Catching the 8:00 A.M. shuttle out of National Airport, Logan made it into midtown Manhattan before 10:00. Not scheduled to meet Perez till half past twelve—his only appointment—he viewed the day before him as an almost sinful indulgence, and he was determined to take full advantage. He had the cab drop him off at the Metropolitan Museum, and spent the next hour in his favorite sections—Egyptian art and medieval armaments; then headed over to another old haunt, the small, quirky Museum of the City of New York, with its current exhibit on New York sports history. Hurrying down to Fifty-ninth Street, he still had a little time to wander through F.A.O. Schwarz, examining new toys and gadgets that struck his fancy.
Ruben Perez was on time, waiting across the street, in front of the Plaza. As Logan approached he held up a deli bag.
“I figured we’d eat in the park.”
“Some things never change.” Logan grinned as they shook hands. “Why do I keep imagining you have class?”
“Hey, not all of us make doctors’ dough.”
“I don’t make doctors’ dough. I’m at the ACF, remember?”
“That’s why I didn’t suggest a restaurant. Didn’t want to embarrass you.”
Having established nothing had changed between them, they began almost instantly comparing notes on their respective institutions.
“You’re not gonna believe this,” said Logan, as they walked toward Central Park, “but a lot of people’d say the ACF’s as bad a work environment as Claremont. Maybe even worse.”
“I had the impression you liked the place.”
“I do, personally. But I’m a scientist, I’m giving you objective data.”
His friend shook his head vigorously. “Oh, c’mon, man. You forget what Claremont was like. Assholetown, U.S.A.”
“I’m telling you, some of these guys at the ACF are just unbelievable bullies. Cross ‘em, even by accident, and you can kiss your career good-bye.”
“So how you handling it?” Perez took a seat on an empty bench.
The simple question seemed to hit a raw nerve. “There’s no handling it. You just work hard and try like hell to stay out of harm’s way.”
“Right.”
“Problem is, you get known as a kiss-ass for the trouble. What the hell am I supposed to do, do crappy work? That makes me a hero?”
His friend was taken aback by Logan’s intensity. “Hey, man, I’m not accusing you of sucking up to anyone. Sounds like they’re working you too hard down there.” He patted the bench. “Sit down.”
Logan did so. “Sorry. I only wish the work came without all the other crap.”
“Dream on, pal. Just don’t get me worried about your mental state. I got my hands full worrying about my own.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“How’d we even get started on your problems? I mean, it’s so typical.”
Logan couldn’t help but smile. “Fine. Your turn.” He extended his hand. “Give me my sandwich and talk to me.”
But as Perez launched into his story, the tenor of the encounter quickly changed. In fact, his impending divorce was far messier than Logan had realized. It seemed his estranged wife was drinking heavily. Increasingly bitter, she’d been denying him access to their young daughter. He’d begun to feel he had no alternative but to consider a custody fight.
Having zero firsthand experience with such a nightmarish scenario, knowing nothing about the emotional needs of children beyond what he’d picked up in a month-long mental-health course he’d had to take as a medical student, Logan understood he was in no position to offer advice. He mainly listened. But this seemed to be fine with Perez.
“It’s so damn hard,” he softly concluded. “Just because I want out, everyone thinks I’m the bad guy.” He stopped and brushed a sleeve over suddenly damp eyes.
Awkwardly, Logan threw an arm over his friend’s shoulder. “You know I’ll do everything I can.” He’d almost forgotten—perhaps only now fully grasped—the depth of his feelings for this man.
“I mean, no one knows what really goes on inside a family. How people treat each other. I’m trying to save my kid, man. I’m working three extra shifts a week just to finance this.”
Looking to ease the tension, Logan went for a laugh. “Eighteen more hours a week at Claremont? Now, that’s depressing.”
He was immediately sorry. But, typically, Perez offered him a smile. “I know, man. You ain’t kidding.”
Half an hour later, as Perez hurried off in the general direction of Claremont Hospital, Logan found himself at a loss. What to do now? He tended to see life as a series of firm commitments and he’d set aside this as a leisurely day of R and R. Still, the idea of spending the afternoon alone suddenly seemed immensely less appealing.
He considered heading home immediately. As always, there was work to be done. Patients who’d be delighted to see him. Slides to study in the Screening Clinic. Data to be input into the computer system—including Tilley’s, which, in his preoccupation with their significance the night before, he’d neglected to enter.
Doggedly, Logan headed off to the movies, where he spent the rest of the afternoon. Afterward, feeling better, he decided to stay for dinner at his favorite Thai restaurant. Needing something to read, he made it over to the bookstore at Sloan-Kettering just before closing and picked up the latest edition of Vincent DeVita’s authoritative Principles and Practice of Oncology.
He found the book so absorbing that it was only after ordering coffee that he thought to call in and check his messages.
The first several were routine: a hospital secretary with word of a protocol patient who’d checked back in; an old college friend planning to be in Washington over Christmas. But the third caught him entirely by surprise.
“Hello, Dr. Logan. Or perhaps I now know you well enough to say Danny? Anyway, never mind. This is Sabrina Como calling and I am eager to talk with you as soon as possible. I think I have found something important. So if you will please call me as soon as you can. (703) 555-4103. Ciaò.”
Logan checked his watch—it was eight-sixteen. Hurriedly dialing Sabrina’s number, he got her machine and left a message: he was hoping to make the nine o’clock shuttle. He’d try her again when he reached home.
It wasn’t until he was in the cab, speeding toward the airport, that he realized he’d left his book on the table.