Silent Treatment by Michael Palmer Read Free Book Online Page B

great deal for you on a newC220. Dealer’s cost. Not the dealer’s cost we tell everyone we’re selling to them at. The
real
dealer’s cost. A new Mercedes. Just think how much Evie’ll love it. Who knows, she might even—”
    “Phil!”
    “Okay, okay. You said you needed a challenge, that’s all.”
    Harry opened the door of the roadster and stepped out onto the pavement.
    “Give my love to Gail and the kids,” he said.
    “I’m worried about you, Harry. You’re usually very funny. And even more important, you usually think I’m funny.”
    “You’re not funny today, Phil.”
    “Give me another chance. How about lunch sometime next week?”
    “Let’s see what happens with Evie.”
    “Okay. And don’t worry, Harry. If you really need it, I’m sure something will come along for you to push against.”
    *   *   *
    After twenty-one admissions to Parkside Hospital, Joe Bevins could close his eyes and tell time by the sounds and smells coming from the hallway outside his room. He even knew some of the nurses and aides by their footsteps—especially on Pavilion 5. More often than not, he was able to get the admissions people to send him there. The staff on that floor was the kindest in the hospital and knew the most about caring for chronic renal failure patients who were on dialysis. He also liked the rooms on the south end of the floor best of any in the hospital—the rooms with views of the park and, in the distance, the Empire State Building.
    It wasn’t a great life, having to get plugged in at the dialysis center three times a week, and having to be rushed to Parkside every time his circulation broke down, or an infection developed, or his blood sugar got too far out of whack, or his heart rhythm became irregular, or his prostategland swelled up so that he couldn’t pee. But at seventy-one, with diabetes and nonfunctioning kidneys, it was a case of beggars can’t be choosers.
    Outside his door, two litters rattled by, returning patients from physical therapy. One of them, a lonely old gal with no family, had lost both her legs to gangrene. Now, they were just keeping her around until a nursing home bed became available.
It could be worse
, Joe reminded himself.
Much worse
. At least he had Joe Jr., and Alice, and the kids. At least he had visitors. He glanced over at the other bed in his room. The guy in that bed, twenty years younger than he was, was down having an operation on his intestines—a goddamn cancer operation.
    Oh, yes
, Joe thought. No matter how bad it got for him, he should never forget that it could always be worse.
    He sensed the presence at his door even before he heard the man clear his throat. When he turned, a white-coated lab tech was standing there, adjusting the stoppered tubes in his square, metal basket.
    “You must be new here,” Joe said.
    “I am. But don’t worry. I’ve been doing this sort of work for a long time.”
    The man, somewhere in his forties, smiled at him. He had a nice enough face, Joe decided—not a face he took to all that much, but not one that looked burnt-out or callous either.
    “What are you here to draw?” he asked.
    Joe’s doctors almost always told him what tests they had ordered. They knew he liked to know. All three specialists had been by on rounds that morning, and none had said anything about blood work.
    “This is an HTB-R29 antibody titer,” the man said matter-of-factly, setting his basket on the bedside table. “There’s an infection going around the hospital. Everyone with kidney or lung problems is being tested.”
    “Oh.” The technician had an accent of some sort. It wasn’t very marked, and it wasn’t one Joe could place. But it was there. “Where’re you from?” he asked.
    The man smiled at him as he prepared his tubes andneedle. The blue plastic name tag pinned on his coat read
G. Turner, Phlebotomist
. Trying not to be obvious, Joe looked down at his clip-on identification badge. It was twisted around so