All Maps Are Fiction Page 8

  “Hey, Aston, how’s things?” Diane answered, looking over Eric as he signed the electronic form.

  Eric jerked around. “Oh, ah, hi, Aston. Just refilling some allergy meds. See you back at the office.”

  When he was out of earshot, Diane said, “You know Eric Yates?”

  “Yep. He’s my new boss. Been working there a couple weeks. He’s kind of a friend, too, I guess.”

  Diane glanced over her shoulder to locate the other pharmacist, and leaned forward on the counter. “Please, tell me you’re not sleeping with him.”

  “What? I hardly know the guy. It takes more than a cup of coffee and a job offer before I climb into the sack. Come on—”

  “Okay, okay.”

  Through the store windows they watched Eric get into his car. “He’s not bad, though. Not my type. Just a friend.” Aston said.

  “Aston, you don’t need more friends.”

  “What’s with you? Friends are good. Friends are like, I don’t know, like pathways. Adventure.”

  “That’s the poet in your soul talking. Hey, look, I shouldn’t be saying anything. This could cost me my job,” Diane said as she lowered her voice and, again leaned forward on the counter. “But I just filled a script for him for some high-powered stuff that you don’t want any part of. That’s all I’ll say—and I’ll deny we ever had this conversation.”

  “What’s with the mystery? Come on, talk. We’re sworn blood sisters. Remember that needle and blood ceremony thing when we were ten years old?”

  Diane took a piece of scrap paper and scribbled the word, ‘Brymtuzi’. “Look it up, then burn this note.”

  “Christ girl, you’re scaring the shit out of me.”

  “Not a word or I could lose my license.”

  They watched Eric’s car leave the parking lot and Aston turned to Diane. “Okay, I owe you one. Here’s a bit of encouraging news. I’m seeing a bit of light at the end of my tunnel of poverty.”

  “You found a guy?”

  “Not exactly. We’re working on a crazy idea for a puzzle that leads to, let’s call it, buried treasure. So, what happens if another pirate finds the treasure before the one with the map?”

  “You’re not making a whole lot of sense, friend.”

  “We’re talking about creating a puzzle that looks like a treasure map that leads to a real treasure. Of course, we have to be sure the treasure’s there. And if it is, and if I’m the one who has to verify that, it just might be that the treasure, some of it anyway, ends up in the trunk of my car.”

  Diane smiled and rang up a customer’s purchase before she answered. “A couple of things here, pal. First, there’s a shitload of ethical questions to be answered. And second, you don’t own a car.”

  “Always the practical one. So, how’s your love life?”

  “Hey, you won’t believe this reporter guy, Mike. Turns out he’s even more honest than me. He was in Sharpies that night working on a story. Some crime thing. And I had actually been talking to one of the bad guys, which is why he cut in and introduced himself. Date night tonight and I just happen to have tomorrow off. And so does he.”

  “Zowie! Keep me in the loop on this one,” Aston said and headed for the door.

  Eric stared at the prescription stalking him from atop a stack of papers on his desk. A four-by-six inch piece of paper that offered false hope. “Waste of money,” he mumbled and reached out, intending to crumple it into a ball and toss it at the waste can in the corner.

  “What is?”

  He looked up to where Aston leaned against the door jamb. He had followed his father’s tradition and removed the office door years before. It was a visual sign to employees that he honestly meant his office was always open to them. Now, he wished he still had that door in place so he could be alone.

  “Oh, hi. Ah, I was just looking over the specs for some new packaging machinery we really don’t need. Every week we seem to have a logistics problem when it’s time to get the puzzles out the door. You know, people have to stop doing what they’re doing and wrap and pack the boxes. Ralph’s good, but one person can’t keep up. I thought one of those fancy robotic packaging machines might help. But it’s too expensive for a job that’s required maybe one or two days a week.”

  “Why not hire someone?”

  “Given the health care expenses, that’d cost more than the robot.”

