Jack shuddered. There had been a time in the not-too-distant past when he’d not cared particularly if he lived or died: But now, having come close to death twice, he felt differently. He wanted to live, and that desire made him question why the Black Kings wanted him dead. Who was paying them? Did they think Jack knew something that he didn’t, or was it just because of his suspicions concerning the outbreaks at the Manhattan General? Jack had no answer to these questions, but this second attempt on his life made him more confident that his suspicions were correct. Now he had only to prove them.
In the middle of these musings Jack found himself in front of a second drugstore. But in contrast to the first, it was a small, neighborhood concern. Entering, Jack approached the pharmacist who was manning the store by himself. His name tag said simply “Herman.”
“Do you carry rimantadine?” Jack asked.
“We did last time I looked,” Herman said with a smile. “But it’s a prescription item.”
“I am a doctor,” Jack said. “I’ll need a script.”
“Can I see some identification?” Herman asked.
Jack showed him his New York State medical license.
“How much do you want?”
“Enough for at least a couple of weeks,” Jack said. “Why don’t you give me fifty tablets. I might as well err on the plus side.”
“You got it,” Herman said. He started working behind a counter.
“How long will it take?” Jack asked.
“How long does it take to count to fifty?” Herman replied.
“The last store I was in told me it would take twenty minutes,” Jack said.
“It was a chain store, right?” Herman said.
Jack nodded.
“Those chain stores don’t care a whit about service, Herman said. “It’s a crime. And for all their poor service, they’re still forcing us independents out of business. It’s got me angrier than hell.”
Jack nodded. He knew the feeling well. These days no part of the medical landscape was sacrosanct.
Herman came out from behind his counter carrying a small plastic vial of orange tablets. He plunked it next to the cash register. “Is this for you?” he asked.
Jack nodded again. Herman rattled off a list of possible side effects as well as contraindications. Jack was impressed. After Jack paid for the drug, he asked Herman for a glass of water. Herman gave him some in a small paper cup.
Jack took one of the tablets.
“Come again,” Herman said as Jack left the store.
With the rimantadine coursing through his system, Jack decided it was time to visit Gloria Hernandez from central supply.
Stepping out into the street, Jack caught a cab. At first the driver demurred about going up into Harlem, but he agreed after Jack reminded him of the rules posted on the back of the front seat. Jack sat back as the taxi first headed north and then across town on St. Nicholas Avenue after passing Central Park. He looked out the window as Harlem changed from predominantly African-American neighborhoods to Hispanic ones. Eventually all the signs were in Spanish.
When the cab pulled up to his destination, Jack paid the fare and stepped out into a street alive with people. He looked up at the building he was about to enter. At one time it had been a fine, proud single-family home in the middle of an upscale neighborhood. Now it had seen better days, much like Jack’s own tenement.
A few people eyed Jack curiously as he mounted the brownstone steps and entered the foyer. The black-and-white mosaic on the floor was missing tiles.
The names on a broken line of mailboxes indicated that the Hernandez family lived on the third floor. Jack pushed the doorbell for that apartment even though his sense was that it didn’t work. Next he tried the inner door. Just as in his own building, the lock on the door had been broken long ago and never repaired.
Having climbed the stairs to the third floor, Jack knocked on the Hernandezes’ door. When no one answered he knocked again, only louder. Finally he heard a child’s voice ask who was there. Jack called out he was a doctor and wanted to speak with Gloria Hernandez.