Part 9 (1/2)

”It is?” Debby said.”Yes,” Johnny said, ”very good.”Debby nibbled. She was very tentative. She took another forkful, and as she moved it to her mouth, she spilled it on her dress. Then, like a normal woman, she got mad at everyone around her. She announced that it was terrible and she didn't like it; she wouldn't eat any more. Judith began to call her ”Young lady,” a sure sign that Judith was getting mad. Debby backed off while Johnny continued to eat until he held up his plate and showed it to us proudly: clean.It was another half-hour before the kids were in bed. I stayed in the kitchen; Judith came back and said, ”Coffee?””Yes. I'd better.””Sorry about the kids,” she said. ”They've had a wearying few days.””We all have.”She poured the coffee and sat down across the table from me.”I keep thinking,” she said, ”about the letters. The ones Betty got.””What about them?””Just what they mean. There are thousands of people out there, all around you, waiting for their chance. Stupid, bigoted, small-minded-””This is a democracy,” I said. ”Those people runthe country.””Now you're making fun of me.” ”No,” I said. ”I know what you mean.” ”Well, it frightens me,” Judith said. She pushedthe sugar bowl across the table to me and said, ”Ithink I want to leave Boston. And never comeback.” ”It's the same everywhere,” I said. ”You might as well get used to it.” well get used to it.”I KILLED TWO HOURS IN MY STUDY, looking over old texts and journal articles. I also did a lot of thinking. I tried to put it together, to match up Karen Randall, and Superhead, and Alan Zenner, and Bubbles and Angela. I tried to make sense of Wes-ton, but in the end nothing made sense.Judith came in and said, ”It's nine.”I got up and put on my suit jacket.”Are you going out?””Yes.””Where?”I grinned at her. ”To a bar,” I said. ”Downtown.””Whatever for?””d.a.m.ned if I know.”

The Electric Grape was located just off Was.h.i.+ngton Street. From the outside it was unimpressive, an old brick building with large windows. The windows were covered with paper, making it impossible to see inside. On the paper was written: ”The Zeph- yrs Nightly. Go-Go Girls.” I could hear jarring rock-'n'-roll sounds as I approached.It was ten P.M. Thursday night, a slow night. Very few sailors, a couple of hookers, down the block, standing with their weight on one hip, their pelvises thrust outward. One cruised by in a little sports car and batted her mascara at me. I entered the building.It was hot, damp, smelly, animal heat, and the sound was deafening: vibrating the walls, filling the air, making it thick and liquid. My ears began to ring. I paused to allow my eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room. There were cheap wooden tables in the center booths along one wall, and a bar along another. A tiny dance floor near the bandstand; two sailors were dancing with two fat, dirty-looking girls. Otherwise the place was empty.On stage, the Zephyrs were beating it out. Five of them-three steel guitars, a drummer, and a singer who caressed the microphone and wrapped his legs around it. They were making a lot of noise, but their faces were oddly bland, as if they were waiting for something, killing time by playing.Two discotheque girls were stationed on either side of the band. They wore brief costumes, bikinis with fringes. One was chubby and one had a beautiful face on a graceless body. Their skins were chalky-white under the lights.I stepped to the bar and ordered straight Scotch on the rocks. That way, I'd get Scotch and water, which was what I wanted.I paid for my drink and turned to watch the group. Roman was one of the guitarists, a wiry muscular man in his late twenties, with a thick head of curly black hair. The grease shone in the pink stage lights. He stared down at his fingers as he played.”They're pretty good,” I said to the bartender.He shrugged. ”You like this kinda music?””Sure. Don't you?””c.r.a.p,” the bartender said. ”All c.r.a.p.””What kind of music do you like?””Opera,” he said and moved down to another customer. I couldn't tell if he was kidding me or not.I stood there with my drink. The Zephyrs finished their piece, and the sailors on the dance floor clapped. n.o.body else did. The lead singer, still swaying from the song, leaned into the microphone and said, ”Thank you, thank you,” in a breathless voice, as if thousands were wildly applauding.Then he said, ”For our next song we want to do an old Chuck Berry piece.”

