The Ditto List

by Stephen Greenleaf

  “Operator.”

  “I’m trying to locate a girl who lives in Reedville. At least her parents do.”

  “What are their names, sir?”

  “That’s just it. I don’t know. The girl’s married name is Lucinda Finders. I don’t know her maiden name. She’s twenty-one. She just had a baby. Do you have any idea how I can reach her?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Could you ask around the office there? Please?”

  “I’m sorry …”

  “Please? It’s very important. She could be in trouble.”

  “Just a moment.”

  The line hummed for a long minute. He imagined a line of women with red fingernails and headsets, exchanging whispered speculations between the calls of lovers and of gossips. Above the hum he listened to his stomach growl.

  The operator returned. “I believe the folks you want are named Klinkheim. That’s Earl Klinkheim. They have a daughter named Lucinda that just had a baby. One of the girls here knew her in high school.”

  “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

  “You’re welcome. Shall I put you through to the Klinkheim number, sir?”

  “Please.”

  “One moment.”

  The phone was answered with a grunt. “Mr. Klinkheim?”

  “So?”

  “Do you have a daughter named Lucinda?”

  “Who wants to know? This ain’t Delbert, is it? It damn sure better not be.” D.T. began to understand why Lucinda had gone off with the first one who would take her.

  “My name is Jones. I’m an attorney. I represent Lucinda in her divorce action. I’m trying to get in touch with her.”

  “She ain’t here.”

  “Do you expect her later on?”

  “I don’t expect her ever. Not after what she said to me the day she left. ‘Course that didn’t stop her from running back when times wrinkled up on her, like I knew she would.”

  “When’s the last time you saw her, Mr. Klinkheim?”

  “Three days ago, I reckon.” The brusque voice paused, then spoke suspiciously. “Say now. I just got sent a bill the hospital wants me to pay for them yanking out her kid. Now let met tell you. I ain’t gonna pay the hospital and I ain’t gonna pay you, if that’s what you got in mind. The day she left the farm was the day she decided to pay her own way. So don’t for a minute think you’ll get any money outta me, Mr. Divorce Lawyer.”

  “It’s nothing like that. I hope you’ll ask Lucinda to call me if you hear from her. That’s all I want. The name is Jones.”

  “Heard you the first time.” The line went as dead as the man’s compassion.

  D.T. put down the receiver, thought for a minute, then dialed his process server. An answering machine squeaked and beeped. D.T. left his message: Delbert Wesley Finders could be served with the petition in the case of Finders v. Finders at twenty forty-two Houston Street. Current balance in the outstanding account of the Law Office of D. T. Jones would be paid in full at the end of the month. Expedited action on the request to effect service would be very much appreciated. D.T. broke the connection and looked up another number and dialed it.

  “May I speak to Dr. Haskell?” he asked the woman who answered.

  “He’s not here. His emergency number is 4295. If you need treatment please call that number or go at once to the hospital.” Her voice was uninterested and would remain so for anything less than a federally acknowledged disaster.

  “I need to speak to the doctor about a personal matter,” D.T. insisted. “My name is Jones. I’m an attorney.”

  Her voice mellowed not a whit. “I see. He’s at the hospital, I believe. The monthly staff meeting.”

  “Which hospital?”

  “Providence.”

  “Do you know where the meeting is?”

  “The conference room, I suppose. That’s where it usually is. If there really is a meeting,” she added, something more bitter than boredom in her voice. “Are you suing him, Mr. Jones? Is that it? Is he going to be sued for malpractice, on top of all the rest?”

  “Nothing like that,” D.T. said quickly, wanting very much to ask what all the rest of it was, whether it was like the all the rest of it he encountered in his practice. But he forced his tongue to say goodbye.

