Denial by Keith Ablow

and Cliff Pidrowski, a recovering alcoholic who'd lost his legs in Vietnam, was still running the place.  He recognized me immediately.  "Oh, Jesus," he laughed, "hide the money."  He wheeled himself out from behind his desk.
    "I didn't cost you guys much," I chuckled, shaking his hand.  I was glad he hadn't cut his hair, which hung in a braid down his back.
    "Didn't you?  Shit.  Every skid row vet in the state must have had the word on you.  Show up in the emergency room with a little depression or posttraumatic stress and watch the spin doctor make your benefits flow.  Spin ; they still call you that?"
    "You were the only one who called me that."  I took a seat.  "And I was just convincing you to give away what you wanted to give away in the first place."
    "Oh, I did?  I must have buried that real deep in my subconscious.  I seem to remember sweating bullets to get it through your head once in a great while that being on the streets isn't always service-connected.  You can be plenty fucked-up before you fight a war."
    "Then you shouldn't have to fight it.  Uncle Sam's got to take his victims as they come."
    He covered his ears.  "I'm having déjà vu.  Tell me you're not here on a job interview."
    "You think the government has its head completely up its ass?  I'm still chasing forensic cases on the North Shore."
    "You always liked the real sickos," he chuckled.  "I got to admit, though, you could settle them right down.  They must have sensed they were with someone as dangerous as them."
    "I'm harmless."
    He rolled his eyes.  "Not to shortcut the journey down memory lane, but if you're already gainfully employed, what are you here for?"
    "A favor... if you're willing."
    "Sure.  Anything that doesn't cost Uncle Sam a monthly check."
    "I need a service record."
    "That's confidential information."
    "That's why it's a favor."
    He wheeled himself over to a computer station.  "Anybody asks, I never helped you with a thing," he said.
    "I won't have to convince anyone who knows you."
    "Still a wise ass.  What's the name?"
    "First name's George.  Second name starts with ‘La.’"
    He entered L and a .  "That narrows it down to a group about the size of Rhode Island.  And cross-referencing ‘George’... I'm down to several hundred.  What war?"
    "Vietnam."
    "That's progress.  Got a diagnosis?"
    "Schizophrenia."
    "Eye color?"
    "Blue."
    "Height?"
    "About six feet."
    "I got a blue-eyed, six-one schizophrenic by the name of George LaFountaine.  Born, April 5, 1949,  Drafted, Army, April 16, 1969.  Court-martialed, November 28, 1970.  Charges dismissed.  Medically discharged, December 1, 1970.  Diagnosis:  Schizophrenia."
    "Court-martialed?  Anything in there say what happened to him, what he was charged with?"
    "That wouldn't be on the computer."  He swiveled toward me.  "But he was treated upstairs on 13B after discharge.  And about a dozen times since then.  The records should be in storage."
    "How would I get those?"
    "With a release of information from the patient."
    "No chance."
    "Then you're shit out of luck.  Medical records isn't my department.  They're touchy about details.  Like the Fourth Amendment."
    "I've already examined the guy, Cliff.  He'd want me to see his chart, but he's locked up.  I can't get to him right now."
    "Sorry."
    I sighed.  "I didn't want to use it up, but I guess I'm gonna have to call in my debt."
    "Debt?"
    "Helena?"
    "You can call me Charisse, if you want to.  It won't get you anywhere."
    "Not Helena.  Helga.  That social work intern.  Bright red lipstick.  Tight skirts.  I let you borrow my room with her.  You said you owed me one — a big one."
    "That was ages ago.  Like ten years."
    "Lucky for you I'm not charging interest."
    "She wasn't even that good."
    "She was good enough to tie up my room for three fucking hours in the middle of the night."  I smiled.
    "I think I'm getting it where the sun don't shine," he said, shaking his head.  "You