Head Case

by Michael Wiley

  He cut the engine and got out.

  Then, as he closed the door, an enormous weight hit him.

  His body slammed against the side of his car. Pain shot down his injured arm into his fingers, radiated into his neck and chest.

  Hands were on him. They held him against the freezing metal. They wrenched his arms behind him. He felt the stitches rip from his wounds. He cried out in pain. A thick-gloved hand slapped over his mouth.

  A voice said, ‘Shut the fuck up.’

  The hands turned Kelson around, holding him against the car.

  Rick Jacobson gazed at him with fascinated anger.

  Scott Jacobson stood a few feet away. He stared at the dark sky.

  ‘I told you not to hassle my dad,’ Rick said. ‘And what do you do? You break into his office.’

  ‘I didn’t break—’

  ‘I said, shut up. Don’t make my job harder.’

  ‘What is your job?’ Kelson asked.

  Rick Jacobson punched him in the ribs. It wasn’t the punch of a professional or even an especially skilled fighter. It knocked the wind out of Kelson anyway.

  ‘Please,’ Rick said. ‘Please don’t ignore me.’

  He turned his back on Kelson. If Kelson had been able to breathe – if he’d been able to use both of his arms and was clear-headed – turning away from him like that would’ve been a mistake. The brothers walked three cars down the row to their Land Rover. They got in and started the engine, and the car eased over the icy pavement to the exit.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Kelson watched the tail lights as they moved to the end of the parking lot. He straightened his body – as much as he could without vomiting – and stumbled toward his building entrance. The warm liquid of his open wound snaked down his arm. ‘The hell if I’ll …’ he said, and he turned around and stumbled back to his car.

  When he pulled from his parking spot, the Land Rover was already at the stop sign at the end of the street. It turned and was gone.

  Kelson hit the gas. His tires skidded on the ice and parking lot gravel. He nearly skinned the side of an Audi. He straightened the wheels, cut them the other way when the car slid again, and headed for the exit. He rounded on to the street without slowing. He hardly paused at the stop sign.

  Three sets of tail lights shone in the distance. One vanished as a car turned at a corner. ‘Play the odds,’ Kelson said and, blowing through a red light, followed the other two.

  The trickle from his wounds spread around his arm. The wet sleeve was tacky against his elbow. He flapped his arm to free it, and pain shot into his shoulder. ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid.’

  The cars he was following stopped at the next red light. He closed the gap. In front of him there was a silver Honda Accord. The car in front of it was the Land Rover.

  When the light turned green, Kelson dropped back. No one who paid attention could miss his burnt orange Dodge Challenger. But the Jacobsons apparently weren’t paying attention. ‘Screwballs,’ Kelson said. ‘The stupid leading the stupid.’

  He followed the Land Rover south and then west through the city. When other cars merged between them, he closed the distance. When the cars turned away, he dropped back a half block or more.

  When the Land Rover turned on to West Carroll and drove into an area of empty warehouses and loft buildings, all other traffic disappeared. Kelson dropped back farther. The Land Rover slowed, and Kelson slowed. It stopped, and Kelson stopped. It sped forward for a half block before slowing again.

  ‘Uh-oh,’ Kelson said, and rolled forward. Had the Jacobson brothers spotted him?

  Then the tail lights on the Land Rover went out.

  Kelson stopped.

  He turned off his headlights.

  He turned his headlights on again.

  He rolled down his window and cut his engine. Listened. Music – a bass beat, something electronic – floated over the sounds of the city.

  ‘Huh.’

  He started the car and rolled forward.

  At the side of the street where the Land Rover first slowed, there was a dark-fronted brick building. In a recessed doorway, above a black door, a red cursive neon sign shined dully – visible only directly outside the entranceway. It said Club Richelieu.

  The music was loud, clear – a techno beat. ‘Shake, shake, shake,’ Kelson said, ‘enough to make hair stand on end.’

  A half block farther, he passed the Land Rover. It was parked in the shadow of a dumpster. He turned the corner and pulled to the curb before a freight dock.

