The Magic Bullet Read online

  “One step at a time, Joe. Something’s here. I feel it, and so do you.”

  Joe nodded. “I can’t explain it any other way,” he admitted.

  It was enough for Allan. His eyes lit up with anticipation. Anyone not knowing his monomania would think he was high on some hallucinogenic. Sometimes, Joe thought Allan might be better off if he were. At least then there was the possibility of rehabilitation.

  By the time they reached the hospital, Demi had still not called, and Allan was getting nervous. What if he hadn’t been as persuasive as he thought and money couldn’t buy them? He went with Joe on his rounds, but he wasn’t as much help as he could have been. His mind was elsewhere. He did go with him to sign out Jodi Walker and meet her parents. After Joe introduced them, Allan mentioned he had visited Demi, and Lois confessed that her sister had called her in the morning.

  Oh?”

  “She’s conflicted about it. Give her a little more time,” Lois said.

  Allan nodded and wished them all luck when they headed out with Jodi. He saw the glow in Joe’s face, too.

  What would it be like if I could release my patients like this? he thought. His anxiety was quickly turning into subdued rage. Why wasn’t the money enough? He was asking for so little. He was nearly beside himself and even contemplated returning to Los Angeles when his phone finally rang.

  “I’ll bring him around after school,” Demi Petersen said. “To Doctor Weber’s office. I’d rather we did it there than at the hospital.”

  “Oh, absolutely,” Allan said. “No problem. What time is after school?”

  “I should be there with Taylor about three thirty, if that’s all right.”

  “Perfect,” Allan said. She could have said any time she wanted, and he would have said, “perfect.”

  “I’d like you to explain it better To my son. He’s very bright. I don’t want him to feel freakish or anything.”

  “Oh, I will. He can even be there in the lab, if he wants, when I run some initial tests.”

  “I don’t think that’ll be necessary, but thank you.”

  “And I’ll have the money for him.”

  She didn’t respond. He sensed she wanted to say it wasn’t necessary, but he imagined her boyfriend harping on it so much that she had no choice. He started to feel sorry for her and then stopped himself. This isn’t the time to get into the middle of someone’s soap opera, he told himself. His goal was to save lives. How people wasted or improved those lives afterward was not his business. After all, he was a scientist, not a therapist.

  He hurried to tell Joe, who became amused with Allan’s anticipation. He was like an expectant father until three thirty, pacing, looking dumbly at television, making some routine phone calls, and hating the minute hand on the clock for taking so long To move.

  He worked on keeping himself calm and casual. He didn’t want to spook the kid or his mother any more than they were, especially after Demi Petersen had implied that the kid was feeling freakish. Finally, they arrived. He could see the deep worry in Demi Petersen’s face, but he was surprised and grateful for the coolness in the boy and the insight inherent in Taylor’s first question.

  “How do you know it was my blood cells that did anything? She had transplants from other donors, right? Maybe whatever happened took longer than you think,” Taylor said.

  Allan smiled at him. In his own mind, Taylor Petersen had already achieved superhuman status, so it was easy to see in him a superior intelligence and a wisdom in his eyes that went far beyond his chronological age. In many ways, in fact, Taylor reminded Allan of himself. He seemed to have the same alertness, awareness, and depth of perception that fed on distrust. Skepticism and doubt led To more intense evaluation and brought up questions the trusting mind never imagines.

  “Nothing is for certain yet, Taylor, but there is a cause and effect relationship to evaluate,” he replied. “Some mechanism triggered all this pretty quickly.”

  Allan winked at Demi, who started to relax. He was determined To make a hit with the kid and win over his confidence, but he couldn’t help enjoying the effect his treating Taylor like an adult had on Demi as well. She gave him a nice smile, maybe initiated by more than simple appreciation. He was surprised at how much he wanted that to be true.

  “The time period between the other transfusions and yours is significant enough for us to focus on you,” he added. “Understand, buddy?”

  Taylor shrugged. “You’re the doctor.”

