Sick City (6 page)

They drove in silence. Champagne stole a few glances at the doctor as they glided down the Pacific Coast Highway in his gleaming black Mercedes. His eyes were fixed dead ahead, and she could see something churning within him, some battle raging, barely concealed, beneath the surface. His smile was fixed onto his face, almost a grimace now, his mouth twitched as if unable to form the words that sat heavy on his tongue. She smiled to herself and watched the road. He wordlessly put a CD on to break the silence. She recognized it.
Blood Sugar Sex Magik
by the Red Hot Chili Peppers.
White boy music,
she thought. There was something vaguely ridiculous about the sight of him with his gray hair and his sober business suit driving his Mercedes and listening to the Chili Peppers. She felt momentarily disgusted, like she had noticed he was wearing a toupee.

She caught a glimpse of herself reflected in the tinted passenger windows. Her long straight hair was parted in the middle, framing a face that had—over the years—earned Champagne a lot of money. She was born with surprisingly delicate features, and naturally full lips. The cocaine had eaten away at her puppy fat, just enough to accentuate the dramatic angles of her cheekbones. Her eyes seemed almost too big for her face, but the eyes were what kept them coming back. Mostly they were empty, but through some quirk of genetics, men tended to see what they wanted reflected in them. They saw feeling glimpses of unfathomable depth in those eyes, so sleepy, and sad. In some instinctual way Champagne understood this and made sure never to disrupt the fantasy. Part of being a good whore was learning when not to speak, knowing how to use silence effectively. Now, her features teetered on the brink: soon, the starved look around the eyes would harden her face and eat away at her beauty. But now, as she was caught between gorgeousness and devastation, she looked more desirable than ever.

When she first got the call, Champagne assumed that it was some jerk-off dirtbag pulling a prank. Ever since putting her picture and number in the back of the
LA Weekly
a year ago, she'd gotten a lot of those. Some fucking freak asking her if she could take a fist in her ass, while he was frenziedly jerking off down the line. No intention of ever seeing her or spending money: ninety percent of the guys out there just wanted to see what they could get for free. They reminded her of dogs, panting wetly and dry-humping lampposts in the summer heat. Champagne was well aware of Dr. Mike, just as anybody with a TV set would be.

“Yeah, right,” Champagne had laughed, “you're Dr. Mike from the TV. And you have my cell number, and you're calling me personally. Keep talking, fuckhead.”

But the more the doctor had spoken, mentioning Lai, and the
Good Morning
show, she realized that somehow this was all true. Dr. Mike, the celebrity doctor from the television, was calling Champagne to talk about her drug problem. For a moment, Champagne was furious with Lai for her seemingly endless attempts to interfere with Champagne's private life. But as Champagne's mom had once told her when she was a little boy: angels come in all kinds of disguises. She kept him on the line, talking. Thankfully, she started to realize that recovery wasn't all that was on the doctor's mind.

It was in the way that he insisted he would have to see her “in private” in a voice that quivered with nerves. The way he told her that her sister had told him a lot about the “special circumstances” of her case, and that he felt he could be a “comfort” to her. The biggest signpost of all was that he made her agree not to breathe a word of this to anyone.
“If you can't agree to that, we cannot see each other, and I cannot offer my services to you. I treat all of my clients on the promise of anonymity, and I ask that you respect my boundaries also.”

Champagne knew little about the world of celebrity, but she knew enough to realize when a man with wealth and power was offering a mutually beneficial arrangement.

As they started the ascent to the house, she tried her best to look unfazed. After all, a lot of wealthy men had taken her on dates before. The wealthy were the worst. The ones with wives, kids. They were the ones who wanted it the nastiest. The ones who strove to give off the air of normalcy. The ones who would vote against gay marriage or liberalizing the drug laws. They were always the ones who wanted to be tied up, pissed on, fucked in the ass. The straighter the outward appearance, the kinkier they were in the bedroom.

But even by the standards of her wealthiest johns, the building that they were approaching was eye-popping. It was a huge terra-cotta-colored mansion, with luscious palm trees and thriving vegetation surrounding it, with a gate and intercom system that wouldn't have been out of place on a maximum-security prison. When they pulled up, the doctor said, “Here we are!” and the cheeriness of the comment seemed forced, out of place. He was nervous, she could sense that. She looked him straight in the eye and said, “Thank you, Doctor.” He never seemed to quite meet her gaze. In person, there was something obscenely insincere about him. They got out of the car, and she looked around. The afternoon was bright and mild, and for once the smog was clear. She could see the city splayed before her—glittering and empty, like a just-paid whore.

She took the pipe and the baggie of rocks out of her purse as they stood there. She said, “You don't mind if I smoke, do you?”

He watched her, leaning against his car. Her legs were long and tan, and the thought of what was underneath her minidress made his mouth dry. He shook his head, stammering, “There's no one around. Go ahead.”

