Fry Me a Liver by Delia Rosen Page B

cap on medical expenses,” he said.
    â€œSo—nothing personal—but insurance companies raise rates to cover this stuff, the so-called victims benefit, and we go deeper into a world where everyone’s tuchas gets powdered by me.”
    He nodded gravely. I was sick inside. If Lenin weren’t glued to that glass coffin in the Kremlin, he’d sit up and clap.
    â€œBut here’s some advice,” he said. “There’s nothing we can do about the system, so it’s best we get ready to look after our own tookasses.”
    I appreciated the effort but here was another goy who couldn’t do a guttural ch. At least Alan’s heart was in the right place. So was his brain, which was good for me. I was already gnawing at my own insides but at least I had an advocate. At least I wasn’t alone.
    â€œHey, what about getting back inside?” I said. “There are things in my office I need, like my cell phone.”
    Alan went to his computer, accessed a file, and printed out two letters. He signed one and handed it to me.
    â€œThe first one, the signed one, says the corporation—you—are fully covered against injury to you,” he said. “The second says you abrogate all right to sue the city and its representatives if anything happens to you. If they want to retain these, that’s fine.”
    â€œYou have these ready to go?” I asked.
    â€œThose and every convolution and contortion,” he smiled.
    I asked if I could check my e-mails and he graciously allowed me to use his desk. He left the office.
    There were the usual business e-mails and a few from concerned restaurateurs . . . plus one that had just arrived from Candy Sommerton:

    I tried calling and texting; no answer. Can you meet me at my office asap?
    Â 
    I wrote back:
    Â 
    No interview.
    Â 
    She replied:
    Â 
    No. More important.

    I thought for a moment. I wasn’t eager to see her but I was curious what could be more important than an interview to the interview queen. Plus, it was something to do. I said I would be there in an hour.
    The rest of the e-mails could wait.
    â€œAnything new?” Alan asked when I walked out to the reception area.
    â€œNothing,” I replied. “Is there anything I need to do, anything need filling out?”
    â€œIt’s all on file,” he said. “I just plug in the data. Most of what I need will be in the police report.”
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œI hope you’re going home to rest—though it doesn’t look like it.”
    I smiled. “I’m not from the resters.”
    â€œYour uncle wasn’t from the resters, either. He burned himself out.”
    â€œI know. But I also think music did that. He wanted that more than anything. When it didn’t come, I suspect he kind of gave up.”
    â€œHe still played at the deli now and then.”
    â€œI know, but that’s not the same thing as having your tunes on the radio.”
    â€œI guess not.” He studied me for a moment. “What’s your dream? Not the deli—?”
    â€œNo. The deli is—I don’t know. A ‘pit stop’ sounds dismissive, but it’s a good enough description for now. Why?”
    â€œI guess I’m asking if you want to rebuild,” he said.
    â€œI don’t know. Why? Is there something you aren’t telling me?”
    â€œNot really. It’s just going to be a long road and the money is the same, more or less, whether you reopen or walk away. It’s just something you might want to consider, if you have your eye on a different path.”
    He sounded sincere and his advice was sensible. I thanked him for the counsel and told him I’d think about it. And I would. I’d see how I felt when I wasn’t suddenly obsessed with the idea that some shyster could actually get hold of my staff and convince them to sue me.
    I don’t remember going back to the car. Which