THE MANDIBLE WAS BROKEN across the ramus. Five teeth were knocked out, and three were displaced. There was a hairline fracture along the right zygomatic arch.
Peter Ross sat in the dark X-ray reading room on the seventh floor and looked back over his shoulder at Jackson, the plastic surgeon.
“Nasty,” Ross said. “Who is it?”
“Some drunk. Got into a fight with a couple of sailors who tried to kick his head in.”
“You going to do him now?”
Jackson sighed. It was midnight, and he was tired. “Yes, I guess so. The bastard is groaning something awful.”
Ross nodded and pulled the X-rays down from the lighted board. “Good luck.”
Jackson said, “How was your trip?”
“Fine.”
“You have a hell of a tan. All rested up?”
“Yes. All rested.”
Jackson laughed. “Don’t kid me. All you did is drink and screw for a month.”
Ross smiled. “Yes, but you know, it gets boring after a while.”
“Is that why you came back early?”
“Yes.”
“That’s the trouble with medicine,” Jackson said. “It’s too much work. You get so you can’t relax. You get so that even on vacation, you can’t have a good time.”
“I know,” Ross said, “just what you mean.”