The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum
TUESDAY
Daniel is sick.
"His temperature's over a hundred. He's feverish and says he aches all over," Sarah Connor reports. "And his hand's badly swollen."
"Think this is all from the dog biting him?"
"What else could it be? It's obviously infected. He needs urgent medical treatment."
"That's a toughie given he has no insurance. And no ID. And is wanted by just about every law enforcement agency." John points out. "What about Doug? I know he's a dentist but he might have the right antibiotics or something at the very least."
Doug Bartlett. Sarah Connor's latest love interest. Not that she would admit it to anyone, perhaps not even herself.
"Doug's in San Francisco visiting his daughter at Berkeley."
"I could chop off his hand," I offer. "That might stop the infection."
"It's already in his bloodstream. And I'm not letting a butcher like you anywhere near him," Sarah Connor sneers.
Butcher? Bit unfair. It's not as if I was suggesting we barbecue the hand and serve it up for dinner. Snowy'd probably eat it though. Meat is meat in his opinion.
"I've an idea," she continues. "Remember Roberto Gonzalez from way back?"
"Bobo Gonzalez? Wow, there's a blast from the past. Wasn't his father a gunrunner?"
"Never mind the father, the son's a doctor now, that's the important thing. Runs a free clinic near the mexican border. I heard about it when I was there - what - two years ago."
"He's a doctor? I remember when he used to follow me around like a little puppy dog. Bobo the slobo, I used to call him."
Bobo the slobo? Not one of John's best zingers. Still, he was very young at the time.
"What is a free clinic?" Cameron subprime asks, literally beating me to it by nano-seconds.
"It's a like a charity hospital where people without insurance can get free medical care," John explains. "And you really think he'd help us - no questions asked?"
"It's worth a try. Unless you've a better idea?"
John shrugs. "Okay, but if we gonna do it we should go now. It's a three hour drive to the border."
Sarah Connor smirks. "Not if I'm driving."
-0-
"Seriously? A hundred miles an hour - on these roads? Are you trying to get us killed?"
John is braced in the front seat of the Suburban as Sarah Connor throws the vehicle round curves at a speed that would impress a rally driver. She's certainly been true to her word; it's less than two hours since we left LA and by avoiding the freeways, speed restrictions and sticking to the backroads we're already close to the mexican border.
"How's our boy?" John asks twisting round to look at Daniel and myself strapped in the backseats.
"His pulse is steady and he appears to either be sleeping or unconscious. I find it difficult to tell the difference."
"Whoa, easy there, Mario Andretti!" he complains as Sarah Connor drifts the vehicle at speed through another turn. "You're sending up a dust cloud that can be seen from orbit on the international space station."
"Fine. No cops in space," she smirks.
"You're enjoying this wa-ay too much for someone of your age."
Cameron subprime hasn't accompanied us. She's in LA tasked with looking after Mia and Snowy by impersonating me. Hardly a feat of mimicry that will challenge her unduly. Even Snowy's keen sense of smell can't differentiate between us.
Finally, after several more kamikaze turns, we reach a junction linking the dusty backroads with modern blacktop. We're back in civilization.
Sarah Connor brings the Suburban to a stop and consults the SatNav. "This thing doesn't have the clinic listed."
"We're lost? Great. I thought you knew where it was?"
"I know the rough location."
"Suppose the place closed down in the last two years? Did you think of that? This could be a wild goose chase."
"It's still here. I'm sure of it."
"How are you sure? Is your spidey sense tingling?"
Sarah Connor punches the SatNav. "Stupid piece of junk!"
That's it, blame the machine. She usually does.
We drive on till we spot an actual person - a woman pushing a baby in a stroller - and stop and ask where we are. She's heard of the free clinic and gives us precise directions.
Poor SatNav - outshone by a human! How embarrassing.I feel your pain, bro.
-0-
The free clinic occupies an entire block. It's a single storey building painted white and when bathed by the noon sun looks more like a modern factory that makes computer components than a medical centre. Of course, such factories have long since been outsourced to asia. Nobody makes anything in this country any more. And people wonder why the deficit is so huge.
