“Like me,” said Kermit.
Jack nodded. “At exactly twelve forty-five this afternoon you take a flop on that sidewalk. Make it a good one, and don’t get up right away. Your hip hurts. Your back hurts. You got some serious pain, right? So you lay there awhile until a guy wearing a long red scarf offers to drive you to the E.R. Go with him.”
“When do I get paid?”
“This guy will take you to see someone who’ll give you the yard.” He looked Kermit over critically. “Put on your best clothes, if you got any. And for crissake, shave. You want to make a good impression, don’t you?”
It was a piece of cake.
Kermit arrived at the designated time, stubbed his foot on the broken sidewalk, and went pinwheeling to the ground. He lay there, moaning and refusing help, until a well-dressed man in a red scarf offered assistance.
Now he leaned back in the plush leather seat of the blue Cadillac, shooting occasional glances at the silent driver.
“I was good, huh?”
“Yeah, a regular Bogart. Get out at the next corner. Go into the Starlight Lounge, take a booth, and wear this.” He handed Kermit the scarf. “Someone will be right along.”
The Starlight was a step above the places Kermit frequented when he had some money, but not a very big step. The tabletops were grimy and the place smelled of disinfectant and stale beer. An elderly number slept quietly, the side of his face flattened against the mahogany bar.
A few minutes later a corpulent balding man in a blue overcoat squeezed in across from Kermit. The veins in his nose were busted, and despite the weather, he was sweating.
“The scarf, please.”
Kermit surrendered the scarf and the fat man handed him fifty dollars.
“Supposed to be a hundred,” said Kermit.
“Shut up and listen. My name is Victor Quantz. I’m your lawyer. In a few minutes you will leave here and walk across the street. Next to the Army Navy Store you’ll see a clinic. Go in. Listen to what the doctor says and then do it. Do it without any questions, without any deviation. Got it?”
Kermit nodded. The lawyer struggled to his feet and leaned over the table, jabbing a fleshy forefinger at Kermit.
“Don’t screw up.”
The door of the clinic was open. In the dimly lit room stood an X-ray machine covered in dust, an examination table with an unused paper sheet, and a metal desk. Seated behind the desk was a gaunt, grayhaired man wearing dark glasses. Several forms were spread before him on the desk.
“Have a seat. I’m Doctor LaFleur. You’ve had a nasty fall, Mr. — What is your name?”
“Kermit McGuire.”
“Age?”
“Thirty-seven.”
“Alright, Mr. McGuire. You are suffering from decreased range of motion, tenderness of the paraspinal areas, decreased deep-tendon reflexes, positive straight-leg raising of only, oh, say ten percent, decreased abduction of the hips, and — are you married? Girlfriend?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Very well. No loss of consortium.” He put down the pen and steepled his hands. “As I said, a bad fall. You will be partially disabled for some time.” He produced a pair of crutches. “You will need these. Now please attend closely. You are incapable of any kind of normal activity.” He tapped the desktop for emphasis. “Do not, for any reason, go anywhere without the crutches, and do not discuss your case with anyone. There may be insurance investigators nosing around. Now, sign here, and here.”
He handed Kermit fifty dollars and a business card.
“Starting next week you’ll begin seeing this woman. She’s a chiropractor.”
“A what?”
“A backcracker. Her office is a couple of blocks from the shelter, so you can walk. But remember—”
“I know. Use the crutches.”
By Tuesday the money was gone and Kermit was growing weary of the invalid act. It made collecting cans and bottles, which he was now forced to resume, awkward and time consuming. If he’d known ahead of time that it was going to be a long-term deal, he would have asked for two hundred. Maybe he would anyway next time he saw Cadillac Jack.
He was working his way up Washington Street, pleased with the day’s take. The large plastic garbage bag was nearly full. He set it down and hobbled over to a refuse can. As he was removing the lid, he caught a rapid motion out of the corner of his eye.
The kid wore a black hooded sweatshirt and hightop sneakers. And he was fast. Before Kermit could react, the kid snatched up the bag of cans and darted across the street.
Kermit immediately gave chase, dodging cars and pedestrians as he sprinted east up Washington. The thief vaulted a low picket fence and disappeared behind a three-decker. Kermit leapt the fence and rounded the corner of the house, but the kid was already a block away and Kermit was winded.
“Little bastard!” he fumed. Five bucks or so, gone with the wind. He made his way back down the street to where his crutches lay.
And then he spotted the videocamera.
It was perched on the shoulder of a very large black man and it was pointed directly at Kermit. The cameraman’s face bore a wide grin.
A setup! And like a fool he’d fallen for it. Hadn’t the doctor warned him about insurance investigators? And he clearly remembered the look on Quantz’s face when he’d said, “Don’t screw up.”
As he stood wondering what to do next, his gaze wandered across the street, then froze. Standing at the curb, one hand resting on the hood of the blue Cadillac, was the man who had driven him to meet Quantz. He wasn’t moving, just staring fixedly at Kermit.
Fear then hit him like a lead weight. The crutches were still several feet away and who knew how much of Kermit’s blunder the man had witnessed. Probably all of it.
Kermit turned and ran. He didn’t stop until he reached Hudson Boulevard where he ducked into the Elite Diner. He ordered coffee and took a seat where he could keep an eye on the street.
The magnitude of what he had done was beginning to register. Scamming the insurance companies was, he assumed, a serious crime. Through his carelessness he had made everyone involved subject to exposure. A lot of people were going to be very angry.
He checked his resources: five dollars and eleven cents, minus the coffee. Why had he blown through the hundred so fast? If only he’d put some aside he could get a room, or even leave town. Instead, he’d pissed it away on scratch tickets and booze and — he’d squared accounts with Gomez.
He paid for the coffee and walked three blocks to the Mediterranean Hotel, the roach trap where Gomez lived. Gomez could afford a room because he received SSI “crazy checks,” as he called them. Kermit wasn’t sure if Gomez was crazy or not, but he was decidedly weird. For a while he had wandered around town pointing a television remote control unit at the passing cars and people and screaming that he couldn’t change the channel. They sent him to Bridgewater for observation after that, but he was back in a month, although without the remote.
Kermit had paid Gomez a visit on the day of his “accident.” He had owed his friend twenty dollars for some time and was glad for the opportunity to finally pay it back. When Gomez had inquired about the crutches, Kermit told him the whole story. He was quite proud of himself at the time.
He entered the small room and was immediately blinded. Walls and ceiling were lined with aluminum foil, which bounced the light from the bare bulb pitilessly into his eyes. Even the window was covered. Gomez sat in an armchair that leaked stuffing, smoking a cigarette.
“What’s this?” Kermit gestured at the walls.
“Protection,” Gomez said, lighting a fresh cigarette from the old.
“From what?”
“The rays, man.”
“What rays?”