Benchley, Peter - Novel 07 (26 page)

 
          
 
"They have a lousy success rate. But
there's a guy in Houston thinks he can do partials, give her just enough to let
her get by."

 
          
 
"Still, that's better than—"

 
          
 
"It'll cost a hundred and fifty thousand
dollars. At least."

 
          
 
"She has insurance. Won't—"

 
          
 
"Blue Cross, Scott? Gimme a break."

 
          
 
They passed the exercise area. Twist was doing
pushups. He had hung his clothes on the jungle gym and was dressed in nothing
but powder-blue briefs. Whenever he had five minutes to himself. Twist
exercised. He did push-ups or sit-ups or squat-jumps or he ran in place. Vanity
or self-preservation—whatever it was, it worked. Twist was built like Herschel
Walker; he reminded Preston of Michelangelo's David.

 
          
 
There was something to be said for heroin
addiction. It screwed up your head but left your body intact. Until you OD'd.

 
          
 
Marcia called, "Put on some pants,
Twist/'

 
          
 
Twist didn't stop his push-ups. "
Lawrence
ain't no threat to nobody," he said between
puffs. "He's retired. Temporarily."

 
          
 
Marcia let him be. They walked on.

 
          
 
Preston said, "Why are you telling me all
this?"

 
          
 
"Lewis has a lot of money and a lot of
friends who like to help people."

 
          
 
"You want me to . . ." This whole
walk is a fundraiser! Now he felt angry, used. "Why don't yow—"

 
          
 
"I can't. It's unethical ... or
illegal."

 
          
 
"So Tm supposed to put the arm on
him."

 
          
 
"You won't have to. Not if you tell him
all the facts. That's why I'm telling you."

 
          
 
"What about the joint here? This is a
twenty-million-dollar facility. Banner's got friends . . . every movie star in
the . . . Christ, his board could put up that kind of money out of pocket
change."

 
          
 
"They won't."

 
          
 
"Why not?"

 
          
 
"Because Stone Banner won't ask them to,
and they don't pay attention to what goes on here, they're all off playing
celebrity golf, and if one of them did get wind of Cheryl's problem and offered
money. Stone would turn him down. Because Stone has been lying in wait for a
case like Cheryl."

 
          
 
"To do what?"

 
          
 
"He wants a poster child, wants to pull
the public's chain like with one of those pathetic kids who make the evening
news begging for a kidney. He wants the public to start funding The Banner
Clinic. Somebody told him about the Cousteau Society, about all those people
who kick in fifteen or twenty bucks a year, which adds up to millions, so
Cousteau can run his fleet and make his movies that nobody ever sees because
they only run on cable. Stone thought, Hey, if the public'11 throw money at
that old frog they're sure to have enough left over for the Great American
Hero.

 
          
 
"He wants the public to pay him to become
the King of the Drunks, the Emperor of Addiction. And Cheryl's just the ticket.

 
          
 
"He wants to turn her into a freak. For
publicity. For money."

 
          
 
They had stopped walking. Preston looked at
Marcia and said, "Unless Lewis can raise enough money so Cheryl can pay
for it herself."

 
          
 
"Right."

 
          
 
"That stinks."

 
          
 
"Yes." She took his arm again and
started back toward Chaparral. "It certainly does."

 
          
 
Preston felt a bond with Marcia. Her hand in
the crook of his arm made him feel they were in league, at least on this one
issue. He was almost her equal. He said, casually, "What about Priscilla?
Talk about money. You want me to—"

 
          
 
"No."

 
          
 
"All right. You talk to her, then."

 
          
 
"Nobody talks to her. People've hit on
her for money all her life. She thinks that's all she is. Money. She's still
too fragile. She's just beginning to feel safe, and if I so much as hint at
anything to do with money, I could wreck her." She paused. "I think
I'd rather let Cheryl die than do that."

 
          
 
When they reached Chaparral and Preston pulled
open the glass door, he said, "I never could figure why Lewis picked
me."

