"So most religions that aren't fundamentalist start out radical and then move to the right."
"Sure. They have to be radical at the beginning to attract a core of converts. Then, when they want to attract a much larger number of converts-when they start looking for a real power base-they have to settle down a little bit. It's like a presidential campaign working its way through the primaries. They start out all sharp edges and ringing challenges and then get worn smooth as they approach the convention. Those that don't, or can't because their primary appeal is to a noncentrist minority, drop out."
"The Burned-Over District produced some social movements too. In addition to the religions, I mean."
"Practically every important American movement of the nineteenth century. Abolition, temperance, educational reform, feminism-"
"What about feminism?" said a woman's voice from the kitchen. "Bernie, are you being boring?"
"I don't know," Bernie said. "I wasn't listening. You'd have to ask Simeon."
I got up and toted the other bottle of wine to the kitchen door. Bernie had finished the first. "On the contrary," I said to the woman standing at the oven. "He's been a veritable display of fireworks."
"He's all over the sky," she admitted. "What he needs is some direction." She closed the oven and held out a hand. I'm Joyce," she said, "and you're Simeon."
"What a domestic entrance," Bernie said from behind me. "I didn't even know the back door worked."
"It's still raining," she said. "I parked in the garage and ran for it." She was about thirty-six, maybe a year older than Bernie, with a pleasant, no-nonsense face, faded blue eyes, and a thin, high-bridged nose. She wore a white coat. "Sorry I'm late," she said. "I've wanted to meet you for a long time. You didn't get him onto agrarianism, did you?"
"Not yet."
"Good. If I hear one word about the Green Revolution and more productive strains of rice, I'm going out for pizza."
"It's important," Bernie said mildly. "We either increase the productivity of the land or you'll have to ship them lasagna."
"I think I'd prefer cooking to listening. What have we here?" She indicated the bottle in my hand.
"Merlot."
"Ducky. Looks like Bernie's already gargled with some. There must be another bottle somewhere."
"Hidden under the couch," Bernie said.
"Well, Simeon, why don't you open that one, and Bernie can set the table, such as it is, and I'll do the salad."
"Joyce is organized," Bernie said, sorting silverware. "When we pack for a trip she pins my socks together."
"Bernie's idea of packing is to empty his drawers onto the floor and then push the suitcase in front of him, wide open, until it's full. When we get there he never has any sunglasses or toothpaste, but his books are packed alphabetically by author."
"Good," I said, worrying at the cork with the world's flimsiest corkscrew. "I was afraid he was still trying to figure out the Dewey Decimal System. Bernie and I lived together once. Whole libraries vanished into the void."
"Gang up on me," Bernie said from the other room. "I like the attention."
"He does," she said. "He's worse than my patients."
"You're a gerontologist."
"Ask her about the graying of America," Bernie called. "Then, when she gets going, I can talk about the Green Revolution and she'll never notice."
"This is a two-issue relationship," Joyce said. "Gerontology and whatever Bernie's talking about at the time."
I poured her some wine. "Sounds interesting."
"I love it. I was way too focused before I met him. You have to learn to listen to him, though. It took me about six months before I learned I could change channels just by mentioning some other buzzword. That's the wonderful thing about Bernie. He's got more channels than a cable TV box."
"He's on twenty-four hours a day, too."
She grinned at me and gave me the appraising glance a woman saves for her lover's oldest friends. "And you've got as many degrees as Bernie and you're using them to be a detective," she said. "Where have we gone wrong, the mothers of America?"
"We'll talk about that over dinner, okay?"
"Fine," she said. "Anything but the Green Revolution."
"So," I said later as the lasagna steamed on the plates. "How do you track a doctor?"
"Track a doctor?" Joyce said in a suspicious tone, instantly joining the Physicians' United Front Against Everybody Else. "How do you mean?"
"Let's just say I wanted to make sure that someone who says he's a doctor really is one. Can I call the American Medical Association or something?"
"Used to be you could," she said, ''but it's unconstitutional now. Has been for some time."
"The AMA is unconstitutional?" Bernie said with his mouth full, getting up to go to the kitchen.
"No, of course not. The AMA is as constitutional as the Supreme Court, and about half as lively. It's requiring doctors to join that's unconstitutional. Used to be every doctor had to be a member. Now it's only about half."
"So you mean there's no central data bank for doctors?"
"Well," she said, "what's a doctor?"
"What do you mean, what's a doctor?" Bernie put a fresh glass of wine down in front of me. We were working through it pretty fast. "A doctor is somebody who wears a white coat and cures people. A doctor is somebody who's not a nurse and works in a hospital."
"There are doctors who do nothing but research. There are doctors who go straight into admin and never see a patient. Christ, there are chiropractors, glorified masseuses who call themselves doctors and crack spines for a living. Even worse, there are people who take M.D.'s only to go on and become lawyers so they can specialize in making doctors look bad in court, the scumbags. Is there a central data bank that includes all those people? No."
"Swell," I said. "That's just what I didn't want to hear."
I must have looked dejected. "It's made more difficult," she added, thawing slightly, "by the fact that doctors are certified to practice on the state level. There's no comprehensive central registry that contains all the state certifications."
Bernie bustled nervously, a specialty of his, before sitting in the chair opposite me and lifting his glass. "Suppose you're working in a hospital," he said helpfully, "and someone applies to practice there. How do you check him or her out?" He drank.
"You start with the school," Joyce said. "He or she had to take an M.D. But of course, you have to know what school it was." She raised her glass to her lips and then sputtered, spraying wine onto the table. "Wait," she said, wiping her chin. "I tell a lie. There is a central data bank for everyone who graduates with an M.D. It's run by the AMA, and it's in Chicago. It doesn't tell you whether people ever practiced or not, just whether they graduated. I mean, they may not ever be certified or hang out shingles, such a quaint term, but they've got the right letters after their names."
"Could you check that for me?"
"I guess so. What name?"
"Richard Merryman. An internist, or supposed to be. Living in California but not licensed here."
"What's he do, then?"
"He's the private physician to a little girl."
Bernie raised an eyebrow and looked interested. "That little girl?"
"That's not legal, not if he's not licensed," Joyce said in a tone of righteous outrage.
"I don't think this guy cares very much what's legal."
"Does he dispense drugs?"
"I don't know."
"If he does, he's got to be registered with the DEA in Washington. Oops, there's another list. Harder to check, though."
"Could you do it through the hospital?" Bernie asked.