Gangsterland

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Dr. Larry Kirsch kept a busy schedule. First thing in the morning, he’d leave the Meadows at Sahara, his exclusive guard-gated McMansion development in Summerlin, and get to his practice on the corner of Harmon and Eastern twenty minutes later, do a couple boob jobs before lunch, maybe work on a tummy tuck or a rhinoplasty, and then he’d usually head over to Piero’s for a bite. Some days he’d follow up Piero’s with a beer at Champagnes, the kind of bar where no one knew your name, and then he’d make a round up the street at Desert Springs Hospital to see any of his surgical patients. He’d come back to his office around three, do some Botox and chemical peels, close the day with a face-lift, followed by a lap dance at the Olympic Gardens or Cheetahs, never the Wild Horse.

Sometimes he paid a girl to go out to his car and jerk him off in the parking lot, sometimes he’d just do it himself.

Then he’d spend an hour or two at his ex-wife’s house helping his eleven-year-old son with his homework, grab a burger from Sonic, and then head back to the Meadows at Sahara. Kirsch’s ex and kid had a house in the Scotch 80s, an old Las Vegas neighborhood where mobsters and city officials used to live next door to one another without the need for any kind of gates. If someone was going to kill you, they’d just drag you outside, shoot you in the face, and then bury you in your own backyard.

It wasn’t that easy anymore, unfortunately. David watched the doctor for almost two weeks trying to figure out the best time and place to kill him, but the asshole was never alone. Plus, everywhere he went had cameras and people, and David, for the first time in his life, needed to leave a little bit of a mess.

So, on the morning of the Super Bowl, David called Dr. Kirsch’s cell.

“This is a friend of Bennie Savone’s,” David said when Kirsch answered.

“Oh, okay,” Dr. Kirsch said. “Any friend of Bennie’s is a friend of mine.”

“Right,” David said. “We need some work done tonight.”

“This work,” Dr. Kirsch said, “does it require immediate medical attention?” He lowered his voice. “Is it a bullet wound?”

“Minor procedure,” David said. “No nurses or anything.”

“Of course, of course, I understand,” Dr. Kirsch said. “It’s just that I have plans tonight. It’s the Super Bowl, as I’m sure you’re aware, and. .”

“You’re either at your office at 7 p.m.,” David said, “or the Review-Journal gets a stack of pictures of you whacking off in public.”

Silence.

“When all of your security cameras are off,” David said, “pop your office door open, the one facing Harmon. Any questions?”

“No,” Dr. Kirsch said.

“If you’re even two minutes late,” David said, “your ex-wife gets the pictures, too.”

“This isn’t how Mr. Savone usually speaks to me,” Dr. Kirsch said.

“This isn’t Mr. Savone,” David said, then he dumped his burner cell into his portable foundry — an expense that was already paying for itself — and took an inventory, made sure he was prepared.

Rubber gloves.

Wet-Naps.

Knife.

He’d even made himself a silencer for this job, something he was generally adverse to, since it spoke to a kind of weakness. But the difference between killing someone in Chicago and killing someone in Las Vegas came down to simple acoustics: Chicago was loud, between the L and all the traffic and the howling wind and the sound of about three million people going about their daily lives. In Las Vegas, though, once you got off the Strip, everything fell quiet, the desert surrounding the city a valley of echoes.

He didn’t have much choice about guns, so he’d taken a nine from the cache in Slim Joe’s closet, filed off the serial number, and cleaned it meticulously, though he didn’t bother to wrap the handle with duct tape, since that just made it more likely he’d trap a finger print. And he was going to melt the gun anyway. He’d have a cab take him to Desert Springs and then he’d walk the mile to Kirsch’s office and wait for him.

If everything went according to plan, he’d be home in time to prepare sufficiently for the Monday morning minyan. If it turned upside down, someone else would be making prayers.

At sixty forty-five, David watched from across the street as Dr. Kirsch parked his green Jaguar in his personalized space — there was no bigger honor in Las Vegas than having your name painted on pavement; even the temple sold spaces for seven hundred and fifty bucks a month — and headed inside through his private office door. Fifteen minutes later, he stepped outside, looked both ways, and then propped his door open.

