The Clinic

“There'd be a limit for the old man. He could only tolerate so much surgery. This was probably his last chance. That's why they had to find an ideal donor.”

“Muscadine…”

“Who Professor Steinberger never met, because she'd resigned from the committee before his case came up.”

“Hope didn't like the Storm kid much, either, but he had family ties.”

“The worst kind of ties: a wealthy father more than willing to make waves. And for all Ke

“Maybe.” He shook his head. “Setting up Muscadine for involuntary charity. Harvesting him. Christ, it's an urban legend come to life. I almost feel sympathy for the bastard.”

“It would be traumatic for anyone,” I said, “but for someone like Muscadine- prizing his body, trying to merchandise his looks- it was so much more. When I spoke to him at his apartment, he said he'd found the blood test Kafkaesque. He also said his back injury had felt like a knife going through him. Playing with me. Or just getting it off his chest without letting on.”

“Free therapy?”

“Why not?” I said. “Don't actors learn that? Seize the moment?”

37

Big Micky was anything but.

He sat facing us under a huge live oak. Nothing grew under the tree, and the ground had reverted to sand. The rest of the yard was perfect bonsai grass around a half-Olympic black-bottom pool with a spitting-dolphin waterfall, herringbone-brick hardscape, statuary on pedestals, blood-red azalea beds, more big trees. Through the foliage, a spreading, hazy view of the San Gabriels said money couldn't buy clean air.

The old man was so shrunken he made the wheelchair look like a high-back. No shoulders, no neck- his smallish head seemed to sprout from his sternum. His skin was legal-pad yellow, his brown eyes filmed, the skin around them bagged, defatted, jeweled with blackheads. A fleshy red blob of a nose reached nearly to his gray upper lip. Bad dentures made his jaws work constantly. Only his hair was youthful: thick, coarse, still dark, with only a few sparks of gray.

Milo's warrant had opened the electric gate of the house on Mulholland but no one had come up to greet us and he'd taken out his gun and let the uniforms come on like an army. Just as we'd reached the front door it had opened and the ponytailed frog I'd given the medicine vial to was leaning against the jamb, trying to look casual.

Milo put him against the wall, cuffed him, patted him down, took his automatic and his wallet, read his driver's license.

“Armand Jacszcyc, yeah, this looks like you. Who else is in the house, Armand?”

“Just Mr. K. and a nurse.”

“You're sure?”

“Yeah,” said Jacszcyc. Then he noticed me and his head retracted.

The uniforms went in. A sergeant came back a few minutes later, saying, “No one else. Lots of guns, we're pulling an arsenal.”

Another uniform came out with Nurse A

She kept her head down as they took her away.

“Okay,” said Milo. “Leave me a couple of guys to tear up the place for dope.”

“No dope so far,” said the sergeant.

“Keep looking. And bust this one for concealed weapon.”

Frog was hustled off and we stepped in. The center of the house was one sixty-foot stretch of dark-paneled space clear to the back, sparkle-ceilinged and gold-carpeted, filled with groupings of green and brown couches, ceramic lamps with fringed shades, heavy, carved tables full of souvenir-shop porcelain and crystal. Clown paintings and Rodeo Drive oils of rainy Paris street scenes said all talent should not be encouraged. The rear wall was covered by pleated olive drapes that locked out the sun and sealed in the smell of decay.

A screech-bird voice from the back yelled, “Where's that water, Armand!”

A wheelchair sat next to a fake Louis XIV commode with an obscenely inlaid front. The marble top was crowded with medicine bottles. Not like the vial I'd showed Jacszcyc. Big white plastic containers. No prescription blanks. Drug-company samples.

“Armand!”

“He had to run,” said Milo. “Nurse A

The old man blinked, tried to move. The effort turned him green and he sank back.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Police.” Milo flashed ID. Two uniforms came over and he told them, “Over there.” Pointing to the open doorway of a big brown kitchen. The counter was piled with water bottles, soft-drink cans, takeout cartons, dirty dishes, pots and pans.

“What the fuck you moe-rons doin' here?”

His accent was interesting: the broad farmer drawl of Bakersfield tucked up at the final syllables by a hint of Eastern Europe. Lawrence Welk without the cheer.

“Gimme some water, moe-ron.”

Milo filled a glass and held it out along with the warrant.

“What's that?”

“Drug paper. Anonymous tip.”

The old man took the glass but ignored the warrant.

He drank, barely able to hold the glass, water dribbling down his chin. He tried to put it on the table, didn't protest when Milo took it.

“Drug paper? Wrong customer, moe-ron. But what do I give a flying? Tear up the place, it's rented anyway.”

“Rented from you,” said Milo. “Triage Properties. That's a medical term. Interesting choice for a doing-business-as. My-son-the-doctor's idea?”

The old man put his hands together and closed his eyes.

“Triage,” repeated Milo. “DBA the Peninsula Group, DBA Northern Lights Investments. Northern Lights traces to Excalibur Properties, which traces to Revelle Recreation, which traces to Brooke-Hastings Entertainment. Your old skin biz. Before that, your old manure-and-meat biz. You musta really liked the name, giving it to wife number two and the so-called charitable institution you established in San Francisco: rehab for street girls. What, Junior treating their VD and doing their abortions and helping the cute ones get into dancing?”

“You prefer welfare?”

“So what else did Junior do that year? Practice his surgical technique?”

The old man's hands shook a bit. “Go ahead, moe-ron, finish. Then go back to your boss and tell him you found nothing. Then, go fuck yourself.”

“I'd rather talk.”

“About what?”

“Bakersfield. San Francisco.”

“Nice towns, both. You wa

Milo touched his gut. “Food isn't what I need.”

“No,” said the old guy. “You're a fat fuck- here's a tip: Lay off the meat. Look what happened to me.” He reached up with effort, flicked a chicken-skin jowl. It fluttered as if paper.

“Big meat eater, were you?” said Milo.

“Oh, yeah. Meat, meat, meat.” A purplish tongue tip cruised along a gray lip. “I ate the best. Ate the fat, too, every bit. Now my arteries and everything else are clogged and I gotta sit here and put up with moe-rons like you.”

“Tough,” said Milo.

The old man laughed. “You give a flying, huh?”

Milo smiled. “So. The new kidney making life any easier?”

The gray lips turned white.

“I also want to talk about Junior,” said Milo. “His sudden holiday.”

“Fuck off.”

“We also served paper for his place in Beverly Hills. Alleged medical offices. Except the only thing we found in there were rooms full of porn videos ready for shipping.” Smiling again. “And that operating room. Must have cost a fortune.”

The old man pushed a button on the wheelchair's arm and the contraption began reversing slowly.

Milo held it in place and the chair whined, wheels scraping the carpet.

“We're still talking, Mr. Kruvinski.”

“I want a phone. I got a right to a fucking phone.”