A Case Of Need Part 9

"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 Washington 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 fashionable 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 fashionable 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 shimmered 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 shifted 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 Washington 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, pushing 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, pushing 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. Washington 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 shivering cold, but it helped me to stay conscious. I got up and tried to get my bearings; I was somewhere south of Washington 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 shivering 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.

I walked down the corridor with Hammond, trying not to wince from the pain. He kept asking me how I felt, and I kept telling him I felt fine. In fact, I didn't. The food was beginning to make me nauseated, and my headache was worse standing up. But the worst thing was the fatigue. I was terribly, terribly tired.

We went to the emergency entrance of the EW. It was a kind of stall, an open-ended garage where the ambulances backed up and unloaded their cargoes. Swinging, automatic doors, operated by foot-pressure pads, led into the hospital. We walked out and breathed the cool night air. It was a rainy, misty night, but the cool air felt good to me.Hammond said, "You're pale.""I'm O.K.""We haven't even begun to evaluate you for internal hemorrhage.""I'm O.K.," I said."Tell me if you're not," Hammond said. "Don't be a hero.""I'm not a hero," I said.We waited there. An occasional automobile drove past us, tires hissing on the wet streets; otherwise it was silent."What's going to happen?" Hammond said."I'm not sure. But I think they're going to bring in a Negro and a girl.""Roman Jones? Is he involved in all this?""I think so."In fact, I was almost certain that it had been Roman Jones who had beaten me up. I didn't remember exactly any more; the events right before the accident were hazy. I might have expected that. I didn't have true retrograde amnesia, which is common with concussions and extends back for fifteen minutes before the accident. But I was a little confused.It must have been Roman, I thought. He was the only logical one. Roman had been heading for Beacon Hill. And there was only one logical reason for that, too.We would have to wait."How do you feel?""You keep asking," I said. "And I keep telling you I'm fine.""You looked tired.""I am tired. I've been tired all week.""No. I mean you look drowsy.""Don't jump the gun," I said. I glanced at my watch. Nearly two hours had pa.s.sed since I had been beaten up. That was plenty of time. More than enough time.I began to wonder if something had gone wrong.

At that moment, a police car came around the corner, tires squealing, siren going, blue light flashing. Immediately afterward an ambulance pulled up, followed by a third car. As the ambulance backed in, two men in business suits jumped out of the third car: reporters. You could tell by their eager little faces. One had a camera.

"No pictures," I said.

The ambulance doors were opened and a body on a stretcher was brought out. The first thing I saw was the clothes-slashed and ripped across the trunk and upper limbs, as if the body had been caught in some kind of monstrous machine. Then, in the cold fluorescent light of the EW entrance, I saw the face: Roman Jones. His skull was caved in on the right side like a deflated football, and his lips were purple-black. The flashbulbs popped.

Right there in the alleyway, Hammond went to work. He was quick: in a single movement, he picked up the wrist with his left hand, put his ear over the chest, and felt the carotids in the neck with his right hand. Then he straightened and without a word began to pound the chest. He did it with one hand flat and the heel of the other thumping against the flat hand in sharp, hard, rhythmic beats."Call anesthesia," he said, "and get the surgical resident. Get an arrest cart here. I want aramine, one-in-a-thousand solution. Oxygen by mask. Positive pressure. Let's go."We moved him inside the EW and down to one of the little treatment rooms. Hammond continued the cardiac ma.s.sage all the time, not breaking his rhythm. When we got to the room the surgical resident was there. "Arrested?""Yes," Hammond said. "Apneic, no pulses anywhere."The surgeon picked up a paper packet of size-eight gloves. He didn't wait for the nurse to open them for him; he took them out of the paper himself and yanked them over his fingers. He never took his eyes off the motionless figure of Roman Jones."We'll open him up," the surgeon said, flexing his fingers in the gloves.Hammond nodded, continuing his pounding of the chest. It didn't seem to be doing much good: Roman's lips and tongue were blacker. His skin, especially in the face and ears, was blotchy and dark.An oxygen mask was slapped on."How much, sir?" said the nurse."Seven liters," said the surgeon. He was given a scalpel. Roman's already shredded clothes were torn away from his chest; n.o.body bothered to strip him down completely. The surgeon stepped forward, his face blank, the scalpel held tightly in his right hand with his index finger over the blade.

