Bad Chili Read Free

Now.”
    The kid sidled over to the knob, peeled off the gum, put it into his mouth, slid back into the chair beside his mother. If he had been a cobra, he’d have spat venom at us. Leonard and I went out.
    As Leonard drove, I said, “You got to feel sorry for a kid like that. Raised with those kind of attitudes.”
    Leonard didn’t say anything.
    “I mean, he’s off to a bad start. He doesn’t know any better. You talkin’ to him like that, that’s a little much, don’t you think?”
    “I don’t feel sorry for him,” Leonard said. “I really was going to kick his nasty ass. I’m kinda hopin’ his mama brought him there to be put to sleep, like a sick cat.”
    “That’s not very nice,” I said.
    “No,” Leonard said. “No, it isn’t.”
3
    At the hospital they did some routine tests and put me in a cold room wearing what they referred to as hospital gown, which is pretty ludicrous. There you are sitting in the cold wearing a paper-thin sheet split up the back with your ass hanging out, and they call it a gown. You’d think they thought it ought to go with heels, maybe a nice hairdo and a brooch, a dinner invitation.
    Leonard sat in the room with me. He said, “You have the ugliest goddamn ass I’ve ever seen.”
    “Well, you’ve seen a few.”
    “That’s right, so my opinion is worth something.”
    “Not to me. And besides, it’s so bad, why’s the doctor always want to put his finger up it?”
    “Probably lost his high school ring last time he poked around in there. I figure he pokes a little deeper, he might find an old boyfriend’s rubber.”
    “That’s your game,” I said. “Dig in your ass, reckon they’ll find dog hairs.”
    We joshed around with that kind of adolescent bullshit for a while, then Leonard started trying to tell me about him and Raul again. About that time, Doc Sylvan came in and Leonard went out.
    “That insurance you got,” Doc Sylvan said. “We’re familiar with it. I made some calls to be sure. Sucks.”
    “Which policy sucks?”
    “Both of them. The oil rig policy will pay more in the long run, but it’s the short run that’s a bitch. The other policy seriously sucks the dog turd. You see, this is what they call outpatient business. You know, give you a shot, then you go home. Come back for an examination, another shot. You go home. But, if you go home, the policy has a five-hundred-dollar deductible.”
    “It’s going to cost that much?”
    “Time I get through, it may cost more. It’s not that it actually cost that much, but doing the shots here at the hospital makes it more expensive. And being a small city hospital, well, that gilds the lily.”
    “Then why didn’t we do it at your office?”
    “I told you why. Listen, what we’re gonna do is we’re gonna check you in for a few days here at the Medical Hilton.”
    “Won’t that be more expensive?”
    “Certainly. A lot more, but you do that, the offshore policy will pay eighty percent. The other policy will pay a bit.”
    “The one that sucks the dog turd?”
    “Right.”
    “You mean to tell me the policy won’t pay I go to the house, but it will pay I stay in the hospital and it’ll cost more?”
    “Now you got it figured. Between the two policies you come out only owing a few hundred bucks’ deductible. Policies might even overlap so you come out ahead, but I doubt it. You’ll owe something. It’s the way of the insurance and medical professions.”
    “I think I’m being snookered a bit so you can make some extra insurance money, that’s what I think.”
    “Considering you owe me a few past-due bills for a number of things, maybe you can live with that.”
    “How long have I got to be in the hospital?”
    “Way the policy works—”
    “The offshore or the dog turd?”
    “Both . . . I’d say seven or eight days.”
    “Ah, hell. You’re kiddin’?”
    “No, I’m not. You see, you take a shot now. Then you take one in seven days. That should be enough time to make