Recessional: A Novel (65 page)

“Let’s get to the bottom of this, Mr. Hasslebrook. You seem to be a reasonable man, strong in your own opinions and affiliated with a powerful organization. I don’t fully understand why you chose to come to the Palms. Please explain.”

Hasslebrook, mistakenly supposing that the health magnate was willing to dicker, wanted to make his case as easily understood as possible: “Quite simple, sir. Our national organization decided to target the Palms and its loose administration. My board dispatched me here to monitor the operations of your Extended Care facility. Rumor had it that like many institutions you were allowing very liberal interpretations of living wills and we were determined to halt such activity.”

Hasslebrook was so mesmerized by what he assumed would be an easy triumph for him that he failed to see that Taggart’s jaw muscles were practically standing out from his face, so grimly did he take this almost amateurish attempt to blackmail him. He had not become master of a nationwide operation without having faced numerous opponents determined to prevent him from doing what he saw was both right and legal. But he had won his fights by being reasonable, by listening to his opposition, and by reaching a solution that allowed his adversaries to save face when possible.

He now reverted to that time-tested strategy: “I have great respect for the basic motives of your organization, Mr. Hasslebrook. Old people need and deserve protection. But, I repeat, why did you target the Palms?”

“Simple,” Hasslebrook explained, rather proud of his tactics. “We find it best to attack the best. Gives us more media.” He paused ominously, then added: “Besides, you are a massive target—you have nursing homes everywhere.”

“We never use that phrase.”

“We do,” and for a moment it seemed the two men had reached
an impasse, but then Taggart proved his wiliness. He asked calmly: “Tell me, Mr. Hasslebrook, how did Dr. Zorn become so distasteful to you? What did he do wrong?”

“He was basically in favor of the living will, liberally viewed. He advocated an easy interpretation of it on your third floor. He was a radical in his thinking about medical matters. And he opposed me in practically everything I wanted to do.”

“Didn’t you think such a reaction likely, when you slipped in here as a kind of industrial spy?”

“Monitor. To supervise adherence to the law. To serve as the protector of the aged who might otherwise be shuffled off to their deaths.”

“And you centered on Zorn as the official who
might
interfere with your plans? Because he
might
honor the legitimate living wills?”

“Yes. He was the enemy and he proved it.”

Taggart knew that now was the time to encourage Hasslebrook to reveal his strategy: “So what do you want me to do?”

“I want you to fire Dr. Zorn. Get him off these premises.” Before Taggart could respond, he added: “And don’t transfer him to one of your other centers, because we’ll track him there. The man’s a killer and our society demands that he be outlawed.”

Taggart was shocked by the arrogance of this demand, but also by its ramifications. If he surrendered to Life Is Sacred in this first confrontation he could see them demanding that all his centers ban the execution of legal living wills, and that demand, if made, he could not agree to. But to fire a young man as capable as Andy Zorn, especially since he had just married under emotional circumstances, was repugnant. Hasslebrook, sensing something of this in the long silence, helped the Chicagoan to make up his mind: “We will stigmatize your entire chain with the name Murder Mansions.”

In search of a rational explanation, Taggart asked: “Why are you doing this? What do you get out of it?”

“The satisfaction that we’re protecting human life from the murderers who would corrupt our society, to keep America from going the way Hitler’s Germany did,” and he said these words with such profound conviction that Taggart drew back and stared at him.

“You really believe that, don’t you?” and Hasslebrook replied: “Yes.” When Taggart asked: “So this fight could be maintained against us permanently?” he replied: “Yes. Wherever he hides, if it involves health services we’ll be there to expose him.”

John Taggart had heard enough. Leaning forward and fixing his eyes on his visitor he said in a low, steely voice seething with contempt: “Hasslebrook, you’re a cheap, pitiful blackmailer. Men like you grab hold of a worthy cause and put it to unworthy purposes. No, don’t interrupt. It’s time you heard this. You’ve declared war against a fine young doctor, and every charge you make is spurious. Zorn’s supervision of our Extended Care facility has been impeccable. He has never urged euthanasia, only tried to respect the law. He’s never interfered with operations there, as the presence of at least three elderly patients attests. And as you well know, we’ve kept Mrs. Carlson mechanically alive for over two years.”

