"Sure, fella, but we're not worried about-"

"As 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-"

"Very!" 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?"

"Bob, where is Hammond?"

"What?" says Bob quickly.

"You mentioned Hammond, Louisiana. Where is it?"

"Where is Hammond," Bob repeats, looking at me. His eyes stray toward Max. "Okay, I give up. What's the gag?"

"Nothing. 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.

"Thanks, 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."

"Yeah?"

"I just used you as a control."

"No kidding."

"Yeah. 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."

"Gee thanks." But Bob Comeaux cocks a shrewd eye at me. "But who-Never mind."

"Max," I say, "where is Hammond?"

"I can't say I care," says Max. Max looks relieved.

"You 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.

"You okay, Tom?"

"Sure."

"What was that stuff about Hammond?"

"I wasn't kidding. I really have picked up a couple of odd things lately, Max. And I wanted to check Comeaux out. Have you noticed anything unusual in your practice lately?" "Unusual?" Max is attentive but still guarded. "Such as?"

"Oh, changes in sexual behavior in women patients-"

"Such as?"

"Oh, loss of inhibition and affect. Downright absence of superego. Loss of anxiety-"

Max laughs. "Well, don't forget my practice is not here but in New Orleans, the city that care forgot. It has never been noted for either its anxiety or its sexual inhibitions." Max is eyeing me. It is not his or my patients he's thinking about. "Tell me something, Tom."

"What?"

"What is Comeaux up to?"

"You noticed. I thought you might tell me."

"That business about your license was uncalled for. This so-called probation is pro forma, purely routine and up to us. There is no reason to have any trouble."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"Dr. Comeaux wants something," says Max thoughtfully.

"I know. Do you know what it is?"

"No, but it was interesting that Mrs. LaFaye, your wealthy patient, was mentioned."

"Why is that interesting?"

"The word is, he's got something going with her."

"Such as?"

"My wife, who knows everything around here because she is a realtor like your wife, says he has been very helpful to Mrs. LaFaye, his neighbor and fellow horseperson, rancher, whatever, and that he or Mrs. LaFaye or both are trying to buy up the adjoining land."

"That's the hospice he was talking about."

"Oh, you mean out at-"

"Yes."

We're standing at the elevators. I notice that Max is still preoccupied.

"Max, I'd like to talk to you about a couple of cases."

"Sure. Come on over to my place now. Sophie would be delighted to see you-and Ellen."

Max is always embarrassed to mention Ellen. Why? Because my first wife ran off with a fruity Englishman. No, two fruity Englishmen.

"I can't. I have to get home."

"I understand. How's Ellen and the kids?" he asks too casually. We're standing side by side gazing at the bronze elevator doors.

"They're fine."

"Is Ellen home?"

"Well, you know she went back to Georgia to stay with her mother when I was convicted and sent to-"

"I know, I know. But she's back now."

"Yes-though I haven't seen much of her. She just got back from a bridge tournament."

"Yes. I heard from-I heard she was some sort of prodigy at it."

"She just got back from Trinidad. The big annual Caribbean tournament. She and her partner, Dr. Van Dorn, won it."

"I see. Well, I know she's way out of our class, that is, mine and Sophie's. But do you think the two of you might come over one evening-"

"Sure. I'll ask her." We gaze at the bronze door one foot from our noses.

"How about next week?"

"She won't be in town."

"No?"

"No. She's been invited to the North American championships."

"I see. How long does it last?"

"I think about a week. It is being held at the Ramada Inn West in Fresno, California."

"I see."

The elevator doors open.

"John Van Dorn thinks she can compile a sufficient number of red points to become a master, I think they call it, in less than two years' time, starting from scratch, something of a record."

"Remarkable," says Max, concentrating on the arrow. Something-Ellen?-is making him uneasy again. He wants to get out of the elevator and go about his business. But then his worrying gets the better of him. "Look. Who's been watching Tommy and-ah-"

"Margaret. Well, we still have old Hudeen, you will remember-"

"Oh yes. Hudeen. Fine old woman."

"Yes. And a live-in person, Hudeen's granddaughter, who stays with the kids at night."

"Good. Very good. Very good," says Max absently. Max is torn, I notice, torn between his desire to welcome me back and his Jewish-mother disapproval. He worries about me. But as soon as we're out of the Fedville high-rise and into the parking lot, Max seems to recover his old briskness. He eyes my Caprice with mild interest, takes hold of my arm. "Now, Tom-"

"Yes?"

"I am concerned about-concerned that you get going again with your practice and back with your-ah-family."

"I know you are, Max."

"I think we can straighten out this license business. I'll take care of Comeaux."

"Good."

Max is examining his car keys intently. "You don't seem much interested."

"I'm interested."

"You're not depressed, are you?"

"No."

"Well, I do wish you would check in with me. You were, after all, my patient once, and I need all the patients I can get, ha." This is as close as Max ever comes to making a joke. "Just a little checkup."

"Sure. And I do want to discuss a couple of bizarre cases with you. I wasn't kidding about some sort of cortical deficit. But it's more radical than that."

"More radical?"

"There's not only a loss of cortical inhibitions, superego, anxiety which was once present. There's something else, a loss of-self-"

"Of self," Max repeats solemnly, concentrating on his ignition key. He looks worried again. He's thinking. There are worse things than depression, for example, paranoia, imagining a conspiracy, a stealing of people's selves, an invasion of body- snatchers.

"So you give me a call," says Max, frowning, eyes casting into the future.

"Right, Max."

"You need more cases, Tom," he says carefully.

"I know, Max."

"Two cases are not exactly a series."

"I know, Max."

He doesn't look up from his car keys. "What's this business about Father Smith?"

"Have you seen him since you got back?"

"Father Smith? No. Only a phone call."

"What did he want?" Max asks quickly.

I look at him. This quick, direct question is not like him.

"I'm not sure what he wanted. As a matter of fact, it was a very odd conversation."

What was odd was that Father Smith sounded as if he was calling from an outside phone, perhaps a booth in a windy place. I remember thinking at the time that he reminded me of those fellows who listen to radio talk shows in a car, decide to call in a nutty idea, stop at the first booth. The priest said he wanted to welcome me home. Thanks, Father. He also wanted to discuss something with me. Okay, Father. Did I know he had been to Germany? No, I didn't. Recently? No, when I was a boy. I see, Father. So he gets going on the Germans for a good half hour, in a rapid, distant voice blowing in the wind.

"What did he talk about?" asks Max, eyeing me curiously.