Michael Palmer - The Last Surgeon

“What I mean is that I don’t know,” came the humorless reply.

Inwardly, Nick smiled. Here he was-a trauma surgeon, able to make life-and-death decisions in the hospital or in the field, fumbling for words with a man who threw people out of a bar for a living.

The club’s interior was dark and loud, but smoke-free, and not yet very crowded. Someplace in the building, though, near the nightclub, he could smell that cigars were being smoked. So much for city ordinances, Nick mused. All hail King Cash. Several men sat at the bar, glued to the busty topless dancer on center stage slithering her athletic body down a polished brass pole. The stage lighting was professional, and Nick noted that it was synchronized to the dance music that was blasting out of an impressive stack of speakers.

In front of the arcing bar, plush, high-backed chairs lined the edge of the stage. There were a few men seated there as well, all dressed in business attire. Lucky Bill’s was hardly the low-rent district of gentlemen’s clubs. What business could such a place have with a burnt-out GI?

Nick had crossed to the opposite side of the club when he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. A slender young woman in a slinky black dress was smiling up at him. Her elfin features were framed by stunning, jet-black hair, which flowed halfway down her back.

“You look lost, handsome,” she said.

“I’m looking for somebody,” Nick replied. “Do you know a guy named Manny Ferris? This is the address I was given for him. Are there apartments upstairs?”

The girl cooed playfully. “Hey, that’s a lot of questions for a first date. How about a little champagne first? My name’s Brandy, but champagne’s my drink.”

Nick wondered how much Bill Pearl’s charged for a bottle of champagne, to say nothing of the services from Brandy. Even without her biggest-ticket item, it was doubtful his night-on-the-town ATM withdrawal was going to last long.

“So,” Nick said, taking a seat at a corner table, “what about Manny Ferris, or Manuel Ferris?”

“You a cop?”

“Nope, not a cop. Just a guy who’s looking for a guy named Manny Ferris. Do you know him?”

“I get paid to talk with the customers, Officer,” she said.

“I told you, I’m not a cop. I’ve got a hundred I’m ready to exchange for information about Manny Ferris. It’s very important to me.”

“What if I don’t know anything?”

“Forty just for trying.”

“I’ll take the forty in advance.”

Nick reduced his stack of twenties by two.

“His name’s Ferris,” he said. “Manny or Manuel Ferris. The VA gave me this place as his address.”

“The club? I think the owner may have an apartment on the top floor, and the girls use the second floor. But I don’t know if anyone lives in the rest of the place. What’s he look like?”

Nick produced the photo McBean had given him, and the girl studied it.

“He could be sitting right next to me and I might not recognize him from this picture. Height? Weight?”

“Maybe five nine. He’s midthirties-might have been late twenties when this was taken.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Boy, I sure hope you’re not a cop. If you are, you’re not very good at it.”

Without waiting for a reply, she turned, giving him one last look at her clock-stopping face and figure, and headed across the room toward a newcomer who looked strikingly like the cartoon mogul on Chance and Community Chest cards in the game of Monopoly.

Nick stood to leave. Another young, attractive woman, a redhead, approached him before he had made it to the men’s room at the rear of the club. The VA record had to have been wrong, he was thinking, unsuccessfully trying the photo on the girl. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time they had bad information.

The restroom, with a swashbuckling cavalier on the door, featured orange marble countertops, neat rows of toiletries, hair combs in blue liquid disinfectant, and several small bowls of mints. Nick could not see under the stalls, but it seemed as if there was no one else in the washroom besides him and an attendant in a stained white collared shirt, askew bow tie, and faded red vest. He had a clean towel draped on his arm and passed it over as soon as Nick had washed his hands.

As the attendant turned toward him, Nick caught his breath. The man’s face was deformed. Two thick flaps of skin were separated by several crisscrossing scars. It was as if someone had started a multi-step plastic surgery procedure and then stopped before it was completed.

“You have a nice day, sir,” the man muttered.

Nick set a five in his jar. “Thanks. You…” He stopped mid-sentence. The attendant drying the sink and countertop in the strip club bathroom was Manny Ferris. Nick felt nearly certain of it.

“Manny? You’re Manny Ferris, aren’t you?”

Ferris looked away and mumbled a response.

“Manny, I’ve been looking all over for you! My name is Nick Garrity. I’m a doctor and a good friend of Matt McBean. I can’t believe I’ve finally found you.”

Ferris looked blankly at Nick. His rheumy eyes were empty and distant.

“Do you want a mint?” he asked.

His voice was flat-devoid of any emotion. His deformed face held no discernable expression.

“Manny, I’m a friend of Matt McBean,” Nick said again. “McBean, from the service. I’ve been looking for you.”

Nothing.

From his stack of pictures, Nick pulled out the enlarged segment of the photograph of McBean and Ferris taken years ago, and handed it to the man.

“Look, Manny. This is you right here. And this is Matt McBean. He told me you vanished four years ago. Where have you been?”

Nothing.

Ferris adjusted the combs and checked that the towels were aligned. Then, without so much as a nod at Nick, he turned and inspected each of the three elegant stalls.

Night of the Living Manny , Nick thought.

Ferris did not protest being shown the photo a second time. There may have been a flicker of recognition, but then, just as quickly, it was gone.

“We have some new combs if you’d like to do your hair,” he said.

Nick leaned in close to check the man’s pupils for any sign of drug use. They were mid-position and seemed to react to light. Then he took hold of Ferris’s wrist and measured his pulse. The former enlisted Marine offered no resistance and kept his wrist limp as Nick calculated his rate at sixty-eight.

“Manny, there’s a good chance you know my friend Umberto Vasquez. It’s been four years since I saw him last. He was signed on to do a top-secret job for the military, just like you were. Does that name mean anything to you?”

“How are you doing today, sir?” Ferris replied. “Do you need a towel?”

“Manny, please. This man served with me. He saved my life in battle. Then a few years later, just like you, he disappeared.”

No reaction.

Nick’s enthusiasm at having found the man had vanished, along with his hope of learning Umberto’s fate. He was wondering if it was worth trying to get Ferris into the RV in the near future for an examination and some blood work.

“Here, Manny,” he said, with an edge of frustration and irritability that he knew was out of character. “Here’s a twenty. Take a look at these pictures of Umberto Vasquez.”

Ferris took the bill, but he would not take the stack of photographs, so Nick was forced to flip through them. He paused on one picture for a few seconds before switching to the next. Each time, Nick was careful to point out Umberto. Ferris kept the same dull expression throughout. Then, while Nick was showing him the penultimate photograph, something changed. Ferris’s eyes widened. His mouth fell agape. He started to shake, and his face reddened. He turned away from Nick. Swinging him around by the shoulders, Nick held the photograph up to his face. The picture was of Nick and Umberto, standing in front of the RV with the Lincoln Memorial in the background. Nick could not remember with certainty, but he thought that Junie had taken the shot.