Contagion (10 page)

     As soon as the video stopped, the lights came on. For a few moments no one spoke. Finally Colleen broke the silence. “You don't like it,” she said.

     “It's cute,” Terese admitted.

     “The idea is to make the doll reflect different illnesses and injuries in different commercials,” Colleen said. “Of course, we'd have the child speak and extol the virtues of National Health in the video versions. In print we'd make sure the picture told the story.”

     “The problem is it's too cute,” Terese said. “Even if I think it has some merit, I'm sure the client won't like it, since Helen via Robert would certainly trivialize it.”

     “It's the best that we've come up with so far,” Colleen said. “You'll have to give us some direction. We need a creative brief from you; otherwise we'll just keep wandering all over the conceptual landscape. Then there will be no chance to put anything together for next week.”

     “We have to come up with something that sets National Health apart from AmeriCare even though we know they are equivalent. The challenge is finding that one idea,” Terese said.

     Colleen motioned for her assistant to leave. Once she had, Colleen took a chair and put it in front of Terese's. “We need more of your direct involvement,” she said.

     Terese nodded. She knew Colleen was right, but Terese felt mentally paralyzed. “The problem is that it's hard to think with this presidency situation hanging over me like the sword of Damocles.”

     “I think you've got yourself in overdrive,” Colleen said. “You're a ball of nerves.”

     “So what else is new?” Terese said.

     “When was the last time you went out for dinner and a few drinks?” Colleen said.

     Terese laughed. “I haven't had time for anything like that for months.”

     “That's my point,” Colleen said. “No wonder your creative juices aren't flowing. You need to relax. Even if it's just for a few hours.”

     “You really think so?” Terese asked.

     “Absolutely,” Colleen said. “In fact we're going out tonight. We'll go to dinner and we'll have a few drinks. We'll even try not to talk about advertising for one night.”

     “I don't know,” Terese voiced. “We've got this deadline...”

     “That's exactly my point,” Colleen said. “We need to blow the tubes and clear out the cobwebs.

     Maybe then we'll come up with that big idea. So don't argue. I'm. not taking no for an answer.”

     8

     WEDNESDAY, 4:35 P.M., MARCH 20, 1996

     Jack navigated his mountain bike between the two Health and Hospital Corporation mortuary vans parked at the receiving bay at the medical examiner's office and rode directly into the morgue.

     Under normal circumstances he'd have dismounted by then and walked the bike, but he was in too good a mood.

     Jack parked his bike by the Hart Island coffins, locked it up, then whistled on his way to the elevators. He waved to Sal D'Ambrosio as he passed the mortuary office.

     “Chet, my boy, how are you?” Jack asked as he breezed into their shared fifth-floor office.

     Chet laid his pen down on his desk and turned to face his officemate. “The world's been in here looking for you. What have you been doing?”

     “Indulging myself,” Jack said. He peeled off his leather jacket and draped it over the back of his desk chair before sitting down. He surveyed his row of files, deciding which one to attack first.

     His in-basket had a newly replenished pile of lab results and PA reports.

     “I wouldn't get too comfortable,” Chet said. “One of those looking for you was Bingham himself. He told me to tell you to come directly to his office.”

     “How nice,” Jack said. “I was afraid he'd forgotten about me.”

     “I wouldn't be so flippant about it,” Chet said. “Bingham was not happy. And Calvin stopped by as well. He'd like to see you, too, and smoke was coming out of his ears.”

     “Undoubtedly he's eager to pay me my ten dollars,” Jack said. He got up from his desk and patted Chet on the shoulder. “Don't worry about me. I have a strong survival instinct.”

     “You could have fooled me,” Chet said.

     As Jack descended in the elevator, he was curious how Bingham would handle the current situation. Since Jack had started working at the ME office, he'd had only sporadic contact with the chief. The day-to-day administrative problems were all handled by Calvin.

     “You can go right in,” Mrs. Sanford said without even looking up from her typing. Jack wondered how she knew it was he.

     “Close the door,” Dr. Harold Bingham commanded.

