Under the Knife(41)

“Hey.” Ray leaned in and flicked the back of his hand against Spencer’s chest in an affable, just-between-you-and-me-a-couple-of-the-guys-talkin’ kind of way. “Hey.” Ray flicked him a second time. Spencer flinched. His personal space was important to him, and this was a violation. “Compadre. Did you hear a couple of nurses found some jackass passed out naked this morning in one of the ORs? A surgeon?”

“What?”

“I know, right?”

“You’re kidding.”

“For real. I shit you not, my friend. Freakin’ nuts, right?”

“Who was it?”

“Don’t know. But, man, I sure wish I did. Just lying there, lettin’ it all hang out. JEEE-sus!” He slapped his knee. “Hah! I heard that Montgomery is pissed.”

“Naked, Ray? Are you sure? That’s just—I mean, bizarre. You sure it’s for real?”

“Compadre,” Ray said solicitously. “Come on. Shit like this happens. Don’t you remember that anesthesiologist a few years back? The guy they found in one of the on-call rooms, whacked out of his brains on drugs? Banging two hookers?”

Spencer hadn’t known that.

“Hah!” Ray said, reading his shocked expression. “The guy was run out of town on a rail. But Montgomery kept the whole thing quiet. Real quiet. Montgomery’s good at that. Slick as hell—one of the reasons why that golden-boy bastard is head of surgery.”

“Huh.”

“Then there was that trauma surgeon. Young guy. Placing central lines into drug addicts for cash, in some shitty little rental shack in Ocean Beach.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Ray snorted. “Montgomery kept that one real quiet, too. The balls on that kid.”

“Where did he get the lines?”

“Stole them from the SICU. Cunning little prick. Sticking junkies at a thousand bucks a pop—until this one time when he went a little too deep on a subclavian and dropped some kid’s lung. That poor son of a bitch ended up almost buying it. Tension pneumo, you know? Lung crushed to the size of a grape before the ER guys popped his chest with a needle. You telling me you never hear about that, either?”

Spencer shook his head.

“Huh.” Ray narrowed his eyes. “Compadre, you are one straightlaced son of a bitch. You know that? You really are as clean-cut as everyone says you are.”

Spencer blushed. “So … why do you think he did it? The central-line guy?”

Ray waved dismissively. “Who knows? Some of us get screwed up sometimes, you know? Don’t get me wrong: In the great pantheon of big-time doctor fuck-ups, this one today is seriously fucked up. All I’m saying is that this shit has happened before, and it’ll happen again. I mean, this job sucks sometimes. Every so often, one of us flames out. Spectacularly. Nuclear-grade meltdown.”

“So … is that what you think happened with the naked guy?”

“Oh, yeah,” Ray said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. He snorted, threw a rapid glance over his shoulder, and leaned in. “One thing’s for sure—guy’s out of a job. Might as well pack his bags today. His career? Stick a fork in it because it is fucking done, my friend.” He leaned closer and flicked Spencer’s chest. “Am I right?” Chest flick. “Hah!”

Spencer took a step back and folded his arms. He didn’t like being touched like that. It took him back to college and med school, when he’d worked nights as a bouncer at clubs to scrape together some extra cash. At most shifts, there’d been at least one cologne-reeking alpha stalking the entry line outside the front door, showing off for his girlfriend wobbling on foot-high stilettos and spilling out of a vaporous dress two sizes too small. Those guys were usually chest pokers, or, worse, chest butters, shoving up against him like stags in heat.

“Well.” Ray stole a glance at the thick gold Rolex on his wrist. “Gotta go pay for another semester at Colgate. Hah! Adios, compadre.”

As Ray bounded out the door toward the ORs, Spencer heard him say: “Hey! My man! Did you hear about that naked guy they found in room 10?… You did?… I know, right? JEEE-sus! Can you believe it, compadre?”

The door closed before Spencer could hear if Ray’s unseen companion could, in fact, believe it.

For some inexplicable reason, Spencer’s insides twisted into a knot.

I wonder who it was?





RITA


Pre-op was a large, rectangular room. Arranged around its perimeter were twenty small, private sitting areas: cubicles enclosed by walls on three sides, with a thick retractable curtain strung across the side facing the center of the room. Each cubicle contained a gurney, an IV pole, and two chairs.

Rita paused in the doorway. She was late, delayed by her conversations with Finney and Chase. Most of the patients scheduled for the first operations of the morning had already been wheeled off to operating rooms. A few of the cubicles, though, were occupied with patients and family members. Nurses in scrubs darted between cubicles like hummingbirds lighting from flower to flower.

“I remember this place,” Finney said quietly. “This room. We spoke with you in here, just before Jenny’s operation.” A beat. “It was the last place I ever saw Jenny awake.”