Killing The Blood Cleaner (4 page)

FOUR

In Atlanta, one week later, Dr. Jack Randolph opened his crusted eyes at a little after ten that morning. He could hear the delicate sound of Annabelle Royce throwing up in the bathroom next to his bedroom. His clothes and hers were strewn about the room along with two champagne bottles, one smashed to bits and a half empty bottle of rum lying on the floor on Annabelle’s side of the bed. On the bedside table next to him was a squashed tube of personal lubricant jelly with a sizable puddle of glistening liquid spreading towards his alarm clock. Jack’s dinner jacket and formal shirt were crumpled into a compact ball on the faded blue wing chair next to his bed. His suspenders were wrapped around the bed post on Annabelle’s side and her peach colored thong panties hung loosely from the middle of the bed post on his side of the bed. He noticed that Annabelle’s expensive platform heel shoes were lined up like bookends on either side of a crystal glass that Annabelle had loaded with rum atop the bedside table. The covers and sheets to the bed were in a heap at the front of the bed and only the uncovered mattress remained. It was marked with various stains of unknown origin, in a variety of colors, some of which were still wet.

Jack lay naked on the bed with his head supported by one down pillow and a decorative green pillow with a small rip in the left corner. He looked around the room wondering where he had left his shoes and cufflinks. Casting his gaze to the armchair he could see the golden shine of a cufflink still safely attached to his formal shirt. He felt relief as the cufflinks had been a gift from Annabelle and with the price of gold these days it would have been overly expensive to replace these golden balls.

Annabelle was still in full charge of the bathroom as could be heard from the noise of the shower, sink and toilet all of which seem to be operating at the same time. Jack was about to step out to the other bathroom when the telephone rang. He looked at it on his bedside table and thought about not answering. However, the call indicator showed that it was Annabelle’s uncle, Dr. Randall Cannon, and he was not a man to be ignored.

“Jack, this is Randall. One of my partners has been checking you out with your prior employer, the Centers for Disease Control. He shouldn’t be doing that, but he is friends over there with a guy named Dr. Anten. Dr. Anten says you are a drunken, Buckhead wild ass and that you seduced about half of their nursing staff. I need something to tell my partner before we can get you in the firm. He is mostly retired so I don’t think he really gives a shit,” Dr. Cannon crisply announced.

Jack gazed around the room and his eyes focused on Annabelle’s panties wrapped around the bed post near his face. It was far too early for serious conversation and especially for job-related discussions. However, he exhaled, shook his head and proceeded.

“I resigned from the CDC voluntarily to be in private practice and there is no disciplinary record of any type. I’m still a consultant to Dr. Howard Clayton who is a Deputy Director of the CDC on the HIV Task Force. As to my personal life, I would admit that I’m a young man who is full of life and enjoys a good time. And while there have never been any questions asked about me at the CDC, at least on the record, there have been a lot of questions asked about Dr. Anten. I recall a few times time when the Controlled Substances Room was missing cocaine and he appeared on the video monitor a little more than would be expected. Caring doctors like Dr. Anten sometimes need a little snort when their patients don’t respond well to treatment,” Jack said.

“That’s the stuff, son! You should have been a smartass blackmailing lawyer. I will shut him up with this and we will be on board with you next week. I know Howie Clayton would back you up in front of a firing squad. And by the way, you better not be showing your ass working for me or you will regret it. If anyone is fucking the nurses, that will be me. Do we understand each other?” Dr. Cannon said, knowing full well that Dr. Anten’s description was not only accurate but probably a conservative description of his new associate.

“Yes sir, I will follow your medical leadership completely,” Jack said, feeling relieved.

“You better. We are hiring your ass under a cloud from the CDC. No doubt you appeared on the Controlled Substance monitor also. Howie has somehow kept your record clean. I am old and tired of this medical shit. I expect to bill your work as mine while I am relaxing down at my house in Palm Beach. I need to make sure you are someone who is on the program and will not rat me out to those dammed insurance companies or Medicare. Also, I want a response on those tough cases I let you look at. Fixing them will also help placate my partner,” Dr. Cannon continued brusquely.

