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would flock there. And the clinic would get paid twice—once for the doctor’s visit and once for the pills.
    Overstreet’s stash of pills had lasted less than a week, but by then Chris had bought more. The doctor had told Chris which drug wholesalers he’d used in the past and how to fill out the order forms, called 222 forms, that let the DEA track the flow of controlled substances. The order forms listed the supplier, the purchaser, the drugs and amounts. Before the clinic opened, Chris had called Overstreet’s wholesalers and asked them about the ordering process. He was used to dealing with vendors from his days at Majestic Homes, and he was good at working the phone, asking the right questions. He sent in the forms, along with Overstreet’s state medical license and DEA registration number, which allowed the doctor to prescribe controlled substances, and the drugs were shipped. The wholesalers didn’t ask many questions about the office or Chris, though some said they would be sending someone to inspect the clinic. Basically, the wholesalers verified that Overstreet had an active DEA registration, and if the credit card number went through, they sent the drugs. It was unbelievably easy, like ordering a shipment of drywall.
    And that was the part that blew Derik’s mind the most: how this quack Overstreet could order narcotics and no one blinked an eye. He’d assumed there was someone paying attention to this stuff, that you couldn’t just team up with a doctor to buy and sell pills to drug addicts. It was way too easy. But that’s what they were doing, and Derik was starting to wonder if Chris was on to something.

    The clinic was pulling in a few more patients every day, Chris told Derik. Five on Day One. Then seven. Twelve. Eighteen. Twenty. Word was spreading. Even better, every patient booked a follow-up appointment twenty-eight days later. After a couple of days, Chris had begun to wonder if his early volume projections were a little low. Less than two full weeks in, he knew the pain clinic was a go.
    Chris wanted to make the whole process as easy as possible for the patients. The word about convenience would definitely get around. That was good business. Patients were used to doctors giving them a hard time. At South Florida Pain, they would be treated differently. Customer service was key. Overstreet said they didn’t need any sort of diagnostic test—no CAT scan or MRI—on the first visit, though he thought they should start requiring them on the second visit a month later.
    Chris had come to the conclusion that almost every single patient was a drug seeker. Overstreet had never really spelled this out, and it wasn’t always obvious, because the patients would lie their asses off to get a fix, saying they were in agony from an old construction injury or whatever. And sometimes Chris wondered if maybe some of them were in pain. It was hard to tell who was injured and who was in withdrawal—both conditions gave people a panicky look. Chris didn’t know what Overstreet was doing in the examination room, but the appointments took just a few minutes and nobody was asking for the other meds they offered—HGH or testosterone or weight-loss pills. These people didn’t care about looking good. All they wanted was oxycodone. For all Chris knew, some of the patients might be in real pain and maybe need the drugs. But it hadn’t taken him long to realize that pain sufferers weren’t the target demographic. The clinic’s bread-and-butter was people who took the pills to get high.
    The following week, Chris asked Derik to spend another day guarding the clinic, a Friday. Derik agreed, though he already couldn’t stand Overstreet. The doctor seemed arrogant, cocky, thought he was some kind of gangster. Derik saw Overstreet popping Vicodin, which he kept in the gun safe along with some Viagra and the rest of the clinic’s drugs, and meeting with shady-looking people next to his Land Rover after closing