Bad Medicine: A Mystery Thriller (Winton Chevalier Book 2)

by John Oakes

  For Jason S.

  ONE

  Winton Chevalier had learned that the trick with the Chinese language was all in one’s tone of voice. The grammar made a surprisingly easy sort of sense to a native English speaker. But the tones. The tones were the head-splitter.

  Winton managed a small resort in South Texas that catered to foreign businesspeople and dignitaries doing defense contracting or other business in the Houston area. The defense contractors, the salesmen in particular, loved that it not only isolated their potential business partners but entertained them in unique ways. The resort was staffed entirely with people of small stature, mostly well under five feet tall. While this came off as a sort of gimmick to the defense contractors and foreigners, to Winton and the rest of his staff, it was a banding together for the common good, a dignified compromise between autonomy, profit and spectacle.

  The guests came from a variety of countries, but principally Japan, Taiwan and Korea. Winton had a grasp on Japanese and felt proficient in the pleasantries and fielding basic requests. Glen, the concierge and unofficial right-hand man, was fluent in the language. Two workers at the Island were first generation immigrants from South Korea and spoke the language fluently. Winton Chevalier troubled himself over the four tones of the Chinese language because he thought of himself, of course, as a worldly fellow, but ultimately because there was a dearth of Chinese speakers on his staff. Therefore it was the most logical language for him to tackle in depth.

  He first made sure to check if Chinese spoken in Taiwan was the same as Mandarin or Cantonese spoken on the mainland. He found it had its own dialect and script and so hired a Taiwanese tutor online with whom he Skyped three times a week. After two months of tutoring and his self-instruction with workbooks and audio programs, Winton finally worked up the courage one morning to engage in a conversation with a Taiwanese guest.

  The daughter of the head of the Taiwanese delegation, Mr. Wu, anglicized her name to Sherry. When Winton hailed her in Chinese, he used her English name out of respect, not wanting to butcher the pronunciation of her real name.

  She smiled and replied in Chinese, hello.

  Winton asked her how she was enjoying the resort.

  “It is very lovely with many kind workers,” Sherry said, seeming to slow her speech for him, which was appreciated.

  “Thank you,” Winton said. “Is there anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable?” He got the sentence out almost without tripping.

  “Why yes,” Sherry said, raising a finger. “I’d love a recommendation for a local bar, some place I can go and see real American culture.”

  “I think that is a great idea.” Winton felt rather pleased he’d been able to find the words, as that response hadn’t been rehearsed. He pointed to the mechanical pencil she held between her hands at her waist. “May I borrow your pencil?”

  Instead of handing over the writing implement so he could write down the directions, Sherry coughed and clenched her jaw, as if a bolt of electricity had run through her. She inhaled sharply and diverted her gaze before stalking away through the lobby.

  Glen, the concierge, stepped out from behind his counter. He had a kind face and was greying at the temples. “I didn’t know you took an interest in Chinese.” Glen wore a suit made by his mother. It was undeniably sharp, and the maternal influence suited Glen, who was himself the mother hen of the whole operation.

  “Took my first stab at it.”

  “Did you do okay?”

  “Think so. Not sure.”

  “Well,” Glen swung an arm. “Practice, practice, practice.”

  “Yeah,” Winton said, feeling unsettled.

  “You said you had a guest arriving?”

  “Julius.” Winton smiled at that. “Julius Vincent. He’ll get in later.”

  “Where shall I put Mr. Vincent?”

  “The Delgado room.”

  Cora, one of the head kitchen staff, approached in time to hear the comments. “The Delgado room? Who is this friend of yours? He some high roller?”

  “What? No. He’s from New Orleans.”

  “Oh, so you met him growing up in the mean streets?” Cora, also from New Orleans, never let Winton forget that he’d benefited from growing up in a good neighborhood.

  “Yeah, maybe. Besides. Not like it costs us any extra. I owe him a little luxury.”

  “I never complain,” she said, “but this feels like cronyism.”

