The Martini Shot by George Pelecanos Read Free Book Online Page B

Second Battalion, First Regiment and having served in Iraq for a year, was moving toward the Anbar province, where he would be participating in an offensive on insurgent forces in a place called Fallujah. In his letters and e-mails, Spero did not tell his parents of the fierce nature of the battle or the casualties incurred on both sides.
    That year, only Leonidas would be around for the Lucas family Christmas. Irene could not make it as usual, and Dimitrius was in the wind. It was a troubling time on many fronts. Van’s business was beginning to falter due in part to the economy but mainly because of the acute alcoholism of his partner, now on his third marriage. The Lucas money was safe, as Van had always been conservative with his investments, but he faced the prospect of an unwelcome career adjustment in his middle age. More disturbing, he considered his track record as a parent to be spotty at best. He still wondered on what had gone wrong with Dimitrius, remained puzzled by Irene’s cold nature, and worried considerably about Spero’s safety. He began to complain of headaches and memory loss. He sometimes vomited without the usual warning sign of nausea. In sleep, his dreams were filled with snakes.
    Over the holidays, Van said to Eleni, “Funny, this time of year I usually gain weight. I got on the scale today and I’ve lost ten pounds. But I’ve been eatin like an animal.”
    â€œIt’s stress,” said Eleni.
    A week later, having experienced periods of low-level fever, he went to the family physician, Dr. Nassarian, for some blood work. Nassarian called the next day and told Van that he had seen something he didn’t like, that it was probably nothing to be too concerned about but that he should have it checked. Nassarian was sending him to a specialist to do another workup and some tests.
    â€œWhat kind of specialist?” said Van.
    â€œAn oncologist up in Wheaton,” said the doctor, and Van’s heart naturally dropped.
    There was more blood taken, and an MRI, which led to a follow-up visit with the oncologist, Dr. Veronica Sorenson, in her office overlooking the Westfield Shopping Center, which Van still called Wheaton Plaza. He had played there as a boy, flirted with girls, acted tough around greasers, taunted security guards, and been nailed in the old Monkey Wards for shoplifting, back when the center was an open-air mall.
    â€œYou have an intracranial tumor, Mr. Lucas,” said Dr. Sorenson.
    â€œA brain tumor.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œCancer,” he said, almost stuttering on the word.
    She tented her hands before her and looked directly into his eyes. She was an attractive brunette in her late thirties with a direct, professional manner that was not cold in the least. Dr. Sorenson had photographs of her children set up on her desk. He idly wondered if she believed in God.
    â€œLet me show you,” she said.
    Dr. Sorenson turned off the lights in the office and allowed him to examine his scans displayed on her light board.
    â€œIt’s called a GBM,” she said, pointing to the image of the growth. “There. It appears in the form of a lesion.”
    â€œWhat’s a GBM?”
    â€œGlioblastoma multiforme. We’ll need to do a stereotactic biopsy to confirm, of course.”
    â€œYou wouldn’t be telling me this today if you didn’t know.”
    â€œUnfortunately, I’m almost completely certain that this is what we’re looking at.”
    â€œCertain of what, Doctor? What’s my prognosis?”
    â€œI wish I could be more positive. This is a most aggressive cancer. The survival rate is very low.”
    He looked down at his hand and saw that he was twisting his wedding band around on his ring finger. “How long would a guy with this thing…how long? Ballpark.”
    â€œI recommend that you opt for treatment. We’ll perform cranial surgery to remove the bulk of the tumor, then