Doctor's face was deep purple, his hard-on fading. He grabbed at sheets, tried to cover himself.
Snap.
'You little-' Doctor sprang up and came at him.
The guy was flabby, unhealthy. He pushed him on the chest and Doctor tumbled backward on the bed, ass to the camera.
Snap.
Doctor stood up again.
He put the camera away, smiled, and sauntered to the door.
'See you later, Dad.'
The next day there was a note on his bed.
What kind of car do you want?
He got two. A Jaguar XKE Roadstar for fun, a Plymouth sedan for when he didn't want to be noticed.
He drove them for a couple of weeks, let Doctor think that was it. Then walked, one afternoon, past the secretary, without even asking permission, opened the door marked private, went in and shut it behind him.
The fucker was at his desk, writing in a medical chart. He looked up, tried to look stern, put on the head- honcho look, but couldn't pull it off. Obviously scared shitless.
'What is it?'
'We have to talk. Dad.'
'Sure. Sit down.'
There was a cedar humidor full of cigars on Doctor's desk. Stupid for a heart surgeon, but the guy had never practiced what he preached anyway.
He stared at Doctor, took a cigar out, licked it, and lit it.
Doctor started to say something. Something parental. Then stopped himself.
'What do you want?'
Straight out with it, no 'son,' no pretending it was anything other than business.
He didn't answer, let an ash grow on the cigar, flicked it on the carpet.
Doctor clenched his jaw to keep from talking.
He blew smoke rings.
'Well, Dad,' he said finally, 'the pictures are in a safe place with instructions to open them if anything happens to me, so if you've been thinking that fucking me over will help you, forget it.'
'Don't be ridiculous. Harming you is the furthest thing from my-'
'Right.'
'Believe me, all I've ever wanted for you-'
'Cut the shit.' He leaned forward, dropped a gray worm of ash on the desk. On Doctor's charts. Picked up a chart.
'You can't look-'
'Why that?'
'It's confidential patient information.'
'Tough shit.'
Doctor sighed, put on a nicey-nicey tone: 'Listen, I know our relationship hasn't been-'
'Cut the shit, I said!' He said it loud. Doctor looked nervously at the door.
He leafed through the chart. No good pictures. Borrring. Put it down.
'The photos are in packets. Dad. One addressed to Mom, one to Or. Schoenfeld, one to Audrey's parents. I can do anything I want to.'
Doctor stared at him. His eyes got narrow.
Neither of them said anything for a while.
'What do you want?' Doctor finally said.
'Favors.'
'What kinds of favors?'
'Whatever I want.'
Doctor kept staring at him.
The cigar was starting to taste like shit. Fie ground it out on the shiny wooden surface of Doctor's desk, left the butt lying there like an old turd.
'Not a lot of favors. Dad. Just a few important ones.'
