JONATHAN KELLERMAN. THE CLINIC

He started to cry, covered his face. “Shit,” he said through gigantic fingers. “To be prey—the violation.”

“Spooky,” I said.

“Sickening.”

He looked up.

I nodded.

“The degradation,” he said. “They cheapened me. I wouldn’t treat a dog that way.”

I let him compose himself. “So you went into Club None and saw Mandy—Desiree—and—”

“She was at the bar, we made eye contact, she smiled, bent over, showed me her tits. Luscious tits. I went over, sat down, chatted her up, we moved to a table. I bought her a drink, had myself another beer, we talked. Next thing her hand’s on my knee, and she’s saying let’s go back to my place.” Smiling. “It’s happened to me before.”

“Did you go to her place?”

“We never got there. She must have slipped something in my beer ’cause the last thing I remember is getting into my car and then . . . God, I still can’t believe they fucked me like that!” Big shoulders shook.

Acting? Maybe, maybe not.

“Then what, Reed?”

“Then I woke up in an alley a block from my house with the goddamnedest pain in my back and the stink of garbage in my nose.”

“What time?”

“Around four A.M., it was still dark. I could hear rats, smell the garbage—they dumped me like garbage!”

I shook my head. “Unbelievable.”

“Kafka. I tried to get up, couldn’t. My back was starting to hurt like hell. A throbbing, dull pain, right over my hipbone. And it felt tight, really tight, as if I was being squeezed. I reached around, touched something—gauze. I’d been wrapped. Like a mummy. Then my arm started throbbing, too, and I managed to roll up my sleeve and saw a black-and-blue mark—a needle stick.”

He touched his inner elbow.

“At first I thought someone had screwed with my head, too—given me dope, though I couldn’t figure out why. Later I realized it was the anesthesia. I was woozy, nauseous, started to throw up, heaved my guts for a long time. Finally, I managed to stand, made it to my apartment somehow and collapsed. Slept all day. When I woke up, I was still in the dream and the pain was unbearable and I knew I had a fever. I drove myself to the free clinic and the doctor took off the bandage and this look came on his face. Like how can you be walking around? Then he told me, you’ve been operated on, man. Don’t you remember? I started to freak out, he held up a mirror so I could see the stitches. Like a fucking football.”

He played with his hair some more, rubbed his eyes, shook his head.

“Oh, man. It was like . . . you have no idea. No idea, the violation. Fritz Lang, Hitchcock. This hippie doctor’s telling me I’ve had surgery and I’m saying no way. He must have thought I was nuts.”

“Hitchcock,” I said.

“The classic plot line: innocent man gets caught up. Only the star hadn’t been told. The star had been improvised on.”

“Horrible,” I said.

“Beyond horror—splatter cinema. Then I started to remember things. Desiree—Mandy. Us getting into my car, her leaning over to me, kissing. Jamming her tongue down my throat. Then fade to black. Boom.”

He put the palm of one hand over his eyes.

“The free clinic doctor’s saying calm down, man, you’ve got a fever, better check into the hospital.”

“Did the doctor say what kind of operation you’d had?” I asked.

“He asked me if I’d had kidney disease and when I said no, what the hell are you talking about, he took an X ray. And told me. That’s when he said I should be in the hospital.”

“Did you check yourself in?”

“With what? I don’t have insurance.”

“What about County?”

“No,” he said. “Place is a zoo . . . and I didn’t want any more documentation. I didn’t want to go anywhere. Because I was already thinking.”

“About getting back at them?”

“About regaining my self-respect. It was only Desiree—Mandy—at that point. But I knew she’d just been the bait.”

“Did you suspect Professor Devane?”

“No, not yet. I didn’t suspect anyone. But I was damned well going to find out.”

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