It turned out to be ”Long Tall Sally.” Really old. Old enough for me to know it was a Little Richard song, not Chuck Berry. Old enough for me to remember from the days before my marriage, when I took girls to places like this for a wild evening, from the days when Negroes were sort of amusing, not people at all, just a musical sideshow. The days when white boys could go to the Apollo in Harlem.

The old days.They played the song well, loud and fast. Judith loathes rock 'n' roll, which is sad; I've always kept a taste for it. But it wasn't fas.h.i.+onable when our generation was growing up. It was crude and lower cla.s.s. The deb set was still fixed on Lester Lanin and Eddie Davis, and Leonard Bernstein hadn't learned the twist yet. loathes rock 'n' roll, which is sad; I've always kept a taste for it. But it wasn't fas.h.i.+onable when our generation was growing up. It was crude and lower cla.s.s. The deb set was still fixed on Lester Lanin and Eddie Davis, and Leonard Bernstein hadn't learned the twist yet.Times change.

Finally the Zephyrs finished. They hooked a record player to their amplifiers and started the records going. Then they climbed down off the stage and headed for the bar. As Roman walked toward me, I came up to him and touched his arm.

”Buy you a drink?”He gave me a surprised look. ”Why?””I'm a fan of Little Richard.”His eyes swept up and down me. ”Get off it,” he said.”No, seriously.””Vodka,” he said, sitting down next to me.I ordered a vodka. It came, and he gulped it down quickly.”We'll just have another,” he said, ”and then we can go talk about Little Richard, right?””O.K.,” I said.

He got another vodka and carried it to a table across the room. I followed him. His silver suit s.h.i.+mmered in the near darkness. We sat down, and he looked at the drink and said, ”Let's see the silver plate.”

”What?”He gave me a pained look. ”The badge, baby. Thelittle pin. I don't do nothing unless you got the badge.”I must have looked puzzled.”Christ,” he said, ”when they gonna get some bright fuzz?'”I'm not fuzz,” I said.”Sure.” He took his drink and stood up.”Wait a minute,” I said. ”Let me show you something.”I took out my wallet and flipped to my M.D. card. It was dark; he bent down to look at it.”No kidding,” he said, his voice sarcastic. But he sat down again.”It's the truth. I'm a doctor.””O.K.,” he said. ”You're a doctor. You smell like a cop to me, but you're a doctor. So let's have the rules: you see those four guys over there?” He nodded toward his group. ”If anything happens, they all testify you showed me a doctor's card and no badge. That's entrapment, baby. Don't hold in court. Clear?””I just want to talk.””No kidding,” he said and sipped the drink. He smiled slightly. ”Word sure does get around.””Does it?”

”Yeah,” he said. He glanced at me. ”Who told you about it?”

”I have ways.””What ways?”I shrugged. ”Just . . . ways.””Who wants it?””I do.”

He laughed. ”You? Get serious, man. You don't want nothing.”

