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I cut her off. “Am I dying in the next few weeks?” I ask.
I’m aware that I’m out of my chair. Feeling dizzy once I’m vertical again. Feeling the way Jimmy says he used to feel after he got tagged in a fight.
But still standing.
“Of course not.”
“Then I have a case to try.”
I’m at the door now, asking the only question I care to have answered.
“How long?”
She gives me a long look. “There’s never a precise metric,” she says.
“Try.”
“Worst case? A year.”
“No.”
Now she manages a small smile.“No?”
“Not taking that deal.”
“I can’t knock down the sentence,” she says. “I’m not a judge.”
“Kind of,” I say. “Judge, jury, hopefully not executioner.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I want more than a year, since this is already sounding like the worst case I’ve ever taken.”
She hesitates. “You sound like you’re plea-bargaining here.”
She makes a show of putting the x-rays and test results back in the folder, as if looking for something to do with her hands.
“How about fourteen months?”
“C’mon. You have to be able to do better than that.”
“No, Jane. I can’t and still be honest with you.”
I tell her that deal I’ll take. “We lawyers call this a negotiated settlement,” I say, and then leave her office, knowing I now have to make one more important stop before court.
Seven
I KNOW SOMETHING THATonly the regulars at Jimmy Cunniff’s tavern know, that it’s open to them in the morning, even with the blinds facing Main Street drawn. And the sign in the front door window turned toCLOSED.
You go through the back door, and once you do, you can find at least a couple of hard-core cases drinking coffee with their whiskey. Or having coffee with whiskey added. Or having their first cold beer of the day. There is no hard-and-fast rule about when Jimmy or one of his bartenders opens up. If someone is inside getting ready to work, they might unlock the door the first time they hear somebody outside tapping on the window.
By the way? I’m not a hard-core drinker.
But I need a short one this morning, and I need it now.
So I come in through the back and see Jimmy standing at the front end of the bar, staring up at the television showing highlights of last night’s Yankees game. I hear him curse. Even though he’s Yankees and I’m Mets, we’ve managed to keep the baseball separate from our working relationship, at least so far.
He makes his way down the bar. “I’m almost positive you’re supposed to be somewhere right now.”
