Heads You Lose by Lisa Lutz

people are trying to break into this place.”
    “Well, beats prison, right?” Lacey asked.
    “Let me get back to you on that,” said Sook. “Anyway, I do believe I’m up for an outing. Are we going to the movies?”
    “Nope.”
    “Diner? I could use some of those fries. Wouldn’t mind a chocolate shake, either.”
    “No, we’re not going to Diner.”
    “Then where are we going?”
    “I’m taking you to the doctor,” Lacey explained.
    Sook sat back down in his chair. “That sounds about as fun as a bee sting.”
    “Would you rather stay here?”

     
    On the drive to Doc Egan’s office, Lacey informed Sook of his symptoms.
    “What seems to be the problem?” Doc Egan asked when Lacey and Sook arrived in his waiting room.
    “I have no appetite and my ears are ringing,” Sook said.
    “What’s your last name, Sook?” Doc Egan asked on the threshold to the examination room.
    “Felton,” Lacey answered.
    “Hang on a second,” Doc Egan said, “I’ll get your file.”
    Egan disappeared behind the door only to return empty-handed.
    “Were you a patient of Doctor Holland’s?”
    “Nope,” Sook replied.
    “You weren’t?” Lacey asked.
    “No. I used to go to that osteopath in Emery.”
    While Lacey tangled with the idea that both Sook and her ex (or the ex-Hart) were patients of an inconveniently located osteopath, Doctor Egan attached a pen to a clipboard and passed it to Sook.
    “Once you fill out the questionnaire, we can start the exam.” Doc Egan turned to Lacey. “Have you cleaned and re-dressed your wound yet?” he asked.
    “What wound?” Sook asked.
    “I got into a knife fight with Big Marv Babalato,” Lacey said, pulling up her sleeve.
    “Come into my office,” Doc Egan said.
    While Sook reminisced about his medical history, Doc Egan re-dressed Lacey’s wound and she interrogated him about his financial responsibilities.
    “Just out of curiosity,” Lacey asked. “How much is malpractice insurance?”
    “Depends on where and what kind of practice.”
    “Well, for example, how much would malpractice insurance be in a town like Mercer, with your current patient load?”
    “Can I ask why you’re asking?”
    “Will you answer if I don’t?”
    Matthew Egan sighed, washed his hands in that special way that only doctors do, and removed Lacey’s old wound dressing, tossing it in the bin.
    “I think it runs around three thousand,” he replied.
    “A month?”
    “No. A year.”
     
     
    The patients then swapped places. During the half-hour that Sook was getting poked and prodded, Lacey excused herself to make a phone call and slipped into Egan’s private office. Technically, it was a closet converted to an office. Her first day on the job, Betty lasted a full two hours in the four-by-six-foot space before her claustrophobia took charge. After that she worked from home, accessing Holland’s voicemail and scheduling appointments.
    Eventually Lacey located Egan’s check register and saw a payment to Kimbell and Company for $750.00, which was listed as a quarterly insurance payment. Just when Lacey was about to start hunting for the bill in the file cabinet, she heard voices in the waiting room.
    Lacey checked the office for signs of disruption, adjusted the calendar, and closed the desk drawer. She exited the office just in time to take a seat on the threadbare couch.
    “So, how is he?” she asked.
    “Starving,” Sook replied.
    Lacey shot him a hostile glance.
    “Your friend is fine,” Doc Egan said. “Maybe he could get a little more exercise.”
    “We’ll work on that. Oh, before I forget,” Lacey said, reaching into her bag, “Here’s your shirt. It’s clean and everything.”
    “I’ll see you in eight days, Lacey.”
    “Why?”
    “To get your stitches out.”
    “Right. See you later, Doc,” Lacey said, ushering Sook out of the office.
     
     
    Sook and Lacey sat in the corner booth of Diner, feasting on chocolate shakes and french fries.
    “How come you