The Art of Forgetting (17 page)

              Small eyes, broad nose, a deep cleft in his chin, thick eyebrows offset by a sparse mustache, Dr. English’s facial features didn’t seem to match up together, as if a child had been playing with the transparencies of an old police identikit. Lloyd proceeded down a hallway of offices inspecting the name plates on the wall. He turned a corner and walking towards him in a lazy pace was Todd English wearing a white shirt, at least one size too large for him, tucked into beige polyester-blend pants. A red and black striped necktie was anchored to his shirt front by a tie clip with a gold chain that swayed side to side with each step he took.

              Lloyd stepped in front of him and said, “Have you seen much prion disease in your career?”

              English took a step away from him. “Wh – what?”

              “I’m here about the mouse autopsy,” Lloyd said.

              “You’re Dr. Copeland?”

              “Tell me something. How did
you
end up doing the autopsy?”

              English lifted his forearm and looked at his wristwatch. “I’m sorry but I have a conference I need to get to.”

              “You’re going to be late. Hell, you’re going to miss it. Because right now you’re going to show me those slides and illuminate me with your knowledge of prion disease.”

              “But I don’t have the slides,” English said.

              “Well, we best go fetch’em.”

              “I don’t know where they are. I never saw those slides.”

              “You never saw the slides? But your name’s on the report.”

              “Look, I had nothing to do with that autopsy. And if you don’t mind, I have a conference to present.”

              Lloyd grabbed English’s tie just under the knot and shoved him against a wall. “Listen up, you prick, you’re going nowhere until we clear this up.”

              “Are you out of your mind?” English said, his beady eyes growing large.

              “Who did the autopsy?”

              “I’m not talking to you.”

              “Why did you sign the report?”

              English tried to side-step Lloyd but Lloyd pushed him back against the wall. He wanted to wring his neck but settled for grabbing his jaw and pushing up on it so that English’s head was pressed against the wall.

              “You’re not talking to me?”

              “What’s going on here?” A voice called out from behind Lloyd.

              A round-faced man with thin hair parted down the middle stood in the hallway looking perplexed. It was Stanley Kowalski.

              “Lloyd, what on earth are you doing?”

              “This prick signed off on my autopsy without seeing the slides,” Lloyd said, releasing his grip on Todd English.

              Kowalski turned to English. “Is this true?”

              English said, “I was never given the slides.”

              “You never saw…” Kowalski paused. His voice jumped up a half octave. “The report bears your electronic signature!”

              “As I was trying to explain to Dr. Copeland,” English said, “I didn’t do the autopsy.”

              “Then why in heavens name did you sign the report?” Kowalski asked.

              “It was posted in my drop-box. If I don’t sign off on those, it goes down as a deficiency and I get a call from Medical Records.”

              Kowalski shook his head, eyes shut, mouth agape. “Who’s the attending of record?” he asked.

              “Dr. Carbajal.”

              “
Ruby
Carbajal? You’re joking. Did you at least review the case with her before signing off on it?”

              “There was no way to,” English said, raising his voice as if he were a victim of circumstance. “She went on a Caribbean cruise and won’t be back until next week.”

              Lloyd poked his index finger into English’s chest. “Listen, you little prick –”

              “Let it go, Lloyd,” Kowalski said. He grabbed Lloyd’s wrist and removed his hand from Todd English’s chest. “Dr. English, we’ll have to have a little talk.

              Todd English adjusted the knot of his necktie and walked away without saying a word.

              Kowalski shook his head again and said, “So hard to find good help these days, isn’t it?”

              “Did you see the slides?” Lloyd asked him.

              “Can’t find them. They’re not filed. They’re probably still sitting on Dr. Carbajal’s desk.”

              “Can we check?”

              Kowalski said, “You heard what he said. She’s on vacation. I’m sure her office is locked.”

              “What if we call security to open it?”

              “We can’t snoop around her office while she’s out of town,” Kowalski said.

              “Why not?”

              Kowalski slipped his hands in his lab coat pockets. “Are you alright, Lloyd?”

              “Yeah, I’m swell,” Lloyd said. He started to walk towards the elevators.

              “One thing I don’t get,” Kowalski called out behind him.

              Lloyd stopped and turned. “What’s that?”

              “Why did Carbajal get the autopsy?”

              Chapter 13

             
W
hen Lloyd returned to the lab, Kaz was chopping raw vegetables on a cutting board as Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C sharp minor played on the CD player. The lab technician put a piece of carrot in his mouth and scooped the rest in a plastic container using the blade of the knife.

              “I thought those were for the mice,” Lloyd said.

              “Quality control,” Kaz said as he chewed. “You want some?”

              “I’m not sure you should be eating in the lab.”

              “My lab is spotless,” Kaz said. “By the way, it’s done. Three little agents on your majesty’s secret service, waiting for the conjugated prions to kick in.”

              “Thanks, Kaz. Good job,” Lloyd said.

              Kaz shrugged and walked with the container of vegetables to the corner of the lab where he dropped pieces of carrots and celery in the cages as he whispered in Russian. The music grew faster and louder. Lloyd felt oddly at peace. Though certainly not in control, he was at least taking action. The lab was working, surreptitiously to be sure, but working nonetheless. And there was one more thing: Erin was coming for dinner tonight.