“You can count on me. I will be running those patients past Howard to get a little outside help,” Jack replied quickly without argument. “We will both make plenty of money while serving our fellow man,” Jack continued, as he hung up the receiver to the laughter of Dr. Cannon. Jack thought to himself how lucky he was to have found this old rascal and his gold mine of a practice which was no doubt highly lootable.

Jack looked up and saw that Annabelle had reentered the bedroom. She looked surprisingly good, considering the savage sounds he had been hearing from the bathroom. She was naked except for a bath towel around her waist. Her light brown hair, still slightly wet cascaded down to touch her tanned shoulders. Her tanning salon tan continued to her athletic breasts which she scratched slightly while speaking to Jack.

“Who was that on the phone?” she asked.

“That was your Uncle Randall. We were talking about some information he needed to help me join his practice,” Jack said.

“Oh good. I know he has been keen to have you work with him. He is been totally irritable since that female doctor he hired two years ago killed herself with sleeping pills last month. Now he has to actually work in Atlanta instead of spending most of his time in Palm Beach with his slut girlfriend,” she said.

“I’m sure I’ll be a great help to his practice,” Jack replied with a smirk.

Annabelle moved around the room picking up her clothes and reordering the contents of her purse. She retrieved a blouse and a pair of white slacks from her overnight bag which was on the floor near the door to the bathroom. She playfully threw the towel at him and dressed herself with the slacks and the blouse. She fished into the bottom of the overnight bag and retrieved a pair of gold sandals. She stuffed her clothes from the previous night into the overnight bag and looked around the room for any remaining belongings. Her eyes stopped at the panties hanging on the bed post.

“I’m going to leave those with you until next time. Maybe they will remind you what a cute little bottom I have,” she said proudly. “Perhaps then you will concentrate on me instead of always playing doctor. I thought you were going to operate on that awful redneck at the bar last night. The medics were already there and you were trying to jump in.”

“He was choking. If his airway was blocked it would cut off the circulation to his brain and he would be a vegetable or dead in a few minutes. But if you punch a tiny hole in his windpipe it allows the air to get through and gives him a much better chance. The medics aren’t very experienced with that but I have done it hundreds of times. But you were pulling on my arm and I stopped and let them do what they could do. So it doesn’t matter anyway,” Jack replied.

“Well, nobody knew you were a doctor. He probably would’ve sued you if it hadn’t gone right,” she said knowingly. She continued gathering her belongings and stopped at the entrance to the bedroom.

“I want to make sure you’re on time for lunch at the Capital City Club, downtown, at one with your friend, Howard Clayton. You are the one that set this up, so the least you can do is be on time. You and Howie can talk medicine while I cruise the Club and find out what’s been going on in Atlanta,” she said in an instructional tone, clearly indicating she was doing Jack a great favor by taking her time for this lunch with his old friend. She turned and with a click of her gold sandals walked out of the bedroom and down the hallway to her car which was parked outside.

Jack, still naked, pushed back in his bed and lustfully enjoyed the view of her tight white slacks as she departed.

“You can count on me, Annabelle. And I do love it when you show me your bottom,” he said.

FIVE

Inside the little white house in Lester, Georgia the television was tuned to the latest reality show. On the coffee table was a gallon jug of chilled chardonnay, the local grocer’s best value wine. Tacy and two of her friends, Myrtrice Beckham and Alice Wass, were seated on the brown sofa which also could be converted into a spare bed, sipping wine from paper cups. Myrtrice and Alice were both Tacy’s age but looked considerably older. Each sported a small diamond ring on their left hand and each had a similarly chubby figure indicating that at some point in the recent past a decision had been made that child care would take precedence over dieting and fitness. In the black vinyl lounger by the side of the couch presided Tacy’s mother, Clarice Crandall, dressed in a plaid flannel robe over blue cotton pajamas. She nursed a potent rum and tonic in a short green glass with both hands. On the small mantle was a slightly faded picture of Tacy’s father, Sergeant Roy Crandall, in full uniform. The picture had been taken a few weeks before he had been killed in Vietnam. Only Mrs. Crandall was intently watching the show.

