by D P Lyle
Now I had their attention. I told them Valerie’s story. Not giving her name, of course. That her body chemistry was all sideways. That she was also taking vitamins dispensed by the one and only Julian Morelli. That young Valerie had brushed fingertips with the grim reaper.
“Her heart stopped?” Nicole asked.
I nodded. “Had she lived a mile or so further from the hospital, she might not be alive.”
“You think Julian’s vitamins like caused that?” Ashley asked.
“I don’t know. We’re running some tests. I’d suggest that in the meantime you stop taking the pills.”
“I can’t do that,” Nicole said. “The wedding’s a week away. After that I’ll stop.”
“That might not be wise.”
“But you don’t know for sure?” Nicole asked.
I didn’t and I told her as much. Then I said, “I’d like to have the pills you’re taking analyzed so we’ll know exactly what they contain.”
“No problem,” Nicole said. Ashley nodded in agreement.
“I’d also like to draw blood from each of you.”
“Why?”
“To see what’s in your system. To see if you have any of the same abnormalities we saw in the young girl I told you about.”
“I’m not big on needles,” Nicole said. “I’ll give you some pills but not a blood test.”
“It could be important.”
She thought about it for a minute and then said, “I’ll make a deal with you. If the pills contain anything dangerous, I’ll let you draw blood.” Again, Ashley nodded in agreement.
Rather than arguing the point, I took a couple of pills from each of them and left.
“It truly pains me to say,” Divya said, “but I’m impressed. You’ve done an excellent job on this.”
“So you’re ready to admit that I was right?” Evan asked.
Divya had spent most of the afternoon updating patient files and preparing for the visits she had scheduled for the next day. Then forty-five minutes ago Evan blew in and immediately began spreading photographs and sketches over the kitchen table. He had obviously been back to Fleming’s Custom Shop and picked up some new drawings of his HankMed van. He had dragged Divya over to the table and gone over each in great detail.
“I’m not sure I’m quite ready to admit that you were right, but this is interesting,” Divya said.
“It’s more than interesting. It’s the future. With this, HankMed will become more full-service and more famous.”
She tapped a pencil on the tabletop and raised an eyebrow. “Famous? I’m not sure famous is what we’re after.”
Evan’s cell phone buzzed. He looked at the screen and punched the button, apparently sending the call over to voice mail. “I’ll get that later.” He looked back at her and smiled. “Come on, you know I’m right. You know this would be an asset for HankMed. Just admit it.”
“I’m not sure HankMed needs this and I definitely know we can’t afford it, but it does have some intriguing features.”
“Just say . . . ‘Evan R. Lawson is right.’”
“I don’t think so.”
“Humor me. Just this once.”
She tapped the pencil on the table again. “Okay. Evan R. Lawson is right.” She raised an eyebrow. “Happy now?”
“Ecstatic.”
He held up his cell phone and pushed a button. Evan R. Lawson is right, came from the speaker.
“You recorded me?”
Evan R. Lawson is right.
“Stop that.”
Evan R. Lawson is right.
“You can be so infuriating.”
“You’re just now figuring that out?” I said as I came through the door.
They both looked up.
“What has he done now?” I asked.
Evan R. Lawson is right.
“That’s what he’s done,” Divya said.
“That sounds a lot like your voice.”
“He tricked me.”
“No, I didn’t,” Evan said. “You said yourself you were impressed.”
Ah, the sounds of Divya and Evan bickering. No place like home. I walked over and began shuffling through the pages on the kitchen table. “What are all these?”
“The new HankMed van.”
“The one we can’t afford?”
I pulled open the refrigerator, grabbed a small bottle of OJ, twisted the cap off, and took a couple of swallows.
“Just look at the new design before you get all negative,” Evan said.
I sat down at the table. “I’m not negative. I just think it’s an extravagance.”
Evan picked up one of the sketches and handed it to me. “Look at this. Here beneath the floorboards there’s a compartment for storing a treadmill. We can do stress testing right in the client’s home.” He handed me another of Rachel’s renderings. “Here is a compartment for storing a portable X-ray machine. We won’t have to call an outside service every time we need an X-ray.”
I sifted through a few more of the pictures. “What is this?” I pointed to a rectangular box in the rear compartment.
“A storage locker. It’ll hold our EKG machine, oxygen bottles, and a portable sonogram.”
“A portable sonogram would be nice.”
“See? I told you it was cool,” Evan said.
I took another sip of OJ. “It might be cool, but it’s also expensive.”
“You keep saying that. But it’ll pay for itself.”
“It could also sink us, Mr. CFO,” Divya said. “In case you haven’t looked at the books lately, we’re not exactly wallowing in cash.”
“With this we’ll get a lot more clients and that will bring in a lot more money,” Evan said. “That’s how it works.”
“I know how it works.” I looked at a couple of the photographs before tossing them aside. “On another note, I ran into Julian Morelli today.”
“What’s he like?” Divya asked.
“Smooth. Smarmy.”
“I heard he’s very handsome,” she said.
“Not to me. But you can decide for yourself when you meet him tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? Where?”
“He invited us to his clinic for open house.”
