“We’re talking controlled substances, fellows, schedule three. We’re talking a felony count under new state and federal statutes.”
“So what’s the big deal?” asks Max, asking the space between me and Bob Comeaux. “So it was a dumb thing to do. Not dangerous, but dumb. As a matter of fact, he probably saved lives by keeping those poor bastards awake. Dumb, yes. But he’s paid for his mistake. The feds are not interested in him. As far as we are concerned, the ethics committee, I don’t see the problem. I’m sure Tom doesn’t mind my saying that he was not at all himself at the time. I know because I was treating him.”
“No, Max,” I say. “You were not treating me at the time. That was earlier.” For some reason I am having difficulty concentrating.
“Tom is a very creative person,” says Max, “as we all know. Like all creative people he has periods of lying fallow.”
“I wasn’t lying fallow, Max. I was mostly lying drunk. My practice went to pot. I needed the money.”
“But for a good cause!” exclaims Max, raising a finger. “You were thinking of your family. And what a lovely family!”
Bob Comeaux is shaking his hand, but tolerantly, even smiling. “Okay, how’s this?” he asks briskly, again setting one hand softly into the other. “Let’s just put this business on hold for a couple of weeks. I think there may be a way to beat this bum rap.” He rises, stretches. Max rises.
“Let me just say one thing,” says Max, not moving toward the door.
“Sure, Max,” says Bob Comeaux, smiling. He is no longer ironic.
“I don’t have to remind you of what Tom here has accomplished, by his breakthrough in the field of cortical scanning, for which he received national recognition. Furthermore—”
“No, Doctor, you don’t have to remind me.” Bob Comeaux is holding out both arms to us in a kind of herding gesture in the direction of the door. “What is more, I feel certain we can work something out. We’re not about to lose Dr. More’s services. Two things, Tom. One, Mrs. LaFaye. I’m going to need your help with her, okay?”
“Sure. As a matter of fact I have an idea—”
“Sure sure. I’ll get back to you, there’s plenty of time. The other is frankly a favor you could do me and also an old friend of yours.”
“Sure. Who?”
One arm falls. Bob Comeaux’s hand touches my shoulder. “Your old friend, Father Simon.”
“Father Simon?”
“Father Simon Smith.”
“Oh. Rinaldo.”
“Yes. Father Simon Rinaldo Smith.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Well, he’s not doing well.” He moves closer, hand still on my shoulder. “It’s a long story, but I was sure you’d be concerned. I’ll call you in a day or so. Will you talk to his assistant, Father Placide?”
“Placide? Sure.” What is Comeaux up to with the clergy? Whatever it is, I sense only that he wants me to talk them into something or other, probably something to do with Rinaldo’s hospice, and I don’t particularly want to. Don’t want to talk to them, let alone talk them into something.
“Okay, Doctors,” says Bob Comeaux, opening his arms again. “Meeting’s adjourned — unless you have a question. Dr. Gottlieb?”
Max sighs and shakes his head.
“Dr. More?”
“Yes?” I can’t stop thinking about Donna and Mickey,
“Any questions?” asks Bob Comeaux patiently.
“Well, we’re here to review my present practice, aren’t we?”
“Sure, fella, but we’re not worried about—”
“As a matter of fact I’d like to discuss a couple of cases, one a patient of yours, Bob, Mickey LaFaye. There is something interesting—”
“Very!” cries Bob Comeaux, looking at his watch. He claps his hands softly. “Why don’t we have lunch? I’ll give you a buzz. Any further questions? Max? Tom?”
“Bob, where is Hammond?”
“What?” says Bob quickly.
“You mentioned Hammond, Louisiana. Where is it?”
“Where is Hammond,” Bob repeats, looking at me. His eyes stray toward Max. “Okay, I give up. What’s the gag?”
“Nothing. Forget it.”
Now Max is doing the herding, smiling and herding me. He’s like a guest trying to get a drunk friend out the front door before he throws up on the rug.
We’re both anxious to leave. But first I’d better fix things up with Bob Comeaux. He’s up to something, wants something, wants me to do something. What’s he cooking up with this business about my license and with his smooth invitation — threat? — to hire me on here at Fedville? I don’t know, but there is no need for me to look nuttier than I am.
“Thanks, Bob, for everything,” I say warmly, shaking hands, matching his handshake for strength, his keen gray-eyed expression for its easy comradeliness — two proper Louisiana gents we are. “I’ll let you in on a little secret.”
“Yeah?”
“I just used you as a control.”
“No kidding.”
“Yeah. I’ve had a couple of patients who may show an interesting cortical deficit at Brodmann 39 and 40, you know, the Wernicke speech area. They answer questions out of context — and I’m thinking of using it as an informal clinical test. I needed a couple of normal controls. You wouldn’t answer the Hammond question out of context. You’re a control. Max is next.”
“Gee thanks.” But Bob Comeaux cocks a shrewd eye at me. “But who — Never mind.”
“Max,” I say, “where is Hammond?”
“I can’t say I care,” says Max. Max looks relieved.
“You guys get out of here,” says Bob Comeaux. “Jesus, shrinks.”
We’re in the hall. Max is padding along faster than usual, but in his usual odd, duck-footed walk. Max waits until we hear Bob Comeaux’s door close behind us. He moves nearer and speaks softly.
“You okay, Tom?”
“Sure.”
“What was that stuff about Hammond?”
“I wasn’t kidding. I really have picked up a couple of odd things lately, Max. And I wanted to check Comeaux out. Have you noticed anything unusual in your practice lately?” “Unusual?” Max is attentive but still guarded. “Such as?”
“Oh, changes in sexual behavior in women patients—”
“Such as?”
“Oh, loss of inhibition and affect. Downright absence of superego. Loss of anxiety—”
Max laughs. “Well, don’t forget my practice is not here but in New Orleans, the city that care forgot. It has never been noted for either its anxiety or its sexual inhibitions.” Max is eyeing me. It is not his or my patients he’s thinking about. “Tell me something, Tom.”
“What?”
“What is Comeaux up to?”
“You noticed. I thought you might tell me.”
“That business about your license was uncalled for. This so-called probation is pro forma, purely routine and up to us. There is no reason to have any trouble.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Dr. Comeaux wants something,” says Max thoughtfully.
“I know. Do you know what it is?”
“No, but it was interesting that Mrs. LaFaye, your wealthy patient, was mentioned.”
“Why is that interesting?”
“The word is, he’s got something going with her.”
“Such as?”
“My wife, who knows everything around here because she is a realtor like your wife, says he has been very helpful to Mrs. LaFaye, his neighbor and fellow horseperson, rancher, whatever, and that he or Mrs. LaFaye or both are trying to buy up the adjoining land.”
“That’s the hospice he was talking about.”
“Oh, you mean out at—”
“Yes.”
We’re standing at the elevators. I notice that Max is still preoccupied.
“Max, I’d like to talk to you about a couple of cases.”
“Sure. Come on over to my place now. Sophie would be delighted to see you — and Ellen.”