The Case of the Cocaine Kidney
Harlan
Beauregard woke up. This was the first
of his problems. The second was that
there was an aching gap where his memory used to be. If this was a hangover, it was a hangover
with an accent and funny customs, as he was totally unfamiliar with it and
embarrassed by his unexpected discomfort.
He was wearing his pants, a sign that the night wasn‘t as fun as it
could have been. He quickly found his
wallet and keys, but not his cell phone.
He considered calling it before realizing that that plan was
fundamentally stupid in a room with no phone.
He had questions and a very full bladder, and he determined to empty the
latter before seeking answers for the former.
Harlan
determined that no, there was no toilet in the room, nor even a suitable
corner. Resigning himself to a dry run
to the nearest gas station, so to speak, he noticed the cooler at the foot of
his bed. Figuring his morning couldn’t
be much worse, he opened it without hesitation.
It was a kidney. The human kind,
minus the human. In disbelief, he lifted
it up. It was surprisingly dry for an
organ made to filter liquids, and more than that, cocaine was now pouring out
of it. He knew it was cocaine because
the haze of disbelief meant he tasted and snorted it, just to be sure. He was acting the part of a stupid man, until
the organ-packed powder gave him a boost.
Having seen too many movies, he started to worry and repacked the kidney. It might belong to someone far more important
than himself, and they’d likely want it back.
Examining himself, he found no traces of external blood or bone. Relieved, Harlan determined that he most
likely did not take the kidney by force.
Harlan
thought to himself, “I should probably find my phone.” Stepping into the hall with the cooler, a
police officer saw him, looked at him like a puppy seeing real bacon for the
first time, and called after him “You!
You’re in trouble!” Already
disgruntled and slightly coked up, Harlan ran out the exit directly beside
him. The cop realized he may have jumped
the gun. He was dating the desk
attendant, and often roused late check outs when he came to visit her. He considered chasing the running man, but was
simply too lazy.
As Harlan
ran, he realized that he had no idea where he was running. Feeling the wind like a Bob Seger song, he
slowed down to gather his fragmented thoughts.
First and foremost, he found a secluded corner and finally relieved
himself. He made a point of intensely
cherishing this moment, as he knew it was likely the first and last relief he’d
feel for a while. He then noticed the
homeless man curled up a yard away from his makeshift chamber pot. Having already expended any social
awkwardness, he demurely asked the man where he was. The homeless man, who was in fact a math
professor on paid leave to calculate the statistics of inconspicuous homeless
men being asked directions, was pleased to inform him. Harlan then checked his pockets. There was a bar napkin that smelled
distinctly of wine. Observing this, he
realized he had worked last night at his job as a bartender. The wine smell was different though, maybe
someone‘s private bottle. There might be
some answers at work.
Harlan
realized that he was pretty close to the bar, One Eyed Jack’s. It was a bar, owned by a woman named Jacki,
who found infinite delight in the cleverness of the name of her bar. Harlan had good rapport with its seedy
patrons. It may have been a dive, but
everyone liked a nice guy. He now knew
that he worked last night, and would start looking for clues there. He took off to the location where he started
his night, in hopes of ending his morning and getting the kidney back to its
owner/host.
Upon
arriving at his place of work, he was struck by the fact that a bar wasn’t open
at 11 a.m. He found it rude that Jacki
would deny service to those in need, specifically those in need of a booze fix
in the early morning. Those alcohol
shivers could be killer. He let himself
in with his key, and investigated the bar.
Jacki wasn’t in. The room smelled
like pomade and latex. There were rubber
gloves on the ground. On the back
counter, there were traces of cocaine from the night before. Someone must have brought some, because
neither he nor Jacki could usually afford it.
Harlan realized that he could find answers here, and they may have to do
with the drugs and gloves.
He went up
to Jacki’s apartment, located above the bar, and knocked. He wasn’t worried about disturbing her, as
she once overdosed on speed to a degree that the side effect was a rare and
erratic sleep pattern, with the consistency and time signature of the bass-line
in a progressive rock song. She was
never asleep for long, and never too irritated to be awoken. She came to the door with a gun in one hand
and a breakfast burrito in the other.
She had both eyes, unlike her name.