“Tacy, you were so lucky you weren’t murdered by that creep,” Myrtirce stated as she took a long sip on her wine. “He was obviously planning on getting you from what you told us,” she continued, with a slight glance at the activity on the screen.

“Myrtrice is right. You could have been raped and murdered. Kirk is still over at the prison. He may yet try to get you. I don’t care how much security they have, there have always been problems. I know these things, my Dad worked there twenty years. The inmates are always figuring something out,” Alice added, also partaking of her wine and stopping to refill her cup from the jug.

“It does scare me. I think about Kirk all the time now. I have nightmares about Dr. Bridge and Hattie, the way they looked. It also scares me about the way that inmate, Booger Brannon, talked about the voices. It gives me chills,” Tacy responded.

“Well, if there is any place on earth with evil spirits flying around it would be Georgia Maximum Security Prison. Just think about some of the people who have lived and died in that place,” Myrtrice said.

“Tacy, why don’t you just quit and get a job in Atlanta. There are lots of jobs for RNs up there. The hospitals are having to import nurses from the Philippines. And it would be a lot easier to meet some decent men,” Alice added, briefly glancing at one of the couples on the television.

“She is right, Tacy. Alice and I have our husbands and children down here, but you don’t have anything holding you back,” Myrtrice added.

“I have thought about moving to Atlanta a lot since Dr. Bridge was killed. Or even moving to Savannah or Brunswick, which might be less of a culture shock. But I have just started my job and I do need to look after my mother, even if she doesn’t think so,” Tacy said as she motioned over to her mother who was now asleep and snoring with her face toward the ceiling. “Also, it is not so bad a job. I get to help people who definitely need help. And it is interesting and exciting sometimes.”

“What is interesting about that monster, Kirk? Why would God put such a creature on the planet?” Myrtrice said, holding her cup in one hand and fingering the small gold cross which hung from her neck with the other.

A loud blast of music from the television woke Mrs. Crandall with a start. “God works in mysterious ways. Maybe those voices are a sign of a battle going on over something. Something important,” she said mystically, evidently having heard more of the conversation than was apparent.

“Or maybe we are not giving Booger Brannon enough psychotropic medication,” Tacy said with a nervous laugh. “And I do remember thinking that retarded drunk, Oscar Henderson, who used to hang around Lester was completely worthless, until the night my friend, Ellen Jameson and her twelve year old son were getting beaten nearly to death by her husband. Oscar was on the street and heard their screams. He kicked open the door to their house and got stabbed by the husband, but not before he broke his neck and put an end to him. The jury let Oscar go on Ellen’s testimony,”

“Don’t be placing any bets on Kirk doing any good deeds, even violent ones,” Myrtrice commented wryly.

“You are probably right about Atlanta. I would love to meet someone I could care about. You all have your husbands and families. I want that too. That is probably not likely to happen in Lester, Georgia. I guess I was just too serious in getting my nursing degree and ran all the boys off,” Tacy continued.

“You are right about that, honey!” Tacy’s mother snorted, taking a long pull on her drink. “I can’t count how many you have run off or ignored.”

“Well, I am serious about it now. Maybe I should move to Atlanta or someplace. But if I do find somebody good, you can be sure I will give them both barrels,” she said sticking out her impressive chest and tossing back her long blonde hair.

“Lord help him!” Myrtrice said with a lusty laugh. “Here’s to both barrels,” she said, hoisting her glass in a toast which was quickly joined by all the ladies, including Tacy.

SIX

The Capital City Club sits on the corner of Peachtree and Harris Streets in Atlanta. Since 1887 it has been a second home to corporate presidents, prominent lawyers, businessmen, physicians and the occasional entrepreneur. Many generations of members have watched decades of Christmas parades from its porch overlooking Peachtree Street, or partaken of an elegant lunch in the Mirador room upstairs to the accompaniment of a jazz quartet. The Club is generally unmarked except for a few well-shined brass plates with the Club name and insignia.