  Winton pointed. “Don’t talk all fancy at me, Ninth Ward.”

  “Just saying, you didn’t let me have the Delgado for my birthday.”

  Winton squinted and held out his hands. “Who wants to spend their birthday where they work? I did you a favor.”

  “That’s kinda the whole point of this place,” Glen said. “It’s home.”

  Winton rolled his eyes. “I can’t take you two teaming up on me.” He turned toward the stairs and climbed to his office in the admin suite where he attended to some emails, looked over a couple resumes and called a plumber about a disputed bill. After an hour passed, Winton needed to stretch his legs. They weren’t all that sore. In fact, his joints weren’t sore at all, a condition he was still getting used to as a result of the hot shot medical team in Houston he could now afford.

  Apart from top-notch physical therapy, he’d been through four procedures in the last months, two major, two minor. One to fix his broken nose, one aimed at reshaping both his hip joints, one to inject growth hormone into his right knee to fix a deterioration of the cartilage, and one to remove a raised mole on his back that a dermatologist hadn’t liked the look of. Dr. Rhonda Shankman, his principal orthopedist, wasn’t done with him yet, but Winton was well on his way to accomplishing his mobility goals. Already impressed by Winton’s speedy surgical recovery, Dr. Shankman remarked especially on the reports of his speedy muscular recovery from exercise performed in physical therapy.

  This praise got Winton thinking about the strangest of ideas: being an athlete. Sure he’d never run for gold at the Olympics, but with recent events and the impending birth of his son, Winton had embraced the idea of being as fast and as strong as he could be. Always a friend to books, intellect and wit, now Winton was becoming friends with strength and speed too. It gave him more confidence, just like the kind of confidence he’d needed to practice his Chinese earlier that day.

  Out his low office window, movement caught Winton’s eye. Suited men carried briefcases and luggage out to the shuttle vans. It appeared to be members of the delegation from the Taipei Defense Council, the largest part of their current bookings. A minority of this group were women huddled around one female in particular, walking her to the nearest van.

  Sherry.

  “What in the…”

  Winton’s phone rang to life, just as Luanne from the front desk opened the door without knocking.

  Winton’s facial expression begged the obvious question: What was happening?

  “The Taiwanese are leaving!” Luanne, a rounder gal, was out of breath from running up the stairs.

  “Why?” Winton glanced down again at Sherry amidst her protective friends.

  “All I know is Mr. Huang, undersecretary to Mr. Wu, said in no uncertain terms that they were all leaving.”

  Winton tore past her down the steps and across the lobby as fast as his feet could manage. As Winton watched the vans pull away down the gravel drive and toward the highway, his jaw hung lower and lower in dismay.

  Glen stepped up beside him and watched in silence.

  A lone vehicle cruised in the opposite direction, past the vans and toward the large circle drive wh
ere it parked beside some other vehicles. Julius’ bald head popped up from the other side of the sedan before he threw on a Saints ball cap with a flat brim. He grabbed a bag out of the back seat and shuffled in a little dance across the gravel, smiling beneath large sunglasses. “I made it!”

  Winton was too stunned to greet his friend properly.

  “Yo, I miss something?” Julius removed his sunglasses as he stepped in front of them. “You look like you’re at a funeral.”

  “Our guests…” Glen muttered and held a hand out. “They…”

  “Half our billing for the month just drove away for no reason,” Winton said. “Like a flock of spooked birds.”

  “What happened?” Julius asked.

  Glen looked to Winton and shook his head. “Winton, I…”

  “I had a conversation with Sherry Wu. I finally worked up the courage to try some Chinese conversation. I thought it went well.”

  “What did you talk about?” Glen asked.

  “Just asked how her stay was. She was pleased and asked about going to some local bar to soak up some Americana.”

  “And then?”

  “Well, I told her I thought that was a great idea.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. I offered to give her directions and then it got weird.”

  “What did you say in Chinese?” Glen asked, gently laying a hand on Winton’s shoulder. “Exactly.”

