Robin Cook - Critical

Angela hesitated. Normally, she avoided talking about her divorce, not only because she was by nature a private person but because the whole sad affair could still infuriate her even after six years. Yet, since Chet had been so open and she herself had already related even more private matters, she suppressed her usual reticence and said, "At the very end of medical school I was, like a teenage girl, swept off my feet by a man who I thought was the antithesis of my father. Sadly, that was not the case. He too was ultimately threatened by my medical degree. He also had affairs and, worst of all, developed a penchant for hitting me."

"Ouch," Chet said with a wince. "Domestic violence is intolerable and inexcusable. Unfortunately, we see more of it in the morgue than people realize."

The waiter suddenly appeared and whisked away their plates, then asked if they cared for dessert. Chet looked across at Angela.

"I'm not a big dessert person," she confessed.

"Nor I," said Chet. "But a cappuccino would hit the spot."

"I'll finish the wine," Angela said, pointing to the bottle. The waiter happily poured it and took the empty bottle away.

"Okay," Chet said, sitting back in his chair. "Your inner-city practice went bankrupt. When was that?"

"Two thousand one," Angela said. "Hopefully, that year will be my nadir. I mean, it couldn't get much worse. My medical practice went bankrupt and I got divorced, two ugly experiences that I don't recommend for anyone. It's the one year I would not like to live over again."

"I can well imagine. So, how did you make the transition from private medical practice to a company executive? By the way, what is your position, some sort of medical adviser?"

"I'm the founder and the CEO."

Chet's wry smile reappeared, and he shook his head in disbelief. "You are a trip! Founder and CEO!. I'm awestruck. How did that happen?"

"The bankruptcy was a humiliating disaster, but it did have one saving grace. It impressed upon me the detrimental power that economics plays in medicine. I mean, I was somewhat aware before my bankruptcy, but not the extent I was after. Anyway, I had an idea to try to do something about it, but medical school taught me nothing about medical economics. In fact, I knew nothing about economics or business, which medical care has unfortunately become a slave to, so I went back to school and got an MBA at Columbia."

Chet put his head back and slapped a hand to his forehead. "That's enough," he pleaded. "I can't take any more. You're making me feel too blasted inadequate."

"You're kidding, of course?"

"I suppose," he admitted. "But, lady, you have one hell of a CV."

The waiter came and served Chet's cappuccino.

"I have a question for you," Angela said, suddenly realizing she'd been so engrossed in their conversation that she'd not yet touched on the issue that had brought her out to dine.

"Shoot," Chet responded.

"I wanted to ask you about Dr. Laurie Montgomery."

"What would you like to know?"

"Would you characterize her as a persistent, get-the-job-done person, or would you think of her as laid-back?"

"The former for sure. In fact, I'd characterize her as one of the most persistent people I know, both she and her husband. A few of the other MEs think of them as such compulsive workers that they make the rest of us look like slackers."

Angela felt the muscles in her gut tighten. She had hoped and expected Chet would say something to mitigate her worries, not fan them. "I actually met her today. It wasn't under the best of circumstances. We have had an outbreak of postoperative methicillin-resistant staph that has bedeviled us for a month or so and which has required us to go to extraordinary effort to control, even to the point of hiring a full-time epidemiologist and infection-control specialist."

"Laurie mentioned the problem," Chet said. "She also reminded me that I had posted one of your cases."

"Oh, she did?"

"Yes. She came by my office to pick up the case, which I'd done a number of weeks ago, and was still waiting for some lab results. She had just done a similar one this morning. I guess both cases came from one of your hospitals."

"Did she say what she was going to do about it, if anything? I mean, we are already doing everything in our power. I personally have authorized our infection-control person free rein."

"Well, you can relax, because Laurie specifically said she was going to solve your problem if it kills her."

Angela's throat went dry. She took a sip of wine. "Did she use those exact words?"

"Absolutely."

Suddenly Angela wanted the evening to be over. Although she had enjoyed herself more than she would have imagined prior to talking about Laurie Montgomery she now had a problem that could not wait. Without concern of its precipitousness, she put down her glass, folded her napkin, and placed it on the table. She then made a show of looking at her watch.

"How is it I sense our most delightful evening is over?" Chet said, with a touch of melancholy. "I was hoping you'd be willing to walk one block north for a drink at the elegant Saint Regis King Cole Bar."

"Not tonight. Duty calls," Angela said. "Let's get the check, and how about we split it?"

"Oh, no!" Chet said. "This is my treat. I made that clear at the beginning."

"Okay, if you insist, and if you'll pardon me, I have to get back to the office. There's a call I must make." Angela pushed back her chair and stood. Chet did the same. The unexpectedly precipitous end to such an enjoyable evening flummoxed him.

"We'll talk soon," Angela said, extending her hand, which Chet shook.

"I hope so," Chet said.

With a final smile, Angela threaded her way across the room, got her coat from the coat check, and after casting a final glance and wave toward Chet, hurried out of the restaurant.

Chet slowly sat down. His eyes caught those of the waiter, who shrugged in sympathy.

Michael flipped his cell phone closed and gritted his teeth. He was in the lavatory on the mezzanine floor of Downtown Cipriani in SoHo. Before he'd fled to the restroom from the intimate private club on the second floor to escape the pounding disco music, he'd been with two of his buddies, entertaining three chicks from New Jersey. His phone had buzzed, and since it was Angela, he'd taken the call but, unable to hear, he'd fled to the john. Now he wished he hadn't.

With great restraint, Michael resisted the temptation to pound the graffiti-covered wall, which was smart, since the wall was lath and plaster, not plasterboard.

"Fuck!" Michael shouted as loud as he could. Within the confines of the small room, the expletive careened around the walls in an explosion of acoustical energy, making Michael's ears ring in protest. He gripped the sides of the only sink and tensed his muscles as if he were about to rip it off the wall. Slowly, he let his eyes rise up and stare at himself in the mirror. He looked terrible. His product-coated hair was standing on end as if ten thousand volts of electricity had gripped his body and his eyes looked like those of Dracula.

He then breathed out. He was furious but under control. His bitch of an ex had just thrown another problem at him, as if he were some pissant lackey. If he weren't already in up to his eyeballs, he would have simply told her with glee to go screw herself, but that was not possible. He had to handle it, and the only way was to go out to Queens and again grovel at Vinnie's highly polished, wingtipped feet.

Suddenly giving in to his urges, he pounded the wall, but he was smart enough to use his palm, not his fist, so that the force of the blow was delivered over a wider area. Still, his hand tingled when he pulled it away.