A discreet entrance on Harris Street allows ample valet parking even on the busiest days. Members are greeted by their names as they step from their cars along with a welcome to any guests. Once inside, there are again personal greetings as coats and reservations are checked. A large portrait of Robert E. Lee along with imposing portraits of several past Club presidents from the nineteenth century preside over the walnut paneled hallway. There are also bronze plaques to commemorate members lost in WWI and on the Titanic.

The ground floor of the Club provides several choices for eating and drinking. Near the entrance is the Three Cs room which is dedicated to the Atlanta Olympics of 1996, in which many members were early leaders. The room contains an assortment of Olympic memorabilia from the games including the Olympic torch. It is a somewhat casual place with a buffet loaded with covered silver cauldrons filled with the works of the Club’s European chefs. It is a good place for a quick lunch or dinner with clients or old friends. In the winter a fireplace crackles with nearly the warmth of the head waitress, Zena Pounds. Zena is an expansive black woman who has been with the Club for thirty years and knows the names of all Club members and many of their children.

Past the Three C’s room is the Main Bar and sitting room. The bar shines with brass and varnished mahogany and is presided over by its longtime bartender, Leah Crawford. Several members have known Leah since she was the bartender at the Officers Club in Seoul Korea, right after the Korean War. To the right, the sitting room is again decorated with the portraits of past Club presidents. There is also a portrait of a favorite Democratic president, Grover Cleveland, who was aggressive in wiping out the last traces of reconstruction in Georgia. Ample couches and armchairs allow for comfortable waiting or a leisurely drink.

At the end of the hall is the Peachtree Room. Diners here have a choice of being seated inside or in appropriate weather, meals are served on the expansive porch overlooking Peachtree and Harris Streets. It is a more formal room requiring coats and ties for gentlemen and serves a sophisticated variety of foods ranging from continental classics to Southern favorites. It is presided over by Carlos Amaya and his brother Julius. It is a favorite lunch spot for downtown lawyers who can often be seen at their regular tables.

Today, Dr. Jack Randolph was running late. Clifford Moss, another long time, Club employee who presided at the front desk, greeted Jack and noticed his minor irritation.

“Hello, Dr. Randolph. Dr. Clayton and Miss Annabelle are waiting for you out on the porch,” he said with a bright smile.

“Thanks Clifford. I hate being late. Annabelle gets mad,” he replied.

“I know that’s right,” he said with a knowing smile, thinking back to the many tantrums of Annabelle Royce he’d witnessed since Miss Royce was a small child.

Jack walked briskly to the Peachtree Room, still anticipating Annabelle’s displeasure. “Dr. Randolph, your friends are here,” the distinguished Carlos announced with a hand gesturing toward the porch. Jack followed him to a large table overlooking Peachtree Street. The full glasses and bottle of wine chilling in a silver wine cooler gave him a hope that they had been enjoying themselves and Annabelle would overlook his tardiness.

“Howie and Annabelle, have you missed me?” he asked. Dr. Clayton rose to greet him. Annabelle stayed seated with a faint smile and a glass of wine in her left hand. “We were forced to start without you, Jack,” she said with a little pout as Jack was seated at the table. “Jack, if we are going to be married I’m going to have to train you better,” she continued in her smooth Southern voice, waving the wineglass slightly.

“Jack is past training, Annabelle,” Dr. Clayton responded as Carlos smoothly took further drink and lunch orders.

“Howard, have you cured AIDS today over at the CDC? I hope you washed your hands before you left. We don’t need an outbreak of river blindness or Ebola here at the Club,” Jack said, hoping to move the conversation past his being late.

“We are working on AIDS but it’s a difficult rascal. Thank God it hasn’t mutated to spread like Ebola or we all probably wouldn’t be sitting here,” Dr. Clayton replied.

“Jack and I are going to Sea Island this weekend,” Annabelle injected, always bored with medical conversations.

“I will be there, too. The CDC has an HIV Viral Load Subcommittee meeting there together with the CDC Homeland Security Committee and we are expecting doctors and researchers from around the world sharing information. Jack, you’re welcome to attend. You might learn something useful for that Buckhead practice you are joining since you left us,” Dr. Clayton continued.