  He was at the hospital in fifteen minutes. A woman in white who spoke in whispers told him the conference room was on the second floor. When he got there the door was closed, but when he pressed an ear to it he heard voices. He sat in the adjoining waiting area and thumbed through a back issue of People. Johnny Carson was divorcing once again. The legal fee would be six figures. D.T. whistled. Nurses, patients, and visitors floated past, speaking in hushed tones.

  The hospital grew still, as though everyone had been cured or died. The only sound came from the aluminum coffee pot that burbled occasionally atop a table in a corner. D.T. helped himself. A woman wearing hiking boots passed, reminding him of Barbara and her incessant clamoring for them to do something out-of-doors. The only thing he liked to do out-of-doors was golf, a sport Barbara held in a contempt more appropriate to despots. He wished he hadn’t said anything to Dick Gardner about Barbara. Dick would probably try to get in her pants after he left Michele’s.

  D.T. put down his People and picked up a National Geographic. African women were still bare-breasted, he was happy to see, and did strange things to their lips. While he was reading of the liberation of Ethiopian tribeswomen the conference room door opened. A group of men and women spilled into the corridor, chatting, clutching papers to their breasts, moving among each other in stuttering bursts of progress like magnified malignant cells.

  D.T. stopped the first one who came his way and asked for Doctor Haskell. The man searched the group behind him and pointed toward a rangy figure walking rapidly down the corridor in the opposite direction. D.T. murmured his thanks and hurried after his prey.

  “Dr. Haskell?”

  The man stopped and turned. His face was close to gaunt, with caves and ridges and vertical lines. His hair had vacated every part of his head save a band beginning and ending just behind his ears. His eyes were small and seemed pink, like his skin. His smile was bogus bonhomie.

  “I’d like to talk to you for a minute about one of your former partners,” D.T. said, walking toward him.

  Haskell frowned. “Which one? I have more former partners than I care to recall.”

  “Nathaniel Preston.”

  “Oh. Him.”

  “Yes.”

  “Who are you?”

  “D.T. Jones. I’m an attorney.”

  “Malpractice?”

  D.T. sensed the question begged an affirmative, that Dr. Haskell hoped Nathaniel Preston was getting his ass sued off. “I do domestic work,” D.T. said. “I represent Mrs. Preston.”

  “Natasha?”

  “Esther.”

  Haskell’s eyes widened, puckering his cheeks. “Esther? My God. Esther. I haven’t seen her for years. How is she?” Haskell shook his head in wonder, as though they were discussing ghosts.

  “Not well. She has MS.”

  Haskell sighed and nodded. “That’s right. She’d just found out she had it the last time I saw her.” Haskell closed his eyes. “Poor Esther.”

  “Literally.”

  Haskell frowned. “What’s this all about, anyway?”

  “Is there somewhere we can talk? It’ll take a minute to explain.”

  Haskell looked at his watch. “I guess I can give you a minute. I think my nurse mentioned something about this a month or so ago, come to think of it, that someone had been asking around about Nat. Why don’t we go to the lounge.”

  Haskell led D.T. into a small room at the end of the hall that was more private and more comfortably furnished than the public area. They sat across from each other in soft, tweedy chairs, crossed their legs, prepared to talk. Somewhere something was playing Brahms. “What’s Esther’s problem?” Haskell asked finally, over the top of a real cup to which he’d he
lped himself.

  “Money.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Her disease has made it impossible for her to work. She’s without savings because of medical expenses. Her only income is a Social Security disability payment, and that may be cut off. She’s being priced out of her home, her food, her medicine, her way of life. I’m trying to find another source of funds.”

  “You mean Nat.”

  D.T. nodded. “From what I hear he can afford it.”

  “No doubt about that, although I hear he may be in over his head on the new hospital he’s building. But if he’s the same old Nat you’ll have to pry it out of him with a crowbar.” Haskell’s fine lips curled.

  “Tell me about him,” D.T. said.

  “Why? How can that help?”

  “If I know the kind of man he is, maybe I’ll know the kind of approach to take. I’m not necessarily out to file a lawsuit and spend five years in court before Mrs. Preston sees a dime. Maybe I can appeal to his better nature.”

