By Proxy: a Final Good Deed: A Novel

By Doug McCall

This book concerns a Houston, Texas, stock broker, given a death sentence by his doctor due to pancreatic cancer. He returns to Destin, Florida, for a final vacation at his favorite resort. While there, he becomes entangles with a murderous drug dealer and his alluring young wife. His final act of courage is freeing the innocent woman from the dangerous world her husband has created.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 26, 2009
• ISBN: 9781462817856

Book preview

By Proxy:

A Final Good Deed

A Novel

64063-MCCA-layout.pdf

Doug McCall

Copyright © 2009 by Doug McCall.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

64063

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY

For Jeff and Michael

Acknowldegements

I would like to express my deep appreciation to Virginia Wilson Mounger, and Bee Donley for their advice and suggestions, but most of all for the encouragement they have given me while writing my book. If anyone has ever fit the role of muse, these two women certainly have. They have my sincere thanks.

proxy: The agency, function, or office of a deputy who acts as a deputy for another; a person authorized to act for another.

 – Merriam-Webster Dictionary

CHAPTER 1

The sun bore down with its usual intensity, scorching the metallic handrail along the edge of the ramped walkway. Placing a hand on the bronzed surface to support his wobbly legs, he felt the searing pain striking flesh, bringing an instant recoil. Other than the sting of contact with his skin, the man was oblivious to the heat of the typical Houston summer afternoon. Although a native of the area, he had never grown accustomed to the suffocating conditions, always wilting when exposed. But the last thirty minutes, or however long the meeting had lasted – he wasn’t sure since time seemed irrelevant now – made the elements feel insignificant.

He somehow managed to work his way down the ramp, hardly feeling his feet move. The slope was there for the handicapped, but without it, he would have struggled. A waist-high concrete wall guarding a landscaped area of pampas grass and boxwood bushes fronting the glass and stone building provided a place to sit, the surface slightly cooler by comparison. Slumping onto the wall, he knew he would have to gather himself before going any farther. The realization suddenly struck that he had no idea where farther was. Which way was there for him to go? And how? Something the doctor said about a support group flashed into his numbed brain. A paralyzing fear suddenly took control. There was no support group for Brent Musso. He had done his best to make sure of that.

Brent’s tie was loose around his neck. The coat to his lightweight tan poplin suit was . . . where was his coat? He then remembered he had left it folded neatly on the backseat of his BMW before entering the building. The sports coupe was somewhere in the parking deck behind the building. In his stupor, disoriented, he had wandered out the front of the office tower, meaning he would have to eventually backtrack through the lobby. Finding his car wasn’t that important. In fact, nothing seemed important. Soon, however, everything would.

The afternoon rush of traffic along Post Oak Road created a roar that would normally drown out all conscious thoughts; the sheer volume of vehicles emitted blaring sounds echoing off competing high-rises. Post Oak runs through a tony area of the mammoth city, positioned west of downtown. Though not positioned in the usual uptown location, it is considered by many Houstonians to fit that description, if any section could lay claim to the title in the widespread metropolis.

He couldn’t hear any of it. His ears were starting to ring. Lost in his own cocoon, he felt small. Nothing he saw or heard meant anything to him. He ran a hand through his carefully trimmed graying hair, then squinted into the sunlight, doing his best to recall the conversation. There were parts he remembered clearly – others he had barely heard at all.

Brent, at times like this, I think it best to be blunt, Dr. Fred Thames said, taking a seat beside his patient. His tousled hair and bushy moustache hid a face lined with compassion, for reasons Brent didn’t grasp at first. The MRI images came back yesterday. I’ve had time to verify my suspicions. The doctor paused only briefly. It’s pancreatic cancer. I’m sorry, but there’s no question.

For a few seconds, Brent simply stared, his mouth hanging open, trying to make sense of what the man had said. Fred Thames was a brilliant physician, with a reputation as an internist stretching far beyond the ever-expanding Bayou City confines. Family medicine was his true calling, having filled that role for Musso and his former family for the last twenty-five years. Whether he still treated the others, Brent wasn’t sure. He’d maintained very little contact with them over the past decade. But in spite of the lofty credentials and past history under his care, he was sure he was mistaken in this diagnosis.

Thames continued before Brent could find words to object. I was pretty sure when you came in last week. The abdominal pain you complained of, the slightly jaundiced condition of your skin, the whites of your eyes turning. Your weight loss, although not drastic, was another clue. But I needed to be sure. The MRI removed all doubt. He spread his hands, palms up, shaking his head slowly as he spoke.