"All right," he said and made the incision, sloping, across the ribs on the left side. It was a deep incision and there was bleeding, which he ignored. He exposed the whitish glistening ribs, cut between them, and then applied retractors. The retractors were pulled wide and there was a crunching, snapping sound as the ribs snapped. Through the gaping incision, we could see Roman's lungs, collapsed and wrinkled-looking, and his heart, large, bluish, not beating, but wriggling like a bag of worms.The surgeon reached into the chest and began to ma.s.sage. He did it smoothly, contracting his little finger first, then all the others in his hand up to the index finger, expelling blood from the heart. He squeezed very hard and grunted rhythmically.Someone had slapped on a blood-pressure cuff and Hammond pumped it up to take a reading. He watched the needle for a moment, then said, "Nothing.""He's fibrillating," the resident said, holding the heart. "No epinephrine. Let's wait."The ma.s.sage continued for one minute, then two. Roman's color turned darker still."Getting weaker. Give me five cc's in one to a thousand."A syringe was prepared. The surgeon injected it directly into the heart, then continued squeezing. Several more minutes pa.s.sed. I watched the squeezing heart, and the rhythmic inflation of the lungs from the respirator. But the patient was de-dining. Finally, they stopped."That's it," the surgeon said. He removed his hand from the chest, looked at Roman Jones, and stripped off his gloves. He examined the lacerations across the chest and arms and the dent in the skull. "Probably primary respiratory arrest," he said. "He was. .h.i.t pretty hard over the head." To Hammond: "You going to do the death certificate?" "Yeah," Hammond said, "I'll do it."At that moment, a nurse burst into the room. "Dr. Hammond," she said, "Dr. Jorgensen needs you. They've got a girl in hemorrhagic shock."OUT IN THE HALL, the first one I saw was Peterson. He was standing there in a suit, looking both confused and annoyed. When he saw me he did a double take and plucked at my sleeve."Say, Berry-""Later," I said.I was following Hammond and the nurse down to another treatment room. A girl was there, lying flat, very pale. Her wrists were bandaged. She was conscious, but just barely-her head rolled back and forth, and she made moaning sounds.Jorgensen, the intern, was bent over her. "Got a suicide here," he said to Hammond. "Slashed wrists. We've stopped the bleeding and we're getting whole blood in."He was finding a vein for the IV feeder. Working on the leg."She's cross-matched," he said, slipping the needle in. "We're getting more blood from the bank. She'll take at least two units. Hematocrit's O.K., but that doesn't mean anything.""Why the legs?" Hammond said, nodding to the IV.

"Had to bandage her wrists. Don't want to fool with upper extremities."

I stepped forward. The girl was Angela Harding. She did not look so pretty now; her face was the color of chalk, with a grayish tinge around the mouth.

"What do you think?" Hammond said to Jorgensen.

"We'll keep her," he said. "Unless something goes wrong."Hammond examined the wrists, which were bandaged."Is this the lesion?""Yes. Both sides. We've sutured it."He looked at the hands. The fingers were stained dark brown. He looked at me. "Is this the girl you were talking about?""Yes," I said, "Angela Harding.""Heavy smoker," Hammond said."Try again."Hammond picked up one hand and smelled the stained fingers."These aren't tobacco," he said."That's right.""Then . . ."I nodded. "That's right."". . . she's a nurse.""Yes."The stains were from tincture of iodine, used as a disinfectant. It was a brownish-yellowish liquid, and it stained tissues it came in contact with. It was employed for scrubbing a surgical incision before cutting, and for such other practices as introduction of an IV feeder."I don't get it," Hammond said.I held up her hands. The b.a.l.l.s of the thumb and the backs of the hands were covered with minute slashes which were not deep enough to draw blood."What do you make of this?""Testing." A cla.s.sic finding in suicides by wrist-slashing is one or more preliminary cuts on the hand as if the suicide victim wishes to test the sharpness of the blade or the intensity of the pain that would result."No," I said."Then what?""Ever seen a fellow who's been in a knife fight?"Hammond shook his head. Undoubtedly, he never had. It was the kind of experience one had only as a pathologist: small cuts on the hands were the hallmark of a knife fight. The victim held up his hands to ward off the knife; he ended up with small cuts."Is this the pattern?""Yes.""You mean she was in a knife fight?""Yes.""But why?""Tell you later," I said.

