into a pair of disposable scrub pants and a johnny. He had absorbed a pounding, but it was hardly the first time. His abdominal wall was a road map of scars—the result of wounds, Lou had learned, that had led to two Purple Hearts.
Lou clenched his jaw. He had encountered more than enough violence and depravity to have developed something of an immunity, but in truth, he knew he would never be inured—especially when the victim was a guy like Desmond Carter.
He was preparing to examine the man when he heard the soft clearing of a throat from the doorway. Emily was standing there, hands on her hips, looking incredibly like her mother.
“Dad, you know how much I hate being treated like a baby,” she said. “I’ve seen street people before and black people, and even hurt people. It’s okay for me to watch—I promise you. You’re not protecting me from anything.”
Lou looked up at the ceiling and then the wall—anyplace but at his daughter’s wonderful face. He had been outmatched by her from the day she was born. Besides, exposing her to Desmond Carter this way seemed right. Still, it was probably something he should discuss with Renee. He envisioned his ex after the fact, arms folded, tapping her foot in exasperation, and heard her reminding him that she did, in fact, have a cell phone.
Better to ask forgiveness than permission, he decided.
“Barbara, does Desmond have a record of an HIV test?”
“Negative test drawn here four months ago,” she said.
“Em, you can come in,” he heard himself say. “But stand over there by the wall. Barbara, how about getting her into double gloves and a gown. Might as well give her a face shield as well.”
Swimming in her gown and looking like a teenager from outer space, Emily inched forward and watched as Lou packed both Desmond’s nostrils and explained what he was searching for in each segment of his physical exam. He could see her eyes widen at the man’s scars.
“Desmond, are you sure about no police?” Lou asked.
“Next time, maybe. I got a caseworker. I’ll tell her.”
Sure.
“Barbara,” Lou said, turning to the nurse, “how about ordering a chest film and nasal bones? Maybe get a CBC as well. Then we’ll do whatever we have to, to fix that schnoz.”
“Okay. Then I’m going to stop in the back and see if Gordo and Roz are all right with that poor old man. I think they’re going to transfer him.”
“No problem,” Lou said.
Moments later, the receptionist appeared at the doorway.
“Dr. Welcome, there’s a Dr. Filstrup on the line for you—he says it’s urgent.”
Lou suppressed a smile.
An urgent call from Walter Filstrup. That had to be an absolute first. He probably wanted Lou to pick up some tuna on his way home and drop it off at the office.
Largely because of the documented strength of his recovery, and the way he related to clients, Lou was well regarded by the PWO board. But he was hardly ready to take over as director. And the truth was, there were few beside Filstrup who seemed interested in the job.
From day one, he and Filstrup were like a cobra and a mongoose—actually, more like a cobra and a baby goose. The wellness office was a small one as physician health programs went, leaving the opinionated, bombastic therapist with only a couple of minions to boss around … chief among them, Lou.
“Em,” Lou said, “Barbara will be right back. Linda, please patch Dr. Filstrup over to the doctors’ lounge. I’ll talk to him there.”
The phone was ringing as Lou entered the lounge.
“Welcome? It’s me.”
Lou cringed at the sound of his boss’s voice. “I’m a little busy right—”
“Welcome, listen. You’ve really blown it this time.”
“I left the seat up in the office men’s room?”
“You’re not funny. In fact, you’re never funny.”
“Walter, what is this all about?”
“It’s about your darling client, John Meacham, the man whose license you single-handedly got