Free The Magic Bullet by Harry Stein Page A

feel.”
    “Try me.”
    And so, with his gentle prodding, she told the story of her illness, from the diagnosis eight months before, to the frustrations with local doctors in their hometown of Cincinnati, to their stormy relationship with the staff at the ACF. All the while, Roger mainly listened, cutting in only to make an acid remark about someone they’d had a particular problem with.
    When she’d finished, Logan started asking questions: What was it about the ACF that gave them the most trouble? Were they unhappy with the course of treatment or was it mainly a communications problem?
    “Both,” said Roger. “This is Rochelle’s life we’re talkingabout, almost no one in this whole damn place seems to get that.”
    Logan nodded. “I heard what you said before about your sense of having no control. I understand that. And I think we on this side have to make a real effort to be more sensitive to it. I promise you I will.”
    But, he explained, he expected that they would make an equal effort to recognize the constraints under which he and every ACF employee were operating; that, in short, they not give him grief about observing the protocols.
    “We’ve already agreed about the chemo,” Roger shot back. “Isn’t that enough for you people?”
    Logan tried hard not to betray his irritation;
this
was what he got for his trouble? “Absolutely,” he replied evenly. “Thank you.”
    It was, in any case, enough for the moment.
    “Look,” he said, “I’ve got to be running along. I’ll come by and see you tomorrow.”
    Rochelle looked at him gratefully. “Thank you, Dr. Logan,” she said softly.
    So, he thought, allowing himself a smile as he moved from the room, maybe
that’s
how to handle these two: divide and conquer.
    He was still smiling when he spotted Shein, emerging from the room across the hall.
    “You look pretty pleased for a guy we’re working to death.”
    With relief, Logan saw that Shein was unaware of his visit with Stillman. “Actually, sir—”
    “Seth … I’m the good guy around here, remember?”
    “Actually, Seth, I’m enjoying it.”
    “This from a guy who just walked out of a chamber of horrors!” He nodded toward the Boudin room. “That’s Larsen’s protocol she’s on. Ever hear the saying ‘Like doctor, like patient’?”
    “I’m trying to make the best of it. I work on the theory that there’s some good in everyone.”
    Shein clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Ah, an optimist.We don’t get very many of those around here.” He paused. “So you’re really doin’ all right? I didn’t sell you a bill of goods?”
    “Not at all.”
    Shein positively beamed. “Keep up with this crazy attitude, I’m gonna have to adopt you!”

 
    I t always surprised Logan to hear himself described as a workaholic. Though in the hypercompetitive circles in which he operated the characterization could be useful—and he certainly never corrected such a misimpression—the truth was he was as good at chilling out as anyone. Karpe, at least, had been canny enough to see that; the element of his pitch the young doctor had found most seductive by far was the photo album of yachts, each owned by a patient, that the great doctor pulled from his desk toward the end of the interview. Logan had no trouble at all seeing himself lolling away weeks at a time on someone’s deck in the Mediterranean.
    It was not until the third Sunday after his arrival that Logan finally had more than a couple of hours for himself. He had planned to go furniture shopping—save for his bed, an overstuffed chair that dated back to his college years, and a pair of bookshelves, his small apartment was almost bare—but instead got distracted by a string of M*A*S*H reruns on the tube. Then, for more than an hour, he soaked in the tub, reading an odd little paperback on World War I flying aces he’d found when he unpacked his books. Then—
what the hell
, he decided,
furniture can wait
—he grabbed the