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Authors: JEFFREY COHEN
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on a comparison of myself to other candidates for the same academic slots.”
“Put the guy on the phone,” I said.
Now in the field, the A-OK Plumbing representative sounded even younger. His voice almost squeaked. “Mr. Freed, the pipes in your bathroom are set in concrete. If you want me to stop the leak . . .”
“I want you to exhaust every possibility before you start with something like that, you understand?” I said. “I’m in no mood to spend weeks with a closed theatre and pay thousands of dollars in repairs because it’s your first week on the job.”
The guy took a moment. “I’m the owner of the business, Mr. Freed,” he said. “I’ve been doing this for twenty-two years. And the damage to your floor will be so minimal, you might not have to replace as many as two of the tiles.”
“Break the floor,” I said. Then I told him to put Sophie back on the phone. “From now on, just decide,” I told her. “If I say you’re in charge, be in charge.”
“That’s what your dad said,” she answered.
“He’s there?”
“Yeah. He got here before I did.”
I hung up on her again, and looked at Dutton.
“I need to do something,” I told him. “What can I do?”
“See what I’m doing?” he asked.
“You’re sitting behind your desk,” I observed.
“Exactly.”
I wasn’t going to do that.
8
I was at the front door of Sharon’s practice, with my bike out of Dutton’s trunk and locked securely on a rack to one side, when Betty the receptionist (and her Playboy magazine figure) opened up at eight forty-five. Patients, I knew, wouldn’t start showing up until nine, unless there was an emergency, and the practice would close as near to noon as possible. It was, after all, the weekend.
“I’m not surprised to see you,” she said when I came in (literally) out of the cold.
“You still haven’t heard from her?” I asked. No sense in bothering with formalities. Betty has known me for years, since before Sharon and I divorced.
I reflexively curb my lust at the door whenever I enter the practice, and today, I wouldn’t have been interested even if Betty had welcomed me wearing a black lace teddy and locked the door behind me. But she did bear a passing resemblance, I noted, to a Latina version of Thelma Todd, who played the “college widow” (don’t ask me; maybe she was married to a college that died) opposite the Marx Brothers in Horse Feathers .
“No,” she said. “Still not a word, and she’s not answering the cell. I’m kind of worried.”
“Tell me about Russell Chapman,” I said.
“I’m not allowed to talk about a patient’s medical records,” she answered. “You know that, Elliot.”
“I don’t care about his medical condition,” I told Betty. “I’m concerned about the sequence of events. What happened when?”
She walked behind the glassed-in counter and I could see her through the window, looking up records. “Mr. Chapman came in two weeks ago, and underwent some tests,” she said, careful to leave out any details. “He came back Thursday afternoon to get the test results, and that was all we knew until the police called about his suicide.”
“Did you answer the call about that?” I asked.
Betty nodded. “Yeah, but Dr. Westphal was the one who actually spoke to the police. You know, I just shepherd the calls. I knew it was the police, but I didn’t know what it was about.”
“Why Dr. Westphal?” I asked. “Why not Sharon?”
“Dr. Simon-Freed was gone by then,” Betty said.
“Did she say where she was going?”
Betty puckered her lips, and not in the way Lennon Dickinson would have appreciated. “Yeah, Elliot. She said specifically where she’d be, and I just haven’t told anybody until you asked.”
“Well, that’s sort of unusual, isn’t it? Doesn’t Sharon usually let you know where she’ll be, in case there’s an emergency?”
Betty took in a good deal of air through her nose. “She was
“Put the guy on the phone,” I said.
Now in the field, the A-OK Plumbing representative sounded even younger. His voice almost squeaked. “Mr. Freed, the pipes in your bathroom are set in concrete. If you want me to stop the leak . . .”
“I want you to exhaust every possibility before you start with something like that, you understand?” I said. “I’m in no mood to spend weeks with a closed theatre and pay thousands of dollars in repairs because it’s your first week on the job.”
The guy took a moment. “I’m the owner of the business, Mr. Freed,” he said. “I’ve been doing this for twenty-two years. And the damage to your floor will be so minimal, you might not have to replace as many as two of the tiles.”
“Break the floor,” I said. Then I told him to put Sophie back on the phone. “From now on, just decide,” I told her. “If I say you’re in charge, be in charge.”
“That’s what your dad said,” she answered.
“He’s there?”
“Yeah. He got here before I did.”
I hung up on her again, and looked at Dutton.
“I need to do something,” I told him. “What can I do?”
“See what I’m doing?” he asked.
“You’re sitting behind your desk,” I observed.
“Exactly.”
I wasn’t going to do that.
8
I was at the front door of Sharon’s practice, with my bike out of Dutton’s trunk and locked securely on a rack to one side, when Betty the receptionist (and her Playboy magazine figure) opened up at eight forty-five. Patients, I knew, wouldn’t start showing up until nine, unless there was an emergency, and the practice would close as near to noon as possible. It was, after all, the weekend.
“I’m not surprised to see you,” she said when I came in (literally) out of the cold.
“You still haven’t heard from her?” I asked. No sense in bothering with formalities. Betty has known me for years, since before Sharon and I divorced.
I reflexively curb my lust at the door whenever I enter the practice, and today, I wouldn’t have been interested even if Betty had welcomed me wearing a black lace teddy and locked the door behind me. But she did bear a passing resemblance, I noted, to a Latina version of Thelma Todd, who played the “college widow” (don’t ask me; maybe she was married to a college that died) opposite the Marx Brothers in Horse Feathers .
“No,” she said. “Still not a word, and she’s not answering the cell. I’m kind of worried.”
“Tell me about Russell Chapman,” I said.
“I’m not allowed to talk about a patient’s medical records,” she answered. “You know that, Elliot.”
“I don’t care about his medical condition,” I told Betty. “I’m concerned about the sequence of events. What happened when?”
She walked behind the glassed-in counter and I could see her through the window, looking up records. “Mr. Chapman came in two weeks ago, and underwent some tests,” she said, careful to leave out any details. “He came back Thursday afternoon to get the test results, and that was all we knew until the police called about his suicide.”
“Did you answer the call about that?” I asked.
Betty nodded. “Yeah, but Dr. Westphal was the one who actually spoke to the police. You know, I just shepherd the calls. I knew it was the police, but I didn’t know what it was about.”
“Why Dr. Westphal?” I asked. “Why not Sharon?”
“Dr. Simon-Freed was gone by then,” Betty said.
“Did she say where she was going?”
Betty puckered her lips, and not in the way Lennon Dickinson would have appreciated. “Yeah, Elliot. She said specifically where she’d be, and I just haven’t told anybody until you asked.”
“Well, that’s sort of unusual, isn’t it? Doesn’t Sharon usually let you know where she’ll be, in case there’s an emergency?”
Betty took in a good deal of air through her nose. “She was
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