by Max Brand
That day the great Henry Fearson stopped Jimmy in a corridor and gripped him by the shoulder and said, “You’ve got it, Kildare!”
Jimmy shrugged and hooked a thumb. “That back there? That was just luck,” he said.
But Fearson answered: “Surgery is like tennis. There’s no luck except bad luck.”
Afterward, Jimmy Kildare went to his bare concrete cell and sat for a long time looking at the wall until the wall opened and showed him a brief glimpse of heaven. Then he said: “Henry Fearson — by God!” and a great promise began to live along his blood stream.
Then the trouble started at McGuire’s saloon.
The bartender was named Jeff. He had only one eye. Sometimes he wore a leather patch over it; sometimes he wore a watery glass eye that didn’t fit. He was, Kildare gathered, a real force in the precinct because he knew by first name practically every voter in the district. This fellow Jeff never looked at Jimmy Kildare. He always had his one eye fixed on the habitués of the place, for McGuire’s saloon had long ago ceased being a money-maker. It was merely a political nerve center vital to McGuire’s power in the town.
One day a man in a blue suit and green necktie came into McGuire’s saloon when Jimmy Kildare was having his beer. He was a big young man with a blunt, rather fleshy face, like a prize fighter out of training. He said, “H’are ya, Jeff? Give me a drink, will you?”
Then he dropped to the floor, with his arms thrown wide. The sleeve pulled up from the right arm and showed Kildare that the forearm was cut clean across, well above the wrist.
Jeff, the bartender, put a hand on the bar and leaped over it. He dropped on his knees and began to cry out: “Hanlon! Hey, Hanlon!”
Jimmy Kildare got out of the saloon and went back to the hospital. An interne who takes supplies out of the hospital is — well, he is a thousand times worse than a burglar, because he is trusted. But Jimmy Kildare took supplies from the hospital. He kept thinking of that young, rather fleshy face, battered, but somehow honest. Not honest enough, of course, or else he would have taken that gaping wound straight to a doctor.
Yet he might not be a criminal who dreaded having a doctor report his case to the police. There were many stories in the precinct of men who died silently, refusing to name their assailants to the officers of the law, and all of those who died in that manner were not thugs. It merely seemed that in McGuire’s following and among his enemies there were men who lived according to a new standard of morality about which Kildare knew nothing. And he determined to put from his mind all thought of the letter of the law, remembering only that great silent oath which dwells in the soul of every good doctor — that promise to relieve the suffering ones of this world.
He took from the hospital retractors, sutures, needles, iodine. He went back to McGuire’s and found the door locked.
He banged heavily on that door until Jeff looked out at him and said: “What do you want? Get out of here!”
Kildare said: “Unless those cut tendons are sewed together properly, Hanlon won’t have a right arm. The forearm will shorten. The hand will turn in. There won’t be any power in it.”
“Hell!” said Jeff, looking down at him. Then he said: “All right! All right!” He reached out, grabbed Kildare by the shoulder and dragged him into the family room of the saloon.
Somebody said, “He’s dead!”
Hanlon lay on two tables that had been put side by side. His feet hung over the end of one table.
Kildare said, “Get out of my way.” A big man barred him, arms spread wide. Kildare kicked him violently in the shins. The fellow howled and hopped away on one foot. Kildare shoved his hand over Hanlon’s heart and heard Jeff say: “Cut it out. This is a kind of a doc. They got them over in the hospital like this. Maybe he knows something.”
Kildare said: “He’s only fainted. Be useful, some of you.” He began to unwrap the towel, exposing the instruments.
“He’s come and brought the stuff,” said Jeff. “Who would of thought!”
Kildare began with iodine. Then he made two men hold Hanlon’s right arm. They had put a clumsy tourniquet above the elbow. Kildare got to work on the tendons. He made Jeff and another man hold the retractors that kept the wound gaping for his convenience.
Jeff said, “It makes me kind of sick.”
The other man said: “Watch what he’s doing, you dumb cluck! The kid’s got eyes in his fingers. Watch what they do!”
