Catch Me If You Can Page 0,29

phony identification with which I had supplied myself was in that name. I paused at the space for occupation. I wanted to put down "airline pilot," for I knew that the uniform would attract girls like a buck rub lures a doe. But if I did that I'd have to specify Pan Am as my employer, and that made me wary. Maybe, just maybe, someone in the manager's office might check with Pan Am.

On impulse, nothing more, I put down "medical doctor" as my occupation. I left the spaces for relatives and references blank and, hopeful it would distract attention from the questions I'd ignored, I said I'd like to pay six months' rent in advance. I put twenty-four $100 bills on top of the application.

The assistant manager who accepted the application, a woman, was inquisitive. "You're a doctor?" she asked, as if doctors were as rare as whooping cranes. "What type of doctor are you?"

I thought I'd better be the kind of doctor that would never be needed around River Bend. "I'm a pediatrician," I lied. "However, I'm not practicing right now. My practice is in California, and I've taken a leave of absence for one year to audit some research projects at Emory and to make some investments."

"That's very interesting," she said, and then looked at the pile of $100 bills. She gathered them up briskly and dropped them into a steel cash box in the top drawer of her desk. "It'll be nice having you with us, Dr. Williams."

I moved in the same day. The one-bedroom pad wasn't overly large, but it was elegantly furnished, and there was ample room for the action I had in mind.

Life at River Bend was fascinating, delightful and satisfying, if sometimes frenetic. There was a party in someone's pad almost every night, and side action all over the place. I was generally invited to be a part of the scene, whatever it was. The other tenants accepted me quickly, and save for casual inquiries, easily handled, made no effort to pry into my personal life or affairs. They called me "Doc," and of course there were those few who don't differentiate between doctors. This guy had a complaint about his foot. That one had mysterious pains in his stomach. There was a brunette who had an "odd, tight feeling" around her upper chest.

"I'm a pediatrician, a baby doctor. You want a podiatrist, a foot doctor," I told the first man.

"I'm not licensed to practice in Georgia. I suggest you talk to your own doctor," I told the other one.

I examined the brunette. Her brassiere was too small.

No sea offers calm sailing all the time, however, and one Saturday afternoon I encountered a squall that quickly built into a tragicomic hurricane.

I answered a knock on my door to face a tall, distinguished-looking man in his middle fifties, casually attired but still managing to appear impeccably groomed. He had a smile on his pleasant features and a drink in his hand.

"Dr. Williams?" he said, and assuming he was correct, proceeded to the point. "I'm Dr. Willis Granger, chief resident pediatrician of Smithers Pediatric Institute and General Hospital in Marietta."

I was too stunned to reply and he went on with a grin, "I'm your new neighbor. Just moved in yesterday, right below you. The assistant manager, Mrs. Prell, told me you were a pediatrician. I couldn't help but come up and introduce myself to a colleague. I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

"Uh, no-no, not at all, Dr. Granger. Come in," I said, hoping he'd refuse. He didn't. He walked in and settled on my sofa.

"Where'd you go to school, here?" he asked. It was a normal question for doctors meeting, I suppose.

I knew only one college that had a school of medicine. " Columbia University in New York," I said, and prayed he wasn't an alumnus.

He nodded. "A great school. Where'd you serve your internship?"

Internship. That was done in a hospital, I knew. I'd never been in a hospital. I'd passed a lot of them, but the name of only one stuck in my mind. I hoped it was the kind of hospital that had interns. " Harbor Childrens Hospital in Los Angeles," I said and waited.

"Hey, terrific," he said, and much to my relief dropped the personal line of probing.

"You know, Smithers is a new facility. I've just been appointed to head up the pediatrics staff. It'll be a seven-story hospital when it's finished, but we've got only six floors open at the