  Allan laughed and again looked at Demi, who was holding those beautiful lips of hers just a shade or two away from a brighter smile. It was clear how much she enjoyed and loved her son.

  “Sometimes, I have to keep telling myself that, Taylor.” He turned back to Demi. “I saw from Taylor’s medical history that he has been pretty healthy. He didn’t miss a day of school last year?”

  “You got his medical history?”

  “Oh, yes,” Allan said, fumbling for the right words. “We have to consider everything. I mean…”

  She nodded.

  “He likes going to school,” Demi said. “He’d go even if he didn’t feel well.”

  Allan nodded and smiled.

  “I went a year without missing a day, too. Cut a few when I started college,” he said, winking at Taylor.

  “Some of my teachers wouldn’t know if I was there or not,” Taylor said, and Allan laughed.

  “I had a few of those, too.”

  “How’d you stay awake?”

  “I’m not sure I did.” Allan hurriedly prepared the needle but tried not to look too determined.

  “I count’er’s,” Taylor told him.

  “Er’s?”

  “You know, when they go’er’ before they say something, or in the middle of a sentence. Mr. Hunter broke the record recently. Two hundred and two’er’s in one day.”

  Joe Weber roared with laughter. Allan smiled and shook his head.

  “You have quite a kid here,” he told Demi.

  “I know,” she said. “Sometimes, too quite.”

  Allan drew the first tube, practically salivating as the blood poured in.

  “You gonna check my neutrophils and macrophages?” Taylor asked as Allan hurriedly attached the second tube to the needle.

  Allan’s eyebrows nearly flew off his head.

  “He’s always on the computer,” Demi said. “When he gets onto a subject, he won’t let go until he learns everything he can about it. He’s always been that way. Full of questions.”

  “Why do you say that, Mom?” Taylor asked, and she, Allan, and Joe laughed.

  “Getting back to your question, Taylor, we are going to check your neutrophils and macrophages,” Allan said. “The research done emphasizes those cells.”

  He turned to Demi.

  “The combine system of white blood cells forms a first line of host defense against pathogens, such as bacteria,” he told her. “Preliminary studies show that the white blood cells under examination can also kill endogenous cancers, cancers that spring up naturally from the body’s own cells. There are those who believe we’re all living with cancer cells, and when the immune system falters, those cells dominate.”

  “Like a weakness in a fortress?” Taylor added.

  “Exactly,” Allan said. “We might have a future doctor here,” he added, slipping on the third tube.

  Allan saw that Demi look impressed with him.

  “Doctor Parker has become something of a superstar in the battle against cancer,” Joe said with pride. “If he thinks that about Taylor, it means something.”

  “I think I want to be an astronaut,” Taylor said. “There are too many people I’d rather look down on than up to.”

  Both he and Joe roared again.

  “My money’s on him no matter what he wants to do,” Allan said. He watched the tube fill and then added the fourth.

  “How many of those are you doing?” Demi asked.

  “They need four,” Taylor replied before Allan cou
ld.

  “He’s right. Almost done.”

  Demi’s smile was softer, warmer, but he saw there was still great anxiety in that pretty face. He concentrated on finishing the job and then had Joe’s nurse quickly bandage Taylor. He put the tubes safely in a packet. Afterward, as surreptitiously as he could manage, he handed Demi an envelope with the check for $1000, but he sensed Taylor had caught sight of it.

  “This wasn’t my idea,” Demi said, not hiding her embarrassment.

  Allan smiled. “I know,” he said. “But that’s fine. It’s worth it Tome. We’re going to get right on this,” he told her. “As soon as we have some definitive result, I’ll call you, but it could be quite a long time.”

  She nodded. Taylor had his hands in his pockets and was standing with his shoulders dropped. She knew that body language all too well. He hovered close to the door, looking like he wanted to bolt. She took the envelope and stuffed it into her purse quickly, nodded, and left.

  Allan stopped holding his breath and then turned to Joe, who stood there gently shaking his head.

  “I almost hope for her sake that there’s nothing there,” he said.

  For Allan, he could have said nothing more damaging to their relationship.

