"You'll pardon my saying so," Murphy said, settling back into the comfortable leather chair across from Raymond's simple teak desk, "but I'm a little surprised that you didn't have any more trouble setting up a unit for the third time."
And damn if Raymond didn't laugh. "Who says I didn't? Don't get me wrong, Mr. Murphy. I grew up in Puckett. I love it here. But is Puckett, Missouri, the first place that comes to mind when you think 'premier medical facility'? The people here gave me a chance. I'm trying to pay them back."
"What makes you think you won't have the same problems here you had before?"
Raymond leaned back himself. Tented his hands as if building an antenna to search for the perfect answer. Dressed today in blue shirtsleeves, Looney Tunes tie, and nicely tailored gray slacks, with his white lab coat slung over the chair behind him like a casually assumed mantle of office, Raymond looked supremely unconcerned with his image. Murphy wished the guy at least seemed more nervous. That he needed to display himself more, with diplomas on the walls or community service awards strewn around. Hell, even a picture or two with Raymond's arm around a semi-famous person.
But the golden boy had decorated his office in high-quality Monet prints, and left it untidy with books and magazines stuffed into simple shelving units along with the obligatory anatomy models and a couple of reproduction Chinese horses.
Raymond didn't even have pictures of the legendary mother to elicit sympathy. He had paperweights made out of geodes and a dollar goldfish swimming around in a kid's bowl. And Alex Raymond smiled as if he really did enjoy watching that stupid fish swim around on his desk.
"I don't think I'll make the same mistakes as before, because I have Paul Landry looking out for me this time. Peter and I are committed to what we do. It doesn't mean we're not fiscal idiots. Paul, on the other hand, is a genius, and I'm more than happy to leave the financial end up to him. Between him and Mary Jane, they've freed Pete and me up from everything but patient care and research."
Murphy didn't even bother to take notes. He just sat there wondering if this guy could really be serious. Hell, he wondered if this guy could be real. It certainly seemed that Mary Jane had a real investment in the guy. From what Murphy had seen so far, Landry would probably be stupid not to be involved as well. But there wasn't any way Murphy was going to buy into the myth that Alex Raymond was completely oblivious to everything but holding hands and separating genes.
"Which brings us to Joe Leary," he said, regrouping.
Dr. Raymond beamed like a kid talking about a favorite big brother. "Which does, indeed, bring us to Joe Leary. What would you like to know?"
"Why you're paying for his care, for one thing."
The perfect face fell a little. Surprise, disappointment, caution. "I imagine Mary Jane told you. I'd really rather not let that get around, if you don't mind. It's a personal matter."
"Personal how?"
And now, as if choreographed, that smile. The smile Murphy had seen from damn near everybody in town with the notable exception of Timmie Leary when Joe Leary was introduced. "Joe is... special. He's a true original who won't come this way again, and I already miss him."
"That's it?"
The smile grew, shifted. "Why don't we go see him now? After you spend some time with him, I think you'll understand."
* * *
"Like most of our residents in the inpatient area of Restcrest," Raymond said as they walked, "Joe is in what we term the second stage of Alzheimer's. Affected enough that he can't safely remain in a home environment, but still mostly able to care for himself. The first stage, when he was beginning to forget, is the toughest stage for the patient, I think; the second stage, when he begins to lose touch with his world, is toughest for his family. He only remembers Timmie occasionally now, which must be terrible for her. The two of them were inseparable when she was a little girl." For a second, Raymond remembered, smiled, and nodded. "It's something you just don't forget. That great, huge man with his booming laugh walking down the sidewalk in the summer holding hands with that tiny girl and singing and reciting poetry to her."
"He still seems to remember the poetry, anyway."
"Magnificently. I wish he'd taught me English lit instead of Mrs. Beal. I might have actually passed the class."
"He taught?"
"For a while. He did lots of things for a while. He entertained us all for the sheer love of it, though. Bars, town square, church suppers. He always said there wasn't enough music in the air. If nobody else was going to provide it, he would. He did."
He still was, evidently. Murphy heard the distinctive voice even before they'd opened the doors.
"'... Oh, how may I call this a lightning? O, my love! My wife!'"
Raymond grinned like a kid. "Romeo," he crowed, pushing open the door as if expecting to see Julia Roberts on the other side.
The only thing on the other side was more old people. More staff. More glass-fronted storage and brightly lettered memory boards. And Joe Leary standing foursquare in the center of the beige carpet, his frame bent, his massive hand cupping the face of his daughter, who was sitting at a table littered with coffee cups and orange rinds. Even from where he stood Murphy could see the glitter in her eyes.
"'Death, that hath sucked the honey of thy breath,'" Joe Leary whispered so that every person in the room could hear, "'hath had no power yet upon thy beauty. Thou art not conquered..."'
"Act five, scene three," Raymond told Murphy in awed tones. "Romeo's about to die for her."
Nobody moved. Nobody breathed. Murphy watched them, watched Raymond quiet to attention just like the rest. He turned and took in the show himself.
Joe Leary mesmerized. His great voice was hushed, his eyes grief-stricken, his movements small. Murphy could damn near see a crushed, callow seventeen-year-old standing in the place of the rumpled, white-haired old titan.
Evidently, so could everybody else. They remained in suspended animation as the words built like a soft, sad storm in the artificially bright room.
'"Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavory guide! Thou desperate pilot, now at once... now at once..."'
Nobody noticed the hesitation but Murphy. It seemed a natural pause in the play if you didn't know it by heart. But the old man's eyes flickered, his hand trembled.
"Now, at once..."
Murphy wanted to jump in to save him. He didn't have to. Joe Leary's trembling grew until Murphy thought the people in the room would surely see. His gaze sharpened on the face of his daughter. She didn't move. Murphy could barely see her mouth work the lines the old man had temporarily misplaced, the whispered words so soft the audience could barely tell. The perfect prompter, she kept the focus on him.
And then, as if she'd hit a light switch, Romeo returned.
"'Now at once run on the dashing rocks thy seasick weary bark!'" he cried. '"Here's to my love! O true apothecary! Thy drugs are quick.'" Lifting an imaginary vial to his lips, he drank, and all eyes went with him. '"Thus with a kiss... I die.'"
They all burst into applause.
"He do this all the time?" Murphy asked as he joined in.
"All the time," Raymond assured him. "He's the best thing that's happened to this place since music therapy."