Lieberman's Folly by Stuart M. Kaminsky

neighborhood bird watching. The trains came rumbling in front of his window and a sharp-eyed woman with the flu or man with a murmur would occasionally spot a Black-Jacketed Daytime Mugger on the platform, though you were more likely to catch sight of a Fleet-Footed Purse Snatcher.
    Dr. Hartman’s office was small and ancient and smelled like decaying wood. Parking was difficult, even for a cop, and the waiting room had only four chairs. Hartman’s other offices were in the Fullbright Building downtown on Wacker Drive across from Marshall Field’s and in the Carlson Building in Evanston across from the library. The Edgewater office was primarily for the cops and to satisfy Hartman’s belief that he should be doing charity work. Lieberman had arrived five minutes late, taken the tests, which lasted fifteen minutes, and was asked by Hartman to have a seat.
    â€œResults,” Hartman said, coming into the small office next to his examining room where Lieberman sat flipping through an old People article on Princess Di.
    An el rumbled into the station and Lieberman looked across the desk at Hartman, who was, at forty, decidedly overweight. Other than his weight, Hartman, his sparse hair brushed forward like a cartoon Napoleon, carried a cheery smile even when announcing inoperable tumors and terminal diseases. Hartman was wearing a blue lab coat over his suit. He looked less like a doctor than an actor about to do a commercial for Maalox.
    Behind Hartman’s desk was a light box to which he was now clipping x-rays of Lieberman’s innermost parts and processes. Hartman, when he had finished clipping the x-rays, sat in his swivel chair and examined them.
    â€œYep,” he said. “See, right there.”
    Lieberman looked in the general direction he was pointing.
    â€œWhat?” he asked.
    â€œThe knees, both of them,” he said. “Arthritic joints. Padding, that white stuff between the bones. Right there. Worn down.”
    â€œI know,” said Lieberman. “You told me last year.”
    â€œA little worse this year,” said Hartman. “Not a lot but a little. Knees ache, tender?”
    â€œWhen I walk a lot,” said Lieberman.
    â€œYou walk a lot?”
    â€œI walk,” said Lieberman.
    â€œImpact’s no good for knees like that,” said Hartman, looking at Lieberman. “You don’t play volleyball, jog, basketball, things like that?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œGood, but you’ll probably need an operation,” said Hartman, swiveling again to examine the x-rays.
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œWho knows,” said the doctor. “When it starts hurting, interfering with your walking. Ten years, possibly twenty. Maybe never if it doesn’t get bad enough and you don’t do a lot of impact.”
    â€œWhat else?”
    â€œBlood pressure is under control,” Hartman said, looking at the check list in front of him. “You take the Tenormin every morning, right?”
    â€œEvery morning,” agreed Lieberman.
    â€œLiver enzyme is still up there,” said Hartman. “You still come out positive for hepatitis. Liver’s a little large.”
    â€œI’ve had that for thirty years,” said Lieberman.
    â€œHave it till you die probably,” said Hartman. “You can’t give blood.”
    â€œCan I take it?” asked Lieberman.
    â€œDo you need it?” asked Hartman.
    â€œWhat else?”
    â€œLet’s see,” the doctor continued. “Bone spur in the little finger of the left hand. There on the next x-ray. Should have been taken care of when it happened.”
    â€œThat was 1969,” said Lieberman. “Broke it chasing a woman named—”
    â€œI’d leave it alone since you don’t seem to mind that you can’t bend the finger,” Hartman said, looking at the x-ray.
    â€œGo on,” said Lieberman.
    â€œHeart’s OK. Lungs OK. You do anything for