“That place is supposed to be incredible,” Evan said.
“You knew about this?” I asked. “How come I’ve never heard of it?”
“Because you lead a sheltered existence, while I, Evan R. Lawson, CFO of HankMed, am a man about town.”
“Do we have to listen to this?” Divya said.
“Afraid so,” I said. “I’ve been listening to it all my life.”
“Does it ever get easier?” Divya asked.
“I hate to disappoint you, but no, it doesn’t.”
Chapter 29
STELLARCARE, THE STAR IN HEALTHCARE.
That’s what the sign over the entrance boldly stated.
I guess Julian Morelli wasn’t the bashful type.
Even I had to admit the place was impressive. Four towering floors of glass and chrome, massive windows that overlooked the churning ocean, and beautiful people everywhere.
Divya, Evan, and I had barely gotten through the front door when we ran into Jill. She looked great. Tan slacks and a dark green silk shirt, glass of champagne in her hand.
Jill hooked arms with Divya. “Come on. I’ll show you around.”
They walked away, leaving Evan and me to fend for ourselves. We stood near a large window and munched on the chunks of lobster and sipped the champagne that was thrust our way.
“This place is great,” Evan said.
When I didn’t say anything, he went on. “We need to do this.”
“This what?” I asked.
“Build a place like this.”
“Why?”
“It’s so freakin’ cool.” He watched a waitress flow by. “Just look around. Have you ever seen so many beautiful people?”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
One of the beautiful p
eople, a trim, tanned blonde, approached us.
“I’m Cindy McCann,” she said. “One of the physical therapy techs here.”
“Evan R. Lawson,” Evan said. He shook her hand with a slight bow. “CFO of HankMed.”
“HankMed?”
“My brother’s concierge practice.” Then as an afterthought he glanced at me. “This is my brother, Dr. Hank Lawson.”
“Welcome to StellarCare,” she said, her smile polished and perfect. Like her boss’s. “What do you think of our new place?”
“Large and dramatic,” I said.
“It is, isn’t it? I love it.” When I didn’t respond, she went on. “Have you met Dr. Morelli yet?”
“We met yesterday.”
“Isn’t he wonderful?”
“I take it you enjoy working here?” I said.
“Are you kidding? This place is awesome. Julian is a pleasure to work for.”
Right now Mr. Wonderful was across the room, mingling with his guests, laughing, shaking hands, and dispensing hugs, as if he were running for office. He wore a tux and looked as if he had jumped off the cover of GQ. I didn’t like him. Particularly since at that very moment he had Jill and Divya cornered. He stood too close to Jill and too often flashed his polished and perfect smile. I wondered if he had had his teeth bleached.
“I’ll bring him over,” Cindy said.
“That’s okay. We aren’t staying much longer.”
“We’re not?” Evan asked. “Why would we leave here? This place has everything. Champagne, ocean views, great food.” Evan lifted his glass of champagne. “And of course Cindy.”
She laughed. “You’re funny.”
“That’s just my B material. Wait until you know me. I get even funnier.”
“You’re funny all right,” I said.
“I’ll be right back.” Cindy headed toward Julian.
Evan looked at me as if I were from another planet. “What’s wrong with you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Look around.” He waved an arm. “What do you see?”
“Glitz. Flash.”
“This is the future.”
“If you say so.”
Cindy was whispering in Morelli’s ear. He glanced our way and then he and Cindy moved toward us. Jill and Divya followed.
“Welcome,” Julian said, hand outstretched. “Glad you could make it, Dr. Lawson.”
We shook hands. “Call me Hank.”
“Evan R. Lawson,” Evan said. “CFO of HankMed.”
“Yes, I know,” Julian said.
“You do?”
Julian offered an easy, practiced laugh. “I make it a point to keep up with the medical community.” He looked at me and winked. He actually winked. “So what do you think of our clinic?”
“Very impressive,” I said. “What I’ve seen, anyway.”
“Let me show you around.”
“That won’t be necess—” I started.
“We’d love to see it,” Evan jumped in.
Jill excused herself, saying Julian had already given her the tour. Now I really didn’t like him.
The tour took forty minutes. Evan hung on every word Julian uttered. Probably as much as he did with Nathan Zimmer.
Me, not so much.
The place was definitely top-drawer. No expense spared. The main floor, actually the second floor, held the reception area and a dozen exam and consultation rooms, each spacious and airy, most with one glass wall that offered full ocean views and custom drapes for privacy from the outside world when exams were in progress. The Fitness Floor, as the top floor was labeled, was completely glass-walled and had multiple weight stations, an aerobics/yoga area, and several rows of treadmills, stationary bikes, stairclimbers, and elliptical trainers. The third floor held the men’s and women’s locker rooms, Jacuzzis, and showers as well as the physical therapy department, which had more equipment than a Hollywood spa.
“You do physical therapy here?” I asked.
“It’s part of our new Take Control program. Our clients are encouraged to take control of their own health care. Exercise, diet, weight loss, controlling things like high blood pressure, high cholesterol, and diabetes. Since many have aches and pains, arthritis, and even some with previous orthopedic procedures, we feel that an active PT program will keep them moving and keep their exercise going.” Another high-wattage smile. He had definitely had his teeth whitened.
