“Deep tendon reflexes normal at two-plus and symmetrical, Babinskis negative.” A knock on the open door interrupted dictation. Alex turned from the window to see Garrison’s large frame in the doorway.
“I wanted to introduce Clarence Hill.” Without waiting for an answer, Garrison stepped into the office, followed by a smaller, round-faced man, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his white coat, which had, like all the clinic physicians’ coats, his name embroidered in red above the left breast pocket. Alex was immediately drawn to Hill’s intense eyes: two hard marbles behind round, wire-frame glasses. He had the puckered face of a professional lemon sucker. A crescent of close-cut black hair trailed thick stubble down the back of his neck.
Alex came around the desk to shake hands with the new surgeon. “Alex Cutter.”
“Nice to meet you.” As they shook hands, Alex felt the distinct vibe of being sized up.
“Clarence will be helping with the vascular work,” Garrison explained, beaming, his right hand now on the new man’s shoulder like a proud father. “Right, Clarence?”
“Absolutely, Garrison.” Clarence glanced up admiringly at Garrison as if addressing a general. Then those marbles lasered back at Alex. “You do mostly tumors, don’t you.” Made as a statement instead of a question. A verification.
Interesting. “I do.”
“Building a nice practice of it, too,” Garrison added. “Better get you around to meet some of the other new folk. Got a lot of ’em since you were here last.”
As Alex watched the two leave, he experienced a vague sense of unease, an off-putting feeling. A forewarning? He stood perfectly still, afraid the slightest distraction would derail his gelling impression before it could be brought into focus. A déjà vu chill snaked down his spine, then, just as quickly, disappeared. He’d been here before. Not literally, of course, but encounter-wise. He wasn’t sure where, or with whom, but he knew the outcome hadn’t been good.
“What’s going on between the new guy and Garrison?” Alex casually asked Dave Ray. They had just finished a tennis match at the public courts a few miles from Alex’s house. The courts were located roughly equidistant between their two homes, so it worked well for a quick match. Surprisingly, the courts were never used on Saturdays, the only time Alex could routinely count on being available these days.
After mopping his face with a wadded white towel, Dave asked, “Going on how?”
Alex zipped the cover over his Wilson racket. “They seem very close. In a lot of ways. Even to the point that Clarence does vascular work. Something’s going on there, just like there’s something between Linda and Garrison—but not the same, if you know what I mean.”
Dave wiggled his eyebrows at that remark before dropping onto the courtside bench with a heavy sigh. “Totally off the record?”
Alex sat beside him, towel in hand, mopping the back of his neck. “That’s reciprocal, you know.”
“Just so it’s understood.” Dave dried his face again. “You know Clarence was Garrison’s golden boy throughout his residency, don’t you?”
Alex tossed down his towel and relaxed against the bench. “I’d heard something to that effect.”
“Well, it was pretty obvious. He followed him around like a little puppy. People used to make jokes about it, things like how discolored Clarence’s nose was. The only surprise came when he took the job at the Gulf practice instead of coming home soon as Uncle Sam released him. That was pretty much what everyone ’round here expected.”
“Why did he take the other job?” Alex inspected his racket grip. Looked about time to replace the sweat-soaked wrap.
Dave shrugged. “Who knows? But getting back to your original question, I suspect he’s fixing to be the next CEO come time for Garrison to retire. Do that and he’ll have followed him pretty much to a tee.”
That explained his impression of Clarence earlier. “How you feel about that?”
Dave snorted. “Day that happens is the day I’m out of here.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
Dave leaned back against the bench slats with eyes closed against the waning sun, his wadded towel in hand. “Lots of reasons. Not even sure I can explain all of them, ’cause I’m not sure I completely understand. Gut instinct mostly. But since you asked, guess it all boils down to a serious lack of trust.” Dave seemed to weigh his last statement a moment. “Yeah, that about sums it up. A serious lack of trust.”
Interesting. “Care to elaborate?”
“Not sure I can. Can’t point to one thing and say, ‘See!’ It’s a bottom-line impression, I guess. But there’s one thing you should understand about Clarence: he’s very spiritual.”
“Spiritual? Not sure I follow. What’s that mean?”
“Expect you’ll understand soon enough.” With a tired groan, Dave pushed off the bench, the towel now thrown over his shoulders, white Izod tennis shirt sweat-welded to his hairy chest. “Don’t forget we got us a business meeting first thing in the morning. Breakfast will be served as usual.”
Alex pushed off the bench, pleasantly fatigued from work and exercise. Towel also around his neck, he shouldered his racket bag and fell in beside Dave for the half-block walk to the parking lot. “Been meaning to ask about that. Five thirty’s early. Why? Why not five thirty in the evening?”
Dave laughed and dropped his faded bag on the hood of his sunbaked car before rummaging through it for his keys. “Easy. That’s the only way we can make sure these meetings end. And that’s only because most the partners have cases to start. We tried evening meetings once, but everyone had something to say, so they took forever. Besides, dinner’s more expensive than breakfast.”
“I noticed not everyone shows up for those meetings.”
“Lotta partners don’t. You’d be surprised at how many don’t give a flip about how their clinic runs. Alls they want is a monthly paycheck and their share of the quarterly profit. You want to gain power in this clinic, show up at the business meetings and take an active role. You’d be surprised how easy it is. That’s the reason I think your new best friend, Clarence, has a shot at succeeding.”