The Man Who Wasn't All There by David Handler (book recommendations website TXT) 📕

She glanced over at me expectantly.

I frowned. ‘What …?’

‘Nothing, darling. I was just hoping you had another dozen or so items on your list. But I’ll settle for whatever I can get.’

She dropped us at the main entrance to the hospital and kept on going. There was a great family-owned Italian market a few blocks from there, and she wanted to stock up on crusty bread, fresh mozzarella, sausage and whatever other goodies she could find. I encouraged her to take as much time as she wanted.

I had other business to take care of while I was there.

I found a wheelchair inside the front door, plopped Lulu down in it and pushed her down a maze of corridors to the elevator. Middlesex was a big hospital and Dr Eng’s office was much too long a walk for her to make on her bandaged paws. I did get my share of odd looks from people as I rolled her along. Clearly, they thought that I was crazy. I wasn’t bothered in the least. Authors are expected to be crazy. It’s one of the genuine perks of the profession.

Dr Eng examined my head wound and said it was healing nicely so far. She checked my pupil responses with her penlight. Then she ordered me to keep my eyes locked on hers while she held her hands out at arm’s length and asked me numerous times how many fingers she was holding up. I passed with flying colors.

‘And you say you have no headache this morning?’

‘None. And the dizziness is gone. I feel much, much better.’

‘That’s wonderful. But I still want you to take it easy. Get plenty of rest. Take walks to keep up your stamina, but no strenuous exercise for another week. And be mindful of your balance.’

‘When can I start driving?’

‘You’re an intelligent, self-aware man,’ she said, ignoring Lulu’s discreet cough. ‘You can start making short, local trips today. But I’d stay off of the highway for a while. There’s too much happening too fast. Needless to say – but I’m going to say it anyway – if you feel even the slightest trace of dizziness you should pull over, find a pay phone and call your wife.’

‘Ex-wife. How long do these staples have to stay in?’

‘Another week or so.’

‘I intend to be back in New York City by then.’

‘In that case your primary care physician can remove them.’

I thanked her for taking such good care of me, wheeled Lulu to the nurses’ station and asked where I could find Truman Mainwaring.

Truman was up on the fourth floor in a sunny private room. Not that he knew it. He was deeply sedated, his left shoulder and clavicle heavily bandaged. He was young, in his late twenties, and wore his long blond hair in a ponytail.

Skip Rimer, who was also in his late twenties, was seated in a chair next to him, reading a collection of essays by Edward Abbey. When I wheeled Lulu in, Skip looked up with an expression on his face that was unfriendly, bordering on hostile. He was a clenched fist of a Yushie with curly black hair, a three or four-day growth of beard and power lifter biceps that he was so proud of he’d cut the sleeves off of his Man’s Man magazine sweatshirt and adorned his bulging muscles with barbed wire tattoos, which was a hot new look among New York City’s Young Urban Shitheads, both gay and straight.

‘Want something?’ he demanded, sticking his stubbly chin out at me.

‘I was downstairs having my head wound attended to. Just thought I’d stop by and see how Truman is doing. I’m Stewart Hoag.’

His eyes widened. ‘The writer?’

‘I’m a writer. I don’t know if I’m the writer.’

Skip’s face broke into a grin. ‘Damn, you talk exactly like you write,’ he said as he stood up and shook my hand. He was a short stack, no more than five feet six, but he had one hell of a handshake. ‘I’m a huge admirer of Our Family Enterprise. I keep hoping you’ll write another novel.’

‘You and me both.’

‘You found that nut job’s body, didn’t you? Had been trapped in some kind of root cellar all night.’ He glanced down at the wheelchair. ‘Wow, this must be the famous Lulu.’ He reached down and patted her head. She sat up, sniffed his fingers with intense interest for a moment before she settled back down, totally calm. Evidently, it wasn’t Skip who’d followed us to the top of the mountain that day. Then again, it was possible that she was playing it cool, which she’s been known to do. Crafty. She’s crafty.

‘That homicide lieutenant, Tedone, told me her paws got messed up really bad tunneling you out of there. Is she going to be OK?’

‘The vet thinks so.’ I glanced over at Truman. ‘How about him?’

Skip grimaced, his eyes moistening. ‘The bullet shattered Tru’s clavicle. A surgeon had to piece it back together with all sorts of pins and screws. It’ll be a while before we know if he’ll regain full mobility and strength in his shoulder. Are the doctors out here any good?’

‘They know what they’re doing. I wouldn’t worry about that.’

‘Let me tell you, bro,’ he said. ‘You have no idea how lucky you are.’

‘Not feeling very lucky right now.’

‘No, you are. Total strangers don’t hate you on sight.’

‘That’s true. They usually wait until they get to know me better.’

‘Gay people don’t choose to be gay. We just are who we are.’

‘And Austin Talmadge was who he was – a highly unstable delusional psychotic.’

‘As if I give a damn,’ Skip shot back furiously. He gazed over at Truman, who remained fast asleep, before he turned back to me, softening. ‘Hey, listen, if you ever feel like writing an article for my magazine, I’d love to publish it. Your name on the cover of Man’s Man would give our marketing and sales people a major thrill. We’re mostly about extreme fitness. But we also do