When David walked in, Dr. Kirsch was sitting behind the desk in his office, a wall-to-wall mahogany affair lined with bookshelves filled with framed photos of the doctor with various celebrities. Danny Gans. Wayne Newton. The captain of The Love Boat. The guy who played Dan Tanna on Vega$. A white tiger. That one was signed.

Dr. Kirsch didn’t seem surprised to see David, even though he said, “I wasn’t expecting to see you again.”

“You’ve never seen me,” David said.

“Right, you’re right, no,” Dr. Kirsch said. He looked over David’s shoulder. “Is Mr. Savone here?”

“No,” David said. “I’m alone. You want to close your blinds?”

“Yes, right,” Dr. Kirsch got up from behind his desk and closed the matchstick bamboo blinds behind him, though David could still make out the passing lights of traffic. Didn’t anyone have decent curtains anymore? “The man who called said there was something minor to be done,” Dr. Kirsch said. “Are you having some issue with your skin? That area around your ears was difficult.”

“Yes,” David said. “My cheeks don’t move right. And I’ve got a lot of jaw pain.” Which was true. If he clenched his teeth too hard, it was like getting a nail through the eye.

“Any bleeding?”

“Not that I’ve seen,” David said. “But I can taste blood in the back of my mouth sometimes.”

“Okay then,” Dr. Kirsch said, “let’s check it out.” He walked David out of his office and down a long hallway lined with photos of showgirls, models, and a lady who did the weather Saturday nights on Channel 8. He stopped and unlocked an exam room. “Lay down on the exam bed, and I’ll take a look, Rabbi.”

David saw the doctor give an inadvertent twitch, like he’d been shocked, which he probably had been at his own stupidity for addressing a man he’d supposedly never met. He began to turn around, which was a mistake, since he ended up getting half his face blown off when David shot him.

Dr. Kirsch dropped to the ground, his jaw and most of his nose completely gone, but he was still alive, twitching on the tile, half of his face splattered all around him.

The upside of this, David considered, was that now it really wouldn’t look like a professional job, which had been the point all along. He’d planned on shooting the doctor in the neck, the kind of thing people who aren’t used to killing ended up doing all the time, and if the doctor didn’t die instantly, he’d be dead soon enough and would never know the difference. But David had seen guys survive a face shot, even stay conscious. The human body, man, it wanted to live.

Not that it looked like Dr. Kirsch was long for this world.

David snapped on his rubber gloves and leaned over Dr. Kirsch, tried to figure out what exactly he was breathing from, since he didn’t have a mouth or much of a nose anymore, and decided just to cover what was left of his face with both hands until the twitching stopped. He could shoot him again, but he didn’t want to have to dig a slug out of his head. Thirty seconds, tops. If that. The guy was probably already comatose.

David pressed his hands over the gaping maw in the center of Dr. Kirsch’s face, but all that seemed to do was help staunch the flow of blood, which was the exact opposite of the point. The other problem was that Dr. Kirsch seemed to be coming to. His eyes fluttered open, and his arms started swinging wildly. David didn’t know if it was adrenaline or actual fight, if the doctor was even aware of what was happening. If he knew that he didn’t have a face.

“Stop moving,” David said quietly. “Just let go.”

Dr. Kirsch focused on David then, another unintended outcome, and then he tried to scratch at David’s face, swiping at him with both hands, until David decided fuck it, sat on his chest, pinned his arms down with his knees, grabbed his throat, found a thick gold chain there, which was helpful, and strangled him, face-to-face, eye-to-eye, just like he’d done that Donnie Brasco fuck in Chicago. That guy who wasn’t Jeff Hopper, the guy who’d started this whole problem, except that Dr. Kirsch was harder to kill.

David stood there for a moment and collected himself. He had a plan, and it had gone slightly astray, but, all things considered, it was a minor inconvenience. Dr. Kirsch was dead. Time to move to phase two. There needed to be an order to things, or else he’d end up tracking blood all over the city.

The bullet that took off most of Dr. Kirsch’s face kept going and lodged in the wall, so David dug it out with his butterfly knife and put it in his pocket. It made the scene look authentic; even the dumbest fucks were smart now about not leaving slugs and shell casings around, those forensics shows acting like Mr. Rogers for a generation of crooks.

He stepped back over to Kirsch’s body and jabbed his knife into the doctor’s rear pants pocket and cut his wallet out from the fabric, never once touching the actual body, cut his car keys and cell phone from his front pocket; that would all melt easily enough. The doctor didn’t wear any rings, didn’t even wear a watch, just that thick gold chain that was now garroted into his throat, so he sliced that away, too. . and that’s when David noticed the pendant on one end.

David should have known what he’d see when he looked down, yet he was still taken by surprise. Two Hebrew letters, and , crusted in diamonds, forming the symbol , the edict to live, the edict to be ethical, the edict of power: Am Yisrael chai. The people of Israel live.

It hadn’t even occurred to David that Dr. Kirsch was Jewish. A year ago, it wouldn’t have mattered. A couple of months, even, it wouldn’t have registered. But now, these were his people, the chai a part of his daily life, as much as the omertà used to be. That was the thing: Omertà was a made-up code to keep crooks quiet, a false loyalty born out of movies, dumb fucks like Slim Joe adopting it as a religion in place of something with actual meaning. Maybe most Jews didn’t believe even half of their religion, but he hadn’t met one who didn’t understand the struggle to survive, faith or no faith.

Dr. Kirsch had to die. But it all boiled back to that day at the Parker House, that hotel room, those four guys Sal Cupertine had to kill. Wasn’t he a different person now, Sal only a thing of his past? And Sal had to kill those men. There’d been no other way. He’d come across false witnesses, and he’d done what he had to do. Even God considered that entrapment. What was it the Torah said? Then you should do to him as he plotted to do to his brother, and you shall thus abolish evil from among you.

David stuffed Dr. Kirsch’s wallet, keys, and necklace into his pockets. It was 7:07 p.m. He was running two minutes behind schedule, yet Rabbi David Cohen suddenly found himself muttering Hebrew—Yit’gadal v’yit’kadash sh’mei raba—the Burial Kaddish slipping from his mouth with what had become his usual ease, though David knew Dr. Kirsch would never actually be buried. At least not most of him.

After cleaning himself up, David walked up Eastern to Flamingo and then back onto the campus of Desert Springs Hospital, where he’d been dropped off earlier that evening, to hail a cab. The walk gave him an opportunity to get his adrenaline in check. Normally, he liked a meal after killing someone, but his night was still a work in progress, albeit one with a strict timeline.

The entrance to the emergency room came up on David’s right. There were a few people standing outside talking on cell phones or smoking, and through the sliding doors David could see that the waiting room was packed with people. In the last two months, David had visited the hospital at least once each week in his official capacity, sometimes two or three times in a day if there was someone particularly wealthy or particularly ailing that Bennie wanted him to see. The last time, he’d gone with Rabbi Kales. One of the members of their temple, Bert Feinstein, had suffered a stroke while playing craps at the Mirage and was taken to Desert Springs already in a coma. The family had asked for Rabbi Kales to come when it appeared the last hours were upon them, and Rabbi Kales had asked David to come, too.

“I guess I need the practice,” David said.

Rabbi Kales didn’t respond at first, he just stood in the doorway to David’s office and stared at him, incredulous. “Then you should stay here,” Rabbi Kales finally said, his voice hardly above a whisper, and stalked he out of David’s office.

David caught up to him in the parking lot. It was just after noon, and the kids were all outside on the playground, laughing, shouting. “Wait,” David said. “I’ll take you.”

“Don’t bother,” Rabbi Kales said. “I forget that you pretend to have no soul.”

David paused. Rabbi Kales knew the right words for every occasion, the bastard, so David looked for his own right words, settling on, “I’m sorry.” David tried to remember the last time he had actually apologized to anyone.

“This is not someone who has done wrong,” Rabbi Kales said. “This is someone’s father, someone’s husband, someone’s friend. They are looking to us for comfort. If you cannot provide that, if you cannot treat the death of a man honestly, for the first time in your life, then stay here.”

“I can do this,” David said.

“Then get your yarmulke and your Torah.”

They were met in the hospital lobby by Bert’s granddaughter Elissa. David had seen her at the temple plenty of times, since she came after school and worked as a tutor for the younger kids. But seeing her at the hospital, David was struck by how little she looked like the young woman he remembered. She’d been crying, so her eyes were puffy, aging her in the bad hospital light.

