“Where is this prick, anyway?” Chopper said.
“We early.”
“You got this, right? If he comes at us I don’t wanna be sittin’ here with my dick in my hand.”
Herzog continued to read the menu.
“They have one of them plant-based hamburgers supposed to taste like a real burger,” he said. “Ever eat one of those?”
“Fuck no.”
“I might give it a try. Comes with avocado.”
“They here.”
Herzog didn’t even turn his head to watch the two groups of men approaching.
“I see ’em,” he said.
He pretended to study the menu some more as the group coming from the south entrance of the pavilion, two black men and one white, separated and scattered themselves among the table and benches, effectively blocking any retreat in that direction. The other group came in from the north entrance. It was led by a tall, good-looking white man with the hale and hearty appearance of someone who spent the first hour of every day in the gym followed by a breakfast of oatmeal with berries and nuts. Jamal Brown walked a step to his right and two steps behind him; a salt-and-pepper team brought up the rear. Halfway before they reached the table, the group stopped and the white man glanced about as if he were surveying a building site.
“You got this?” Chopper asked again.
“Uh-huh.”
“I see seven of them.”
“I can count.”
“Maybe he brought so many cuz he’s afraid we’re gonna bushwhack him.”
“He should be.” Herzog glanced up from the menu and found Chopper’s eyes. “That’s an interesting word—‘bushwhack.’ Where’d that come from, you know?”
“I look like an etymologist to you?”
“Etymologist?”
“Person who studies the origin of words. You know that.”
“Would I speak the way I do if I be well versed in the science of linguistics?”
“This banter shit, this is your way of sayin’ not to worry, isn’t it?”
“Fuck, Chop, I always worry when I hang with you. Never know what’s gonna happen.”
The white man waved his hand, a commander to his troops, and the two men trailing behind him separated and found seats with an unobstructed view of the table where Chopper and Herzog sat. The white man and Jamal approached cautiously. Chopper smiled brightly as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
“Hey, Jamal,” he said. “Who’s your friend?”
The white man spoke with the irritation of someone who had expected to be addressed before anyone else.
“I’m Dr. Hammel,” he said.
“Doctor your first name?” Chopper asked.
“Dr. Hammel, this is Chopper,” Jamal said. “And Herzog.”
Chopper extended his hand. Hammel raised his own the way fake TV Indians do when they say “How.”
“Germs,” he said. “Nothing personal.”
Chopper glanced at Herzog who was still studying his menu.
“We got germs,” he said.
“Everybody got germs.”
“Gentlemen, should we get to it?” Hammel asked.
“You nervous, Doc-tor?” Chopper said. “I thought we were gonna have a quiet conversation and here you bring an army.”
“We’re aware of your reputation.”
“Some of it might even be earned,” Herzog said.
Chopper gestured at the chair at the head of the table. Jamal pulled it out like a servant might and Hammel sat in it so that his back was to the stage and his front toward the lake. After a quick glance around himself, Jamal grabbed an empty chair from the nearest table and positioned it so that he was one step over and one step behind the doctor. Herzog smiled slightly, dropped his menu on the table, and gazed out at Lake Como as if he was already bored.
“Tucker,” Hammel said.
“Hmm?”
“My first name is Tucker. Dr. Tucker Hammel.”
Chopper set a hand on top of the menu and eased it toward the doctor.
“Since we be friends now, what’ll ya have?” Chopper asked. “On me.”
Hammel pushed the menu away.
“No, thank you,” he said. “We didn’t come here to eat.”
“You don’t know how happy that makes me.”
“You’ve been interfering in my business. I want it to stop.”
“Not interfering. Just askin’ questions. Ain’t that right, Jamal?”
Jamal glanced at Hammel as if he was seeking permission to speak, but none came so he shrugged and said nothing.
“Doc-tor Hammel,” Chopper said. “You a medical doctor?”
“I have that privilege.”
“Not surprised a doctor be dealin’ opioids,” Chopper said. “After all, it was you medical people what started the epidemic in the first place. Only wouldn’t it be much safer to sell outta your office instead of on the street?”
“Safer, but not as lucrative. New government regulations have significantly curtailed the health care industry’s ability to meet the growing needs of our customers.”
“Don’t you mean patients?”
“Patients,” Hammel said. “Of course. Because of the restrictions recently placed upon the medical community, many patients have been forced to rely on more unconventional sources to satisfy their requirements, at a much higher price I might add. You could say that I am merely providing market equilibrium.”
“Supply and demand, the essence of microeconomics,” Chopper said.
“You understand our business model…”
“Fuck you say, man? Don’t pretend you’re a humanitarian. You dealin’ shit to people who can’t say no cuz of genetics or psychology or social factors or fuck all in order to turn a profit just like a million other people who’ve come before you, just like I used to do.”
“You sold drugs? When?”
“Before I knew better. So let’s stop talkin’ shit, ’kay, like you providing a public service.”
“It’s a victimless crime.”
“Whatever lets you sleep at night, Doc-tor. I don’t give a shit ’bout that, anyway. What I want to know—”
“What I want to know—”
“Don’t interrupt me, Doc-tor.”
“Who do you think you’re speaking to? Do you honestly believe I’m frightened by you and your thug? Look around.” He held his arms wide as if he was embracing the entire park and not just his men. “I came here as a
