Terminal Secret Page 10

  Do-rag said nothing.

  “It means you’re currently guilty of a class six felony. Brandishing a weapon within a thousand feet of a school.”

  Dan pushed the weapon a little deeper into the man’s Fruit of the Looms. “So, why don’t you just make a quick hundred bucks by keeping an eye on my car. I’ll bring your gun back when I’m done with Darren C.”

  Do-rag nodded grudgingly. Then he borrowed Dan’s new moniker for his loitering accomplice. “Hey, Beanpole. Get up. Take this man to see Darren. Bring him back so I can get the rest of my paycheck and my gun.” Dan pulled the weapon from the man’s waistband and then removed his finger from the trigger. He took the money from his pocket and extended the bill in his fingers. Do-rag took the cash and cupped it in his hand.

  Beanpole stood, brushed himself off, and took several breaths. He looked towards his taller accomplice and Do-rag nodded. “Go on. Take him to see Darren C.”

  Beanpole rubbed his stomach and then motioned for Dan to follow him with a flick of the head. Dan pushed the gun into his own waistband and then followed Beanpole down the sidewalk into the heart of the housing project. The small brick townhouses and apartments resembled military barracks, not unlike many places Dan remembered as home, growing up in various locations around the globe. The entire stretch of brick low-rises had been recently updated. New roofs. New heating systems. New paint on the miles of iron fencing that cordoned off various blocks, creating natural boundaries for gangs and thugs.

  Beanpole led Dan through a backyard, passing under clothes drying on a community laundry line. He entered the back door to an apartment building and the light from outside vanished as the door shut behind them. The tight hall was dark and Dan’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the change. Instinctively he raised his hands slightly, palms facing out.

  At the end of the hall, light shone through a small window near the front door of the building. Beanpole stopped under the light and turned towards Dan. “Wait here.”

  Dan listened as Beanpole’s feet stomped their way up the stairs with an authority that belied the man’s weight. The stomping was followed by a faint knock on a door.

  Beanpole returned to the first floor and nodded as he passed Dan. “Sit tight. Darren will be right with you,” he said, disappearing down the dark corridor from which they had just come.

  Dan did as instructed and a minute later the door at the top of the stairs opened. More light illuminated the stairwell and Darren C. looked down at Dan from the landing above.

  “My man, Dan.”

  “Darren. Got a minute?”

  “Come on up.”

  Dan stepped into the living room and Darren motioned for him to have a seat. The one-bedroom apartment was meticulously maintained. Twenty-year-old furniture casually decorated the living room, magazines on the coffee table. The TV was on in the corner, the news playing quietly. Darren C. disappeared down the hall for a moment, returned, and then sat down on the chair across the coffee table from Dan.

  “You look good, Darren. Real good. The apartment is nice.”

  “Got a nice girl. She has me whipped. Won’t put up with the usual nonsense. Likes to keep the place clean. Doesn’t want my boys hanging out here. To tell you the truth, I like it too. A little peace and quiet.”

  “You working?”

  “Doing some drywall work. Real job, real pay, all legal.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Yeah, it is. Did skinny man give you any trouble?”

  “Beanpole? No, he wasn’t any trouble. But the big guy with the do-rag and I had to come to an understanding.”

  “I’m sure he enjoyed that.”

  “He’s watching my car. Earning a hundred to keep it safe. I told him I was an attorney of yours, in case anyone asks.”

  “Good one.” Darren C. pulled a joint from the pocket of his shirt and put it on the table. “Smoke?”

  “No, I’ll pass. I was wondering if you could get me some information.”

  “What kind?”

  “Anything on oxy dealers.”

  “Don’t tell me you got a problem with the ox?”

  “Not me.”

  “Better not. Hillbilly Heroin. Bad news.”

  Dan peeled off five one hundred dollar bills and placed them on the table next to the joint.

  “I need a question answered. I need to know who was supplying ox to a white guy in Arlington who ended up on the wrong end of a gun ten days ago. Name is Marcus Losh.”

