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of Desoxyn tablets and two hundred prescriptions of Dalmane capsules at one dollar per dose for the purpose of resale at the Union 76 truck stop of I-12 near Hammond, Louisiana—blah, blah—look, guys, there is no need to go back over this stuff.” He closes the file.
    â€œThat’s entrapment!” Max cries, again to the world at large. “That narc guy was posing as a trucker.”
    â€œRight,” says Bob Comeaux glumly. “A sting operation. Could I ask you something, Tom—something I’ve never understood?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œI’ve never understood why you didn’t just charge those guys a medical fee. Why sell the damn prescriptions wholesale through a goddamn truck stop?”
    â€œI needed the money. I knew the owner of the truck stop and had confidence in him, that he would only deal with truckers who needed them. You will note that the dosages were minimal, twenty-five milligrams of Desoxyn and thirty milligrams of Dalmane, just enough to get them up enough to keep awake and then down so they could sleep. You know those guys push those big double and triple tandems over crumbling interstates for up to eighteen hours a day. Then they’re so tired they can’t sleep.”
    â€œOh boy,” says Bob Comeaux.
    Max opens his hands again but says nothing. Doesn’t have to. Tom, that was dumb, was what he would say.
    â€œOkay,” says Bob gently. “Here’s our little problem. Desoxyn is an amphetamine, isn’t it, Tom?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œDalmane is a hypnotic, right?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWe’re talking controlled substances, fellows, schedule three. We’re talking a felony count under new state and federal statutes.”
    â€œSo 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.”
    â€œNo, Max,” I say. “You were not treating me at the time. That was earlier.” For some reason I am having difficulty concentrating.
    â€œTom is a very creative person,” says Max, “as we all know. Like all creative people he has periods of lying fallow.”
    â€œI wasn’t lying fallow, Max. I was mostly lying drunk. My practice went to pot. I needed the money.”
    â€œBut 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.
    â€œLet me just say one thing,” says Max, not moving toward the door.
    â€œSure, Max,” says Bob Comeaux, smiling. He is no longer ironic.
    â€œI 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—”
    â€œNo, 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?”
    â€œSure. As a matter of fact I have an idea—”
    â€œSure sure. I’ll get back to you,