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there’s plenty of time. The other is frankly a favor you could do me and also an old friend of yours.”
    â€œSure. Who?”
    One arm falls. Bob Comeaux’s hand touches my shoulder. “Your old friend, Father Simon.”
    â€œFather Simon?”
    â€œFather Simon Smith.”
    â€œOh. Rinaldo.”
    â€œYes. Father Simon Rinaldo Smith.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong with him?”
    â€œWell, 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?”
    â€œPlacide? 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.
    â€œOkay, Doctors,” says Bob Comeaux, opening his arms again. “Meeting’s adjourned—unless you have a question. Dr. Gottlieb?”
    Max sighs and shakes his head.
    â€œDr. More?”
    â€œYes?” I can’t stop thinking about Donna and Mickey,
    â€œAny questions?” asks Bob Comeaux patiently.
    â€œWell, we’re here to review my present practice, aren’t we?”
    â€œSure, fella, but we’re not worried about—”
    â€œAs 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—”
    â€œVery!” 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?”
    â€œBob, where is Hammond?”
    â€œWhat?” says Bob quickly.
    â€œYou mentioned Hammond, Louisiana. Where is it?”
    â€œWhere is Hammond,” Bob repeats, looking at me. His eyes stray toward Max. “Okay, I give up. What’s the gag?”
    â€œNothing. 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.
    â€œThanks, 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.”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œI just used you as a control.”
    â€œNo kidding.”
    â€œYeah. 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.”
    â€œGee thanks.” But Bob Comeaux cocks a shrewd eye at me. “But who—Never mind.”
    â€œMax,” I say, “where is Hammond?”
    â€œI can’t say I care,” says Max. Max looks relieved.
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œYou okay, Tom?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œWhat was that stuff about