Michael Palmer - The Society

“Why not William?” he asked as his mother was cleaning him up from yet another losing fight.

“Too common,” was her stock answer.

Then, when Will was eight, Willard, the story of a social misfit who raised rats to be killers, hit the movie houses. Three years of being called Ratboy honed his temper and fighting skills, and cemented his feelings.

Willard.

“So, I think we’re ready, yes?”

Will spun to the voice. Tom Lemm appeared calm enough. He was, as usual, conservatively dressed-dark suit, solid brown bow tie.

“Ready as we’re going to be.”

“I checked the PowerPoint stuff. It looks pretty darn good if I do say so.”

“PowerPoint always looks good. What we have is pretty dry, Tom.”

“Facts, not anecdotes. That’s what Jeremy said would win the day for us. I thought we agreed on that.”

“I suppose we did. Tell me something, how did they know my name was Willard?”

“No idea. Not from me, that’s for sure. You’ve always been Will to me. Why, is there a problem?”

“No. No problem. Who’s Marshall Gold?”

“Halliday’s business manager and right-hand man-sort of a data nerd, I think. I just met him for the first time.”

“I’ve never even met Halliday in person.”

“Well, thar she blows,” Lemm said, indicating a pair of men just to their left. “Let’s get the intros over with.”

Marshall Gold, late forties, close-cropped gray-black hair, gold wire-rimmed glasses, met them first and shook Will’s hand firmly.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Dr. Grant,” he said, perhaps maintaining his grip for an extra instant. “You have the reputation as quite an excellent surgeon. We’re happy to have you on our panel of provider physicians.”

“Thanks. Is that your job, the provider panel?”

“Along with the other duties that go along with being Mr. Halliday’s personal assistant. I understand you two haven’t met each other yet. We should take care of that right now.”

Will had seen some photos of the Excelsius Health CEO, but none of them conveyed the force of the man. He was slightly taller than Will, perhaps six-one, with dense, pure white hair, the weathered face of an outdoorsman, and eyes so intensely gray that Will wondered if he was wearing some sort of tinted contacts.

“So, Dr. Grant,” he said, impaling Will with those eyes. “After years of sniping at us in the press, you finally get the chance at an all-out frontal assault.”

Will was immediately en garde.

“I hadn’t intended any sort of assault, Mr. Halliday, just a dissemination of the facts as I know them.”

“Yes, of course, facts. That will be refreshing.”

That did it. Halliday had only one chance to make a first impression, and as far as Will was concerned he had used his poorly. They were enemies and would remain so until the man did something incredibly admirable.

“I had been led to believe that this evening was going to be a civil discussion of the issues,” Will said, feeling the heat in his face that used to follow being called Willard.

Halliday’s smile held no warmth.

“Dr. Grant, you are publicity director of an organization that is trying to hurt my company, if not put it out of business altogether. I intend to be civil with you only as it suits my purposes.”

“Well, well, well, I see that we’ve all gotten acquainted with one another,” Roselyn Morton gushed as she approached the four combatants.

She was a lusty woman, straight out of the society pages, meticulously coifed and wearing a form-fitting designer dress that aesthetically could have been a size larger, or even two. The four men introduced themselves and shook her hand, although it was clear to Will that she and Halliday had some prior connection.

Morton took several minutes to review the format of the evening, which she said was to be a brisk, issue-oriented presentation and discussion surrounding managed care. There was to be a fifteen-minute opening from each side, followed by ten minutes each spent addressing the points made by the other. Next there would be five questions for each team chosen by a Wellness Project committee from audience submissions, with a strict two-minute limit on the answers.

“If I tell either of you that time is up, I would like you to stop immediately,” she said. “Mr. Gold and Dr. Lemm may speak at any time, but the minutes they take will be counted against your side. Lastly, there will be five minutes for each team for summation. The side that goes first at the beginning will go last here. If all goes well, we’ll be done in an hour and twenty minutes. Questions?”

“Who goes first?” Will asked.

Roselyn Morton looked over at Halliday.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Dr. Grant,” Halliday said. “I was asked about this a couple of weeks ago, and said it was perfectly all right with me if your side went first.”

“Did Dr. Purcell know that?”

“I assume so.”

“Well, he didn’t say anything to me about it.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Morton pleaded, “supposing we simply flip a coin. Winner goes first. Dr. Grant?”

“Heads,” Will said, certain only that if Halliday wanted him to go first, there must be some disadvantage for him to do so.

“Heads it is,” Morton sang out.

From a spot beside the stage, Will and Tom Lemm watched the sellout crowd assemble. There were uniformed security people patrolling the main floor and up in the balcony, and Will knew there were police scattered about in street clothes as well. Reporters and cameramen filled the back of the hall.

“So, Will, what’s your take on Boyd Halliday?” Lemm asked.

“Clearly not a man who enjoys coming in second.”

“Do you?”

“I hope I don’t disappoint you, Tom, but my finish-first-at-all-costs phase caused me nothing but trouble and pain. Most of the time now I’m more than satisfied with just competing and trying my best, regardless of whether I win or not. In fact, except for in the OR, I think winning is often vastly overrated. Christ, is that the governor?”

“This is big stuff, Will.”

“Tell me again why I’m the one with the dueling pistol and you’re the second?”

“Because I’m dull and I can’t stand to lose. Listen, don’t worry. You’ll handle this guy fine.”

Jim Katz and his wife, Julia, entered with Gordo and his wife, Kristin. Behind them came Susan, who was unaccompanied but looked less drab and bookish than usual in a tweed wool suit. Cameron was the first to spot Will and pointed him out to the others, who smiled and waved. Then he left the group to give Will a bear hug.

“No kilt?” Will asked.

“Knowing your curiosity about what lies beneath, I dinna want to distract you. Are you ready for battle, Braveheart?”

“Gordo, the truth is this all sounded better when I said I’d do it than it does right now.”

“I can’t believe it. The lad is cool as kelp in the operating room, and here he is shaking in his boots.”

“I can’t help it if I’m allergic to humiliation.”

“Well, you better be entertaining. I told Kristin this was our night out for the month.”

“Hey, easy does it. I can’t handle any more pressure.”

“Well, then, make us proud.”

“I’ll try.”

“What’s this Willard thing?”

“A misprint.”

Roselyn Morton’s opening remarks were neutral enough, although at one point she did aver that excesses in the former system of fee-for-service health care gave birth to the need for major health-care reform, a conclusion that Will felt was debatable.

Wait! Will wanted to scream as he heard his introduction beginning. Wait, I’m not ready yet! I’m not ready yet! And for God’s sake, please don’t call me-