Bert’s room was crowded with people — Bert’s wife, Lois, who’d once made David eat a cookie made of applesauce and coconut and something he presumed was straight lard; Elissa’s parents, Jack and Rochelle, as well as her aunt and uncle, Margaret and Carl, and their two teenage sons whose names David couldn’t remember, since they showed up at temple only on the rarest of occasions — all of whom turned and gazed upon Rabbi Kales with a mixture of melancholy and relief.

Rabbi Kales immediately went to work: He touched each person gently as he made his way toward Lois, whom he hugged while she sobbed into his shoulder. And there, in the middle of the room, was Bert Feinstein. He had an IV in one arm, but there were suspiciously few machines beeping in the room. David thought maybe it didn’t matter at this point, that there were no heroic recoveries to be made.

It occurred to David that he’d been surrounded by plenty of dead people in his life but very few in the process of dying a natural death. His own father was murdered. His mother? She could be dead by now, too, he supposed, which brought a wave of sadness over him. How could he not know? How could he live the rest of his life not ever knowing? And would she die alone? Would she be in some hospital by herself? And what of Jennifer? William. . he couldn’t bear to even let his eventual demise enter his head.

“Rabbi Cohen,” Rabbi Kales said softly, “will lead us in the Mi Sheberakh.”

“In English, please,” Lois said. “Bert never understood Hebrew.”

David had said the Mi Sheberakh many times over the course of the last several months, but never in a situation like this. It was a prayer made for the ill, and it was usually done during services. He knew it in Hebrew phonetically, just like a kid at his bar mitzvah, but because people concerned about the life-or-death situation of a loved one tend to like to know what is being said, he’d found that more often than not he was asked to read it in English, and each time he found himself moved that the prayer was asking not just that the person be healed physically — and if it came down to someone needing the prayer, it was usually a grave situation — but that, too, their spirit be cleansed.

“Of course,” David said. Bert Feinstein made it through only the first half of the prayer, but David kept reciting, sending Bert’s healed soul into whatever came next.

David and Rabbi Kales spent the next several hours with the family, helping them with the details of death, so that when they finally headed back to Summerlin, it was rush hour. “You did very well today, Rabbi Cohen,” Rabbi Kales said. The red glare from all the brake lights gave everything a spectral glow.

“It was just a prayer,” David said.

“No, it was more than that,” Rabbi Kales said. “Your being there was a comfort to the younger ones. They look up to you. It’s a special gift, David, even if you don’t want it.”

“Here’s what I’m trying to understand,” David said. “I feel like I’m pretty acquainted with death, but seeing that man there just slip away, no thrashing around, not gasping for breath, he just. . he just stopped. It didn’t seem right. Why doesn’t the body fight more?”

“We fight every day,” Rabbi Kales said.

David supposed that was true. But for what? “So, tell me, what happens next?”

“He’ll be at the funeral home in the morning.”

“No,” David said, “I mean what happens next.”

“Eventually, when the Moshiach returns, we’ll all live in peace, in our most perfect state, and all the world will be Israel.”

“I know that,” David said. “I know what the books say. But what happens to me, Rabbi Kales? What about me?”

Rabbi Kales sighed. “Sal Cupertine,” Rabbi Kales said, “he is already gone. Rabbi David Cohen still has a chance.”

“He’s not gone,” David said. “He’ll never be gone. As long as my wife is still alive, Sal Cupertine is still alive. Because I’m going back to her at some point, Rabbi. You can believe that.”

“I can believe that,” Rabbi Kales said. “But for the choices we’ve made,” he continued, “we’re likely to rot together.”

David repeated Rabbi Kales’s words in his mind again as he walked up to the main entrance of the hospital. In truth, he’d thought about those words somewhat constantly over the course of the last several weeks. Was his eternity going to be spent with the people he’d worked alongside, the Fat Montes and Slim Joes he’d spent all these years running with, or was he going to have Jennifer and William there? What about his own father? Would he be there? David had never even considered the idea of an afterlife until he’d fallen in love, and even then it wasn’t until he thought that he might not ever see Jennifer and William again that it mattered.

For the first time in his life, he actually had some kind of purpose. There were days when he’d spend hours — hours! — listening to other people’s problems and offering them advice that they seemed to find useful. At first, he hated that shit. And if he had to choose how to live his life, he wouldn’t choose to spend his time doing that. And yet. Those same people would come back a few days later and tell him how much his words had helped them figure out how to plan their daughter’s wedding, or deal with their taxes, or figure out whether to have the holidays at home or to fly back to Portland to see the kids. They were mundane problems, the issues he dealt with, but David had come to learn that it was the mundane shit of life that sent people into ever-widening spirals of anxiety.

