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Dr. Thompson looks thoughtful for a moment, his blue eyes clear behind the lenses of his glasses.
“Well,” he says. “I see they haven’t given you the orientation for new girls yet.”
“No, I haven’t been to the orientation,” I say. “But can you tell me something? Anything? Please, Doc. I’m really in the dark here, and it’s weird, do you get what I mean? I mean, how can this even be happening?”
Dr. Thompson thinks again, idly tapping his pen against the clipboard.
“Young lady, it’s not my place to say, and god knows, they might have my head for speaking out of line. But I might be able to give you a brief overview. From the name the “Billionaires Club,” I trust you’ve already figured a key point out. This is a club for billionaires.”
“That’s not just a saying?” I ask skeptically. “I mean, there’s the clothing label Billionaire Boys Club. I doubt everyone who wears their stuff is a billionaire. Heck, I doubt even the owners of the brand are billionaires.”
Dr. Thompson chuckles. “I’ve never heard of that brand, so I can’t speak to that. But yes, when it comes to this particular club, the members are billionaires as I understand it. Of course, I’m not privy to the vetting system or how exactly assets are calculated, but rest assured. The members are ultra high net worth.”
That stuns me. So the club name isn’t just total hyperbole? It seems crazy that it’s true, but who knows? The things that have happened to me today are all over the top, so this is just the cherry on the sundae.
“But what is the Billionaires Club?” I ask, pressing my luck. “I mean, what do they do? What is this place? Where are we? And what do they have in mind for me?”
“That, my dear, I can’t answer,” says Dr. Thompson, turning away to get a cotton swab and some disinfectant. “I don’t know what they have planned for you, but I can say this. Most women who come here enjoy it. They like being here, and I know because I see the ladies whenever they have a health problem.”
Okay, so this guy won’t answer my questions directly. I wince as he dabs gently at the cut, avoiding my eyes.
“Well, maybe you can answer this,” I say, meeting his eyes directly. “What kind of doctor are you?”
“I told you,” the old man replies, still dabbing away. “I’m a GP.”
“Yes, but do you have your own practice here? Or does the club pay you by patient? Do you take insurance? Who’s footing the bill for my visit?”
The doctor laughs then, chuckling as he finishes daubing at my wound.
“You’re going to be fine,” he says. “I cleaned up the caked blood, but there wasn’t much. No stitches needed because it wasn’t deep at all. Just keep it clean and dry, and you’ll be okay.”
“Hey Doc,” I say in a warning tone. “Please answer me. I beg you. One woman to her doctor. What are you doing here?”
The old doctor sighs and looks down at his clipboard. He seems to be pondering something or other, and I’m not sure if our visit is over because I’ve been too pushy. Drat. I have a way of doing that sometimes.
“Have you been following the mess that’s called the health care industry in the United States?” he asks with a wry smile. “Of course not. No one in their right mind can follow it because it’s so complicated. There’s single payer insurance, the Affordable Care Act, the state subsidy, the federal subsidy that’s intended for the states to use, and all sorts of minutiae. I guess the devil’s in the details,” he sighs, “but I’m too old for all that. I worked thirty years in private practice in Vegas,” he says with a wry smile. “And when I retired I had no savings.”
I’m stunned. It’s one thing for someone like me to have no savings. After all, I’m young, marginally employed, and didn’t finish high school. But Dr. Thompson isn’t that at all. He’s elderly, clearly educated up the wazoo, and worked decades as a physician. How can someone like him have no savings?
“How is that possible?” I ask in a whisper, my eyes wide. “I don’t get it.”
He shrugs ruefully.
“Part of it is me,” he says. “I had a mid-life crisis and got a divorce when I was in my fifties. Traded in a wife of thirty years for a Lamborghini,” he says with a rueful smile. “If I could go back and do it all over again, I would. But I can’t. So here I am,” he says. “I lost half my net worth, and after the heart surgery, there wasn’t a lot left in the bank. Rehab and medication really add up.”
I stare at him, unsure what to say for a moment.