”All right,” I said. I stood up and started to go. ”Maybe I got the wrong man.””Just a minute, baby.”I stopped. He was sitting at the table, looking at the drink, twisting the gla.s.s in his hands. ”Sit down.”I sat down again. He continued to stare at the gla.s.s. ”This is good stuff,” he said. ”We don't cut it with nothing. It's the finest quality and the price is high, see?””O.K.,” I said.He scratched his arms and his hands in a quick, nervous way. ”How many bags?””Ten. Fifteen. Whatever you have.””I got as much as you want.””Then fifteen,” I said. ”But I want to see it first.””Yeah, yeah, right. You can see it first, it's good.”He continued to scratch his arms through the silver material, then smiled. ”But one thing first.””What's that?””Who told you?”I hesitated. ”Angela Harding,” I said.He seemed puzzled by this. I could not decide whether I had said something wrong. He s.h.i.+fted in his chair, as if making up his mind, then said, ”She a friend of yours?””Sort of.””When did you see her last?””Yesterday,” I said.He nodded slowly. ”The door,” he said, ”is over there. I'll give you thirty seconds to get out of here before I tear you to pieces. You hear me, cop? Thirty seconds.”I said, ”All right, it wasn't Angela. It was a friend of hers.””Who's that?””Karen Randall.””Never heard of her.””I understand you knew her quite well.”He shook his head: ”Nope.””That's what I was told.””You was told wrong, baby. Dead wrong.”I reached into my pocket and brought out his picture. ”This was in her room at college.”Before I knew what was happening, he had s.n.a.t.c.hed the picture from my hand and torn it up.”What picture?” he said evenly. ”I don't know no picture. I never even seen the girl.”I sat back.He regarded me with angry eyes. ”Beat it,” he said.”I came here to buy something,” I said. ”I'll leave when I have it.”

”You'll leave now, if you know what's good for you.”

He was scratching his arms again. I looked at him and realized that I would learn nothing more. He wasn't going to talk, and I had no way to make him.

”All right,” I said. I got up, leaving my gla.s.ses on the table. ”By the way, do you know where I can get some thiopental?”For a moment, his eyes widened. Then he said, ”Some what?””Thiopental.””Never heard of it. Now beat it,” he said, ”before one of those nice fellas at the bar picks a fight with you and beats your head in.”

1 walked out. It was cold; a light rain had started again. I looked toward Was.h.i.+ngton Street and the bright lights of the other rock-'n'-roll joints, strip joints, clip joints: I waited thirty seconds, then went back.

My gla.s.ses were still on the table. I picked them up and turned to leave, my eyes sweeping the room.Roman was in the corner, talking on a pay phone.That was all I wanted to know.FOURAROUND THE CORNER at the end of the block was a stand-up, self-service greasy spoon. Hamburgers twenty cents. It had a large gla.s.s window in front. Inside I saw a few teen-age girls giggling as they ate, and one or two morose derelicts in tatteredovercoats that reached almost to their shoes. At one side, three sailors were laughing and slapping each other on the back, reliving some conquest or planning the next. A telephone was in the back.I called the Mem and asked for Dr. Hammond. I was told he was on the EW that night; the desk put the call through.”Norton, this is John Berry.””What's up?””I need more information,” I said, ”from the record room.””You're lucky,” he said. ”It seems to be a slow night here. One or two lacerations and a couple of drunken fights. Nothing else. What do you need?””Take this down,” I said. ”Roman Jones, Negro, about twenty-four or -five. I want to know whether he's ever been admitted to the hospital and whether he's been followed in any of the clinics. And I want the dates.””Right,” Hammond said. ”Roman Jones. Admissions and clinic visits. I'll check it out right away.””Thanks,” I said.”You going to call back?””No. I'll drop by the EW later.”That, as it turned out, was the understatement of the year.

WHEN IFINISHED THE CALL I was feeling hungry, so I got a hot dog and coffee. Never a hamburger in a place like this. For one thing, they often use horse-meat or rabbit or entrails or anything else they can grind up. For another, there's usually enough pathogens to infect an army. Take trichinosis-Boston has six times the national rate of infection from that. You can't be too careful.