 
          
 
"Lewis sees things, Scott. He loves
kindness and gentleness more than anything else. You know who he thinks of
himself as? Blanche DuBois. He told me. You know: 'I have always depended on
the kindness of strangers.' He saw something in you he could trust. Somewhere
behind the ice-cold homophobic elitist he saw something"—she grinned at
him—"Lord knows, I don't see it—something kind and gentle."

 
          
 
When he had filled a tray with Swiss steak,
cooked tomatoes, cottage cheese and iced tea,
Preston
headed for his usual table. There was
nothing special about that table, no reason for him to feel mild resentment
whenever he found it occupied by strangers. Funny how quickly people became
routinized. It was the same at Mason & Storrow; he always used the same
urinal in the men's room. It made no sense. He guessed it was an instinctual
reflex, to reduce the number of decisions in a life packed with petty but
unavoidable decisions.

 
          
 
Lupone and Duke were already seated. Preston
didn't say hello—what was the point of greeting people you spent every waking
moment with? He unloaded his tray and sat down.

 
          
 
"Puff' and I were talking," Duke
said. "We didn't realize you're in such tough shape."

 
          
 
"What?"

 
          
 
Lupone said, "I told that broad there
isn't a member of the whole fuckin' human race who can't use a few extra bucks.
But would she listen?"

 
          
 
Preston said ''What?" again.

 
          
 
Duke said, "How're the wife and kid
making out? We could take up a collection."

 
          
 
Lupone said, "I'd kick in ... if they'd
give me my money back."

 
          
 
Preston saw that Lupone was having trouble controlling
his fat face, so all he said was "Okay."

 
          
 
"No, seriously," Duke said.
"Maybe we oughta engrave your name on that piece of—what is it you're
eating? meat?—so nobody'll steal it from you."

 
          
 
"The hell are you talking about?"

 
          
 
Duke gave up. With a laugh, he reached in his
pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. It was full, but opened, and inside
the cellophane wrapper was an inch-square piece of paper with Preston's name on
it in ink.

 
          
 
"Where'd you get that?" Preston
asked.

 
          
 
"Table in the common room."

 
          
 
"I didn't write that."

 
          
 
"Sure," said Duke. "It's okay,
Scott. You don't have to be ashamed."

 
          
 
"Talkin' about shame," Lupone said,
"we oughta take a pool on what line of bullshit Banner's gonna feed us
tonight." As if he had suddenly remembered why he was at the table, Lupone
attacked his plate, heaped his fork with mashed potatoes and stuffed it in his
mouth.

 
          
 
Preston stripped the wrapper from the
cigarette pack. The piece of paper fell on the table. Preston stared at his
name. He didn't recognize the writing.

 
          
 
Lupone said, "I bet Stone's gonna say he
don't know nothin' about nothin'."

 
          
 
“I doubt he'll be defensive," Duke said.
"I bet he'll spout a lot of crap about what a great lady she was."

            
"Ten bucks," Lupone said.
"My marker's good."

            
Preston
picked up the piece of paper and turned it
over. On the back the same hand had written:

 
          
 
Meet me. P.

 
          
 
"We got a right!" screamed a man in
a shiny jacket and string tie. "You ever hear of the First Amendment?"
He made the mistake of trying to bull past Chuck, to shoulder him aside with
the battering ram of moral authority.

 
          
 
"The only right you got," said
Chuck, and he grabbed the man by the lapels and lifted him off the floor and
threw him like a shot put back through the open doors, "is the right to
sing the blues."

 
          
 
The man skittered across the sidewalk, tripped
on the curb and sprawled on his back on the roundabout. His notebook fluttered
into the air and landed on top of a van.

 
          
 
Chuck spread his legs and folded his arms and
stood astride the entrance like a colossus.

 
          
 
"You 'spose Connie Chung is out
there?" Duke mused as he watched the throng of reporters, correspondents,
cameramen, field producers and drivers milling in frustrated anger, like hungry
wolves before a guarded cattle pen. "Connie Chung lights my fire."

