Examining the silver handle, I make out the faint inscription, “A Lady’s Best Friend,” in fine script.

“Could anything say more about the man than that?” Pithy asks. “A straight razor is a pimp’s weapon. Or a prostitute’s. Maybe a professional gambler’s, if you want to be charitable. But Brody didn’t know any better, you see? That was the world he’d grown up in.”

Carefully opening the blade, I realize what a perfect weapon of last resort this razor would be. Far slimmer than a pocketknife, it could easily hide behind the seam of any garment.

“Take that with you,” Pithy says, lifting a hand to silence my protest. “To remind you who you’re up against. Don’t expect fair play. Don’t expect chivalry.”

“I won’t forget.”

She grimaces in pain. “I need a Valium, Flo. My heart is racing.”

Flora goes to the bedside table and takes a small white pill from its bottle, then holds it up to Pithy’s mouth with a cup of water. The old woman shakes her head, and the maid pulls back the mask and places the pill under her tongue.

“Your daddy taught me this,” Pithy whispers. “Hits the bloodstream faster.”

Flora and I stand silently beside the bed for a couple of minutes, and in that time Pithy’s eyelids slowly fall.

“Is she asleep?”

“I never know,” Flora whispers. “Sometimes I think she is, and then she’ll raise up when a car passes a mile out on the highway.” The maid steps closer to the bed and studies her employer’s face, then turns to me. “I think you can go now. I’m so glad you came. It did her a world of good.”

“I’m going to send Melba out to give her a shot.”

“Good. Her joints have given her the devil this week.”

“How are your joints doing?”

Flora’s smile broadens. “Did Doc tell you about me?”

“Tell me what?”

“Sometimes, when my ol’ Arthur gets bad, Doc gives me a little shot, too. On the way out to his car, usually.”

It suddenly strikes me that when my father dies, it’s people like this who will mourn him most deeply. In shotgun shacks and mansions alike, people like Flora and Pithy will sit and remember the doctor who came to their bedside, and listened, and did what he could to make their lives a little better.

“You be careful, Mayor,” Flora says.

My hand is on the doorknob when Pithy calls, “Wait!” in full voice. When I turn, the old woman is propped up on one elbow, her face tight with pain.

“What’s the matter?” I ask, hurrying to her side.

The old dowager shakes her head, her eyes wide in terror.