  He touched his ribs – winced. He pinched his coat sleeve and sweater from his bloody arm. ‘Who says I have bad judgment?’ he said, and got out of the car.

  As he walked back to the black door, blood spread like a stain across his wrist and on to his hand. So he stuck the hand into his coat pocket and kept it there.

  He went into the recessed entrance, paid a twenty-dollar cover charge, and moved into an eddy of sound and ultraviolet light.

  The waitresses and bartenders were women, all young, all with long hair, all dressed in white – white leather shorts, white halters, one in a weird white backless turtleneck dress. The DJ – in a tight white leather bikini bottom, a tiny white leather bikini top, and five-inch white stilettos – danced like she was on ecstasy. ‘Look at that,’ Kelson shouted to the waitress in the turtleneck. The waitress had dark hair, a square face, big lips with white lipstick, and painted-on eyebrows. ‘How does she do that in those shoes? Like stilts.’

  ‘Drink?’ the waitress said.

  ‘Anything with bourbon in it,’ Kelson said.

  ‘Woodford?’ One of her dark eyes tilted inward, but they were great eyes.

  ‘You have great eyes,’ he said.

  She went to the bar, and he scanned the room. The dance floor was painted with a black-and-white zigzag design, like static on an old TV. Couples – men with women, women with women, men with men, none of them older than thirty – danced as if they were internalizing the zig and the zag. A thick carpet of long white tassels hung from the ceiling over the bar. The liquor bottles glittered. The bartenders shook cocktail shakers.

  Kelson scanned the men at the bar, the men on the dance floor. He didn’t see Rick or Scott Jacobson. But at one end of the dance floor, a corridor led to VIP party rooms.

  As he started toward it, the waitress returned. ‘Hey, where’re you going?’ She had his bourbon on a little white tray.

  He fished out his wallet. ‘A question,’ he said. ‘Do you know who Rick Jacobson is?’

  For unclear reasons, that made her laugh. ‘Everyone knows Rick. He’s the medicine man.’

  ‘Is he? And his brother?’

  ‘Scott? I’m not sure what he is.’

  ‘Have you seen them tonight?’

  She nodded at the corridor. ‘You were going the right way.’

  So he handed her a twenty and took his drink.

  ‘Frida,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Frida. My name.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Thanks, Frida-with-the-great-eyes.’

  ‘You have a screwy eye.’ She wiggled a finger, tipped with white polish, at his drooping eye. ‘But so do I and, anyway, you’re cute.’

  ‘No one ever calls me cute,’ he said.

  ‘You’ve got the Napoleon thing going with your hand and pocket.’

  ‘I didn’t know Napoleon was cute either.’

  ‘I have a dog named Napoleon. A Maltese.’

  ‘Lucky dog.’

  She smiled. ‘Let me know when you want another drink.’

  Kelson went to the corridor.

  The first doorway opened into a room where a single red-shaded lamp hung from the ceiling. A sectional couch extended around the walls. Couples were making out, reaching up each other’s shirts, down each other’s pants. ‘The night is young,’ Kelson said, and moved on.

  The second doorway led into a room where groups of men and women talked and drank. A bar, smaller than the one in fr
ont, stood in a corner. The bartender – a flat-chested woman in a white halter top and white cowboy hat – mixed cocktails for a man who wore his shirt untucked and unbuttoned. A red, white and blue neon motorcycle hung on a wall across from the bar.

  The Jacobson brothers stood in a group with four other men. They’d gotten rid of their coats and both brothers wore bright white shirts as if to play into the theme. Rick seemed to be telling the others a story. Kelson stepped behind him and slapped his bloody hand flat on his back.

  Rick turned, grinning, seemingly expecting a friend. When he saw Kelson, he said, ‘What the—?’

  ‘I try not to miss a good party. What are you shielding your dad from?’

  Rick managed to keep most of the grin. ‘I don’t know what you’re—’

  ‘What the hell, Rick?’ one of the other men said. He and the others stared at the bloody print on the back of Rick’s shirt.

  Rick turned to them, like a dog chasing its tail. ‘What?’