She used to be a blond bombshell, which was now coincidentally the name
of her pet revolver. Harlan alerted her that it was only him, and that the
burrito was dangerous when loaded. “What’s
in the cooler?” she asked. Harlan
briefly wore a harried look and told her, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told
you, so I won’t tell you.” She believed
him.
“Funny
stuff, Harlan. What do you want?” “Do you remember what happened to me after
work last night?” Jacki thought while
taking a bite of burrito. Energized by
the sudden rush of tortilla to her system, she outlined Harlan’s night. “Your shift was supposed to end around 9:30,
but I wasn’t in the bar. I was out back
all night, mediating a protection dispute between the Triad goons and the Mafia
goons.” Harlan believed it, as the
neighborhood was diverse and Jacki was known for behaving like a den mother to
some of the more wayward hoods that frequented her bar. “OK,” thought Harlan, “I’ll check my call log
on her computer and call the numbers on it.”
“OK,” said Harlan deliberately, “I need to check my call log on your
computer and call the numbers on it.”
Jacki thought that line sounded oddly rehearsed, but she was eagerly
looking forward to get back to cleaning Blond Bombshell and eating her
burrito. “Sure, Harlan. Computer’s in the living room.”
Harlan went
to the website of his phone plan provider.
Due to an obscure clause in the PATRIOT Act, it was now able to keep
track of every number and photo saved, sent, or received by its customers. Harlan quickly jotted down the 4 numbers he
had been in contact with after his shift ended.
He decided it was time to play detective. He refilled the ice in the kidney chest,
debated taking another hit of cocaine, decided against it, and said bye to
Jacki. He headed to the local
convenience store to buy a phone. To his
pleasure, there was a sale on burner phones (Twice the suspicious activity,
half the cost!). Counting this as a
blessing and as a sign to find a job outside of this area, Harlan began making
calls.
The first
number was a pizza place. Things were
off to a greasy start. Harlan had no
idea why he had called that number, as he hadn’t eaten pizza in months. If his investigation went dry, he’d have to
search there. The next two were wrongs
numbers for the third, which was his friend Jay. Harlan felt silly that in this modern age of
technology, he had become so complacent that he couldn’t be bothered to
memorize his friends’ phone numbers, something he had apparently been trying to
do last night. Harlan was struck by the
realization that he must have been under some kind of influence. When he was on something or drunk, he liked
to challenge his memory with simple tasks, like remembering phone numbers. He usually failed. This moment of introspection and examination
ended quickly though, as technology had also sapped his attention span. “Jay!
Did I call or text you about drugs at all last night?” Jay answered, “Yeah, you said you made drinks
for Drug Dealer Dave.” “The local drug
dealer?” asked Harlan. “Yes, that’s the
one.”
Harlan
considered this. No one liked to
irritate Drug Dealer Dave, who was know to come into One-Eyed Jack‘s on
occasion. Not only because he was a drug
dealer, but because he ran an animal shelter, which gave him access to the
cutest, furriest hostages available. Jay
continued his tale, “Yeah, he showed up right as you were leaving. You told me all this, and saying that you
were gonna bail on hanging out to stay for a bit and bartend for him, to score
brownie points.” Brownie points in this
context were delicious boxes of imported candy.
Drug Dealer Dave owned the only foreign confectionary shop in the
county, Der Kandy Bop. Dave believed
that a man with diversified financial interests was a man to be feared, and he
also believed he should stop buying investment property while under the
influence. “I bet I mentioned someone
else being with him,” stated Harlan. “Yeah,
that there were 4 guys with Dave. They
were taking turns playing the bar piano and making cracks about student debt.” Harlan thought to himself that these new
associates sounded far classier and had finer motor skills than Dave’s normal
partners. Maybe it was another new
business venture.
In any case,
it was clear that to solve this mystery, Harlan would have to make his way to
Der Kandy Bop to see Dave. Dave always
spent his days there, as it was an unassuming base with plenty of sugary snacks
to bribe the police with. The local
force had preferred candy to donuts ever since carbohydrates had become the
dietary bogeyman. Corruption tends to
breed selective dietary restrictions.
Harlan realized that if he had been with Dave last night, then Dave
would have some answers. He could explain
the funny smells and drugs, at least. “I’ll
just go see him myself,” said Harlan, “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
Using the
clues he had gathered, Harlan was off to discuss organs and opiates. He also made sure he had enough pocket change
for some butterscotch, as it was delicious.
