Twenty-Two
HELEN DECIDES TO GO see about the mysterious stolen rifle that isn’t stolen. Since we haven’t eaten breakfast, I decide to go with her, stopping by Sprockets on the way.
“That reminds me, darling,” she says as she hands me my coffee and chicken biscuit. “Did you ever make that appointment?”
I groan inwardly. “No, not yet,” I say. “I thought you’d forget about it.”
“Well, you thought wrong. I knew you hadn’t—I asked Anna if it was on your calendar—oh, don’t look at me that way—so I made you an appointment with the Department physician for a physical. It’s in two weeks.”
“Oh, Helen, I’d rather see my own doctor.”
“Your own doctor is an 80-year-old ex-missionary, Tom. I have to question how good he is.”
“He’s a Dominican,” I say plaintively.
“Anyway, don’t even think of mis
