Some comical guy’s voice said, “Wri-whuh?”

I cleared my throat. Licked my lips. The rephrase came out: “Wri…tuh whuh?”

Hauser said, “Cut the theatrics, you’re fine.”

Allison moved her left shoe. Mouthed something that looked like “Sorry.” She winced as the knife blade pressed into her skin. Hauser didn’t seem to be aware of his own movement or her reaction.

“Write, you sonofabitch.”

“Sure,” I said. “Bun cun you crew- cue me in?”

“You’re going to retract everything you told that bitch lawyer, label the other bitches for the malingering bitches they are, sign and date.”

“Ah theh?”

“Then what?”

“Whah happahs aftah I chew thah?”

“Then we’ll see, you unethical asshole.”

“Alethical.”

“Once you’re exposed,” said Hauser, “life will be cream and sugar.”

“For who?”

His glasses slid down his nose and he flicked his head to right them. The movement distanced the blade from Allison’s neck.

Then it was back.

A low sound fluttered his lips. “Shut up and write or I’ll cut her and set it up like you did it.”

“You’re serious.”

“Do I look as if I’m kidding?” His eyes watered. His lower lip vibrated. “I was doing just fine until everyone started lying. All my life I’ve done for others. Now it’s time to take care of number one.”

I managed to pick up the pen, nearly dropped it. Heavy little sucker- were they making them of lead nowadays? Wasn’t lead bad for kids? No, that was pencils. No, that was graphite…

I flexed my right arm and its mate. No more numbness. The pain hadn’t abated but I was starting to feel human.

I said, “For this to be cruda- credulab- cred-i-ble shouldn’t it be notary publicked?”

Hauser licked his lips. His glasses had slid down again but he didn’t try to adjust them. “Stop faking. I didn’t hit you that hard.”

“Thanks,” I said. “But the question is still…revelant…”

“You write, I’ll worry about what’s relevant.”

The pen had stopped trying to escape my hand, settled awkwardly between ring finger and pinky. I managed to roll it into writing position.

Allison watched me.

I was scaring her.

A pen made of lead; what would the EPA think of that?

I said, “So I write. Now. How?”

Hauser said, “What do you mean, how?”

“What words do I tell?”

“Start by acknowledging that you’re a pathological liar unfit to practice.”

“Should I use first person?”

“Isn’t that what I just said?” Hauser’s jowls shook with rage. His arm did, too, and once more the knife danced away from Allison’s skin.

Not a good multitasker.

His right hand dug in and twisted Allison’s hair. She gasped, closed her eyes, and bit her lip.

I said, “Please stop hurting her.”

“I’m not hurting her- ”

“You’re pulling her hair,” I said.

Hauser looked down at his hand. Stopped twisting. “This isn’t about her.”

“My point.”

“You don’t have a point,” he said. “You owe me. If I wanted to hurt you, I could’ve used a club or something. All I did was sucker punch you with my bare hand. Same way you did me. I hurt my knuckles doing it. I’m not a violent person, all I want is justice.”

“Kicked me in the ribs, “ I said, sounding like a petulant child.

“When you punched me at that restaurant, you escalated the level of violence. All I wanted to do was talk rationally. Blame yourself.”

“You scared me at the restaurant,” I said.

That brought a smile to his lips. “Are you scared now?”

“Yeah.”

“Then harness the fear- sublimate. Start writing and we can all go home.”

I knew he was lying but I believed him. Tried another smile.

He stared past me.

Allison glanced at her purse. Blinked several times.

I said, “How ’bout I start like this: My name is Alex Demlaware, I’m a crinical psychologist licensed by the state of California, my license number is 45…”

Droning on. Hauser followed with choppy movements of his head. Warming to the recitation because it was everything he wanted to hear.

“Fine. Write.”

I leaned over the desk, shielding his view of my right hand with my left arm. Lowering the nib of the pen to just above the paper, I made writing motions.

“Oops,” I said. “Out of ink.”

“Bullshit, don’t try- ”

I held up the pen. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

Hauser thought. The knife drifted. “Get another one out of the drawer. Don’t agitate me.”

I struggled to my feet, holding the chair for support. “Should I lean over the desk or go around?”

“Go around. That way.” Pointing to the right.

Circling toward the front of the desk, I grazed Allison’s purse with my sleeve. Opened the drawer, took out several pens, rested for breath. No act; my ribs felt like bonemeal.

On the return trip, I touched the purse again, hazarded a look.

Unzipped. Allison’s bad habit. I’d given up lecturing to her about it.

I pretended to bang my knee against the desk corner. Cried out in pain and dropped the pens.

“Idiot!”

“My balance is off. I think you knocked something loose.”

“Bullshit, I didn’t hit you that hard.”

“I passed out. Maybe I’ve got a concussion.”

“Your head was stationary and if you had a rudimentary knowledge of neuropsych you’d know that severe concussions result most often from two objects in motion colliding.”

I looked at the carpet.

“Pick them up!”

I bent, collected the pens. Straightened and made my way back as Hauser watched.

The knife had shifted a few inches from Allison’s throat but his right hand kept a firm hold on her hair.

I met her eyes. Edged to the right, farther from Hauser. That relaxed him.

Allison blinked.

I said, “One thing…”

Before Hauser could answer, Allison struck out at his knife arm, twisted away, and slid out of his grasp.

He shouted. She ran toward the door. He went after her. I had the purse, groped with tingling fingers, found it.

Allison’s shiny little automatic, perfect for her small hand, too small for mine. She’d oiled it recently and maybe some of the lubricant had made its way to the grip. Or my motor skills were shot and that’s why my shaking arms bobbled the weapon.

I caught it, used both hands to steady my aim.

Hauser was a foot behind Allison, flushed and huffing, knife held high. He made a grab for her, caught another handful of hair, yanked her head back, chopped down.

I shot him in the back of the knee.

He didn’t fall immediately so I blew out the other knee.

For good measure.

I’d spent ten years working in a hospital. Some smells never change.

Robin and Allison sat across from my bed.

Next to each other. Like friends.

Robin in black, Allison still in the baby-blue suit.

I remembered pokes and probes and other indignities but not being transported here.

The CAT scan and X-rays had been boring, the MRI a bit of claustrophobic fun. The spinal tap was no kind of fun at all.

No more pain, though. What a tough guy I was.

Robin and Allison- or maybe it was Allison and Robin- smiled.

I said, “What is this, some kind of beauty contest?”

Milo stepped into view.

I said, “I redact and retract and refract any former statement vis-àvis aesthetic compete-tition.”

Smiles all around. I was a hit.

“At the risk of utterly bonanzal banalistical cliché, where the bleep am I hospital-wise?”

“Cedars,” said Milo in a slow, patient way that suggested it wasn’t the first time he’d answered the question.

“Didja get to see Rick? You really should, you guys don’t spend enough time together.”

Pained smiles. Timing, it’s all about timing. I said, “Ladies and germs.”

Milo edged closer. “Rick says hi. He made sure they did all the necessary crap. No concussion or hematomas and your brain’s not swollen- at least not more than it usually is. You do have some bruised disks in your cervical spine and a couple of cracked ribs. Ergo, King Tut.”