She put it to her lips. Held the lighter, twirled the pipe expertly, and exhaled a plume of chemical gray smoke. Dr. Mike caught a scent that was at once alien and familiar to him. He watched her as she closed her eyes, swaying, as if dancing to a slow song that only she could hear. He waited a moment, cleared his throat, and said, “Shall we go inside?”

The house was palatial and very cold. Or maybe that was the effect of the crack. Everything seemed to gleam—perfect, in place, new. Champagne ran her hands over the marble countertops and said, “Nice place. Lots of room.”

“Hm-hm,” Dr. Mike said. He emerged from the kitchen with two glasses in his hand.

“Is Absolut okay?” he asked. “I'm afraid we're out of the good stuff. I just keep this around the house so that the cleaning lady won't steal the Grey Goose.”

She took the glass and said, “So this is where you fix your patients, huh?”

Dr. Mike shook his head.

“I maintain a private practice in Pasadena. I do see patients here sometimes. But only certain . . . select clients.”

“Celebrities?”

Dr. Mike nodded his head slightly. “You could say that,” he said.

Champagne looked at the glass in her hand. It was full of crushed ice and had a slice of lime in it. She took a sip and handed it back to him. “Needs more vodka,” Champagne said. “This tastes like lemonade.”

Dr. Mike returned to the kitchen and topped up her drink. When he came back to the living room, Champagne was sitting on the white leather couch, unbuttoning her shirt a little. He stood there and took in the long, smooth legs. The leather boots. The necklace with her name spelled out in silver that sat between her breasts. He felt momentarily breathless with revulsion and desire.

“Why are we here, Doctor?”

“I told you. Your sister asked that I—”

“Why are we here, Doctor?” Champagne asked again. Dr. Mike was a little taken aback by how utterly unfazed Champagne was by the house, the situation . . . by him. He had expected it to be different. It had always been different before. It was almost as if she didn't know who he was. He felt himself getting tense and a hard lump forming in his throat.

“You interest me,” he said eventually. “Your case interests me.”

Champagne smirked at him. As she did, he noticed the Adam's apple. Slight, almost imperceptible, but definitely there. He noticed that his skin was clammy. He felt like a bumbling fifteen-year-old boy again, and he liked it. He hadn't felt like this in as long as he could remember.

“My case? There's thousands like me in this city alone. My case isn't very special. Now”—Champagne opened her legs slightly when she said this, and he followed the smooth brown of her inner thigh up, up until just below the crotch, where it became engulfed in shadows—“I'll ask you again. And if you don't answer me honestly, then you better call me a cab. You call
me
up, out of the blue, telling me that you want to
help me
. You want me to keep everything on the down low, and you pick me up from a side street in a car with tinted windows. You take me back to your big, empty house and pour me a drink. We're all alone. Nobody knows we're here. So . . . what exactly are you looking for, Doctor?”

They stared at each other in silence. The moment went on and on. After what felt like an unbearable number of minutes Dr. Mike said, in a low, strangulated voice, “I don't know.”

“Yeah, I figured that. I think I know what you want. You said you maintain a private practice?”

“Yes, that's correct.”

“You see, I've been having some problems. Trouble sleeping. Back pain. I don't have health insurance. Do you think that you might be able to help me out?”

The doctor shrugged. “Well, it would be hard to make a diagnosis without seeing your medical history. . . . I suppose, uh . . .”

“Maybe you could write me a prescription? A little something for my back, a little something for my nerves? Something to help me sleep? You know, Doctor . . . I would be very
grateful
.”

Dr. Mike paused for a moment and then crept toward Champagne like a guilty schoolboy. He stood before her. There was barely a foot between them.

“You know . . . for someone like me—it's difficult. It's difficult because I have much that I need to keep quiet. Discretion is of the utmost importance to me.”

“I understand.”

“I have something I could give you. I keep some medication around the house, for emergencies. I suppose we could come to some kind of . . . arrangement.”

“An
arrangement
. Yeah, I like that. An arrangement sounds good. Come closer. Close your eyes.”

Dr. Mike was about to talk, but then he thought better of it. He closed his eyes. In the darkness, he listened to the beating of his own heart, the roaring of the blood in his ears. He waited. He started to feel foolish. He thought about opening them again. He had never felt as self-conscious as he did at this moment in time. He fought the urge. He waited. Then he felt her, tugging at his belt. She opened it and pulled it out of the loops. He heard it land on the floor with a dull clunk. He sensed her repositioning herself, closer to him. He felt the pants unbutton, the zipper coming down. Then they fell to the ground, followed by his underwear. He felt momentarily embarrassed by his hard-on. He shivered slightly when he felt the cool air against his bare flesh. He felt like he might faint as the blood rushed from his head.

