Night-Bloom by Herbert Lieberman Read Free Book Online Page B

a sound coming from the direction of her daughter’s bedroom. “Coming, honey. Mommy’ll be right up to tuck you in.”
    Her scrubbed, girlish features appeared suddenly hard and pinched. “Tonight, Charley. That’s it. Tomorrow, out. And for God’s sake, stay out of Edgar’s way.”
    She started out, then turned abruptly. “Charley. Edgar knows all about those pills you take. What the hell are they for anyway?”
    “For my headaches. They’re pain-killers.”
    “I realize that. But why so many? Every day, like that? And what in God’s name are you doing with that doctor’s bag with all those instruments?”
    “Things.” He looked away evasively. “It’s for my medications. Would you prefer I live with this hammer banging around in my skull all day?”
    “No. Of course not.” She was suddenly contrite. “If you need it, you need it. It’s only that Edgar …”
    “Disapproves.”
    “Of course he disapproves of things like that. Wouldn’t you?”
    “Things like what?”
    “Like that. You know. Pills. Drugs. Things like that. Edgar doesn’t like that.”

9
    E. K. SHAVERS, UROLOGY, M.D., P.C., F.A.C.S., DIPLOMATE AMERICAN BOARD OF UROLOGY , the directory in front of the building read. Along with it were listed the names of a dozen other physicians all with interminable rows of letters following their names.
    Above the directory on a thin plaque of marble and indited in imposing typography was a sign reading GRAMERCY MEDICAL ARTS BUILDING . Watford had found the place in the Yellow Pages. Though it was seven o’clock of a Saturday evening and at that hour no self-respecting physician could expect to be found there, he had still made a point of coming personally to the address. He wanted to be certain that it was a medical group he had not had recourse to in the past. And he’d had recourse to many.
    One block from the Medical Arts Building he found precisely what he needed—a large, late-night pharmacy. The Gramercy Drug Mart’s proximity to the Medical Arts Building virtually assured him that the group there wrote many prescriptions and consequently enjoyed special privileges with the pharmacy.
    The place was crowded. People at the soda fountain were drinking coffee and malteds; shoppers moved up and down the crowded aisles purchasing cosmetics and toiletries. In a corner of the store, not far from where the pharmacists worked behind a large glass counter, Watford found a public phone booth and quickly let himself in.
    Closing the accordion glass doors behind him, he thumbed deftly through a badly frayed Manhattan directory and found the telephone number of the Gramercy Drug Mart. He dialed the number and asked to be connected to the pharmacy. With a small shiver of delight he watched the young pharmacist, no more than thirty feet from where he stood, reach for the phone.
    “Hello—This is Dr. Shavers—”
    “Good evening, Doctor.”
    “I’m calling from out of town. On a fishing trip. I’m sending over a patient of mine. Mr. Charles Watford. I’m admitting him to N.Y.U. Medical Center tonight with a renal colic. He’ll be needing something for the pain until we can do urine stains and a blood workup. I think about seven hundred milligrams of meperidine ought to do him till I get back.”
    “Tablets, or the liquid, Doctor?”
    “Liquid, I should think. Much faster. Get him through the night more comfortably. Dr. Rashower will be at the hospital tomorrow to do tests. He’ll send over the prescription for you first thing in the morning.”
    “Very good, Doctor. What was the name again?”
    “Watford. Charles Watford. He ought to be along any minute. He’s not far from you. Started out, I believe, about twenty minutes ago.”
    “I’ll see to it that he gets it. Good fishing, Doctor.” Watford hung up the phone, watching the pharmacist as he did so. He lingered an additional three minutes in the booth, then checked the directory again, this time for the telephone number of the