I unstrap Daniel and lift him carefully out of the vehicle and over my shoulder. He's still asleep. Or unconscious. Or both.
John and his mother both put on sunglasses to mitigate the glare of the sun. I adjust my optical filters. In LA it is late Fall but this far south still feels like a hot summer's day.
"Let's hope Roberto didn't choose this week to vacation," says John.
Sarah Connor grunts. She knows we have a lot riding on this, not least Daniel's life.
We enter a lobby painted in bright primary colors. There's a receptionist seated at a desk, an hispanic woman just edging towards middle age and intent on making the best of it. She looks up and smiles at us.
"¿Puedo ayudarlo?"
"Nos gustaría hablar con Roberto Gonzalez."
"That's Doctor Gonzalez," she says lapsing into accented english. "Do you have an appointment?"
"Tell him it's Sarah Connor. I think he'll want to see us."
The receptionist picks up a phone and speaks in rapid spanish. No sooner has she put the receiver down than a door opens in the wall behind her desk.
"Sarah Connor? Is that really you?"
"Hello, Roberto."
"It is you!"
"Hey, Bobo."
"John! What has it been - twenty years?"
"At least."
Roberto Gonzalez isn't dressed much like a doctor. There's no white coat. No stethoscope draped round his neck. He's a tall man wearing an expensive three piece suit. He has a neatly trimmed beard just starting to grey. And his thick dark hair shows evidence of product. He looks less like a doctor than a politician on the make. And we've seen quite a few of those over the past few weeks.
"Who is that? Is he ill?" He's noticed Daniel.
"He's a friend of ours. He was bitten by a dog."
Roberto barks an order at the receptionist. In turn she barks an order into the phone. Moments later two orderlies arrive pushing a gurney.
I lay Daniel down. The doctor examines him.
"How long ago was he bitten?"
"About forty-eight hours."
"Are you sure it was a dog?"
"Absolutely sure."
"Was it a wild dog? Could it have rabies?"
"No. It was his pet dog. Very healthy."
"No tetanus shot recently?"
"I doubt it."
"At the very least he has a blood infection. We will give him antibiotics. I'd like to keep him here overnight to check there's no liver damage. What's his name?"
"Daniel."
Roberto snaps his fingers and the orderlies whisk the gurney away.
"Thanks, Bobo."
"I haven't been called Bobo since I was a boy. You gave me that name."
"I know."
Roberto glances at the receptionist who is pretending not to eavesdrop. "Let's go into my office so we can talk more freely."
"You have an appointment with the bank at twelve," the receptionist reminds him. "To discuss the loan defaults. They were most insistent."
"Reschedule for one. And hold my calls."
The office is plushly appointed and smells strongly of cigars. A doctor who smokes? Physician heal thyself.
There are three chairs facing a large wooden desk. We sit while Roberto perches on the edge of the desk. There's an iMac and a Rollodex behind him and on the wall various photographs and framed citations.
"And who is this vision of loveliness?" he asks staring at me.
"My name is Cameron," I tell him bracing myself for the inevitable 'isn't that a boy's name?'.
"Your name is as beautiful as you are."
Oh my, what a charmer.
"Sarah. John. You both look so young. Yet here am I with grey in my hair. What is your secret?"
Try time-jumping ten years in the future. That'll do the trick.
"No secret, Roberto. And you look fine, really."
"Where are you living now?"
"Los Angeles."
"Of course. You were always drawn to that place. I remember my father telling you the same thing. Like a moth to a flame, he'd say."
"How is Antonio?"
"Passed. Ten years ago now."
"I'm sorry."
"He lived long enough to see me become a doctor and open this clinic. I think that pleased him very much."
"How does a free clinic actually work?" John asks.
"We offer treatment and support for those who cannot afford the extortionate insurance rates foisted on honest working people. We survive on donations and the generosity of our sponsers."
"A noble cause."
"Hopefully when Senator Clinton becomes President things will improve."
Yeah...about that...
"Now, your sick friend...there are many fine hospitals in Los Angeles, yet you chose to bring him here. Am I to take it he is..."
