Chapter 9 Chapter nine

I woke up suddenly, and my consciousness suddenly recovered with a roar.I'm lying on a hospital bed. That was the first hit.The second arrived shortly after, and I found out it was Wednesday.After raising my third glass of wine on Sunday night, I don't remember anything. Over the years I've had occasional memory loss.Sometimes it is the half hour before falling asleep, sometimes several hours.But I never forgot what happened for two full days. They won't let me go.I had been brought in the night before, and they wanted to put me in total seclusion for five days without alcohol.

Says one intern: "The alcohol is still in you. You're going around the corner to drink within five minutes of leaving the hospital." "No, I will not." "You just came out of detox here two weeks ago. The hospital has your records. We just got you off the alcohol, how long did you last?" I said nothing. "Do you know how you were sent here last night? You were convulsing and convulsing. Have you ever had one before?" "No." "Well, you're going to have another fit. If you keep drinking, you're bound to have another fit. Not every time, but sooner or later. You're going to die from it. Unless you die of something else first."

"Shut up." He grabs my shoulders. — Stick School · E Book Group — "No, I ain't shutting up," he said, "Why the hell am I shutting up? I can't be polite, considerate of your feelings, and keep you from talking nonsense. Look at me, listen to me. You An alcoholic. If you drink any more, you're dead." I am silent.He has planned.I had to quarantine for ten days without alcohol.Then go to Smither Rehabilitation Center for twenty-eight days of treatment.He dropped the latter plan when he learned I didn't have health insurance or the $2,000 needed for rehab.But he still insisted that I stay in the detox ward for five days.

"I don't have to stay," I said, "I'm not drinking." "Everyone says that." "I mean it. If I don't agree to stay, you can't force me. You have to release me." "If you leave the hospital in this way, you are in violation of the regulations of the American Medical Association and against the doctor's orders." "Then I'm leaving the hospital too." For a moment, he looked angry.Afterwards, he shrugged. "Whatever you want," he said lightly, "next time you'll listen to the doctor."

"There won't be a next time." "Oh, there's bound to be a next time, well," he said, "unless you were closer to another hospital when you hit the ground, or died before you got here." They also gave me a mess of clothes from rolling in the street with blood on my shirt and coat.I was bleeding from the wound on my head when they brought me in and they gave me a few stitches.I had apparently hurt my head in convulsions, or had failed in an earlier adventure.I have enough cash on me to pay for medical bills.It was a small miracle. It had rained in the morning and the streets were still wet.I stood on the sidewalk and my confidence began to slowly drain.There is a bar just across the street.I have enough money in my pocket to buy a glass of wine, and I know it will make me feel better.

Instead, I went back to the hotel.I mustered up the courage to walk up to the front desk to receive my emails and messages, as if I had done something shameful and should apologize to the front desk clerk. The worst part is that I have no idea what I did during my amnesia.The waiter's expression was the same as usual.Maybe during the period when I lost my memory, I mostly stayed in my room and drank alone.Maybe I haven't been back to the hotel since Sunday night. Once upstairs, I ruled out the second possibility.Apparently I came back sometime on Monday or Tuesday because I had finished the bottle of Dante bourbon and there was a half bottle of Jim Beam on the chest of drawers next to the empty bourbon bottle.The label on the bottle indicated it was purchased from a liquor store on Eighth Avenue.

I thought to myself, well, this is the first test.Do you drink, or do not drink.I poured the rest of the wine down the sink, rinsed the two bottles, and threw them in the trash. The mail is full of spam.I throw them all away and check my message. Anita called Monday morning. Someone named Jim Faber called on Tuesday night and left his number. And Chance called last night and this morning respectively. I took a long shower, shaved carefully, and changed into clean clothes.I threw away the shirts, socks and underwear I wore from the hospital and put the suit aside.Maybe a dry cleaner can clean it up.

I picked up the message and double-checked it.My ex-wife Anita.Chance, the pimp who killed Kim Duckinen.There was also a man named Faber.I don't know anyone named Faber at all, unless he's an alcoholic I meet when I hang out drunk.I tore off the note with his phone number on it, and considered whether to go downstairs to make a call, or call the hotel switchboard for an outside line. If I hadn't poured out the half bottle, I could have a drink now. As a result, I went downstairs to the phone booth to call Anita.There was something odd about this conversation.As always, we are careful to be polite.After our first bout like a pro, she asked me why I was calling her.

