Michael Crichton: Drug of Choice

“I’d like to look through this.”

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea,” Miss Finch said. She took the address book and put it in the purse.

Harry, the intern, stuck his bead into the conference room.

“I called all the people. The internist says he hasn’t seen her for a year, and didn’t prescribe anything. The psychiatrist is a real weirdo. Says he never prescribes drugs. The dermatologist is in Europe. And I checked on this Dr. George K. Washington.”

“What about him?”

“He’s not listed as an M.D. There’s a G.K. Washington in the phone book, but not as a doctor.”

“She always called him Doctor,” Miss Finch said.

“It is a little funny,” Harry said.

“What’s that?”

“Well, he lists an office and home phone. Here.” He handed Clark the list of names and numbers.

“Maybe he’s not a medical doctor,” Clark said. Then he looked at the numbers more closely and frowned.

“Is something wrong?” Miss Finch said.

“No,” Clark said. “Nothing at all.”

He went again to check on Sharon Wilder, but her condition remained the same—stable, apparently sleeping, but unarousable. When he left the room, he met a short, powerfully built man in a black raw silk suit.

“How is she, Doc?”

“She appears all right.”

The man held out his hand. “You’re Clark, right? I’m Tony Lafora, Sharon’s agent.”

They shook hands. Lafora had a hearty grip. “You checked her over real good, Doc?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Fine. Then I gotta talk to you.”

“I’d like to talk to you, too.”

At one end of the EW was a coffee machine. They went and got two cups, and took them back to the conference room. When they were alone, Lafora produced a hip flask and poured a shot into the coffee. He raised the cup in silent toast, gulped it back, and shivered.

“Now then, Doc. Give it to me straight. Is she gonna make it?”

“I think so.”

“Look, Doc I’m strong. I’m tough. If she’s—”

Clark said, “Your investment is secure, Mr. Lafora.”

For a moment, Tony Lafora frowned, and then he smiled. “You mean it?”

“Well,” Clark said, “we don’t know what she took that made her unconscious. You may be able to help us with that Do you know if she was taking any drugs?”

“Sharon?” He laughed. “Doc, she’s had them all.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, she’s an LA girl. Been around the town a long time. This is a drug town, all kinds of drugs.”

“Was she taking any unusual drugs, anything experimental?”

Lafora shook his head. “No, nothing like that. Besides, don’t want to do the drug thing on her. It won’t work.”

“It won’t?”

“You know, it doesn’t play right. It just doesn’t go.”

Clark said, “I don’t understand.”

“What I mean is, Sharon’s a big star, and when a big star gets sick, there has to be an explanation for the press. Weirdo drugs don’t work. The people in Des Moines don’t buy it: how about phenobarb? Something simple?”

“It doesn’t look like barbiturate intoxication.”

“But you can’t be positive, right?”

“No, we can’t be positive, but—”

“Okay, Doc. Look: this is Thursday afternoon. We want to have something for the Friday papers, right? Let me work on it.”

Clark said nothing. Lafora grabbed his hand and shook it.

“I knew I could count on you, doc.”

He gave Clark a slap on the back and was gone.

An hour later, when Clark went out to tell the press there was no change in Sharon’s condition, he arrived to hear Tony Lafora telling them about the star’s depression over a secret and very unhappy love, and how the star had probably taken phenobarb.

At six in the morning, a nurse called him to say that Sharon Wilder was awake.

He found her sitting up in the bed, clutching the sheet to her neck, looking very vulnerable, confused and pretty.

“They tell me you saved my life,” she said. Her voice was husky.

“Not really,” he said.

“I want you to know I appreciate it.”

“Any time,” he said. He was struck by her beauty. She stared at him.

“You’re kind of cute,” she said.

He grinned. “So are you.”

“Yeah, but I’m paid for it. Can I get dressed?”

“I think so. How do you feel?”

“Just great.” She gave him a dazzling smile.

He found her clothes for her and waited outside while she dressed. When he returned, she was slipping into a pair of heels. He went over to the bed to look for the blue spot.

It was gone.

“Tell me, Miss Wilder—”

“Call me Sharon.”

“All right, Sharon. What do you remember about yesterday evening?”

“Well, I got dressed early, because it was a new dress and I was afraid it wouldn’t fit. So I took a shower, and dressed early, and did my face, and then sat down on the bed to relax before George arrived.”

“George?”

“George Washington. He’s this adorable biophysicist I know, really a dear. I don’t know him very well, I just met him in fact.”

“I see.”

“And I was waiting for him to arrive.”

“And?”

“And that’s all I remember.”

“Nothing else?”

She shook her head.

“Did you take anything?”

“A shower.”

“I meant, any drugs?”

“No. Why?”

“We can’t understand why you went into a coma.”

She laughed. “Neither can I, but it doesn’t matter, does it?” She kissed him on the cheek. “You’re sweet to care. By the way, is there a phone around here?”

“In the hall.”

“Good.” |

She went outside. Clark watched her go, unable to help noticing her body. He heard her drop a dime into the phone, and he thought about what she had said. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the list of physicians and their phone numbers that Harry had given him. It was rather odd that she claimed she didn’t know George Washington well, he thought.

Because he had noticed a telephone bill in her purse. It was a bill three months old, and there were numerous long-distance charges to a number in Santa Monica.

The number was the office phone of George K. Washington.

Odd.

He found himself listening to her conversation on the phone.

“Harvey? Listen, it was beautiful! Just beautiful! Scrambled my brains. Wow! Yes…. I’ll talk to you later. No, no problems at all. I think it’s working. Fine. Right Bye….”

She hung up.

Clark went out to sign her discharge papers. It was a brief formality, and afterward she shook hands with him and said, “Why don’t you walk me out to my taxi?”

“All right.”

On the way, she said, “You really are cute. I was watching you sign the forms. When are you coming over for a drink?”

“I’m pretty busy, Miss Wilder.”

“I told you, call me Sharon.” She smiled. “And even busy doctors get some time off.”

Outside the hospital, he was surprised to find a half-dozen photographers. Sharon forced him to pose with her, and they took several more pictures as he helped her into the cab.

She looked out the window and said, “Remember that drink. My bar is always open and waiting.”

Then she reached up and kissed him.

The flashbulbs popped.

HE WAS TIRED WHEN he got home. The apartment, as usual, was a mess; he never seemed able to get it completely clean, even when a girl was coming over.

He pushed a pair of dirty socks off the couch and sat down to read his mail. There were bills for the most part; a letter from a friend in the army, saying he hated it; a note from his travel agent reporting that Clark’s tickets to Mexico City were waiting, and that hotel reservations had been confirmed.