  Without invitation, she slipped into the chair at the side of his desk, rested her elbows on her knees, and leaned toward him. “What about some of those people from the county program for adults with disabilities workshop over there in Twinsburg. We’d probably only have to pay them minimum wage. Insurance is handled by the agency, I think. They might not be fast, but they love to work, contribute to their own care.”

  “I don’t know, they’re well—”

  “Hey, maybe some of them can’t speak so great, but they can stuff envelopes, or put puzzles into boxes. Even a monkey can do that packing crap if you gave her enough bananas.”

  Eric smiled, drummed his fingers on his desk and looked at her. “I was afraid something good would come of hiring you. I’d give you a raise except you haven’t been here long enough. Make it happen. We can find space in the lunchroom for the days they’ll be here.”

  Aston smiled. “Then they’ll smell the food and, next thing you know, you’ll have to feed them, Boss.”

  “Gino, over at Faranachi’s is a high school buddy. We’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse.”

  “I’m on it, Boss.”

  Eric’s eyes followed her down the hallway. He re-examined the piece of paper with letters and words he could not decipher. Well, he thought, I suppose I could give it another shot. What’s a month? A month might give me time to get the paperwork in order around here. He rose from his chair, stared out the window, then walked to a picture on the wall. He straightened the framed photograph: Two young men, dressed in white T-shirts and baggy green pants. Behind them, palm trees and cactus gave no clue as to their location. Eric always assumed the photo had been taken someplace in Viet Nam, but his father never talked about the war. He stared at the man seated next to his father, Starke, dead in a plane crash shortly after they formed the business partnership. Who will take over the business when I’m dead? What if Starke was not really dead? He studied the picture more closely. Cactus. Do they grow cactus in Viet Nam?

  Chapter Seven

  As Eric walked back to his office, he shuffled through the blue message slips Katie had handed him. A new day but the same old problems. Of the seven messages, five were from his doctor at the clinic. He looked at Gabby’s folder where it rested on top of critical business papers. It stared back at him, asking questions. This puzzle idea was more complicated than he first thought. Was the treasure stuff even there, for starters. How could they finance a trip to who knows where, for whom, to look for what? And now the doctor’s office, with what, his death certificate that needed signing?

  The phone at the other end rang a dozen times. Eric was about to hang up when a voice said, “Doctor Hechtua’s office. How can I help you?”

  “Eric Yates. You’ve called here a half dozen times—”

  “Oh yes, Mister Yates. How wonderful to hear from you. Thank you so much for returning our calls. Doctor H wants to speak to you right away. Can you come in?”

  “Huh? When?” Eric’s first thought was that the receptionist sounded over-the-top friendly. She must have him confused with someone else. His second thought was that his condition had morphed into something even worse than first diagnosed, and he was going to die in the next fifteen minutes. “Ah, well, I run a business here and—”

  “Oh yes sir, we’re aware of that. And a great business it is, too. My parents just love those crossword puzzles you make—”

  “Jigsaw puzzles. We make jigsaw puzzles. What’s this about, anyway?”

/>   “Oh, well, all I know is that Doctor H needs to speak with you as soon as possible. The sooner the better. And bring your meds with you. Shall we see you this afternoon, then?”

  “Yeah, I guess. A couple hours, okay?”

  “Perfect Mister Yates. Perfect.”

  Eric dropped the phone on the folder and papers, and retrieved the vial of brown pills, hidden beneath a box of paper clips in the top drawer of his desk. He shook the bottle—three left—and slipped it into his pants pocket. His eyes drifted back to Gabby’s folder. How is this going to be fun?

  The receptionist sprang to her feet as Eric walked through the door. “Mister Yates! So good to see you. I’ll tell Doctor H that you’re here.”

  As she leaned over to pick up the phone a stethoscope she wore dropped to the desk and knocked over her coffee.

  “Oh shit!”

  Eric smiled. “Didn’t know you were a doctor, or a nurse, too.”

  She scurried to soak up the coffee. “I’m not. Doctor H wants me to wear this damn thing, so I appear more professional.”

  “Good thing you’re not a wrestler,” he said.

