The buffet luncheon at Seth Shein’s Arlington home had been billed as a social occasion—casual dress, spouses and significant others invited—but Dan Logan knew that career would be at the top of the agenda. In just two days the incoming fellows would begin working at the American Cancer Foundation, and this hazy June afternoon was the first time they would be meeting some key members of the hierarchy; their first shot, in brief, at making an impression—and of sizing up others as they tried to do the same.
“Dammit,” muttered Logan as he stood in front of the open clothes closet of his new apartment. In general indifferent to how he dressed—clean was usually good enough—he realized that today this was not a matter to be taken lightly. Every detail of personal presentation might prove a potential edge—or liability.
He rejected shorts: too casual. Next he tried on the baggy, double-pleated Italian pants his last girlfriend had talked him into buying after dragging him into a chic men’s shop in Manhattan. Staring at his reflection in the mirror, he tried hard to give the pants a fair shot, but wondered how any normal person could feel anything but silly wearing them.
This is ridiculous, he thought, not for the first time, I’m a doctor, not a model—and then began considering the merits of plaid.
After nearly an hour, he decided the wisest move was the safe one: he dimly recalled having once read in a men’s magazine that khaki pants and a blue blazer were right for just about any occasion.
Seth Shein greeted him at the front door of his impressive Tudor home, a plastic cup of Scotch in his hand, wearing shorts and an extravagant Hawaiian shirt. “Kinda overdressed, wouldn’t you say, Logan? It’s a goddamn pool party.”
Logan looked stricken. “I guess I am.”
“Good thinking. You fit right in.”
In fact, though the temperature hovered in the mid-eighties—and the party was indeed held around Shein’s pool—all but two of the seven male junior fellows were also wearing jackets and most also had ties; while every one of the five women had shown up in a dress-for-success suit.
This made the distinction between the newcomers and the senior fellows—those who’d now been at ACF for a year—immediately apparent. All but a couple of them wore shorts.
Shein led Dan onto the patio, making introductions. Never good at names himself—a problem he knew he had to work on—Logan marveled that Shein not only knew who everyone was but the specifics of their backgrounds, their specialties, even their hobbies. “Allen Atlas,” he said, moving him in the direction of a tall, hollow-cheeked young man in a tailored blue suit, “Dan Logan.”
Dan and Atlas shook hands crisply, eyeing one another with interest.
“Allen went to school at Vanderbilt,” noted Shein evenly—then suddenly assumed an exagerrated Southern accent. “In Tennesseeeeee. But we won’t hold that against him, will we?”
The tall young man looked stricken—trying to figure out what the eminent Shein might possibly have against his alma mater.
“Now, Dan here,” added Shein, in apparent comparison, “went to Princeton as an undergraduate and Stanford for his Ph.D. Number two in your class at Princeton, wasn’t it?”
Logan nodded.
Shein shrugged. “We’d have gotten number one, but I’m told he went into law.”
“Actually,” Dan corrected, “she went into law.”
“Ahhh,” laughed Shein, slapping him on the back, “a person of precision and sensitivity. Good going—the girls must love that.”
“Nice to meet you,” mumbled Allen Atlas, eyeing him coolly.
“Same here,” replied Dan. “Looking forward to working together.”
“Oh, Seth …”
They wheeled to face a middle-aged woman bearing a pitcher of iced tea. Anxious looking and dowdily dressed, she was incongruously pretty.
“I’m sorry to interrupt you, dear,” she said, “but you’ve got a telephone call.”
He laughed. “Why sorry? What the hell you supposed to do, tell the guy to go screw himself?” He gave her a quick peck on the cheek—“Dan Logan, Allen Atlas, my wife, the endlessly patient and still beauteous Alice Shein”—and headed into the house.
There was an awkward pause. “Well,” she said, “I do hope you young men will be happy here at the ACF.”
They offered their thanks. It was only as she walked away that Logan became aware of her pronounced limp. He looked at his companion in surprise.
“She was one of the last kids to get polio,” said Atlas blandly. And, without a further word of explanation, he wandered away.
