Mad Dog Justice by Mark Rubinstein

Ivan’s mental gears whirring.
    “Roddy,” Ivan says, his voice pitching higher, “I hate to sound so bottom line, but I can’t afford this kind of thing. You’re not gonna be around and you can’t tell me how long you’ll be away, and you force me to take on another surgeon now.”
    “Just lay it on the line, Ivan.”
    “I need some sort of accommodation from you.”
    “Whatever you want, partner,” Roddy says, wanting to shut down Ivan’s whining. Roddy feels brittle, as though he could explode with rage for what’s happening to his life. “Feel free to cutmy share. Or if you want, cut me out completely while I’m gone. Talk to David and get the papers signed. Get ahold of that lawyer we used back when we partnered up. Make some temporary arrangement, and I’ll add my signature when I get back.”
    “When you get
back
? This is crazy.”
    “You have my complete authorization to make any arrangement you feel is best. When I get back, we’ll work it all out.”
    “Roddy, what the hell’s going on?”
    “I can’t tell you right now, Ivan, but do what you have to do.”
    “Roddy …”
    “Just do it, Ivan. I’ll be in touch when I get back.”

Chapter 9
    B y nine fifteen in the morning, Roddy’s back home. Tracy’s left for the library at Sarah Lawrence and the kids are in school.
    He walks around the empty house—through the living room with its stone fireplace, sofas, easy chair, and knickknacks. He enters the den with its microfiber-covered sofa, scattered newspapers and medical journals, chestnut beams, stucco walls, and mullioned casement windows. He plods through the kitchen, dining room, and then upstairs, where he peers into Sandy’s and Tom’s bedrooms.
    Entering the master bedroom, he looks at the bed he and Tracy share. It looks so comforting, and it’s filled with Tracy’s warmth each morning as he lies next to her. God, how he loves this place. A pang of sadness assaults him as he realizes he’ll be leaving very soon. Tracy and the kids will have to get to a safe place—maybe stay at her sister’s house in Nutley. He wonders how on earth he’ll convince her to do it without telling her the reason. But first he’ll take care of a few things, which means among others, talking with the hospital administrator—Dr. Eve Barton—about a leave of absence. There, too, he’ll be forced to fabricate some sort of story. Secrets and lies are what his life boils down to—again, after all these years.
    Twenty minutes later, he’s made the arrangements with the hospital, saying he’d be away for two weeks due to illness in thefamily. But will two weeks be enough time?
    Roddy sinks down onto the living room sofa. He can’t just sit around and wait for something to happen, as though he’s a duck in a shooting gallery. He whips out his cell, scrolls through his contacts, and presses a speed dial number.
    “Carmel Medical Associates,” says the receptionist.
    “Dr. Masconi, please.”
    “Who may I ask is calling?”
    “Dr. Dolan, Rodney Dolan.”
    “Hold on, Doctor.”
    He waits, hearing Shakira singing “Hips Don’t Lie.” His foot starts that quick tapping, but it’s not in time to the music. His insides hum. It’s that tuning fork feeling, one he learned long ago is an internal signal of danger.
    “Rodney,” says a robust voice.
    “Vincenzo …”
    They always called each other by their formal names—jokingly—ever since meeting the first day of medical school, over a cadaver in the gross anatomy lab. Since then, they’ve kept loosely in touch. Maybe twice a year they get together with their wives at a restaurant somewhere in Westchester—halfway between Vinzy’s place in the Bronx and Bronxville.
    “How ya doin’?” Vinzy asks.
    “Good, Vinzy. You?”
    “Could always be better.”
    “Still taking care of the old Italians holding out on Arthur Avenue?”
    “Yeah, but Medicare’s cutting back. The patients are mostly Hispanic now … along with Eastern