  “Say what? Oh, Doctor’s off the other line now. I’ll just buzz you through.”

  Doctor Hechtua was out of his chair, rounding the desk as Eric walked in. “Eric, so good to see you. How are you?”

  “You’re the doctor, you tell me.”

  “Ha, stupid question. Even we doctors say it all the time. Just a bad habit I guess, like others. Yes. Bad habit, yes. Well, have a seat, I have something we need to discuss.”

  “If I’m going to die in the next couple days make this fast. I have papers I need to get in order.”

  “Ha, on the contrary. You’ll recall, when we made your, ah, initial diagnosis, I said we had several options available. Well, one of those options was not exactly available at that time, but is an option, now.”

  “Sounds confusing.”

  “Let me explain. We’ve taken another look at your blood samples, the most recent ones, broadened our survey, so to speak, and, after some consultation with my colleagues, I’ve concluded you’re eligible for a special new program. It’s experimental and strictly up to you, but I think it would be to your benefit. There’s a new medication, from the same folks who make Brymtuzi. Works nearly exactly the same on your, ah, condition, however, without about ninety percent of the side effects. Slow but effective. Yes.”

  “Does it look like rat shit?”

  Doctor Hechtua sat straight in his chair, his fingers folded and unfolded on the desk blotter. He blinked several times. “Ah, no, not at all.” He reached into his desk drawer and withdrew a small vial of white, oval-shaped pills, each about a half inch long. “Quite clean and harmless. Well, what I mean is, harmless in the sense that it don’t, doesn’t, look like, ah, rat droppings, but is still able to attack the HIV issue.”

  Eric reached over and took the bottle from the doctor’s shaking hand. The label wrapped around the bottle and read: RZVAJINKPMORJF-UHFFFAOYSA-N on the top line, and C8H9NO2 HOC6H4NHCOCH3 on the second. “Is this English?”

  “Certainly. Like I said, it’s an experimental drug, not readily available at your local pharmacy. Well, most pharmacies. You can only get it from me, well, the company that makes it actually supplies me. And because of that, if you want to participate in this program, there would be no cost to you, or your insurance company.”

  “You sound nervous doc. Is this stuff safe or do you have to go to the bathroom? I won’t go howling at the moon, will I?” He thought he heard Aston’s voice coming through his comments.

  “Eric, Mister Yates, I’m sure this is perfectly safe. I’ll start you out with a week’s supply; maybe two weeks. You’ll come back in, we’ll test your blood to see if there’s any change, negative change, and if not, I’ll give you another two-week supply. Each time you come back we’ll test your blood before issuing more medication. But it’s important that you only get it from me.”

  “For the rest of my fucking life, regardless of how long it is.”

  “No, no. just until we see if we have the HIV issue under control. I’m guessing, well not really guessing since there are hundreds, thousands, of people, worldwide, already in this program, we will have good, positive, results within a year.”

  Eric stood and walked to the office window. Heat shimmered off the roof tops of cars in the parking lot. He thought of his previous day’s conversation with Aston and Gabby—and road trips.

  “You know anything about palladium, doc?”

  “Ah, no, not really. Strange question. What is it? How does that—”

  “Yeah, strange. It’s used in all those catalytic converters in all those cars sitting out there.”

  “Huh?”

  “Yeah. Something you never think about until you hear about it and then it makes you say, ‘huh.’ Okay, I’ll give this, whatever you call it, a shot. Can’t hurt. I still feel like a dead man walking.”

  “Oh no, you’re far from that.”

  Pat Travino exited her Honda Civic and kept an eye on Eric as he slipped into the contoured seat of the red Porsche 911. I don’t care what they say about sex appeal, I want one of those machines for the fucking power, she thought.

  “Nice ride,” she said as she stepped up to Eric’s car. “Looks fast when it’s sitting still.”

  “Thanks,” Eric said. He realized it was the same well-dressed woman he had seen in the clinic parking lot before. He tossed the bottle of pills into the armrest compartment between the seats.

