When his doctor called him a week after his annual physical to say he had tested positive for prostate cancer, Barry thought he must have been making it up. Of course he knew that people got sick. Steve Ross, the chairman of Warner Brothers, died of prostate cancer for Christ sake, but that was ten years ago. And besides, Barry was only forty-five and at the top of his game. Barry suspected that the lab fucked up or some nurse was part of a Christian conspiracy and knew he was about to produce a gay marriage movie even though he was a Republican.

Walking into the cool glass building marked “Sidney Kimmel Center for Prostate and Urologic Cancers,” Barry strode up to the receptionist and spoke in a low, decidedly calm voice.

“Barry Santorini for Dr. Vartan.”

“Hi there, Mr. Santorini.” The receptionist smiled warmly. “If you don’t mind filling out these forms, then I can send you upstairs to the second floor.”

“Andre Karl, the chairman of the board here, made this appointment for me. I don’t need to fill out these papers.” He handed them back to her.

“Everyone needs to fill out these papers, Mr. Santorini. We need your medical history.” She smiled again and returned them to him.

“I’m sure you didn’t make King Hussein or Robert De Niro sit here and fill out these papers when they came to see Dr. Vartan. I’m going to the second floor.” Barry walked toward the elevator.

“I can’t let you do that, Mr. Santorini.” The receptionist stood up.

“You call the chairman of the board and tell him that. Here’s his number.”

Barry pulled out a card from his wallet, handed it to the receptionist, and walked into the elevator.

When he got off at the second floor, Barry was depressed to see a waiting room of mostly older men accompanied by their devoted spouses. Immediately he assumed they must have a VIP waiting room for guys like Rudolph Giuliani that the bitch downstairs wasn’t telling him about. Dr. Victor Vartan was the most famous prostate cancer doctor in the world. These regular people couldn’t be his only patients.

He went up to the second-floor receptionist. “Barry Santorini for Dr. Vartan.”

“Can I have your papers?” The young woman didn’t look up.

“I don’t need papers. Is there a VIP room here?”

“Excuse me?” the receptionist asked.

Barry couldn’t believe he was wasting his time with all this civilian bullshit. It was worse than flying fuckin’ commercial.

“Where do your big donors wait?”

“Right here.” The receptionist pointed without looking up again.

Barry made a note to himself to throw Sloan-Kettering a premiere. Andre Karl was obviously holding out for something.

“If you’ll have a seat, Mr. Santorini, I’ll tell Dr. Vartan’s nurse you’re here and that you have no papers.” The receptionist rattled off instructions.