"I was just returning your call," I said, "Sorry for the delay." "Return my call?" "There was a message saying you called on Monday." After a moment of silence, she said, "Matthew, we were on the phone Monday night. You called me back. Don't you remember?" I felt a chill, like someone had drawn chalk across a blackboard. "Of course I remember," I said, "but somehow this note ended up in my mailbox again. I thought you called me again." "No." - Stick School · E Book Group - "Must have dropped the note and some well-meaning fool put it back in my mailbox and now I'm getting it again thinking it's another phone call."

"That must be the case." "Of course," I said, "Anita, I had a few drinks when I called you that night. My memory is a bit fuzzy. Can you remind me of what we talked about so I don't miss something." We talked about straightening Mickey's teeth, and I told her to take another approach.I promised her to remember this part of the conversation.do you have anything else?I said I would send some more money soon, more money than I sent a while ago, and the cost of braces for the child would be no problem.I told her I remembered that part too, and she said that was all.Of course, I also talked to the kids.Oh yes, I said to her.I remember talking to the children.that's it?Well, so my memory isn't that bad, is it?

After hanging up the phone, I was shaking badly.I sat there trying to recall the conversation she was describing, but to no avail. There was a blank space between the time I had my third drink on Sunday night and the time I was in the hospital shaking off my hangover. Everything, everything, is gone. I tore and tore the note, and put the pieces in my pocket.I read another message.The phone number Chance left was the number of his contact station.I called the Chengbei Branch.Durkin wasn't there, but they gave me his home phone number.He sounded confused when he answered the phone. "Give me a minute, I'll light a cigarette," he said.When he picked up the phone again, his voice returned to normal. "I was watching TV," he said, "I fell asleep watching it. What did you think, Scudder?" "That pimp's looking for me. Chance." "How to find you?" "By the phone. He left me a number to call him. It's his phone point. So he's probably in town, if you want me to lure him out—" "We're not looking for him." For a moment I thought I must have been talking to Durkin during the amnesia period, and I couldn't remember who called whom.But as he went on, I realized that wasn't the case. "We took him to the police station for questioning," he explained. "We issued an arrest warrant, but he came to the door and brought a slick lawyer with him, and he was slick." "You let him go?" "We had no fucking reason to detain him. He had an alibi from six hours before his estimated time of death to seven or eight hours after that. The alibi looked airtight and we haven't found a hole yet. Help The clerk who checked Charles Jones into the hotel couldn't tell what he looked like. I mean he couldn't even tell if the man was black or white. He had a vague idea that it was a white man. How can you give this material to the magistrate's prosecutor? " "He could have hired someone to rent that room for him. The big hotels don't pay attention to who goes in and out." "You're right. He can hire someone to rent a room for him. He can also hire someone to kill her." "That's what you think he did?" "I wasn't hired to think. I know we can't fix that son of a bitch." I thought for a moment: "Why did he call me?" "how could I know?" "Does he know that I led you to him?" "I didn't say anything." "Then what does he want from me?" "Why don't you ask him?" It was very hot in the phone booth, so I opened the door a little to let in some air. "Maybe I will." "Of course. Scudder, don't meet him in the dark alley, you know? If he wants to harm you, then you have to be careful." "Okay." - Stick School · E Book Group - "If he really wants to deal with you, just leave me a signal, okay? It's all done on TV." "I'll do my best." "Smart code," he said, "but don't be too witty, you know? Gotta get me to the point." I dropped a dime and called his contact station.The woman with a hoarse voice like a smoker said, "8092, who are you looking for?" I said, "This is Scudder. Chance called me and I'm calling back." She said she should be able to reach him soon and asked for my phone number.I told her and went upstairs and sprawled on the bed.About an hour later, the phone rang. "This is Chance," he said, "thanks for returning my call." "I just saw your message about an hour ago. Two messages." "I want to talk to you," he said, "in person." "Ok." "I'm downstairs, in your lobby. I thought we could have a drink or coffee nearby. Can you come down?" "it is good."