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say, I was working on it.
    I got up and went to check the contents of my refrigerator. Standing barefoot in my kitchen area, the crud under my feet made me realize that I hadn’t done a stem-to-stern clean of my rooms in a while, and without thinking too much about it, I grabbed a mop. When I’d finished with the floor, I emptied my hamper into the washing machine off my bedroom, added detergent, and set it for a heavy load. I wiped down the counters in the bathroom and kitchen, then scoured the corners for cobwebs and dust. Next, I ran the dishes that I’d been stacking rinsed in the dishwasher for the past week or so—mostly coffee mugs, a few utensils, and small plates.
    Now I was undressed, ready for bed. My clothes spun, thumping in the dryer. The counters and floors were clean enough to eat off. The dishwasher was silent. My bedroom, like the living room, featured windows high in the wall facing Brannan Street, and because of the streetlights outside, my quarters were almost never entirely dark. With all of my own lights off, as they were now, the rooms and the warehouse in general retained about the brightness of moon glow.
    The telephone rang and I picked it up. “French Laundry,” I said.
    â€œIf this is really the French Laundry,” a female voice said, “I’d like to make a reservation.”
    â€œI’m sorry. We don’t do reservations.”
    â€œI thought if you called precisely two months to the day before you wanted to eat, exactly at nine A.M ., you could get one.”
    â€œThat’s only if there’s a free table and if the phone’s not busy, which it always is.”
    â€œBut not now.”
    â€œNo, but it’s not nine A . M . So I’m sorry.”
    â€œIs there any way I could get a reservation now?”
    â€œAre the first three letters of your last name m-r-l ?”
    â€œThose aren’t the first three letters of anybody’s last name. Besides, my last name has only two letters.”
    â€œThen I’m sorry, we can’t fit you in.”
    â€œYou don’t take people with two-letter last names?”
    â€œOnly very rarely.” But we’d played that out as far as it would go. I asked Wu if she were looking for a partner to drink with tonight.
    â€œAfraid not. I’m working.”
    â€œStill?” I looked at my watch. “At ten thirty?”
    â€œBillable hours wait for no one, Wyatt. They’re here, I jump on ’em.” She paused for a beat. “You want to guess whose name just came across my desk?”
    â€œWinston Churchill.”
    â€œGood guess but wrong. Wilson Mayhew. Ring a bell?”
    â€œVaguely.”
    â€œHave you heard anything about him recently?”
    I wasn’t entirely able to hide the jolt of excitement. “What do you know, Wu? Tell me it’s bad news. He’s not dead, is he? That would be too fair.”
    â€œNo, he’s not dead. But apparently he is hurt. Or at least he says he’s hurt.”
    â€œWhat kind of hurt?”
    â€œTerrible, fully debilitating, work-induced, stress-related back pain.”
    â€œWow. Those are a lot of adjectives.”
    â€œYes, they are.”
    â€œSo what do they all mean? That somehow it’s not physical?”
    â€œNo. The pain is real pain if, in fact, he feels it. But the exact physical diagnosis can be difficult.”
    â€œSo how did you find out about Mayhew? Is he your client somehow?”
    â€œNo. But one of our biggest single clients is the California Medical Insurance agency, which handles workers’ comp benefits for state workers. But we also have a section that specializes generally in exposing medical fraud.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œOkay. Well. Have you ever heard of Chief’s Disease?”
    â€œNo. Does Mayhew have it?”
    The question slowed her down. “Actually, that may not be a bad call. Do you know what it is?”
    I had never heard of