Free A Night at the Operation by JEFFREY COHEN

comedies; I know,” Tovarich said. “I haven’t been yet, but I’ve been meaning to go. I love the classics, but mostly the serious stuff: Bergman, Fellini, von Stroheim. People like that.”
    I was amazed. It’s rare that I don’t have to defend my business upon meeting someone new (“You do what ?”), and I almost always have to at least explain it. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Tovarich. You live around here?”
    “East Brunswick,” he said. “Close enough that I see your ads, but not so close that I can just walk in without thinking about it first. Sorry about that.”
    “You should try it,” I said. “You seem like you could appreciate a classic comedy.”
    “Perhaps I will,” Tovarich said.
    “I’m flattered you even know about the theatre. Which doctor do you see here, Mr. Tovarich?” If he was waiting for Sharon, I figured to tell him he had a long stretch in front of him.
    “Oh, I’m not a patient,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m here on business.”
    “Insurance business?”
    “Yeah. One of their patients . . . passed away a couple of days ago. I’m looking into it from an insurance point of view.”
    Oops.
    “Really?” I said. So it wasn’t original. Maybe he didn’t mean Chapman. Did insurance companies investigate medical practices for suicides? Maybe they did, if malpractice was considered a cause. I must have looked worried.
    “Are you a patient here, Mr. Freed?” he asked.
    Well, that left me with a dilemma. I was a patient here, but I was also the ex-husband of the doctor he was presumably investigating. On the one hand, I’d just as soon not incriminate Sharon, but then, I’d rather not withhold information, either.
    “I have been,” I said.
    Tovarich looked me up and down, assessing. “Of course. Freed. You’re the doctor’s ex-husband.”
    My dilemma was no longer relevant.
    I realized that the insurance company would have had my name, and so admitted to my identity, but I kept stealing glances at the door in the hope that Toni Westphal and Grace would finish their conference and let me in. No such luck.
    Then, Tovarich said the absolute last thing I would have expected. “Your ex-wife is a fine doctor, Mr. Freed.”
    My eyebrows probably circled my head a couple of times: Everybody seemed to think Sharon was somehow at fault in the Chapman situation, and yet, the deceased’s insurance company, which would seem to be the party that would most want to hang the blame on her, was singing her praises.
    So the hesitation on my part was understandable, if unfortunate. Before I could respond, Tovarich said, “Is that the men’s room?” and got up to excuse himself faster than I would have thought he could move. I guess when you’re seventy, you don’t argue with your digestive system.
    I was not alone long, though, because the front door had already opened to admit a woman in her early forties, wearing all black, into the waiting room.
    She and Betty spoke in tones I couldn’t pick up for a minute or so, and then I heard Betty tell the woman that she could speak to Dr. Westphal as soon as the doctor emerged from the private office in the back. The Woman in Black protested for a moment, in a slightly more aggravated voice, but eventually sat down two chairs from where I was seated.
    I smiled my best conspiratorial smile at her and said, “I think we should make them wait once in a while. Go in there and read a magazine when they come in, and then tell them to hang on until we finish the crossword puzzle.”
    The woman gave me a less-than-enthralled look.
    Undaunted—even though I should have been—I went on. “Maybe there should be a waiting room for doctors,” I tried. “We could make them wear a paper gown with their butts hanging out and then call them in for an examination.”
    There are sculpture exhibits that react more dramatically. Tovarich had gotten me into a conversation with less material than this.
    I reverted to my junior high school personality,