  Joe saw it immediately in Allan’s face.

  “Almost,” he added. “Of course, like you, I’d love to be part of some significant step forward.”

  Allan nodded.

  “This might be more than a step, Joe. It could be a leap.”

  Joe nodded.

  “She’s very nice,” he said, nodding at the door through which Demi had just left.

  “Yes. Too nice for the man she has.”

  “Oh?” Joe smiled. “Do I detect more than scientific interest in your voice?”

  “Forget it. I’m here only for the research,” Allan said, and Joe laughed.

  “Convince yourself, not me,” he told him.

  Frankie heard what Dr. Reuben was saying, but it was as if he had left his own body and was standing off to the side listening to the conversation between his body and his doctor. It occurred to him that this was like moving through the streets knowing you were in the sights of some hit man’s high-powered rifle. Whenever he had the whim or desire, he would simply press his finger down on the trigger, and your head would explode. The bastards who had put the hit on you wanted the tension and anticipation to linger for as long as possible so you would suffer. Instead of your doctor, someone delivered a simple message that read, “You’re a target. Any day. Any moment. There’s no place to hide.”

  Maybe, then, it was better never to go to a doctor, never to hear any possible bad news.

  “I’d like to start chemotherapy immediately, Mr. Vico. Doctor Weber will handle your treatments. He’s an excellent oncologist.”

  “What are my chances here?”

  “Why don’t we wait to see what…”

  “Give it Tome straight, Doc,” Frankie ordered. “I never pussy around. I don’t want anyone to pussy around with me—lawyers, doctors, whatever.”

  “About thirty percent of patients with second stage lung cancer survive five years,” Dr. Reuben said, almost taking pleasure in the abrupt response Frankie demanded.

  “So it could be less?” Frankie asked. He wouldn’t tolerate false hope or any sugarcoating. Dr. Reuben nodded.

  “It could be. I’d like to admit you this afternoon.”

  Frankie looked out the window. The first thought that came to his mind was he might not be around for Chipper’s graduation from law school.

  “Let’s see if we can slow this thing down, Mr. Vico. There are all sorts of breakthroughs happening as well, and no one can predict what weapons we might have in a year. It’s better to go at this with some hope.”

  “Yeah, I getcha,” Frankie said. “Okay. I’ll make arrangements to check in.”

  “See if you can manage to be there by three,” Dr. Reuben said. “I’ll start what I have to in order to get you going.”

  “Right,” Frankie said.

  Dr. Reuben smiled and walked away.

  What’s he smiling for? Frankie thought and for the first time wondered if his doctor not only didn’t care about him, but was happy to see him dying. Just like he didn’t like some of his customers and couldn’t care less if a piano fell on their heads, his doctor probably saw this as some sort of poetic justice countering the stupid saying about the good dying young. Maybe he wouldn’t work too hard on saving or prolonging his life. Frankie made a mental note to have a second doctor evaluate and report about everything that was done.

  If he shortchanges me, I’ll be the last one he does, Frankie vowed. It felt a great deal better to be angry and think violent thoughts. He despised people who bathed in self-pity, and he was never a whiner.

  “How’d it go?” Tony asked when he came out to the car.

  “You didn’t smoke in the fucking car, did you?” Frankie responded.

  “No, boss.”

  “It went lousy. I gotta go the hospital. Get me back to the bowling alley,” he ordered and got into the car.

  Tony moved quickly.

  “What’s it about?” he asked as he started the engine.

  “It’s about dying, schmuck. Just drive. I got some figuring to do.”

  “Right,” Tony said. He bit down on his lower lip almost as if he was afraid something stupid would come out of his mouth and Frankie would shoot him in the head just to shut him up.

  When they arrived at the bowling alley, Frankie went right To marilyn. She seemed incapable of understanding anything but the fact that she had to get things together for him and accompany him to the hospital.

  “You don’t really have cancer,” she said, grimacing, as if he had made the choice to have it, as if it was entirely his own fault.