Moving to the refreshment table, Logan poured himself a white wine and looked around. The newcomers seemed to be keeping almost entirely to themselves, clustered in groups. After a long moment, he headed toward one of these—three women and two men—at the far end of the pool.
He already knew one of them. John Reston was the other junior associate who had been recruited from Claremont. Though they’d never spent much time together, Logan had always liked him.
“Well,” exclaimed Reston, brightening, “look who’s here! Ladies and gentleman, Daniel Logan—a fellow escapee from Claremont Hospital hell.”
As Reston made the introductions, Dan made a conscious effort to link the names to the faces. Amy—no last name necessary, she wasn’t with the program, just Reston’s girlfriend. Barbara Lukas—the tiny one, little more than five feet, with the staccato delivery and the degree from Duke. Paul Bernstein—quick with a smile, by the look of it a little too smooth. In fact, he seemed to be already putting the moves on Sabrina Como—the striking young Italian with the mane of black hair, large green eyes, and incredible accent upon whom Logan himself was suddenly interested in making an impression.
Abruptly, from out of nowhere, Seth Shein joined them. “You all making friends?”
They agreed they were.
“Good, you’re gonna be working closely together.” He smiled. “We like to leave the back-stabbing to the senior staff.”
This brought an uncomfortable laugh. Dan began to suspect that perhaps the Scotch was getting to Shein.
A moment later, the thought was confirmed. Smiling at Sabrina Como, Shein announced, “Appearances to the contrary, we recruit our foreign associates only for their scientific potential.”
Sabrina looked at him evenly, showing nothing, but Dan noticed Barbara shoot Shein a vicious look. Still, she was wise enough to remain silent—as they all were. He, Reston, and Bernstein, supposedly sensitive, postfeminist types all, simply stood there, grinning awkwardly.
It was Reston’s petite blond friend Amy who broke the silence. “And I’m sure women are treated very well at the ACF,” she offered breezily. “Appearances to the contrary.”
Logan and the other associates turned to her, horrified. But they were stopped short by Shein’s hearty laugh. “That’s great!” He laughed some more. “I really mean it, I wish you were in the program.”
This was so unexpected that Amy didn’t know quite how to respond. “You know,” she said after a long pause, “I’m not really sure I have much to contribute here. Why don’t I leave you people alone to get acquainted?”
As she moved off in the direction of the buffet table, Reston offered a helpless shrug. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize, Reston,” interjected Shein, “she’s a riot. Believe me, hang around here long enough, you forget what someone with guts sounds like.” And, chuckling to himself, he left them.
Among the four associates, there was a long silence. “You should know,” offered Sabrina, “I really am not bothered by such things.”
“Well, you should be,” snapped Barbara Lukas. “A superior makes a lascivious remark like that in this country, it’s called sexual harassment.”
“Ah.” She nodded, with a barely perceptible smile. “Well, then, perhaps it is because I am not from this country.”
“You were meant to be insulted. As a woman. We all were.”
“Because he says I am a good scientist and also pretty?”
“Exactly. Because he has no damn business commenting on your looks one way or the other.”
“Ah,” she said again, and paused thoughtfully. “I must study to learn to recognize such insults.”
Logan, suppressing a smile, looked at her with even greater interest; but Lukas, unsure whether she was being heeded or gently mocked, quickly turned to Reston. “She your wife?” she said, nodding after Amy.
“My girlfriend,” replied Reston. “She’s a lawyer, she got a job with the FCC.”
“He’s right—she’s got guts. I should’ve said something myself.”
“I strongly suspect you’ll get other chances,” he said dryly.
“Well,” noted Bernstein, “I hate to be a realist, but saying what you think isn’t exactly the best policy around here. Not everyone’s as tolerant as Shein. I had a long talk last night with one of the senior associates. There are a few people we’re really going to have to watch out for.”
Barbara Lukas focused on him intently. “Name names.”
With a tilt of the head, Bernstein indicated a balding young man in horn-rimmed glasses standing near the buffet table. “See him?”
