Number One minder, but after a while, I kind of got into it myself. You feel good when you’re wearing nice clothes. They move with you, instead of against you. And I’ll tell you something else too, abig guy badly dressed is nowhere near as impressive as one done up to the nines. You get more respect, which means you don’t have to get your hands dirty so often.
Now, of course, apart from the parka, I’m just about dressed in rags, which ain’t that surprising given that there was rarely anything in the Island’s garbage big enough to fit me. I knew I needed to smarten up if I was going to get where I wanted to go. Not that I had a great deal in the way of options. All I could think of was trimming my beard with the knife Gordie found, then wetting and combing my hair back with my fingers. There wasn’t a lot I could do with my pants, but I did clean my boots and give them a bit of a polish on the lining of my parka.
It was better, but not a whole lot. Maybe the most persuasive thing I had going for me was my absolute determination not to let anyone fob me off, but if I thought that was going to intimidate people, I was wrong, ’cuz whether it took ten seconds or ten minutes, in the end, I was still shown the door.
There was one other place to try, and a name that had cropped up several times already that morning. Dr. Evan Simon had his own private clinic but worked two days a week at St. Joseph’s—and fortunately for me, that day was one of them. He was one of the new breed: “techno-doctors,” they’re called, though compared to those we had when I was a kid, I don’t reckon they’re doctors at all. There are no medical specialists any more—far as I could see, some of them know little more about the human body than I do. What they do specialize in is programming; it’s computers do all the work now, diagnose, treat, operate. You don’t need the knowledge of years of medical school, just cutting-edge data. The really gifted ones are those who create their own programs—and apparently, when it came to gifts, Dr. Simon was “the man,” or even something a little higher . He certainly required you to fall to your knees when he entered the room, far as I could work out. Whatever, all I knew was, if I wanted a miracle, he was the most likely source, so I headed off through the smoke and debris to St. Joseph’s.
I got directions from this young guy at reception who kept looking me up and down as if I’d accidentally rolled in dog crap and he didn’t know whether to tell me or not. I knew the first thing he’d do once I was out of sight would be to warn security, and that meant I had to get to Dr. Simon’s office as quickly as possible, otherwise I wouldn’t get there at all.
I just sailed past his clucking secretary, pushing some assistants out of the way, and barged straight in. He was on the screen, talking to someone—maybe his PA at his private clinic? It sounded like he was going over his schedule for the week. I gotta say, one look was enough to know I was in the presence of real twenty-four-carat-gold success. I might’ve enjoyed dressing up when I worked for Mr. Meltoni, but this guy oozed his own brand of aftershave: traditional English shirt, country-club tie, gold cufflinks, metallic midnight hair with polished silver sides: the very picture of success.
“What do you want?” he asked, immediately looking over my shoulder for someone to come and rescue him.
I came right out with it. “I need you to look at my partner’s eyes. She’s blind. I wanna know if there’s any chance of her seeing again.”
He just stared at me as if he couldn’t believe my nerve. “Have you got an appointment?” he asked, plainly not having heard a word I said.
“She’s been blind for four years—got caught in an explosion,” I told him, determined to tell him everything before I was thrown out. “She can’t see a thing, but there’s no visible damage.”
“Make an appointment. My
Now, of course, apart from the parka, I’m just about dressed in rags, which ain’t that surprising given that there was rarely anything in the Island’s garbage big enough to fit me. I knew I needed to smarten up if I was going to get where I wanted to go. Not that I had a great deal in the way of options. All I could think of was trimming my beard with the knife Gordie found, then wetting and combing my hair back with my fingers. There wasn’t a lot I could do with my pants, but I did clean my boots and give them a bit of a polish on the lining of my parka.
It was better, but not a whole lot. Maybe the most persuasive thing I had going for me was my absolute determination not to let anyone fob me off, but if I thought that was going to intimidate people, I was wrong, ’cuz whether it took ten seconds or ten minutes, in the end, I was still shown the door.
There was one other place to try, and a name that had cropped up several times already that morning. Dr. Evan Simon had his own private clinic but worked two days a week at St. Joseph’s—and fortunately for me, that day was one of them. He was one of the new breed: “techno-doctors,” they’re called, though compared to those we had when I was a kid, I don’t reckon they’re doctors at all. There are no medical specialists any more—far as I could see, some of them know little more about the human body than I do. What they do specialize in is programming; it’s computers do all the work now, diagnose, treat, operate. You don’t need the knowledge of years of medical school, just cutting-edge data. The really gifted ones are those who create their own programs—and apparently, when it came to gifts, Dr. Simon was “the man,” or even something a little higher . He certainly required you to fall to your knees when he entered the room, far as I could work out. Whatever, all I knew was, if I wanted a miracle, he was the most likely source, so I headed off through the smoke and debris to St. Joseph’s.
I got directions from this young guy at reception who kept looking me up and down as if I’d accidentally rolled in dog crap and he didn’t know whether to tell me or not. I knew the first thing he’d do once I was out of sight would be to warn security, and that meant I had to get to Dr. Simon’s office as quickly as possible, otherwise I wouldn’t get there at all.
I just sailed past his clucking secretary, pushing some assistants out of the way, and barged straight in. He was on the screen, talking to someone—maybe his PA at his private clinic? It sounded like he was going over his schedule for the week. I gotta say, one look was enough to know I was in the presence of real twenty-four-carat-gold success. I might’ve enjoyed dressing up when I worked for Mr. Meltoni, but this guy oozed his own brand of aftershave: traditional English shirt, country-club tie, gold cufflinks, metallic midnight hair with polished silver sides: the very picture of success.
“What do you want?” he asked, immediately looking over my shoulder for someone to come and rescue him.
I came right out with it. “I need you to look at my partner’s eyes. She’s blind. I wanna know if there’s any chance of her seeing again.”
He just stared at me as if he couldn’t believe my nerve. “Have you got an appointment?” he asked, plainly not having heard a word I said.
“She’s been blind for four years—got caught in an explosion,” I told him, determined to tell him everything before I was thrown out. “She can’t see a thing, but there’s no visible damage.”
“Make an appointment. My
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