by Robin Cook
“Certainly I remember,” Jack said. “But I felt that the appearance of plague was unique enough to demand a unique response. Besides, I was curious.”
“Curious!” Bingham blurted out. He momentarily lost control. “That’s the lamest excuse for ignoring established policy I’ve heard in years.”
“Well, there was more,” Jack admitted. “Knowing the General was an AmeriCare hospital, I wanted to go over there and rub it in a little. I’m not fond of AmeriCare.”
“What in heaven’s name do you have against AmeriCare?” Bingham asked.
“It’s a personal thing,” Jack said.
“Would you care to elaborate?” Bingham asked.
“I’d rather not,” Jack said. “It’s a long story.”
“Suit yourself,” Bingham said irritably. “But I’m not going to tolerate your going over there flashing your medical examiner’s badge for some personal vendetta. That’s an egregious misuse of official authority.”
“I thought our mandate was to get involved in anything that could affect public health,” Jack said. “Certainly a case of plague falls under that rubric.”
“Indeed,” Bingham pronounced. “But you had already alerted the Commissioner of Health. She in turn alerted the City Board of Health, who immediately dispatched the chief epidemiologist. You had no business being over there, much less causing trouble.”
“What kind of trouble did I cause?” Jack asked.
“You managed to irritate hell out of both the administrator and the city epidemiologist,” Bingham roared. “Both of them were mad enough to lodge official complaints. The administrator called the mayor’s office, and the epidemiologist called the commissioner. Both of these public servants can be considered my bosses, and neither one of them was pleased, and both of them let me know about it.”
“I was just trying to be helpful,” Jack said innocently.
“Well, do me a favor and don’t try to be helpful,” Bingham snapped. “Instead I want you to stay around here where you belong and do the work you were hired to do. Calvin informed me that you have a lot of cases pending.”
“Is that it?” Jack asked when Bingham paused.
“For now,” Bingham said.
Jack got up and headed for the door.
“One last thing,” Bingham said. “Remember that you are on probation for the first year.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Jack said.
Leaving Bingham’s office, Jack passed Mrs. Sanford and went directly across to Calvin Washington’s office. The door was ajar. Calvin was busy at his microscope.
“Excuse me,” Jack called out. “I understand you were looking for me.”
Calvin turned around and eyed Jack. “Have you been in to see the chief yet?” he growled.
“Just came from there,” Jack said. “It’s reassuring to be in such demand around here.”
“Dispense with your smartass talk,” Calvin said. “What did Dr. Bingham say?”
Jack told Calvin what had been said and that Bingham had concluded by reminding him that he was on probation.
“Damn straight,” Calvin said. “I think you’d better shape up or you’ll be out looking for work.”
“Meanwhile I have one request,” Jack said.
“What is it?” Calvin asked.
“How about that ten dollars you owe me,” Jack said.
Calvin stared back at Jack, amazed that under the circumstances Jack had the gall to ask for the money. Finally Calvin rolled to the side in his seat, withdrew his wallet, and pulled out a ten-dollar bill.
“I’ll get this back,” Calvin vowed.
“Sure you will,” Jack said as he took the bill.
With the money comfortably in his pocket, Jack returned upstairs to his office. As he entered he was surprised to find Laurie leaning against Chet’s desk. Both she and Chet looked at Jack with expectant concern.
“Well?” Chet questioned.
“Well what?” Jack asked. He squeezed by the others to plop down in his seat.
“Are you still employed?” Chet asked.
“Seems that way,” Jack said. He started going through the lab reports in his in-basket.
“You’d better be careful,” Laurie advised as she started for the door. “They can fire you at their pleasure during your first year.”
“So Bingham reminded me,” Jack said.
Pausing at the threshold, Laurie turned back to face Jack. “I almost got fired my first year,” she admitted.
Jack looked up at her. “How come?” he asked.
“It had to do with those challenging overdose cases I mentioned this morning,” Laurie said. “Unfortunately, while I followed up on them I got on the wrong side of Bingham.”
“Is that part of that long story you alluded to?” Jack asked.
“That’s the one,” Laurie said. “I came this close to being fired.” She held up her thumb and index finger about a quarter inch apart. “It was all because I didn’t take Bingham’s threats seriously. Don’t make the same mistake.”
As soon as Laurie had gone Chet wanted a verbatim recounting of everything Bingham had said. Jack related what he could remember, including the part about the mayor and the Commissioner of Health calling Bingham to complain about him.
“The complaints were about you specifically?” Chet asked.
“Apparently,” Jack said. “And here I was being the Good Samaritan.”
“What in God’s name did you do?” Chet asked.
“I was just being my usual diplomatic self,” Jack said. “Asking questions and offering suggestions.”
“You’re crazy,” Chet said. “You almost got yourself fired for what? I mean, what were you trying to prove?”
“I wasn’t trying to prove anything,” Jack said.
“I don’t understand you,” Chet said.
“That seems to be a universal opinion,” Jack said.
“All I know about you is that you were an ophthalmologist in a former life and you live in Harlem to play street basketball. What else do you do?”
“That about sums it up,” Jack said. “Apart from working here, that is.”