His voice trails off meaningfully.
"He's wanted by the police," John confirms. "He's a good kid. He hasn't done anything bad. If his being here bothers you..."
"No no. We have treated worse. In fact, you might say criminals are some of our most generous patrons. They appreciate our - ah - discretion. We keep no records here."
Alright. Our kinda hospital.
"Our friend also needs new documents. His cover was blown recently," Sarah Connor says. "I wonder if you might know someone. Most of my old contacts are dead or moved away."
"Fake ID, you mean? I might know someone. I have a few friends left from the old days. Give me a moment."
Roberto stands and leaves the room.
"This is working out pretty well," John states optimistically.
"As long as Daniel gets better," his mother cautions.
John crosses to the wall with the photographs and examines them one by one.
"Hey, check it out. Roberto's met Salma Hayek. And Sean Penn. And Katy Perry."
Ugh. Katy Perry. Big deal.
"And Taylor Swift."
Omigod! Omigod!
It's true. There's Roberto and a younger woman, presumably his wife, standing next to Taylor. It looks like backstage at one of her concerts. Cameron subprime and I often discuss attending a Taylor Swift concert, kidnapping her, and holding her hostage in our basement so she can sing for us whenever we want. We never act on this impulse. Sometimes even terminators are just talk.
Roberto returns and settles on the edge of the desk again. I notice his shoes are very shiny.
"There's a park here in town. Balboa Park."
"After Rocky Balboa the boxer?" I ask.
"No. Named after Vasco Núñez de Balboa, the sixteenth century spanish explorer."
Oops. Brain freeze.
"A man called Pablo will meet you at the war memorial at three o'clock today. I'm afraid the price is quite steep. Five thousand dollars."
"Of course. We weren't expecting charity. And we will make a donation for our friend's treatment."
"Sarah, you're not in any serious trouble, are you?"
"Not any more than usual."
-0-
We find Balboa Park easily enough and with time to spare. The war memorial is a huge block of granite inscribed with the names of local men killed in various wars, most recently the Iraq conflict.
"Two thirty. Plenty of time yet so Cameron and I are gonna take a look around," John states. His mother nods assent. She sits on a bench near a water fountain under the cooling canopy of a eucalyptus tree.
The park extends for several acres and there are many different trails. Mature trees cast a welcome shade. The temperature is over ninety degrees.
In one corner of the park is a large wire enclosure: a cage housing exotic birds for visitors to admire. As we approach the birds between to squawk and panic at my presence, flying back and forth dropping poop bombs indiscriminately.
"Something's got 'em spooked," John deadpans.
"Must be a fox in the vicinity," I reply equally deadpan.
"You got that right."
He pats my bottom.
We return to the war memorial and wait for Pablo.
And wait.
And wait.
Three o'clock comes and goes.
"He's late," Sarah Connor observes.
Well, duh!
At three fifteen a skinny latino teenager skateboards towards us. He has long dark hair and a backpack with the decal of a silvery man on a surfboard. The Silver Surfer. He's a comic book character, an alien from another planet whose real name is Norrin Radd. I'm such a nerd for knowing that.
The boy ignores us and stops at the water fountain, bending over to drink.
Sarah Connor checks her watch. "We'll give him five more minutes. Then we leave."
"Have you brought the money, senora?"
The skinny teenager is staring at us.
"You're Pablo?"
"The one and only. The money, senora, con su permiso."
She indicates a MacDonald's Happy Meal bag on the bench next to her.
Pablo might be young but he is wise enough to count the bills without taking the money out of the bag. Anybody watching will merely see a boy checking out a Happy Meal.
"You're short. This is only half."
"Half now. Half when we get the documents."
"That isn't the deal."
"It's the only deal you're going to get. Take it or leave it."
Pablo smiles. "Feisty. I like it. I like you. Are you single?"
"Please. I'm twice your age."
"At least," I add. This earns me a frown.
"Who is the ID for?"
"Friend of ours. Here's his details." She hands over a manila envelope. "When will it be ready?"
"Meet me here tomorrow. Noon. Bring the rest of the money. And wear something pretty."
