DiFrancesca hesitated. "It could be a little stickier than that. For one thing, this Kestler is the sort of guy who shoots off his mouth, that could do you some damage."
"Yeah, I see what you mean."
"And Al Muntz is quite upset. Of course he called me at the house when he got home from Kaplan's, he wanted all the details."
"How's he concerned?"
DiFrancesca was embarrassed. "He seems to feel that in a matter of this kind, the clinic could be hurt; that if there's mud flying around, some of it could stick to the rest of us, as a matter of fact. Kestler accused me of trying to cover up for you because we were from the same office— you know, colleagues."
"That's a crock, John," Cohen said hotly. "How about the doctors at the hospital? They're my colleagues, too, are they affected?"
"You know how it is, Dan. When you’ve worked yourself up to the kind of spread Al Muntz has on Beachcroft Road and you drive a Cadillac that you trade in every couple of years, you get awfully sensitive, maybe even a mite paranoid."
"Well, he has no cause," Cohen said shortly. But he was worried.
Both Muntz and Kantrovitz were at the hospital all morning, but they got back in time for lunch, the foua doctors went out to eat together, but no one alluded to the case, neither on their way to the restaurant nor while they ate. However, when they were sipping their coffee, Muntz began. "About this Kestler business, Dan, John thinks there might have been an allergic reaction. What did you prescribe?"
"Limpidine. 250's. Four times a day for five days."
"Is that what it said on the bottle. John?" Kantrovitz asked.
"Uh-huh."
"For infection of the urinary tract?" Kantrovitz considered and nodded. "Did you ask if he was sensitive to it?"
"Aw, come on. Ed." "Well, did you?"
"No, I didn't," Cohen said. "I didn't have to. I'd treated him with it some months before."
"Still, it's always a good practice to ask, just for the record."
"I wasn't interested in a record." Cohen retorted. "I was just interested in taking care of my patient."
"No need to get hot about it, Dan," said Muntz soothingly. "We're just trying to help," Kantrovitz chimed in.
"Help how? The man is dead. Don't tell me you haven't ever lost a patient."
"Of course, that's over and done with, we're concerned about you now, according to John there's a good chance of a malpractice suit."
"So I'm insured for it."
Muntz nodded. "Naturally. But John here feels that Kestler might do a lot of talking. In fact, Chet Kaplan was telling me he did a lot of yakking at the funeral."
"So?"
"So that could be bad for all of us."
"How?"
"Oh, you know, a lot of people have funny ideas of how a clinic works," said Muntz vaguely.
Ed Kantrovitz was a thin, serious man, who did not so much speak as make pronouncements. "Look at it this way, Dan," he said, he pursed his lips while organizing his thoughts. "Somebody tells somebody that somebody died, the first thing that's likely to be asked is who was his doctor. So suppose he says it was one of the men at the clinic. Now the person can go away thinking it might be Al or me, or John—"
"Or me," said Cohen. "And if they said it was one of the doctors from the hospital, it could be any one of a hundred doctors."
"Let's not get too hypothetical," Muntz suggested. "Right now we're concerned about Kestler."
"Sa-a-y." Kantrovitz snapped bony fingers. "Isn't Kestler the guy you were telling me about a while back, Dan, the one who brought suit against you?"
"Yeah, that's right. When I put up my fence, he claimed part of it was on his land."
Dr. Muntz stared, his blue eyes protruding as though they would pop out of his head. "And you treated him?"
"Well, he couldn't get another doctor, and that was just business."
Dr. Muntz shook his head slowly from side to side. "You ought to know better than that, Dan."
"Well, what's wrong—"
"You don't treat someone that you're emotionally involved with," Muntz said flatly.
"You wouldn't treat a member of your own family if they got sick, would you?" demanded Kantrovitz.
"What's wrong is that it doesn't look good," Muntz said. "Here's a guy you got a right to feel sore at, and you give him a pill that maybe results in his death. What's more, you don't just give him a prescription. No, you call it in to make sure he gets it right away. Now that just doesn't look good, not to the man in the street, and if there's a trial, he's the guy that's going to be sitting on the jury."
"But the guy was sick, and I thought— I could help him," said Dr. Cohen. "Could I just turn away—"
"That's exactly what you should have done." Muntz interrupted. "He was not your responsibility. You should have told them to call the police and they would have sent an ambulance and taken him to the hospital."
"And if he'd got worse on the way, or even died—"
"He wouldn't have died, and if he had, it wouldn't have been your fault."
They argued at length, keeping their voices low since they were in a public place, looking around every now and then to see if anyone was listening, and they got nowhere. Dr. Cohen insisted that it was his duty to treat anyone whom he had the knowledge and skill to help if they asked for his aid, and Muntz and Kantrovitz maintained with equal stubbornness that his first duty was to himself, that he had the right to refuse treatment if his own standing in the profession and community was thereby jeopardized. DiFrancesca remained silent for the most part, except when it looked as though the argument might become personal, then he would shift uneasily in his seat and say, "Aw, fellers."
When they finally rose to return to the office, there was a distinct coolness in the manner of the two older men toward Cohen, and even a cool civility toward DiFrancesca for not having supported them.
That evening, Mrs. Cohen found her husband unusually silent, she naturally attributed his unease to the death of his patient and wisely made no attempt to cheer him up, the next morning, however, when she noticed that his mood continued, she said. "Why don't you go to that retreat this afternoon, Dan? It will do you good to get away for a couple of days."
"I don't think I can, thev leave earlv in the afternoon, and I'd have to postpone a couple of my patients."
"I'll tell you what, put a bag in your car anyway, then if you decide to go, you can just take off. Have Madeleine call me and say you're not coming home."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Just happened to be passing and saw your car in the driveway, David." It was Hugh Lanigan.
"Come on in." Rabbi Small said to the stocky man with the broad red face who was Barnard's Crossing's chief of police, the two men had been friendly from the first year of the rabbi's incumbency, reason enough for the casual call. But from long experience, the rabbi had learned that there was usually some official reason for these visits, and he wondered what was in back of the police chiefs mind.
"We were just having a cup of coffee." said Miriam. "You'll join us, won't you? I'm taking a little breather from preparing for the Sabbath."
"Don't mind if I do," Lanigan replied, he set his uniform cap on the floor beside his chair and ran thick, stubby fingers through his hedge of short white hair.
"Try one of these," the rabbi urged. "It's called kichel. It goes well with coffee."
"Mmm, verv nice. What do you call it? Kichel? You're right, it does go well with coffee, maybe you could give Amy the recipe."
"Glad to." Miriam said.
The chief sipped at his coffee and sighed contentedly. "This is the first restful moment I've had in the last forty-eight hours, we were all day Wednesday preparing for the storm, and all day yesterday cleaning up."