  Haskell laughed without humor. “Nat has no better nature.” With long smooth fingers the doctor pulled a pipe out of his jacket pocket and moved skillfully through the surgical mechanics of lighting it. After several seconds he looked at D.T. through a veil of smoke that made their convocation seem diabolical. “What do you want to know?”

  “What kind of man is Preston?”

  “You understand I haven’t had any but minimal contact with him for years,” Haskell began.

  “When did your partnership dissolve?”

  “’Sixty-seven, formally. We wrangled a year before that over the terms of the dissolution.”

  “How many of you were there?”

  “Four. Nat and I, plus Ray Millikin and Francis McDonald.”

  “Where are those two now?”

  “Millikin practices in Hawaii. McDonald got sued—he was a surgeon and left behind a clamp. He dropped out of sight the week before the case came up for trial. That was ten years ago. I understand they entered a judgment of a million two against him.”

  “What caused the breakup?”

  Haskell twisted his long limbs. “Personal and professional differences. Let’s put it that way.”

  “I hear the falling-out between you and Preston was fairly bitter.”

  “You could say that.”

  “What was the problem?” D.T. asked affably.

  Haskell frowned, seemed to experience a twinge. “Nothing that concerns you. A personal matter, between Nat and me.”

  “Like what?”

  Haskell’s smile was wan. “He did something unforgivable. I did what I had to do to live with myself afterward. And that’s all I’m going to say about it.”

  “Sounds intriguing.”

  “If you ask me about it again, I’ll leave.” Haskell’s eyelids drooped, as though he was taking aim.

  D.T. held up a hand. “Okay, okay. So tell me some more about Preston.”

  “He’s vain. Ambitious. Only marginally skilled but he’s in a field that doesn’t call for much. Penurious, at least as far as others are concerned. Cruel. Fundamentally dishonest.” Haskell laughed mirthlessly. “All of which explains, I suppose, why Nat is buddies with everyone from the mayor to the archbishop. As far as his practice goes, Nat is an unadulterated misogynist for whom conducting a pelvic exam is akin, and I quote, ‘to looking into a sewer through a mink-lined manhole.’” Haskell set his jaw. “How’s that for starters?”

  D.T. nodded. “You’ve given me a great reason to nail the guy. Now I need a nail.”

  Haskell puffed his pipe. “What kind of suit have you got in mind?”

  “Well, Mrs. Preston tells me she put her husband through med school. Financially, I mean. Do you know anything to dispute that?”

  “No. Esther worked her ass off. She put Nat through intellectually, as well. I think she knew more physiology than he did by the time they were finished.”

  “Good. There’s a slight chance we could claim something on that basis. Recent decisions have been favorable to granting the wife an interest in her husband’s degree.”

  Haskell smiled ruefully. “Every doctor in the world knows about those recent decisions.” D.T. recalled Haskell’s wife’s reference to “the rest of it.” One more ditto, coming up.

  “What about Preston’s finances?” D.T. continued. “Did he have much money when you knew him?”

  “Not in the beginning, certainly. They were dirt poor. He bought into the partnership through his draw. But he earned a lot of bucks before he was through. He saw a lot of patients—we all did—and we did quite well.”

  “What would you say he was earning in ’65, when they split?”

  “Let’s see. That was just his second year of practice, wasn’t it? I’d say fifty, maybe.”

  “At that time did he own any major assets other than their house?”

  “I don’t remember any.”

  “Did he speculate? Stocks, commodities, land?”

  Haskell chuckled. “Nat was a gold bug. I don’t know exactly when it started but he collected coins, jewelry, all kinds of gold. And that was back when it was illegal and only cost thirty-five bucks an ounce. He must have made a fortune if he didn’t bail out too soon.”

  “Tell me this. Do you think the guy would worry much about a lawsuit like this? Enough to pay a significant amount to buy it off? To escape publicity?”

  “Not a chance,” Haskell said simply. “I think you’re wasting your time.”

  D.T. sighed. “Anything else you can tell me? See, the theory is, if Preston had assets at the time of the divorce that he didn’t disclose to his wife, then perhaps she can claim a portion of their current value.”

  Haskell shook his head. “The only thing I knew about his finances were the things he bragged to me about. But like I said, that was later on, when the money really started to roll in.”

  “How much of it?”

  “The year we split up Nat made a hundred and sixty thousand. His fees were outrageous, but the more he charged the more patients he had. For some reason women love to give him money. And would you believe it? He still owes me five grand on the partnership dissolution.”

  Haskell looked at his watch again and stood up. D.T. thanked him for his time. They shook hands. Haskell started to walk away, then stopped. “You may waste more than time on this thing, Jones,” he said ominously.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Nat’s got a lot of influence in this town. He’s made life miserable for a lot of doctors who’ve crossed him—me included, for a time.”

  “How?”

  “A credentials problem here at the hospital. It’s straightened out now, but he could do the same to a lawyer who got in his way. He’s wired politically like you can’t believe. If I were you I’d leave him alone.”

  D.T. thanked him for the warning. As he drove home, D.T. wondered where Dr. Haskell went when he lied to his wife about the staff meetings, and wondered if it would pay him to find out.

  He was home changing clothes when the phone rang.

  “Hi.” Barbara churned with cheer. “Where’ve you been?”

  “Playing detective.”

  “What were you detecting?”

  “Evidence of skullduggery.”

  “Find any?”

  “Nope.”

  “Too bad.”

  “True.”

  “Want me to come over?”

  “Do you want to?”

  “If you want me to.”

  D.T. hesitated. “What’d you do tonight?”

  “Made you some carrot cake.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Shall I bring it over?”

  “I … sure.”

  “Okay, D.T. I get it. So very sorry to disturb you, Your Highness. I wouldn’t interfere with your precious solitude for anything. Especially since it’s so productive.”

  “It’s not precious, Barbara. It’s just necessary sometimes. It helps me.…” But he was talking t
o a dead machine.

  When he called her back he got a busy signal, a throb that drilled directly for his faithless heart. Head aching, he took an aspirin and a shower. As the water coursed over him he thought of Barbara and the shower they had taken together back in August, of what she did and didn’t do to him that night, of their fellatio interruptus by the threat from Delbert Finders. He wondered if Lucinda and Delbert were back together, and what would happen when the process server showed up in the morning. He imagined another assault, this one triggered by his deed.

  Maybe he should call off the process server. Wait till he could talk with Lucinda again. Play it safe. Do nothing to anger Del. No. She shouldn’t be with Delbert anymore; she should be divorced. D.T. towelled off his back and his conscience. He was looking in the mirror at his receding gums when he thought of the look on Chas Stone’s face when he had glimpsed the beauteous Bobby E. Lee, and of what Bobby had said later on. D.T. went back to the phone.

  “Bobby?”

  “Just a minute.” The voice was annoyed, indignant, not Bobby’s.

  “… Hello?”

  “Bobby?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is your sainted employer. Sorry to bother you at home.”

  “It’s all right. Crisis?”

  “No. It’s just something you said this afternoon.”

  “What?”

  “During the Stone deposition you said you’d heard something about Stone before. About his being a prig. Remember?”

  Pause. “Yes.”

  “So how did you hear it?”

  Bobby E. Lee didn’t say anything. D.T. could hear him breathe. “Do you really need to know?” Bobby asked finally.

  “I don’t know. Do I?”

  D.T. heard whispers he could not decipher, then an oath uttered by the voice that had answered the phone. “A club. I saw Stone at a club. Some of the members told me about him.”

  “What club?”

  “A private club. You wouldn’t know it.”

  “Come on, Bobby. Do I have to spell it out?”