“Jack will be too busy with me to go to some meeting about nasty germs,” Annabelle volunteered.

“I do have a couple of cases from the practice I would like to talk to you about. They are a little complicated and I would need about an hour of your time,” Jack said.

“Why don’t you come out to the CDC tomorrow morning? I’ll look at your files and see if we don’t have something helpful. I will also show you the research I’m presenting to the committee,” Dr. Clayton replied.

“Thanks, Howard. These patients have got me puzzled. The new blocking drugs should be working, but aren’t. I will be there around nine, if that is OK,” Jack responded, as Annabelle stood and blew an enthusiastic kiss to one of her former sorority sisters across the room. She excused herself and walked over to give the girl a hug and began an animated conversation.

“Jack, are you really ready for Annabelle to whip you into husband material?” Dr. Clayton said with a kind smile of concern for his friend.

“Oh, that’s just Annabelle. She’s always like that. We both have known her forever,” Jack replied.

“That’s what worries me. She is just the same as when we were all at Westminster and she was the Peach Prom Queen. Of course, she wouldn’t actually talk to me then. But she has always liked you, since you were on the football team and especially since you got out of medical school,” Dr. Clayton said, as they watched Annabelle across the room. She was now all smiles with an attractive young man who was wearing a crisp and perfectly fitting seersucker suit. “I see she is now finished with Deb Timmons, Queen of the Omegas, and focusing her laser charm on her brother, Bill Timmons,” he continued.

“At least BT could maybe afford her, if he got the full cooperation of his trust officer,” Jack replied. A full twenty minutes passed before Annabelle returned to the table, just as lunch was being served. Carlos was assisted by two waiters in serving the group with quiet perfection.

“Queen crab from Charleston, my favorite. They are not often on the menu,” Jack commented, looking at the artistically presented dish before him.

“Usually you can only get this on the Coast. I love it too,” Dr. Clayton agreed.

“How can you men eat that messy crab?” Annabelle asked, questioning Jack’s judgment in all things. “I mean crab meat is good, but it is so much work!” she continued.

“This has never been a favorite of the ladies here. It was always a favorite of my Dad’s. He once told me that the fishermen from Charleston were having a slow fishing day and they decided to lower their crab baskets about a mile down into the Atlantic just to see what was down there. They were shocked when they came back full with these big crabs, almost as big as the King crabs in Alaska,” Jack replied. Carlos and an assistant attended at a discreet distance, being careful that the crystal glasses always brimmed with wine.

Annabelle enjoyed her steak and after another few glasses of wine relaxed in her chair with a contented smile. “Howie, I know all about what Jack does as a doctor. It’s like what my Uncle does over at his internal medicine practice. But what is it that you really do over at the CDC? I see it on television a lot. They are always talking about bird flu or some plague someplace,” she said with a slight slur in her voice.

“I am the Deputy Director of Research for the HIV Task Force. We do research on potential cures for AIDS and ways to fight the virus. I review the work of researchers at the CDC and around the world. I also do my own research. My research often deals with blood samples from human volunteers,” Dr. Clayton replied, somewhat surprised that Annabelle had any interest in his work.

“Can you make any money doing that?” she replied, her slur increasing.

“When you work for the government they make you take a vow of poverty,” Jack injected. “That is why I left the CDC. The work was really interesting but you can make so much more in private practice. I also liked actually treating patients.”

“Jack, honey, anytime you take a vow of poverty, you might as well go ahead and take a vow of chastity,” Annabelle said, a little too loudly. Carlos and his assistant, who were well within earshot, discreetly looked out across Peachtree as Jack shook his head and signaled for the check.

“Howie, I will see you tomorrow,” Jack said as he rose to assist Annabelle from her chair. Dr. Clayton also stood and thanked Jack for the lunch.

Annabelle stayed seated. “You boys run along. Howard, it was good to see you. I am going to stay a bit and catch up with my friend Deb and her brother, BT.”

Jack and Dr. Clayton looked quizzically at each other for a second and then headed for the parking lot.