There was a line of at least fifteen people standing in front of the hospital’s entrance, waiting for cabs, just like in front of one of the casinos, so David stood in the back of the line and bided his time. When he finally reached the head, there was a young man dressed in all black. He blew a whistle, and a yellow cab pulled up.

“Where to, sir?” the young man asked.

“That park off Rancho,” David said. He checked his watch. He was running a few minutes late for a meeting he’d scheduled with Gray Beard, the “doctor” who’d snipped the wires out of his jaw.

“Twin Lakes?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes,” David said. “Is there some kind of problem?”

“I only ask because, at night, that’s not a great part of town, sir, so if you’re looking for a nice place to take a walk or something, I can recommend several lovely places in Green Valley.”

“I look like I can’t handle myself in a park?” David asked.

David got into the cab without another word.

“So, Lorenzi Park?” the cab driver asked. “That’s Twin Lakes. Everything here has two names.”

“Yeah,” David said, and he heard his old self creep back into his voice. “Unless you think it’s too scary.”

The cab driver looked at David in his rearview mirror. “I think you’ll be fine, buddy.”

David had the cab driver drop him off on the opposite side of Lorenzi Park from where he was meeting with Gray Beard and told him to wait. He’d come down to the park earlier in the week with a proposition: If David could get him some decent medical gear — even if it was just an autoclave from this century so that he could sterilize his tools over something other than the fucking grill — would Gray Beard be willing to do him a couple of small favors?

“I’m a doctor,” Gray Beard had said, “so I won’t be killing anybody, right? I stick to the Hippocratic.”

“Yeah,” David said. They were inside his RV, and Gray Beard’s partner, whom David had learned was named Marvin, was in the back bedroom smoking a blunt and watching a kung fu movie. “I see that.”

“What kind of equipment are we talking about?”

“Whatever you need,” David said. “You’ll only be burdened by how long you want to take raiding the joint. I assume it’s not against your Hippocratic to do some robbery?”

Gray Beard nodded toward the bedroom. “Marvin isn’t a doctor, so we’re good.”

“That’s a relief,” David said.

“What about the drugs?”

“You’ll have the run of the office,” David said. “Take the photocopier and fax machine if you want, doesn’t matter to me.”

Gray Beard considered this for a moment. “Could be I bring another associate on this, that bother you?”

“Yes,” David said. “That bothers me.”

“Guess I’ll just be selective,” Gray Beard said. He extended his hand, and the two shook on it. David didn’t mention that they’d need to move a body, too, but he had a pretty good idea this was the sort of thing Bennie had used Gray Beard for in the past, in addition to his medical needs. Knowing a guy with an RV is useful in a number of ways.

At any rate, even though Bennie trusted Gray Beard, it didn’t mean Gray Beard wouldn’t suddenly get some sense of morality and roll on David, so he did the extra diligence of casing the park a bit.

David came around the corner and saw Gray Beard and Marvin sitting outside, a portable TV on a chaise lounge in front of them, the sound off, a cooler of beer at Gray Beard’s feet.

“Didn’t think you were going to make it,” Gray Beard said when David walked up.

“Got a little hung up,” David said.

“Saw you moseying around the park earlier,” Gray Beard said.

“Had to make sure I wasn’t walking into an ambush,” David said. “No offense.”

Gray Beard frowned. “You ever hear of ‘First, do no harm’?”

David reached into his pocket and took out Dr. Kirsch’s keys and handed them to Gray Beard, along with a slip of paper with the address of the office. “These will get you a car and an entire medical office,” David said.

“I don’t have any need for a car.”

“It’s a Jaguar,” David said.

Gray Beard looked over at Marvin. He gave the tiniest shrug of acquiescence. “I guess we could sell it,” Gray Beard said. “What do you want in return?”

“There’s a body inside the office,” David said. “I’m going to need you to clean it up and deliver it here.”

David gave Gray Beard a business card for the funeral home. Gray Beard looked at it once and then handed it back to David. “I know the place,” Gray Beard said. “What do you want done with the body?”

“It doesn’t have much of a head anymore. I’d like it not to have any head whatsoever. Or hands or feet.”