  “You’re asking me about a white-guy problem?”

  “He was disabled and ex-military. They shot him through the door of his apartment. No one deserves that. Especially not someone who served this country. Regardless of what happened after he got out of the military.”

  “What’s your connection?”

  “An ex of his wants to know what happened to him. I told her I’d look into it.”

  Darren C. picked up the five hundred dollars and put it in the pocket where the joint had been.

  “Give me a couple minutes. I’m going to the bedroom. Make a few calls.”

  “Take your time.”

  “There’s a lighter and ashtray in the drawer on the side of the coffee table. Hit that jay if you want.”

  “Thanks.”

  Dan flipped through a magazine as he waited, Darren’s muffled voice wafting down the short hallway. Ten minutes later the front door opened and an attractive thirty-something woman walked in with a bag of groceries in her arm. Dan stood and introduced himself.

  “My name is Charlene. I heard we had a visitor.”

  “News travels fast.”

  “You staying for dinner?”

  “I don’t want to impose.”

  “Not an imposition for me. I’m cooking either way.”

  “I’m good, but thank you just the same.”

  Charlene set the grocery bag in the kitchen. “Can I at least get you something to drink? Apparently my boyfriend is out of common courtesy. We have ice tea, lemonade, and water.”

  “Tea.”

  “Coming right up.” The freezer door opened, ice cubes clanked into a glass, and Charlene delivered the tea to the coffee table. She placed a coaster on the wood top and paused when she saw the joint.

  “That yours?”

  Dan stammered.

  “It better be. Darren is not allowed to smoke weed. Especially not in this house.”

  Dan plucked the joint from the table and stuck it behind his ear. “Sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “Well now you do.”

  Charlene slipped down the hall and entered the bedroom. Darren reappeared a few seconds later. He sat back down on the chair in the living room and noticed the joint behind Dan’s ear.

  “You should know better than to bring weed over here, Dan,” Darren said for effect, raising his voice above normal conversation level. He shook his head in silence and motioned for Dan to give him his joint back. Dan tried not to laugh and flipped the object of friction back to its original owner.

  Darren C. leaned forward and Dan slipped his butt to the edge of his seat. “Took me a couple of calls. The cops have been all over this case. Here’s the deal. The dead guy who was shot through the door was getting his drugs from a dealer in South Arlington named Doc. Clean record. Only deals in prescriptions. Rumor has it, he used to live in California and went by the street name Dopey. Not sure what happened out there, but apparently he moved, went upscale, and changed his name. Doc runs a tight operation, primarily dealing in oxy these days, but will handle anything prescription. Has a couple ways of getting drugs, but gets most of his stuff from real prescriptions for real people who are selling for profit.”

  “Doc into shooting his customers?”

  “No, Doc doesn’t do violence. He’s a white guy who lives in Arlington and drives a Honda. You do the math.”

  “But Doc was providing the guy with oxy?”

  “That’s the word. Doc is paranoid. As paranoid as you are, Dan. He will meet with a custome
r but he will never deal himself. He has runners who deal with other runners. Constantly changing runners and routes. Anyhow, word is the man who was killed was on the delivery list. The deliveryman was there the day the man was shot. He was at the apartment to make the delivery but your man was already dead. The guy arrived with the drugs, saw a commotion with ambulance and police lights, and boogied.”

  “How reliable is the source?”

  “As reliable as any. Doc doesn’t allow his runners to carry weapons. Doesn’t want the unneeded risk. Oxy buyers in Arlington are mostly affluent, upper-class lawyers and housewives. No offense.”

  “None taken. Haven’t been a housewife in a while.”

  “Anyhow, all that being said, it doesn’t look like Doc is your man. He has the reputation for running a clean operation. No guns. No loans. No consignment. You don’t pay, you don’t get your drugs. You don’t pay, he cuts you off. That is the best info five hundred dollars can buy.”

  “Thanks Darren,” Dan said standing.

  “Pleasure doing business with you. Did it help you out?”

