A Man Named Doll by Jonathan Ames (rocket ebook reader .txt) 📕

weight of everything, I slumped into my reading chair and George got on my lap.

“Are you all right?” Monica asked.

“I’m okay,” I said. “I’m really sorry I didn’t call,” and even though she was upset, she looked, as she always did, so easy in her body, at home in her body, like all the parts were connected, not fighting each other. She was wearing faded brown corduroy pants and a green corduroy jacket, and she looked beautiful. Her soft brown hair was pulled back tight, showing her cheekbones, and her green eyes were clear, letting you all the way in, hiding nothing.

“You don’t look okay,” she said. “Did the doctor say your face would get this bad? All swollen and sticking out?”

“It’s not supposed to look like this, but I got reinjured.”

“What? How’d that happen?”

“I’ll try to explain…it’s complicated…but let’s take George for a walk. He hasn’t had a real walk all day.”

We took the usual route—up to Glen Holly and back—and I gave Monica a super-abridged version of what had gone down:

Lou had been shot by an unknown assailant and given me a diamond to sell for his daughter. The same cops who handled the spa case showed up, took me in, and Lusk Sr. worked me over. I got put back together at Presbyterian and then went and retrieved my car. Then I’d spent a good part of the day downtown, selling the diamond, and I apologized for not calling or texting, but I’d been having trouble with my phone. So that’s what I told her, which meant I left out everything else, like dead blondes, dead realtors, black-market organ transplants, and some doctor named Madvig who killed his wife twelve years ago.

But even the abridged story upset Monica. She wanted me to sue the cops, and she was pissed at me for not spending the day in bed.

“You’re right,” I said. “I’ve not been smart,” which was as close to honesty as I could get, and when we came back to the house and went through the gate, George darted at something and put it in his mouth. I tried to get it out, but whatever it was he’d already swallowed it. He was always finding little berries and things, and for the most part I trusted him to know what he should eat or not eat, but as we started up the steps, he began to choke and was twisting his head from side to side, violently.

I picked him up, and he was gasping bad. “George, are you okay?”

“What’s wrong with him?” Monica asked, scared.

“I don’t know,” I said, starting to panic. “Let’s get him inside. It’s too dark out here. He’s choking on something!”

I handed Monica the keys and we ran up the steps, and George was convulsing in my arms, and Monica went in first and I followed her.

In the living room was Dr. Madvig; a tall young man with dark hair and a .22 in his hand; and Dodgers Hat, who was pointing a very large .38 right at Monica.

“Close the door, Mr. Doll,” said Madvig, and George went very still in my arms.

21.

“What did you do to him?” I shouted at them, enraged. My beautiful boy.

“No more barking now,” said Dodgers Hat, and he gave me a hideous smile: his underbite jutted out monstrously, like a birth injury that had never been corrected.

“I’m gonna kill you,” I said to him, impotent, and he just smiled at me some more and then pointed his gun at my head. The .38 scared me, but it was better than having it pointed at Monica.

“Put the dog on the couch, Mr. Doll,” said Madvig, all calm. “We just want to talk to you. No one will get hurt.”

But I didn’t move. I was stubborn and confused, George was dead in my arms, and Monica said, scared, “What’s going on, Happy?”

“It’s going to be okay, Monica,” I said, and everyone in the room knew I was lying.

“Put the fucking dog on the couch,” said the dark-haired one, who I figured was Madvig’s oldest son, John; his only living son. Then he swung his gun to Monica’s temple to emphasize his point. They liked pointing their guns at her.

“Okay, okay…don’t do anything stupid,” I said. This one looked jumpier than Dodgers Hat, more impulsive, and I walked over to the couch—my back was to all of them—and I lay George down right where Lou had died the night before, and nothing felt real, except one thing: because of me, George was dead.

Then I slowly put my hand on Lou’s gun in my pocket, thinking maybe I could do it. Maybe I could get my gun out fast and shoot them all and not hurt Monica.

But I knew it was foolish and I hesitated and then something loomed up behind me, and before I could turn fully, Dodgers Hat chopped the back of my head with the handle of his .38 and sent me to the floor.

Monica screamed and Madvig’s son grabbed her violently, put his hand over her mouth to keep her from screaming more, and I tried to get to my feet, to get him off her, but I couldn’t push myself up—my body wasn’t working; my head was broken—and Madvig kneeled next to me and jabbed a hypodermic into my neck and I went completely prone; my face flat against the floor.

I could see their feet and I heard Monica scream again, she had somehow gotten loose from the son, and I had to get to her, but I just couldn’t, I couldn’t even lift my head, I was paralyzed, all my strength was gone, and then my eyes stopped working—I was sure they were open but I was blind—and then I slid from this world and the last thing I thought was: Please don’t hurt her.

Part III

1.

I woke up in a hospital bed.

I wasn’t fully conscious at first, but I slowly became aware that my wrists were cuffed to the railings on