Making his way to Der Kandy Bop, he realized he’d have to bluff his way
past the clerk at the counter. The store
hired ex-cons as both a tax break and a good way of getting thugs and henchmen
to move product and act as enforcers.
Upon entering the store, the clerk looked up from his copy of Popular
Mechanics and demanded “What‘s in the cooler?”
Harlan thought it strange that a clerk would yell at a customer right
away, but attributed it to the pervasive Western European atmosphere of the
store. “It’s product for Dave,” replied
Harlan. “What kind of product?” asked
the clerk. Harlan, thinking outside the
box and back to the smell of pomade that had filled the bar, took a shot in the
dark and stated “Hair product.” The
clerk knew his boss loved to have a pompadour, and would not want Dave’s mood
to fall like his hair would. The cooler
must mean that the product was expensive.
“Go through
the back door,” muttered the clerk, “just don’t take any free samples.” Though Harlan’s burning desire for
butterscotch was now quashed, he carried on through the back. He had made remarkable progress on this
mystery, glad he had put together the facts as he found them and would now get
answers. and was feeling the come down from the coke. He saw a door that said “KNOCK”, so he
did. A man came out who looked like a
dichromatic artists interpretation of a Velvet Elvis by way of a 1940s
adventure magazine cover. It was Drug
Dealer Dave. Harlan had spent his time
until this moment hoping that his bartending skills from the night before would
have given him leverage in this encounter.
He had failed to consider that Drug Dealer Dave might be the bad guy,
and the reason for his missing memory.
Harlan was suddenly aware of his serious vulnerability, and lack of
foresight. If he couldn’t resort to
violence, he could always resort to groveling.
“YOU,”
bellowed Dave. He took Harlan into a
headlock, and yanked him into the back room.
Harlan’s life flashed before his eyes, or so he thought until he
realized he was now just looking at a mural.
Forgetting everything for a minute, Harlan squelched out, “What’s that
mural?” Dave laughed and let him out of
the headlock. “My nephew painted that; I
fund young artists in the neighborhood.”
Harlan had recovered enough to realize that not only was he at the mercy
of Dave, but that he was now safe. He
also realized that Dave was either incredibly rich or financially
irresponsible, but it would be rude to ask.
“Where’s your security?” asked Harlan, again forgetting his important
quest. Dave looked at him the way one
looks at a grown-up who’s never eaten cotton candy would. “No one in the world is sick enough to rob a
candy shop. Kids shop here! I‘m totally safe.” Harlan was embarrassed for asking.
Dave
overlooked this faux pas. “I had
wondered if I was going to see you today, you were grateful last night and
mentioned more business.” Harlan was
glad he had been polite, but still puzzled.
He set down the cooler on a nearby table, opened it, and asked “Is this
your kidney?” Dave gave his organs a
quick feel, and shook his head. Harlan
poured a small line of coke onto the table and asked “Is this your cocaine?” Dave, who in his age and wisdom had seen far
stranger things, took a taste. “Yes it
is. And I figured it would be, since I
gave you a nice amount last night. You
were a hilarious bartender and just did great service, real Benihana stuff.”
Harlan was
struck by relief. Confused, paranoid
relief. This also explained the residue
of drugs at the bar. “It was a
gift? So we’re on good terms? I’m not gonna end up dead or arrested? What about the kidney?” Dave pondered a moment. He then pondered another moment. That moment involved a pond. Dave looked at Harlan and told him “Yes, it
was a gift. We exchanged numbers last
night, so we could do business. I gave
you the number to the pizza place that serves as one of my fronts.” Harlan now knew why he had called a pizza
place last night, and now knew never to order from there again. Dave continued. “You may get arrested or murdered, but not
from anything involving me. Who you
irritate on your own time is your business.”
Harlan was
even more relieved. The clues had led
him to resolution. This was the most
thinking he had done since he was learning long division. Then suddenly, he remembered, “What about my
memory? Why don’t I remember anything?” Dave gave him a look like one would look at
an emperor with no clothes. “You did
some of the coke last night. It amped
you up, you went overboard on the strong drinks and you wound up blacked-out
drunk. Really, at your age and in your
profession, you should know how that feels.”