  Winton reenacted the moment, pointing at the pencil Sherry held in her hands and asking to borrow it.

  The color ran out of Glen’s face and he swallowed. “Oh. Oh dear.” He put a hand to his mouth as if he might be sick.

  “What?” Winton asked, eyes wide. “What’d I do?”

  “Well, based on your mispronunciation of pencil,” Glen said, “I think you asked the daughter of the chair of the Taiwan Defense Council if you could borrow her vagina.”

  Winton drew a lip down, exposing his teeth, brows raising high on his head. A whine emitted from somewhere in his clenched throat.

  “Oh, shit.” Julius pressed the back of his hand into his mouth. “Oh! She asked to experience some American flavor, and you go straight for the V!” Julius pumped a fist, cringing. “Oh, shit!”

  The horror of the faux pas was not enough to stem the laughter that followed. All three men went breathless, bent at the waist, groaning and cursing and laughing some more. The scene drew other workers toward them, all demanding why the guests had suddenly left and why it was so damn funny.

  Winton abandoned any sense of pride or authority and relayed the international incident he’d caused. As the others laughed, he wiped tears from his eyes. “Ahh, Glen, you should go after them. They’ll stop to rally and decide where they’re going. Catch them, explain what happened. And tell them I’ve resigned in shame over my poor Chinese.”

  Glen looked stricken.

  “Don’t worry, pal. No one’s resigning.” Winton looked up at Julius. “But I think I’ve been a little overworked lately. Time for a vacation.”

  “I’m all about that,” Julius said.

  “Get back to work, chuckleheads,” Winton told his staff with a smile.

  TWO

  Sometimes in life, Winton observed to himself as Julius pulled into the driveway of his home, the most sudden decisions were the ones that made the best sense. No overthinking or hedging, just spontaneous deciding.

  He knew taking off with Julius was a good decision because he wasn’t at all terrified of suggesting it to his wife, Missy.

  Six-feet-tall and nearly eight months pregnant, Missy still moved around the kitchen with the grace of a dancer, her movements seeming choreographed in their elegance. To Winton, her grace never got old. He could watch her make a meatloaf and get lost in it.

  She paused and made a very human pose for once, a maternal pose, a hand on her belly and one on her hip, bending to relieve strain in her back and midsection.

  “Oh, you were quick,” she said, noticing them come in.

  “When it’s time to get out of Dodge,” Winton said, setting his work satchel on the dining table. “It’s time.”

  “You must be Julius.”

  “Hi, ma’am.” Julius offered out a hand to shake, but she pulled him into a hug.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said.

  “Heard a bit about you, too.”

  “Well,” Missy said with a sigh, “sorry if I’m not the best social company. Having a person growing inside me does not suit my normally placid and sweet temperament.” She smiled.

  “Miss, about that.” Winton twirled a finger in the air. “I think Julius and I are gonna head out. I gave him a tour of the resort. He’s good. We don’t need to spend three days there.”

  “Where you going, then, sugar bear?”

  “I’d love to put a shrimp on a hook,” Julius said.

  “See, Missy?” Winton said. “That’s one reason I like this guy. Good ideas.”

  Lucas emerged from the hallway, his dark hair untamed and scruffy like Winton’s and a few days of stubble growing on his face.

  “Well, hey,” Julius said.

  “Julius.”

  “You remember me?”

  “Of course I remember you.” Lucas threw his right arm around him.

  Julius patted him on the back and released him. “You were a bit drugged up when…uhh.” Julius looked up at Missy who looked away, feigning interest in a stack of letters on the kitchen island. “…When we last saw each other.”

  “I remember you, man,” Lucas said low. “I’ll never forget.”

  There was a sincere moment between the two of them, then Julius smirked and rubbed his hands together. “Now, look at you two. Lucas the cop looks homeless and Winton’s dressed in a suit.”

  “I’m the boss,” Winton said. “Gotta keep it classy for our government clients.”