I have a friend who's a bacteriologist. He spends his whole time running a hospital lab where they culture out organisms that have infected the patients. By now this guy is so worked up that he practically never goes out to dinner, even to Joseph's or Locke-Ober. Never eats a steak unless it's well done. He really worries. I've been to dinner with him, and it's terrible-he sweats all through the main course. You can see him imagining a blood agar petri dish, with those little colonies streaked out. Every bite he takes, he sees those colonies. Staph. Strep. Gram negative bacilli. His life is ruined.Anyway, hot dogs are safer-not much, but some- so I had one and took it over to the stand-up counter with my coffee. I ate looking out the window at the crowd pa.s.sing by.Roman came to mind. I didn't like what he'd told me. Clearly, he was selling stuff, probably strong stuff. Marijuana was too easy to get. LSD was no longer being made by Sandoz, but lysergic acid, the precursor, is produced by the ton in Italy, and any college kid can convert it if he steals a few reagents and flasks from his chem lab. Psilocybin and DMT are even easier to make.Probably Roman was dealing in opiates, morphine or heroin. That complicated matters a greatdeal-particularly in view of his reaction to mention of Angela Harding and Karen Randall. I wasn't sure what the connection was but I felt, somehow, that I'd find out very soon.I finished the hot dog and drank my coffee. As I looked out the window, I saw Roman hurry by. He did not see me. He was looking forward, his face intent and worried.I gulped the rest of my coffee and followed him.[Ed note: the three-step synthesis of lysergic acid diethylamine (LSD) from common precursors has been omitted from this ma.n.u.script.]

FIVE.

I LET HIM GET HALF A BLOCK AHEAD OF ME. He was hurrying through the crowds, pus.h.i.+ng and shoving. I kept him in sight as he walked toward Stuart Street. There he turned left and headed for the expressway. I followed him. This end of Stuart was deserted; I dropped back and lit a cigarette. I pulled my raincoat tighter and wished I had a hat. If he looked back over his shoulder, he would certainly recognize me. hurrying through the crowds, pus.h.i.+ng and shoving. I kept him in sight as he walked toward Stuart Street. There he turned left and headed for the expressway. I followed him. This end of Stuart was deserted; I dropped back and lit a cigarette. I pulled my raincoat tighter and wished I had a hat. If he looked back over his shoulder, he would certainly recognize me.

Roman walked one block, then turned left again. He was doubling back. I didn't understand, but but I I played it more cautiously. He was walking in a quick, jerky way, the movements of a frightened man. played it more cautiously. He was walking in a quick, jerky way, the movements of a frightened man.

We were on Harvey Street now. There were a couple of Chinese restaurants here. I paused to look at the menu in one window. Roman was not looking back. He went another block, then turned right.I followed.South of the Boston Commons, the character of the town changes abruptly. Along the Commons, on Tremont Street, there are elegant shops and high-cla.s.s theaters. Was.h.i.+ngton Street is one block over, and it's a little sleazier: there are bars and tarts and nude movie houses. A block over from that, things get even tougher. Then there's a block of Chinese restaurants, and that's it. From then on, you're in the wholesale district. Clothes mostly.That's where we were now.The stores were dark. Bolts of cloth stood upright in the windows. There were large corrugated doors where the trucks pulled up to load and unload. Several little dry-goods stores. A theatrical supply shop, with costumes in the window-chorus girl stockings, an old military uniform, several wigs. A bas.e.m.e.nt pool hall, from which came the soft clicking of b.a.l.l.s.The streets were wet and dark. We were quite alone. Roman walked quickly for another block, then he stopped.I pulled into a doorway and waited. He lookedback for a moment and kept going. I was right after him.Several times, he doubled back on his own path, and he frequently stopped to check behind him. Once a car drove by, tires hissing on the wet pavement. Roman jumped into a shadow, then stepped out when the car had gone.He was nervous, all right.I followed him for perhaps fifteen minutes. I couldn't decide whether he was being cautious or just killing time. He stopped several times to look at something he held in his hand-perhaps a watch, perhaps something else. I couldn't be sure.Eventually he headed north, skirting along side streets, working his way around the Commons and the State House. It took me awhile to realize that he was heading for Beacon Hill.Another ten minutes pa.s.sed, and I must have gotten careless, because I lost him. He darted around a corner, and when I turned it moments later, he was gone: the street was deserted. I stopped to listen for footsteps, but heard nothing. I began to worry and hurried forward.Then it happened.

Something heavy and damp and cold struck my head, and I felt a cool, sharp pain over my forehead, and then a strong punch to my stomach. I fell to the pavement and the world began to spin sickeningly. I heard a shout, and footsteps, and then nothing.

