Free Nerve Damage by Peter Abrahams

through the business section—where sometimes there were stories from the art world, but not in this one—and moved on to the sports. But just before the sports came a page of obituaries. He scanned it, looking for Richard Gold’s byline. And Richard Gold’s name was there, although not as a byline, instead in a context that made him feel very strange.
    RICHARD GOLD, TIMES REPORTER, 41
    by Myra Burns
    RICHARD GOLD, who won several important awards during a fifteen-year tenure at the New York Times, died yesterday at the age of forty-one. He was killed during a robbery at his house innorthwest Washington, according to Sergeant Irwin Bettis of the violent crime unit of the Metropolitan D.C. police. “This is a terrible loss for the Times family,” said managing editor—
    â€œRoy?”
    Roy looked up. A nurse stood before him. “All set to go,” she said.

Eight
    â€œI’m Netty,” said the nurse. “No sense asking which arm—what happened?”
    â€œHockey,” Roy said.
    â€œMy, my.”
    He rolled up his right sleeve.
    â€œWhat a nice vein,” Netty said.
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œMight feel a little sting.” She stuck in the IV needle. Roy felt nothing. Vitamins flowed into him. She watched the IV bag. “Where you from, Roy?”
    â€œVermont.”
    â€œSupposed to be beautiful.”
    â€œYeah.”
    Their eyes met. The nurse was middle-aged, heavy, with a soft, tired face. “Dr. Chu’s a brilliant man,” she said.
    It took ten minutes. Roy went back to the waiting room, feeling pretty good. Was it possible that the vitamins were doing their work already? He breathed, deep breaths, the first real breaths he’d taken in a while.
    Roy put on his coat, moved toward the chair where he’d left Section D of the Times . But at that moment the door to the hall opened and aman in a wheelchair came through, pushed by another nurse. The man had an oxygen tube in his nose. Judging from his hair, slightly gray at the temples, he might have been Roy’s age, but the rest of him was skeletal. Skin the color of cold ashes, except for raw unhealed sores here and there; eyes dull; neck scrawny: and shivering, although he was covered with a blanket.
    Was he in the study? Roy didn’t want to be anywhere near the man in the wheelchair. He left Section D of the Times where it was and hurried out of Dr. Chu’s office.
    Â 
    Roy checked into a hotel, went down to the bar and ordered dinner: chowder, T-bone steak, roast potatoes, Caesar salad, a glass of heavy ale, and then another, plus pecan pie with ice cream for dessert. A big dinner: but Roy had always had a big appetite, had often polished off meals like this, after a day on snowshoes, for example. This time the chowder would have been enough. Roy forced the rest down.
    â€œI like to see a man eat,” the bartender said. “Here on business?”
    Roy nodded.
    â€œWhat do you do, don’t mind my asking?” she said.
    Roy gave his usual answer for situations like this. “I’m in metals,” he said.
    â€œLike gold?” said the bartender.
    He got that a lot. “Scrap,” he said.
    â€œOh.” She moved away; the usual reaction, except for the odd man who asked if there was any money in it. Roy kept eating. After a while, she said, “Mind the TV?”
    Roy didn’t mind. The bartender turned on the TV.
    Local news. A reporter stood in front of a small white house on a tree-lined street, Georgetown, maybe, or Chevy Chase.
    â€œâ€¦still no suspects in the murder of D.C.-based New York Times reporter Richard Gold, who died of blunt force trauma to the head.”
    A photo of Gold appeared: bald, fine features, thin lips. He was reaching for a phone.
    â€œRobbery is the probable motive, according to investigators. Mr. Gold’s wallet is missing, as well as a flat-screen TV and other valuables. Anyone with information is