“Keep it for your records, Alex.” Standing, he sidled in front of the desk, taking tiny steps, like a man on a ledge. Finally, he managed to get behind the surfboard and sat down.

Katarina de Bosch was inspecting her knuckles.

I considered maintaining my dignity but decided against it. “Nice to know what I'm doing in November, Henry. Care to give me my schedule for the rest of the decade?”

A small, sniffing sound came from Katarina's chair. Bork smiled at her, then turned to me, shifting his lips into neutral.

“An unfortunate misunderstanding, Alex—a snafu. “Something naturally always fouls up,' right?”

He looked at Katarina again, got nothing in return, and lowered his eyes to the blotter.

I fanned the blue brochure.

“Snafu,” Bork repeated. “One of those interim decisions that had to be made during the transition between Dr. Greiloff's and Dr. Franks' sabbaticals and your stepping in. The board offers its regrets.”

“Then why bother with a letter of application?”

Katarina said, “Because I'm polite.”

“I didn't know the board got involved in scheduling conferences, Henry.”

Bork smiled. “Everything, Alex, is the province of the board. But you're right. It's not typical for us to get directly involved in that type of thing. However . . .”

He paused, looked again at Katarina, who gave another tiny nod. Clearing his throat, he began fingering a cellophaned cigar—one of a trio of Davidoffs sharing pocket space with a white silk handkerchief.

“The fact that we have gotten involved should tell you something, Alex,” he said. His smile was gone.

“What's that, Henry?”

“Dr. de Bosch—both Dr. de Bosches are held in extremely high esteem by . . . Western's medical community.”

Are. So the old man was still alive.

“I see,” I said.

“Yes, indeed.” The color had risen in his cheeks, and his usual glibness had given way to something tentative, shaky.

He removed the cigar from his pocket and held it between his index fingers.

From the corner of my eye I saw Katarina. Watching me.

Neither of them spoke; I felt as if the next line was mine and I'd flubbed it.

“High esteem,” said Bork finally, sounding more tense.

I wondered what was bugging him, then remembered a rumor of a few years ago. Doctors' dining room gossip, the kind I tried to avoid.

A Bork problem child, the youngest of four daughters. A teenaged chronic truant with learning disorders and a tendency toward sexual experimentation, sent away, two or three summers ago, hush-hush, for some kind of live-in remediation. The family tight-lipped with humiliation.

One of Bork's many detractors had told the story with relish.

The de Bosch Institute and Corrective School . . .

Bork was watching me. The look on his face told me I shouldn't push it any further.

“Of course,” I said.

It sounded hollow. Katarina de Bosch frowned.