The phone rang. It was my lawyer, Gonad the Ballbearian: I’d recognise his soft snarl anywhere.
I’m in the hospital. Get down here quick!
Jesus, Gonad, I said, are you sick? Injured? Shot?
No. I’m being arrested. Come quick.
I was there in eight minutes and elbowed my way past the fat cop at the door. Let me through. I’m not a lawyer!
Gonad was in one of the bathrooms, restrained by two burly cops. A man in a white coat was lying on the ground being resuscitated. I noticed his clothes were soaking wet.
What happened here? I demanded.
Gonad stared at me. I never like to see that wild look in his eye.
This porter tried to make me take a bath before my minor surgical procedure.
It looked bad. Gonad has never washed in his life.
So, I urged. What happened?
What do you think happened? I held him under the water until he got sense.
I see. And the police were called?
Yeah. They’re going to charge me.
No, he said, gesturing towards the unconscious man on the floor. The charge is dunkin’ this orderly.