First Thrills - Lee Child [58]
“Hey, G.P.,” he said, jabbing at my specialty, “didn’t your mama ever tell you that the real money’s in surgery?”
I guess I invited that taunt. All week long I had complained about not having deep pockets—the kind that would let me make the sort of bets Grove made without batting an eye.
“My wife is scared to death of the tables,” I said. “I thought it might be a good idea to stay married and see my two kids through college.” Each time I said something even half-funny, Grove laughed roundly and pounded my back.
“I like you, Bobby,” he said. “I wish we could keep playing.”
“Got to get back to reality.”
“You know,” Grove said. “You’re a really great player. A gamer’s gamer. You’re like a craftsman on those tables.”
“Hardly. I just helped educate you about some commonly held beliefs.”
I took an extra long sip of my vodka because I wanted Grove to think I was that casual about my skill.
“If you’re as good a doc as you are a gambler, you could make a killing in our club.”
He voiced the thought almost as an aside, but he got my attention.
“What club?”
“Huh? Oh, I’m sorry, I was thinking out loud.”
“Yeah? What club?”
Grove shifted his weight in his chair, glancing about as if the security cameras were as interested in his mysterious club as they were in the blackjack card counters.
“It’s sort of a private club for doctors,” Grove said, in a conspiratorial whisper. Then he added, “Doctors who like to gamble.”
“I’m a doctor and I like to gamble.”
“Yeah, well, we don’t bet on cards.”
“Yeah? What do you bet on, death?”
I laughed. Grove didn’t even break a smile.
“Holy shit,” I said. “Is that what you really do?”
Grove shifted his gaze down to his feet and spoke even softer.
“It’s not exactly what you think. It’s not even really illegal or anything. But ethically, well, it would be a bit awkward if word ever got out.”
“I think I want to know more.”
“Look, I’ll tell you,” Grove said, “but I need you to swear, Bobby, I mean swear to me, that you’ll never breathe a word of this to anybody. Heck, I might even be able to sponsor you if you want in. That’s how much I like you. We haven’t admitted a new member in over five years.”
“So what’s the club?”
“It’s called ‘The Dead Club.’ ”
“Sounds sinister. Tell me more.”
“Okay, here’s how it works. Each month you get an email with a link. The link is to a password protected website. You’ll have to download an application first before you can use the site. That way we can erase any record of the club on your computer in case of emergency.”
“By emergency I assume you mean detection. What’s on the site?”
“Each month there’s a new medical file for a terminally ill patient in some hospital somewhere in the world.”
“The world?”
“It’s sort of a global club.”
“And you’re all betting on terminally ill patients?”
“That’s right. We’re using our considerable doctoring skills to wager, based solely on the information in their medical records. Like I said, we bet on precisely when they’re going to die.”
“That’s a quite a new twist on the old line, ‘I’m sorry Mrs. Smith, but I regret to inform you you’ve only got six months to live.’ ”
Grove’s smile was far from his signature warm grin. This one was etched with profound mischievousness.
“See, that’s how the club started, Bobby,” he said. “A bet between two docs on just that and, well, it’s sort of grown from there.”
Right then and there I wished I had introduced myself as Robert, or at least Bob. But I kept thinking—How can I get in on this action?
“How many in the club?” I asked.
“I have no idea. Don’t even know how long the club has existed. Membership is on a trial basis and you have to be nominated by an existing member to be considered. Then you get vetted by a committee, all secret stuff, don’t ask me how they do it and if you make it past them, which apparently few do, your name goes before the board for approval.”
Grove was shockingly cavalier describing the club, given that it crossed fairly broad ethical lines.
“Where do the records come from?” I asked.
“Member-supplied.