SIX.

IT WAS ONE OF THOSE PECULIAR VIEWS YOU HAVE, like a dream where everything is distorted. The buildings were black and very high, towering above me, threatening to collapse. They seemed to rise forever. I felt cold and soaked through, and rain spattered my face. I lifted my head up from the pavement and saw that it was all red. a dream where everything is distorted. The buildings were black and very high, towering above me, threatening to collapse. They seemed to rise forever. I felt cold and soaked through, and rain spattered my face. I lifted my head up from the pavement and saw that it was all red.I pulled up on one elbow. Blood dripped down onto my raincoat. I looked stupidly down at the red pavement. h.e.l.l of a lot of blood. Mine?My stomach churned and I vomited on the sidewalk. I was dizzy and the world turned green for a while.Finally, I forced myself to get to my knees.In the distance, I heard sirens. Far off but getting closer. I stood shakily and leaned on an automobile parked by the curb. I didn't know where I was; the street was dark and silent. I looked at the b.l.o.o.d.y sidewalk and wondered what to do.The sirens were coming closer.Stumbling, I ran around the corner, then stopped to catch my breath. The sirens were very close now; a blue light flashed on the street I had just left.I ran again. I don't know how far I went. I don't know where I was.I just kept running until I saw a taxi. It was parked at a stand, the motor idling.I said, ”Take me to the nearest hospital.”He looked at my face.”Not a chance,” he said.I started to get in.”Forget it, buddy.” He pulled the door shut and drove away, leaving me standing there.In the distance, I heard the sirens again.A wave of dizziness swept over me. I squatted and waited for it to pa.s.s. I was sick again. Blood was still dripping from somewhere on my face. Little red drops spattered into the vomit.The rain continued. I was s.h.i.+vering cold, but it helped me to stay conscious. I got up and tried to get my bearings; I was somewhere south of Was.h.i.+ngton Street; the nearest signpost said Curley Place. It didn't mean anything to me. I started walking, unsteady, pausing frequently.I hoped I was going in the right direction. I knew I was losing blood, but I didn't know how much. Every few steps, I had to stop to lean on a car and catch my breath. The dizziness was getting worse.

I stumbled and fell. My knees cracked into the pavement and pain shot through me. For an instant, it cleared my head, and I was able to get back to my feet. The shoes, soaked through, squeaked. My clothes were damp with sweat and rain.

I concentrated on the sound of my shoes and forced myself to walk. One step at a time. Three blocks ahead, I saw lights. I knew I could make it.

One step at a time.I leaned against a blue car for a moment, just a moment, to catch my breath.”THAT'S IT. That's the boy.” Somebody was lifting me up. I was in a car, being lifted out. My arm was thrown over a shoulder, and I was walking. Bright lights ahead. A sign: ”Emergency Ward.” Blue-lighted sign. Nurse at the door.”Just go slow, boy. Just take it easy.” My head was loose on my neck. I tried to speak but my mouth was too dry. I was terribly thirsty and cold. I looked at the man helping me, an old man with a grizzled beard and a bald head. I tried to stand better so he wouldn't have to support me, but my knees were rubber, and I was s.h.i.+vering badly. ”Doing fine, boy. No problem at all.” His voice was gruffly encouraging. The nurse came forward, floating in the pool of light near the EW door, saw me, and ran back inside. Two interns came out and each took an arm. They were strong; I felt myself lifted up until my toes were sc.r.a.ping through the puddles. I felt rain on the back of my neck as my head drooped forward. The bald man was running ahead to open the door.They helped me inside where it was warm. Theyput me on a padded table and started pulling off my clothes, but the clothes were wet and blood-soaked; they clung to my body, and finally they had to cut them off with a scissors. It was all very difficult and it took hours. I kept my eyes closed because the lights overhead were painfully bright.”Get a crit and cross-match him,” said one of the interns. ”And set up a four kit with sutures in room two.”People were fussing with my head; I vaguely felt hands and gauze pads being pressed against my skin. My forehead was numb and cold. By now they had me completely undressed. They dried me with a hard towel and wrapped me in a blanket, then transferred me to another padded table. It started to roll down the hall. I opened my eyes and saw the bald man looking down at me solicitously.”Where'd you find him?” one of the interns asked.”On a car. He was lying on a car. I saw him and thought he was a drunk pa.s.sed out. He was half in the street, you know, so I figured he could get run over and stopped to move him. Then I saw he was nicely dressed and all b.l.o.o.d.y. I didn't know what happened, but he looked bad, so I brought him here.””You have any idea what happened?” the intern asked.”Looks beat up, if you ask me,” the man said.

