Robin Cook - Contagion

“I live on the Upper West Side,” Jack said. “It’s no secret.”

“In the seventies?” Chet asked.

“A bit higher,” Jack said.

“Eighties?”

“Higher.”

“You’re not going to tell me higher than the nineties, are you?” Chet asked.

“A tad,” Jack said. “I live on a Hundred and Sixth Street.”

“Good grief,” Chet exclaimed. “You’re living in Harlem.”

Jack shrugged. He sat down at his desk and pulled out one of his unfinished files. “What’s in a name?” he said.

“Why in the world live in Harlem?” Chet asked. “Of all the neat places to live in and around the city, why live there? It can’t be a nice neighborhood. Besides, it must be dangerous.”

“I don’t see it that way,” Jack said. “Plus there are a lot of playgrounds in the area and a particularly good one right next door. I’m kind of a pickup basketball nut.”

“Now I know you are crazy,” Chet said. “Those playgrounds and those pickup games are controlled by neighborhood gangs. That’s like having a death wish. I’m afraid we might see you in here on one of the slabs even without the mountain bike heroics.”

“I haven’t had any trouble,” Jack said. “After all, I paid for new backboards and lights and I buy the balls. The neighborhood gang is actually quite appreciative and even solicitous.”

Chet eyed his officemate with a touch of awe. He tried to imagine what Jack would look like out running around on a Harlem neighborhood blacktop. He imagined Jack would certainly stand out racially with his light brown hair cut in a peculiar Julius Caesar-like shag. Chet wondered if any of the other players had any idea about Jack, like the fact that he was a doctor. But then Chet acknowledged that he didn’t know much more.

“What did you do before you went to medical school?” Chet asked.

“I went to college,” Jack said. “Like most people who went to medical school. Don’t tell me you didn’t go to college.”

“Of course I went to college,” Chet said. “Calvin is right: You are a smartass. You know what I mean. If you just finished a pathology residency, what did you do in the interim?” Chet had wanted to ask the question for months, but there had never been an opportune moment.

“I became an ophthalmologist,” Jack said. “I even had a practice out in Champaign, Illinois. I was a conventional, conservative suburbanite.”

“Yeah, sure, just like I was a Buddhist monk.” Chet laughed. “I mean I suppose I can see you as an ophthalmologist. After all, I was an emergency-room physician for a few years until I saw the light. But you conservative? No way.”

“I was,” Jack insisted. “And my name was John, not Jack. Of course, you wouldn’t have recognized me. I was heavier. I also had longer hair, and I parted it along the right side of my head the way I did in high school. And as far as dress was concerned, I favored glen-plaid suits.”

“What happened?” Chet asked. Chet glanced at Jack’s black jeans, blue sports shirt, and dark blue knitted tie.

A knock on the doorjamb caught both Jack’s and Chet’s attention. They turned to see Agnes Finn, head of the micro lab, standing in the doorway. She was a small, serious woman with thick glasses and stringy hair.

“We just got something a little surprising,” she said to Jack. She was clutching a sheet of paper in her hand. She hesitated on the threshold. Her dour expression didn’t change.

“Are you going to make us guess or what?” Jack asked. His curiosity had been titillated, since Agnes did not make it a point to deliver lab results.

Agnes pushed her glasses higher onto her nose and handed Jack the paper. “It’s the fluorescein antibody screen you requested on Nodelman.”

“My word,” Jack said after glancing at the page. He handed it to Chet.

Chet looked at the paper and then leaped to his feet. “Holy crap!” he exclaimed. “Nodelman had the goddamn plague!”

“Obviously we were taken aback by the result,” Agnes said in her usual monotone. “Is there anything else you want us to do?”

Jack pinched his lower lip while he thought. “Let’s try to culture some of the incipient abscesses,” he said. “And let’s try some of the usual stains. What’s recommended for plague?”

“Giemsa’s or Wayson’s,” Agnes said. “They usually make it possible to see the typical bipolar ‘safety pin’ morphology.”

“Okay, let’s do that,” Jack said. “Of course, the most important thing is to grow the bug. Until we do that, the case is only presumptive plague.”

“I understand,” Agnes said. She started from the room.

“I guess I don’t have to warn you to be careful,” Jack said.

“No need,” Agnes assured him. “We have a class-three hood, and I intend to use it.”

“This is incredible,” Chet said when they were alone. “How the hell did you know?”

“I didn’t,” Jack said. “Calvin forced me to make a diagnosis. To tell the truth, I thought I was being facetious. Of course, the signs were all consistent, but I still didn’t imagine I had a snowball’s chance in hell of being right. But now that I am, it’s no laughing matter. The only positive aspect is that I win that ten dollars from Calvin.”

“He’s going to hate you for that,” Chet said.

“That’s the least of my worries,” Jack said. “I’m stunned. A case of pneumonic plague in March in New York City, supposedly contracted in a hospital! Of course, that can’t be true unless the Manhattan General is supporting a horde of infected rats and their fleas. Nodelman had to have had contact with some sort of infected animal. It’s my guess he was traveling recently.” Jack snatched up the phone.

“Who are you calling?” Chet asked.

“Bingham, of course,” Jack said as he punched the numbers. “There can’t be any delay. This is a hot potato I want out of my hands.”

Mrs. Sanford picked up the extension but informed Chet that Dr. Bingham was at City Hall and would be all day. He had left specific instructions he was not to be bothered since he’d be closeted with the mayor.

“So much for our chief,” Jack said. Without putting down the receiver, he dialed Calvin’s number. He didn’t have any better luck. Calvin’s secretary told him that Calvin had had to leave for the day. There was an illness in the family.

Jack hung up the phone and drummed his fingers on the surface of the desk.

“No luck?” Chet asked.

“The entire general staff is indisposed,” Jack said. “We grunts are on our own.” Jack suddenly pushed back his chair, got up, and started out of the office.

Chet bounded out of his own chair and followed. “Where are you going?” he asked. He had to run to catch up with Jack.

“Down to talk to Bart Arnold,” Jack said. He got to the elevator and hit the Down button. “I need more information. Somebody has to figure out where this plague came from or this city’s in for some trouble.”

“Hadn’t you better wait for Bingham?” Chet asked. “That look in your eye disturbs me.”

“I didn’t know I was so transparent,” Jack said with a laugh. “I guess this incident has caught my interest. It’s got me excited.”

The elevator door opened and Jack got on. Chet held the door from closing. “Jack, do me a favor and be careful. I like sharing the office with you. Don’t ruffle too many feathers.”

“Me?” Jack questioned innocently. “I’m Mister Diplomacy.”

“And I’m Muammar el Qaddafi,” Chet said. He let the elevator door slide closed.

Jack hummed a perky tune while the elevator descended. He was definitely keyed up, and he was enjoying himself. He smiled when he remembered telling Laurie that he’d hoped Nodelman turned out to have something with serious institutional consequences like Legionnaires’ disease so he could give AmeriCare some heartburn. Plague was ten times better. And on top of sticking it to AmeriCare, he’d have the pleasure of collecting his ten bucks from Calvin.