“What do you do for fun?” Chet asked. “I mean, what kind of social life do you have? I don’t mean to pry, but do you have a girlfriend?”
“No, not really,” Jack said.
“Are you gay?”
“Nope. I’ve just sorta been out of commission for a while.”
“Well, no wonder you’re acting so weird. I tell you what. We’re going out tonight. We’ll have some dinner, maybe have a few drinks. There’s a comfortable bar in the neighborhood where I live. It will give us time to talk.”
“I haven’t felt like talking much about myself,” Jack said.
“All right, you don’t have to talk,” Chet said. “But we’re going out. I think you need some normal human contact.”
“What’s normal?” Jack questioned.
9
WEDNESDAY, 10:15 P.M., MARCH 20, 1996
Chet turned out to be extraordinarily resolute. No matter what Jack said, he insisted that they have dinner together. Finally Jack relented, and just before eight he’d ridden his bike across Central Park to meet Chet in an Italian restaurant on Second Avenue.
After dinner Chet had been equally insistent about Jack’s accompanying him for a few drinks. Feeling beholden to his officemate since Chet had insisted on paying for the dinner, Jack had gone along. Now, as they mounted the steps to the bar, Jack was having second thoughts. For the past several years he’d been in bed by ten and up by five. At ten-fifteen after a half bottle of wine, he was fading fast.
“I’m not sure I’m up for this,” Jack said.
“We’re already here,” Chet complained. “Come on in. We’ll just have one beer.”
Jack leaned back to look at the facade of the bar. He didn’t see a name. “What’s this place called?” he asked.
“The Auction House,” Chet said. “Get your ass in here.” He was h
olding open the door.
To Jack the interior looked vaguely like his grandmother’s living room back in Des Moines, Iowa, except for the mahogany bar itself. The furniture was an odd mishmash of Victorian, and the drapes were long and droopy. The high ceiling was brightly colored embossed tin.
“How about sitting here,” Chet suggested. He pointed toward a small table set in the window overlooking Eighty-ninth Street.
Jack complied. From where he was sitting Jack had a good view of the room, which he now noted had a high-gloss hardwood floor, not the usual for a bar. There were about fifty people in the room either standing at the bar or sitting on the couches. They were all well dressed and appeared professional. There was not one backward baseball cap in the group. The mix was about even between male and female.
Jack mused that perhaps Chet had been right to have encouraged him to come out. Jack had not been in such a “normal” social environment in several years. Maybe it was good for him. Having become a loner carried its burdens. He wondered what these attractive people were saying to one another as their easy conversations drifted back to him in a babble of voices. The problem was he had zero confidence he could add to any of the discussions.
Jack’s eyes wandered to Chet, who was at the bar, supposedly getting them each a beer. Actually he was in a conversation with a well-endowed, long-haired blonde in a stylish sweatshirt over tight jeans. Accompanying her was a svelte woman in a revealingly simple dark suit. She was not participating in the conversation, preferring to concentrate on her glass of wine.
Jack envied Chet’s outgoing personality and the ease with which he indulged in social intercourse. During dinner he’d spoken of himself with utter ease. Among the things Jack learned was that Chet had recently broken off a long-term relationship with a pediatrician and hence was what he called “in between” and available.
While Jack was eyeing his officemate, Chet turned toward him.
Almost simultaneously the two women did the same, and then they all laughed. Jack felt his face flush. They were obviously talking about him.
Chet broke away from the bar and headed in Jack’s direction. Jack wondered if he should flee or merely dig his fingernails into the tabletop. It was obvious what was coming.
“Hey, sport,” Chet whispered. He purposefully positioned himself directly between Jack and the women. “See those two chicks at the bar?” He pointed into his own abdomen to shield the gesture from his new acquaintances. “What do you think? Pretty good, huh? They’re both knockouts and guess what? They want to meet you.”
“Chet, this has been fun, but…” Jack began.
“Don’t even think about it,” Chet said. “Don’t let me down now. I’m after the one in the sweatshirt.”
Sensing that resistance would have required considerably more energy than capitulation, Jack allowed himself to be dragged to the bar. Chet made the introductions.
Jack could immediately see what Chet saw in Colleen. She was Chet’s equal in terms of blithe repartee. Terese, on the other hand, was a foil for them both. After the introductions, she’d given Jack a once-over with her pale blue eyes before turning back to the bar and her glass of wine.
Chet and Colleen fell into spirited conversation. Jack looked at the back of Terese’s head and wondered what the hell he was doing. He wanted to be home in bed, and instead he was being abused by someone as unsociable as himself.
“Chet,” Jack called out after a few minutes. “This is a waste of time.”
Terese spun around. “Waste of time? For whom?”
“For me,” Jack said. He gazed curiously at the rawboned yet sensuously lipped woman standing in front of him. He was taken aback by her vehemence.
“What about for me?” Terese snapped. “Do you think it’s a rewarding experience to be pestered by men on the prowl?”
“Wait just one tiny second!” Jack said, with his own ire rising. “Don’t flatter yourself. I ain’t on the prowl. You can be damn sure about that. And if I were I sure wouldn’t…”
“Hey, Jack,” Chet called out. “Cool it.”