”He didn't have a wallet,” the intern said. ”He owe you money for the fare?”

”That's all right,” the bald man said. ”I'm sure he'll want to pay you.” ”That's all right,” the cabby said. ”I'll just go now.”

”Better leave your name at the desk,” the internsaid.But the man was already gone.They wheeled me into a room tiled in blue. The surgical light over my head switched on. Faces peered down at me. Rubber gloves pulled on, gauze masks in place.”We'll stop the bleeding,” the intern said. ”Then get some X rays.” He looked at me. ”You awake, sir?”I nodded and tried to speak.”Don't talk. Your jaw may be broken. I'm just going to close this wound on your forehead, and then we'll see.”The nurse bathed my face, first with warm soap. The sponges came away b.l.o.o.d.y.”Alcohol now,” she said. ”It may sting a little.”The interns were talking to each other, looking at the wound. ”Better mark that as a six-centimeter superficial on the right temple.”I barely felt the alcohol. It felt cool and tingled slightly, nothing more.The intern held the curved suture needle in a needle holder. The nurse stepped back and he moved over my head. I expected pain, but it was nothing more than a slight p.r.i.c.king on my forehead.The intern who was sewing said, ”d.a.m.ned sharp incision here. Looks almost surgical.””Knife?””Maybe, but I doubt it.”The nurse put a tourniquet on my arm and drew blood. ”Better give him teta.n.u.s toxoid as well,” the intern said, still sewing. ”And a shot of penicillin.” He said to me, ”Blink your eyes once for yes, twice for no. Are you allergic to penicillin?”I blinked twice.”Are you sure?”I blinked once.”O.K.,” said the intern. He returned to his sewing. The nurse gave me two injections. The other intern was examining my body, saying nothing.I must have pa.s.sed out again. When I opened my eyes, I saw a huge X-ray machine poised by my head. Someone was saying, ”Gently, gently,” in an irritated voice.I pa.s.sed out again.I awoke in another room. This was painted light green. The interns were holding the dripping-wet X rays up to the light, talking about them. Then one left and the other came over to me.'You seem all right,” he said. ”You may have a few loose teeth, but no fractures anywhere that we can see.”My head was clearing; I was awake enough to ask, ”Has the radiologist looked at those films?”