I went back to Roman Jones. He was still in the same room, along with Peterson and another man in a suit, examining the eyes of the body.

"Berry," Peterson said, "you show up at the d.a.m.nedest times."

"So do you.""Yeah," Peterson said, "but it's my job."He nodded toward the other man in the room.

"Since you were so worried the last time, I brought a doctor along. A police doctor. This is a coroner's case now, you know."

"I know.""Fellow by the name of Roman Jones. We got that from the wallet.""Where'd you find him?""Lying on the street. A nice quiet street in Beacon Hill. With his skull bashed in. Must have fallen on his head. There was a broken window two floors up, in an apartment owned by a girl named Angela Harding. She's here, too.""I know.""You know a lot tonight, don't you?"I ignored him. My headache was worse; it was throbbing badly, and I felt terribly tired. I was ready to lie down and go to sleep for a long, long time. But I wasn't relaxed; my stomach was churning.I bent over the body of Roman Jones. Someone had stripped off the clothing to expose multiple, deep lacerations of the trunk and upper arms. The legs were untouched. That, I thought, was characteristic.The doctor straightened and looked at Peterson. "Hard to tell now what the cause of death was," he said. He nodded to the gaping chest wound. "They've messed it up pretty bad. But I'd say crush injury to the cranium. You said he fell from a window?""That's the way we figure it," Peterson said, glancing at me."I'll handle the forms," the doctor said. "Give me the wallet."Peterson gave him Roman Jones' wallet. The doctor began to write on a clipboard at one side of the room. I continued to look at the body. I was particularly interested in the skull. I touched the indentation, and Peterson said, "What're you doing?""Examining the body.""On whose authority?"I sighed. "Whose authority do I need?"He looked confused then.I said, "I'd like your permission to conduct a superficial examination of the body."As I said it, I glanced over at the doctor. He was making notes from the wallet, but I was sure he was listening."There'll be an autopsy," Peterson said."I'd like your permission," I said."You can't have it."At that point, the doctor said, "Oh, for s.h.i.t's sake, Jack."Peterson looked from the police doctor, to me, and back again. Finally he said, "Okay, Berry. Examine. But don't disturb anything."

I looked at the skull lesion. It was a cup-shaped indentation roughly the size of a man's fist, but it hadn't been made by any fist. It had been made by the end of a stick, or a pipe, swung with considerable force. I looked more closely and saw small brown slivers of wood sticking to the b.l.o.o.d.y scalp. I didn't touch them.

"You say this skull fracture was caused by a fall?""Yes," Peterson said. "Why?""Just asking.""Why?""What about the lacerations of the body?" I said.

"We figure he got those in the apartment. Apparently he had a fight with this girl, Angela Harding. There was a b.l.o.o.d.y kitchen knife in the apartment. She must have gone after him. Anyway, he fell out of the window or was pushed out. And he got this fracture, which killed him."

He paused and looked at me."Go on," I said."That's all there is to tell," he said.I nodded, left the room, and returned with a needle and syringe. I bent over the body and jabbed the needle into the neck, hoping for the jugular vein. There was no point in fooling with arm veins, not now."What're you doing?""Drawing blood," I said, pulling back the syringe and drawing out several milliliters of bluish blood."What for?""I want to know whether he was poisoned," 1 said. It was the first thought, the first answer, that came into my head."Poisoned?""Yes.""Why do you think he was poisoned?""Just a hunch," I said.I dropped the syringe into my pocket and startedto leave. Peterson watched me, then said, "Just wait a minute."I paused."I have one or two questions for you.""Oh?""The way we figure it," Peterson said, "this fellow and Angela Harding had a fight. Then Jones fell, and the girl attempted suicide.""You already told me that.""There's only one problem," Peterson said. "Jones is a big fellow. He must have gone one-ninety, two hundred. You think a little girl like Angela Harding could have shoved him out?""Maybe he fell.""Maybe she had help.""Maybe she did."He looked at my face, at the bandage covering my cut. "Have some trouble tonight?""Yes.""What happened?""I fell on the wet streets.""Then you have an abrasion?"

"No. I fell against one of the city's excellent parking meters. I have a laceration."

"A jagged laceration.""No, quite fine.""Like Roman Jones'?""I don't know.""Ever met Jones before?""Yes.""Oh? When?""Tonight. About three hours ago.""That's interesting," Peterson said."Do your best with it," I said. "I wish you luck.""I could take you in for questioning.""Sure you could," I said. "But on what charge?"He shrugged. "Accessory. Anything."

