The Godfather

 “The Godfather” By Mario Puzo
 
312
It was almost fifteen minutes before Jules Segal came into the suite. Johnny noted with 
irritation that this guy never looked like a doctor. Tonight he was wearing a blue 
loose-knit polo shirt with white trim, some sort of white suede shoes and no socks. He 
looked funny as hell carrying the traditional black doctor’s bag. 
Johnny said, “You oughta figure out a way to carry your stuff in a cut-down golf bag.” 
Jules grinned understandingly, “Yeah, this medical school carryall is a real drag. Scares 
the hell out of people. They should change the color anyway.” 
He went over to where Nino was lying in bed. As he opened his bag he said to Johnny. 
“Thanks for that check you sent me as a consultant. It was excessive. I didn’t do that 
much.” 
“Like hell you didn’t,” Johnny said. “Anyway, forget that, that was a long time ago. 
What’s with Nino?” 
Jules was making a quick examination of heartbeat, pulse and blood pressure. He took 
a needle out of his bag and shoved it casually into Nino’s arm and pressed the plunger. 
Nino’s sleeping face lost its waxy paleness, color came into the cheeks, as if the blood 
had started pumping faster. 
“Very simple diagnosis,” Jules said briskly. “I had a chance to examine him and run 
some tests when he first came here and fainted. I had him moved to the hospital before 
he regained consciousness. He’s got diabetes, mild adult stabile, which is no problem if 
you take care of it with medication and diet and so forth. He insists on ignoring it. Also 
he is firmly determined to drink himself to death. His liver is going and his brain will go. 
Right now he’s in a mild diabetic coma. My advice is to have him put away.” 
Johnny felt a sense of relief. It couldn’t be too serious, all Nino had to do was take care 
of himself. “You mean in one of those joints where they dry you out?” Johnny asked. 
Jules went over to the bar in the far corner of the room and made himself a drink. “No,” 
he said. “I mean committed. You know, the crazy house.” 
“Don’t be funny,” Johnny said. 
“I’m not joking,” Jules said. “I’m not up on all the psychiatric jazz but I know something 
about it, part of my trade. Your friend Nino can be put back into fairly good shape unless 
the liver damage has gone too far, which we can’t know until an autopsy really. But the 
real disease is in his head. In essence he doesn’t care if he dies, maybe he even wants 
to kill himself. Until that is cured there’s so hope for him. That’s why I say, have him 

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