“I’m the guy Eddie sent.”

“Right, come on in.”

The walls of the reception area were plastered with photographs of kittens and puppies and the occasional potbellied pig.

“It’s a shoulder wound, right?” the veterinarian asked.

“Right.”

“Take off your jacket and your shirt.”

Gene struggled out of the clothing; his shirt was bloodstained in spite of the makeshift dressing he had applied and the change of clothes. He was directed to sit on the examination table.

The vet ripped off the bandage. “Flesh wound, in and out,” he said. “Missed the shoulder joint.”

“You should see the other guy.”

The vet laughed. “It’s a thousand, cash,” he said, “including drugs.” Gene had the money already counted out and paid him. The vet pocketed the money. “This was what, a few hours ago?”

“Last night. It took some time to locate you.”

“Okay, lie down on your right side, so I can get at this thing.”

Gene stretched out on the table, which was Great Dane–sized.

The vet came at him with a large syringe and a curved, steel pan to catch the overflow. He irrigated the wound from both the front and the back, causing Gene to writhe in pain.

“You got some infection there,” he said.

“You got any novocaine?” Gene asked testily.

“Lidocaine, sure.” He went to a cabinet and came back with a filled syringe, then injected both the entry and exit. “Give it a minute,” he said.

Gene gave it a minute, and he began to feel the pain fade a little. “Okay, it’s working.”

“Good, because I’m going to run a swab all the way through.” He did so.

“Jesus!” Gene cried. “Give the novocaine a little more time, okay?”

“I’m done torturing you,” the vet said. “All I have to do now is stitch, and you won’t feel that.” He swabbed the area with a brown fluid, then attacked both ends with a curved needle and catgut. “There, all patched up.”

Gene started to rise.

“Not yet, you’ll need an antibiotic. Are you allergic to penicillin?”

“No.”

“Good.” The vet stabbed him in the upper arm with a syringe and emptied it into him, then he applied a dressing. “You’re done. You can get dressed.”

Gene got into his shirt and jacket and was handed a plastic bottle of pills.

“More penicillin,” the vet said. “Take one every four hours. That’s the Irish wolfhound dosage,” he snickered.

“This is for dogs?”

“It’s penicillin. Change the dressing twice a day and put some antibiotic cream on the wound when you do. You can get it at any drugstore. Call me in two or three days if the infection doesn’t go away. Now, beat it, I’m late for dinner.”

Gene got out of there. A fucking veterinarian! This was one more humiliation that he held against Barrington.

—

Stone stared at Ambassador Abdul-Aziz. “Who recommended me to you?”

“That is confidential.”