Brent was shaking his head too, ready to debunk the good doctor.

But that’s impossible, Fred. I feel fine. There has to be some mistake.

Thames removed the wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose, placing them in his shirt pocket. That’s one of the problems with exocrine tumors – that’s the medical term for what you have. The diagnosis sometimes doesn’t come until things have progressed further along. There are usually no symptoms the patient becomes aware of for a while. Thames hesitated, seeming to gauge his patient’s reaction. You see, the pancreas is hidden below the stomach, near the intestines. It’s a small, about six-inch, pear-shaped glandular organ. Secretes hormones, helps in the digestive process. The doctor paused again, apparently taking note of the doubtful look on Brent’s face. I realize all that doesn’t mean a hill of beans to you, he said in his folksy, rural Texas drawl. I can show you on the pictures the lab sent back, if you’d like.

Brent nodded slowly, silently, still not convinced. He joined Thames leaning across his desk, looking at images that made little sense to him while Thames droned on for a few minutes, describing things that bounced off his brain like ping-pong balls. Phrases such as spreading cancerous cells, genetic mutations, endocrine glands, along with others too long to comprehend were hardly absorbed. The intricate pictures showed nothing that meant anything to him other than the fact that the organ was indeed small, but looked very little like a pear, at least to him. He found himself becoming angry, defensive. Looking away from the pictures, he pushed back in his chair. That doesn’t tell me anything, Fred. It’s got to be something else.

Thames didn’t speak for a second, eyeing the other man carefully. He had seen this reaction all too often when handing out devastating news and the prognosis that usually followed. He knew denial came first and was prepared for it. Of course, Brent, you’re welcome to get another opinion. But I’ve already taken the liberty to consult with our radiologist and oncologist. They see the same things I do.

Brent slumped in his chair, realization beginning to settle in, followed closely by panic. It still didn’t seem possible. Could he be trapped in a sick, perverse dream? He stared through the fifth-floor window for some reason, wondering how in the hell the skies could be so bright and sunny when it had suddenly become so stormy inside. He scanned the physician’s office as if he’d never seen it before. Looking at the diplomas and certificates on the walls, he found himself suddenly questioning the credentials of the man he had trusted for years. He looked at Thames. What causes this? How did it happen?

There are several contributing factors in the usual case. A history of smoking, being overweight, sometimes excessive alcohol. I know you quit smoking about ten years ago or so, and weight has never been a real concern for you. The alcohol – only you can answer that. I know what you put on your profile update – moderate drinking. Most folks fudge some on that question. Truthfully, though, it’s just the luck of the draw, especially at your age. I normally don’t see this until folks, mostly men, reach their seventies or eighties, but it’s not entirely rare for someone in their early fifties.

Apropos of nothing that made the slightest difference, Brent mumbled, I’m fifty-three. His voice was subdued.

Thames glanced down at his hands, now clasped in his lap. I know. Again, I’m sorry, Brent. I wish I had better news.

Brent looked hopefully at Dr. Thames, his brow furrowed with doubt and fear. Is there a treatment?

Thames sat up straight, breathing in. There are always treatments. Chemotherapy is one. Radiation, either externally or internally. And something new called brachytherapy is an alternative. Chemo and radiation can be done together at times. Unfortunately, surgery is not an option at this point.

At this point? Brent’s face blanched, fearing the answer to his next question. What are you saying, Fred? Tell me straight up.

All right. I’m saying any of these treatments are options. You can give them a try. But you shouldn’t expect them to be successful. Things have just progressed too far. A compassionate face again appeared, accompanying the demoralizing words. Thames had to look away.

Brent felt his entire body go limp, melting into nothingness in the chair. He put his face in his hands, letting the misery wash over him. A part of him still wished he could awaken from a horrific nightmare, but that part had grown small. He managed to look at Thames, who seemed to be waiting for him to say something. So, it’s . . . I mean, there’s no . . . ?

Thames didn’t respond, other than giving an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

Neither man spoke for a few uncomfortable minutes. Brent leaned forward, supporting his head with his hands, elbows on his knees. He wanted to cry but, strangely, found tears wouldn’t flow. His body had shut down. A myriad of thoughts flashed before him, all centered around people – people who, at one time, meant everything to him and he to them. He wondered if it was too late. Without looking up, he finally said, I guess if I’d come in more often the last few years, it might’ve made a difference?

That’s . . . that’s impossible to say. Second guessing’s never been much fun for me. Just as soon not go there.