Kildare put the tendons together one by one, matching the ends with care, and then securing them with mattress stitches, using threads of black silk. You could see the zigzag pattern of the little threads against the cordage of the tendons, all frayed at the cut ends.
Someone said, “Who did it?”
Another man said: “Who do you think, dummy? Dennis Innis, of course.”
“He’ll get Innis yet,” said another.
“He ain’t gunna have no gun hand to get Innis,” said the first speaker. “There won’t be no brains in that right hand of his, even when this slick job is finished. The wits is cut out of it.”
Kildare told himself that he must not think of the meaning behind that right hand. He kept on matching the severed ends of the tendons and making the stitches. Then Hanlon wakened from his trance and began to curse and struggle.
Jeff said: “You damn fool, this doc is saving your hand. Shut up, will you!”
Hanlon shut up. Suddenly he extended his limp right arm toward Kildare. “Okay,” he said, and kept his muscles flaccid. Only the loudness of his breathing told of his pain.
When the wound was closed and Kildare stepped back from his work, Hanlon sat up. Jeff and another man — he who had worked with the retractors — were rubbing the blood from Kildare’s hands with painful care. He surrendered his hands to them like tools of infinite value in the trust of friends. A warmth flowed like strong drink through his brain.
Hanlon stared at Kildare, saying, “Who are you?”
“Oh, go to hell!” said Jeff. “This is Doctor Kildare. He’s a right guy. Oh, go to hell, will you!”
Hanlon smiled. “Sure,” he said. “Sure I’ll go.” And he looked down at his right hand, which rested on one knee.
For two days Jimmy Kildare did not return to McGuire’s. Then habit picked him up and shoved him through the front door. There were four men standing at the bar and Jeff, the bartender, was singing an Irish melody in a husky voice. Two or three of the others kept him company. Jeff broke off in the middle of the song. He went to the end of the bar where Kildare stood and focused on the doctor the blue-gray light of his one eye, warmer, suddenly, than sunshine.
“I thought you was passing us up lately, Doc,” said Jeff. “What you having? The same?”
“The same,” said Kildare.
The four faces turned and stared.
Jeff was filling the tall glass with beer. He said, to the beer: “Yeah. Okay. It’s him.”
Nobody looked at Kildare any more. They looked, instead, at his image in the mirror behind the bar. Kildare felt their eyes more than ever.
“Go hop on the phone,” said Jeff.
Someone left the room. There was silence as Jeff brought the beer to Kildare.
Kildare tasted it. “This seems better than usual, Jeff,” he said. He never had used Jeff’s name before.
“Yeah, and why the hell wouldn’t it be better?” said Jeff. “Beer comes that way. Good and bad. You know, Doc.”
One of the men sauntered toward Kildare and said: “I’d like to meet you, Doc. I’m—”
“You back up,” said Jeff. “Who d’you wanta meet, anyway?”
The man stopped short and turned away, unoffended. He said: “Okay! Okay!” and went back to his place.
When Kildare had finished his glass of beer, he put the money for it on the bar. “Well, so long,” he said. “So long, Jeff.”
Jeff shoved the money back toward Kildare. “What’s that for?” he demanded, with a fierce light in his one eye. “Now listen, will you? Quit it
, will you?... And where’s your second beer, anyway?”
Kildare felt giddy. “Why, yes, a second one, please,” he said.
The glass was filled for him. Jeff was scowling bitterly. He shoved the second beer onto the bar with a savage shortness of gesture, disdaining the money with a touch of his hand. But Kildare let the silver lie there.
The door creaked open behind him. “Hello, Jeff,” said the newcomer, behind Kildare’s back.
Jeff, in place of answering, wagged his head toward Kildare.
A big red-faced man with a whisky pungency about him stood beside Kildare at the bar. He wheezed a little as he spoke. His voice was husky but warm.
“I’m McGuire,” he said. “Pleased to know you, Doctor Kildare. Damn pleased. Like to know more of you out of the same keg. What’re you having, Doctor? Don’t mean to say you stick to beer, do you?”
“He’s gotta work. You know,” said Jeff.