The others turned to look.
“Peter Kratsas. He’s Larsen’s number two.”
“Larsen interviewed me,” spoke up Logan. “If that’s what you can call it. I was in and out of there in ten minutes.”
“I also.” They all turned to Sabrina. “I came all the way here for this interview, and he was just cold like anything.”
“Tell me about it,” agreed Bernstein. “But I hear Kratsas is even worse. For starters, he doesn’t have Larsen’s talent. But what you’ve really gotta watch out for is that he’s nice. Always ready to chat about sports or old movies like he’s your best pal.”
Barbara Lukas rolled her eyes. “So you think he’s on your side—and he’s a pipeline right back to Larsen?”
“You got it,” nodded Bernstein.
“Who else should we know about?” asked Dan.
“Who shouldn’t we know about?”
Seeing how much Bernstein was enjoying this performance, Logan had a strong feeling he was purposely being overdramatic.
“Who else?” pressed Barbara Lukas.
“Greg Stillman.”
There was a surprised silence. The name needed no explanation. Dr. Gregory Stillman, world-renowned specialist in breast cancer, was one of those chiefly responsible for the ACF’s reputation.
“C’mon,” said Logan finally, “someone’s doing a lot of exaggerating here.”
Bernstein snorted. “I’m talking personality, not medical acumen. Talk to the senior associates—this is a guy who describes himself as ‘a vicious SOB.’ He thinks other people respect him for it.” He paused for effect. “And they do.”
A few minutes later, Logan moved alongside Reston at the buffet table. “You buy any of that?”
Reston shrugged. “Hard to tell. Maybe we were just watching a guy working real hard to impress a good-looking woman.” He smiled. “Who can blame him?”
“Well,” said Logan, “we survived Claremont.…”
The remark called for no elaboration. The institution they’d just left was a political minefield, famous even in the cutthroat world of high-powered medicine for the willingness of young doctors to curry favor with their superiors and, when it came to that, to cut one another up; and, maybe even more so, for the readiness of senior personnel to shaft their subordinates in self-protection.
“Damn right,” agreed Reston, “no way this could be as bad as that. At Claremont, you had the greed factor, everyone after the same big pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Here—”
“It’s for science,” Logan finished the thought.
Reston laughed. “I was gonna say the only pot’s the one we piss in.”
“So what brought you into research? You don’t really seem like the type.”
“Me? I hate the sight of blood.”
Logan smiled.
“You think I’m kidding? The first time I saw an autopsy—the way they folded that poor guy’s scalp and used an electric saw to pop his top—I knew there had to be a better angle.”
“Really? I always found autopsies pretty interesting.”
“Another thing,” said Reston, ignoring this, “—I think over the long run clinical work can have a disastrous effect on your libido. I mean, I love women. But you can take the most beautiful one in the world—someone you’d normally fantasize about—and stick her in one of those damn hospital gowns, with that harsh light showing every zit and blemish, and, sorry, the romance is gone. Especially if you catch her later in the autopsy room. You’re not gonna think about sex for a week.”
“Well …” If Logan didn’t know quite how to respond, he at least had to admire the guy’s candor, a trait he’d encountered all too rarely at their prior place of employment. “I’m pretty sure you won’t have to suffer through too many autopsies here. That doesn’t seem to be part of the drill.”
“I hope not. Let’s face it, the only reason they did so many at Claremont was so those weenies in the administration could keep their asses covered.”
“Wasn’t that everyone’s main job at Claremont, keeping his ass covered? All you wanted to do was get out of that place unscathed.”
Reston nodded. “So? How’d you manage it?”
“I don’t know.” He thought about it a moment. “Look, you have to be good. They don’t screw people with real promise. That’d be screwing themselves, the whole basis of their reputation—”
“I get it, no one gave you a hard time cause you were so talented.”
Logan smiled; no offense was meant, none taken. “I mean, sure, you don’t go looking for trouble. You find out early who the key players are and make a point of staying on their good side. You make yourself helpful to attending physicians. You don’t go around telling dirty jokes to senior administrators.”