  “Big bucks. Maybe, some day,” she said as she leaned closer to examine the dash array.

  Eric inhaled a deep breath, a fragrance he did not know, and studied her tailored suit and aged-leather briefcase. “Well, if you’re looking for a good driving car, you can always check out the Mazda MX5 Miata. Costs about one-fourth the price of this car, but comes with a large component of fun.”

  “Yeah, but it says ‘Mazda’ on the front, not ‘Super Cool’. You a doctor applying for a job here?”

  Eric smiled. “Not hardly. I’m a patient trying not to die too soon.”

  “Oh, well, you’re in good hands. I’m Doctor Pat Travino. I’m the boss here,” she said and offered her right hand.

  Eric finished attaching his seat belt and took her hand that featured a diamond as large as a dime. “Eric Yates. Patient of Doctor Hechtua.”

  “Ah, good. Especially good hands in that case. With a machine like this you’d want to live a long time. Best of luck to you, Eric.”

  Eric adjusted the sideview mirror to watch her walk into the building. Looks good coming or going, he thought.

  From his office window, Doctor Hechtua watched the exchange in the parking lot. Like a snake charming a bird out of a tree, he thought. His daydream was interrupted by a knock on the door.

  “Come on in Pat,” he said without turning toward the door. When she closed the door, he said, “That was the last of them. I think we’re in the clear.”

  “Bullshit.”

  He felt bits of spittle hit the side of his face even though she was four feet away.

  “He tossed the fucking pills into the glove compartment like he knew what they were, not what they’re supposed to be. He won’t take them, and he’ll get better. And we’ll be up shit creek.”

  Paul looked at the color rising on her neck. “Hold on, you’ll give yourself a stroke. I think he’ll follow the doctor’s orders. I’m not sure, but I sensed something different in his, ah, demeanor or something, since he was last in here. Can’t put my finger on it. Maybe it was less of that give-up-itis we see at the beginning. Let’s see how he looks and feels next week.”

  “I, we’ve, got a conference to go to. I hope you gave him enough of the stuff to keep him busy until we get back. And have you come up with any big ideas to keep this place afloat? We’re getting int
o serious financial stress, which you’d know about if you were in here every day.”

  He knew she wouldn’t wait for any answer because she knew there would be none.

  Aston paused as she approached Eric’s office. The lights were off. She continued into the lobby where Katie sat, reading the latest issue of Thrasher, Aston’s favorite skateboarding magazine.

  “Learning the lingo, huh?”

  “Yeah, so I can talk to my kids. It’s like a foreign language they use around the house, now. Don’t know how to thank you.”

  “Yep. Hey, is Eric around?”

  “Left about an hour ago. Should be back any minute now. Said he was coming back in an hour, maybe.”

  “No way to run a railroad, is it.” Aston stepped off the skateboard she enjoyed riding indoors, looked around and moved closer to the receptionist’s desk. “Hey Katie, let me ask you something. You think Eric’s feeling okay? Not sick or anything.”

  Katie glanced toward the doors to the shop floor as she stood and leaned on the counter. “Well, strange you should ask. I mean, I think he looks okay. Kinda tense or nervous, nothing out of the ordinary. But here’s the strange thing. He had about a half dozen calls from some doctor’s office this morning. He didn’t say what it was about and I didn’t ask.”

  Aston bit into her lower lip. “Huh. Well, you’re right, it’s none of our business, I guess. So, is Francie all set for another lesson tonight?”

  “Oh Christ, she hasn’t slept for two days and I had to threaten her with no iPad time for two weeks if she didn’t do her homework.”

  “Sounds good to me. See you two down at the skate park around six, then.”

  “She probably skipped school and is sitting on the curb down there, now, Aston. What’s a mother to do?”

  “Tell ya what, make her a deal. She skips the lesson tonight, does her homework, and we’ll do an all-girls day tomorrow. All day since it’s a Saturday.”

  Katie stood behind her desk. “You are too kind. That would be super. I think she’ll go for it. Thanks.”