Ken Bruen - Bust

“You’re sure it’s herpes?” Max said. “I mean don’t you have to wait for the lab results before you can tell?”

“Of course I’ll need to confirm it with a Pap smear,” Flemming said, “but I’m ninety-nine percent certain of the diagnosis. But there’s no reason to panic – herpes isn’t exactly a life-threatening virus. All you have to do is keep the lesions dry and apply some alcohol or witch hazel. You also might want to wear loose clothes. If you wear jockeys, you might want to consider a switch over to boxers. It also might be a good idea to blow dry your genitals from now on rather than toweling dry. But whatever you do, don’t feel like you’re a bad person or something’s wrong with you because you contracted this. You can rest assured – millions of people in the world are going through the same thing that you are and it’s really not as bad as many people think. I’ve had patients who’ve gone for months, hell, years even, without experiencing any symptoms whatsoever. The outbreaks will usually only occur when you’re under a high level of stress or anxiety. With the tragedy involving your wife and niece, I’m not at all surprised to see you having an outbreak now. By the way, have you… been with anyone recently?”

“What do you mean?”

He knew exactly what he meant but he knew he couldn’t let on.

“The only reason I’m asking,” Flemming said, smiling assuredly, “is that herpes, in almost all cases, is a sexually transmitted virus. In all likelihood, you contracted it from someone and if you did it might be a good idea to warn that person.”

“Maybe my wife had it,” Max said. “I mean maybe she had it, but didn’t tell me.”

“Well, the only way she could’ve gotten it would be if she had – well, I don’t think that’s really important now anyway. After I have Christine do a Pap smear – and we’ll also do some blood work – I’m going to put you on a medication to help suppress the virus and a painkiller for your itching and discomfort. Within a few days you’ll be as good as new.”

Max doubted that, doubted it a whole lot.

Flemming picked up his clipboard and started to leave the examination room. At the door, he turned back, smiled and said, “By the way, just as a precautionary measure, if you’ve been having unprotected sex you might want to think about an HIV test.”

“HIV?” Max could barely move his lips to say it, frightened to fucking hell. “Why? You think I have-”

“No, no, I’m not suggesting that at all. I’m just saying it’s best to err on the side of caution. Many people who have herpes also tend to be HIV-positive. That isn’t to say that you’re likely to be HIV-positive. But, given that you have already contracted one sexually transmitted disease, it might be a good idea to check for others.”

“Yeah well, I think I’d like to hold off on an AIDS test,” Max said.

“Are you sure?” Dr. Flemming said. “The sooner you know-”

“I’m not taking the goddamn test.”

Later, riding in a cab to his office, Max could barely breathe. There was no way in hell he was ever going to take an AIDS test. It scared him enough to have to call for his blood work from his cardiologist – he couldn’t imagine making a phone call to find out if he’d been sentenced to death.

Max had heard somewhere that the first sign of AIDS is sometimes lumps on the lymph nodes. Max wasn’t sure where the lymph nodes were, but he thought they were somewhere on his throat. Feeling around, he was convinced that he had lumps.

He screamed silently, Fucking lumps!

When he arrived at his office he hadn’t calmed down much. He marched past the receptionist’s desk toward Angela and said loud enough for everyone nearby to hear, “Excuse me, could you come into my office with me, please? I need to dictate a letter.”

When Angela came into the office Max asked her to close the door behind her. Then, after she sat down with her pad, he said in a low, but serious voice, “Thanks for giving me herpes, you stupid bitch.”

Angela seemed surprised, but Max was pretty sure she was acting.

She said, “Herpes? What the hell?”

“You don’t have to deny it anymore – I just came back from my doctor. Irritation my ass. You knew you had herpes and you didn’t even tell me.”

“You went to a doctor? When?”

“This morning. Come on, I don’t have time for this bullshit. Just admit it.”

“Are you sure he isn’t making a mistake? I mean how can he tell without a blood test?”

“They don’t take a blood test, they take a Pap smear, but it’s herpes all right. He’s treated tons of cases before.”

“Well, I didn’t…” Angela lowered her voice and continued, “I didn’t give it to you.”

“Then where did I get it, a fucking toilet seat?” Max noticed that the left side of her face looked slightly purple, said, “What the hell happened to you?”

“Oh, it was nothing,” Angela said. “My roommate opened the bathroom door last night and it hit me. I’ll live.”

But Max, not paying attention, said, “Well, if I didn’t catch it from you, you got it now, so you better go see a doctor and pretty damn soon.”

“Maybe your feckin’ whore of a wife gave it to you,” Angela said.

Her temper was coming out and the fire in her eyes was ferocious.

“My wife?”

“Yeah. How do you know she wasn’t doing it with some bollix behind your back?”

Max considered this for a moment. Deirdre having an affair? It seemed crazy. Then he imagined Kamal naked, on top of her, and a sick feeling started to build in his stomach. Kamal was the only other man he knew about who’d had any sort of contact with Deirdre and he remembered how unusually upset he’d been to hear about her death. But that was crazy. He’d never heard Kamal even talk about a woman before and, besides, he was almost positive the guy putted from the rough.

“That’s crazy,” Max said. “No guy would’ve been interested in Deirdre and besides – you have to have sex to get herpes and Deirdre and I didn’t exactly have an active sex life.”

“I’m telling you the truth,” Angela said. “If you don’t believe me it’s your feckin’ problem, not mine.”

There was quiet knock on the door. Max said, “What is it?”

The receptionist who was temping this week poked her head into the office. She said to Max, “There’s a man here to see you.”

“A man?” Max said, looking at Angela. “I don’t have any appointments this morning, do I?”

Angela shook her head. Max said to the girl, “Did he say what his name was?”

“No. But he said it’s very important that he speak to you.”

“It’s probably a fucking salesman. Tell him to leave his business card and we’ll get back to him if we’re interested.”

“He said he’s not a salesman.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“I think he’s telling the truth. He’s in a wheelchair. He said he won’t leave till he sees you.”

“A wheelchair? Jesus H., he’s probably working for some handicapped charity. He’s-” A wheelchair. Jesus fuck. Max looked at Angela, then quickly looked away and said, “I’ll go see him.”

Max went toward the front of the office, rubbing the back of his neck to help ease his suddenly pounding headache. He managed not to scratch his groin but, Jesus Christ, he wanted to.

The man in the wheelchair was waiting near the reception desk. He had a thick black beard and dark, serious eyes. He was a big guy, stocky, looked Italian or maybe Spanish. Was it the same guy? Max wasn’t sure. The retard at the hotel had been in shadow. But two guys in wheelchairs showing up in one week? What were the odds?

Max said, “Can I help you with something?”