  “Sure. It was helpful. The fact that Dr. Oxy didn’t do the shooting likely means there is a professional killer out there who doesn’t mind shooting a disabled vet through a door.”

  “Well if you’re looking for him, I get the feeling, somehow, he’s going get what he deserves.”

  Chapter 16

  The pain had started in Amy’s lower back, just above the waistline. With a lifelong aversion to doctors inherited from her father, she chose self-medication and popped three Advil every four hours for two weeks before switching to once-a-day Aleve. At the end of a month of discomfort, Amy grudgingly admitted she had joined the ten million Americans with back pain, if you can believe late-night pharmaceutical commercials.

  Her aversion to doctors and desire for relief led to a bi-monthly chiropractic intervention. Three hundred dollars later, the discomfort in her back gave way to abdominal pain and she was deemed cured by the chiropractor. Amy was simply thankful for an alternate location of her affliction, though her abdomen was now pushing her pain tolerance thresholds.

  Her second month of pain came with the welcomed side effect of weight loss, not surprising given her unabated abdominal ache and diminished appetite. Then, as autumn neared, she was afflicted with an insatiable itch on her skin. She readily attributed the dermatitis to her life-long allergy to leaves, triggered by the onset of fall. A single glance at the nascent foliage outside her apartment’s kitchen window was the only proof she needed. The pharmacist at Rexall’s Drug pointed her in the direction of relief on aisle seven, and Amy emerged from the store with a bag of empty promises.

  Then, one bright Monday morning, Amy woke to a yellow tint in her skin and she got scared. Most people with a real fear of doctors can rationalize common medical ailments, connecting the dots between pain and its likely cause. An awkward sleeping position and the crick in the neck. The oversized suitcase yanked out of the trunk and the pulsing pain in the shoulder. Prolonged indigestion and the dirty plates at the local taco joint.

  Jaundice was different. It was hard to rationalize a yellow skin tone as anything acceptable. Something was wrong and Amy realized it wasn’t going to be repaired by skeletal manipulation or over-the-counter concoctions.

  Her primary care physician, a nice woman in her mid-thirties, took one look at Amy, reviewed her recent medical history, and promptly sent her to an internal medicine specialist. Swollen lymph nodes and a possible blocked bile duct was the original diagnosis, partially confirmed by a rush CT scan. Upon receipt of the CT scan, the internal medicine specialist referred Amy to an oncologist who ordered an MRI.

  In a twenty-four hour period, Amy had been swept into a tornado of medical attention moving at a speed she didn’t know was possible. There were no more queues, no more delays. No one asked her to make an appointment for the following month. Medical assistants were on the phone to her insurance company, handling everything before she arrived at her next destination for her next test.

  Amy left the MRI center at eight p.m. and her newly referred oncologist called a half hour later. “Don’t eat anything after ten tonight. Tomorrow at seven we’re performing an endoscopic ultrasound and a fine needle aspiration biopsy. Then we’re going to do a full-body PET scan.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “GW Hospital. Be there by six. You will need a ride home.”

  Amy looked over at her daughter, asleep on the sofa in the living room, and wiped away a tear. “Okay,” she managed before hanging up the phone.

  Less than forty-eight hours later, Amy waited for the results of her tests at a small coffee shop near Uptown Theatre. The call from the doctor arrived at three and the request for an immediate, same-day consultation told Amy everything she needed to know.

  She was screwed.

  Thirty minutes after receiving the call from the doctor, she signed her name on the piece of paper attached to the clipboard at the patient sign-in window. She looked around the waiting room and watched a young boy playing with the toy box in the corner, his mother asleep in the chair, perched over the boy’s position. An elderly couple in the corner whispered to each other with concerned looks on their faces. Amy forced herself to turn away, to divert her mind from her own mortality. The clock on the wall ticked and Amy stared at the second hand, listening to CNN as the newscasters reported the day’s death, dismemberment, and accident tallies.

