Free The Bleeding Man by Craig Strete Page B

tight, angry line.
    "No, it's not
enough—" started Dr. Santell. "You cant—
    "The subject is
closed!" she shouted.
    There was an
uneasy silence.
    Miss Dow broke it
by changing the subject. "What about his parents?" she asked.
    "Didn't you read
my report?"
    "It said they
committed suicide. It did not specify or go into any details. I have to know more than that. Your
report was supposed to be thorough. You didn't list your sources of information on his early
life, for one thing. I need to know—"
    "Ask Nahtari. He
can tell you everything," he said. He shrugged as if to say it was out of his hands.
    "Who?"
    "Nahtari. His
uncle. He comes every week to visit his nephew. Nahtari used to exhibit him at the carnival until
we discovered him and brought him here. If you'll turn to the financial report near the back, you
will see that we pay him a small gratuity for the privilege of studying his nephew. We pay him by
the week and he stops in to pick up his check and talk to his relative."
    "Did you say he
talks to his relative?"
    "Yeah. It's pretty
strange. Nahtari talks to Joe every week for an hour. I don't know if Joe understands any­thing
that is said to him or even if Nahtari cares if he understands. I've never heard Joe respond in
any way, not in the seven years I've been here."
    "When does this
Nahtari make his weekly visit?"
    "He's here now in
my office. He brings me a pint of whiskey every week. Makes it himself. You'd never be­lieve how
good—"
    Miss Dow hit the
dial-out button viciously, cutting him off in mid-sentence.
    She pushed open
the door to Dr. Santell's office. She hadn't bothered to knock. Dr. Santell had his feet propped
up on the edge of his desk. He held a drink in one hand and a deck of cards in the other. Across
the desk from him sat a gray-headed Indian dressed in faded blue jeans, cracked leather boots and
a tattered flannel shirt.
    "I'll see your
dime and raise you a dime," said Dr. Santell, slamming a dime onto the pile of change on the desk
between them.
    "Are you Nahtari?"
demanded Miss Dow, coming into the room. The two studiously ignored her.
    "It depends," said
the old Indian, not looking up from his cards. "I'll meet your dime and raise you a
quarter."
    Dr. Santell bit
his lip. "You're bluffing! I know you don't have that other ace!"
    Miss Dow marched
up to the desk, snatched the cards out of Dr. Santell's hands.
    Dr. Santell
pounded his desk in anger. "Stupid bitch! I had him beat!" He tried to collect the torn cards in
his lap.
    "Is she some kind
of nut?" asked Nahtari, holding his cards out of harm's way.
    Dr. Santell dumped
the torn pieces of cards on the top of the desk and sighed. "Yeah. A government nut. She's in
charge of Joe now."
    Nahtari scowled
and laid his cards face up on the desk. "And that means she wants to ask me about my
relative."
    "It certainly
does," said Miss Dow. "Would you like to come to my office?"
    Nahtari shrugged.
There seemed to be no way to avoid it.
    "You are owing me
twelve dollars," he said to Dr. Santell as he rose to leave the room.
    "Don't I always,"
growled Dr. Santell, staring at the ace that Nahtari had had after all.
     
    "Sit down,
Nahtari. This may take a while. I have a great many questions I want to ask you." She put a new
cartridge in her tape machine and turned it on.
    "If Dr. Santell
had taken down all facts from before when I tell him I would not having to be saying again," said
Nahtari. "I get tired of telling the story and having no one taking down so I don't have to do
all over again."
    Miss Dow patted
the tape machine. "Don't worry about it," she assured him. "This recorder will make a permanent
record of everything you say. I guarantee you won't have to tell it again."
    "You going to
listen and take down no matter what?"
    "Every word," she
replied.
    She started to ask
a question but Nahtari held up his hand. "Let me tell whole story," said Nahtari. "It will be a
saving of time and you