"Maybe you should go home."
"One more. Then we're done."
"Stay Safe."
"Jesus Christ, Manny. Just one more."
"That's it.
Stay Safe
, to show. Nine to one."
I looked down at my program. "Sounds like a brand of tampon."
"Ya, well, that's about right. She's been on the rag. Twice a favorite, never won. I say she's due."
"Why not bet her to win?"
He rolled his eyes. "There you go having ideas of your own. You really should call me for what to wear every morning."
"Alright. A thousand to show."
"A grand?"
"You really think she's due?"
He nodded.
"OK, then."
Laying that much cash on one dog pushed Westmoreland and Kathy and Hancock way, way back in my mind. I had outdistanced all of them. I took deep breaths of the must Wonderland air. When the starting gun fired, I felt, of all things, confident.
Stay Safe took a long lead and never lost it. My skin turned to gooseflesh. I experienced my luck as something more than random, something
meant
for me. I felt Belle Dango and Maiden Voyage and Stay Safe and all the other dogs who had run and would run that day and Manny and me were somehow connected. It was just one of the many times I have found God in peculiar places.
I collected three thousand dollars and handed three hundreds back to Manny. "We'd be up nine grand if we'd bet her to win," I said.
"Ya. Unless she hadn't."
"One more?" I asked him.
"Go home."
"That a dog?"
"No. It's advice. We've been here before. Remember?"
That sobered me up. Manny and I had held three grand a dozen times and never kept more than a quarter of it. And I really did need the money. I slipped another two hundreds under the window. "Tip for a tip," I said. "Thanks."
"You don't have to do that."
"I know. That's why I'm doing it. See you, Manny."
I got back on Route 1A and took it toward the Tobin Bridge into Boston. My mood was a little lighter. Sending the bank two thousand would probably keep them quiet a few weeks, and I'd still have cash to prevent myself from crashing off coke before I was ready to. Maybe I could even throw a little something at Hancock to lose whatever video she'd shot near the Emerson. I figured anybody who talked about church as much as she did was using it a little like cocaine anyhow. At a stoplight I took out my package and did a little blast.
It took me half an hour to reach the V.A. Medical Center. The Medical Information and Benefits Office hadn't changed its location since I'd been a resident, and Cliff Pidrowski, a recovering alcoholic who'd lost his legs in Vietnam, was still running the place. He recognized me immediately. "Oh, Jesus," he laughed, "hide the money." He wheeled himself out from behind his desk.
"I didn't cost you guys much," I chuckled, shaking his hand. I was glad he hadn't cut his hair, which hung in a braid down his back.
"Didn't you? Shit. Every skid row vet in the state must have had the word on you. Show up in the emergency room with a little depression or posttraumatic stress and watch the spin doctor make your benefits flow.
Spin
; they still call you that?"
"You were the only one who called me that." I took a seat. "And I was just convincing you to give away what you wanted to give away in the first place."
"Oh, I did? I must have buried that real deep in my subconscious. I seem to remember sweating bullets to get it through your head once in a great while that being on the streets isn't always service-connected. You can be plenty fucked-up before you fight a war."
"Then you shouldn't have to fight it. Uncle Sam's got to take his victims as they come."
He covered his ears. "I'm having déjà vu. Tell me you're not here on a job interview."
"You think the government has its head
completely
up its ass? I'm still chasing forensic cases on the North Shore."
"You always liked the real sickos," he chuckled. "I got to admit, though, you could settle them right down. They must have sensed they were with someone as dangerous as them."
"I'm harmless."
He rolled his eyes. "Not to shortcut the journey down memory lane, but if you're already gainfully employed, what are you here for?"
"A favor... if you're willing."
"Sure. Anything that doesn't cost Uncle Sam a monthly check."
"I need a service record."
"That's confidential information."
"That's why it's a favor."
He wheeled himself over to a computer station. "Anybody asks, I never helped you with a thing," he said.
"I won't have to convince anyone who knows you."