           
 
“Not yet,"
Preston
said. “So far, Natasha's just dead. Front
page, but a wire-service story and a bunch of film clips of her movies. If it
turns out she killed herself, then the networks'11 send some heavy hitters out
to do in-depth pieces. Who they'll get to talk to them from here I have no
idea. Probably good old Guy: 'Natasha Grant was a warm and loving human being.
We did our best to put her in touch with her higher power, but I guess there
were depths of despair in her tortured soul that even we couldn't reach. By the
way, that's L-A-R-K-I-N.' But if the police think somebody pushed her, then
you'll get the varsity. Connie Chung. Diane Sawyer. Diane Sawyer's
better-looking than Connie Chung."

           
 
"For you, maybe. I like exotic."
Duke paused. "Who pushed her?"

 
          
 
"I said 'if.' "
Preston
smiled. "Maybe you did it."

 
          
 
Duke nodded. "I did. I confess. I begged
her to run away with me to Sunnybrook Farm, but she said her heart belonged to
Don Ameche."

 
          
 
They heard a siren and saw the sherififs car
pull into the roundabout and stop. Its flashing lights reflected off the glass
doors and turned the lobby into a silent discotheque. The sheriff" and a
young deputy as big as Chuck got out of the car and gesticulated at the gaggle
of reporters, a few of whom shouted their protests, most of whom grumbled, but
all of whom moved grudgingly away from the doors and to their vehicles.

 
          
 
As Chuck relaxed, abandoning his imitation of
the classic mesomorphic Mae West stud, a small man-slight, harried and rumpled,
probably in his early fifties—came scurrying up the corridor that led to the
empty administrative offices.

 
          
 
Chuck spun on him, and the look on Chuck's
face said. Why do you make me hurt you?

 
          
 
The man braked, stopped, held up his hands.
"I'm no reporter!" he said. "I've got aproblem!”

 
          
 
“Nothin' like the problem you're gonna
have." Chuck advanced on the man.

 
          
 
"No! I mean, I'm a patient."

 
          
 
"How'd you get in? There's security
guards all over the place."

 
          
 
"I couldn't get near the front door, so I
went around back. The guard was busy with a camera crew trying to sneak in a
window."

 
          
 
"Yeah?" Chuck stepped to the
reception desk and reached down for a looseleaf notebook. "What's your
name?"

 
          
 
"Parkinson. But I wouldn't be in there.
Not yet. See, I was in jail on a DWI till this afternoon, and I had my court
hearing, and the judge said if I didn't check into a rehab by tonight he'd put
me back in jail and make me serve the whole thirty. I can't serve any thirty
days! I'm a . . . a CPA!"

 
          
 
"Right." Chuck replaced the
notebook. He looked at Duke and Preston and raised his eyebrows. They looked at
each other. Duke shrugged.

 
          
 
Preston stepped forward, held out his hand and
said, "Mr. Parkinson, my name's Scott. I'm a counselor-tech here at
Banner." He glanced at Chuck, who frowned but didn't interfere.
"What's your poison?"

 
          
 
"Poison?" Parkinson shook hands.
"Oh, you mean . . . Anything. As long as it comes in a bottle."

 
          
 
"What makes you think you have a
problem?"

 
          
 
Parkinson smiled and shook his head. He didn't
hesitate. "My wife and I . . . well, when we got married, she didn't
drink, but pretty soon she started, just to keep me company, and before long we
were tying one on pretty regularly. Terrible." He grimaced at the
recollected pain. "Her father ran a greenhouse, and one night we got
smashed and wrecked it, broke every pane in the place. After a while, I
stopped, actually joined A.A., but she never did. Couldn't, I guess. I don't
know where she is now. Anyway, I stayed sober for a couple of years, but then .
. . Well, you know how it is."

 
          
 
"I sure do." Preston put a
sympathetic hand on Parkinson's shoulder. Then he turned to Chuck and shook his
head.

 
          
 
Chuck grinned.

 
          
 
"Chuck'll take care of you,"
Preston
said, and he turned Parkinson toward Chuck.

 
          
 
"Thank—" was as far as Parkinson got
before Chuck, in a single magical motion, ripped off his shirt and jacket,
leaving him standing there in a sleeveless undershirt, with the two ends of his
necktie flapped back over his shoulders . . . and a tiny remote microphone
taped to the pocket of skin between his clavicles.