“My, my . . . ,” he heard Champagne mutter. Then he felt her lips, and the furnacelike heat of her mouth closing around him. He felt confused. He still had the glass in his hand. Should he put it down? Should he stay put? Should he . . . oh, Jesus.

Dr. Mike let out a low, guttural groan. It was a groan that—to him—felt as if it had been inside of him for many, many years. He dropped the glass on the floor, allowing its contents to splash out over the wood. He felt the furious heat of her mouth as she began to work him expertly. She took his penis from her mouth for a moment and said, “I think I'd like some of that medication now. It helps me to concentrate . . .
Doctor
.”

· · ·

He opened his eyes and looked down at her. She was looking up at him, those sad brown eyes meeting his gaze, her mouth half open, resting against the head of his cock, smiling a little. Dr. Mike stammered something and started to straighten his clothes.

“Hurry up,” Champagne said, “I'll be waiting.”

As the doctor hurried off to locate the pills, Champagne smiled to herself, finishing off her drink with a long slug.

After five glorious days in detox, Randal was transferred to population. Detox was always a breeze for Randal. Unless you were kicking cold turkey in some shitty charity ward, the stimulant users had it much easier in detox than the heroin addicts or the drinkers. The physical habit to meth is negligible. Once you are removed from your sources of supply the drug craving becomes disembodied and futile. There is nothing much else to do but eat sleeping pills and watch television in your pajamas. Occasionally they would have him attend a twelve-step meeting, held in the “smokers' lounge” outside in the mild, cricket-chirping California air, but these too seemed more bearable than usual with the addition of a steady supply of downers.

Harvey arrived on day three, with Randal's clothes. Randal regarded his brother through heavy, medicated eyes.

“How's Lori?” Randal asked. “Is she mad at me?”

“Everybody's mad at you,” Harvey sniffed. “I mean, the family starts to get used to what a fucking animal you are, and you always find some way to lower our expectations even further. She's threatening never to see you again.”

“You got a cigarette?” Randal asked.

“Since when did you smoke? No!”

“I'm starting today. If I can't get high, then I'm gonna smoke. I gotta do something to pass the time in here.”

“Why don't you concentrate on getting better, dickhead? You're getting too old for this shit. I haven't touched a drink in fourteen years, and I feel better than ever.”

Randal laughed sadly to himself. He walked slowly over to the window.

“I like this place,” he said softly. “They don't treat you so bad in here. I could make a go of this if they'd let me move in permanently. Give me my meds three times a day; let me watch the
Tyra Banks Show
. Thing is, that bitch is a whole lot more bearable when you're on medication, you know?”

“Randal, I'm just telling you—if you can't keep it together this time, then you're out. You're on your own. The family can no longer support you. We've done all we can do. We have spent hundreds of thousands of dollars trying to help you, but you won't even meet us halfway.”

“I know . . . I know. Look, I want you to know that I wouldn't be doing this if . . . if I had any choice in the matter. I'm not in control of this anymore. I'm struggling, bro. I'm struggling.”

Harvey smiled, coldly. “I know. And I've heard this from you before. I've seen sorry-ass Randal, just like I've seen don't-give-a-fuck Randal. If you want me to believe that things will be different, then take this program seriously. We cleaned out your apartment, because when you come out of here, you're moving in with me. I'm gonna personally monitor your recovery.”

“Oh, come on!”

“You don't have a choice. You live under my roof, you stay close to the family, or you go your own way. I'm not having everything my father worked for pissed away by a selfish fuckup like you.”

Harvey stood and walked over to his brother.

“I can help you. Just let me.”

Randal shrugged. He looked out the window again. Harvey didn't move.

“If you're waiting for a hug, or some fucking thing, you're out of luck,” Randal snapped after a few awkward moments.

“Whatever, bro. Your clothes are in the suitcase. I guess I'll see you on visiting day.”

“Don't bother. I don't wanna see anyone right now.”

“Whatever.”

When Randal was moved to population he was taken over to the main building by Jay, another one of the long-term patients. Jay was an enormous Mexican. He walked with a limp, and had an “LA” tattoo on his cheek. He didn't go in much for small talk. The lobby was bright and stark, a kind of faux Frank Lloyd Wright glass structure. Once you made it to the dormitories, the surroundings were slightly less palatial. He was taken by elevator to the third floor. They walked a little down the corridor, stopped outside of a room, and knocked. From the other side, the sound of reggae music was reverberating. The door opened, and a tall, skinny white kid stood there, with tiny little dreadlocks sticking out at angles from his head.

“Levi,” the kid said, slapping Randal on the palm when he held out his hand. “Respect, mon.”

