Vexation Lullaby by Justin Tussing Page B

‘discreet inquiries.’ That’s a quote.”
    â€œWho told you that?”
    â€œYou won’t believe me.”
    â€œThe Japanese don’t fuck around with sneak attacks.”
    â€œI get it.”
    â€œYou get it! I’m Filipino—my people lived it.”
    â€œAre you trying to scare me?”
    â€œI’m not sure what’s going on, but Ogata lit a fire under Peg’s ass. For your sake, I hope you’re already scared.”
    â€œThis is all about Judith somehow.”
    â€œDo me a favor, take a look around when you get to Six West. I don’t think Judith’s going to be there.”
    W HEN HE PULLED up to the gate, the parking attendant stuck his head out of his kiosk. “Morning, Dr. Silver.”
    â€œHi,” Peter said, resisting the urge to stomp on the gas.
    The attendant pointed a finger at an elderly man bent over the steering wheel of a golf cart. “Buzz will give you a ride to your meeting.”
    As Peter got out of his car, the cart glided up—behind the driver an orange dome light flashed on and off on a long stalk.
    â€œYou must be Buzz?”
    The man patted the bench seat next to him.
    They zipped through the parking garage and inside the main entrance, past the billing center, past scheduling, past the gift shop and Friendly’s, past Physical Therapy and the pharmacy. Buzz nosed the cart against the west bank of elevators, where, without leaving his seat, he leaned forward and pushed the up button; turning to Peter, he said, “They’re waiting for you on six.”
    What would happen if Peter walked away? He was still a doctor after all. That ought to mean something. But the hospital had protocols in place to deal with the noncompliant. Things could escalate quickly. Should a staff member get on the intercom and announce, “Dr. Brown is needed by the West Elevator,” the orderlies were trained to respond en masse. In a matter of moments the lobby would look like a tryout for Rochester’s arena football team.
    The elevator door yawned open and Peter stepped inside. The doors closed. He felt his body get heavy as the steel room started its ascent.
    O N THE FOURTH floor, a bell chimed. The elevator stopped, and the door opened.
    A small man, probably in his early fifties, reached inside the elevator and barred the door from closing. “Dr. Silver?”
    He wore a loose-fitting gray suit jacket, tan slacks, and black dress shoes. An orange bow tie made him appear gift-wrapped. His hair was dark, parted near the top of his head, and combed straight back. His upper lip was invisible beneath the overhang of his mustache. He reached into an open briefcase. “I’ve got some things for you to sign before we head up there.”
    â€œAre you Cooper?” Peter asked.
    â€œI’ve left half a dozen messages on your phone, Dr. Silver. I’m Leo Kopp.” The little man blinked, “Mr. Cross sent me. I’m your attorney.”

15
    Gene introduced himself to me six years ago in Syracuse. According to my ticket, I had a seat reserved in the front row, but the show was on the university campus and the students had decided that anyone who could afford a seat up close didn’t deserve it. All of us gray hairs were huddled in the back of the hall watching the kids. Most of us had children their age and so we didn’t entertain thoughts that we’d be welcome up front.
    The kids cheered while Cross played “Green Dandy,” which, among other things, is about the treachery of youth. I watched the crowd as much as I watched the performance. Maybe I was wondering if the kids were there to bask in the music or the fame. At this point in his career, Cross could probably get away with putting a wax dummy on stage, since being able to say you saw him seemed to have supplanted the act of hearing the music. Basically, I was at the back of the room, surrounded by old people and having old people