  Sitting in the chair, watching time slip by, Amy had her second epiphany. The tornado of rapid medical attention had stopped. She had now spent thirty minutes in the waiting room watching CNN. Yesterday, it would have never happened. Not to the old Amy. The medical autobahn and the ability to race by slow-moving patients was a thing of the past. She was back on the residential streets of medical care, chugging along at twenty-five miles per hour. Amy knew the fast lane of medicine was still out there, still moving at the speed of light for patients with a possibility of being saved. She reluctantly snuggled up to the reality that they didn’t waste the speed and efficiency of the medical care autobahn on a patient with no hope for recovery.

  The medical assistant called Amy’s name and she floated from her chair and followed the middle-aged woman in scrubs through a labyrinth of identical hallways.

  Dr. Smithson smiled as the medical assistant opened the door and Amy could feel the forced nature of the greeting. Dr. Smithson stood, extended his hand, and Amy smelled death in the air.

  She sat down in the leather chair across the desk from the doctor and her eyes slowly passed over the dizzying array of diplomas on the walls. Dr. Smithson organized folders on his desk, pinpointing his attention on one in particular, placing it face up, open.

  “What do you know about the pancreas, Amy?”

  “I know you need it.”

  “Yes, and no. On the simplest level, the pancreas produces hormones and enzymes. These can be substituted with varying degrees of success with natural and synthetic alternatives.”

  “No offense, but can you just give me the news, doc?”

  “You want the good or the bad?”

  “You’re an oncologist. My guess is your news is usually bad. In fact, I would be willing to bet you give good news over the phone.”

  “Well, the good news is that we know what has been ailing you. The test results on the biopsy confirmed you have pancreatic cancer. As a result of the cancerous mass, your bile duct was obstructed. That caused jaundice as well as your abdominal discomfort.”

  Amy stared stoically ahead. “Okay. Let’s rip it out.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “If I don’t need the pancreas, cut it out. I won’t miss it. Get in there and tear it out.”

  “It’s not that simple. The CT scan and MRI show the location of the cancerous mass is inoperable. It has a very low resectability, as the medical terminology goes.”

  “Okay, so zap it. Chemo and radiation.”

  “That is the normal course of treatment.
”

  “Let’s start.”

  Dr. Smithson paused a moment too long and Amy’s defensive armor cracked with the first stream of unwanted tears.

  “We can start a regiment of chemo and radiation tomorrow. But I need you to understand that any gains we see in that treatment will be temporary. They are not a cure. The cancer has metastasized to your liver, your lungs, your colon. Your cancer is advanced. The two-year survivability rate is near zero. You may have far less time.”

  “How much time?”

  “It’s hard to say.”

  Amy wiped at the moisture on her face. “Dr. Smithson, I have a daughter. I need a number.”

  “Only God knows for certain.”

  Months of stress surged to the surface and Amy quickly moved past the first stage of grief, arriving at anger in full storm.

  “Answer the goddam question! I want a number. You hang these diplomas all over your wall to show people you’re a doctor. Time to buck up. Don’t pawn this off on God. I want a fucking number.”

  “Best guess, two months. Your case is advanced. Very advanced. I am sorry.”

  Amy looked down and her shoulders started to shake. Her head dipped further and she sobbed.

  Chapter 17

  Dan stared at the computer screen in his barren office in Old Town Alexandria. Outside, the streetlights were on, the yellow hue arcing upward, the light illuminating the ceiling of the office. The faint sound of traffic could be heard through the thick security glass.

  Behind the computer screen, Dan had already finished his background investigation into Lucia’s boyfriend, Buddy. His tenant’s man-toy was indeed an artist and, unless Dan had missed something, he was neither a convicted felon nor a threat to anything except the bedsprings on Lucia’s mattress.

  Satisfied with Buddy’s background check, Dan had moved on to information related to his most recent client’s case. At present, he was conducting three searches simultaneously, crosschecking information as he went. So far, the trio of Congressman Wellington, Sherry Wellington, and the deceased Marcus Losh, revealed absolutely nothing of note. Certainly nothing to merit shooting a disabled Army vet through a partially open door.