The doomed patient nodded slowly, then ran a hand through his hair. What do I do? He then quickly added, How long do I have? He looked Thames straight in the eye.

The doctor exhaled, leaning close, speaking softly. Based on past experience, I’d say two, maybe three months. Could be longer – or shorter.

God! Brent leaned back, shocked by the words. He had no more questions. They all seemed to have answers he didn’t want to hear.

Thames put a hand on Brent’s shoulder. Listen, Brent. I’m familiar with your family situation, but do you have anyone you can depend on as a support group? Friends, co-workers, extended family?

Brent fixed his gaze on the office ceiling, thinking about the question. He was a stock broker – he preferred to call himself an investment advisor – occupying the number two position in the Houston office of A. B. Guerron, a major Wall Street player. Aggressive ambition hadn’t left much room for friendly associates along the way. His clients loved him, at least the ones he had made money for over the years, but none would actually consider him a close friend – he knew that. There was an ex-wife living in the far northern stretches of the city who loathed him and two kids who were indifferent, at best. He hadn’t seen or talked to his son or daughter for close to a year, the last time being the birth of his daughter’s second child. So a support group? That would be a reach.

I’ll have to think about that, Fred. I think I may have burned a lot of bridges over the years, he confessed, his voice no more than a whisper.

I kinda figured that might be the case. Thames rubbed a hand across his chin for a moment. Listen, I want you to call me tomorrow sometime, maybe late morning. There’s something I may want to show you. If I haven’t heard from you by early afternoon, I’ll call you. Okay?

Brent nodded absentmindedly, beginning to tune out once more. He looked at his doctor with a blank expression. What should I do?

Thames knew what he meant. He was prepared for this too. Only two things are important at this stage, Brent. First, get your affairs in order. Go over your business succession plans. Make sure your will is like you want it. And I strongly urge you to talk to your family, however tough it’ll be. Second, do whatever you’ve always wanted to do. Maybe small things, or even something big. A trip you’ve been putting off. Whatever suits you. The sooner the better.

The urgency in the tone gave Brent a chill. He nodded, as if the suggestions would be easy to follow through on. He looked around the office for nothing in particular, then at Dr. Thames, waiting for more instructions. None being forthcoming, he rose to leave.

The doctor reached for a small pad on his desk. I’m going to give you a couple of scripts. Inhibitors, actually. They’re relatively new, but have had some success in blocking the spread to other organs. They could slow things down, buy a little time. Something for pain too. He scratched the usual hieroglyphics, then handed the note to Brent.

Just remember to call me tomorrow, Thames said. He shook his patient’s hand, grasping an elbow with his other hand. I think it’s important that you do.

Brent finally scraped his way off the concrete perch, ready to search for his BMW 350 xi sport coupe. Retracing his steps into the medical complex’s lobby, he found it an effort to move his legs. Pausing inside the front door, he turned to view his reflection in the glass. What he saw was no different than at any time before. Six one, approaching two hundred pounds, the picture of decent health, at least in his eyes. But he felt something – something more than the cramps tightening in his stomach. He knew it was all in his mind. His doctor told him he was dying, so his brain was already telling his body to acclimate itself to changes that would come. And they would come, just as surely as the hot August sun would set on Houston in a few hours. There was no point in kidding himself. He walked unsteadily toward the parking deck.

CHAPTER 2

A few miles west on Post Oak put Brent in the vicinity of Dunagin’s Steak House, an upscale restaurant containing a popular bar, one of his favorite watering holes. There was no reason at all not to stop in for happy hour, although there would be nothing happy about it. Parking his $45,000 car well away from the few other automobiles in the lot, he headed for the entrance. Halfway there, he stopped, looking back at the car, thinking about the futility of such precautions. He would have to adjust his thinking. He continued on, still feeling hollow inside, but at least able to find feeling in his legs.

Only minutes past 5:00 p.m., the bar was practically empty. He had beaten the usual crowd. Dunagin’s was not on the circuit of the Generation X barhopping herd. It was more suited for those who could afford an expensive night out, including a $50 filet and a bottle of the house’s best wine. Taking a seat at the mahogany bar, he looked straight into the mirror behind a well-stocked row of bottles of spirits. He waved to get the attention of the bartender, busy chatting up the only other person at the bar, a heavyset man Brent had seen there before.

Good evening, Mr. Musso, the bartender greeted. What’ll it be?

Hi, Scott. The usual. Only make it a double this time. And pour in the good stuff. The best you have.

