What Doesn't Kill Us--A McKenzie Novel by David Housewright (most read books txt) 📗

favor to RT. Not to be threatened by a, by a…”

Chopper leaned back in his chair and waited for the word that would make further negotiations impossible.

“By a petty criminal,” Hammel said instead.

“What are you?” Chopper said.

“Chop,” Herzog said. “Man’s gotta medical degree. Show some respect.”

“My mistake.” The way he smiled, you’d think that Chopper was suddenly humbled. “Doc-tor Hammel, I apologize if my manner offends you. I assure you I have no interest in your business. I merely seek your assistance in learning the identity of the individual who shot my friend.”

“Why should I help you?”

“Call it professional courtesy.”

“I require more than that if I’m to compromise one of my—patients.”

“So you do know the person’s name.”

“Why is this so important? Why would you care if a white man was shot?”

“Let’s just say I owe him and let it go at that.”

“If I do this thing for you, then you will owe me.”

“Within reason,” Chopper said.

“No. You will do what I tell you to do when I tell you to do it.”

Jamal visibly winced at Hammel’s words and looked away.

Chopper smiled just so.

“That’s unacceptable,” he said.

“Then we have nothing further to discuss,” Hammel said.

“There’s my reputation that you seemed to be concerned about.”

“That doesn’t frighten me. I could have you killed like that.” Hammel snapped his fingers. “Given your reputation, do you think the police would care? Do you think they’d even bother searching for your killer? They’ll write it off as just another drive-by shooting. Just another street crime.”

Chopper spun toward Herzog, his eyes wide and his hands spread as if he was asking him if he was going to do something about this. Herzog sighed dramatically.

“Can’t we all just get along?” he said.

“I would be doing you both a favor having you killed,” Hammel said. “Punks like you, your time has passed.”

Jamal winced again.

Herzog planted his elbow on the table and raised his arm and spread his five fingers apart.

Two red dots centered on Dr. Hammel’s shirt just over his heart.

A third dot appeared on Jamal’s shirt.

The dots were emanating from three different laser sights attached to three different high-powered rifles held by three different sharpshooters hidden in the foliage along the far shore of Lake Como, the reason that Herzog had chosen that exact table for the meeting.

“Please,” Jamal said. “I’m just trying to pay my tuition.”

“What is this?” Hammel waved at the dots with his hand as if he expected to brush them away. “What are you doing?”

“Like I said, some of our reputation is deserved,” Herzog said. “Don’t make any sudden movements and you’ll be fine.”

“You’ll never leave this place alive,” Hammel said.

“First you die, then him.” Herzog gestured at Jamal. “After that, do you really care what happens to us?”

“This is insane.”

“It’s unnecessary, is what it is,” Chopper said. “You could have answered my questions very easily, but oh no. You had to prove that you’re the toughest gangster on the street. I think my friend is right. Somethin’ about you doctors—is it medical school that teaches you be such arrogant assholes? You have this omnipotent power over people who are ill or injured so you…”

“Chopper.” Herzog gestured with his head. “My hand is getting tired.”

“Yeah, yeah. You. Doc-tor. Who shot my friend? And don’t think you can give me any name and then send your people to come for me later. You give me the wrong name and I promise I’ll be coming for you.”

“You can’t shoot me,” Hammel said. “The police…”

“The po-lice will check into your background, discover that you’re dealin’ Oxy and write you off as just another casualty in the drug wars. ’Cept since you’re a doctor, you won’t be considered a victim. You’ll be a dealer. Bet your family’ll love hearing that said out loud at your funeral.”

Hammel sighed his compliance.

Herzog lowered his hand and the red dots disappeared. Jamal started to rise slowly.

Herzog barked at him.

“You know better than that,” he said.

Jamal reclaimed his seat.

“RT’s Basement is only one of my distribution centers, my St. Paul location,” Hammel said. “I have three others and usually I don’t go anywhere near them.”

“This is important because…” Chopper said.

“I’m merely attempting to explain that it was unusual for me to come into contact with one of my patients outside the office. I recognized her—I had treated her at the clinic in Orono; that’s how I knew who she was. Severe sprain. She twisted her ankle while jogging. I prescribed a thirty-thirty, thirty-milligram tablets of OxyContin to be taken three times a day for thirty days.”

“A thirty-day supply of opioids for a sprained ankle? Let me guess—by the end of the month she was hooked.” Chopper nodded as if he was impressed. “Expand your customer base; the goal of any retail business, am I right?”

“I didn’t actually see her pull the trigger,” Hammel said. “I merely saw her running around the corner of the club after the shot was fired. I didn’t even see a gun.”

“I still haven’t heard a name,” Chopper said.

Hammel turned in his chair to face Jamal as if seeking support. Jamal didn’t want to answer.

“She’s one of my best customers,” he said.

“We talked about this, remember?” Hammel said.

“Who?” Chopper asked.

“Name Jenna King.”

Hammel nodded his head to lend confirmation.

“Lives on Lake Minnetonka,” Jamal said.

Instead of her usual ponytail, Emma King was wearing her auburn hair down around her shoulders when she walked into the waiting room outside the Surgical Intensive Care Unit at Regions Hospital. The room was empty except for the two women facing each other near the window. One was wearing blue hospital scrubs, so Emma assumed she was a doctor. The other had short black hair and the most amazing silver-blue eyes she had ever seen. They were speaking as if they were both trying to hide how annoyed they were with each other.

Emma gave them a wide berth and moved to the desk. There was no one sitting behind the desk, so she decided to wait. While she was waiting she listened to the