I phoned my service. Still no callback from Shirley Rosenblatt, Ph.D. Maybe she wasn't Harvey's wife. . . . I tried her number again, got the same recorded message, and slammed down the phone in disgust.

My hand started to close around the brochure, crumpling it, then my eyes dropped to the bottom of the page and I stopped and smoothed the stiff paper.

Other names.

The three other speakers.

Wilbert Harrison, M.D., FACP

Practicing Psychoanalyst

Beverly Hills, California

Grant P. Stoumen, M.D., FACP

Practicing Psychoanalyst

Beverly Hills, California

Mitchell A. Lerner, M.S.W., ACSW

Psychoanalytic Therapist

North Hollywood, California

Harrison, chubby, around fifty, fair, and jolly looking, with dark-rimmed glasses. Stoumen older, bald and prune faced, with a waxed, white mustache. Lerner, the youngest of the three, Afroed and turtlenecked, full bearded, like Rosenblatt and myself.

I had no memory beyond that. The topics of their papers meant nothing to me. I'd sat up on the dais, mind wandering, angry about being there.

Three locals.

I opened the phone book. Neither Harrison nor Lerner was in there, but Grant P. Stoumen, M.D., still had an office on North Bedford Drive—Beverly Hills couch row. A service operator answered, “Beverly Hills Psychiatric, this is Joan.”

Same service I used. Same voice I'd just spoken to.

“It's Dr. Delaware, Joan.”

“Hi, Dr. Delaware! Fancy talking to you so soon.”

“Small world,” I said.

“Yeah—no, actually, it happens all the time, we handle lots of psych docs. Who in the group are you trying to reach?”

“Dr. Stoumen.”

“Dr. Stoumen?” Her voice lowered. “But he's gone.”

“From the group?”

“From—uh . . . from life, Dr. Delaware. He died six months ago. Didn't you hear?”

“No,” I said. “I didn't know him.”

“Oh . . . well, it was really pretty sad. So unexpected, even though he was pretty old.”

“What did he die of?”

“A car accident. Last May, I think it was. Out of town, I forget exactly where. He was at some kind of convention and got run over by a car. Isn't that terrible?”

“A convention?”

“You know, one of those medical meetings. He was a nice man, too—never lost patience the way some of the—” Nervous laugh. “Scratch that comment, Dr. D. Anyway, if you're calling about a patient, Dr. Stoumen's were divided up among the rest of the doctors in the group, and I can't be sure which one took the one you're calling about.”

“How many doctors are in the group?”

“Carney, Langenbaum, and Wolf. Langenbaum's on vacation, but the other two are in town—take your pick.”

“Any recommendations?”

“Well . . .” Another nervous laugh. “They're both—all right. Wolf tends to be a little better about returning calls.”

“Wolf'll be fine. Is that a him or a her?”

“A him. Stanley Wolf, M.D. He's in session right now. I'll put a message on his board to call you.”

“Thanks a lot, Joan.”

“Sure bet, Dr. D. Have a nice day.”