  “Naw. It’s just in everyone’s imagination,” Frankie said. “What? You think I’m checking into a hospital for kicks? Jesus, Marilyn. It ain’t the Ritz.”

  She shook her head and moved as if she was humoring him. It wasn’t until he was checked in, dressed in a hospital gown, and in the hospital bed in a private room with bedpans and IV stands nearby that she actually looked like she believed it.

  “Everyone looks smaller in a hospital gown,” she commented when he got into the bed.

  He opened and closed his fists as if he were squeezing some invisible rubber ball.

  “Thanks. I love hearing it. Just stay on top of things while I’m in here,” he told her. “Watch that bartender. He looks like the type who steals nickels and dimes.”

  “Then why’d you hire him?”

  “It was a favor for someone, Marilyn. I told you that.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “Call Chipper. Let him know what’s up.”

  “You sure you don’t want to do it yourself? I hate telling people bad things.”

  “Chipper’s not people, Marilyn. He’s my son. Just do it,” he said, not wanting to admit that he didn’t want to tell his son himself. His son still thought he was invulnerable, a powerful man who made other men tremble just by looking in their direction. In a world where the rich and powerful ruled the roost, it was suicidal to admit to any weaknesses, much less fatal illnesses. Once it got out, the creeps would be coming out of their holes to challenge everything.

  Dr. Reuben came in with Joe Weber.

  “You better go,” Frankie told Marilyn. “I’ll talk to you later. Don’t forget to call Chipper.”

  “Okay,” she said, grateful for the reprieve. She kissed him, smiled at the doctors, and left.

  Joe began to describe the protocol. Halfway through, Frankie interrupted to ask if there were other cancer patients on the same floor. Both doctors looked confused by the question.

  “Well, there’s someone next door being treated for lung cancer as well, Mr. Vico. He’s one of my patients. Why do you ask?”

  “It felt like I wasn’t alone with this. Felt like it was a segregated wing of the hospital or something. I don’t lik
e feeling I’m in some graveyard already.”

  “That’s not the case. There are patients here with different diagnoses,” Joe told him.

  “Yeah, well, okay. Keep talking,” Frankie said. “I’m all ears.”

  Afterward, since he was about an hour or so from the beginning of his first treatment, Frankie got out of bed and took a walk. He was curious about the patient with lung cancer next door and peered through the open doorway. He saw on the door that his name was Paul Wellman.

  Ain’t that an ironic name, he thought.

  Paul Wellman didn’t look much more than forty. He was coughing and spitting into a handkerchief. A fairly attractive blonde sat watching him. Frankie imagined she was his wife. There’s a thing, he thought, watching your husband die. She’s probably planning the funeral. And suddenly, he hated all the bereaved. They ain’t cryin’ because they’re sad, he thought. They’re cryin’ out of happiness that it’s not them. The bastards.

  “How’s he doin’?” he asked when the woman turned toward the doorway and saw him standing there. Wellman looked his way, too, but not with any real interest.

  “I’m next door,” he said.

  “Oh.” She gave him a weak smile. “He’s doing just fine,” she said. “Fine. He’ll be fine.”

  “Good,” he muttered and walked on. Stupid broad was already in another world, he thought. Marilyn, on the other hand, isn’t even going to skip a meal.

  Allan had an unorthodox idea, but one that might give a quicker result. When he mentioned it to Joe, Joe balked.

  “We can’t do that, Allan.”

  “Why not?”

  “C’mon, you know all this as well as I do. First, it might give the patient and his family false hope. And even if you saw some similar recuperation, you couldn’t be sure of the reason, not without the findings. Besides, I don’t have anyone who’s gone beyond the point of traditional treatments yet, and no other doctor is going to agree to this. I’ve never had a patient try anything in the experimental stage.”

  “Precisely my point.”

  “But we can’t claim that was the purpose for the transfusion, Allan. I didn’t give her the transfusion as a miracle cure or tell her parents there was even that possibility.”

  “Hey, you have to step out of the box with this thing, Joe. It doesn’t respect proper procedures, ethical acts. It’s like being in a war with someone who’s never signed the Geneva convention.”