“But he wants to authorize execution of living wills.”

“Only when they conform in every detail with the new Florida laws. So to satisfy your personal lust for vengeance, you would destroy one of the ablest, most compassionate young men in our system?”

“That’s our demand.”

“Not your organization’s. Yours personally.” Striding to the door, he opened it and shouted: “Krenek, come in here!” and when the assistant appeared, Taggart said almost brutally: “Ken, I want this miserable SOB off these premises by nightfall. Pay him any refund to which he’s entitled and find him quarters in town as good as what he has here, but at a lower price.”

“If you try to throw me out of the Palms I’ll sue you in every court in the land. All sorts of laws will support me.”

Taggart smiled and pulled out of his breast pocket a tiny recording device: “Mr. Hasslebrook, I doubt you’ll be heading for any courtroom unless I decide to drag you there.” He smiled broadly, tapped the ingenious machine and said: “The Sony people in Tokyo are to be commended. They invented this little box, a scientific marvel. It contains a powerful microphone that can record even whispers in a room, every syllable, loud and clear. Ken, fetch Dr. Zorn and Nora. I want witnesses.”

When the group was assembled, Taggart activated the rewind button and out of the little box came the whining voice of Clarence Hasslebrook as clearly audible as if he were again saying the words that condemned him: “I want you to fire Dr. Zorn. Get him off these premises. And don’t transfer him to one of your other centers, because we’ll track him there. The man’s a killer and our society insists that he be outlawed.”

Ashen-faced, Hasslebrook cried: “That’s illegal. The law says you can’t tape a conversation without warning the speaker.”

“Yes, it is illegal. But when it’s used to uncover a greater illegality it can achieve its purpose. Imagine a transcript being handed to the newspapers.” In the silence that followed, each person in the room visualized the effect of such a release on Hasslebrook and his organization’s reputation and mode of operation. Quietly Taggart advised: “So I think, Mr. Hasslebrook, that you’d better scurry out of here and surrender in your fight against Dr. Zorn,” and he turned the blackmailer over to Ken Krenek.

When Taggart and Zorn were left alone, Andy reached a momentous decision, which he reported immediately to his boss: “Mr. Taggart, I quit.”

“Quit what? Smoking?”

“My job here at the Palms.”

Taggart was aghast: “You’re one of the best directors we’ve ever had. How could you have such a silly idea?”

“Two very strong reasons. First, I can’t allow you to keep me on if it means endless warfare with Hasslebrook and his committee.”

“Andy, I’ve shown how we handle a jerk like that. Throw him out and dare him to challenge us in the courts.”

“But I heard his threat on the tape: ‘Wherever he hides, if it involves health services, we’ll be there to expose him.’ That’s ominous.” After attempting a wan smile, he added: “But my second reason is the real one. I want to be a full-fledged doctor again, not an administrator of health services in which other doctors do the healing and I do the paperwork.”

“A passing regret. Here at the Palms you’ve found your true calling. These people love you. There’s no limit to the heights to which you can rise with us. I can’t remain in control forever.”

“I’ve been looking through the medical journals—where communities advertise for doctors to move into their areas—”

“Those ads are for men ten years younger than you, Andy. Throw away those boyhood dreams and get down to your life’s work.” He reflected for a moment, then said: “We’ve been thinking of moving you to Southern California, whip our centers there into the kind of productivity you’ve achieved here.”

“Too late. I’m on another track. The one for which I trained.”

“You really mean that, don’t you? You’ve allowed Hasslebrook to scare you?” Before Andy could respond, the battle-scarred veteran
looked at the ceiling and said: “Andy, I’ve had to fight the Hasslebrooks of this world, endlessly. You must do the same, and the place to start is with our organization. Will you take the California job?”

“No.”

Taggart started to make several points but did not finish. Instead he said: “I think we ought to inform Mrs. Zorn of this startling development,” and he called for Krenek to bring Betsy to the meeting. When she arrived, walking awkwardly but without a cane, he told her: “Your husband has quit his job with us.” He expected her to protest, perhaps tearfully, but she smiled, reached for Andy’s hand and said: “I’m not surprised. He’s been talking that way for some time—even writing to distant communities that were searching for a doctor.”

