The Ditto List by Stephen Greenleaf

always concluded, it meant living together was still a man’s best friend, Marvin v. Marvin notwithstanding.
    â€œI don’t live with anyone but my dog,” she said, surprising him again. “His name is Toledo. He’s half Husky and half wolf and he’s very mean when I want him to be,” she added, smiling momentarily once again, completely unmean herself from the look of it. Non-usual, Bobby E. Lee had called her. Yes, indeed.
    Miss Holloway brushed back a delinquent hair, then folded her hands and stored them on her lap.
    â€œWhy the hell are you here?” he asked. “If it’s about Toledo, I have to tell you I don’t defend dog-bite cases.”
    â€œOh, I know that, Mr. Jones. And Toledo doesn’t bite, he just looks like he’s about to. You’re a divorce lawyer. Right?”
    â€œRight. The question is, why on earth do you need one?”
    â€œOh, I don’t.”
    He made a fist and struck his desk. “Jesus Christ, Miss Holloway. I’ve just been mauled by the Friday Fiasco, and interviewed a woman whose husband presented her with divorce papers the way he would the ketchup and another whose husband tried to abort her from outside the womb, and here you are, cracking wise, playing mystery games. What the hell is it? You a reporter or something? Reporters are the only ones I know who smile like that, like they own the world and have it trained to shit on paper and beg for food.”
    Finally the smile was gone. “I don’t think that was called for.”
    â€œProbably not, but then what is?” D.T. was certain he should have been contrite, and equally certain that he was perversely not. He stared at her until she spoke.
    â€œI’m not a reporter, Mr. Jones,” she admonished. “I’m a nurse. I’m here about one of my patients. I’ve been smiling because everything I’ve seen so far indicates you might be the right man. The one who’ll take the case.”
    â€œWhat case?” D.T. asked, the question shoving hard against his better judgment.
    â€œMaybe I’d better start from the beginning.”
    â€œMaybe you had. In the meantime, I’m going to have a drink. Care to join me?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œScotch?”
    â€œFine.”
    D.T. got glasses from the credenza—the everyday ones—a bottle from the file cabinet, and ice from the freezer, and mixed the drinks. Each watched the other as they took their medicinal gulps. “You may begin,” D.T. said.
    â€œFirst tell me what the D.T. stands for.”
    â€œDelirium Tremens,” D.T. said. “Now let’s get on with it. If you need a refill just touch your nose with your tongue.”
    â€œHow did you know I could do that?”
    â€œCan you?”
    She convinced him.
    â€œI imagine that’s a big hit on the terminal ward.”
    â€œAs a matter of fact, it is.”
    He sighed. “Please don’t tell me about death, Miss Holloway. I’m sure you know a lot about it, but I’d really rather not hear about death at the moment.”
    Rita Holloway nodded briskly. “It’s life I’m here about. A rather spectacular one, at that.”
    â€œExplain.”
    She got comfortable and gathered air, a tidy package of concern. He hoped to hell it wasn’t medical malpractice. If it was he’d refer it out. Tempting, though. The plum he’d been waiting for, maybe. But he was too old for malpractice, too old to learn the medicine, too old to bluff the insurance monsters. He’d refer it out. Preferably to someone who would kick back half the fee.
    â€œI’m a practical nurse,” Rita Holloway began. “I work in private homes mostly, old people, invalids, that kind of thing. I have a regular list of clients, usually about ten, that I look in on at least every other day. I’m good at my work and I’m well paid, well enough so that two of my ten are taken