"And I'd have a lawsuit on you so fast your head would swim. I'd have two million dollars out of your hide before you knew what hit you."

"Just for questioning?""That's right," I said. "Compromising a doctor's reputation. A doctor's reputation is his life, you know. Anything, even the slightest shadow of suspicion, is potentially damaging-financially damaging. I could very easily prove damages in court.""Art Lee doesn't take that att.i.tude."I smiled. "Want to bet?"I continued on. Peterson said, "How much do you weigh, Doctor?""One hundred and eighty-five pounds," I said. "The same as I weighed eight years ago.""Eight years ago?""Yes," I said, "when I was a cop."MY HEAD FELT AS IF IT WERE IN A VISE. The pain was throbbing, aching, agonizing. On my way down the corridor, I felt sudden and severe nausea. I stopped in the men's room and vomited up the sandwich and coffee I had eaten. I felt weak, with cold sweat afterward, but that pa.s.sed and I was better. I went back and returned to Hammond. throbbing, aching, agonizing. On my way down the corridor, I felt sudden and severe nausea. I stopped in the men's room and vomited up the sandwich and coffee I had eaten. I felt weak, with cold sweat afterward, but that pa.s.sed and I was better. I went back and returned to Hammond."How do you feel?""You're getting monotonous," I said."You look like h.e.l.l," he said. "Like you're about to be sick.""I'm not," I said.I took the syringe with Jones' blood from my pocket and set it on the bedside table. I picked up a fresh syringe and went."Can you find me a mouse?" I said."A mouse?""Yes."He frowned. "There are some rats in Cochran's lab; it may be open now.""I need mice.""I can try," he said.We headed for the bas.e.m.e.nt. On the way, a nurse stopped Hammond to say that Angela Harding's parents had been called. Hammond said to let him know when they arrived or when the girl recovered consciousness.

We went down to the bas.e.m.e.nt and moved through a maze of corridors, crouching beneath pipes. Eventually we came to the animal-storage area. Like most large hospitals connected with a university, the Mem had a research wing, and many animals were used in experiments. We heard barking dogs and the soft flutter of birds' wings as we pa.s.sed room after room. Finally we came to one which said MINOR SUBJECTS. Hammond pushed it open.

It was lined, floor to ceiling, with row after row of rats and mice. The smell was strong and distinc-tive. Every young doctor knew that smell, and it was just as well, because it had clinical significance. The breath of patients in hepatic failure from liver disease had a peculiar odor known as fetor hepaticus; fetor hepaticus; it was very similar to the smell of a room full of mice. it was very similar to the smell of a room full of mice.

We found one mouse and Hammond plucked it from the cage in the accepted manner, by the tail. The mouse squirmed and tried to bite Hammond's hand, but had no success. Hammond set it down on the table and held the animal by a fold of loose flesh just behind the head.

"Now what?"I picked up the syringe and injected some of the blood from Roman Jones' body. Then Hammond dropped the mouse in a gla.s.s jar.For a long time, the mouse did nothing but run around the jar in circles."Well?" Hammond said."It's your failing," I said. "You aren't a pathologist. Have you ever heard of the mouse test?""No.""It's an old test. It used to be the only bioa.s.say available.""Bioa.s.say? For what?""Morphine," I said.The mouse continued to run in circles. Then it seemed to slow, its muscles becoming tense, and the tail stuck straight up in the air."Positive," I said."For morphine?""Right."There were better tests now, such as nalorphine, but for a dead person, the mouse test remained as good as any."He's an addict?" Hammond said. Yes."And the girl?""We're about to find out," I said.She was conscious when we returned, tired and sad-eyed after taking three units2 of blood. But she was no more tired than I was. I felt a deep, overpowering fatigue, a kind of general weakness, a great desire to sleep. of blood. But she was no more tired than I was. I felt a deep, overpowering fatigue, a kind of general weakness, a great desire to sleep.There was a nurse in the room who said, "Her pressure's up to one hundred over sixty-five.""Good," I said. I fought back the fatigue and went up to her, patted her hand. "How are you feeling, Angela?"Her voice was flat. "Like h.e.l.l.""You're going to be all right.""I failed," she said in a dull monotone."How do you mean?"A tear ran down her cheek. "I failed, that's all. I tried it and I failed.""You're all right now.""Yes," she said. "I failed.""We'd like to talk to you," I said.She turned her head away. "Leave me alone.""Angela, this is very important."