“But he also refused a grand new job I offered him—in Southern California—our holdings there.”

“No, Andy’s gone far past the stage of managing health services. He wants to participate actively in dispensing them, and I agree.”

“But he’ll never make the income in some backwater community that he already earns with us, and in California that fee could be doubled.”

“Andy wants to be a self-respecting doctor, and as for fees, my mother left me a small trust—its interest will enable us to live decently, even comfortably. So I support his decision.”

Taggart stared at this strong-willed woman, tapped the desk and said: “You’re as crazy as he is. All I can do is wish you both the best of luck.”

“My good luck started when I insisted on moving down here from Chattanooga. Nurse Nora and that wild Georgian Yancey saved my life, and I became Mrs. Andy Zorn.”

“Well, we still have to run this place,” the tycoon said. “Better assemble the staff.”

“We must start with Nurse Varney,” Andy said. “She’s the one who does the work.” When she entered the office she was not aware of who the visitor was.

“Nora, this is John Taggart, head of our chain. Mr. Taggart, this is Nurse Varney, the guiding spirit of our operation.” As the two shook hands, Andy said: “For a variety of reasons, none of which dishonors anyone, I’m leaving the Palms.”

“Where you going?”

“I don’t know yet. Some small town—to be a doctor again.”

The big nurse smiled at a decision she supported, but tears also came to her eyes. “I hate to see you go. People need you here, Andy.” And then she made an unfortunate statement that altered the tone of the meeting: “Dr. Leitonen won’t be able to get along with you gone.”

“Who’s he?” Taggart asked, and she made matters worse by explaining: “He’s the Swedish doctor, the only one with the courage to care for young men dying of AIDS.”

Both Betsy and Andy could see Taggart freeze at the injection of that word into the discussion. Coldly the tycoon said: “Then Hasslebrook’s photographs were right. You have been mixed up with that, too?” He did not try to conceal his intense distaste, and all that Andy could say was: “He’s not Swedish, he’s Finnish.”

Taggart did not reply. He was thinking: I’ve proved I could protect both the centers and Zorn from the evil attacks of Hasslebrook. But if AIDS was associated publicly with our centers, the damage might be irreparable—to everybody. Reluctantly he looked at the newly married couple and said: “Maybe it’s for the best,” and Andy’s resignation was accepted.

On a cold midnight in mid-December the Duchess was awakened from a restless sleep at some time past twelve by a noise that sent a chill down her spine. It sounded as if someone was quietly parking his car in the space on the oval that had always belonged to her, and she reacted with anger. It was not only the trespass that annoyed her. She’d had some difficulty with her Bentley and had asked the local garage if they could send a man to take it away, on the twice-repeated understanding that he would have it back by eight the next morning, for she had planned to visit friends in Tampa before nine. If the garage man arrived to find her parking space occupied, there might have to be some telephoning back and forth with the possibility the Bentley would be taken back to the garage. And then what?

Rising from her bed and peeking out her front window, she saw that her suspicion was correct. A dark-colored Chevrolet with no visible front license plate now filled her space, and with no one in the driver’s seat it was apparent that it was supposed to remain there all night. She put on a peignoir over her nightgown, then a loose coat with big pockets, with the intention of going out to take down the number of the interloper. Before quitting her apartment she tucked into her pocket a six-shot revolver she used on such missions. She
had found it a highly effective scare tactic. Outside on the oval’s driveway while she was busy writing down the car’s license number, she heard what sounded to her like loud dull thumps, which seemed to come not from inside Gateways but from some point well outside the wall, perhaps toward the river.

Mystified by the sound, she stuck her right hand into her pocket, grasped her revolver and readied it for action by cocking it while it was still in her pocket. Then, gingerly, for apparently no one else had heard the noise, she headed for the entrance and back to her apartment. But as she entered the hallway she found herself face-to-face with two swarthy men running directly at her. In that instant she knew that they had been up to some mischief in Gateways, and almost automatically she whipped out her gun and confronted them before they could dash past her. The man in front, the bigger of the two, seeing her revolver, reached for his own but she fired first, hitting him right above the heart and tearing a big, bloody wound in his chest. Dropping immediately at her feet, he had no chance to fire his gun.