Pretty sick, George thought.
He stopped the car and stepped out. He glanced about the alley. No one. Dozens of stuffed plastic trash bags were piled by the bar’s rear entrance. Rear entrance, George mused. How appropriate.
Taking one last look, George hefted the corpse out of the trunk, dumped it by the trash bags, climbed back in the car, and drove off. He had traveled three blocks when he glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror.
Damn. His hair looked horrendous.
5
SARA limped along after him as Harvey sprinted toward the emergency ward. Ten yards in front of the entrance he almost slammed into Eric Blake, who was making a blind turn in the same direction.
“They paged you too?” Eric asked.
Harvey nodded. The two men barely broke stride as they crashed through the door and into the waiting area. They immediately spotted Reece Porter.
It was Harvey who reached him first. “What happened?”
“Don’t know. Mikey just grabbed his stomach and collapsed. He’s in there.”
“Come on, Eric.”
The two doctors disappeared behind a guarded door reading “No Admittance.” A moment later Sara hobbled into the emergency ward.
Reece looked up, surprised to see her at the hospital already. “What are you doing here?”
She ignored the question. “Where is he? Is he all right?”
“The emergency room doctor is already with him. Harvey and Eric are in there too.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. We were scrimmaging like always, making jokes and all that stuff. We stopped for a break and a minute later . . .”
“A minute later what?”
“Mikey collapsed on the floor holding his stomach. We called an ambulance and I drove over with him. The pain seemed to let up a little on the way. When we got here, I told the nurse to page Eric and Harv.”
“Is he conscious?”
“Yeah, he’s awake. I bet it’s just some food poisoning or something—all that Chinese food he’s eating all the time. Now answer my question: what are you doing here?”
“I had a doctor’s appointment next door.”
“Are you okay?”
His voice rang with the warmth of genuine concern. In the background Sara could hear children whisper, “Look, Mom, that’s Reece Porter!” Reece’s six-eight frame was about average for the NBA, but it was semi-freak anywhere else. His height always drew fascinated glances.
“I’m fine,” Sara said, hugging him tightly. “Reece, thanks for going with him.”
Reece shrugged. “He’s my friend,” he said simply. “And don’t worry too much about Mikey. The man is blessed. Remember how scared we were the last time we met in a hospital? All that blood and everything?”
Sara did. Every year when basketball season ended, she and Michael joined Reece and his Eurasian wife, Kureen, for a get-away-from-it-all vacation. Five years ago, when Michael and Sara were first getting serious, the four decided to charter a small cruise boat out of Florida and explore the Keys and the Bahamas. The past basketball season had been a particularly long one, ending when the Knicks bested the Seattle Supersonics in a grueling, bruising seven-game showdown. All four of them had been anxious to escape the world, the fans, and the press.
On the third day of the voyage Michael and Reece had gotten up early, hired a kid with a speedboat, and gone waterskiing. The kid had gotten drunk and crashed the boat into a rock formation while Michael was on the water skis. He had been rushed to a local Bahamian hospital, bleeding heavily, and spent the next three weeks in bed.
“I remember,” Sara said softly.
“But Mikey is—as one of the rookies would say—a tough old dude. He’ll be okay.”
Sara tried to take solace in Reece’s words, but something kept jabbing at the back of her mind, telling her that he was not going to be okay, that nothing was ever going to be okay again.
“WHAT’S going on?” Harvey asked.
The young resident whose name tag read “John Richardson” looked up and spoke with quick precision. “We’re not sure yet. He’s suffering severe abdominal pain. Physical examination is remarkable for the liver being palpable four centimeters below the right costal margin. It’s extremely tender.”
“Hurts like hell is more like it,” Michael managed from his prone position on the table.
“Vital signs?”
“All stable.”
Harvey moved toward the bed. “Looking good, champ.”
“Feel like shit, Coach.”
“I was only kidding. You look like shit too.”
Michael managed a chuckle. “I got the varsity in here now. How’s it going, Eric?”
“Fine. Should I page Dr. Sagarel, Harv?”
Harvey nodded.
“See you in a bit, Mike,” Eric said.
“I’ll wait here for you.” Michael turned his attention back to Harvey. “Who is Dr. Sagarel?”
“A gastroenterologist.”
“Of course. I should have known.”
“Jesus, Michael, look at your shorts. They’re horrendous—even by your standards.”
“I ask for a doctor. I get a fashion critic.”
Harvey probed the liver area. “Does that hurt?”
“Like a son of a bitch.”
Harvey straightened his back and turned toward the resident. “Have you done the blood work yet?”
“Yes.”
“Get him an abdominal flat plate done stat.”
“I’ll also need to get a better history,” Richardson said. “It could be something he consumed—”
“Can’t be. He’s had this pain for weeks. And his skin is jaundiced.”
Eric came back into the room. “Dr. Sagarel will be here in about a half hour.”
“Michael,” Harvey asked, “have you noticed anything unusual in your urine lately?”
“A Datson hatchback came out the other day.”
“Hilarious. Now answer my question.”
Harvey saw the fear gather around Michael’s eyes. “I don’t know. The color’s been darker maybe.”
The doctors exchanged knowing glances.
“What?” Michael asked. “What have I got?”
“I don’t know yet. Eric, make sure they do a hep screen on the blood. Also EBV and CMV titers. Then bring him down for an abdominal ultrasound.”
“One step ahead of you.”
“Now in English?” Michael asked.