by Jason Starr
“Okay,” she said. “Now turn over the paper, hand me the pen, and point to your nose.”
I handed her the pen, pointed to my nose, then turned over the paper, but I only screwed up because I was bored stiff and just wanted her to leave me alone. After asking me some more dumb questions and having me identify pictures and shapes, the woman explained that I was suffering from the aftereffects of anoxia. She said my memory would probably improve over time, but that I’d continue to exhibit ongoing symptoms such as irritability, impulsiveness, and disinhibition. As she spoke to me, I just stared at her, half smiling, thinking, Who the hell did she think she was kidding? She wanted to bill my insurance company for as much as she could, so she was making it out like I had brain damage. There was nothing wrong with my brain. My brain was perfect.
Later, a doctor examined me and checked my charts and told me that, assuming there were no complications, I’d be discharged from the hospital in a few weeks. I’d have to do about a month of rehab, and then I’d be back home, as good as new.
In the afternoon Aunt Helen visited. When I saw her wrinkled face and maroon hair, I remembered what an annoying old bitch she was. I didn’t feel like getting her sympathy or listening to her nagging me to see psychiatrists and grief counselors, so I lied and told her I was too exhausted to see her. Thank God she left quickly.
A few minutes later I started to panic when I realized I didn’t know where my wallet was. My pants had been taken off and I feared that my wallet had been lost or stolen.
“Where’s my wallet?” I screamed. “Where the fuck’s my wallet!”
An aide, an old Chinese woman, came into the room and said, “What’s wrong?”
“My wallet,” I said. “Where the hell is it?”
“Your personal items are in this drawer,” she said.
She opened the night table drawer and handed me the wallet. I immediately opened it and checked behind my driver’s license and, thank God, the picture was still there. I kissed it twice, then I propped it up against the phone on the night table so I could look at it all the time.
After the dinner trays were collected, the fat, ugly nurse entered my room to give me my medication.
“Hey, where the hell’s my juice?” I said. “I asked for more apple juice an hour ago.”
“I’ll bring it right away,” she said.
A few minutes later Angie arrived. I immediately noticed the weight she had gained in her face and that her mustache looked darker than ever. I wasn’t in the mood to see her.
“How’re you feeling?” she asked.
“Exhausted,” I said, hoping she’d get the message.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ll let you rest. I just wanted to say hi and see how you were doing, and I wanted to give you this.”
She handed me a large envelope. I slid out the card and opened it. It read, Get well soon! with some other crap below it, and was signed by people from the office. I looked at a few of the signatures, noticing Jeff’s, larger than anyone else’s, and then I tossed the card onto the floor.
Angie gave me a funny look, as if I’d done something to insult her.
“So,” she said, “how are you?”
“Can’t you shave that fucking thing?”
She saw that I was staring at the area above her upper lip. She backed away a couple of steps, looking hurt.
“What?” I said. “You know you have a mustache, don’t you? And what did you do, gain ten pounds? You really need to hit the gym big-time.”
“I should go now,” she said. “I mean I just came by to see how you were doing, but I . . . I really better . . . What’s that?”
She was looking toward the night table with a shocked, disgusted expression.
“What does it look like?” I said. “It’s a picture.”
“But who is it?”
“My sister.”
“Come on, that isn’t really—”
“Sure is. Can’t you see the resemblance?”
“But . . . but she’s naked.”
“So?”
Angie leaned closer toward the night table and looked back and forth at me and at the picture a few times.
“Oh my God,” she said.
“Nice rack, huh?” I said. “And look at those legs—not an ounce of flab on ’em. Yeah, Barb had a great bod, and she knew how to use it too.”
Angie backed away farther, stumbling on her heels; then she turned and rushed out of the room. I shook my head, wondering what was wrong with her, when I noticed the empty cup on the tray. I pushed the call button until somebody answered on the intercom, and then I screamed, “Hey, where the hell’s that fat bitch with my apple juice?”
JASON STARR
TWISTED CITY
Jason Starr, a former financial reporter, is the author of Cold Caller, Nothing Personal, Fake ID, Hard Feelings, and Tough Luck. He lives with his wife and daughter in New York City. Visit his home page at www.jasonstarr.com.
ALSO BY JASON STARR
Tough Luck
Hard Feelings
Cold Caller
Nothing Personal
Fake ID
A VINTAGE CRIME/BLACK LIZARD ORIGINAL, JULY 2004
Copyright © 2004 by Jason Starr
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American
Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States
by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc.,
New York.
Vintage is a registered trademark and
Vintage Crime/Black Lizard and colophon
are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Starr, Jason.
Twisted city / Jason Starr.
p. cm.—(Vintage crime/Black Lizard)
I. Title. II. Series.
PS3569.T336225T94 2004
813’.54—dc22 2003069064
www.vintagebooks.com
www.randomhouse.com
eISBN: 978-0-307-42985-8
v3.0
