Jack stood statue still, scanning the room. Had only a few seconds before he was spotted. Especially didn’t want Porky to see him—might accuse him of tossing him off the steps—but now that he’d found him, Jack wanted his name. Spotted a clipboard atop some X-rays on the counter to his left. Snagged it and stepped back into the hallway.

The top sheet was an intake form, with “Butler, Robert B.” printed across the top. A West Sixty-seventh Street address. Jack knew the building—a luxury high-rise maybe twenty blocks from his place. He memorized Butler’s unit number, leaned the clipboard against the door, and headed for the exit.

Jack and Robert B. Butler, graduate of St. Barnabas Prep, had been living just a short walk away from each other for who knew how long. About time they got acquainted.

THURSDAY

1

Jack was up early and on his way downtown, enjoying the mild May weather. Too nice a morning to ponder his as yet unscheduled confrontation with the porky prep. Jack hadn’t yet figured on the right approach to Mr. Butler, but it would come. Right now he was headed for a meeting with a new customer. Because she was a referral, and because he trusted the referrer, he’d agreed to meet Dr. Nadia Radzminsky on her turf. At this hour her turf was a storefront diabetes clinic on Seventeenth Street, between Union Square and Irving Place, next to a laundromat.

Jack stepped inside and found the front area filled with a jumble of races and sexes, all shabbily dressed. The young mocha-skinned, white-uniformed nurse at the desk took one look at him and seemed to know he didn’t belong. Not that he was all that well dressed, but his faded flannel shirt, worn jeans, and scuffed tan work boots were still a few cuts above what everyone else here was wearing.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Dr. Radzminsky. She’s expecting me.”

The nurse sifted through the papers on her desk and came up with a yellow sticky note. “Yes. You’re Jack? She said to take you right in.”

She led him through a curtained doorway, past a pair of curtained examining rooms—he caught a whiff of rubbing alcohol from the one on the right—to a tiny office in the rear. A young woman with straight dark hair cut in a bob sat behind the desk. She glanced up and smiled as they entered. She looked very young—couldn’t be a day over twenty. Too young to be a doctor.

“You must be Jack,” she said, rising and extending her hand. She stood about five-four and had a compact frame, a stocky build—solid without being overweight.

“And you must be Dr. Radzminsky.”

“Nadia, please,” she said, pronouncing it “Nahd-ja.” “Only my patients call me Doctor.” She had a big open face, a welcoming smile, and bright dark eyes. Jack liked her immediately. “Thanks, Jasmine,” she said to the nurse.

Jasmine closed the door behind her.

Nadia pointed to one of the chart-laden chairs. “Just put those on the floor and have a seat.”