That stopped them cold. They froze, thinking what I was thinking, that skull films were so hard to interpret and required a trained eye. They also didn't understand how I knew to ask such a question.”No, the radiologist is not here right now.””Well, where is he?””He just stepped out for coffee.””Get him back,” I said. My mouth was dry and stiff; my jaw hurt. I touched my cheek and felt a large swelling, very painful. No wonder they had been worried about a fracture.”What's my crit?” I said.”Pardon, sir?”It was hard for them to hear me, my tongue was thick and my speech unclear.”I said, what's my hematocrit?”They glanced at each other, then one said, ”Forty,sir.””Get me some water.”One of them went off to get water. The other looked at me oddly, as if he had just discovered I was a human being. ”Are you a doctor, sir?””No,” I said, ”I'm a well-informed Pygmy.”He was confused. He took out his notebook and said, ”Have you ever been admitted to this hospitalbefore, sir?””No,” I said. ”And I'm not being admitted now.””Sir, you came in with a laceration-””Screw the laceration. Get me a mirror.””A mirror?”I sighed. ”I want to see how good your sewing is,”I said.”Sir, if you're a doctor-””Get the mirror.”With remarkable speed, a mirror and a gla.s.s of water were produced. I drank the water first, quickly; it tasted marvelous.”Better go easy on that, sir.””A crit of forty isn't bad,” I said. ”And you know it.” I held up the mirror and examined the cut on my forehead. I was angry with the interns, and it helped me forget the pain and soreness in my body. I looked at the cut, which was clean and curved, sloping down from above one eyebrow toward my ear.They had put about twenty st.i.tches in.”How long since I came in?” I said.”An hour, sir.””Stop calling me sir,” I said, ”and do another hematocrit. I want to know if I'm bleeding internally.””Your pulse is only seventy-five, sir, and your skin color-””Do it,” I said.They took another sample. The intern drew five cc's into a syringe. ”Jesus,” I said, ”it's only a hematocrit.'

He gave me a funny apologetic look and quickly left. Guys on the EW get sloppy. They need only a fraction of a cc to do a crit; they could get it from a drop of blood on a finger.

I said to the other intern, ”My name is John Berry. I am a pathologist at the Lincoln.”

”Yes, sir.””Stop writing it down.”

”Yes, sir.” He put his notebook aside. ”This isn't an admission and it isn't going to be officially recorded.”

”Sir, if you were attacked and robbed-” ”I wasn't,” I said. ”I stumbled and fell. Nothing else. It was just a stupid mistake.””Sir, the pattern of contusions on your body would indicate-””I don't care if I'm not a textbook case. I'm telling you what happened and that's it.” ”Sir-””No,” I said. ”No arguments.” I looked at him. He was dressed in whites and he had some spatterings of blood on him; I guessed it was my blood.”You're not wearing your name tag,” I said. ”No.””Well, wear it. We patients like to know who we're talking to.”He took a deep breath, then said, ”Sir, I'm a fourth-year student.” ”Jesus Christ.” ”Sir-””Look, son. You'd better get some things straight.” I was grateful for the anger, the fury, which gave me energy. ”This may be a kick for you to spend one month of your rotation in the EW, but it's no kicks at all for me. Call Dr. Hammond.” ”Who, sir?””Dr. Hammond. The resident in charge.” ”Yes, sir.”He started to go, and I decided I had been too hard on him. He was, after all, just a student, and he seemed a nice enough kid.”By the way,” I said, ”did you do the suturing?”There was a long, guilty pause. ”Yes, I did.””You did a good job,” I said.He grinned. ”Thanks, sir.””Stop calling me sir. Did you examine the incision before you sutured it up?””Yes, s-. Yes.””What was your impression?””It was a remarkably clean incision. It looked like a razor cut to me.”I smiled. ”Or a scalpel?””I don't understand.””I think you're in for an interesting night,” I said. ”Call Hammond.”ALONE, I had nothing to think about but the pain. My stomach was the worst; it ached as if I had swallowed a bowling ball. I rolled over onto my side, and it was better. After a while, Hammond showed up, with the fourth-year student trailing along behind.Hammond said, ”Hi, John.””h.e.l.lo, Norton. How's business?”

”I didn't see you come in,” Norton said, ”otherwise-”

”Doesn't matter. Your boys did a good job.””What happened to you?””I had an accident.”

”You were lucky,” Norton said, bending over the wound and looking at it. ”Cut your superficial temporal. You were spurting like h.e.l.l. But your crit doesn't show it.”