Harlan realized he was an idiot.
Had they been there, the rest of the world would have applauded him for
finally catching on. His strange
hangover in the morning and the relative haze of last night were finally making
sense. It was all coming to a close.
Harlan had
one final question, one final mystery, one final twist before his tale was
over. “Who were your piano playing,
highly indebted student associates?”
Dave, bored of answering questions like a fortune cookie, gave the
explanation. “I’m getting into the black
market organ business. Obama-care has
made it harder to illegally profit from under the table surgeon operations, I
figured I’d buy out the businesses in the area and consolidate them. Those men last night were the med students we
recruit. A night on the town with booze
and drugs usually wins them over. They
do the illegal work so they can pay off their debts. Plus, it’s like I’m giving them a grant! They play piano to keep their dexterity
strong. These guys are future surgeons,
after all. Haven’t you ever wondered why
I always frequent One-Eyed Jack’s? Or
where Jacki got her speed?” Harlan’s
world was suddenly revealed to him in a way that hadn’t happened since the
first time he listened to Ziggy Stardust.
“So the
kidney is theirs? Why is the coke in it?” Dave responded, “I’d rather not jump to
conclusions. They’re two streets over at
my pizza front. I’ll ring them up after
you leave and they’ll tell you when you get there. Now leave and take your freaky drug kidney, I
want to work on a birdhouse.” Harlan got
the hint, and got out of there before he could wonder if the birdhouse was an
actual birdhouse or something more sinister.
Two blocks later, he was at the pizza front. To his surprise, it was actually named the
Pizza Front. He was starting to wonder
about the competency of his local government.
Inside, four guys in scrubs were waiting. Harlan walked in and sat down with them. They seemed to be expecting it.
Summarizing
the series of investigations that had brought him to the point the was at now,
he eagerly awaited their explanations.
He had considered adding a love story into his tale, but realized that
directness was more important than superfluous plot points added to keep all
demographics entertained. The lead med,
Fred, explained. “We were all
blitzed. We only remember parts of the
night. Here’s mine. The night was over, and Dave went home. We were fairly drunk, and decided to go for a joy ride in our
ambulance. We had a leftover kidney in
the back, as the intended receiver died before we could deliver it. They were stabbed taking the money out of the
ATM to buy the kidney. Cosmic mischief
at its finest, I guess. Any way, the
kidney expired, and we were just gonna give it to a dog.” Harlan was relieved to hear that he had
gotten a ride. It made sense that he was
so far from the bar. He never would have
gone to a motel on foot, much less one he didn’t know.
The second
med, Ed, chimed in. “Yeah, and you were
fascinated by it, ranting about how it looked like a holy bean. The Jack & Coke & Coke had done a
number on you. That’s what I remember.” Harlan realized “You thought it’d be a laugh
to keep the rest of the coke in it, as a keepsake, as a memento of the night!” The third med, Jed, took over the story. “Yeah, that sounds like us.” Harlan realized “Right after you filled it up, I must have
passed out.” Jed continued, “That motel
is where my sister works as a clerk. She
has a cop boyfriend that comes to see her in the morning.” Harlan was slowly piecing it together. “You
guys asked her to put me up for the night!
She gave you the key and some ice for the cooler!” Harlan now knew he was safe from the fuzz,
and suddenly felt cool. He also knew to
avoid that motel, as well.
The last
med, Red, finished the tale. “We took
you in, I think, put you on the mattress, and that was the end of that.” Harlan then got annoyed. “You left the cooler in there because we
thought it would be a riot to have me wake up next to it. You didn’t consider that I’d lose my
memory. You were all pretty messed up
too. You took off in the ambulance,” Red replied “I guess so. Your phone had fallen out of your pocket in
the ambulance.” Harlan made a note to
start carrying his phone on a chain.
Harlan was
in disbelief. It all made sick, sadistic
sense. Everything was explained. He had solved the mystery. He was safe.
He bid the boys goodbye, got his phone back from them, and went straight
home. He was going to spend the night
doing his kidney cocaine, and no one was going to stop him. He invited Jay over, and gave him a drugged
fueled apology for not knowing Jay’s phone number. Jay just rolled with it, and a great night
was had by all.
