“You live in there?”
“’Fraid not, Captain. I was just in there talking to Sergeant Proudy; I’m his insurance advisor.” Malloy’s hand dipped into an inner pocket and came out with an official-looking document. His eyes sought out a red-faced man in the crowd. “I just signed Sergeant Proudy up for twenty-five thousand whole life.”
The red-faced man stepped forward, swinging his attache case. “You signed him while he was lying there bleeding? You dirty cocksucker!”
“He was anxious to sign,” Malloy said happily. “He
“Suppose he dies?” Marshal asked angrily. (Captain Davidson watched the two of them in silence.)
“He won’t.”
“The hell you say! You’re no doctor.”
“The doctor’s a doctor. He’s got him in there taking stitches in his head. He’s not yelling about oxygen and transfussions, is he?”
“How the hell would I know?”
Captain Davidson said, “You said you didn’t live there, Malloy.”
“I don’t, Captain.”
“Then you wouldn’t mind if we had a look at your keys, would you? Just friendly. You say you’re an ex-cop. You ought to know how it is.”
“I’d like the keys back, Captain. I hope you’ll keep the card. You know how it is.”
“I don’t. I never sold insurance.”
A shivering man in shorts and a short-sleeved shirt appeared at Malloy’s elbow. “Did you say twenty-five thousand whole life?”
Captain Davidson tossed the keys to Evans on the stoop.
“Double indemnity. Beneficiary’s his wife.”
“That’s what I thought I heard,” the shivering man said. He was nursing a styrofoam coffee container. “One of the guys was talking about it when I came up. I had him—” He paused to wipe his nose.
Glasser pushed him aside. “Look, you’re leaving, right? Malloy, right?” He thrust out a hand, and Malloy took it. “Nat Glasser. You got nothing to lose, so tell me. What kind of a presentation did he go for? Man-of-the-world? Serious? We’ve got something opening up that—”
“How do you know I don’t have a concussion?” Sergeant Proudy asked argumentatively.
“Do I look like God?” the old doctor said. “I don’t know.” As a matter of fact, he did look like God. He was a small, elderly man who sported a little white beard and an even whiter mustache; the collar of a tattersall shirt—an almost infallible sign of the presence of deity—peeped above the collar of his overcoat.
“Suppose I do have a concussion?”
“You’re blacking out? Seeing spots?”
“No.”
“Dizzy?”
“Not much.”
“Your fingers are numb. You drop things.”
“Not since I dropped that flashlight, and that was before I got hit.”
“Then supposing you have a concussion, I’m ordering you to go home and go to bed. In the morning, see your regular doctor and tell him what happened.”
“That’s what you said before.”
“I noticed it myself.” The doctor glanced at his curved needle and put it away. “Concussion is a bruising of the brain. It can be so slight there’s practically no symptoms at all. The main thing is to leave it alone until it gets better. Don’t play football. If you see somebody trying to hit you with a ball bat, duck. (Nurse, let me have some tape.) If you want to find out for certain if you have a concussion, we’ll perform an autopsy. If you think you might have a fractured skull, go to the emergency room of the nearest hospital and tell them that. They’ll zap your head with a few X-rays, and it’s a poor X-ray man that can’t find a little crack someplace if he looks hard enough. He’ll tell you to give up football until the bone knits. Okay, all done, put on your hat and you can go home.”
“You’re through bandaging?” Sergeant Proudy’s fingers groped at the gauze.
“Why do you think I was pulling you around while I was talking to you? I warn you, if you press it, it’s going to hurt.”
Candy Garth said, “Here,” and extended a pink plastic hand mirror. Proudy accepted it and inspected his bandage.
“I made it look worse than it is. If a dressing doesn’t look bad, nobody ever believes the patient is hurt.”
“I’d hate to be hurt as bad as that bandage looks.”
“You’d be dead.”
Candy asked, “Is it going to leave a scar?”