”I have a big spleen,” I said.”Maybe so. How do you feel?””Like a piece of s.h.i.+t.””Headache?””A little. Getting better.””Feel sleepy? Nauseated?””Come on, Norton-””Just lie there,” Hammond said. He took out his penlight and checked my pupils, then looked into the fundi with an ophthalmoscope. Then he checked my reflexes, arms and legs, both sides.”You see?” I said. ”Nothing.””You still might have a hematoma.””Nope.””We want you to stay under observation for twenty-four hours,” Hammond said.”Not a chance.” I sat up in bed, wincing. My stomach was sore. ”Help me get up.””I'm afraid your clothes-””Have been cut to shreds. I know. Get me some whites, will you?””Whites? Why?””I want to be around when they bring the others in,” I said.”What others?””Wait and see,” I said.The fourth-year student asked me what sizewhites I wore, and I told him. He started to get them when Hammond caught his arm.”Just a minute.” He turned to me. ”You can have them on one condition.””Norton, for Christ's sake, I don't have a hematoma. If it's subdural, it may not show up for weeks or months anyway. You know that.””It might be epidural,” he said.”No fractures on the skull films,” I said. An epidural hematoma was a collection of blood inside the skull from a torn artery, secondary to skull fracture. The blood collected in the skull and could kill you from the compression of the brain.”You said yourself, they haven't been read by a radiologist yet.””Norton, for Christ's sake. You're not talking to an eighty-year old lady. I-””You can have the whites,” he said calmly, ”if you agree to stay here overnight.””I won't be admitted.””O.K. Just so you stay here in the EW.”I frowned. ”All right,” I said finally, ”I'll stay.”The fourth-year student left to get me the clothes. Hammond stood there and shook his head at me.”Who beat you up?””Wait and see.””You scared h.e.l.l out of the intern and that student.”

”I didn't mean to. But they were being kind of casual about things.”

”The radiologist for the night is Harrison. He's a f.u.c.k-off.”

”You think that matters to me?””You know how it is,” he said.”Yes,” I said, ”I do.”The whites came, and I climbed into them. It was an odd feeling; I hadn't worn whites for years. I'd been proud of it then. Now the fabric seemed stiff and uncomfortable.They found my shoes, wet and b.l.o.o.d.y; I wiped them off and put them on. I felt weak and tired, but I had to keep going. It was all going to be finished tonight. I was certain of it.I got some coffee and a sandwich. I couldn't taste it, it was like eating newspaper, but I thought the food was necessary. Hammond stayed with me.”By the way,” he said, ”I checked on Roman Jones for you.””And?””He was only seen once. In the GU1 clinic. Came in with what sounded like renal colic, so they did a urinalysis.” clinic. Came in with what sounded like renal colic, so they did a urinalysis.””Yes?””He had hematuria, all right. Nucleated red cells.” 1 see.It was a cla.s.sic story. Patients often showed up in clinic complaining of severe pain in the lower abdomen and decreased urine output. The most likely diagnosis was a kidney stone, one of the five most1 Genitourinary.

painful conditions there are; morphine is given almost immediately when the diagnosis is made. But in order to prove it, one asks for a urine sample and examines it for slight blood. Kidney stones are usually irritating and cause a little bleeding in the urinary tract.Morphine addicts, knowing the relative ease of getting morphine for kidney stones, often try to mimic renal colic. Some of them are very good at it; they know the symptoms and can reproduce them exactly. Then when they're asked for a urine sample, they go into the bathroom, collect the sample, p.r.i.c.k their fingers, and allow a small drop of blood to fall in.But some of them are squeamish. Instead of using their own blood, they use the blood of an animal, like a chicken. The only trouble is that chicken red cells have nuclei, while those of humans do not. So nucleated red cells in a patient with renal colic almost always meant someone faking the symptoms, and that usually meant an addict.”Was he examined for needle marks?””No. When the doctor confronted him, he left the clinic. He's never been seen again.””Interesting. Then he probably is an addict.””Yes. Probably.”

After the food, I felt better. I got to my feet, feeling the exhaustion and the pain. I called Judith and told her I was at the Mem OPD and that I was fine, not to worry. I didn't mention the beating or the cut. I knew she would have a fit when I got home, but I wasn't going to excite her now.