“Yeah, sure. Sure,” said McGuire. “This is a pleasure, Doctor Kildare. By the way, a friend of yours asked me to give you a letter. He wants you to open it when you get back home... Make mine small, Jeff. Make it right but make it small. Boys, have something with me!”
The envelope was stuffy and soft and fat. Jimmy Kildare went back to his concrete cell in the hospital and opened it in private. He counted twenty fifty-dollar bills.
He sat down on the edge of his bed. A man doesn’t have to space out and span out a thousand dollars. It does for itself. And it meant release from prison to Kildare.
FOR two days Kildare fought himself with all the appetites of his years closing his throat. Then he went back to McGuire’s saloon.
Jeff looked at him with brotherly fondness and served him two beers. Kildare put his money on the bar, and Jeff took it, saying: “You don’t need to do that, Doc. But thanks, anyhow.”
Then Kildare pushed the envelope across the table. It was resealed, but rumpled and finger-soiled. “This is for Mr. McGuire,” he said, and went out.
Afterward, he felt empty but he felt stronger, too. Like a man in training for a fight, fasting before the encounter.
He went right back to McGuire’s saloon the next day, and there he found McGuire himself at the bar in a brilliant checked suit. He looked at Kildare with trouble in his eye.
“Now, listen, kid — Doc, I mean,” said McGuire, without prelude. “What the hell? I mean, I got the double of that in my pocket.”
Kildare blushed as he answered: “You see, I’m an interne. Internes can’t take anything for their work. It’s against the rules. If an interne could take anything, people in the wards would bribe him to get the extra attention.”
“Wards? Who’s talking about wards?” demanded McGuire. “Hell, I’m talking about a job in my saloon.”
“I’ve never done any jobs outside the hospital,” said Kildare, getting redder than ever. “It’s not allowed.”
“You never did a job in this saloon?” demanded McGuire, with anger.
“No,” said Kildare. “I never did anything here.”
“My God!” said McGuire. He added, “Gimme a drink, Jeff.”
But Jeff remained frozen for a long moment. Only by degrees was he able to thaw out and get into action. Kildare finished his beer and hurried back to the concrete cell, the smell of carbolic acid and the empty loop of the question mark which embraced his future.
IF you work very hard, one day rubs out the other. Kildare worked very hard and for a long time gave up beer and McGuire’s, until a telephone call summoned him, weeks later. He went over to McGuire’s place and found Pat Hanlon at the bar.
“All right, you two,” said Jeff, spreading his hands on the bar like a benevolent father. Hanlon went to Kildare and took his hand. He held it for a long time, while his eyes went over Kildare.
“They certainly take it out of you guys at the hospital,” said Hanlon.
“That’s just the game,” said Kildare.
“Who wants to play a game where he’s always ‘it’?” asked Hanlon. “Listen, Doc. Have a drink with me, will you?”
Jeff whispered, leaning across the bar: “What’s it going to be, Doc?”
Kildare said shortly, “I pay for my own, in here.”
“Come on. Aw, quit it,” said Jeff.
Hanlon said, “You’ll have something with me, brother.”
“I don’t drink,” said Kildare, “unless I can pay for it.” A blind anger took hold of him. He was staring at the perfection of Hanlon’s clothes.
“Aw, quit it!” said Jeff. “Listen, Hanlon, the kid don’t mean it. He don’t mean anything; he just don’t know.”
“The hell he don’t!” said Hanlon, and turned his back suddenly on Kildare. He took three steps.
“Are you gunna be a damn fool, Hanlon?” asked Jeff, perspiring with anxiety.
“No,” answered Hanlon. He turned to Kildare again. “Why be so damn mean?” he asked. “Look!”
He held out his right hand. He worked the fingers back and forth.
“It’s okay, see?” he said. “I been to see a doc. He said what you done was a masterpiece. He said nobody could of done better. Look — there ain’t any scar even, hardly. Now, why be high-hat with me? You could have my guts.”
Jeff interpreted across the bar: “You hear, Doc? You could have everything he’s got. Say something to him.”
