Read Online The Society by Michael Palmer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Palmer
Tags: Fiction
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a last resort, I will do this, but you all know as well as I do that I am a plodder—a behind-the-scene type of guy. I’ll help, and even sit beside our champion, but we really need someone with more panache than I have, someone with just the right balance of intellect, passion, and humor.”
Will, focused approvingly on Lemm’s words more than on the man himself, suddenly realized that the Society’s president was staring directly over at him. Before he could react, an internist from Springfield had waved his hand and shouted out, “I nominate Will Grant!”
“Second!” a dozen voices rang out.
“Third!” someone yelled.
“Fourth!”
Lemm waved the members to quiet down.
“Will,” he said earnestly, “I know you must be feeling like you’ve been set up. Well, I am here to assure you that you have.” Laughter. “Calm down! Hush up, please, all of you. I’m sorry, Will. I apologize for making light of this. And seriously, it was Jeremy who suggested you as his replacement just yesterday, and the executive committee agreed. I know there’s not much time for preparation, but we will help you in any way we can, and if you want me, I’ll be right up there on the stage beside you as your aide-de-camp.”
There was absolute silence throughout the auditorium.
Will sighed. He knew he desperately did not want to publicly debate the flamboyant president of Excelsius Health. He also knew that he couldn’t say no to the Society.
“I’ve been humiliated and utterly degraded before,” he said without leaving his seat. “I suppose that means I’m well prepared for an encounter with Boyd Halliday.”
“Will . . . Will . . . Will . . . Will,” someone began chanting, as if they were ringside at a prizefight. One hundred and forty joined in.
“Will . . . Will . . . Will . . . Will.”
“There being no further business,” Lemm shouted out over the din, “I’ll see you all at Faneuil Hall. Nice job, all. Meeting adjourned.”
Of all the dumb things
, Will thought, as he drove out through the largely deserted parking lot.
You are no more equipped to match up with Boyd Halliday than you are to bat against Pedro Martinez
. He pulled off to the side of the road, set his palm pilot on the wheel, and called up Tom Lemm’s cell phone number. Lemm would just have to do it. Before he could dial, his own cell began ringing.
“Dr. Grant?” a woman’s voice asked.
“Yes.”
“This is Ellie Newell. I work in the comptroller’s office at the hospital. Mr. Davidson is my boss. I called him about this, and he called Mr. Brodsky. Apparently, Mr. Brodsky told him you would want to hear what’s just happened.”
Seth Brodsky was the longtime CFO of Fredrickston General.
“What’s this about?” Will asked.
“It’s about your patient, John Doe, in the ICU.”
“He’s not John Doe anymore. He just woke up and told us his name. It’s Langley, Jack Langley from Des Moines, Iowa.”
“Yes, I know,” Ellie said. “I just spoke to his wife.”
“You did?” Will had called Marybeth Langley just a few hours before.
“I also spoke with an officer at Midwest Industrial Care, the HMO that covers the Langley family.”
“And?”
“Dr. Grant, correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems Mr. Langley is still facing a long hospitalization.”
“If there are no serious setbacks, he is. The man was essentially dead when he was brought in. It’s a miracle he’s alive at all. I would guess ten more days. Maybe even two weeks.”
“His bill already—counting, among other factors, the cost of the ER, the OR, the surgical team, the recovery room, the ICU, and a number of consultants—is in excess of forty-five thousand dollars.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Well, Midwest Industrial has flatly refused to pay anything and will not pay for any subsequent care.”
“That’s ridiculous. What reason did they give?”
Ellie Newell hesitated.
“Well,” she said, “the insurance company has a strict
Will, focused approvingly on Lemm’s words more than on the man himself, suddenly realized that the Society’s president was staring directly over at him. Before he could react, an internist from Springfield had waved his hand and shouted out, “I nominate Will Grant!”
“Second!” a dozen voices rang out.
“Third!” someone yelled.
“Fourth!”
Lemm waved the members to quiet down.
“Will,” he said earnestly, “I know you must be feeling like you’ve been set up. Well, I am here to assure you that you have.” Laughter. “Calm down! Hush up, please, all of you. I’m sorry, Will. I apologize for making light of this. And seriously, it was Jeremy who suggested you as his replacement just yesterday, and the executive committee agreed. I know there’s not much time for preparation, but we will help you in any way we can, and if you want me, I’ll be right up there on the stage beside you as your aide-de-camp.”
There was absolute silence throughout the auditorium.
Will sighed. He knew he desperately did not want to publicly debate the flamboyant president of Excelsius Health. He also knew that he couldn’t say no to the Society.
“I’ve been humiliated and utterly degraded before,” he said without leaving his seat. “I suppose that means I’m well prepared for an encounter with Boyd Halliday.”
“Will . . . Will . . . Will . . . Will,” someone began chanting, as if they were ringside at a prizefight. One hundred and forty joined in.
“Will . . . Will . . . Will . . . Will.”
“There being no further business,” Lemm shouted out over the din, “I’ll see you all at Faneuil Hall. Nice job, all. Meeting adjourned.”
Of all the dumb things
, Will thought, as he drove out through the largely deserted parking lot.
You are no more equipped to match up with Boyd Halliday than you are to bat against Pedro Martinez
. He pulled off to the side of the road, set his palm pilot on the wheel, and called up Tom Lemm’s cell phone number. Lemm would just have to do it. Before he could dial, his own cell began ringing.
“Dr. Grant?” a woman’s voice asked.
“Yes.”
“This is Ellie Newell. I work in the comptroller’s office at the hospital. Mr. Davidson is my boss. I called him about this, and he called Mr. Brodsky. Apparently, Mr. Brodsky told him you would want to hear what’s just happened.”
Seth Brodsky was the longtime CFO of Fredrickston General.
“What’s this about?” Will asked.
“It’s about your patient, John Doe, in the ICU.”
“He’s not John Doe anymore. He just woke up and told us his name. It’s Langley, Jack Langley from Des Moines, Iowa.”
“Yes, I know,” Ellie said. “I just spoke to his wife.”
“You did?” Will had called Marybeth Langley just a few hours before.
“I also spoke with an officer at Midwest Industrial Care, the HMO that covers the Langley family.”
“And?”
“Dr. Grant, correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems Mr. Langley is still facing a long hospitalization.”
“If there are no serious setbacks, he is. The man was essentially dead when he was brought in. It’s a miracle he’s alive at all. I would guess ten more days. Maybe even two weeks.”
“His bill already—counting, among other factors, the cost of the ER, the OR, the surgical team, the recovery room, the ICU, and a number of consultants—is in excess of forty-five thousand dollars.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Well, Midwest Industrial has flatly refused to pay anything and will not pay for any subsequent care.”
“That’s ridiculous. What reason did they give?”
Ellie Newell hesitated.
“Well,” she said, “the insurance company has a strict
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