“I bought you a beer,” he said. He had a big oval face and these dark, deep-set eyes.
We tapped our plastic cups together and drank.
“You’re Pennyman,” he said. He pointed his thumb at his chest. “We’ve emailed before. I’m Badmonkeyfunker.”
We were virtual acquaintances. Sometimes he would send a note of encouragement after I’d encountered a challenge on the road. He came across as perpetually enthusiastic: “Great write-up!” or “Feels like I was there.”
He told me to call him Gene.
I thanked him for the beer and we listened to a few songs together. Up near the stage, the kids were batting a beach ball around. It annoyed me.
“Fucking college kids,” Gene said.
I nodded.
“They come into your church and act like it’s a basement kegger. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
I said I got his point.
“Someone should go down there and pop that fucking ball.”
“Be my guest,” I said.
Gene laughed. “I’m all talk.”
“Well, I’m no talk.”
I meant it as a joke, but Gene said, “I’m bothering you.”
“No,” I said, tapping cups with him again.
Gene drained his beer. “I’m going to get us two more.”
I like meeting fans, but it doesn’t always go so well. Sometimes when people recognize me, they assume that I don’t want to be interrupted, that I enjoy the music on some different level (like I’m comparing that night’s version of “Shitheel” with the version Cross played in Oakland ten years before), so they watch me from a distance. It’s even more awkward when they don’t introduce themselves, but step up to me and blurt out an arcane trivia question: Name the only two drummers to earn writing credits on Cross albums? When that happens, I offer my hand and tell them I’m there for the show.12
Gene came back with our beers.
Between sets the two of us found a couple of empty seats and I asked him to tell me about his life. He’d married his high school sweetheart. They didn’t have kids, but they both came from big families, there were lots of nieces and nephews, so they didn’t think they’d missed out on much. He’d gotten turned on to Cross by a much older brother — the brother had gone to Vietnam, come back, gotten messed up on drugs, made some bad decisions, etc., etc. “I like hearing the old songs,” Gene said. “How about you?”
I said I stood behind everything I posted on JCC.
“You like that gospely stuff?”
“Even that.”
Cross came back on stage. Maybe the kids had exhausted themselves; in any case they were better behaved. The second set came and went. Gene offered to get me another beer, but I was done.
After the encore, I leaned over and told Gene that I was sorry about his brother. He nodded his big round head.
“Cross lost a brother, too.”
He said, “I know.”
I patted him on the back.
He gave me this goofy smile. “Here,” he said, handing me something.
It was plastic and rumpled. I teased it into shape; it was the beach ball.
16
When they got to six, the doors opened and a woman in a moss-colored knit dress said, “Right this way, Dr. Silver.” Her heels made dime-sized dimples in the Berber carpet. Without turning around, she said, “There’s coffee and muffins in the room. If you want anything else, let me know.”
She knocked on a frosted glass door before pushing it open. “Here you are.”
Peter walked into the room.
Leo Kopp stopped at the threshold to the conference room and handed the woman a few binder-clipped pages. “If you don’t mind, I need you to make copies of these materials.”
The assistant glanced at the papers before turning her attention back to Kopp. “And who are you?”
“He’s with me,” Peter said, adding for the benefit of the others gathered in the room, “he’s my attorney.”
At the far end of the room, the hospital’s director stood up. Peg was one of those Nordic giantesses who look like they ought to be accompanied by a wolfhound. “Thanks for coming in, Peter, but I don’t expect you’ll require counsel. This is only an information-gathering meeting.”
Peter looked toward Kopp.
The strange little man had stopped at the buffet and was crowding mini-muffins onto a saucer.
“I think I’d feel more comfortable with him here.”
“It’s fine with me, so long as there’s no rule expressly forbidding it. Cooper? Is there a policy?”
Leaning back in his chair, a large man in a tight blue dress shirt said, “That’s H.R.’s territory, I suspect. What’s policy, Bucky?”
A younger man hefted a black three-ring binder onto the table. He began shuffling through the pages. Stopping, he read a passage aloud, “Professional staff are permitted legal representation during disciplinary hearings.”
Rick Martinez, from Geriatrics, shut his laptop before speaking. “I didn’t think this was a disciplinary hearing.”
The director smiled at Peter. “And it’s not.”
“I think what concerns Dr. Larsen,” Cooper said, “is that once you have two attorneys in a room things have a way of deteriorating.”
“I promise to be on my best behavior,” Kopp said.
Rick said, “I think that’s a sentiment we all ought to bear in mind.” Peter was glad to see him in the room — the year before they’d been on a marathon relay team that raised $7,000 for the fight against childhood obesity.
Before sitting back down, Peg thanked everyone for coming in. “As you’re aware,” she said, “there’ve been a number of rumors circulating regarding the professional conduct of one of our colleagues, and I convened this meeting so that we might head things off before—”
Leo interrupted her to ask if they might go around the table and introduce themselves.
Peg said that sounded like a good idea. She identified herself. The younger guy in the Mickey Mouse tie was Bucky Katz from H.R. Next to him, Rick Martinez volunteered that he had been on the committee that hired Peter, then, placing a hand on the empty seat beside him, he said, “Dr. Vinoray recused himself.” The door opened and an older, potbellied man in a camel overcoat came in, apologizing. Dr. Larsen stood again. She said, “Mr. Oblitz, thanks for being here,” then, looking to Kopp, she added, “Mr. Oblitz chairs the hospital’s board.” At the other end of the table, the man in the blue shirt stood. “I’m Ray Cooper, lead counsel at the hospital; I advise Peg and the board on a myriad of issues including contracts, tort, and labor relations.”
While the principals spoke, Kopp managed to eat two of the muffins on his plate. Seeing that it was his turn to speak, he held a finger up while he finished chewing. Then he rubbed his hands over the saucer. “I assume everyone knows Dr. Silver,” he said, extending a hand toward Peter. “He asked me to be here today. My name is Leonard Kopp.”
Cooper leaned across the table to study the man. “There’s a Leo Kopp at Columbia.”
Kopp nodded his head. “I teach at Columbia, yes.”
Cooper rooted his tongue around in his cheek, like he’d lost something. “Don’t you live in the city, Mr. Kopp?”
“I do,” Kopp said. “Do you need the address?”
The hospital’s counsel turned to Peg. “When did this meeting get called?”
The director glanced at her papers. “A little after eight, I think.”
Cooper smiled and then, as if addressing the conference table, he asked, “Mr. Kopp, by what strange coincidence did you happen to be in town?”
Kopp brushed his mustache with a napkin. “You are aware of a conveyance called an airplane?”