Sucker Punch (7 page)

Dr Choudrey nodded, stuck out his bottom lip. He wrote the prescription. Then he pulled a notepad across his desk and wrote something. Tore off the sheet and handed it to me along with my script. The note had a phone number on it. A name underneath: Rebecca Mooney.

I held the note up. “What's this?”

Choudrey cleared his throat. From the sound of it, there was plenty to clear. He swallowed, and then when he spoke, it was with a voice that dripped with practised sympathy. “I'm lowering your dosage, Callum. I don't know who prescribed them for you in the first place, but I think they were wrong to do so. In a very real way, the dosage you've been on has been doing you a great deal of physical harm. Now I understand you're in pain, and I'm afraid you'll remain in some pain after the dosage is cut, but that will be purely psychological. That's why I'm going to keep you on the antidepressants for the time being. But I have to lower the painkillers, Callum. You can make up the difference with cocodemol.”

“What's the phone number in aid of?”

“If you have any problems, you need someone to talk to about it and you don't want to talk to me, I want you to phone Rebecca.”

“And what exactly does this Rebecca do?”

“She works in an Outreach programme.”

I didn't say anything. I stared at Choudrey for a long time. His eyes dropped from me. Looked like he hadn't just figured me for a twat. He'd thrown in junkie, too. I looked at the note, folded it in half. “You've got the wrong Innes, pal. It's my brother who's in the Outreach programme. And he's doing great, thanks for asking.” I shook my head, tapped the note. “All I wanted was a repeat script so's I could get on a plane without being in agony. Not like I was asking you to fix me a bogus for methadone, was it?”

“I understand that. All I'm saying, if you need someone—”

“I got plenty of people to talk to, Doctor. And those people aren't so quick to call me a fuckin' addict.”

I got out of my seat, looking at the prescription. My gut knotted. This was never going to be enough. It might have been a fine excuse for not going, but I dreaded having to explain myself to Paulo. Knowing the big man, he would've made me ring that bloody number too.

Dr Choudrey followed me out of his office. As I headed for reception, I heard a nurse telling him they'd had the results back. Could've been the 3:30 at Kempton, but I didn't give a toss. I stopped in my tracks. Listened to them walk away.

“Shit,” I said.

The receptionist looked up, obviously pissed off at my choice of words.

“I left my watch in there,” I said. “Mind if I go back and get it?”

“You shouldn't really—”

“It's okay. I won't be a second. I'll just nip in and get it, then I'll be gone.”

“Be quick,” she said.

“Not a problem.”

I ducked back into Choudrey's office, snatched his prescription pad from the desk and froze.

This wasn't right.

But fuck him. The sweat had already started, which meant the pain wasn't far behind. And Choudrey didn't know the first fucking thing about relief. Thinking more about his budget.

I tore off a sheet, stuffed it into my jacket pocket.

Choudrey emerged with the nurse as I strolled back to reception. When he saw me, he frowned, glanced at his office door. I'd closed it before I left. Nothing out of the ordinary.

“Mr Innes,” he said.

“I was looking for you,” I said. Sweat was already bubbling from my forehead. “I just wanted to tell you, I've been thinking. And you know what? You're right.” I gestured towards the office. “I'm sorry about how I acted in there. My mam brought me up better than that. I should trust your decision. Just, you've got to understand, it was a bit of a shock.”

He nodded, but he wasn't convinced. “You have Rebecca's number.”

I patted the pocket with the stolen script. “Right here. I'll give her a call when I get back. Sometimes you need someone who doesn't know you, eh?”

“Going somewhere nice?” said the nurse.

“America.”

“Ooh, where?”

“Los Angeles.”

“Well, say hello to George Clooney for me,” she said.

“Yeah, course I will.”

I left them to it. The nurse with her Hollywood wet dreams of chocolate-box geriatrics, Choudrey glaring at me. He knew something was up. No way could my change of heart be that fucking sudden. When I got back, I'd have to find myself another GP.

At the chemists, Barbara didn't bat an eyelid. And why should she? It was a repeat and I'd had Choudrey's signature to practise on the way over. I made small talk with her, kept her smiling, and I got my usual.

As I stepped out onto the street, this wild-eyed lad accosted me. Obviously been waiting outside, thought I was an easy target.

