“I don’t see it that way,” Jack said. “Plus there are a lot of playgrounds in the area and a particularly good one right next door. I’m kind of a pickup basketball nut.”
“Now I know you are crazy,” Chet said. “Those playgrounds and those pickup games are controlled by neighborhood gangs. That’s like having a death wish. I’m afraid we might see you in here on one of the slabs even without the mountain bike heroics.”
“I haven’t had any trouble,” Jack said. “After all, I paid for new back-boards and lights and I buy the balls. The neighborhood gang is actually quite appreciative and even solicitous.”
Chet eyed his officemate with a touch of awe. He tried to imagine what Jack would look like out running around on a Harlem neighborhood blacktop. He imagined Jack would certainly stand out racially with his light brown hair cut in a peculiar Julius Caesar-like shag. Chet wondered if any of the other players had any idea about Jack, like the fact that he was a doctor. But then Chet acknowledged that he didn’t know much more.
“What did you do before you went to medical school?” Chet asked.
“I went to college,” Jack said. “Like most people who went to medical school. Don’t tell me you didn’t go to college.”
“Of course I went to college,” Chet said. “Calvin is right: you are a smartass. You know what I mean. If you just finished a pathology residency, what did you do in the interim?” Chet had wanted to ask the question for months, but there had never been an opportune moment.
“I became an ophthalmologist,” Jack said. “I even had a practice out in Champaign, Illinois. I was a conventional, conservative suburbanite.”
“Yeah, sure, just like I was a Buddhist monk.” Chet laughed. “I mean I suppose I can see you as an ophthalmologist. After all, I was an emergency-room physician for a few years until I saw the light. But you conservative? No way.”
“I was,” Jack insisted. “And my name was John, not Jack. Of course, you wouldn’t have recognized me. I was heavier. I also had longer hair, and I parted it along the right side of my head the way I did in high school. And as far as dress was concerned, I favored glen-plaid suits.”
“What happened,” Chet asked. Chet glanced at Jack’s black jeans, blue sports shirt, and dark blue knitted tie.
A knock on the doorjamb caught both Jack’s and Chet’s attention. They turned to see Agnes Finn, head of the micro lab, standing in the doorway. She was a small, serious woman with thick glasses and stringy hair.
“We just got something a little surprising,” she said to Jack. She was clutching a sheet of paper in her hand. She hesitated on the threshold. Her dour expression didn’t change.
“Are you going to make us guess or what?” Jack asked. His curiosity had been titillated, since Agnes did not make it a point to deliver lab results.
Agnes pushed her glasses higher onto her nose and handed Jack the paper. “It’s the fluorescein antibody screen you requested on Nodelman.”
“My word,” Jack said after glancing at the page. He handed it to Chet.
Chet looked at the paper and then leaped to his feet. “Holy crap!” he exclaimed. “Nodelman had the goddamn plague!”
“Obviously we were taken aback by the result,” Agnes said in her usual monotone. “Is there anything else you want us to do?”
Jack pinched his lower lip while he thought. “Let’s try to culture some of the incipient abscesses,” he said. “And let’s try some of the usual stains. What’s recommended for plague?”
“Giemsa’s or Wayson’s,” Agnes said. “They usually make it possible to see the typical bipolar ‘safety pin’ morphology.”
“Okay, let’s do that,” Jack said. “Of course, the most important thing is to grow the bug. Until we do that, the case is only presumptive plague.”
“I understand,” Agnes said. She started from the room. “I guess I don’t have to warn you to be careful,” Jack said.
“No need,” Agnes assured him. “We have a class-three hood, and I intend to use it.”
“This is incredible,” Chet said when they were alone. “How the hell did you know?”