  Scott saw Kelson’s hand itself and looked distressed. ‘I’m so sorry …’

  Still unaware, Rick said to Kelson, ‘I don’t know where you get off coming in here.’ He glanced at his friends, forcing the grin. ‘This guy – this guy …’ He seemed unsure what to say about him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Scott said again and he moved toward Kelson as if he meant to help.

  Now Rick saw Kelson’s hand. ‘What the hell did you do to yourself?’

  ‘Why are you protecting your dad? Why’s it so important to keep me away from him?’

  Rick sensed the opening and grinned at his friends. ‘Because you’re a sicko. Coming here all bloodied up—’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Scott said.

  ‘Shut up,’ Rick said to him.

  The other men looked unsure what to make of the confrontation. One of them said, ‘You’ve got blood on you, Rick.’ He pointed at the back of Rick’s shirt.

  Rick tugged the fabric to see. ‘Ah, shit. Why’d you do that?’

  ‘Are these your friends, Rick?’ Kelson said. ‘Or do they hang around with you because you hand out pills? How much time do you spend in the hospital supply room?’

  For a moment, Rick was speechless. Then he said, ‘This guy – is insane. What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘Why do they call you the medicine man?’

  Rick let out a long breath. He was back in control. ‘Um – because my dad’s a doctor.’ He glanced at the others. ‘And when this place was about to go out of business last year I told him it was a good investment. He listened to me.’ He quieted as if he knew the confrontation was over and he’d won it. ‘And now look around. Profitable for seven out of the last eight months. I made it feel all better. I got it the medicine it needed – cash.’

  ‘Oh,’ Kelson said.

  ‘Yeah,’ Rick said. ‘But what do I do with oh? Oh won’t do me any good. It won’t clean my shirt. It won’t buy me a drink. It won’t get me laid.’ He nodded at a thick-shouldered man who’d watched from a spot by the bar. ‘Want to know one of the benefits of being the medicine man?’

  The thick-shouldered man sauntered over. He wore white jeans and a tight white T-shirt.

  Rick said, ‘Would you please escort this gentleman the hell out of here?’

  ‘No problem,’ the thick-shouldered man said.

  ‘Hands off,’ Kelson said to the man, and they walked together out the corridor and across the dance floor.

  When Kelson reached the hostess stand, he glanced back into the room. Frida was staring at him from the bar. He waved at her with his good hand, and she gave him a long, funny smile. The thick-shouldered man shoved him, and he was back out in the cold.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Kelson called Jose Feliciano from his car. It was eleven p.m., and Jose was an hour into a night shift. Kelson said, ‘How are you with stitches?’

  ‘I don’t know, man. I got seventy-eight in my leg after the rankest bull in Shiprock, New Mexico, hung me up on its horns. Never liked stitches much after that – getting them or taking them out – but I’ve done both. What’s up?’

  ‘I need some patching. If I can, I need it without a lot of questions – because I’ll answer everything I’m asked.’

  ‘You find out something?’

  ‘Yeah, I found out it’s a bad idea to get your arm twisted when you have stitches in it. I found out it’s bad to get punched in the ribs – anytime. I found out Rick Jacobson has serious daddy issues.’

  ‘I don’t know about that. How bad are you?’

  ‘I’ve been better. Mostly I look like a mess.’

  ‘I’ve got a break at midnight. Meet me downstairs at the hospital. We’ll fix you up.’

  At midnight, Kelson and Jose rode an elevator up past the ICU. They got out at a floor of offices and went through a series of corridors. They walked past a lounge with a half-dozen empty armchairs, a sink, a refrigerator, and a microwave. Deep in the hospital, it was neither day nor night, neither summer nor winter, neither Chicago nor elsewhere.

  Jose stopped at a door and knocked gently.

  Dr Madani opened it. Her eyes had the startled look of a person who rarely saw direct light. She shook her head at Jose, looked at Kelson, and shook it some more. She glanced at Kelson’s hand and sighed.

  When they were inside with the door closed, she told Kelson to take off his coat. Framed photographs of canyons and mountains from the American Southwest hung on the walls. On one side of the office, there was a daybed with an airline pillow and a blue and white crocheted blanket for naps when the doctor had double shifts.