“Here y'are, mate,” he said. “I'll buy it off you.”

“No jellies here, mate.”

“Nah, I know. You got pills.”

“Yeah. Sudafed. I got a cold.”

“Fuck off, that's never over the fuckin' counter, that.”

“Doesn't matter anyway, does it? I'm not selling.”

I started walking. He followed.

“Fuck off,” he said. “Course y'are, mate. Fifty pence a pop, right?”

“You what?”

“Fifty fuckin' pence. That's what. Fifty a pop.”

“Nah.”

“That's the going. Y'ain't making us go higher, man. That's the going.”

I stopped, looked at him. “That right?”

“Yeah.”

“You know these things? You're up on the going rate?”

“Yeah. Can't put nowt past us, mate.”

“Then you'll know a proper fuckin' dealer. So fuck off and find one.
Mate
.”

I got in my Micra, made sure the door was locked as I got settled. The lad moved back, a foul expression on his face. Choudrey might have been right. I might have been a junkie.

But I wasn't that bad.

“D'you think I could get one of those?”

“I thought you gave up,” I say.

Nelson nods, looking at my pack of cigarettes. “I did. But alcohol makes me crave 'em.”

I give him a Marlboro, light one for myself. Takes a few clicks of the Bic to get a flame, my hands are that numb with the drink. Nelson stands there sucking on the filter until I hand him my lighter.

“Pink suits you,” he says.

I smile. “Where's this hot dog place?”

“Walking distance.” Nelson sucks on the Marlboro, holds smoke in his lungs until his eyes begin to tear, then blows it out in a long stream. “Jesus, it's a nice night for it.”

Above us, a clear sky. “I suppose so.”

“You can see the stars,” says Nelson as we start walking. “Rare for this place. My father told me there was this time, him and my uncle, they went up to the Hollywood Freeway. They were just starting to build it back then. And my uncle and my dad, they'd go up there and look at the stars. Sometimes he said you could watch the planes flying out from California to the Pacific. Now you go up there and it's all smog and halogen.”

I grunt in agreement. At least I hope it sounds like agreement.

“That's why I don't drive unless I have to. I get behind the wheel, I think about those kids up on the Freeway.”

“You didn't make the place smoggy.”

“No,” says Nelson, cigarette in his mouth. “But I sure as hell contributed to it.”

“These the only stars we're likely to see?”

“I hope so. You wouldn't like the other kind, Callum. They're all fucking fake.”

“I don't know.” I point at the pavement. “They look real enough.”

“Keep following them, then.”

I do. It means I don't see the place we're going until we're almost there. When I hit Errol Flynn and Debbie Reynolds, Nelson stops me.

“Here we are.”

Skooby's boasts the best hot dogs in Hollywood, the best fries in Los Angeles and the best lemonade in California. Part restaurant, part outside diner, the place looks as strangely American as anything I've seen. Doesn't mean that the food's going to be great, but at least I'm taking in the city's culture.

“You want to try a Big German?”

According to a sign on the outside of the restaurant, The Big German is The Dog Of The Month, some gargantuan-looking thing heaped with sauerkraut. It already looks partly digested, and it's affecting my appetite.

“Nah,” I say. “Sauerkraut gives me wind.”

We take seats at the counter. Nelson's quick to order: a Skooby's Original, bucket of fries and an Arnold Palmer. I don’t know any different, so I order the same. And with jetlag creeping in, a coffee too.

“I thought you guys drank tea.”

“We do,” I say. “All the time. But when in Rome …”

“I appreciate it.” He turns on his seat, points up the street at a church with a Spanish sign outside. “You see that? Used to be a movie theatre.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You know what movies they showed there?”

“Something about God.”

“Well, one of them was
Deep Throat
.”

“That so?”

“I'm telling you, Callum. This whole place used to be a meat market. You couldn't move for porno and hookers down here.” He shakes his head as our food arrives. Then he takes a large bite out of his hot dog, manages to get most of it on the counter. “That's a damn good dog.”

“You come here a lot?”

“Sometimes. Enough. Not too much. It's good, huh?”

“It's quiet.”

“I don't cook so much. My wife used to.” He takes another bite, chews. “We're not together.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Don't be,” he says. “Really, don't be. Not one of those tragic tales.”