2 A liter and a half.

"d.a.m.n all doctors," she said. "Why couldn't you leave me alone? I wanted to be left alone. That's why I did it, to be left alone."

"The police found you."She gave a choking laugh. "Doctors and cops.""Angela, we need your help."

"No." She raised her bandaged wrists and looked at them. "No. Never."

"I'm sorry, then." I turned to Hammond and said, "Get me some nalorphine."

I was certain the girl had heard me, but she did not react."How much?""Ten milligrams," I said. "A good dose.'Angela gave a slight shiver, but said nothing."Is that all right with you, Angela?"

She looked up at me and her eyes were filled with anger and something else, almost hope. She knew what it meant, all right.

"What did you say?" she asked."I said, is it all right if we give you ten milligrams of nalorphine.""Sure," she said. "Anything. I don't care."Nalorphine was an antagonist of morphine.3 If this girl was an addict, it would bring her down with brutal swiftness-possibly fatal swiftness, if we used enough. If this girl was an addict, it would bring her down with brutal swiftness-possibly fatal swiftness, if we used enough.A nurse came in. She blinked when she did not3 Actually a partial agonist, meaning that in low doses it has a morphinelike effect, but in high doses in an addict, it induces withdrawal symptoms.recognize me, but recovered quickly. "Doctor, Mrs. Harding is here. The police called her.""All right. I'll see her."I went out into the corridor. A woman and man were standing there nervously. The man was tall, wearing clothes he had obviously put on hurriedly- his socks didn't match. The woman was handsome and concerned. Looking at her face, I had the strange feeling I had met her before, though I was certain I had not. There was something very, almost hauntingly, familiar about her features."I'm Dr. Berry.""Tom Harding." The man held out his hand and shook mine quickly, as if he were wringing it. "And Mrs. Harding.""How do you do."I looked at them both. They seemed like nice fifty-year-old people, very surprised to find themselves in a hospital EW at four in the morning with a daughter who'd just slashed her wrists.Mr. Harding cleared his throat and said, "The, uh, nurse told us what happened. To Angela.""She's going to be all right," I said."Can we see her?" Mrs. Harding said."Not right now. We're still conducting some tests.""Then it isn't-""No," I said, "these are routine tests."

Tom Harding nodded. "I told my wife it'd be all right. Angela's a nurse in this hospital, and I told her they'd take good care of her."

"Yes," I said. "We're doing our best.""Is she really all right?" Mrs. Harding said."Yes, she's going to be fine."Mrs. Harding said to Tom, "Better call Leland and tell him he doesn't have to come over.""He's probably already on his way.""Well, try," Mrs. Harding said."There's a phone at the admitting desk," I said.Tom Harding left to call. I said to Mrs. Harding, "Are you calling your family doctor?""No," she said, "my brother. He's a doctor, and he was always very fond of Angela, ever since she was a little girl. He-""Leland Weston," I said, recognizing her face."Yes," she said. "Do you know him?""He's an old friend."

Before she could answer, Hammond returned with the nalorphine and syringe. He said, "Do you really think we should-"

"Dr. Hammond, this is Mrs. Harding," I said quickly. "This is Dr. Hammond, the chief medical resident.""Doctor." Mrs. Harding nodded slightly, but her eyes were suddenly watchful."Your daughter's going to be fine," Hammond said."I'm glad to hear that," she said. But her tone was cool.We excused ourselves and went back to Angela."I HOPE TO h.e.l.l you know what you're doing," Hammond said as we walked down the hall.

"I do." I paused at a water fountain and filled a cup with water. I drank it down, then filled it again. My headache was now very bad, and my sleepiness was terrible. I wanted to lie down, to forget everything, to sleep. ...

But I didn't say anything. I knew what Hammond would do if he found out.

"I know what I'm doing," I said."I hope so," he said, "because if anything goes wrong, I'm responsible. I'm the resident in charge.""I know. Don't worry.""Worry, h.e.l.l. Ten milligrams of this stuff will shove her into cold turkey so fast-""Don't worry."

"It could kill her. We ought to be doing graded doses. Start with two, and if there's no effect in twenty minutes, go to five, and so on."

"Yes," I said. "But graded doses won't kill her."