  Kelson pulled his coat off. ‘Thanks for—’

  She held a finger to her lips. ‘No. I don’t want to hear it. I’m insane for doing this.’

  There was a suture tray on her desk. She used a pair of scissors to cut off Kelson’s sweater and shirtsleeve. His arm looked dyed red from his shoulder to his fingertips.

  ‘If Jose didn’t convince me it was necessary,’ the doctor said, ‘you’d be nowhere near here.’

  ‘Jose’s persistent if not persuasive,’ Kelson said.

  She pointed at an office chair. ‘Sit. Don’t get blood on the desk.’

  He sat, raising his arm.

  She considered his bloody hand, then peeled the bandage from his upper arm. She inspected the wounds. ‘In general, when we discharge patients, we expect them to take care of themselves.’ Using toothed forceps, she plucked out bits of broken suture.

  ‘Ouch,’ Kelson said.

  ‘You want the battlefield treatment, you get it.’ She used gauze and antiseptic to clean the wounds. She irrigated them with a syringe and saline. She dried them with more gauze.

  ‘Ouch,’ he said again.

  ‘We expect people to follow our protocols. When they don’t …’ She took a length of fresh suture and drove the needle into Kelson’s arm.

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘Have you been taking your antibiotics?’

  ‘Ouch. Yes.’

  When she finished stitching his wounds, she dressed them with sterile pads and wrapped the pads in gauze tape. ‘Not as bad as it could’ve been,’ she said. ‘Worse than it should be. Do yourself a favor. Take care of yourself this time.’

  Kelson lifted and lowered his arm. He bent and unbent his elbow. The sutures tugged.

  Dr Madani handed him his coat.

  ‘Tell me about the Jacobsons,’ he said.

  ‘Jeremy’s family? What about them?’ she said.

  ‘What’s up with them? His boys are sensitive about him. I can set off Rick Jacobson by walking into the same room where his dad’s been breathing.’

  ‘You don’t know his story?’ she said. ‘He lost his wife eight years ago. It was in the news. Bad circumstances – an accident involving Scott. Jeremy broke down for a while. The whole family did – Rick was nineteen, I think, Scott fifteen. It hit Scott hardest, of course. I don’t know all the details, but I know Rick held them together through the worst of it.’

&nbs
p; ‘Huh,’ Kelson said, ‘and I was thinking of ways to break his nose.’

  She gave him a look.

  ‘I mean, after my arm heals.’

  ‘Terry Ann – Jeremy’s wife – was twenty years younger than he was. He was in his early forties when they met, and I think she was his first love. I didn’t know him before they were together, but I understand he was hard to work with. I don’t know that she completed him, but once he was with her and they had their boys, he softened. What you see now is quite different from what he was when they were together.’

  ‘I was pretty impressed by him when we talked,’ Kelson said.

  ‘I started here ten years ago. You should’ve seen him then.’

  ‘Before he fell into the deep end,’ he said.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘What do you think, amigo?’ Jose said, as he and Kelson rode the elevator down.

  ‘I think my arm aches and my ribs hurt. And I’m starting to get a nasty headache.’

  Jose said, ‘I think I’ll pay you the rest of the money and you can keep looking.’

  ‘I think I’m wiped out and I’m going home to sleep. I’ll put in a little more time. Something isn’t right, though I don’t know it’s wrong the way you think it is. I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know how things stand. In the meantime, if you see Rick Jacobson, punch him in the nose for me.’

  ‘I want to keep my job, compadre,’ Jose said, and he wished him a good night.

  Kelson walked alone to the parking garage, taking the stairs to the second level.

  When he came out of the stairwell, Scott Jacobson was standing by his Dodge Challenger.

  ‘Really?’ Kelson scanned the shadows between the other cars. He didn’t see Rick Jacobson. He moved sideways to get another perspective. Still no Rick Jacobson.

  ‘I’m alone,’ Scott said.

  Kelson ducked low and looked under a van near his car.

  ‘Rick stayed at Richelieu,’ Scott said. ‘I had to get out of there.’