Scudder - Eight Million Ways To Die Part 15

I'd had occasional blackouts for years. Sometimes I'd lose the last half hour of the night. Sometimes I'd lose a few hours.

I'd never lost two whole days before.

They didn't want to let me go. I'd been admitted late the previous night and they wanted to keep me in detox for a full five days.

An intern said, 'The booze isn't even out of your system yet. You'll walk around the corner and pick up a drink five minutes after you get out of here.'

'No I won't.'

'You just went through detox here a couple of weeks ago. It's on your chart. We cleaned you up and how long did you last?'

I didn't say anything.

'You know how you got here last night? You had a convulsion, a full-scale grand mal seizure. Ever have one of those before?'

'No.'

'Well, you'll have them again. If you keep on drinking you can pretty much count on it. Not every time, but sooner or later. And sooner or later you'll die of it. If you don't die of something else first.'

'Stop it.'

He grabbed me by the shoulder. 'No, I won't stop it,' he said. 'Why the h.e.l.l should I stop it? I can't be polite and considerate of your feelings and expect to cut through all your bulls.h.i.t at the same time. Look at me. Listen to me. You're an alcoholic. If you drink you'll die.'

I didn't say anything.

He had it all figured out. I would spend ten days in detox. Then I'd go to Smithers for twenty-eight days of alcoholic rehabilitation. He let up on that part when he found out I didn't have medical insurance or the couple of thousand dollars rehab would cost, but he was still holding out for a five-day stay in the detox ward.

'I don't have to stay,' I said. 'I'm not going to drink.'

'Everybody says that.'

'In my case it's true. And you can't keep me here if I don't agree to stay. You have to let me sign out.'

'If you do you'll be signing out AMA. Against Medical Advice.'

'Than that's what I'll do.'

He looked angry for a moment. Then he shrugged. 'Suit yourself,' he said cheerfully. 'Next time maybe you'll listen to advice.'

'There won't be a next time.'

'Oh, there'll be a next time, all right,' he said. 'Unless you fall on your face closer to some other hospital. Or die before you get here.'

The clothes they brought me were a mess, dirty from rolling in the street, the shirt and jacket stained with blood. I'd been bleeding from a scalp wound when they brought me in and they'd st.i.tched it up for me. I had evidently sustained the wound during the seizure, unless I'd acquired it earlier in my adventures.

I had enough cash on me for the hospital bill. A minor miracle, that.

It had rained during the morning and the streets were still wet. I stood on the sidewalk and felt the confidence drain out of me. There was a bar right across the street. I had money in my pocket for a drink and I knew it would make me feel better.

I went back to my hotel instead. I had to get up the nerve to approach the desk and collect my mail and messages, as if I'd done something shameful and owed some profound apology to the desk clerk. The worst of it was not knowing what I might have done during the time I was in blackout.

Nothing showed in the clerk's expression. Maybe I'd spent most of the lost time in my room, drinking in isolation. Maybe I'd never returned to the hotel since I left it Sunday night.

I went upstairs and ruled out the latter hypothesis. I'd evidently returned sometime either Monday or Tuesday, because I'd finished the bottle of J. W. Dant and there was a half-full quart of Jim Beam on the bureau beside the empty Dant bottle. The dealer's label indicated it was from a store on Eighth Avenue.

I thought, Well, here's the first test. Either you drink or you don't.

I poured the bourbon down the sink, rinsed out both bottles and put them in the trash.

The mail was all junk. I got rid of it and looked at my messages. Anita had called Monday morning. Someone named Jim Faber had called Tuesday night and left a number. And Chance had called once last night and once this morning.

I took a long hot shower and a careful shave and put on clean clothes. I threw out the shirt and socks and underwear I'd worn home from the hospital and put the suit aside. Maybe the dry cleaner would be able to do something with it. I picked up my messages and went through them again.

My ex-wife Anita. Chance, the pimp who'd killed Kim Dakkinen. And somebody named Faber. I didn't know anybody named Faber, unless he was some drunk who'd become a long-lost buddy during my drunken wanderings.

I discarded the slip with his number and weighed a trip downstairs against the ha.s.sle of placing a call through the hotel operator. If I hadn't poured out the bourbon I might have had a drink just about then. Instead I went downstairs and called Anita from the lobby booth.

It was a curious conversation. We were carefully polite, as we often are, and after we'd circled one another like first-round prizefighters she asked me why I'd called. 'I'm just returning your call,' I said. 'I'm sorry it took me awhile.'

'Returning my call?'

'There's a message that you called Monday.'

There was a pause. Then she said, 'Matt, we spoke Monday night. You called me back. Don't you remember?'

I felt a chill, as if someone had just sc.r.a.ped a piece of chalk on a blackboard. 'Of course I remember,' I said. 'But how did this slip get back in my box? I thought you'd called a second time.'

'No.'

'I must have dropped the message slip and then some helpful idiot returned it to my box, and it got handed to me just now and I thought it was another call.'

'That's what must have happened.'

'Sure,' I said. 'Anita, I'd had a couple drinks when I spoke to you the other night. My memory's a little vague. You want to remind me what we talked about in case there's anything I forgot?'

We had talked about orthodontia for Mickey. I'd told her to get another opinion. I remembered that part of the conversation, I a.s.sured her. Was there anything else? I had said I was hoping to send more money soon, a more substantial contribution than I'd made lately, and paying for the kid's braces shouldn't be any problem. I told her I remembered that part, too, and she said that was about all, except that of course I'd talked to the children. Oh, sure, I told her. I remembered my conversation with the boys. And that was all? Well, then, my memory wasn't so bad after all, was it?

I was shaking when I hung up the phone. I sat there and tried to summon up a memory of the conversation she had just described and it was hopeless. Everything was a blank from the moment just before the third drink Sunday night to the time I'd come out of it in the hospital. Everything, all of it, gone.

I tore up the message slip, tore it in half again, put the sc.r.a.ps in my pocket. I looked at the other message. The number Chance had left was his service number. I called Midtown North instead. Durkin wasn't in but they gave me his home number.

He sounded groggy when he answered. 'Gimme a second, lemme light a cigarette,' he said. When he came back on the line he sounded all right. 'I was watching teevee,' he said, 'and I went and fell asleep in front of the set. What's on your mind, Scudder?'

'That pimp's been trying to reach me. Chance.'

'Trying to reach you how?'

'By phone. He left a number for me to call. His answering service. So he's probably in town, and if you want me to set him up - '