Part 18 (2/2)
”Me too,” I said, holding up my gla.s.s to show him. ”Trasker's really sick,” I said somberly.
”Very sick,” Obermeyer agreed. ”A very sick man. He's lucky to have friend like Kevin.”
”Who needs enemies?” I said.
”What?”
”With a friend like Kevin Hoffmann, who needs enemies?” I explained.
”Oh,” said Obermeyer, finis.h.i.+ng his drink. ”You're wrong.”
Obermeyer held his liquor well, but I wondered what his blood-alcohol level was. Something was bothering him. The man had needed a drink. The man had needed four drinks and he looked toward the bar as if he might be considering number five.
”Trasker is dying,” I said.
”Everybody is dying,” Obermeyer said with a knowing doctor's smile. ”It's the one fact my profession has to accept as a certainty. All we can do, if we don't screw up, is forestall the inevitable.”
”Some of us take more time dying than others,” I said. ”Trasker...”
”Days, weeks, maybe even a month or more, but if I were one who bet on morbidity, I'd say he's closer than a few days to the end.”
”He in pain?” I asked.
”Nothing we can't control.”
”You mean shots?”
”We've got painkillers that could make you ignore a cannonball hole right through your stomach.”
”That doesn't happen very often, though, does it? I mean a cannonball hole through someone's stomach.”
He grinned and waved at the bartender, deciding another drink would be a very good idea.
”We're in Sarasota, Florida,” Obermeyer said. ”I've seen people who've lost their arms to sharks, had sunstroke that sent their temperature to one hundred and eight and survived, children hit by cars driven by ancient drivers who should have been declared legally blind.”
”So Trasker is sedated.”
”He is, to put it clinically, so far out of it that he can look back at the earth and see with clarity the floating eyeball of a corn snake.”
”Colorfully put,” I said.
”Thanks,” Obermeyer said, looking up to hurry his drink. ”Stanley recite any poetry for you?”
”Yes,” I said.
”Smug little p.r.i.c.k,” said the doctor as his drink was delivered.
”So if Trasker wasn't sedated, his pain could be handled with something, morphine maybe?”
”Maybe,” said Obermeyer.
He took a large sip.
”Normally, I don't drink like this,” he said. ”Normally, I drink a h.e.l.l of a lot more when I've got something to drink about. But medical science is a wonderful thing. I've got a variety of options that keep me functional.”
A group of people at the bar groaned. I looked back over my shoulder. The television was flas.h.i.+ng the score. The Tampa Bay Lightning were losing to Boston, four to one.
”So, if you took Trasker off of sedation and gave him a shot or two, maybe one of your options, he could walk around, talk?”
”I wouldn't recommend it,” he said.
”But...” I began as he lifted his gla.s.s again and held up his free hand to stop me.
”I'm drunk,” he said. ”I'm not a fool. Ask me now. Ask me in the morning. Ask me on the witness stand and I say I'm treating William Trasker properly. And given his condition, it would be the truth.”
”Kevin Hoffmann's got a lot of money,” I said.
”One h.e.l.l of a lot of money,” Obermeyer agreed, holding his gla.s.s and looking at the contents he swirled in a small circle. ”And he gives it generously.”
”Any causes you're particularly interested in?”
”A campaign to build a center for state-of-the-art treatment of heart disease near the airport,” he said. ”A state-of-the-art center which I will have the honor of heading and for which I am already a leading candidate as first patient.”
I dropped a five-dollar bill on the table to cover my two drinks and tip and stood up.
”You understand?” Obermeyer asked, as if he really needed understanding for whatever he was doing for Hoffmann.
”I understand,” I said.
”I'll tell you a secret, Mr....”
”Fonesca.”
”Mr. Fonesca. I'm really a good doctor, but that's not what I was going to tell you. I'm a little overweight. I drink too much, have a slight cardiac problem, and I've got an arthritic knee but I could come close to shutting Kevin Hoffmann out every time we get on the court. He has no backhand. His forehand has no power and my nearsighted eight-year-old niece could return his serve. I have to cover for him in doubles to keep us in most matches and I have to do it without letting him know. Now that, Mr. Fonseca-”
”Fonesca.”
”Fonesca, sorry, that is hard work. Kevin Hoffmann is not the athlete he thinks he is and maybe, some day, when I think I have nothing left to lose, I'll wipe his a.s.s on the tennis court so badly that he'll realize I've been kissing that a.s.s for years and he...Enough.”
I left him and went back out to the parking lot.
Stanley, hands folded in front of him, stood in front of my rented Nissan, watching me.
”You read?” Stanley asked as I stopped in front of him.
There was traffic in the parking lot and the lights were bright.
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