Chemo had prefaced the visit to Dr. Ginger with this warning to Maggie: “If he messes up my face, I’ll kill him on the spot. And then I’ll kill you.”
The second thing that Chemo had bought with Rudy’s money was a box of bullets for the rusty colt .38. Brand-new rounds, Federals. The good stuff.
Maggie had said, “You’re going into this with the wrong attitude.”
Chemo frowned. “I’ve had rotten luck with doctors.”
“I know, I know.”
“I don’t even like this guy’s name, George Ginger. Sounds like a fag name to me.” Then he had checked the chambers on the Colt and slipped it into his pants.
“You’re hopeless,” Maggie had said. “I don’t know why I even bother.”
“Because otherwise I’ll shoot you.”
Fortunately the dermabrasion went smoothly. Dr. George Ginger had never seen a burn case quite like Chemo’s, but he wisely refrained from inquiry. Once, when Chemo wasn’t looking, the surgeon snuck a peek at the cumbersome prosthesis attached to the patient’s left arm. An avid gardener, Dr. Ginger recognized the Weed Whacker instantly, but resisted the impulse to pry.
The sanding procedure took about two hours, and Chemo endured stoically, without so much as a whimper. When it was over, he no longer looked as if someone had glued Rice Krispies all over his face. Rather, he looked as if he had been dragged for five miles behind a speeding dump truck.
His forehead, his cheeks, his nose, his chin all glowed with a raw, pink, oozing sheen. The spackled damage of the errant electrolysis needle had been scraped away forever, but now it was up to Chemo to grow a new skin. While he might never enjoy the radiant peachy complexion of, say, a Christie Brinkley, at least he would be able to stroll through an airport or a supermarket or a public park without causing small children to cringe behind their mothers’ skirts. Chemo conceded that this alone would be a vast improvement, socially.
Before leaving the office, Maggie Gonzalez had asked Dr. George Ginger to remove her sutures and inspect the progress of her New York facelift. He reported—with toxic breath—that everything was healing nicely, and gave Maggie a makeup mirror to look for herself. She was pleased by what she saw: The angry purple bruises were fading shadows under the eyes, and the incision scars had shrunk to tender rosy lines. She was especially delighted with her perky new nose.
Dr. Ginger studied the still-swollen promontory from several angles and nodded knowingly. “The Sandy Duncan.”
Maggie smiled. “Exactly!”
Popping a codeine Tylenol, Chemo said, “Who the fuck is Sandy Duncan?”
In the Bonneville, on the way back to the motel, Chemo remarked, “Three grand seems like a lot for what he did.”
“All he did was make you look human again,” Maggie said. “Three grand was a bargain, if you ask me. Besides, he even gave a professional discount—fifteen percent off because I’m a nurse.”
As he steered, Chemo kept leaning toward the middle of the seat to check himself in the rearview. It was difficult to judge the result of the dermabrasion, since his face was slathered in a glue-colored ointment. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s still pretty broken out.”
Maggie thought: Broken out? It’s seeping, for God’s sake. “You heard what the doctor said. Give it a couple weeks to heal.” With that she leaned over and commandeered the rear-view to examine her own refurbished features.
A beep-beep noise came chirping out of the dashboard; the car phone. With a simian arm Chemo reached into the glove compartment and snatched it on the second ring.
With well-acted nonchalance, he wedged the receiver between his ear and his left shoulder. Maggie thought it looked ridiculous to be riding in a junker like this and talking on a fancy car phone. Embarrassed, she scooted lower in the seat.
“Hullo,” Chemo said into the phone.
“Hello, Funny Face.” It was Mick Stranahan. “I got your message.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“And you said to call, so I am.”
Chemo was puzzled at Stranahan’s insulting tone of voice. The man ought to be scared. Desperate. Begging. At least polite.
Chemo said, “I got your lady Mend.”