As Barry sat down he thought he saw his daughters’ doctor sitting with an old man who was obviously in pain.

“Mr. Weissman, Dr. Campbell will see you now,” Barry heard the nurse call, and knew he was absolutely right—it was Dr. Frankie Weissman. He watched as the pediatrician gently got the old man up. He seemed to be completely out of it, but gave her a kiss on the cheek when she managed to get him standing. Barry was glad that at least the Weissmans weren’t seeing Dr. Vartan. He knew that kids’ doctor had a very good reputation, but she certainly wasn’t a world-famous celebrity like Dr. Vartan.

The kids’ pediatrician nodded at Barry as she and the old man passed him, but Barry ignored her. If that fuckin’ cunt violated the Hippocratic oath or whatever the fuck vow it was of privacy, he would sue her ass so fast she’d have trouble getting a job as a nurse in a kindergarten.

“Mr. Santorini, Dr. Vartan will see you,” the receptionist called out.

Barry got up. The good news was, happily—since the pediatrician left plus he was sitting in the bleachers—no one important recognized his name. And at least he didn’t have to go through the shit with the blood and the nurse. Obviously they’d made a mistake and he wasn’t really that sick. Maybe this was all about getting them a fuckin’ premiere.

“I loved The Maltese Falcon,” Dr. Vartan told Barry while he walked his fingers up and down his leg. “Have you been having any pains in your legs?”

“No. I don’t have any pains.” Barry was expecting a distinguished Indian doctor in a white coat and instead he got a guy in Gucci loafers who looked like he sold real estate in Short Hills, New Jersey. Barry hadn’t seen a man in diamond cuff links and a Gucci belt since he used to spend time with his father-in-law, the supermarket king.

“How ’bout your ribs?” The doctor felt up Barry’s side. Barry couldn’t help noticing that Dr. Vartan also had a manicure. He wasn’t even like the supermarket king. He was more like his old friends from South Philly who went into “the Family Business.”

“I told you, I feel fine,” Barry said as the doctor took off his gloves and washed his hands.

“Mr. Santorini, I need you to go with my nurse to let her take some blood.”

“This is crazy! If you need a donation or something, call my office.” Barry was ready to go. “Don’t jerk me around here.”

“According to your doctor’s blood test, you have tested positive for prostate cancer.” Dr. Vartan sat down on a stool. “Hopefully it hasn’t spread. But I can’t give you a full prognosis unless you cooperate.”