“It’s very well equipped,” I said.
“Our client list includes many generous donors. Every little bit helps.”
Particularly if that little bit has a handful of zeros after it. I wondered how much of his income came from these donors and how much came from pushing pills. Of course PT can also be a very lucrative venture.
We descended the stairs to the first floor and entered an area designated as the Nutrition and Weight Loss Clinic. That’s what it said on the double glass doors anyway. Inside were several consultation rooms, two conference rooms, and a large lecture hall.
“This is the heart and soul of our new Take Control program. We have plenty of room for personal consultations as well as patient and public educational lectures. We’ll be bringing in leaders in the nutrition community to give talks and work with our patients one-on-one.”
“Is weight loss a big part of your practice?” Divya asked.
He nodded. “So many of our patients need that and there is such a paucity of quality weight-loss programs.”
He actually used the word paucity. It rolled off his tongue so easily. Princeton, I’d bet.
“So you fill that need?” I asked.
He nodded. “We not only help people lose that ten to fifteen pounds of winter weight before hitting the beach at spring break, but we’re very proud of the help we offer those with serious weight problems. Those that need to lose fifty or more. We have several programs in Europe that have had outstanding results. We’re simply copying that model here.”
“You have facilities in Europe?” Divya asked.
“Two. One in Zurich, where StellarCare started, and another in Paris.”
“I didn’t realize that,” I said. “I thought your business was local.”
“I practiced for many years in the city. Then I learned about StellarCare a few years ago. I met the principals, we decided the Hamptons would be a good place for a new state-of-the-art clinic, and here we are.”
“What do you make them do?” Evan asked. “To lose weight. Celery and water?”
Julian laughed. “It’s a little more than that. We design a personal exercise program for each client and assign each a private trainer in our gym. We have intensive nutritional counseling that instructs them in food choices, healthy cooking, restaurant dining, and even grocery shopping. We teach them to take control of their own health. That’s why we named the program Take Control.”
He sounded like a brochure.
“Besides diet and exercise,” I asked, “do you recommend vitamins and supplements? That sort of thing?”
“Absolutely. We use several types designed to correct metabolic abnormalities and promote weight loss.”
“What exactly?” I asked.
He led us down a hallway and into a large room with several rows of shelves, each stuffed with an assortment of boxes and bottles.
“These are some of our patented vitamins and nutraceuticals.”
Uh-oh. My antennae went off at his nutraceutical lingo.
“Do you use nutraceuticals in your practice, Hank?” Morelli asked.
“Flintstones chewables,” I said. “I think the red Barneys and Bettys taste best.”
He laughed and clapped his hands together. “That’s funny.”
He picked up a bottle of vitamins and handed it to me. The label read “Metabolic Boost” and the subtitle, “Weight Loss Vitamins.” I read the ingredients label. Basically it was a Flintstones with a little extra calcium and zinc tossed in. I twisted off the cap and looked inside. Fat pasty gray capsules stared
back.
“Let me see,” Evan said. He snatched the bottle and dumped a pill into his palm. “You need better marketing, dude. These things are depressing. Maybe some bright reds or yellows.”
Another high-voltage smile. If he revved up the volts much more, I was afraid his mouth might explode into flames.
“I’ll pass that along,” Julian said.
Evan handed the bottle to Divya. She also read the label.
“Who makes these for you?” she asked.
Julian gave her a patronizing smile. “That’s proprietary. I’m sure you understand.”
We then moved into another area. More alarm bells. The windowless room held three eight-foot-long cylindrical tubes. Hyperbaric oxygen chambers.
Scam.
The concept is simple. The patient goes in the chamber, which is then pressurized with one hundred percent oxygen, the oxygen supposedly curing whatever ails you. The bill is sent and life goes on.
The truth is that unless you have an evolving stroke, carbon monoxide poisoning, decompression sickness from a botched scuba trip, or one of several types of nasty infections like gas gangrene, there’s no medical use for these. Scammers tout them to “cure” all sorts of things: macular degeneration, Lyme disease, multiple sclerosis, various cancers, chronic fatigue syndrome, arthritis, and even autism. Doesn’t work, but it does make money.
Another old medical adage: Desperate people reach for desperate cures. People with serious, chronic, or terminal illnesses, like a drowning man, grab whatever life preserver is tossed their way. Whether it has holes in it or not. Weight loss works the same way. People who have tried everything and failed are always looking for the next big cure. The next magic bullet. Their desperation sets them up to be exploited. Salesmen like Julian Morelli feed on that desperation.
Then there are the complications of the high-dose, high-pressure oxygen these chambers deliver. Things like bleeding sinuses, ruptured eardrums, and even collapsed lungs. Bet those aren’t in the brochure. Another problem? The damn thing might catch fire or explode. Pure oxygen under pressure can do that. Ask NASA. Gus Grissom, Ed White, and Roger Chaffee died when a fire ripped through a hyperbaric chamber called Apollo I.
But the oxygen buzz does make most people feel better and people will always pay for momentary pleasure. Old P. T. Barnum had it right. A sucker was born every minute.