  “I don’t need a shave so much as I need something to do with my life,” Lucas said. “I finished Netflix.”

  “What do you mean, finished?” Winton asked.

  “I mean I finished it.” Lucas leaned in for emphasis. “Had to start watching the kids cartoons. I’m currently halfway through Thomas the Tank Engine.”

  “You’ll know what the baby’ll like, then,” Missy offered cheerfully before leaving the kitchen.

  “That’s right, Winton, the baby’s coming.” Lucas motioned with what remained of his left arm, capped below the elbow by a stretchy black material. “You’ll need my room for a nursery. I gotta move out.”

  Julius clicked with his tongue. “Sounds like you’ve had this boy in solitary confinement,” he said to Winton. “This you trying to keep him low-profile?”

  Winton took off his tie and jacket, draping them over the back of a chair, all the while making a burdened expression. “I’ve kept him here to manage his recovery, keep him on task. Lucas gets fitted for his fancy ass prosthesis at UT next week. Once he’s got his Luke Skywalker hand in working order, we’ll take the next step.”

  “Okay.” Julius lifted his hands defensively. “Didn’t mean to ruffle any feathers.”

  “It’s his constant moping and whining,” Winton said. “And a pregnant wife on top of it, God bless her. And a resort to run that’s always on some inter-cultural hair trigger.” Winton finished taking off his shirt and kicked off his dress shoes. “I’m itching to get my toes in some sand. God damn, Julius, I can’t believe I was just gonna entertain you here. How boring.”

  “So we’re just gonna go like this?” Julius nodded down at Winton, now standing in his boxers and undershirt.

  “Not like I’d turn any more heads,” Winton said.

  Winton dressed casually and packed up a spare assortment of possessions, knowing he could get the rest at a corner store. In less than ten minutes he was throwing his bag and his pedal extenders in Julius’ trunk.

  “I deserve a vacation, too,” Lucas said from the front door.

  “Cry me a river.”

  “I’m coming along.”
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  Winton froze and raised a finger. “You’re going to your physical therapy sessions that I’m paying for. Finish strong, Lucas. Your career making half-caff lattes depends on this.”

  Lucas rolled his eyes and returned inside.

  Winton jumped into the passenger side of Julius’ sedan, wearing shorts, a red polo and flip flops. The April weather in South Texas was about as nice as Hawaii, warm enough to play all day, even in a sea breeze, but not scorching hot and humid as hell like most of the summertime. They hit the highway with the windows down and the tunes cranked, some soul-pop-rock music Julius owned that Winton didn’t recognize. At first, he bobbed his head to the beat, feeling the wind cut through his unruly hair, but then his thoughts were sucked down into the mire of his daily life’s problems as they so often were.

  Julius looked over. “Hey man, you’re buzzin’ like something a lady keeps in her nightstand.”

  Winton released a fist that he’d been unconsciously clenching and forced his body to relax. “Sorry. Truly. I’d do anything to unwind, but I just can’t.”

  Julius took a long breath through his nose and nodded. “I get it. Life comes at you from all angles sometimes.” Julius reached out and patted him heartily on the shoulder. “But look at us. On a spontaneous getaway.”

  Winton wrinkled his nose. “Getaways are for adulterers and retirees. Two dudes under forty can’t be on a getaway.”

  “An adventure, then, shit.”

  “Sorry. Sorry.”

  “You all right?”

  “This morning, I thought I was. But maybe I thought I was okay because my bottle was only ninety-nine percent full. Maybe I just have a large capacity for things being difficult, because when that dam breaks…” Winton billowed his cheeks.

  Julius nodded in thought. “I was saving it for later, but I got us a bottle of cognac in the back. I dunno if you’re into that sort of—whoa, hey.”

  Winton already had his seatbelt off and was climbing over the center console. He dove onto his side in the back seat and pulled a bottle of amber liquid with a golden cap and label out of a plastic sack. “This will do, sir!”