The Complete Collection. William Wharton

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      I call up a friend from UCLA student days. Now he has his own practice in Santa Monica. I make an appointment to see him.

      I think about calling Joan but decide against it. I’m not ready for any calm advice or the reasonable approach.

      The next day I go for my appointment with Scotty, my lawyer-ex-art-student friend. He’s gotten fatter, grayer; looks old. I imagine I look old to him – Archie Bunker without hair. Time is a bitch. Mother keeps saying ‘old age isn’t for sissies’; middle age isn’t either. None of it is.

      Scotty goes over what I’ve written. He asks some questions and takes a few notes. He peers up at me when he finishes and bounces the papers against the desk.

      ‘It looks like a malpractice suit to me, Jack; but I’m not an expert. Perpetual is a big outfit and has some tough lawyers. Also, they have control of the records; doctors will lie like hell to protect themselves. This is an in-house situation, none of them are going to testify against each other.’

      I’m feeling he’s giving me the brush-off, but he goes on.

      ‘Still, it looks as if they’re vulnerable.’

      He gives me a lawyer’s cool stare, razor smile. God, think! They can do this even to an ex-art major.

      ‘Look, Jack, two of the best malpractice lawyers in the country operate right out of Santa Monica here. Both doctors, both lawyers; husband-wife team. They don’t lose. If they’ll take your case, you’ll win.’

      That sounds more like it; I’m tuned to fight.

      ‘How do I get in touch with these people?’

      Scotty phones and makes an appointment right there, now. I thank him. He won’t take anything.

      ‘Save it for Knight & Knight, Jack; you’ll need it.’

      The Knight & Knight offices are in a dark brown glass professional building on Wilshire and it’s a huge suite. I’m ushered past a row of secretaries, through ankle-deep rugs, past solid mahogany walls covered with first-class decorative paintings.

      In the inner office, the pair of them look like an ad for yachting clothes tucked behind those enormous black leather-topped desks.

      We shake hands and I give them the résumé. She sits and he stands to read over her shoulder. These are California beautiful people. I’d hate like hell to have them on the other side. They look lethal, smooth and invulnerable.

      She finishes first, looks at me through her tan, through sea-crushed eyes.

      ‘What is it you actually want, Mr Tremont?’

      This seems like the dumbest question in the world. Then I realize it is the question and I haven’t thought it through; I’ve been too mad to think. I’m slow responding.

      ‘Well. First I want my father to stay in the hospital where he can get the kind of care he needs.’

      She stares at me, calm as a hunter. Her husband looks up now. They glance at each other. Now he speaks.

      ‘There’s a suit here but it would be a long and hard one. We’ve entered into litigation with Perpetual eight times so far and won each time; the first three, in court; the last five, settlements. They’d probably settle out of court with this, mostly on our track record.’

      His wife looks up; they thin-smile at each other, bridge partners with all the trumps. She takes over again. It’s like one of those mind-reading acts where the wiggle of a fingernail or an eyelash tells your Social Security number and how much money you have in your left pants pocket.

      ‘We can assure you, you will get good care for your father; you’ll be able to request and receive any treatment necessary. Is that what you want?’

      I quickly write off a half-million-dollar settlement; it could pollute my mother, me and our descendants for generations. I couldn’t live with it either; Perpetual’s wrong but not that wrong. I hear myself say it out loud.

      ‘That’s all I want.’

      She reaches into a small space hidden behind the pen-holder. She pulls out a card with her tanned hand, well-veined, slightly liverspotted and garnished by a silver-set emerald worthy of Paulette Goddard. She signs it. He takes the pen from her hand, somehow a subtle act of intimacy. He signs too. She hands the card across to me.

      ‘Take this to Dr Benson, the administrative director of Perpetual. Tell him you have engaged us concerning a potential malpractice suit; show him this document you’ve written, just as it is. Tell him we’ve seen it. Also, write out any and all treatment or consultation you want for your father and mail it by registered letter to his physician in care of the hospital.’

      During this speech, her husband has strolled silently from behind the desk and around beside me. I’m having a hard time keeping my eyes off him; I know he isn’t going to pull out a silencer-extended Luger and fit it cross-armed in the crook of his elbow but I think of it. He’s only anxious to make a quick trip in the Maserati to the courts; tennis, that is. He snaps a brief stiff bow.

      ‘We’re certain this card is all you will need, Mr Tremont.’

      I take the card. She stands. This is it; I’m dismissed all right.

      ‘Thank you very much for your time and consideration. What do I owe you for your services?’

      She’s pulling a hand-knit Irish sweater over her shoulders.

      ‘The secretary will bill you. Please let us know if you wish to pursue this matter further. And would you have the secretary nearest the door make two Xerox copies of this statement for our files?’

      ‘Goodbye, Mr Tremont. I don’t think you will need us anymore.’

      They usher me to the door, smile as they pass by: empty-handed, no sails, no rackets, no golf club, no Luger.

      The secretary makes the copies and tells me I’ll be billed at the end of the month. It turns out to be a hundred dollars for that little card, a hundred dollars well spent for an ace of spades I can stick in my sleeve, a card I can shove up Ethridge’s ass.

      I go home and try explaining things to Mother. Now she’s afraid Perpetual is going to throw them out of the plan.

      ‘You know, Jacky, they don’t have to keep us on. The union pays most of the insurance, we only pay twenty-three dollars a month.’

      I try convincing her they can’t throw them out just because we insist on proper care. And actually it doesn’t matter. With Medicare they’re mostly covered anyway. I listen to her hammer away. I’ll think she’s stopped but she’ll start up on it again.

      Another thing about the poverty mind is there’s so much shadow-boxing, threatening, but when it comes to standing up to some ‘boss’ figure, the poverty person usually collapses completely. They’ve been so brutalized, dominated by life, they get deeply scared at the first sign of combat. The fear of losing what little security they have totally incapacitates them.

      I go feed Dad. I’m holding back with my card. Let Ethridge simmer some, and I’ll concentrate СКАЧАТЬ