Grey Beard again looked over at Marvin, who again shrugged. “What else?”

“Soon as possible, get it on ice,” David said, “and don’t fuck with the organs.”

“We don’t get down like that,” Gray Beard said. “You want something done, we do it. Otherwise, we keep it professional. Rubber gloves, scrub for foreign bodies, black light for fluids, whatever you want. What else?”

Good. Finally, someone who took pride in his work.

“Don’t clean up the mess I made,” David said. “I want the cops to know there was a body there. Make it look like a robbery. Break some needless shit. That sort of thing.”

“Easy enough,” Gray Beard said.

“Best case, how much profit do you stand to make?” David asked.

“Depends what we come upon in the office,” Gray Beard said. “Plus what we can get for the ride. Why don’t we cut a fair percentage.”

“I think you’ll find it lucrative,” David said. “So once you see what you have, make me an offer. Bennie trusts you, I trust you.”

“You shouldn’t,” Gray Beard said, but they shook on it anyway.

“Maybe you’ll be able to expand your business,” David said, “get an RV in Reno, too.”

“Reno isn’t my style.”

“Maybe take your show on the road, then,” David said carefully.

“I could go on a vacation.”

“Good,” David said. “You handle this cleanly, you make me a reasonable offer for your takeaway, and then maybe I’ll periodically have an errand for you to run.”

“I like to help people,” Gray Beard said, “but I got limits, you understand.”

“Good,” David said again. “I like to help people, too.”

David looked at his watch. It was almost nine. “I need you to get that body to the funeral home by one a.m. You got a problem with that?” David looked at Gray Beard’s partner, now that he’d figured out the power structure for this side of the job.

“Naw,” Marvin said. “No hands. No feet. No head. No problem.” He reached into the cooler and pulled out another beer, twisted off the top, took a long sip, and leaned back in his chair.

David started to walk away then, figuring the deal was sealed, but Gray Beard called after him. “You want me to take a look at your mouth?” he asked.

“Why?” David said.

“I ask because your bite is off,” he said. “I can see it from here. You having any jaw pain?”

In fact, like he’d told Dr. Kirsch, he was. David just figured it was one of those things. You get your entire face rebuilt, you’ll have some lasting soreness. “Little bit,” David said.

“Hold on,” Gray Beard said. He got up from his chair and went into the RV, leaving David outside with his partner. That’s how David thought of him, anyway. He didn’t see an extra bedroom in the RV, so maybe they were a couple. David couldn’t figure out a good reason for them to be hanging out with each other otherwise. Though when David had his wires snipped, Marvin did assist with the procedure, gave him water to swish with, stuffed some cotton against his gums when the bleeding got bad, that sort of thing. So maybe like Gray Beard was a defrocked doctor, Marvin was an ex-EMT.

Gray Beard reappeared with a handful of papers. “These are some exercises you can do,” he said. “You probably have a case of TMJ.”

“TMJ?”

“Temporomandibular joint disorder,” Gray Beard said. When David didn’t respond, he added, “Your jaw is out of whack. Those exercises will help.”

David examined the pages. The exercises seemed simple enough — put your tongue on the roof of your mouth while opening and closing your jaw — and David felt relief of a small, nagging problem was within reach. “Anything else?” David asked.

“Try to avoid clenching your teeth during stress,” Gray Beard said. He sat back down next to Marvin and cracked open a beer for himself, swallowed most of it down in three gulps. “Maybe try to avoid stress, too.”

“That’s what I’m doing today,” David said. “Taking care of some stress.”

“No hands, no feet, no head, no stress,” Marvin said. He held his bottle up, and he and Gray Beard toasted.

“One a.m.,” David said. “Don’t be late.”

“I’m never late,” Grey Beard said. “If you’re not punctual in this business, someone can die, right?”

As David walked back across the park, he considered the fact that he might have to eventually kill both Gray Beard and Marvin, though that point seemed a long time away, and something about them seemed more trustworthy than they probably were. Maybe it was just Gray Beard telling David he shouldn’t trust him. It was the kind of honesty David liked, because it admitted probable fallibility, though David was certain Gray Beard knew that fucking up was not really an option here, or ever, as it related to his work. If the next twenty-four hours turned out for the best, maybe David would see Gray Beard and Marvin only once or twice more; that would be okay, too.

For everyone.