Pablo winks and puts the bag and envelope in his backpack and casually slaloms away on his skateboard.
"Looks like you have an admirer," John grins.
Sarah Connor frowns. She's very hard to please.
-0-
We find a motel for the night. It's a one-storey horseshoe-shaped building not far from the main highway. The desk clerk is happy to accept cash and doesn't ask for identification.
"PornHub is ten dollars extra."
"What?"
"For the TV. PornHub is ten dollars extra. It's a skin channel. Very popular. Mucho naked ladies." He leers at me displaying tobacco-stained teeth."
"We'll pass, thanks."
Sarah Connor uses the time to dismantle her Glock Nine and reassemble it. Then starts over. John and I settle on the sofa in front of the TV. It's an old CRT model that's chained to wall like an animal on a leash.
"Why is the TV chained to the wall?" I ask.
"Because people will steal anything."
We find a channel showing The Walking Dead reruns dubbed in Spanish. It's the episode where Rick frees the zombies trapped in the quarry.
"This is such a dick move," John comments. "They're stuck in the quarry. No way out. Never gonna chomp anyone. Just let them be. But no, the tool has to release them into the enviroment. Stupid."
"Rick is not a good leader."
"You can say that again."
"Rick is not a good leader."
WEDNESDAY
Three in the morning. John and his mother are asleep. I stand by the window. Alert. Watchful. Ever vigilant. The motel is quiet. Too quiet for my taste.
I place a call to Cameron subprime in Los Angeles. Checking in with my homey. She reports all is well. Mia suspects nothing, believing her to be me. Or is it me to be her? Snowy is taking advantage of Sarah Connor's absence to sleep in the laundry basket, something he is forbidden from doing because he sheds doghair all over our clothes. It's a wonder that dog isn't bald by now.
At five o'clock the door opens in the unit opposite and six women emerge, all dressed alike in scarves and loose clothing. Five minutes later a van arrives and they leave in it. Migrant workers. Off to another day's hard toil in the fields harvesting crops for less than minimum wage. Sooner you than me, sisters.
At eight-thirty John and his mother rise, take showers, then call the clinic to check on Daniel. Stable and improving. He's out of danger. No, we can't speak to him. Clinic policy.
We head out for a meal.
"This is great chilli," John enthuses tucking in. We're in a small diner just off the main drag that serves local cuisine. Both have ordered the chilli special. I have abstained. I'm watching my figure And it's a figure well worth watching.
"We should eat mexican food more often," John declares.
"You and Mia eat it all the time."
"That's mexican takeout. It's frozen stuff they heat up in microwaves. This is the real deal. Excuse me, miss. This chilli is superb," he tells a passing waitress. She smiles at him. She's young and pretty and as she walks away her butt switches back and forth like a fleshy metronome. Hate her already.
At eleven-thirty we arrive back at Balboa Park. There's a statue of Vasco Núñez de Balboa, the sixteenth century spanish explorer the park is named after. He looks nothing like Rocky Balboa the boxer. And I bet he couldn't beat Apollo Creed. Or the one played by Mr T.
John and I take another stroll. We pass the caged birds. Pandemonium again. Another poop blitzkrieg. I wouldn't want to have to clean that up.
Pablo arrives at noon on the dot, punctual for once. "You have the rest of the money?" he asks. He's all business, I'll give him that.
Another delve in the Happy Meal bag. He's happy with what he finds and hands over the documents.
"How good are these?" Sarah Connor wants to know examining them.
"Good enough for most things. Your friend, are his dabs on record?"
"Dabs?"
"Fingerprints."
"Yeah. And his DNA."
"Then if he is caught by the federales he is screwed anyway. You can't fake DNA."
I sense movement among the trees. I turn in time to see three men, all dressed in black. They're creeping forwards carrying AK 47s.
AK 47s pointed at us.
-0-
Doctor Roberto is an OC though he sounds like someone they might have encountered during T2. (As far as this fanfic is concerned, T1 and T2 are canon, not the others. Though personally I do like T3 as a movie.)
Next: Meet Buck, the crazy americano.