Okay, let's see.' He pulled a small card laminated
in plastic from his breast pocket. 'Well, that's not too bad. I'm going to write
you a prescrip for some highly illegal diet pills.
Use them sparingly and according to directions. And
I'm going to set your
maximum weight at. . . let's see . .
He consulted the card again. 'One eighty-two, how does that sound? And since this is December first, I'll expect you the first of
every month for a weigh-in. No problem if you can't make it, as long as you call in advance.' 'And what happens if I go over one-eighty-two?'
Donatti smiled. 'We'll send someone out to your house to cut off your wife's little finger,' he said. 'You can leave through this door, Mr Morrison. Have a nice day.'
Eight months later: Morrison runs into the crony from the Larkin Studios at Dempsey's bar. Morrison is down to what Cindy proudly calls his
fighting weight: one sixty-seven. He works out three times a week and looks as fit as whip cord. The crony from Larkin, by comparison, looks like something the cat dragged in.
Crony: Lord, how'd you ever stop? I'm locked into this damn habit tighter than Tillie. The crony stubs his cigarette out with real revulsion and drains his scotch.
Morrison looks at him speculatively and then takes a small white business card out of his wallet. He puts it on the bar between them. You know, he says, these guys changed my life. Twelve months later: