“Believe me, we’re on the same side.”
“I know, chico, that’s what scares me.”
“So, which of these bastards do you want for yourself—the surgeon or the geek?”
“Don’t rush me, Mick.”
30
Early on the morning of February nineteenth, Reynaldo Flemm, the famous Shock Television journalist, arrived at the Whispering Palms Spa and Surgery Center for the most sensational interview of his sensational career. A sleepy receptionist collected the $15,000 cash and counted it twice; if she was surprised by the size of the surgeon’s fee, she didn’t show it. The receptionist handed Reynaldo Flemm two photocopied consent forms, one for a rhinoplasty and one for a suction-assisted lipectomy. Reynaldo skimmed the paperwork and extravagantly signed as “Johnny LeTigre.”
Then he sat down to wait for his moment. On a buff-colored wall hung a laminated carving of one of Rudy Graveline’s pet sayings: to improve one’s self, improve one’s face. That wasn’t Reynaldo’s favorite Rudyism. His favorite was framed in quilted Norman Rockwell-style letters above the water fountain:
vanity is beautiful. That’s the one Reynaldo had told Willie about. Be sure to get a quick shot on your way in, he had told him. What for? Willie had asked. For the irony, Reynaldo Flemm had exclaimed. For the irony! Reynaldo was proud of himself for thinking up that camera shot; usually Christina Marks was in charge of finding irony.
Soon an indifferent young nurse summoned Reynaldo to a chilly examining room and instructed him to empty his bladder, a tedious endeavor that took fifteen minutes and produced scarcely an ounce. Reynaldo Flemm was a very nervous man. In his professional life he had been beaten by Teamsters, goosed by white supremacists, clubbed by Mafia torpedoes, pistol-whipped by Bandito bikers, and kicked in the groin by the Pro-Life Posse. But he had never undergone surgery. Not even a wart removal.
Flemm stiffly removed his clothes and pulled off his hightop Air Jordans. He changed into a baby-blue paper gown that hung to his knees. The nurse gave him a silly paper cap to cover his silly dyed hair, and paper shoe covers for his bare feet.
A nurse anesthetist came out of nowhere, brusquely flipped up the tail of Reynaldo’s gown and stuck a needle in his hip. The hypodermic contained a drug called Robinul, which dries up the mouth by inhibiting oral secretions. Next the nurse seized Reynaldo’s left arm, swabbed it, and stuck it cleanly with an I.V. needle that dripped into his veins a lactated solution of five percent dextrose and, later, assorted powerful sedatives.
The anesthetist then led Reynaldo Flemm and his I.V. apparatus into Suite F, one of four ultramodern surgical theaters at Whispering Palms. She asked him to lie on his back and, as he stretched out on the icy steel, Reynaldo frantically tried to remember the ten searing questions he had prepared for the ambush of Dr. Rudy Graveline.
One, did you kill Victoria Barletta on March 12, 1986?
Two, why would one of your former nurses say that you did?
Three, isn’t it true that you’ve repeatedly gotten into trouble for careless and incompetent surgery?
Four, how do you explain …
Explain?
Explain this strap on my fucking legs!
“Please quiet down, Mr. LeTigre.”
And my arms! What’ve you done to my arms? I can’t move my goddamn arms!
“Try to relax. Think pleasant thoughts.”
Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait!
“You ought to be feeling a little drowsy.”
This is wrong. This is not right. I read up on this. I got a fucking pamphlet. You’re supposed to tape my eyes, not my arms. What are you smiling at, you dumb twat? Lemme talk to the doctor! Where’s the doctor? Jesus Christ, that’s cold. What are you doing down there!
“Good morning, Mr. LeTigre.”
Doctor, thank God you’re here! Listen good now: These Nazi nurse bitches are making a terrible mistake. I don’t wanna general, I wanna a local. Just pull the I.V., okay? I’ll be fine, just pull the tubes before I pass out.
“John, we’re having a little trouble understanding you.”
No shit, Sherlock, my tongue’s so dry you could light a match on it. Please yank the needles, I can’t think with these damn needles. And make ‘em quit fooling around with me down there. Christ, it’s cold! What’re they doing!