The van stopped in the circular drive in front of a low, modern building, vaguely collegiate. Like the administration offices of a well-endowed state university.
The Indian Orchard Wellness Center. Recently renamed. For the previous hundred years, it had been called the Indian Orchard Clinic for Psychopathology.
The orderlies jumped out and opened the van’s back doors.
“Let’s go, sport,” the first orderly said to Harry, who emerged from the back of the van and jumped down to the ground with a flourish.
“Your broken shoe,” Harry said.
The orderlies walked Harry toward the clinic’s front entrance.
“A friend of mine—” Harry said.
“Get a move on,” the first orderly said.
“Nunez,” Harry said. “Diogenes Nunez. He could fix that shoe right up. What’s your name?”
“Beausejour,” the first orderly said. “Pete Beausejour.”
“Nunez could make that shoe just like new, Pete,” Harry said. “Court Square Shoe Shine. Tell him I sent you.”
“This guy’s going into the nuthouse, and he’s worried about me!” the first orderly said to the second orderly. To Harry, he said, “Dickinson, you’re really something!”
“So are you, Pete,” Harry said. To the second orderly, Harry said, “So are you. Fact is, I never met someone who wasn’t.”
The first orderly shook his head in amusement and incredulity at Harry’s good humor, as he tapped a code on a metal keypad and opened the door to the clinic.