On the Ropes: A Duffy Dombrowski Mystery by Tom Schreck

thing in all of life that could possibly approach doing a couple’s session with the Abermans on the boredom meter was having to write notes about it. I was trying to think how to write the psychobabble term for chronic nag when the phone rang.
    “Duff, it’s Rudy.” In addition to being my landlord and co-conspirator when it came to bullshit disabilities, Rudy also made rounds at Crawford Medical Center, which everyone called CMC.
    “What’s up, Rude?” I asked.
    “I wanted to give you a heads-up,” Rudy’s voice was all business, which wasn’t like him. “You’re Mikey the gay guy’s caseworker, aren’t you?”
    “Is he in detox again?” The way these guys went in and out of the hospital made me crazy.
    “No, Duff.” Rudy got quiet. “Somebody worked him over pretty good. He’s in ICU.”
    “Worked him over?”
    “Somebody beat him to within inches of death. He’s not conscious,” Rudy said.
    “Holy shit …”
    “Yeah, I know,” Rudy exhaled hard. “He doesn’t have anybody, does he?”
    “No, the family deserted him a long time ago.”
    “Look, Duff, with the way things are here, it would be nice if someone showed Mikey some attention.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “The administrator here, Broseph, is a real bastard. With someone like Mikey with no insurance or crummy Medicaid, the hospital is likely to lose a ton of money. He’s been all over my ass to discharge guys no matter what shape they’re in.”
    “You just said Mikey was in rough shape,” I said.
    “It doesn’t matter.” Rudy raised his voice just a little. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. The last time I kept a guy like Mikey longer than Broseph wanted me to, he wrote me up—I’m on thin ice here. He hates anyone with bad insurance.”
    “That’s fucked, Rudy,” I said. “I’ll be right up.”
    I started to put the files away and felt myself slam the cabinet drawer hard enough that it got Trina’s attention.
    “Hey—are you all right?” Trina asked.
    “No,” I said.
    I’m not a big believer in peace and love and all that shit, but I don’t understand it when people cause harm to someone who isn’t even bothering them. Every now and then some assholes go into Jefferson Park with the idea of “rolling fags.” Fuckin’ cowards hurt people for no other reason than because they hate gay people. Another fuckin’ way of labeling people so that they have no value, only this shit is another step into evil. The fact that once a guy got the shit beat out of him his health depended on which insurance plan he signed up for was beyond ludicrous. This Broseph asshole sounded like a real charmer.
    I was getting ready to leave when the phone rang again. It was Dr. Gabbibb. Dr. Gabbibb was a piece of work. He’s Indian, five foot two, and very dark. It’s very difficult to understand him, and because he’s so fucking arrogant, he refuses to repeat himself. He also has some sort of Tourette’s-like affliction, so when he’s talking, he’ll suddenly blurt, “DAT, DAT, DAT, DAT, DAT, shit.” After each one of those episodes, he’ll say, “excuse me,” like he just had a tickle in his throat or something. I had to talk to him frequently because the detox sent us lots of cases and the conversations would go something like this:
    “Allo, Doofy? Dees is Doctor Gabbibb at the datox.”
    “Yes, doctor,” I’d say.
    “I dave un clynt to send at you for treatment now,” Gabbibb would say.
    “Excuse me, doctor,” I’d say.
    “DAT, DAT, DAT, DAT, shit! … excuse me,” he’d say and hang up.
    I just got in the habit of agreeing to whatever he said and then calling his secretary to find out what was up.
    Gabbibb worked a ton of hours because he was a research oncologist in addition to his duties as the detox medical director. Technically he may have been very good, but his social skills and bedside manner were the worst. I don’t know if it was a cultural thing or what, but I never met a