“You like that?”

Max looked happy. I dipped my head, raised and dipped. The stethoscope swept left then right, one way and the next, higher and higher before accelerating downward then streaking up again on elastic black tubing. Whoosh! Max’s gaze did not leave it. I crouched on all fours, bobbed over him, peered into his laughing mouth filled with scum and spit. I could feel, faintly, on my own face, Max’s exhalations. He gave off bitter odors. Dampness seeped from crotch to thighs across his trousers. “Oh, Jesus, you’ve gone and wet yourself,” I sighed as, suddenly, Barry’s weighty brass and steel stethoscope hurtled down along its crescent path and struck Max cleanly on the nose—thunk. Immediately I pressed a hand over his mouth. For Max to cry out and be heard at large would be inconvenient as hell considering the pilferage stashed in my jacket pockets and the fact that I would doubtless be rebuked for harmful negligence regarding Max’s pitiable state, his every breath being precious, etc., etc. The general level of contentiousness around here is its own advertisement for discretion. Already footsteps approached from the direction of the card catalog. I spoke quickly and quietly into Maxwell’s ear. “I see no reason for a scene. I’m sorry about your nose, but I can tell you right now that if you decide to make trouble, it will not be happy for you.”

Then the footsteps were here and a voice was saying, “Hey, guys. What’s going on? Doug, is everything all right? Is Max all right?”

“Hello, Bertram. Yes, Max is fine. He’s feeling much better. How are you?”

“I’m okay. Doug, why do you have your hand over Max’s mouth? Is that a good idea?”

“His tongue was acting strange, Bertram. I thought I’d try to calm it down.”

“Like that?”

“Touch can be very healing.”

“I know, but it doesn’t look like he’s getting any air. I think you ought to remove your hand, Doug.”

“In a minute, Bertram, in a minute. Max is fine. He’s breathing through his nose and his tongue is calming down considerably.”

“No, Doug. Look. His nose is bleeding.”

It was true. A hideous red stream oozed from Max’s nostril to gutter up against my hand and wash down the sides of Maxwell’s dirty, unshaved face.

“Here, use these,” said Bertram, offering tissues in a pocket-size wrapper. I wiped Max, and Bertram said, “Tilt his head so the blood can clot.”

“Like this?”

“Don’t let the head hang back. You can compress the artery and cause a stroke. Careful! You’re going to strain his neck!”

“Relax, Bertram.”

“Let me do it, Doug. I get nosebleeds myself. I know exactly what to do.”

“You get nosebleeds?”

“I get them in winter when there’s dry heat. Move your hand.” He knelt and reached behind Maxwell’s neck, cradled Max’s head in his hands.

“Got him?” I asked.

“Yes.”