     Jack did as he was told. Bingham's office was spacious with a large desk set back under high windows covered with ancient venetian blinds. At the opposite end of the room was a library table with a teaching microscope. A glass-fronted bookcase lined the far wall. “Sit down,” Bingham said. Dutifully Jack sat.

     “I'm not sure I understand you,” Bingham said in his deep, husky voice. “You apparently made a rather brilliant diagnosis of plague today and then foolishly took it upon yourself to call my boss, the Commissioner of Health. Either you are a completely apolitical creature or you have a self-destructive streak.”

     “It's probably a combination of the two,” Jack said.

     “You're also impertinent,” Bingham said.

     “That's part of the self-destructive streak,” Jack said. “On the positive side, I'm honest.” He smiled.

     Bingham shook his head. Jack was testing his ability to control himself. “Just so I can try to understand,” he said as he entwined the fingers of his shovel-like hands, “did you not think that I would find it inappropriate for you to call the commissioner before talking with me?”

     “Chet McGovern suggested as much,” Jack said. “But I was more concerned about getting the word out. Ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, especially if we're looking at a potential epidemic.”

     There was a moment of silence while Bingham considered Jack's statement, which he had to admit contained a modicum of validity. “The second thing I wanted to discuss was your visit to the Manhattan General. Frankly, your decision to do this surprises me. During your orientation I know you were told that our policy is to rely on our excellent PAs to do site work. You do remember that, don't you?”

     “Certainly I remember,” Jack said. “But I felt that the appearance of plague was unique enough to demand a unique response. Besides, I was curious.”

     “Curious!” Bingham blurted out. He momentarily lost control. “That's the lamest excuse for ignoring established policy I've heard in years.”

     “Well, there was more,” Jack admitted. “Knowing the General was an AmeriCare hospital, I wanted to go over there and rub it in a little. I'm not fond of AmeriCare.”

     “What in heaven's name do you have against AmeriCare?” Bingham asked.

     “It's a personal thing,” Jack said.

     “Would you care to elaborate?” Bingham asked.

     “I'd rather not,” Jack said. “It's a long story.”

     “Suit yourself,” Bingham said irritably. “But I'm not going to tolerate your going over there flashing your medical examiner badge for some personal vendetta. That's an egregious misuse of official authority.”

     “I thought our mandate was to get involved in anything that could affect public health,” Jack said. “Certainly a case of plague falls under that rubric.”

     “Indeed,” Bingham pronounced. “But you had already alerted the Commissioner of Health. She in turn alerted the City Board of Health, who immediately dispatched the chief epidemiologist. You had no business being over there, much less causing trouble.”

     “What kind of trouble did I cause?” Jack asked.

     “You managed to irritate hell out of both the administrator and the city epidemiologist,” Bingham roared. “Both of them were mad enough to lodge official complaints. The administrator called the mayor's office, and the epidemiologist called the commissioner. Both of these public servants can be considered my boss, and neither one of them was pleased, and both of them let me know about it.”

     “I was just trying to be helpful,” Jack said innocently.

     “Well, do me a favor and don't try to be helpful,” Bingham snapped. “Instead I want you to stay around here where you belong and do the work you were hired to do. Calvin informed me that you have a lot of cases pending.”

     “Is that it?” Jack asked when Bingham paused.

     “For now,” Bingham said.

     Jack got up and headed for the door.

     “One last thing,” Bingham said. “Remember that you are on probation for the first year.”

     “I'll keep that in mind,” Jack said.

     Leaving Bingham's office, Jack passed Mrs. Sanford and went directly across to Calvin Washington's office. The door was ajar. Calvin was busy at his microscope.

     “Excuse me,” Jack called out. “I understand you were looking for me.”

     Calvin turned around and eyed Jack. “Have you been in to see the chief yet?” he growled.

     “Just came from there,” Jack said. “It's reassuring to be in such demand around here.”

     “Dispense with your smartass talk,” Calvin said. “What did Dr. Bingham say?”

     Jack told Calvin what had been said and that Bingham had concluded by reminding him that he was on probation.

     “Damn straight,” Calvin said. “I think you'd better shape up or you'll be out looking for work.”

