The DA is pissed off. NB, even when he’s not pissed off he talks too loud, no sense of decorum; what’s that condition called? A kind of socially insensitive behavior. What’s it called? Sounds like: ass-burgers.
Regardless, I’m compelled to hold the walkie-talkie thingy away from my head whilst Rosenblatt spouts and spiels.
“… any idea how much a kneecap? That kind of technology? Costs the goddamn taxpayer?”
People pay taxes? Quel retro.
I’m laid up in the new VA Medical Center, formerly Mount Sinai, on Madison and 98th Street. Uncomfortable as hell, not because of any pain, I’ve got an oldlooking bag of morphine drip-dropping such bodily concerns away …No, it’s the fact that I’m in a military medical facility and I’ll confess, it’s nerve-wracking. Don’t like the morphine clouding everything up.
Military hospital.
The last time they had me up in one of these houses of horror I underwent a lot of bad shit, said bad shit causing me huge memory gaps, possible false-memory implants, as well as (I suspect) some sort of physical tracking device, installed deep, near a vital organ I would imagine, as to be undetectable.
I’m aware how this sounds, but I feel it. Back to it: “People still pay taxes?” I talk into the bottom of the thing.
“Very fucking funny. Citizens still pay taxes, Decimal. Unlike off-the-grid nonpersons, such as yourself.”
That rankles. “I don’t appreciate … I am not a nonperson.”
“Course you are. You don’t exist. Officially. Appear in no public record. I like you that way, Decimal. YOU like you that way. Makes you employable, more interesting. You once told me you like that, make up your goddamn mind.”
“I prefer to think of myself an individual who keeps a low profile.”
“Ah, I see. Well, it’s going to be tough, keeping a low profile. Should you have to go through any metal detectors. With that new knee of yours. Six million–dollar man. Cue you: this is where you say, thank you, sir.”
Six million dollars? What’s that all about? Say, “Thank you, Dan.”
“Thank you, SIR.”
“Thank you, Sir Dan.”
“The fuck? I medevac you? Out of some outhouse in frigging Queens? Helicopters and the whole nine? Talk about fucking inconvenience. Lucky I think on my feet. Otherwise: questions. Questions we don’t want asked, see? Decimal, you are the massive fuck-up here. Not me.”
“Sir, if you’ll allow—”
“No, I won’t. We don’t do families. Not classy. Are you classy?”
“I’m nothing if not classy, sir.”
“So I had thought. So I had THOUGHT. You dress well. For a freakin vagrant. Kids? Women? No fly. Nyet, nein, nope, no way, never. We do mano a mano. Or not at all. Do you think I’m talking out of my ass?”
Sure I do, but say: “No sir. Perhaps I misread the finer points of the assignment, as the file contained photos and information that included an address, family—”
“No, no, no. I should take you off this. Right away. But I like you. There’s trust here. It’s a chemistry thing. Maybe I’m losing it. Going soft.”
“Sir, the direct approach, it’s a difficult prospect, as the subject strikes me as an intelligent and well-trained—”
“Your observations. On character, are noted. But I do not give a shit. Two things: you stay on this job. Wrap it up. One. Two: you do not approach Miss Balodis under any circumstances.”
I frown at this. Who? Oh right, that’s the maiden name … “Shapsko.”
“Yeah, right, that’s right. Miss Shapsko, the wife, her, any kids. I’m issuing a restraining order. Got it?”
“Yes sir.”
Maybe it’s the dope making things cloudy, but something seems strange about the mention of this woman’s unmarried name. But I can’t trace this, much less complete a thought.
“Decimal?”
“Yeah, still here.”
“Okay. So the job is the same. It’s the man of the house you want. Now. When you’re up and running again. Counting on you. Nobody else appropriate for this thing.”
“Understood.” Another thought. “Sir, not to offend, but I get the sense that you might have seen the need to put a tail on me.”
“Oh? One: I’m insulted. And B: what would lead you to this fucking conclusion?”
“Found me awful quick. You know, out in Queens.”
The D.A. sniffs. “Yours, Decimal, is not to fucking question your superiors. Your guardian fucking angels. I won’t be insulted by a shitbird like you. Clear?”