 
          
 
Chuck leaned down and shouted into the
microphone, "Say hey, motherfuck!"

 
          
 
Parkinson tried to smile. "Can't blame a
fella for trying."

 
          
 
"Hell, no," Chuck said.

 
          
 
Parkinson reached down for his shirt. "I
guess I'll be on my—"

 
          
 
"Don't tell me you're leaving
already?" Chuck grabbed Parkinson by the hair and straightened him up like
a Marine recruit. "You said you want to check in. Shucks, a fella as
resourceful as you oughta get his wish." He looked at Preston and Duke.
"Right, gentlemen?"

 
          
 
"Absolutely," said Duke.

 
          
 
"By all means," said Preston.

 
          
 
"Joke's over," Parkinson said,
suddenly a tough guy. "You won. Now let me the hell out of here, or—"

 
          
 
"No way, Mr. Parkinson," said Chuck,
and he marched Parkinson to the door of Nurse Bridget's office.

 
          
 
Nurse Bridget sat at her desk, interpreting
EKG results and making notes in patients' files.

 
          
 
“Nurse Bridget, this here's Mr.
Parkinson."

 
          
 
"Hello, dearie." Bridget smiled
until she saw the fear on Parkinson's face and the grip Chuck had on his hair.

 
          
 
"Nurse Bronsky here?" Chuck asked.

 
          
 
"Nurse Bronsky's always here."

 
          
 
"Get him," Chuck said, shoving
Parkinson toward the door at the back of the office. "Mr. Parkinson wants
to see Nurse Bronsky something fierce."

 
          
 
Preston and Duke peeked around the door as
Nurse Bridget punched a number into the telephone intercom.

 
          
 
Just before the door at the rear of the office
closed, they heard Chuck say, "You'll like Nurse Bronsky. Some patients
actually fall in love with him . . . damnedest thing.''

 
          
 
Preston and Duke started down the corridor
toward the assembly hall, where Guy Larkin was waving his arms and scurrying
about like a den mother shepherding her Cubs and Brownies into chapel.

 
          
 
"How did you know?" Duke asked.

 
          
 
Preston smiled. "Stupid bastard tried to
sell me the plot of Days of Wine and Roses.''

 
          
 
* * *

 
          
 
Their names were checked against a list as
they entered. The hall was already packed, for all sixty patients were there,
as well as every counselor and counselor-tech, the doctor, the shrink, the
chaplain, the rabbi and assorted maintenance personnel.

 
          
 
From their place standing in the rear of the
room, Preston tried to find Priscilla, but spotting one blond head in a
kaleidoscope of moving, bobbing colors was impossible.

 
          
 
''Meet me," her note had said. But where?

 
          
 
Outside. Of course.

 
          
 
Tonight? Of course. Even though tonight, of
all nights, was not exactly the smartest night to meet, since every security
guard in the county would be patrolling the grounds.

 
          
 
Never mind.

 
          
 
“Meet me," she had said. And meet her he
would.

 
          
 
He felt like Romeo plotting to spirit Juliet
away from her parents.

 
          
 
Remember how that romance turned out?

 
          
 
Shut up!

 
          
 
Lupone squeezed past several standees along
the wall and forced open a space beside Preston. "This's gonna be a
gas," he said.

 
          
 
Larkin made sure there were no stragglers in
the corridor, then closed the doors and walked to the podium. The room fell
silent.

 
          
 
“This is a sad night for all of us," he
said. He turned to the side door. "Ladies and gentlemen . . . Stone
Banner.''

 
          
 
Banner entered slowly, his pace barely faster
than a pallbearer's. He wore black boots, black jeans and a buff buckskin
jacket with a black armband wrapped around the left sleeve. His hair was
perfect, but his face—even under the obvious makeup—was puffy.

 
          
 
There was scattered applause, which Banner cut
off with an irritable wave.

 
          
 
''The guy's got balls!” Lupone whispered.

 
          
 
"What d'you mean?" Preston asked.

 
          
 
"Watch. . . . I'll be goddamned!"