Page 2 of A Handsome Devil

This was nothing big. Happened all the time. My assistant Erin D’Attire was there with her clipboard examining parolee’s expired driver’s licenses, counting the prisoners. Sunken husks of men, their own worst enemies, their lives a mess. No one had given them money in God knows how long, each one in a state of nonstop starvation. One guy with a T-shirt that proclaimed I Am Breaking the Need for Weed was decorated in abscesses like boiled eggs rotting under his skin, arms a pizza of infection.

Survivors of childhood trauma abandoned with a sense of self-hatred.

Another addict looked like a war veteran with a leg that clearly needed amputation, the flesh burned, just seared away. It was a post-apocalyptic doomsday scene—well, for anyone other than me and Erin. For us, it was our day job.

“How’s it going?”

Erin didn’t flinch at the stench of these guys. A hard, tough chick, I’d seen her ascend from the gutter to making a difference in the lives of junkies. “Cool. We got forty-three allegedly, but two already made a break for the tent city, the open-air drug market by the Civic Center. Hey, wait! You! Alessio Messina?”

That was how I knew his name, the jumper from the roof.

In a sort of zombie daze, he wandered past Erin. A look of recognition overcame his glassy obsidian eyes when she called his name. His flowing, shaggy mane of thick black hair had probably been silken when washed. His prominent brow and aquiline nose reflected his inner Cro-Magnon man, a brain too big to fit the skull. Just one look and you knew he was of superior intelligence.

Yet had dulled it with drugs. And it sure seemed like he’d done it recently.

Alessio’s long, lanky arms were sinewy, as though he’d worked out in prison. Tufts of shiny black chest hair peeking from his T-shirt neck allured me. I’d never been attracted to a patient before. I knew better. It was unnerving. When Alessio turned to face Erin, my eyes dropped to his luscious ass, rounded in the faded 501s.

“Driver’s license?”

Sliding long fingers into his back pocket, he cringes with pain twisting lifting out a slender wallet. His Roman silhouette was the perfect reconstruction of a statue, the prominent arching nose lending him a sense of dignity and refinement.

That’s when I had to tear myself away. I’d much rather supervise my crisis management team injecting the addicts safely, like a blood draw site with giant high chairs and trays. Some folks snoozed in their chairs with relief, arms dangling, knuckles dragging on the tiled floor. Others would calmly thank the technician and get up. They’d either stroll or stagger out the front door and on to better things—we couldn’t stop them—or visit one of the community outreach rooms, the recovery room. They could get medical or social services from my colleagues, or just hang and play pool with their own colleagues, eating sandwiches.

In the fix room, I went behind the scenes with all the refrigerators, Narcan nasal spray, and needles to talk to Gunning Vaghti.

“A bus just came in from the San Quentin halfway house,” I told him.

“Hey!” Gunning barked at a guy about to get up and leave. “Did you put your used needles in there?”

The echoing concrete husk of a man looked from side to side before going into his hoodie pocket and withdrawing a handful of needles. He followed the direction of Gunning’s jutting chin, a plastic dispenser on the booth wall, and clattered his needles in there.

“Thanks, buddy,” said Gunning, cheerful now. He could be a rough customer, but knew he needed to show compassion sometimes too. He whipped off his plastic gloves and toed the lid up on the waste bin to chuck them.

I said, “At least one parolee got some fentanyl on the bus.” Now I’m talking about the guy. I knew I’d want to see him again “That’s been happening more and more.” Gunning sighed, hands limply on knees. He set his jaw, his lush tawny face the picture of the determined recovered addict. He’d been held captive in Afghanistan for a whole fucking year in some literal hole in the ground he’d been forced to dig with his own hands. That was about all anyone knew. He’d come out a meth addict, and I facilitated saving his life before he lost any teeth. Now Gunning gleamed with rich vibrations, utterly alive and engaged with the world. To a large extent. He’d never get over his experience.

I respected the fuck out of these guys.

Gunning continued, “Someone at the halfway house must hand it to them through the bus windows.”

I scoffed. “They’ve already basically gone through withdrawal in prison, the hard part. Why wreck that and start from scratch? I’ll talk to the halfway house.”

That was when another parolee, as hollow as a chocolate bunny, came for Gunning’s help. And the folks gathered out front to cheer Alessio.

Despite my anxiety I sprinted sedately past the Easter treat guy. You had to esteem these people for even having the balls to enter the Establishment Club. It showed they were trying. And that was the start. Most addicts, believe it or not, mature out of it after ten years. It’s called “natural recovery.” Happened all around me.

Happened to me.

“What do I have to do to get attention around here?”

When Alessio—a stupendous orator—collapsed on the roof, I’m telling the truth when I say I was the first one up the stairwell. Bouncing off the walls, taking steps two at a time, panting more with terror than exertion. Of course we’d lost several people in The Establishment Club since opening. That was to be expected. But I wanted to keep Alessio.

“You got Narcan?” I yelled at Dr. Stringfellow Hawk, two steps behind my ass. I always carried the stuff too.

“Course I do.”

A few other workers and addicts stomped up after us, but I was the first to reach him. He’d collapsed on his back with arms splayed in an unnatural position, like a road sign depicting a kid racing across the street. Crashing to my knees, I shook him, slapped his face. Opening his eyes with my fingers, I checked for “pinpoint pupils.”

“Pinpoint,” I told Hawk. “Back, back!” I yelled at the junkies. “Let’s get him breathing again.”