“I don’t know. An hour ago, maybe. Not real sharp on times and days right now for some reason. Thank you, David.”
“You’re welcome. Look, Wally, we need to put together a plan. Sounds like your apartment is off-limits. If you want to sleep here tonight and sober up, I’ll pull up a chair and keep you company. AC and I will get you through this.”
“I need help, David. Ain’t just a matter of sobering up.”
“Okay, but getting sober will be an important first step.”
Wally suddenly burst into laughter. He threw his head back and laughed as loud as humanly possible. He shook, squealed, gyrated, coughed, lost his breath, wiped his cheeks, and when he couldn’t laugh anymore, he sat and chuckled for several minutes. When things were under control, he glanced at David and laughed again.
“Got something you’d like to share, Wally?”
Working hard to suppress more laughter, he said, “I just thought of the first time you came here, remember?”
“I remember some of it.”
“I’ve never seen anybody drunker. All day in a bar, right?”
“Yep.”
“Falling-down drunk, then you took a swing at that prickhead Gholston across the street, almost hit him too.”
“That’s what I’ve heard.”
“I looked at Oscar, he looked at me, we said, ‘This guy has potential.’ ” A pause as he drifted away for a moment. “You threw up twice. Now who’s drunk and who’s sober?”
“We’re gonna get you sober, Wally.”
His body was no longer shaking, and he was silent for a long time. “Do you ever wonder what you got yourself into here, David? You had it all, big firm, big salary, life in the lawyers’ fast lane.”
“I have no regrets, Wally,” David said. For the most part, it was a true statement.
Another long pause and Wally cradled his coffee cup with both hands and stared into it. “What’s gonna happen to me, David? I’m forty-six years old, broker than ever, humiliated, a drunk who can’t stay away from the sauce, a washed-up street lawyer who thought he could play in the big leagues.”
“Now is not the time to ponder the future, Wally. What you need is a good detox, get all the alcohol out of your system, then you can make decisions.”
“I don’t want to be like Oscar. He’s seventeen years older than me, and in seventeen years I don’t want to be here doing the same shit we do every day, you know, David? Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Do you wanna be here in seventeen years?”
“I really haven’t thought about it. I’m just trying to get through this trial.”
“What trial?”
He didn’t appear to be joking or pretending, so David let it pass. “You went through rehab a year ago, didn’t you, Wally?”
He grimaced as he struggled to remember his last rehab. “What’s today?”
“Today is Wednesday, October 26.”
Wally began nodding. “Yes, October of last year. In for thirty days, a great time.”
“Where was the rehab?”
“Oh, Harbor House, just north of Waukegan. My favorite. It’s right on the lake, beautiful. I guess we should call Patrick.” He was reaching for his wallet.
“And who’s Patrick?”
“My counselor,” Wally said, handing over a business card. Harbor House—Where a New Life Begins. Patrick Hale, Team Leader. “You can call Patrick any time of the day. It’s part of his job.”
David left a message on Patrick’s voice mail, said he was a friend of Wally Figg’s and it was important that they speak soon. Moments later, David’s cell vibrated. It was Patrick, truly sorry to hear the bad news about Wally, but ready to help immediately. “Don’t let him out of your sight,” Patrick said. “Please, bring him in now. I’ll meet you at the House in an hour.”
“Let’s go, big boy,” David said, grabbing Wally by the arm. He stood, found his balance, and they walked arm in arm out of the building to David’s SUV. By the time they accelerated onto I-94 North, Wally was snoring again.
With the help of his GPS, David found Harbor House an hour after they left the office. It was a small, private treatment facility, tucked away in the woods just north of Waukegan, Illinois. David was unable to rouse Wally, so he left him and went inside, where Patrick Hale was waiting in the reception room. Patrick sent two white-robed orderlies with a stretcher out to fetch Wally, and five minutes later they wheeled him in, still unconscious. David followed Patrick to a small office where paperwork was waiting.
“How many times has he been here?” David asked in an effort to make conversation. “He seems to know the place well.”
“I’m afraid that’s confidential, at least on our end.” His warm smile had vanished when he closed the office door.
“Sorry.”
Patrick was looking at some papers on a clipboard. “We have a slight problem with Wally’s account, Mr. Zinc, and I’m not sure what to do about it. You see, when Wally checked out a year ago, his insurance would pay only $1,000 a day for his treatment here. Because of our exceptional treatment, and results, and facilities and staff, we charge $1,500 a day. Wally left here owing slightly less than $14,000. He’s made a few payments, but his balance is still at $11,000.”
“I am not responsible for his medical bills or his treatment for alcoholism. I have nothing to do with his insurance.”
“Well, then, we will not be able to keep him.”
“You can’t make money charging $1,000 a day?”
“Let’s not get into that, Mr. Zinc. We charge what we charge. We have sixty beds and none are empty.”
“Wally’s forty-six years old. Why does he need someone to co-sign?”
“Normally, he wouldn’t, but he’s not good at paying his bills.”
And that was before Krayoxx, David thought to himself. You should see his balance sheet now.
“How long do you plan to keep him this time?” David asked.
“His insurance will cover thirty days.”
“So it’s thirty days, regardless of how much progress is made with your patient. It’s all driven by the insurance company, right?”
“That’s the reality of it.”
“That sucks. What if a patient needs more time? I have a friend from high school who crashed and burned on cocaine. Did the thirty-day gig a few times, never stuck. It finally took a hard year in a locked-down facility to get him clean and committed.”
“We can all tell stories, Mr. Zinc.”
“I’m sure you can.” David threw up his hands. “Okay, Mr. Hale, what’s the deal? You and I both know he’s not leaving here tonight because he’ll hurt himself.”
“We can forgive the past-due account, but we will require someone to co-sign for the uninsured portion going forward.”
“And that’s $500 a day? Not a penny more.”
“Correct.”
David yanked out his wallet, removed a credit card, and tossed it on the desk. “Here’s my American Express. I’m good for ten days max. I’ll come get him in ten days, and then I’ll think of something else to do.”
Patrick quickly scribbled down the credit card info and handed back the card. “He needs more than ten days.”