Randal's new roommate was Levi Stanson, a twenty-year-old heroin dealer, in for an addiction to the same substance that he once sold. He wore a baggy T-shirt with an image of a lion wearing a crown, and spoke with an accent that was some strange bastardization of Jamaican patois. When Jay split, Randal was left with this kid, who was blasting his music on an expensive-looking stereo system and dancing around the room examining a sheet of paper.

Randal said, “What you listening to?”

“Yah man, it a Dennis Brown selection, init?” Levi said, with an easy grin. “Ah say one. You into da reggae?”

“I don't know much about it.”

“Ah Dennis Brown, 'im a bad bwoy. Check it doh—dis 'ere is my sound system. I listen to reggae, yeah? If you ain't down wit' dat, you better get some earplugs, init?”

“I don't care about music,” Randal said, putting his case away. “You can listen to whatever the fuck you like. I don't follow that shit.”

“Yeah? So whatcha like, mon?”

“I like getting fucked up. You?”

Levi laughed. “Bash! You a bad bwoy, Randal. First time?”

“Nope. Yours?”

“Yup. First and last, mon.”

“How long do you have left?”

“Tree months. I's on parole, yeah? Me nah finish treatment, me gets a tek back to jail. . . .”

“So you're here for the long haul. . . .”

“Da long haul. Ras. . . .”

“You from LA?” Randal asked. “You got an accent.”

“Nah, mon. I an' I from Philly. You a from LA?”

“Yeah, born and fucking bred,” Randal said. He pointed to the paper in Levi's hand. “What are you doing?”

“Essay. On mi
higher power
. For di doctor. Him a big bout yah. Nuff money 'n' fame! You met him yet?”

“Nope.”

“Him a smart bwoy. Chatting 'bout how Jah-Jah has a purpose for us, yeah? You, him, an' Levi.”

“Really,” Randal said, “I don't have the first fucking clue about what you're saying.”

“Ah. Take it easy, mon. Unpack. I don't wanna chat you with the good stuff too soon.”

Randal started unpacking, and the kid bopped around the room, examining the crumpled sheet of paper in his hand, occasionally pulling his pen from behind his ear, and crossing something out, adding a word here or there.

Once he was done, Randal looked around the room. Two twin beds, separated by a nightstand. Anonymous furnishings, and a single window that looked out over a parking lot. There were two pictures on the nightstand. One was a photograph of a beautiful young black woman sitting on a beach towel. She was squinting in the sun, smiling at the camera. The other was a black-and-white image of a bearded man wearing some kind of tall, ceremonial headdress. “Who's the guy in the big hat?” Randal asked.

“That is Haile Selassie I, Conquering Lion of Judah, Lord of Lords. Jah Rastafari.”

Randal looked at the picture again. He seemed like an unassuming kind of guy. “What about the girl?”

“Mi likkle jubee, Michelle. She's waiting for me. She's a good girl, mon. When I get out, I'm gonna take her home.”

“To Philly?”

“Bloodclaat! Nah, mon. To Jamaica. We gonna have a bunch of little café au lait babies runnin' around in the sand, yeah? It's gonna be beautiful.”

“You're gonna go to Jamaica? For real?”

“Yeah, mon. Dere's nah way I an' I can stay clean here. All the good stuff that Dr. Mike teaching us in here is one thing, mon, but it's a nuff problem if there's people slinging dope just down the road from my crib, yeah? I mean, what iz I gwan do when I get out? Me can't go back to selling shit no more. There's nuthin' for me here, mon.”

“So what are you gonna do in Jamaica?”

“Jah will provide. I'm a singer, yeah? A DJ. My gwan rock the dancehalls.”

“They got drugs in Jamaica, too.”

“Not
drugs
,” Levi said with a smile. “They got that good Jamaican collie. For Rastafarians, collie weed is sacred. Nah an impure drug, like heroin. They naw got heroin on di island.”

“No heroin on the island? What about speed?”

“Speed?” Levi laughed. “Dere's nah fuckin' speed in Jamaica. That's your shit? Speed?”

“Yeah.”

“That's a baldhead drug, mon. Nah offense. We a naw tek speed in Jamaica. We likes to take our time.”

· · ·

Randal looked at this kid again. He felt bad for him. He obviously was going through some kind of intense identity crisis.

“So you're gonna complete your time here, and split to Jamaica with your girl. That's cool.”

“Big up! Dat's the shit that keeps me going, mon. Three more months of dis, and we'll be outta Babylon. Easy.”

Somewhere outside of their room, a bell rang.

“Come on, mon, forward . . .”

“What is that?”

“Time for our morning meeting, mon. Come wit' me. I'll get you orientated.”

“So what does the good doctor say about weed being a sacrament?”

“We disagree on dat. So I tell 'im what him want to hear. Only one man can judge me . . .” Levi turned his eyes up to the ceiling fan. . . . “The creator. The root of David. Ites . . . me nah want all da bagels to be gone by the time we gets downstairs.”