     “Meanwhile I have one request,” Jack said.

     “What is it?” Calvin asked.

     “How about that ten dollars you owe me,” Jack said.

     Calvin stared back at Jack, amazed that under the circumstances Jack had the gall to ask for the money. Finally Calvin rolled to the side in his seat, withdrew his wallet, and pulled out a ten-dollar bill.

     “I'll get this back,” Calvin vowed.

     “Sure you will,” Jack said as he took the bill.

     With the money comfortably in his pocket, Jack returned upstairs to his office. As he entered he was surprised to find Laurie leaning against Chet's desk. Both she and Chet looked at Jack with expectant concern. “Well?” Chet questioned.

     “Well what?” Jack asked. He squeezed by the others to plop down in his seat.

     “Are you still employed?” Chet asked.

     “Seems that way,” Jack said. He started going through the lab reports in his in-basket.

     “You'd better be careful,” Laurie advised as she started for the door. “They can fire you at their pleasure during your first year.”

     “So Bingham reminded me,” Jack said.

     Pausing at the threshold, Laurie turned back to face Jack, “I almost got fired my first year,” she admitted.

     Jack looked up at her. “How come?” he asked.

     “It had to do with those challenging overdose cases I mentioned this morning,” Laurie said.

     “Unfortunately, while I followed up on them I got on the wrong side of Bingham.”

     “Is that part of that long story you alluded to?” Jack asked.

     “That's the one,” Laurie said. “I came this close to being fired.” She held up her thumb and index finger about a quarter inch apart. “It was all because I didn't take Bingham's threats seriously. Don't make the same mistake.”

     As soon as Laurie had gone Chet wanted a verbatim recounting of everything Bingham had said. Jack related what he could remember, including the part about the mayor and the Commissioner of Health calling Bingham to complain about him.

     “The complaints were about you specifically?” Chet asked. “Apparently,” Jack said. “And here I was being the Good Samaritan.”

     “What in God's name did you do?” Chet asked.

     “I was just being my usual diplomatic self,” Jack said. “Asking questions and offering suggestions.”

     “You're crazy,” Chet said. “You almost got yourself fired for what? I mean, what were you trying to prove?”

     “I wasn't trying to prove anything,” Jack said.

     “I don't understand you,” Chet said.

     “That seems to be a universal opinion,” Jack said.

     “All I know about you is that you were an ophthalmologist in a former life and you live in Harlem to play street basketball. What else do you do?”

     “That about sums it up,” Jack said. “Apart from working here, that is.”

     “What do you do for fun?” Chet asked. “I mean, what kind of social life do you have? I don't mean to pry, but do you have a girlfriend?”

     “No, not really,” Jack said.

     “Are you gay?”

     “Nope. I've just sorta been out of commission for a while.”

     “Well, no wonder you're acting so weird. I tell you what. We're going out tonight. We'll have some dinner, maybe have a few drinks. There's a comfortable bar in the neighborhood where I live. It will give us time to talk.”

     “I haven't felt like talking much about myself,” Jack said.

     “All right, you don't have to talk,” Chet said. “But we're going out. I think you need some normal human contact.”

     “What's normal?” Jack questioned.

     9

     WEDNESDAY, 10:15 P.M., MARCH 20, 1996

     Chet turned out to be extraordinarily resolute. No matter what Jack said, he insisted that they have dinner together. Finally Jack relented, and just before eight he’d ridden his bike across Central Park to meet Chet in an Italian restaurant on Second Avenue.

     After dinner Chet had been equally insistent about Jack’s accompanying him for a few drinks. Feeling beholden to his officemate since Chet had insisted on paying for the dinner, Jack had gone along. Now, as they mounted the steps to the bar, Jack was having second thoughts. For the past several years he’d been in bed by ten and up by five. At ten-fifteen after a half bottle of wine, he was fading fast. “I’m not sure I’m up for this,” Jack said.

     “We’re already here,” Chet complained. “Come on in. We’ll just have one beer.”

     Jack leaned back to look at the facade of the bar. He didn’t see a name.

     “What’s this place called?” he asked.