              Perhaps he ordered too much food. Having cleared the hurdle of choosing the type of cuisine (Thai seemed a safe yet not terribly banal choice), Lloyd still faced the burden of selecting entrées that might appeal to Erin. Fortunately, the Bangkok Palace offered an embarrassment of riches and Lloyd ended up ordering spring rolls, chicken
Satay
,
Nua Nom Tok
, beef fried rice,
Panang
curry and orange chicken.

              He placed the order at eight-fifteen, calculating a delivery time of twenty minutes with a margin of error of five minutes. Of course, the unknown variable was the precise time at which Erin would show up, but with any luck, he’d be able to plate the dishes just before her arrival without the food getting cold.

              He had already solved the dishware conundrum. His everyday plates were practical but hardly elegant, and the set didn’t include any serving dishes. So he got in his car that evening, drove to and an upscale kitchenware store and picked up an eight-place ceramic service which the voluptuous store clerk described as
Mediterranean chic
. Lloyd took her word for it but wondered if he had been conned when he saw the total price light up on the cash register display. A feeling that was reinforced when the clerk stretched her lips in an artificial smile (the first facial expression she’d been able to muster with her Botox-numbed face), slipped the package to him across the wrapping table and said, “Come back and see us real soon.”

              At eight-twenty Lloyd brushed his teeth for the second time. Maybe Thai wasn’t the best choice after all. It was sure to do a number on his breath. For good measure he brushed his tongue too, rinsed, spit and combed his hair with his fingers while studying his reflection in the mirror before returning to the open room.

              Aside from the master bedroom suite, the upstairs floor of Lloyd’s apartment consisted of a single open room: a flowing loft with air-conditioning ducts hanging from exposed wooden beams, a large driftwood table separating the living area at one end from the open kitchen at the other. He inspected the table settings and was about to straighten a fork when he remembered he had touched his hair. He ran to the kitchen sink washed his hands and returned to adjust the errant utensil.

              He paced to the kitchen, took a glass from a cupboard and poured himself two fingers of single malt scotch. He chugged it, winced and shuddered. Why did everything taste like shit after brushing your teeth?  He tested his breath against his hand. Drinking scotch was a bad move. He glanced at his watch. Eight twenty-seven. She could be here any time. He jogged back to the bathroom, took a swig of mouthwash straight from the bottle, gargled, swished and spit. Tasted like shit on top of shit. He brushed his teeth again.

              Eight thirty-three. Where was the damn food?  He needed to relax. He walked to the open room. With arms akimbo he surveyed the apartment. He fiddled with some light switches then flicked them back to the original setting. And then he did the unthinkable. He rearranged the throw pillows on the sofa. Pathetic.

              Perhaps some music would help. His mp-3 player had fallen out his coat pocket on a bike ride over a month ago but he still had a considerable, if dated, CD collection. He reflected on his options. Classical music? Too high-brow. Barry White? Not so subtle. How about The Smiths?  He had ribbed her about them the night before, but of course he too was an adolescent in the late eighties and hadn’t been completely immune to Morrissey’s peculiar charisma. It might be a nice gesture to play their music, sort of like extending an olive branch.

              He pulled a CD from the shelf and looked at the cover: a young soldier with the inscription
Meat is Murder
on his helmet. Not terribly romantic.
Romantic?  Lloyd, what are you thinking
? And then a memory fluttered through his mind as unexpectedly as the flight of a blue-jay in a starless night sky: an image of his mother dropping her handkerchief at his father’s funeral.

              He inserted the CD in the disc tray and laid the case on a speaker when the door-bell rang. A tingle expanded from a point in the middle of his spine. He glanced at his wristwatch. Eight forty.

              He jogged down the steps rehearsing in his mind, “Hi Erin… Hi Erin, come in… Hey Erin, I was just…”
Damn it Lloyd!  Pull it together
. At the bottom of the staircase he adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, took a deep breath and planted a debonair smile on his face before pulling the door open.

              An unshaven young man in baggy khaki pants, a camouflaged shirt and a dark blue beret stood at the threshold holding two plastic bags from The Bangkok Palace. The man gazed at Lloyd with dazed eyes. He looked like a sleepy Che Guevara – his disheveled hair left uncorrupted by the subverting influence of shampoo.

              “Hey man,” the guy said, widening his eyes somewhat, but not enough for the upper lids to clear the horizon of his pupils. “Had a hard time finding the place.”

              “The number’s on the door.”

              “Yeah but… this didn’t look like the place.”

              The last thing Lloyd needed was to have Erin see him purchasing their dinner from an unkempt delivery guy. The sight was sure to make her stomach take a somersault.

              “What do I owe you?” Lloyd asked

              Sleepy Che held up one of the bags so Lloyd could inspect the receipt stapled to it. “Forty-two even.”

              Lloyd pulled three twenty dollar bills from his wallet and handed them to the man, who set the bags on the sidewalk and pulled out a pile of crumpled dollar bills from his pocket.

             
For Chrissake!

              “That’s fine,” Lloyd said. “Keep the change.”
Just get the hell out of here already!

              Sleepy Che looked at the bills Lloyd handed him, seemed to engage in some mental math, tilted back his head and said. “Man… that’s just righteous. Wicked righteous.” He stuffed the bills in his pockets and, to prove the adage that no good deed goes unpunished, the guy reached out a sweaty palm and shook Lloyd’s hand. He then picked the bags off the pavement and struck a more alert pose. “Did you need help bringing these inside?” he said in a way that would be just adequate for a Ritz Carlton bell hop.

              “Thanks, I got it.” Lloyd reached for the bags but the man kept his grip on the handles.