“Not unless you’ve seen someone else get ahead doing it first. See, now we’re getting into my territory. It’s called being obsequious.”
“Being careful. There’s a difference.”
“Don’t forget the patients. You never—even momentarily—leave John Eldridge Grump III in a room with a comatose ex-Pullman porter.” He paused. “Actually, one of the nicest things about Claremont Hospital is that it’s the socially acceptable place to check out—I could keep track of my patients through the Times obituaries. God forbid any of those people should be caught dead at Brooklyn Jewish!”
“Fine,” acknowledged Logan, “very careful. I don’t pretend to be selfless—in this business that’s self-destructive. But,” he added, meaning it, “I also don’t think I ever violated my sense of integrity.”
“All right, strategically obsequious. Honorably obsequious.” He nodded, grinning. “Neither did I.”
Logan laughed; this guy seemed to be a soulmate. “Well, then, who’s to say that training won’t be as valuable at this place as anything else?”
But abruptly they were cut off by the roar of a motorcycle zooming up the adjacent driveway. Skidding to a stop, the driver—in black leather, his face obscured by the black-tinted Plexiglas of his helmet—dismounted and strode into the midst of the gathering.
“Who the hell is that?” whispered Reston. “Talk about making an impression!”
“Stillman!” called out Seth Shein from across the patio, as if in response. “Get that goddamn thing off my lawn!”
Stillman removed the helmet, revealing a beet-red face, topped by thick black hair matted with perspiration. He looked to be in his late thirties. His surprisingly unimpressive features—a doughy face and droopy eyelids—lent him a sense of sleepy disengagement.
Almost instantly, a half dozen senior associates surrounded the eminent oncologist. “You guys I already know,” he announced, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Let’s see if we’ve got any scientists in this new bunch.”
From then on, it was Stillman’s show. Purposefully, he began making the rounds of the newcomers, introducing himself and exchanging a few words. Given Bernstein’s earlier warning, Logan found himself surprised that the man seemed quite the opposite of an ogre.
“I read your recommendations,” he told the young doctor. “We’re looking for good things from you.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Logan, immensely pleased. “I’ll try not to disappoint.”
“Good. Don’t.” Unexpectedly, he flashed a smile. “Anything you need, I’m the guy—”
“Chicken, Greg?” offered Seth Shein, suddenly at their side, thrusting a plate of barbecued chicken Stillman’s way. He smiled, but there was utterly no warmth in it.
Stillman speared a leg—“Why not?”—and started munching it. Suddenly he was a different man, his eyes alive, looking distinctly younger, energized.
“Why not a breast, Greg? Isn’t that your specialty?”
“Not after you’ve been handling it, Seth. At that point the patient is usually beyond hope.”
The other glared at him. “At least I don’t run experiments that risk lives!”
“That’s true,” said Stillman. “Your experiments don’t do anything at all.”
Looking on, Logan was aghast. It wasn’t merely that Shein had had far too much to drink, or even that these two so clearly loathed each other. What was remarkable, what even the wars at Claremont had not prepared him for, was how little effort either made to hide the fact.
Abruptly, Stillman turned back his way with an ingratiating smile. “Aren’t you hot in those clothes, Doctor?”
“Leave him alone,” snapped Shein.
“Well?” said Stillman, ignoring this.
Not knowing what to do, Logan nodded tentatively.
“I know I am,” said Stillman, suddenly unzipping his leather jacket and tossing it at Shein’s feet; quickly followed by his boots and leather pants. Underneath, he wore a pair of trunks.
“First rule of medical research,” he announced, with a raised eyebrow “—one a lot of people around here have yet to learn: Never shy away from the unorthodox because you’re worried what people will say.” He shot Shein a look. “You’ll find that most people—including your colleagues—are idiots.” He dived into the pool and with strong, even strokes began making his way to the other end.
“You,” hissed Shein, in Logan’s direction, “are going to have to choose sides.” And, though still dressed, dived into the pool after the other man, racing frantically to overtake him.