relatives or whatever, indicating the facility was primarily geriatric. I would grant you few quick getaways had ever been made from this building.
On the other hand, that chauffeur was a big fucker, and the only reason I was walking around after that beating by his bouncer brothers was the Percodans perking in my bloodstream. Plus, that suitcoat hung loose enough that a handgun might be snugged under his armpit, and I was currently unarmed.
He was driving around the supposed godfather of Haydee’s Port, after all, a character with genuine Chicago bona fides-old Gigi only missed getting himself an episode of The Untouchables by maybe a decade.
A sign on the brick by the front doors spelled out the specialty of the house-neurology-and I went on into a small waiting room populated by senior citizens and their keepers. Nobody looked very bright-eyed, including the keepers. Two rows of chairs on either side faced each other, divided by a big coffee table where old magazines went to die.
I selected a Highlights, read for a while about Goofus and Gallant (speaking of pricks, how about that fucking Goofus?), and after ten minutes the nurse receptionist, a plump woman bursting her whites, called, “ George Giovanni! ”
Giovanni did not react, but the butch-hair bodyguard did, smirking disgustedly as he tossed his Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue on the coffee table, to rise and haul the old boy around and down a hallway at left.
I waited, and about ninety seconds later, the bodyguard returned, alone, and retrieved his reading matter.
I got up, went up to the porcine nurse (what the fuck kind of health message was she sending?) and asked where the men’s room was. I already knew, having spotted it from where I’d been sitting-it was down that same hallway where Giovanni had been walked, and abandoned.
She pointed toward the men’s room, mildly irritated (yeah, those bodily functions are a real nuisance), and I went down the hallway. It wasn’t a big place, maybe four little examining rooms, and they all had patient charts hanging on the door. The second chart I checked said “George H. Giovanni.”
Nobody else was in the hallway, and the fat nurse was busy resenting her lot in life, so I thumbed through the sheets. I’m no doctor, but the word “dementia” jumped out. Among the pages clipped to the board were several tests taken by Mr. Giovanni, including the faces of clocks that had been filled in with floating hands, as if Dali and a four-year-old had collaborated, and several pieces of startling news, including that Nixon was still president and that the patient’s favorite color was “ice cream.”
I went in, leaving the chart on the door, and said pleasantly to the little old man sitting on the edge of the examining table, “And how are you today, Mr. Giovanni?”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Dr. Leefer.” That was the name on the chart, anyway. “How have you doing, Mr. Giovanni? Are the medications helping?”
I’d seen the names of the meds, but they were Greek to me. Right now, from my point of view, anything that wasn’t Percodan wasn’t pertinent.
“I’m doin’ okay, doc.”
“And how is your son doing?”
He frowned. The face that had once been fearsome was a lined, sunken thing, like a fruit that had gone off, and the eyes had less alertness than your average chimp. “I have a son?”
“You sure do.”
“Well, I’ll be damned!”
“His name is Jerry.”
“Yes! Jerry! He’s a good boy.”
“He’s taking care of you all right?”
“Yes. Yes. Can’t complain.”
“Getting what you need to eat and drink?”
“Yes. I get plenty of ice cream. All the ice cream I want.”
“That’s wonderful. Do you know who I am?”
“Don’t you know?”
“I’m the doctor-Dr. Leefer.”
“Well, that’s right! Dr. Leefer.”
“Do you know a man named Cornell?”
“Do I?”
“Richard Cornell. Do you know him?”
“No. Can’t say I do. Might. I forget people’s names sometimes.”
“What about a place called the Paddlewheel? Do you know that place?”
“No. Is it a boat?”
“No, it’s a gambling house.”
“The Lucky Devil is a gambling house.”
“Right. Your son runs it for you, doesn’t he?”
“Yes. My son. Is his name Jerry?”
“Yes it is.”
“Who are you again?”
“Your doctor. Dr. Leefer.”
“I’m staying on my pills.”
“That’s good, Mr. Giovanni. That’s good.”
The door opened and we both jumped a little. A guy with a Freud beard and no hair on his head and goggle- size eyeglasses came in, checking his clipboard. He had a name tag that said dr. leefer. He frowned at me.
“And you are?” he asked.
The old man answered for me: “He’s my doctor.”
“If he’s your doctor, Mr. Giovanni, who am I?”
“Don’t you know?” The old boy nodded toward me. “Maybe Dr. Leefer here can tell you.”
I stood. Went over to the doc and said, “I’m his nephew Al-Al Giovanni in from Chicago, Dr. Leefer. How’s he doing? He seems a little confused.”
He frowned at me. “Were you in an accident, Mr. Giovanni?”
He could see the contusions and scrapes on my face.
“No, I had a little altercation across the river. Haydee’s Port?”
“Ah,” he said, accepting that.
“But I am really am concerned about my uncle…”
He tried not to sigh and almost succeeded. He spoke softly: “Well, I’ve explained all this to Mr. Giovanni’s son. This is not senility, nor do I think we’re looking at Alzheimer’s. Mr. Giovanni has suffered, and continues to suffer, minor strokes. They’ve caused no physical disability to date, but his memory is severely affected. But I’m glad you’re here, Mr. Giovanni.”
“Are you? Good.”
Dark eyebrows rose over the big eyeglass lenses. “Mr. Giovanni’s son hasn’t accompanied his father to the last three appointments, and I need to stay abreast of how Mr. Giovanni is doing at home. He’s been able to dress himself, bathe himself, fix himself small meals. Watches television, and can enjoy himself in, shall we say, the moment. Or that has been the case-I obviously can’t ask Mr. Giovanni about these things himself, which is why it’s better if his son would take a stronger interest. I don’t mean to be judgmental, but if Mr. Giovanni can no longer perform these simple tasks, he will need a different kind of long-term care.”
“To the best of my knowledge,” I said, “he’s still able to do those things, dress himself and so on.”
“Good. That’s very good to hear. Now, I’m going to give your uncle a series of cognitive tests. Would you like to sit in?”
“No, no, doc-I think having me here might distract the old fella. You do your thing, and I’ll just wait outside…So long, Uncle Gigi.”
“So long, Dr. Leefer,” he said.
I found my way out, the nurse giving me a glare (I’d clearly really exceeded the toilet time limit), moved through the waiting room where the bodyguard was holding his magazine sideways, and went out to my car.
