The Sisterhood - Michael Palmer [52]
Huttner seized the chance to avoid a Surgical Death Rounds presentation as a drowning sailor might grasp a passing chunk of driftwood. A medication error would provide him with instant absolution.
“Yes, there are some other things I think should be done,” Huttner said with a professorial tone that included several significant pauses. He seemed actually to be savoring his own words. “I think she should have a complete chemical screen. Antibiotic levels, electrolytes, toxins—the works.”
“With no specific idea of what we’re searching for, that will be quite expensive,” Hadawi said softly, as if anticipating the eruption that would follow even this mild objection.
“Damn the money, man,” Huttner fired, his fingers jabbing even faster than before. “This is a human life we’re talking about here. You just do the damn tests and get me the results.”
“As you wish, Wally.”
Huttner nodded his satisfaction, then started to leave. As he passed David, he snapped his fingers. “I almost forgot, David,” he said over his shoulder. “The Cape Vascular Conference really wasn’t all that it was cut out to be. I’ve decided not to go back. Thank you for your help yesterday. I think there’s a meeting in January I might want to attend. Perhaps we can work out another coverage arrangement then.”
His voice, David thought, held every bit as much sincerity as Don Juan saying, “Of course I’ll respect you in the morning.”
CHAPTER XI
In his selection of a hospital, as in all the other affairs in his life, Senator Richard Cormier was his own man. While many Washington politicians considered it a status symbol to be cared for at Bethesda Naval or Walter Reed, Cormier overruled the objections of his aides and insisted that he be operated on by Dr. Louis Ketchem at Boston Doctors. “Always trust your own kind,” he said. “Louie’s an old war-horse just like me. Either he does the cutting or I don’t get cut.”
The walls of Cormier’s room were covered top to bottom with cards, and cartons containing several hundred more were stacked neatly in one corner. In addition to a nurse and the senator, the presence of a secretary and two aides helped to create an atmosphere almost as chaotic as that perpetually found in his Washington office.
“Senator Cormier, I must give you your preop meds, and these people will have to leave your room.” The nurse, an ample matron named Fuller, projected just the right amount of authority to get the senator to comply with the request.
Cormier ran his fingers through his thick, silver hair and squinted up at the nurse. “Ten more minutes.”
“Two,” she said firmly.
“Five.” The bargaining brought a sparkle to his eyes.
“All right, five,” she said. “But one minute longer and I use the square needle to give you this medication.” She bustled out of the room, turning at the doorway to give Cormier a glare that said she was serious. The senator winked at her.
“Okay, Beth, time to get packed up,” he said, to his secretary. “Remember, I want a thank-you sent to everyone who put a return address on his card. I signed what seemed like a thousand of them yesterday, but if you run out, have some more printed up and I’ll sign them after the operation. Gary, call Lionel Herbert and tell him to fly up here for a meeting the day after tomorrow. Tell him to be prepared to make some concessions on that energy package or, by God, it’s back to the drawing board again for his boss and those oil people he’s so damn friendly with. Bobby, call my niece and tell her I’m fine, not to worry, and, most of all, not to be upset that she couldn’t leave the kids to fly here. I’ll call her myself as soon as they let me back near my phone. Oh, and Bobby, have you got all the names of people who sent flowers? I want to send each of them a personal note. Do you think it would hurt anyone’s feelings if I told them to send candy next time? This place looks like a funeral parlor and smells like a bordello.”
Bobby Crisp, a young lawyer as