

  “Hey, any time. Always wanted to act— how'd I do, Doctor?”

  “From where I was sitting,” I said, “great.”

  “Haven't acted since high school. Pirates of Penzance. Wanted to be Mabel, but they made me a pirate.”

  “You were terrific,” I lied.

  It made her smile and she walked off with a spring in her step.

  “What's her usual detail?” I said.

  “Car theft.” Milo sat down in the same chair he'd occupied as Brad.

  Just the two of us in the room now. The empty space smelled of toxic sweat.

  “Good work, Sig,” he said.

  “Luckily.”

  “Hey, you had a hypothesis. I always respect your hypotheses.”

  A hypothesis.

  About what Hope and Locking and Cruvic had in common.

  Then back to square one: the conduct committee.

  One particular case. Someone pressured to take a blood test.

  I'd tested it out:

  Confirmed Big Micky was on Imuran, the most commonly used antirejection drug. Meaning he was off dialysis. Had received yet another kidney transplant.

  After that, the details had flooded my head: Reed Muscadine's clothes the day I'd spoken to him in his apartment. Short shorts, which matched the heat of the day, but a heavy sweatshirt that didn't. The sleeves cut off. Baring the arms, but covering his torso.

  Mrs. Green the landlady telling me he'd been laid up with a bad back for over a month.

  Muscadine telling me more: Tried for three-twenty on the bench press. It felt like a knife going through me.

  A slip? Or playing with me?

  Acting?

  A good actor. Professor Dirkhoff's prize student. Dirkhoff had been distressed because Muscadine had dropped out to take a job on a soap opera.

  A job that sounded definite.

  But Muscadine had lost the part.

  I can practice Stanislavsky from now til tomorrow, but if the bod goes so does my marketability.

  Not remembering the name of the soap opera. Unlikely. Starving actors attuned themselves to every detail.

  But giving me enough to sound credible.

  Something about spies and diplomats, foreign embassies.

  That had narrowed it down enough for Suzette Band to come up with a name.

  Embassy Row. She'd gotten me the number of the show's casting director, a woman named Chloe Gold, and I'd called her posing as Muscadine's new agent. Asking her if Reed could get another chance because the boy was really talented.

  She'd looked him up in her files and said No, thanks, he was bumped 'cause of physical factors.

  What physical factors?