I nod, bite into the hot dog and try not to look like a complete gimp by getting it all over myself. I fail miserably. I grab a handful of napkins and start dabbing at myself.

“Don't bother. Wait until the end or you'll spend more time cleaning than eating.”

I drop the napkins, eat some more, then set the hot dog down. Big gouts of mustard spot the counter. “I never asked you before, what's your line of work?”

“You really interested?”

“I'm asking.”

Nelson wipes his face, takes another bite. Chews and smiles at the same time. “I used to fight.”

“No kidding. Fight, like what? Boxing or brawling?”

“Some said both.” Digs something out of his tooth with one finger. “I turned pro for a while.”

“Don't get me wrong, but you don't look much like a boxer.”

Nelson pushes his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose and regards me. “You don't look much like a private investigator.”

“I'm not.”

“And I'm not a fighter. Not anymore. Made some money, nothing fantastic. I do some coaching now and then. Scout on a freelance basis. I like to stay in the circuit.”

I grab a handful of fries. They're bloody good. I don't know if they're the best in Los Angeles, but they're still bloody good. “You going to this smoker?”

Nelson smiles, and I wonder what's so funny. “The Alvarez thing?”

“Yeah.”

“I'll probably drop in. Why?”

“That's why I'm over here,” I say. “Babysitting a kid who's entering.”

“He British?”

“Yup.”

“I knew it was open, but I didn't think it was that open. He on a scholarship or something?”

“I doubt it. He got a letter.”

“Right.” Nelson eats the rest of his hot dog, drops the wedge of his bun on a napkin and wipes his hands. “You're sure he's in?”

“I don't know how it's been worked out, mate. But he's definitely in. Bloke I know pulled a few strings for him. Thinks he's got a good chance of turning pro.”

“That right?” Nelson stares at something I can't see. “Well, I hope he does well. It's a good way to get spotted, fighting in the amateur tournaments. They're not supposed to recruit there, but if a kid's got good hands, he can be taken on. What do you think about him?”

I shrug. “Last time I saw him fight, it was a while ago.”

“And?”

“And he used his head.”

“I don't get you.”

“Take it literally, Nelson.”

“Shit.” Nelson sips his Arnold Palmer. “What's he like now?”

“He's ambitious, seems to have his head together. He wants to turn pro. He's got drive. Doesn't stop him being a huge pain in the arse, though.”

“Comes with the drive, Callum. I was a pain in the ass when I fought. You want something that much, you think you can do it, that's all that matters. People, they're a waste of breath. Can't talk to people, because they're never gonna see the world like you see it. You get so wrapped up in yourself and your goals you can't see beyond the ring.”

“Right.” I finish my hot dog, wash it down with a drink of coffee. “That's the way this lad operates. He's away with the fuckin' fairies.”

“And you think he might be okay?”

“I trust my mate's judgement on this. He's a cheapskate, wouldn't spend the cash if he didn't think the lad had a chance.”

“I'd have to see him in action.”

“Well, give me your number. Soon as he's got a fight lined up, I'll give you a bell.”

“Okay, great.”

Nelson writes his number on a napkin, hands it to me. I tuck the napkin in my pocket.

“That's my cell.” Nelson pauses and looks at me. “You know something, Callum? I'm glad I met you.”

I nod. “Might as well call me Cal, Nelson. Everyone else does.”

My throat's burning when I wake up and so's Los Angeles.

I pull myself out of bed, my vision blurred and painful, wondering what the fuck all the commotion's about. Then I realise I must've drifted off with the television on. I look across at the bottle on the desk: there's a dent in the vodka the size of my fist. That would explain the throat, the headache, and the hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach.

On the TV, a guy with a face that looks like he's permanently caught in a wind tunnel yells into a microphone. Under his voice, there's the steady beat of helicopter blades. They thrum in time with my head-throb. Now they're showing shaking pictures of what looks like a forest fire.

“Sources say that the brush fire started sometime early this morning in the Verdugo Mountains, Bob. The fire department deployed fire bombers a couple of hours ago, but the inferno does not seem to have abated. This is the worst we've seen in a few years.”

I move to the bathroom to guzzle some cold water straight from the tap. As I'm bending over, my back spikes, so I drop a couple of codeine into my mouth, swallow them down.