Free Night-Bloom by Herbert Lieberman Page B

the need was now definitely upon him. “Dr. Shavers has been my personal urologist for the past thirteen years. His records may be untidy. Go back and check them. I’m certain you’ll find me there.”
    “And another thing, Mr. Watford,” the imperturbable Rashower disregarded Watford’s commands and instead bore down coolly, “the dispensary here has asked me to sign out three separate prescriptions for Demerol. I’m told I prescribed them for you.”
    “You prescribed them?”
    “So I’m told, yet I have no recollection of phoning any such prescriptions into the dispensary. Have you received any Demerol here?”
    “Why, yes. Of course.”
    “I never prescribed any Demerol for you. But apparently someone did, because you got it. Do you have any idea who might have called in the prescriptions?”
    “Of course.” Watford’s heart thumped in his chest, but he was now determined to brazen it out. “Dr. Shavers called them in. He called here to ask how I felt. I told him I was in a good deal of pain and unable to get any medication stronger than aspirin. He wasn’t about to let me suffer night after night in terrible pain, so he said he would call in a prescription at once. That idiot nurse would only give me aspirin.”
    Dr. Rashower stiffened and his voice grew clipped. “Let’s understand each other, Mr. Watford—” With a snap of his head he indicated the nurse in question hovering behind him. “I will not tolerate disparagement of the nursing staff here. These people are tired and badly overworked. Mrs. Price in denying you medication was carrying out strict hospital policy. No medication until the attending physician has had an opportunity to examine the patient and prescribe medication and dosage himself. That’s for your own protection. And number two—it is highly unlikely that Dr. Shavers called in any such prescription—”
    “You’re not suggesting that I’m lying?”
    “I’m suggesting no such thing. All I’m suggesting is that I have no record that you are, in fact, a patient of Dr. Shavers. And in the absence of any records, I’m not going to treat you or prescribe anything. Not even aspirin.”
    “I see. Then you’re prepared to let me lie here and suffer. Is that it?”
    “Frankly, Mr. Watford, I can’t find a blessed thing wrong with you. Except for a bit of blood in your urine you appear to be a perfectly hardy specimen. I’ve got a call into Shavers right now and I ought to be able to clear this whole matter up within the hour. In the meantime, please stay put right here in the room.”
    The doctor nodded to the nurse, still cowering off to the side. He then turned abruptly on his heel.
    “You haven’t heard the last of this.” Watford’s voice grew shrill. “Shavers will have your head for this. You’ve got one hell of a malpractice suit on your hands now.”
    It must have taken Watford all of five minutes to dress and throw his few shaving and toilet articles into a paper bag. He was no longer even barely aware of the white-haired gentleman with whom he’d been chatting so pleasantly only a few minutes before. Still lying flat on his back, eyes closed as though in sleep, the man appeared completely oblivious to the recent flurry of excitement. The steady respiratory rise and fall of the blanket across his chest was deep and tranquil. It occurred to Watford that the man was trying to tell him something. Anxious though he was to get away, he stepped across to the bed and stooped over, the better to hear the man. He appeared half-conscious and was mumbling to himself. “Killed a man—last night—dropped a block on his head. Killed him—killed him.”
    “What—what’s that?” Watford gaped, then heard voices and footsteps approaching and forgetting the man, started up at once. Poking his head out the door of the room, the first thing he saw was a stern, hatchet-faced chief nurse glaring back at him from behind a reception counter at the center of the floor. She