there, and even if they were happily married. It was James Francis Moran’s version of ‘What’s My Line’; his way of keeping those little gray cells alert, as his favorite fiction detective, Hercule Poirot, always said.
He started by concentrating on the rotund man seated to his left dismissively flipping through a magazine: Asian, eyeglasses, about fifty, right-handed, five-five, and two hundred pounds. The stranger’s pleasant expression told Moran the man was happily married or newly divorced. Probably here because of a weight problem or diabetes.
Moran turned his attention to the woman in front of him: Latina, less than a hundred pounds, a slight tic in her right eye, about forty, five-two, and a wedding band on her left hand; probably here to cure her anorexia or wants to get pregnant and can’t. When Moran finished assessing her, he turned to his right and focused on the stout middle-aged woman with the sad black eyes who nervously fingered the rosary in her hands. He was about to begin his evaluation when the receptionist called out.
“The doctor will see you now, lieutenant.”
When Moran entered Dr. Cook’s office, the doctor rose from behind his desk. “Good morning.” He held out a meaty hand. A gold ring with a large sapphire in the center flashed from his pinky finger.
“Doctor,” Moran said and took the man’s hand.
“Sit down, please, lieutenant.” Cook cast a critical, cold eye at Moran’s rumpled off-the rack-navy-blue suit. Moran caught the look and shrugged inwardly. He liked buying his suits at The Men’s Wearhouse, where he didn’t have to put up with prissy, overly sweet salespeople, and where he saved a bundle.
The doctor pulled at his closed suit jacket, whose buttons strained, and cleared his throat. Moran flicked his eyes at the doctor’s generous mid-section.
Noticing, Cook said, “Too much pie a la mode,” and patted his stomach.
Moran lowered himself into one of the two Chippendale armchairs that faced Cook’s desk and squirmed into the hard seat.
“By your tone when you called, I gather the news is not good. What’s wrong?” Moran asked.
Cook remained silent, letting the question hang in the air—the question that’s always asked. Finally, the doctor cleared his throat and sat down behind his desk. He opened the file that lay before him and ceremoniously placed a pair of Benjamin Franklin eyeglasses on the bridge of his wide nose, cleared his throat and began to thumb through the thick stack of pages in the file.
While Cook skimmed through the file, Moran stared at the doctor and thought of how he didn’t particularly like the man, although he recognized Dr. Cook’s competence in his field. Moran was put off by Cook’s arrogant attitude, his overuse of jewelry— like that five-figure, oversized gold and diamond Rolex on his left wrist, and the way he painstakingly combed strands of dyed black hair from his left side over his bald pate. Right, Cook, that really fools everyone.
Moran pushed aside those thoughts and downshifted mental gears, realizing he didn’t want the doctor to be a cheerleader with rah-rah messages and bubbling over with enthusiasm. What Sandra needed was Cook to be like a good ballplayer, capable of hitting cancer right out of the ballpark—a home run over the center field wall.
When Cook finished reviewing the file, he grunted, and the answer to Moran’s question came straight, a doughnut with no glaze.
“A.L.L. can be a very stubborn adversary. It’s now been six months since we began administering chemotherapy with central nervous system preventive therapy. I was hoping by now to have significantly reduced the leukemic cell population.” Cook poured a glass of water from the pitcher on a tray next to the telephone. “Unfortunately, the CNS hasn’t produced the results I expected. What was diagnosed originally as L3 morphology has unfortunately become what is known as PH1 morphology.” He paused and rotated the oversized ring on his left pinky while he looked at Moran whose face became a question mark. “Which is?”
Cook slowly removed his eyeglasses and held them daintily between his pudgy fingers. “It only occurs in one to two percent of patients with A.L.L., and hers is the worst type.” He leaned forward and placed his forefingers together. After another clearing of the throat, he continued. “I’m afraid that without a bone marrow transplant the outlook is bleak.” Cook’s tone, with its hint of superiority, chafed Moran’s nerves. The detective also found Cook’s habit of clearing his throat increasingly irritating, like a rat scratching on glass.
The doctor wiped his eyeglasses with the back of his broad violet striped yellow tie—a silk banner of bad taste. “It’s unfortunate that your markers didn’t—”
“Markers?” Moran asked with a puzzled look.
“Human Leukocyte Antigens.”
“Ah, yes… you explained that. If I remember, you said because of her advanced condition all six antigens had to match. And mine only matched four. But she has a half-brother, Alfred Abravanel, in upstate New York. Could he be a donor?”
“If the leukocytes,” Cook said, and stopped. He gazed at Moran’s questioning face and then continued. “Those are the white blood cells used to test for the antigens. If the six antigens match, I see no problem.” Cook returned the eyeglasses to his nose. “If not… well, the donor list is backed up three years, and she doesn’t have that long.”
“Can’t we move her up the list? After all you said she’d die without a transplant?”
The doctor adjusted the knot of his tie. “I’m afraid that would require the approval of the hospital board. Preferences are only granted in extreme cases.”
Moran’s face tightened and he uncrossed his legs. “Excuse me, Dr. Cook, but doesn’t dying qualify as an extreme case?”
Cook leaned back in his chair. “I can certainly petition the board on your behalf if you wish, detective, but—”
“Yes, I do wish it; in fact, I insist.”
Cook stood and snapped the file shut. “Very well, I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, I suggest you contact your wife’s brother and have him schedule an appointment so we can conduct the necessary compatibility tests.” He smiled, “I am, however, encouraged by the fact that during the past three months the milder chemotherapy has given her body’s immune system an opportunity to strengthen.”
Moran stood, flattened a wrinkle in his tie with the palm of his hand, and riveted his eyes on the doctor. “Thanks,” he deadpanned.
“I’m sorry, but please realize that this is all very embarrassing for me. I was confident we’d have better news.”
Embarrassing, Moran thought in anger. What kind of a frigging word is that? Spilling soup on your tie is embarrassing; noticing someone see you pick your nose is embarrassing; leaving the house with your fly unzipped, that’s major league embarrassing. Is this guy for real?
The door swung open and Sandra stepped into the office. She looked up at her husband’s flustered face.
“Anything wrong?” she asked.
Moran cast Cook a sideways glance. “Everything’s okay. Dr. Cook was kind enough to invite me to wait here for you.”
A few minutes later Moran and Sandra stepped out onto the sidewalk.
