I forced the alley door on the back side of the smaller building. I flipped on the lights, not caring if I was discovered in my little felony.
An office, in a disarray that suggested massive disorganization. I looked at scraps of paper, discovering nothing. In the midst of the jumble sat an enormous computer.
I am not conversant with the electronic revolution; I’m still the owner of a cherry acoustic tenor sax, not some hopped-up amplified piece of— Well, I believe my position on music and electronics is apparent, man. Nor do I have skill one when it comes to computers. Luckily, this one was on, the little cursor-thingy flashing. I punched the Enter key a few times, past menus, finding one titled “Contact Files,” and whose name should appear at the top but good old Doc Blaine’s. Tapping the sum total of my computer knowledge, I hit a key that said Scroll, and got an eyeful. The list would have been more meaningful to DeGarmo, the county coroner, or that dork who writes the society column for the Free Press, but even a musician like myself could recognize a few names. Like Diz. And Julie.
I was seething over the discovery, back of my neck getting hot, when a ring of icy steel halted that sensation.
“What the hell are you doing in my computer files?” a voice behind the ring of metal asked, none too friendly.
“Mr. Jacobstein, I presume,” I said without turning.
The pressure of the steel circle at the base of my skull increased. “I oughta blow your brains out, right now.”
“Not a good business move, dude. And the way I see it, you are a businessman, right? Profit above all else.”
“I can say you were a burglar, here to steal drugs, a dangerous junkie, and I feared for my life. Justifiable homicide.”
“Maybe. But then the cops might stumble on this file, might want to look into some of your more unexplainable distribution deals, don’t you think?”
“Not if I do you in the factory instead of my office. Let’s take a little trip across the alley. Over to where a dangerous junkie would more likely be scrounging for drugs.”
“Won’t work, Jacobstein. I haven’t got the particulars mapped out, but there’s some scam you have going with switching the real sample drugs, out of the sample bottles, with some half-assed home concoctions that you are not too particular about when it comes to dosage accuracy.”
“You’re a real smart boy, aren’t you? Come on, move!” Hands yanked me out of the chair, forced me to the rear door, shoved me out into the dank night air, across the alley. In the darkness, the hand not holding the enormous Magnum fumbled with keys, but not long enough for me to run. The one overhead mercury-vapor light showed me little of my captor other than a tall, narrow frame and wisping white hair on a balding head. The factory was blacker than the night by many degrees, as Jacobstein shoved me inside. I stumbled over boxes, heard pill bottles crush and clatter and roll away like mice on tiny little rollerblades. I used the darkness blindly, rose and ran.
“You son of a—!” Jacobstein’s voice rang out, loud, then the Magnum spoke, louder. A streak of super-heated air whined at my left ear. I dove into cardboard cartons, more mice skated away on the ice of a new day, actually little pills in little plastic bottles, but in the dark, imagination can make anything out of anything.
I could hear Jacobstein crashing around, like me, and I wondered crazily why he didn’t just turn on the lights. After all, he had the gun; I was just a scared-ass saxman stumbling in the dark.
Like a kid in bed who suddenly becomes aware, knows for sure, that those monsters he has always imagined living under the bed are real, I became aware that there was something big and breathing right next to me.
Then Jacobstein found the breaker box. Lights blazed, and I leaped away from the panting creature near me, a yelp of fear escaping my lips. Jacobstein’s Magnum exploded, a cold fist shattering my left shoulder, and the monster next to me roared. Across the warehouse expanse of boxed and bottled drugs, Jacobstein collapsed with a shriek.
I rolled over to meet my final doom at the hands of the panting monster, and DeGarmo stood there, the barrel of his Glock ten-millimeter smoking from the single shot that had leveled Jacobstein.
“You okay, Dyer? Good thing I didn’t trust you to get through this without me keeping an eye on you. You know you’re bleeding, you jerk.”
“I still don’t understand why,” Julie said.
My shoulder hurt like helclass="underline" not surprising with a .44-Magnum hole in it, but Johnny K. said it would heal... at least ninety percent or so. I adjusted my position in my sweet Julie’s arms. “My friend Johnny beat the medical grapevine and came up with most of the info. Dr. Blaine didn’t know what Jacobstein was up to until he noticed many of his patients weren’t coming back for scheduled appointments. He moaned about it when Jacobstein was in for one of his sales visits. Jacobstein hinted that the doc’s patients might be getting help elsewhere. The doc didn’t get the picture. Jacobstein began needling the doc about partnering with him, asking for large infusions of cash to convert Jacobstein’s distribution house into a lab. Remember, most profit in prescription drugs goes to manufacturing labs. The doc said no. So Jacobstein devised this plan of manufacturing knock-off drugs, substituting them in the sample bottles, giving the real drugs to Blaine in Baggies. He accessed the doc’s computer files by hacking the Internet, got the doc’s list of patients, contacted them directly, offered them drugs for a fraction of the cost, no need for pesky office visits.
“Jacobstein knew the drugs were badly made, even knew they were possibly lethal. This not only did not bother Jacobstein, it struck him as a way to further strong-arm Blaine. Particularly when people began croaking from the drugs in sample bottles batch-numbered as being distributed to Blaine, according to Jacobstein’s records. Even before the cops could make the connection to Blaine via the patient list, or the batch numbers on the sample bottles, Jacobstein was at Blaine’s doorstep, pushing hard, threatening, blackmailing.”
I could feel Julie’s shudder. The movement made my shattered clavicle feel like a live electrode stirring in a bowl of gritty mush. I ignored the pain, turned in her arms enough to reach up and kiss her lips. Her eyes were pretty again, if now more sadly vulnerable.
Just like all those old times when I lived on the desolate, crying-out-with-pain Cass Corridor, I still often find myself down by the Detroit River, Hart Plaza, day or night, rain, smoke, smog, or shine, playing solo riffs on Fred, my sax, my faithful companion. Talking through him about the pain and death and suffering... and now, sometimes, the joy — now that I’ve moved in with Julie. I helped her find a caring shrink, one who has helped her get the medication she needs. Daddy is helping with the costs, though I’m sure he still doesn’t approve or acknowledge that his daughter needs medication to keep her brain straight. Julie gets what she needs from her doc, her singing, and me, but what she and the world of people like her need most is understanding, man. A change in attitude. Like that dude Thoreau said, lives of quiet desperation. It doesn’t have to be like that. Fred the sax just wailed out a solid arpeggio to the gulls and the lapping night river that says a change is gonna come. Especially for me and my sweet Julie.
A Week Excuse for Murder
by Rob Loughran
Poem © 1998 Rob Loughran
A mother hated the woman
who married her only SUN.