“I’m sure of it,” he said, fully convinced.
This time, the Friar was well enough to greet them in a visiting room. He was weak and limped but showed signs of his old self. Ghulpa fussed over him while the technician spoke to Ray about aftercare. She gave him a roster of places that provided hydrotherapy; one was in Covina — not so far away. The woman even suggested a therapist who could “support” Nip/Tuck (that’s what the hospital staff now called him; they got their jollies from his AKA) reacclimate. “He’ll need some help with PTS — post-traumatic stress.” She warned about loud noises, sirens, cars backfiring. All were potential problems. She wrote down “www.dogpsychologycenter.com” on a slip of paper. (BG took it from her to examine.) There was a man named Cesar who could help. If Ray wanted to call for an appointment, the hospital would “facilitate.”
He asked if they could take him home but the gal said he needed a bit more time. Maybe by the end of the week. The old man was crestfallen. He was embarrassed because all he’d been talking about was how he wouldn’t leave without his boy. BG stroked Ray’s neck.
As they left, they passed Cora on the couch.
“Where’s your baby?” she said, expectantly. She was agitated, as if something dire had happened.
“Oh, they want to hold on to him awhile longer. They’re pretty thorough folks! He could’ve come but they want to give him that extra boost. If you ask me, they’ve gotten plumb fond of him, and don’t want to let him go! But he’ll be fine,” said Ray, with a wink. “He’s a champion. And so is—”
Ray pointed a finger at the photo Cora still held in her hand.
“Pahrump,” she said, with a sickly smile. Then her lip began to tremble. Ghulpa rushed to hug her. He knew what the woman was thinking: No one gets out of here alive.
At home, there was a message from the ACLU, saying it was urgent that Mr Rausch call.
XXXI.Chester
OFFERS for work came in that Chess had to turn down. That was harsh. He made sure to pass each one to Remar; proof of income lost. It wasn’t the pills that precluded him from working — it was more the actual driving, turning his head this way and that, getting in and out of the car. Even holding up the camera or pumping gas exacerbated the pain.
Remar also wanted him to round up whatever tax returns he could get his hands on. Chess repeated how that might open a can of worms, but Remar was blasé.
“We’ll see. We’ll reconstruct. No harm, no foul.”
MAURIE came over, without warning.
“How you doin?”
“All right.”
“Listen, Chess. I know what happened was fucked up. But that wasn’t anyone’s plan. You know that, right?”
“I know that.”
“I mean if I had a clue it would have gone down like this there is no way I would have involved you. I thought it would be a goof. A way for us to pocket some bread.” He reached out and touched Chester’s arm. “I’m really sorry. OK?”
It felt like a ploy — Chess wondered if he’d been put up to this by FNF legal, or even a lawyer of his own. He was probably just being paranoid. He actually missed his “bud,” and wished things could go back to how they used to be. That’s how sick I am.
Maurie said he got a gig to shoot a commercial for an Indian casino in Morongo. Was Chess up for scouting? 3 days that’d pay around 4,000. It sounded too good to be true. Chess knew Remar would never give the go-ahead — it was short money and a bad move, the type of thing that might scotch his whole case. Maybe that was part of the Jew’s master plan. The Protocols of FNF.
When he said he couldn’t because his neck was torqued, Maurie turned on him with a fury.
“You’re really being a fucking ham! Get back in the saddle, man! Where’s your sense of humor?”
“I don’t have a sense of humor about possible nerve damage to my spine. Should I be laughing, Maurie? Does that sound, like, Comedy Central?”
“You’re kidding, aren’t you? Is that what the doctor said?”
“They don’t know yet.”
“I can’t believe this! Who’ve you been seeing? Mengele? These people are friends of mine.”
“These ‘people’? At Friday Night Frights?”
“They’ll give you work, man — I already spoke to them. You could work full-time, get your union hours. You could buy a new car. Total medical coverage. Why are you being such a dick?”
“You know what, Maurie? Maybe you should split. I got a headache.”
“Yeah. I’ll split. I don’t like to be around old women.”
“Right! I’m an old woman. Now go buy flowers for all your close personal friends at FNF. Flowers and K-Y.”
“You gonna sue these people, Chess? Cause that is about the most fucked-up thing you can do. Karmically.”
“Oh, are we Hindu now, Maurie? Did you convert?”
“I’ve been there, that’s all. I’ve sued and been sued and it’s a motherfucker. Turns you upside down and sucks your life force. But hey: what do I know? Go for it. Get Tom Mesereau on the phone. I’m the guy who sued Home Depot after I tripped over a rubber hose in the gardening department. Took 3 years and you know what I got? 22K—60 % of which went to lawyers and taxes. By the time it was over, I was popping benzos like Altoids and my self-esteem was in the shitter. But go for it.” He scuttled toward the door then turned, theatrically. “Know what I think, Chess?”
“Tell me, Maurice.”
“I think you should do some yoga and call it a day.” He paused. “I can seriously get you on staff at Frights. I told you, I talked to them. It’s done.”
“They throwing me a bone, Maurie? Are you the bag man? What is this, a pity fuck? Or are they running scared?”
“Whatever.” He rolled his eyes.
“I think they’re running scared.”
“Man, this thing has really twisted you! I don’t know who’s whispering in your ear, my friend, but this is not going to end with you sipping daiquiris on your own tropical island. I’ll tell you how this is going to end: with your body healing way before your head does. Cause it’s a self-perpetuating thing — the more paranoid you get, the more ‘pain’ you’re gonna be in. It’s all about pride, Chester. Ego. Is your ego so fucking fragile that you couldn’t take a little practical joke? Couldn’t laugh at yourself and have a good time? Be on television, with a steady fucking job and a new car? Healthcare? And maybe a girlfriend?”
“A girlfriend? What does that mean?”
“I think you need to get laid.”
“Get the fuck out, Maurie.”
“You need a little kundalini, bud. Channel your energy elsewhere. You need a chick to fuck, not a lawyer. News Flash: the lawyers are gonna be fucking you. Or didn’t you know that.”