Blood Test

It was only a partial jest. His father, dean of a medical school in pre-Castro Havana, had keeled over on the tennis court and died at forty-eight. Raoul was five years from that age and he’d inherited his sire’s lifestyle as well as some bad genes. I’d once thought him changeable but had long ago given up trying to slow him down. If four failed marriages hadn’t done the trick, nothing would.

“You’ll win the Nobel Prize,” I said.

“And it will all go for alimony!” He thought that tremendously funny. When his laughter died down he said:

“I need a favor, Alex. There’s a family that’s giving us some trouble — noncompliance problems — and I wondered if you could talk to them.”

“I’m flattered but what about the regular staff?”

“The regular staff made a mess of it,” he said, peeved. “Alex, you know the high regard I have for you — why you abandoned a brilliant career I’ll never know, but that’s another issue. The people Social Services are sending me are amateurs, my friend. Rank amateurs. Starry-eyed caseworkers who see themselves as patient advocates — provocateurs. The psych people will have nothing to do with us because Boorstin has a death phobia and is terrified of the word cancer.”

“Progress, huh?”

“Alex, nothing’s changed in the last five years. If anything it’s gotten worse. I’ve even started opening my ears to other offers. Last week I was given the chance to run an entire hospital in Miami. Chief of Staff. More money and a full professorship.”

“Considering it?”

“No. The research facilities were Mickey Mouse and I suspect they want me more for my Spanish than my medical brilliance. Anyway, what do you say about lending the department a hand — you’re still officially listed as our consultant, you know.”

“To be honest, Raoul, I’m not taking on any therapy cases.”

“Yes, yes, I’m aware of that,” he said impatiently, “but this is not therapy. Short term liaison consultation. I don’t want to sound melodramatic, but the life of a very sick little boy is at stake.”

“Exactly what kind of noncompliance are you talking about?”

“It’s too complicated to explain over the phone, Alex. I hate to be rude, but I must get over to the lab and see how Helen is doing. We’re pacing an in vitro hepatoblastoma as it approaches pulmonary tissue. It’s painstaking work and it requires constant vigilance. Let’s talk about it tomorrow — nine, my office? I’ll have breakfast sent up, and voucher forms. We’re prepared to pay for your time.”

“All right, Raoul. I’ll be there.”

“Excellent.” He hung up.

Being released from a conversation with Melendez-Lynch was a jarring experience, a sudden shift into low gear. I put down the receiver, regained my bearings, and reflected on the complexity of the manic syndrome.

3

Western Pediatric Medical Center occupies a square block of mid-Hollywood real estate in a neighborhood that was once grand but is now the turf of junkies, hookers, drag queens, and fancy dancers of every stripe. The working girls were up early this morning, halter-topped and hot-panted, and as I cruised eastward on Sunset they stepped out from alleys and shadowed doorways sashaying and hooting. The whores were as much a fixture of Hollywood as the brass stars inlaid in the sidewalks, and I could swear I recognized some of the same painted faces I’d seen there three years ago. The streetwalkers seemed to fall into two categories: doughy-faced runaways from Bakersfield, Fresno, and the surrounding farmlands, and lean, leggy, shopworn black girls from South Central L.A. All of them raring to go at eight forty-five in the morning. If the whole country ever got that industrious the Japanese wouldn’t stand a chance.

The hospital loomed large, a compound of aged dark stone buildings and one newer column of concrete and glass. I pulled the Seville into the doctors’ lot and walked to Prinzley Pavilion, the contemporary structure.

The Department of Oncology was situated on the fifth floor. The doctors’ offices were cubicles arranged in a U around the secretarial pool. As head of the department, Raoul got four times as much space as any of the other oncologists, as well as privacy. His office was at the far end of the corridor and cordoned off by double glass doors. I went through them and walked into the reception area. Seeing no receptionist, I kept going and entered his office through a door marked PRIVATE.

He could have had an executive suite but had chosen to use almost all the space for his lab, ending up with an office only ten by twelve. The room was as I remembered it, the desk piled high with correspondence, journals, and unanswered messages, all ordered and precisely stacked. There were too many books for the floor-to-ceiling bookcase and the overflow was similarly heaped on the floor. One shelf was filled with bottles of Maalox. Perpendicular to the desk, faded beige curtains concealed the office’s sole window as well as a view of the hills beyond.