Eastern’s flight #409, nonstop from Miami to Boston, banked sharply before lining up for the final approach. It touched down at seven thirty-seven as Juan Dfaz closed his magazine and looked out at the fog-shrouded Boston skyline. It was his second trip to Boston and he wasn’t all that pleased. He wondered why anyone would choose to live in such predictably bad weather. It had rained on his previous trip just a few days ago. Looking down on the tarmac, he saw the wind and rain in the puddles and thought nostalgically of Miami, where late fall had finally put an end to the searing summer heat. Getting his bag from under the seat in front of him, Juan wondered how long he’d be in Boston. He remembered that on the previous trip he’d been there only two days, and he hadn’t had to do a thing. He wondered if he’d have the same good fortune. After all, he got his five thousand no matter what.
The plane taxied toward the terminal. Juan looked around the compartment with a sense of pride. He wished his family back in Cuba could see him now. Would they be surprised! There he was, flying first class. After being sentenced to life in prison by the Castro government, he’d been released after only eight months and sent first to Mariel and then, to his astonishment, to the USA. That was to be his punishment for having been convicted of multiple murder and rape — being sent to the USA! It was so much easier to do his type of work in the United States. Juan felt that the one person in the world whose hand he’d most like to shake was a peanut farmer someplace in Georgia.
The plane gave a final lurch, then was still. Juan rose to his feet and stretched. Taking his carry-on bag, he headed for baggage. After retrieving his suitcase, he caught a cab to the Royal Sonesta Hotel, where he registered as Carlos Hernández from Los Angeles. He even had a credit card in that name, with a legitimate number. He knew the number was good, since he’d taken it off a receipt he’d found at the Bal Harbour shopping plaza in Miami.
Once he was comfortably relaxed in his room, with his second silk suit hanging in the closet, Juan sat at the desk and called a number he’d been given in Miami. When the phone was answered, he told the person he needed a gun, preferably a.22 caliber. With that business taken care of, he got out the name and address of the hit and looked up the location on the map supplied by the hotel. It wasn’t far away.
The evening with Shirley was a great success. They dined on roast chicken, artichokes, and wild rice. Afterward they had Grand Marnier in front of the fire in the living room and talked. Jason learned that Shirley’s father had been a doctor and that back in college she’d entertained the idea of following in his footsteps.
“But my father talked me out of it,” Shirley said. “He said that medicine was changing.”
“He was right about that.”
“He told me that it would be taken over by big business and that someone who cared about the profession should go into management. So I switched to business courses, and I believe I made the right choice.”
“I’m sure you did, too,” Jason agreed, thinking about the explosion of paperwork and the malpractice dilemma. Medicine had indeed changed. The fact that he now worked for a salary for a corporation stood as testament to that change. When he’d been in medical school he’d always imagined he’d work for himself. That had been part of the appeal.
At the end of the evening, there was a bit of awkwardness. Jason said he’d best be going, but Shirley encouraged him to stay.
“You think that would be a good idea?” Jason asked.
She nodded.
Jason wasn’t so sure, saying he’d have to get up early for rounds and wouldn’t want to disturb her. Shirley insisted she was up at seven-thirty as a matter of course, Sundays included.
They stared at each other for a time, the firelight making Shirley’s face glow.
“There’s no obligation,” Shirley said softly. “I know we both have to be slow about this. Let’s just be together. We’ve both been under stress.”
“Okay,” Jason said, recognizing he did not have the strength to resist. Besides, he was flattered that Shirley was so insistent. He was becoming more open to the idea that not only could he care about another person but another person could care about him.
But Jason did not get to sleep the whole night through. At three-thirty he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he sat up, momentarily confused as to his whereabouts. In the half light, he could just make out Shirley’s face.
“I’m sorry to have to bother you,” she said gently, “but I’m afraid the phone is for you.” She handed him the receiver from the nightstand.
Jason took the phone and thanked her. He hadn’t even heard the phone ring. Propping himself on one elbow, he put the receiver to his ear. He was certain it would be bad news, and he was right. Matthew Cowen had been found dead in his bed, apparently having suffered a final, massive stroke.
“Has the family been notified?” Jason asked.
“Yes,” said the nurse. “They live in Minneapolis. They said they’d come in the morning.”
“Thanks,” Jason said, absently giving the phone back to Shirley.
“Trouble?” Shirley asked. She set the receiver back in the cradle.
Jason nodded. Trouble had become his middle name. “A young patient died. Thirty-five or so. He had rheumatic heart disease. He was in for evaluation for surgery.”
“How bad was his heart disease?” asked Shirley.
“It was bad,” Jason said, seeing Matthew’s face, remembering him as he’d been when he entered the hospital. “Three of his four valves were affected. They would have had to replace all of them.”
“So there were no guarantees,” Shirley said.
“No guarantees,” Jason agreed. “Three valve replacements can be tricky. He’s had congestive heart failure for a long time, undoubtedly affecting his heart, lungs, kidneys and liver. There would have been problems, but he had age on his side.”
“Maybe it was for the best,” Shirley suggested. “Maybe he’s been spared from a lot of suffering. Sounds like he would have been in and out of the hospital for the rest of his life.”
“Maybe so,” Jason said without conviction. He knew what Shirley was doing: she was trying to make him feel better. Jason appreciated her effort. He patted the thigh through the thin cover of her robe. “Thanks for your support.”
The night seemed awfully cold when Jason ran out to his car. It was still raining, in fact, harder than before. Turning up the heat, he rubbed his thighs to get his circulation going. At least there was no traffic. At four A.M., Sunday morning, the city was deserted. Shirley had tried to get him to stay, arguing that there was nothing for Jason to do if the man had died and the family was not available. As true as this was, Jason felt an obligation to his patient that he could not dismiss. Besides, he knew he’d not be able to get back to sleep. Not with yet another death on his conscience.
The GHP parking lot was mostly empty. Jason was able to park close to the hospital entrance rather than under the outpatient building where he usually parked. As he stepped out of his car, preoccupied with thoughts of Matthew Cowen, he didn’t notice a darkened figure hunched over at the side of the hospital door. Rounding the front of his car, the figure lunged at Jason. Caught completely unaware, Jason screamed. But the figure turned out to be one of the drunken street people who frequented the GHP emergency room, asking for spare change. With a shaking hand, Jason gave him a dollar, hoping he’d at least buy himself a little food.
Shirley had been right. There was nothing for Jason to do but write a final note in Matthew Cowen’s chart. He went in and viewed his body. At least Matthew’s face looked calm, and as Shirley suggested, he was now spared further suffering. Silently. Jason apologized to the dead man.