Chapter 34

Muller sits on the examining table with his shirt open. Flecks of green paint dapple his chest hair. Krupsky listens to his heart, taps his back, and then sticks a penlight in his ear. “How are you feeling these days, Sam?” he says. “Meditation helping?”

“I’m okay,” I say. “How’s he look?”

“Not bad. Can’t say the same for you. Ever think about taking a vacation? Argentina is nice this time of year. Great beaches. You and Mary should try it. Might be just the thing.”

“I’m fine, Krupsky. I’ll handle stress my own way, thank you.”

“You need to relax, Sam,” Muller says. “Stress kills.”

“Where would I get stress from? You just drank paint, for chrissake. That give you any clues?”

“Muller’s right,” Krupsky says. “You need to relax. Take up dancing. It works wonders.”

“Stick to Muller, will you?”

“He seems okay,” Krupsky says. He taps Muller’s back. “Some old bruising down here. Any falls lately, Muller?”

“He dove off a roof,” I say.

“How high?”

“Two-storey.”

“That’s quite a drop.”

“Not enough of one, obviously.”

“No internal injuries?”

“Nothing. His heart beats like a tribal drum.”

Krupsky takes his glasses off. “I’m going to say three things to you, Muller”—holding three fingers—“Drinking paint is dumb. Diving off two-storey buildings is dumb. Going out in the sun without a hat is dumb. Find yourself a vocation that doesn’t involve those three. You’ll thank me on your sixty-fifth birthday.”

“That’s it?” I ask.

“What do you want me to say?”

“You could tell him he’s crazy.”

“You a psychiatrist?”

“No.”

“Neither am I. That’s why I didn’t touch it.”

Down in the parking lot, I kick Muller in the pants. “You’re giving me advice? Who the hell drinks paint?” I push him around to the passenger door. “Get in, for chrissake.”

“Can we stop somewhere for food, Sam?”

“We’ll take burgers back for Max and Ruby.”

Muller stares down at the ground. “I forgot about her for a minute.”

“Forget about her completely, Muller.”

“You think we should go back to Seattle?”

“I want you to go back. Leave my daughter here.”

“That would break Judy’s heart.”

“What do you think you’re doing now?”

“I’m just trying to be honest.”

“Honest?”—I start hitting him with my ball cap— “I’ll give you honest, you dumb bastard!” The ginger ale can goes off in my head and I sink to the pavement. Muller kneels next to me. He takes a folded paper bag from his back pocket, shakes it out, and puts it over my mouth. “Just breathe, Sam,” he says. I try pushing it away, but Muller keeps putting it back over my mouth. As I breathe in and out, Krupsky appears in the window above. He’s munching away on his sandwich. Then he points at me and starts doing the twist.