"No," he answered, intrigued by the possibility of escape from the faces of endless agony. Until Isaac's call he had not admitted how depressed he had become at the AIDS clinic. When Isaac, as good as his word, called back in less than three weeks with a fully equipped suite in Uptown he could rent at a very reasonable rate and the guarantee of an average of twenty-five full physicals and other referrals from the Chicago Police Department, Jacob took it. He had no idea what Uptown was. Now he was finding out.
The Uptown suite had three rooms, all small. The waiting room had five chairs covered in faded orange Nauga-hyde, a small book rack containing nothing, white walls that needed painting, and two reproductions of paintings by van Gogh, both of flowers. The reception desk was enclosed with a sliding glass door. Jacob Berry had not yet hired a receptionist and the prospect of having a nurse to help him was well into the future. The office/examining room held an old wooden desk with a wooden swivel chair behind it, a row of wooden book racks containing his small supply of the thick and the deadly, an examining table with two chairs, a tiny sink in a corner that was very stingy with hot water, and a white metal cabinet containing a minimum of samples from the drug company detail men who had welcomed him to his new practice. It didn't seem like much.
But the men had come. Policemen of all sizes and ages and problems, ranging from near exhaustion to failing eyesight, cancer, and long-abused organs. There were those who had bodybuilder torsos and those, like the one he had to talk to now, who looked like a good breeze would carry them out to Lake Michigan.
Their eyes were the same. A moist knowing. They looked around slowly, usually without moving their heads. And then when you spoke to them, their eyes met yours and held. The cops in general made Dr. Berry uncomfortable, but a lot less uncomfortable than the patients in East Lansing. It was the city that had gotten to Jacob almost from the minute he arrived. Dark shadows, insane headlines, sullen and frightened people walking the streets, cursing each other, making offers.
The policeman's name was Abraham Lieberman. He was almost dressed. He glanced toward the window as an el train screeched into the Argyle Station going south. The noise wasn't deafening, but since the platform was only fifteen feet from the window, its arrival gave pause to the conversation and reminded Dr. Berry of why his rent was so low. The rapid deterioration of the neighborhood, the Vietnamese gang extortionists, the el train almost within touching distance had certainly sent the previous occupant fleeing to the suburbs.
"Well," Dr. Berry tried again, looking at the clipboard containing lab results and notes and trying to strike a relaxed pose as he leaned against the sink and adjusted his glasses. "I've got the results of your lab tests here and-" And he suddenly remembered. His pink face went white.
"Doctor," said Lieberman, "are you all right?"
"I… yes," Dr. Berry said as the train pulled away.
Two days earlier Dr. Berry had made the mistake of opening the blinds to let in some natural light. He had been carrying a syringe filled with a flu injection for the policewoman sitting on the examining table. A train had pulled in next to his window and a trio of young men, dark and grinning, had been looking at him. One of the young men, no more than seventeen or eighteen, wearing a backward baseball cap, had produced a knife, which he pointed at Dr. Berry. The one with the knife urged the others to get off the train. The one with the baseball cap had shouted something at Dr. Berry that sounded through the windows and the rumble of the train as it began to move. "I'm bean bag," he had said, pointing to himself and at Dr. Berry, who had stood rigid, unable to turn away.
The boys had laughed.
Now, with the policeman in front of him, Dr. Berry suddenly knew what the boy had mouthed.
"I'll be back," Dr. Berry whispered.
"You have to leave?" Lieberman said as he finished tying his shoes.
"No," said Dr. Berry.
Dr. Berry tried to pull himself back from memory and looked into the sad, steady eyes of Abraham Lieberman. The hangers-on, the Alter Cockers, at the T amp; L Deli on Devon Avenue, which Abe's brother, Maish, owned, were evenly divided as to whether Abe looked more like a slightly dyspeptic dachshund or an underweight bloodhound. Lieberman, it could not be denied, was not an imposing figure at five seven and hovering around 145 pounds. He looked a good five years older than his sixty-two years. His brother, Maish, definitely a well-fed beagle, thought Lieberman looked like an undernourished Harry James. Maish's fruitless efforts to "put some meat on" his brother had begun almost half a century earlier, and though Abe had been a willing consumer, he had remained thin and in need of tolerant suspenders.
"It's not the amount, not even the quality," Maish had said with a resigned sigh. "It's your metabolism, Abe. You burn up straight-fat corned beef before it has time to get into your system."
Lieberman's wife, Bess, thought her husband, with his curly gray hair and little white mustache, looked like a distinguished lawyer or doctor.
But each morning when Abe looked into his mirror, usually after an almost sleepless night, he saw only the face of his father. The man in the mirror had a little more hair, maybe a fuller mouth, but it was the same face.
"Here," said Lieberman, stepping over to Dr. Berry and guiding him to the chair. "Sit."
Dr. Berry, trying to come out of his daze, let himself be led and sat He clung to the clipboard and file and hugged them to his chest.
"A cup of water?" Lieberman said softly.
Dr. Berry nodded and Lieberman moved across the room for a small Dixie cup. He took the cup to the sink. The cold water was tepid. He filled the cup, crossed the room, and handed it to Dr. Berry, who loosened his grip on the clipboard and took the cup from Lieberman.
"Better?" Lieberman asked.
Dr. Berry nodded.
"It's my brother's fault, Isaac," Dr. Berry explained.
Dr. Berry, his temples touched with premature gray that matched his eyes, a full, dark mustache above his lip, looked to Lieberman like either a young man trying to look older or an older man trying to look younger.
"What's your first name?" Lieberman said, moving across the room to rest against the desk.
"My…T "It's not Barry?" Lieberman asked. "Barry Berry?"
"No."
"Good," said Lieberman, folding his arms.
"My name is Jacob."
"You're Jewish?"
"Yes."
"Married?"
"No more."
"Gay?"
"No."
Lieberman shook his head. He would pass this information on to Bess, who was looking for a suitable professional replacement for their daughter Lisa's husband. Lisa had walked out on Todd Cresswell with Lieberman's two grandchildren. She had declared her independence, ten years after it was fashionable to do so, and moved in with Abe and Bess.
"I'm fine now," said Dr. Berry.
"You want to tell me?" asked Lieberman.
Somewhere on the street two stories below them an argument started in an Asian tongue. The arguers moved away as Dr. Berry took a deep breath and told about the three young men on the el train.
"You have a gun?" Lieberman asked.
"A gun?"
"Here, in the office, a gun."
"No."
"Consider it," said Lieberman. "Five years ago I'd have said no, but today…"
"You think those three will really come back here?" Berry said, a quiver of fear in his voice.
"No," said Lieberman. "You want odds, I'd say ninety-eight to two they forgot you five minutes after the train left the station."
"Then…T "You want to take a chance on two percent?" asked Lieberman. "And what about the ones who come looking for drags?"
"I didn't need a gun in East Lansing," said Dr. Berry, adjusting his glasses.
"Sounds like one of the songs my grandson listens to," sighed Lieberman. "I didn't need a gun in East Lansing, but baby I could use one now."