“Crystalline.”
“This a secure line?”
I have a look over at the doctor or nurse or whatever he is, Asian guy, upon whose walkie I’m speaking.
Dude makes like he’s studying a chart, as if it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever laid peepers on. I’ve been holding the device a foot from my head, there’s no way he hasn’t heard everything.
“Yup,” I tell the DA. The doctor glances my way, I toss him a wink.
“Good. Good. Just do like you like to do best and keep that low profile low.”
“Roger that.”
“Roger who?”
“Always wanted to say that on a CB.”
“Decimal: heal the fuck up, get this thing done, no muss no fuss, and then fuck back off to your books.”
DA terminates the call. I hand the device back to the doc.
“That was my boss.”
The doc, like I said an Asian kid, Korean or something, sticks out his lower lip. “Not my concern.”
I’m getting sleepy, things slowing down. “Doc, am I going to make it? Give it to me straight.” Voice it like last-stages-of-throat-cancer, don’t know why. Gallows humor.
The guy looks at me askance, like I’m an idiot. Thought he’d appreciate it, oh well.
“You’ve had knee replacement surgery. You’re fine. But I would think upwards of six months’ physical therapy …”
“Nah, I’m good.”
Doc offers me a tight expression, something in the strained-smile family. “It’s not optional. You want to walk upright again?”
I shrug. Major correction: morphine is nice. “Tell me all about my new knee, doc.”
“State of the art. Ceramic and titanium.”
That’s way rich. I laugh at that.
“What aspect of this is funny?” The doc is blinking his eyes rapidly. Seems annoyed.
“Titanium … My boss, he’s got this pen … it’s a goddamn pen, mind you, see, so … man always waving it around …” I get that far and forget why it was funny.
“You should be taking this very seriously,” says the doc. “You’re aware that you were given priority, placed directly at the head of the line. We’re completely understaffed, and have more cases than we can handle as it is.”
Touchy.
“Additionally, I don’t like doing procedures on somebody without a complete set of records. It’s dangerous. I’m aware there’s a political dimension to all this; frankly, though, I grow weary of this secretive stuff. Creates an uncomfortably large margin for error, and isn’t fair to other patients who might be forced to wait while you types get treated. Please express this to your employer, if you would.”
Prickly.
“And if that’s the same Daniel Rosenblatt who brought so many lawsuits against this facility in the past, please let him know that he’s responsible for the firing of at least two good physicians, known personally to me. The man used to stand down in the lobby, handing out his card. Unbelievable.”
Am I my brother’s keeper? “Gosh, doc,” I say. “Well, can’t speak to that, but let me at least say thanks.”
The doctor mumbles something. Cranky guy.
I say, “Also, if you’ve got a moment and I’m not pushing my luck, I could use a couple aspirin. For my PTSD. Maybe we could cuddle too. Give me a safe space to cry it out.”
Doc rolls his eyes and shoves off. Godspeed, doc.
He’s all right, that fellow, despite the hair up his ass. I appreciate everything he’s done for me, really I do.
Not 100 percent on what that is, but if the DA is to be believed, it was expensive.
I’m in a private room. Deluxe, like. I lie still, listening to hushed conversations outside, full-throated screaming from some point beyond that.
I’m in a military hospital.
Military hospital equals fear and loss, no control, factors unknown but certainly nothing good. Fuzzy details, but the fear is there.
Designer viruses, spores, airborne bio-nano weaponry. Probes, man.
I gotta pee. Thinking about probes will do that.
I ease the IV out of the vein in my hand. Haul myself up and almost nosedive into the floor. It’s like having one leg. I do some painful hopping.
Note my belongings, clothing, check the pants for the key, okay, laminate, plus, amazingly, my gun (you should have seen me back in Queens before I passed out, doused in blood, right knee decimated, probably in shock, dislocating my arm to retrieve the pistol from under that evil-ass “entertainment center”), all of it in a clear plastic sack, hanging off a peg in a cubbyhole.
A box of surgical gloves. Could it be Christmas?
Note the PurellTM dispenser on the wall; you have to love that. Want one for the library.
I’m ready to hit the dispenser, ready to cleanse. And then I’m ready to bounce.