Jonathan Kellerman - Flesh And Blood

A crowd swarmed the food. I finally got close enough to redeem a skewer of teriyaki beef and a Grolsch. Belched cheers and scattered applause from the next room drew me to a larger throng. I drifted over, found scores of eyes trained forward on the hundred-inch projection TV the hotel provided for presidents.

Skin flicks flashing larger than life. Bodies squishing and squirming and slapping in time to an asthmatic sax score. The men around me gaped and pretended to be casual. I wandered away, got more food, stood to the side, chewing and wondering what the hell I was doing there, why I just didn’t wipe my mouth and leave.

A pathologist I knew sauntered by with a whiskey in his hand.

“Hey,” he said, eyeing the screen. “Aren’t you the guy who’s supposed to explain why we do this?”

“You’ve obviously mistaken me for an anthropologist.”

He chuckled. “More like paleontologist. I’ll bet cavemen painted dirty pictures. How about we videotape this and show it at Grand Rounds?”

“Better yet,” I said, “at the next gala fund-raiser.”

“Right. Ten-inch cocks and wet pussies – better have oxygen ready for Mrs. Prince and all the other biddies.”

A roar from the wide-screen crowd made both our heads swivel. Then a sharp peal – flatware on glass, shouts for quiet, and the vocal buzz faded out, isolating the thump-thump of the porn soundtrack. Moans continued to thunder in stereo. A woman’s voice urged, “Fuck it – fuck me,” and nervous laughter rose from the audience. Then a tight, abrasive silence.

A thickset, ruddy man holding a nearly full beer mug – a financial officer named Beckwith – stepped into the space between the two front rooms. His eyeglasses had slid down his meaty nose, and when he righted them beer splashed and foamed on the carpet.

“Go, Jim!” someone shouted.

“Get a neuro workup, Jim!”

“That’s why pencil pushers can’t be surgeons!”

Beckwith staggered a bit and grinned. “Here, here, gentlemen – and I do use the term loosely – Look at what we’ve wrought – is this a goddamn blast or what !”

Cheers, hoots, nudges, bottoms up.

“ You’re sure blasted , Jim!”

Beckwith rubbed his eyes and his nose, gave a one-armed salute, splashed more beer. “Since all of us are such serious, no-nonsense citizens – since we’d never dream of abandoning God and spouses and country and moral obligation except for the direst emergency” – raucous laughter – “thank God we’ve got ourselves one hell of an emergency, brethren! Namely the impending sentencing – uh, matrimony of our esteemed – steamed- up – buddy, the eternal, infernal, nocturnal Dr. Phil Harnsberger, wielder of the radioactive cancer-killer beam, better known to all of us as El Termina dor , aka He Who Lurks Behind the Lead Door ! Come on out, Phil – where are you, boy ?”

No sign of the groom.

Beckwith cupped his hands into a megaphone. “Paging Dr. Deathray! Dr. Deathray to center stage, stat . Come on, Phil, show yourself, boy!”

Chants of “Phil, Phil, Phil, Phil…”

Then: “Here he is!”

Thunderous ovation as the crowd rippled and Phil Harnsberger, clutching a martini glass, was expelled from its midst and shoved next to Beckwith.

Balding and normally pallid, with a pink-red mustache demeaning his upper lip, the radiotherapist was flushed incandescent. His smile was a paranoid smear, and he seemed on the verge of tipping over. He had on a black T-shirt so grossly oversized that it skirted past the knees of his slacks. A yellow cartoon silk-screened across the front portrayed a hefty, leering bride gripping a leash that tethered a pint-sized groom prostrate before a hanging judge and looming scaffold. A bold legend protested: I Dint Kill No One, Yer Honor, So Why the Life Sentence?

Beckwith slapped Harnsberger on the back. Harnsberger flinched and tried to down some martini. Most of the liquid ended up on his chin, and he wiped himself with his sleeve.

“Sterile procedure!” someone shouted. “Call the fucking JCAH!”

“Fucking germ culture – stat!”

Beckwith slapped Harnsberger again. Harnsberger labored at smiling.

“Hey, Phil, hey, old guy – and I do mean old – speaking of which, it’s about time you lost your cherry!” Stooping, Beckwith pretended to search for something on the floor, examined Harnsberger’s cuffs, finally straightened and picked the olive out of Harnsberger’s martini. “Ah, here it is! Turned green from disuse!”

Whoops from the crowd. Harnsberger smiled but hung his head.

“Phil,” said Beckwith, “you may be pathetic, but know we love you, big guy.”

Silence.

“Termina dor ?” said Beckwith. “Do you know it?”

Harnsberger muttered, “Sure, Jim-”

“You know what?” said Beckwith.

“You love me.”

Beckwith backed away. “Not so fast, Lone Ranger!” To the crowd: “Don’t ask, don’t tell is okay for those fruits in the Navy, but maybe someone should inform the bride !”

Harnsberger flushed. Wild laughter. Beckwith closed back in on his target, going nose to nose. “Seriously, Phil, you’re sure you’re having a good time?”

“Oh, yes, absolutely-”

Beckwith reached around and delivered yet another backslap, hard enough to cause Harnsberger to drop the martini glass. Beckwith crushed the glass underfoot, ground the shards into the carpet. “Like the Jews say, mazel tav – happy batch-day, Phil. Sure hope you’re enjoying your last meal – er, last rites. Grub to your satisfaction?”

Harnsberger nodded.

“Get enough to drink?”

“Yes-”

“’Cause none of us want you pissed off and beaming that death ray of yours down at us, Philly.”

Shouts of agreement. Harnsberger simpered.

Beckwith said, “That’s also why none of us want to be around when you get the bill!”

Momentary panic in Harnsberger’s eyes. Beckwith slapped him again. “Scared you there, huh, boy? Nah, don’t get your co- jone -jones in an uproar, it’s all taken care of – lifted it out of patient funds.” Beckwith rubbed an index finger against a thumb and winked. “Sorry. No kidney transplants for Medi-Cal patients this month!”

Peals of merriment.

Beckwith took hold of Harnsberger’s arm. “And now, for the pièce de résistance, Phil. Pieces. So to speak – Sure you’ve eaten enough?”

“I’m sure, Jim.”

“Well…” Beckwith grinned. “Maybe not.” He flourished an arm. Nothing happened for a moment; then the lights dimmed and music surged from behind the giant TV. Warp-speed disco beat, louder than the porn score.

The crowd parted, and two women in long black trench coats pranced into the clearing. As Beckwith slipped from view they positioned themselves on either side of Harnsberger.

Young women – tall, shapely, coltish, stepping high on spiked heels. Wide-smiling – tossing the smiles as if dispensing candy – they rotated their hips, thrust their pelvises, made the exaggerated moves of trained dancers. Long mass of coal black hair on one girl. Her partner’s coif was white-blond, boy-short, gel-spiked.

Synchronized butt shakes as they flanked Harnsberger, rubbed his neck, kissed his cheek, bumped his hips. A pair of tongues flicked the radiotherapist’s ears, now crimson. His face was polluted with arousal and fear.

The girls stomped and shouted, stroked their crotches, pretended to go for Harnsberger’s fly, threw back their heads and pantomimed openmouthed laughter, began shoving him gently between them – back and forth, the way baby jackals play with a rabbit.