A Man Named Doll by Jonathan Ames (popular books to read TXT) 📗

three men crossed the large tiled room and approached my bed, and I got a better look at my captors than I did when they had surprised me at my house:

The son, late twenties, was handsome and fit: his hair was black and sleek, like the wing of a crow. He was at least six two, built like a swimmer, and he looked like he wanted to kill me. He knew—they all knew—that I had thrown his brother Paul off a six-story balcony, and like a wannabe tough guy, he had his .22 tucked into the front of his pants.

Dodgers Hat, in his midforties, was also big, at least six four, 250. He was thick-chested where the son was lean, and he had enormous, meaty hands that hung by his sides, with the fingers slightly curled in.

He had little brown eyes, brown hair, small curdled ears, and a strange nose. It was almost flat to his face, like it had been pushed in early in life when the bone was soft, and his lower teeth, jutting out at least an inch because of his underbite, were gray and packed in tight.

And next to him, Madvig, a small man in his midsixties, looked even smaller.

He was maybe five six, neat and compact, but his head was overly large.

It didn’t seem to match his body: it was too heavy and ponderous and it burdened him, making him lean forward ever so slightly, which is what gave him the aspect of a vulture. And his lead-colored hair was very thick, which made his big head seem even bigger.

His nose was also big, Roman and arrogant and dotted with blackheads, and two deep creases ran from his nostrils down to the edge of his thin pale lips. It was an unhappy mouth, and his intelligent eyes were dark under thick, wiry brows.

At my bedside, he put his finely boned hands on the railing near my right handcuff, and he smiled brightly, like a phony, and said: “And how are you feeling?”

He was still playing it all chipper, and he spoke with a slight trace of an English accent, some affectation from his days as a big shot, and he put a purr in his voice, the purr of the warm doctor, the one who makes you feel cared for.

I said: “Where’s Monica?”

“You know you’ve had a lot of trauma to the left side of your face,” he said, ignoring my question. “The wound was infected, but it’s already clearing up. We’ve put you on antibiotics.” He motioned to the IV bag. “And I imagine you were injured the night you killed the football player. We read about it in the paper. You’re quite the celebrity.”

“Just tell me where Monica is.”

He smiled patiently. “She’s here,” he said. “You have nothing to worry about.” Then he hit a switch on the side of my bed and got me into a sitting position. “That’s more comfortable for you,” he said. “For a conversation.”

“She’s alive?”

“Of course she’s alive.”

“Thank God,” I said out loud, not meaning to, and Madvig’s son smiled perversely. Then trying to cover, I said, “I want to see her right away.” And I tried to make it sound like a demand that had to be fulfilled.

Madvig shook his head. “That’s not possible, Mr. Doll. We need to talk.”

“I’m not going to tell you anything,” I said, and I could feel how hollow and pathetic that was, but all I had were clichés. I was chained to a bed.

“But you’ve already told us everything. Don’t worry about that.”

I felt the back of my neck go cold, and suddenly there was a shadow in my mind, the sense of something missing. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, you’ve been very forthcoming, very accommodating,” Madvig said. “You’ve already told us about Mr. Alvarez, who is on vacation and not really a threat, and nothing else was of interest, though the mystery of Ken’s death was explained, and thank you for the two hundred thousand dollars, which Ben picked up yesterday.”

Dodgers Hat—Ben—smiled and said: “Was in the closet, just like you told us.”

“What day is it?” I asked, scared of the answer.

“It’s Sunday morning,” said Madvig.

I had lost thirty-six hours and remembered nothing but had told them everything. I said again: “I want to see Monica.”

“I’ve already told you that’s not possible,” said Madvig.

“You have to let me see her.”

“No. I want her calm and I want you calm.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? Calm? Torture me, whatever the sick fuck you want, but you gotta let her go.”

“You’re not being realistic, Mr. Doll.”

“Well, you’re fucked,” I said. “The cops are going to come here. They are going to be looking for us.”

“We don’t want the police here, that’s true,” said Madvig, “which is why it’s time to close up. But first we need to make a little money, which is what I want to explain to you. It’s important for you to understand what is going to happen so that you can prepare yourself mentally.”

Madvig then took out a pen and began to tap my body with it, in all the corresponding spots, like he was giving an anatomy lecture and I was the cadaver.

“Your kidneys,” he said, tapping me on the right side of my body and then the left, before going elsewhere, “will bring in two hundred thousand each, but the second one will wait until we are done with you. Your heart will fetch seven hundred and fifty thousand, your lungs half a million total; we can also repurpose your cornea and middle ear and parts of your small intestine. Some of the organs we’ll simply harvest and then sell to fellow practitioners.”

“Fuck you,” I said, pathetic and helpless, not wanting to believe him—it was too mad. But I did believe him.

“There’s also your pancreas,” he said, “and bone marrow, and, naturally, your liver is quite valuable. I imagine you had no idea how much you are really worth. You’re going to save many lives.