Kildare said: “I can’t have anything to do with you. That goes for the whole bunch. I like you all right. When I can help out any of you, I want to do it as long as you don’t ask me to take care of a crook.”
“Hanlon ain’t a crook!” cried Jeff. “He’s the right-hand man of McGuire, Doc. Hanlon’s all right.”
“I’m glad he is,” said Kildare. “But over there at the hospital they watch us all the time. I’m only an interne. I like you all fine. I can’t know you!”
Hanlon’s eyes dwelt on the middle section of Kildare’s body. “All right,” he said.
Jeff again leaned over the bar. “Does that go for me, kid?” he asked.
“Ah — I don’t know. I’m going back to the hospital,” said Kildare.
“Am I a thug?” asked Hanlon.
“I don’t know,” said Kildare.
“Hanlon!” shouted Jeff.
Hanlon straightened with a quick jerk. “All right,” he said, still making that cold survey of Kildare’s anatomy.
Kildare got to the door before Jeff said, “Doc, for God’s sake!”
Kildare paused. He could feel Hanlon like a levelled gun behind him.
“Listen, Doc,” said Jeff. “Hanlon has a wife.”
“That’s all out,” said Hanlon. “Quit it.”
“Oh, shut your face, will you, Pat?” demanded Jeff. “His wife’s going to have a baby soon, and there’s no doc he can get. Income tax. Hanlon’s all right. But income tax. They want him. And they’ve got the girl watched. They’re waiting for him to go back to her. Understand? He’s gotta get her a doctor he can trust. Listen, Doc, will you take care of her?”
Kildare said, “Well, Hanlon, why didn’t you tell me?”
So Kildare went. It was a nice little apartment all done up in French-gray. Everything was simple. A new Pat Hanlon entered the world.
Kildare remained by the bed until the effects of the ether wore away from the mother. She kept saying, “Is it a boy, Doctor?”
“Yes,” he would answer, and her eyes would shine at him, only to grow dim again from the effect of the drug.
Then the baby began to cry, and the sound drew the girl back to full consciousness. She held the baby in the hollow of her arm and crooned over it.
Kildare went back to McGuire’s, where Pat Hanlon sat in the back room with his head bowed into his hands. He lifted his head and glared at Kildare.
“It’s all right,” said Kildare. “Your wife is a sweetheart, Hanlon. And now she’s got a fine son to keep her company.”
Said Hanlon, “And how’s my girl, Doc?”
Kildare gripped his two hands hard to
gether. He said, “She’s the happiest soul in New York, right now. She wants me to tell you that she loves you.”
Hanlon flung a sheaf of bills on the table. “Will you for God’s sake take some of it?” he pleaded.
“No,” said Kildare.
“Do you despise me that much, Doc?”
Kildare patted the big shoulder. “I don’t hate you, Hanlon,” he said. “But I’m an interne. I can’t take money.”
But Kildare’s nerves were still shaking when he got back to the hospital, for perhaps the world did not need any more Pat Hanlons. He sat on his bed after he had made his rounds and looked at the tremor of his hands.
Doctor Henry Fearson had passed Kildare in a corridor, and he had stopped to greet his idol. “How’s everything, Doctor Fearson?”
“Everything? Things never are right except in patches,” said Fearson, and went on.
But the dark of the underworld still clung to Kildare as he sat there. His roommate came in and said: “Only three months before we get out of this lousy hole. Where do you hitch up after that?”
Kildare lifted his head. “Fearson says he wants me in his office,” he remarked.
“Fearson? That’s a hell of an out for you, brother. Don’t you know that?”
Kildare said deliberately, “He’s the finest man and the best doctor I know.”
“Oh, yeah, oh, yeah! We all know that. But he owes money that he shouldn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know, but they’ve got him.”
“Why?”
“Something about money. We all know Fearson is a saint, but even saints can be framed. Fearson is framed. They’re going to cut his head off. He can go work on a farm in about a month!”
And Kildare thought again of the farm on the autumn morning. He thought of the lofty intellectual brow of Fearson, and that gaunt boy in overalls. He kept on thinking, and the next afternoon he needed his beer.