Oh? Celebrating tonight? The bartender raised his bushy eyebrows, which stood out against a slick bald head. In his early thirties, fit and trim, dressed in a crisp white shirt and bow tie, Scott was a fixture behind the bar, a popular mixologist among the regulars.

No. Nothing like that, Brent replied evenly, sure that his voice displayed his despair.

Just the opposite, huh? Scott knew not to grin too broadly. A good bartender knew to follow the lead of his customers. If they were in a good mood, they didn’t want to be brought down. If already down, they wouldn’t appreciate being patronized.

You could say that.

Scott glanced behind him at the line of premium scotches. Tell you what, he said, looking back at Brent, there’s just enough left in my last bottle of Ballantine’s for a double. Doesn’t qualify for happy hour, but it’s yours for half price tonight.

That’ll be fine, but the price doesn’t matter. Brent propped his chin up with an elbow on the bar. The thought struck him that the cost of everything now had little significance.

One Ballantine’s and water coming up. The barman grabbed the bottle of scotch and went to work.

Brent looked again into the mirror, gratified to see the room’s darkness muted his dismal expression. He glanced down the bar, just as the other man threw something on the counter, then eased off his stool and shuffled toward the door. He was now alone in the bar. How fitting.

Scott placed the drink in front of his remaining customer, then propped a foot on something behind the counter, prepared to give Musso his full attention. The two were now captive audiences for each other.

Rough day?

Brent actually managed to snort a chuckle. As bad as you can imagine. He avoided eye contact, choosing to stare at his glass, rolling it slowly in a circle with his fingers.

Well, the bartender creed says we’re ready to listen. That is, if you want to talk.

No. You really don’t want to know about my problems, Brent wanted to say. Instead, he shook his head slowly.

Okay. No problem. Scott started to back away.

Wait. Wait a second, Scott, Brent said, waving him back. Let me ask you something. He took a second to form the question. What do you do when there’s something seriously bothering you? I mean, something bigger than usual? How do you handle it?

Scott leaned across the counter again, rubbing a hand over his slick scalp. "Well, I’m not exactly sure what you classify as big, but I pretty much use the same approach to whatever’s stressin’ me out. Just keep my head down. Don’t pay any attention to what’s going on around me. Figure no matter how bad things are, they’ll eventually resolve themselves. He shrugged. Works for me."

That was no help at all. This problem would not resolve itself. Once again, he had to adjust his thinking. His problem definitely would solve itself eventually. And eventually was staring him straight in the eyes. He was sorry he had asked the question. He posed another, similar, but different. What would you say would be the worst problem you could imagine? The absolute worst thing that might happen to you?

The bartender looked at the ceiling, now scratching his chin. He was clearly puzzled by his customer’s quizzes. I guess at this stage of my life, I’d say the thing that would cause me the most strife would be for my girlfriend to miss her period.

Brent couldn’t hold in a genuine laugh this time. A feeling of relief came with it. Scott joined in, welcoming the change in mood. Brent threw down the last of the scotch and water, ordering another. Make it Chivas this time, he said.

As the refill was placed on the bar, a couple entered the bar, taking their seats at the other end vacated by the earlier man. Scott left the conversation to take their orders.

Brent took a large sip, letting the ice cubes rest for a second on his tongue. His mind wandered back to another pregnancy, the one that had ruined his life. It was ten years earlier, in the dead heat of another Houston summer, just like this one. The affair was torrid and tortured, coming to a head when the woman told him she was expecting. He had two choices: leave his wife of twenty years or prepare to pay through the nose to support the child. A miscarriage soon followed, but not before things had completely blown up. He was kicked out of his home and into a nasty and expensive divorce. Merrill, his ex, had done all she could to turn his son and daughter against him, which didn’t take much doing at the time. His life soon imploded. There were a few flings over the years, all ending when they came to the conclusion there would be no commitment on his part. He found it much easier, and safer, to concentrate on stocks, bonds, mutual funds, options, and the latest hot item – variable annuities.

He was ready with another question when Scott returned. One last thing, and this is the most important. If you had a chance to go anywhere, and the chance wouldn’t come again, where would you go?

Anywhere?

Anywhere in the world.

You mean, like a vacation?

Yeah, sorta like that.

Before he could answer, Scott’s attention was drawn to a new twosome, this time a pair of attractive women, both appearing to be in their late thirties. They glanced in Brent’s direction while settling in. He returned their gazes without expression.

Let me take care of them, and I’ll think about it, Scott said.