“Yeech! I mean, dieting’s bad enough, but this-”

“Don’t be so quick to pass judgment, my friend. Liposuction, as it currently stands, is a very crude procedure. Along with every ounce of fat tissue extracted, two or more ounces of subcutaneous fluids are also removed. Including”-and here Dr. Landrieu paused for effect-“blood. The resulting slurry is an extremely rich organic mixture, typically composed of nearly two-thirds plasma components. Virtually all cosmetic surgeons dispose of this slurry as medical waste. I, however”-he raised his right eyebrow pointedly-“could very well imagine other uses it might be put to.”

Jules felt his mouth begin to water, even though his mind hadn’t yet struggled through all the implications. “You mean, uh, me, eh, like, drinkin‘ it?”

Dr. Landrieu brought his hands together in a thunderclap. “Yes, Jules! Imagine dining on milk shakes and caviar for the rest of your unlimited existence! For I have little doubt that eventually, with a judicious application of bribes, we could set you up in your own practice in the hinterlands. So that after I pass on to my inevitable reward, you would not want for anything.” He reached across the table and grabbed hold of Jules’s free hand. “Now tell me, am I makingsense?”

Jules felt beads of sweat trickle down the interior seams of his new safari suit. He felt he had come to a decisive juncture in his undead existence. The bitter coffee roiled in his stomach like a boiling black gumbo. “Wait-I can’t think about it all at once. Doc, I can’t change my whole fuckin‘ life in just five minutes. You’ve gotta give me some time to think this through.”

Dr. Landrieu released his hand. “Of course. I hope my enthusiasm didn’t intimidate you. Let me go downstairs and check on your results. Then we’ll have more to talk about.”

Jules rested his forehead heavily on his hands. Argentina sounded like a paradise. But could he bear to leave New Orleans? Hadn’t his miserable five-day exile proven to him that living outside the Big Easy was like trying to survive without air?

Dr. Landrieu reentered the kitchen and sat down across from Jules. “It’s as I’d expected. You’re suffering from the beginning stages of a condition analogous to adult-onset diabetes mellitus. Fortunately for you, since we’ve caught it early, and little permanent degeneration has occurred, my experimental compound should prove very effective in staving off further symptoms.”

“Doc, I just thought of somethin‘-if this diabetes has been caused by what I’ve been eatin’ all these years, wouldn’t going down with you to Argentina and livin‘ off those ’milk shakes’ make it a whole lot worse?”

Dr. Landrieu smiled. “As your physician, I’m a step or two ahead of you. Should my compound be as efficacious as I have every right to expect it will be, your dietary worries will be at an end. You will be in the envious position of being able to eat whatever you damn well please. So tell me, what do you think of the notion of relocating down south?”

Jules paused before answering, slowly stirring his coffee with a teaspoon. “Well, Doc, I’ve gotta be honest with you… it’d be awfully hard for me to leave New Orleans.”

The doctor leaned forward across the table. “Why?”

Jules shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “It’s just… well, this old town’s a part of me, like my fingernails or the calluses on the bottoms of my feet. I never have to wonder where my pals are or where I can get me a good cup of joe. I can drive through the French Quarter and roll down my windows and hear my kinda music floatin‘ through the air, for free. I can hardly imagine evenvisitin’ some other place.”

The doctor was silent. Jules avoided meeting his gaze, instead staring into the murky depths of his stone-cold coffee. “So, uh, do I still get to try out that medicine of yours?”

Dr. Landrieu slowly stood. “Of course, Jules. I’m a physician, not a blackmailer. I have a small supply in the refrigerator. Let me get it for you.” He opened the refrigerator behind Jules and was hidden by the door as he fumbled with the contents inside. “Just give me a moment longer; I need to make sure there is enough to get you started on your regimen… Yes. We are in good shape.”

He closed the refrigerator and handed Jules a small white plastic bottle with a child-resistant cap. Sticky shreds of an old label still clung to the bottle’s sides. “Please pardon the looks of that bottle. I try to recycle as much as I can. Well. You have enough tablets there for fifteen days. Take two each night, one upon rising and one before you retire.”

“Thanks, Doc!” Jules placed the bottle in one of his trench coat’s many pockets, then took out his wallet, which Maureen had generously restocked with forty dollars of walking-around money. “What do I owe you?”

Dr. Landrieu pushed the money aside. “Nothing. I can’t ethically charge you a fee for an experimental drug. Come back in fifteen days and tell me how you feel, and then we’ll discuss payment. In the meantime, the only favor I ask of you is that you not reject the idea of accompanying me to Argentina out of hand. Promise me you’ll reconsider over the next two weeks?”

“Sure thing, Doc. It won’t hurt me none to think about it some more. So anyway, what do I need to know about this here wonder drug of yours? Is it safe to take it with coffee?”

“Certainly. There should be no adverse caffeine interactions.”

“Should I go ahead and take my first one now?”

“I don’t see why not. The sooner you begin, the sooner you’ll experience relief from your symptoms. Actually, you may experience a marked improvement in as little as a day or two.”

“Really? Hey, that’s terrific!” It took Jules a few seconds to get the bottle open; those child-resistant caps had always given him trouble. He tapped a small, round, white tablet into his palm. Jules was surprised to see that it had the letterA engraved on it. Perhaps theA stood for “Amos,” Dr. Landrieu’s first name? He popped the tablet in his mouth and downed it with the dregs of his coffee.

Dr. Landrieu picked up Jules’s empty cup and saucer and deposited them in the sink. “Well. I’m glad we’ve had this little reunion, Jules. I’ll see you again in fifteen days?”

“Sure thing. I hope these pills’re as good as you say they are.”

Dr. Landrieu led him through the living room to the entrance foyer. “Oh, I suspect you’ll be very pleasantly surprised.”

Jules drove along the edge of the Jewish cemetery until he reached Canal Street. Then he made a right turn toward the French Quarter. No doubt about it, his luck was beginning to turn. By the time he reached the garage across from Maureen’s house, he was already feeling the tinglings of a fresh surge of energy. Shuttling his packages from the Lincoln’s trunk, down the garage’s stairs, up Maureen’s front steps, down her hallway, and up more stairs to the closet she’d assigned him, he could swear that his knees already hurt less than before. His stride had more zing in it. Maybe it was just his imagination, but he felt twenty years younger and two hundred pounds lighter.

He sat for a moment on Maureen’s front stoop, pondering how he should spend the rest of his night. A Lucky Dog vendor wheeled his wiener cart along Bienville Street, and Jules waved and wished him a good evening.

“You want I should fix you a dog, pal?” the vendor asked. He looked to be in his late sixties, with a well-tanned, deeply furrowed but personable face.

“Wish I could, buddy,” Jules answered mournfully, eyeing the bin of wieners and tray of condiments with an expression just short of lust.

“I understand,” the vendor said in a consoling voice. He cocked an ear toward the tiny portable radio he carried on his cart and turned up the volume. His gentle smile faded into a grimace. “You been listening to this crap on the news? Those dopes on the North Shore want that asshole Nathan Knight to get back into politics again.”