“You, too, Terese,” Colleen said. “Relax. We’re out here to enjoy ourselves.”
“I didn’t say boo to this lady and she’s jumping all over me,” Jack explained.
“You didn’t have to say anything,” Terese said.
“Calm down, you guys.” Chet stepped between Jack and Terese, but eyed Jack. “We’re out here for some normal contact with fellow human beings.”
“Actually, I think I should go home,” Terese said.
“You’re staying right here,” Colleen ordered. She turned to Chet. “She’s wound up like a piano wire. That’s why I insisted she come out: try to get her to relax. She’s consumed by her work.”
“Sounds like Jack here,” Chet said. “He has some definite antisocial tendencies.”
Chet and Colleen were talking as if Jack and Terese couldn’t hear, yet they were standing right next to them, staring off in different directions. Both were irritated but both felt foolish at the same time.
Chet and Colleen got a round of drinks and handed them out as they continued to talk about their respective friends.
“Jack’s social life revolves around living in a crack neighborhood and playing basketball with killers,” Chet said.
“At least he has a social life,” Colleen said. “Terese lives in a co-op with a bunch of octogenarians. Going to the garbage chute is the high point of a Sunday afternoon at home.”
Chet and Colleen laughed heartily, took long pulls on their respective beers, and then launched into a conversation about a play both of them had seen on Broadway.
Jack and Terese ventured a few fleeting looks at each other as they nursed their own drinks.
“Chet mentioned you were a doctor; are you a specialist?” Terese asked finally. Her tone had mellowed significantly.
Jack explained about forensic pathology. Overhearing this part of the conversation, Chet joined in.
“We’re in the presence of one of the future’s best and brightest. Jack here made the diagnosis of the day. Against everyone else’s impression, he diagnosed a case of plague.”
“Here in New York?” Colleen asked with alarm.
“At the Manhattan General,” Chet said.
“My God!” Terese exclaimed. “I was a patient there once. Plague is awfully rare, isn’t it?”
“Most definitely,” Jack said. “A few cases are reported each year in the U.S., but they usually occur in the wilds of the west and during the summer months.”
“Is it terribly contagious?” Colleen asked.
“It can be,” Jack said. “Especially in the pneumonic form which this patient had.”
“Are you worried about having gotten it?” Terese asked. Unconsciously she and Colleen had moved a step backward.
“No,” Jack said. “And even if we had, we wouldn’t be communicative until after we got pneumonia. So you don’t have to stand across the room from us.”
Feeling embarrassed, both women stepped closer. “Is there any chance this could turn into an epidemic here in the city?” Terese asked.
“If plague bacteria has infected the urban rodent population, particularly the rats, and if there are adequate rat fleas, it could develop into a problem in the ghetto areas of the city,” Jack said. “But chances are it would be self-limited.
The last real outbreak of plague in the U.S. occurred in 1919 and there were only twelve cases. And that was before the antibiotic era. I don’t anticipate there is going to be a current epidemic, especially since the Manhattan General is taking the episode extremely seriously.”
“I trust you contacted the media about this case of plague,” Terese said.
“Not me,” Jack said. “That’s not my job.”
“Shouldn’t the public be alerted?” Terese asked.
“I don’t think so,” Jack said. “By sensationalizing it, the media could make things worse. The mere mention of the word ‘plague’ can evoke p
anic, and panic would be counterproductive.”
“Maybe,” Terese said. “But I bet people would feel differently if there was a chance they could avoid coming down with plague if they were forewarned.”
“Well, the question is academic,” Jack said. “There’s no way that the media could avoid hearing about this. It’ll be all over the news. Trust me.”
“Let’s change the subject,” Chet said. “What about you guys? What do you do?”
“We’re art directors in a relatively large ad agency,” Colleen said. “At least I’m an art director. Terese was an art director. Now she’s part of the front office. She’s creative director.”
“Impressive,” Chet said.
“And in a strange way we’re currently tangentially involved with medicine,” she added.
“What do you mean you are involved with medicine?” Jack asked.
“One of our big accounts is National Health,” Terese said. “I imagine you’ve heard of them.”
“Unfortunately,” Jack said. His tone was flat.
“You have a problem with our working with them?” Terese asked.
“Probably,” Jack said.
“Can I ask why?”
“I’m against advertising in medicine,” Jack said. “Especially the kind of advertising these new health-care conglomerates are engaged in.”
“Why?” Terese asked.
“First of all, the ads have no legitimate function except to increase profits by expanding enrollment. They’re nothing but exaggerations, half-truths, or the hyping of superficial amenities. They have nothing to do with the quality of health care. Secondly, the advertising costs a ton of money, and it’s being lumped into administrative costs. That’s the real crime: It’s taking money away from patient care.”
“Are you finished?” Terese asked.
“I could probably think up some more reasons if I gave it some thought,” Jack said.
“I happen to disagree with you,” Terese said with a fervor that matched Jack’s. “I think all advertising draws distinctions and fosters a competitive environment which ultimately benefits the consumer.”