"Still a wise ass. What's the name?"
"First name's George. Second name starts with ‘La.’"
He entered
L
and
a
. "That narrows it down to a group about the size of Rhode Island. And cross-referencing ‘George’... I'm down to several hundred. What war?"
"Vietnam."
"That's progress. Got a diagnosis?"
"Schizophrenia."
"Eye color?"
"Blue."
"Height?"
"About six feet."
"I got a blue-eyed, six-one schizophrenic by the name of George LaFountaine. Born, April 5, 1949, Drafted, Army, April 16, 1969. Court-martialed, November 28, 1970. Charges dismissed. Medically discharged, December 1, 1970. Diagnosis: Schizophrenia."
"Court-martialed? Anything in there say what happened to him, what he was charged with?"
"That wouldn't be on the computer." He swiveled toward me. "But he was treated upstairs on 13B after discharge. And about a dozen times since then. The records should be in storage."
"How would I get those?"
"With a release of information from the patient."
"No chance."
"Then you're shit out of luck. Medical records isn't my department. They're touchy about details. Like the Fourth Amendment."
"I've already examined the guy, Cliff. He'd want me to see his chart, but he's locked up. I can't get to him right now."
"Sorry."
I sighed. "I didn't want to use it up, but I guess I'm gonna have to call in my debt."
"Debt?"
"Helena?"
"You can call me Charisse, if you want to. It won't get you anywhere."
"Not Helena. Helga. That social work intern. Bright red lipstick. Tight skirts. I let you borrow my room with her. You said you owed me one — a big one."
"That was ages ago. Like ten years."
"Lucky for you I'm not charging interest."
"She wasn't even that good."
"She was good enough to tie up my room for three fucking hours in the middle of the night." I smiled.
"I think I'm getting it where the sun don't shine," he said, shaking his head. "You really, absolutely need this..."
I nodded.
He picked up the phone and dialed. "Rusty, Cliff. I hope you can help me. I need to pull whatever records you've got on George LaFountaine, capital
L-a
, capital
F-o
. First admission to 13B, December 3, 1970. Social Security number 010-16-3024. I'm gonna send down a shrink — Doctor Clevenger... No... No release... He's doing a study on benefit payments for psychiatric disabilities. I forgot to get him a clearance." He winked at me. "Thanks, Rusty. I owe you one.." He hung up.
"I appreciate it."
"Forget it. Rusty should have it for you in about ten minutes. Basement level."
"It was good seeing you."
He nodded. "You, too, Spin. Try to be careful out there, will ya?"
"You bet."
* * *
I found Rusty, who turned out to be a thin, jittery woman about fifty, eating a brown bag lunch deep in the three thousand square feet of wall-to-wall records that comprised Patient Information Retrieval. She was sitting Indian-style on the floor, leaning against one of the floor-to-ceiling files. "You can't take that with you," she said, struggling to hand an eight-inch-thick folder up to me. She turned away, bit off the top of a carrot stick and swallowed it without chewing.
"
Can't take it with you
," I kidded. "That's catchy. You should write it down."
"Sure, everything's a joke — until something gets lost. Then somebody comes down looking for that something, and, suddenly, it's not funny anymore." She looked very serious. "It's the end of the world."
"Yeah. Well, sorry." I sat down against the file opposite her.
She kept staring at me.
"Am I OK here?" I asked.
"If you don't watch me eat."
You can figure out a lot about people's minds by the way they feel about putting things in their mouths. I had to remind myself that I didn't have the time to get into it with her. "No problem," I said. I flipped open the chart. There was a black-and-white photograph of George LaFountaine glued to the inside cover. He was handsome, even with a crew cut. His smile was full and confident. I focused on his eyes, looking for Westmoreland in him. They gave away nothing. I fanned the pages of the chart and stopped at a color photograph, marked 1985. I shook my head in disbelief.
LaFountaine had become Westmoreland. His cheeks had hollowed, and his smile had contorted into a fierce showing of teeth. His hair had grown into a tangle of snakes. Terror had taken over his eyes. I felt like a burglar walking through another man's home. Or was I digging up a grave? Westmoreland had wanted to bury LaFountaine, and I had unearthed him. The moral thing to do may have been to put the chart back on the shelf, to leave undisturbed in that tomb of records what Westmoreland had intended to. Wasn't I justifying his paranoia by violating his confidentiality?
Perhaps it was my own morbid curiosity that convinced me in that moment that there was a
reason
I had his chart in my hands — that it was not by chance he had let slip enough of his name to unlock the door to his past.
I went back to the beginning of the chart and read the cover sheet. It listed Westmoreland's date of discharge from the service and his date of admission to the hospital. His family address was recorded as 12 Warren Avenue in Charlestown, a tough, blue-collar neighborhood on the north edge of Boston. Next of kin was his father, John LaFountaine. I turned the page to the first of two hand-written sheets labeled ‘Initial Psychiatric History’:
George LaFountaine is a 22-year-old white man medically discharged from the Army due to the onset, following military action, of paranoia and auditory hallucinations. These psychotic symptoms were believed to be responsible for Mr. LaFountaine's recent bizarre behavior, which resulted in a court-martial. All charges have been dismissed, as the patient is remanded for psychiatric assessment and definitive treatment.
On November 21, Mr. LaFountaine, who previously had been decorated for bravery, participated as a member of an elite group raiding the Son Tay prison camp near Hanoi, an operation for which he had trained extensively. The camp was believed to house U.S. POWs but was found abandoned. The patient spent several hours searching vacant buildings, some of which were booby-trapped. A close friend, searching with the patient, was killed by explosives.
Looked up and tried to imagine the muddled surges of hope, fear, hate and sheer panic that must have swept over LaFountaine as he burst into each empty room in that abandoned camp. I pictured him holding his dying friend, blown up on a mission to free no one, by an enemy nowhere to be found.
"Don't," Rusty scolded.
"What?"
"You were looking at me eating. I asked you not to."
"I wasn't. I was just thinking."
"Right. About what a pig I am." She gathered her Baggies of vegetables and got to her feet. Standing, she looked even bonier. "I'm not going to play your game."
I couldn’t leave it alone. Pain has always been irresistible to me. "The truth is, Rusty, that you were never fed enough, not that you swallow too much."
She took a step toward me. "Who the hell do you think you are coming at me with that slick analysis crap? You wanted a record. I got you one. I don't remember askin’ to lay on any goddamn couch."
I nodded. I could tell I was already deeper into some crevice of Rusty's unconscious than I wanted to be. "You're right. I'll just finish my reading." I made a point of hanging my head over the chart so that I couldn’t be accused of looking at her.
"And to say I wasn't fed enough. Another goddamn shrink who thinks he knows everything."
I stole a glance at her feet. They weren't moving. She wanted the couch. Deep down, everybody wants to tell the truth.
"You probably grew up with a silver spoon in your mouth, Doc," she prodded. "My father worked three jobs to put food on the table."
I closed my eyes, hoping she'd let me off the hook.
"Dad cooked for us, too. I ate plenty well. Better than well." No footsteps. "So what's your point? Or don't you have one?"
I looked up reluctantly. "Did your mother work?" I surrendered.
She seemed startled. "Huh?"
"Your mother. Did she have a job?"
"She wasn't around. But..."
"Why not? Where was she?"
"Why would I tell you?"
"I don't know. You certainly don't have to."
You need to
.
"What the hell. You want to know so bad, she got sick — mentally sick — right after I was born. Killed herself in this very hospital." She put her hands on her hips. "Happy?"
My shoulders sloped under the burden of her revelation. I sighed. "Pretty big job," I said quietly, "filling the space she left behind. Especially as an only child."
"How did you..."
"Just a guess. But I can see how much it would make things that much harder for you."
She shrugged.