handled by the administration. A physician gets muraired and no one
even bothers to send around a memo. Not that aired and no one even
bothers to send around a memo. Not that they’re paper-shy when it
comes to disseminating their directives.”
“I know,” I said. “I happened to read one. On the door of the
library.”
He scowled and his mustache flared. “What library?”
“I saw that too.”
“Sucks,” he said. “Every time I have research to do I’ve got to drive
over to the med school.”
We walked across the lobby and came up against the queues.
One of the doctors noticed a patient waiting in line, said “I’ll join
you in a moment,” and left the group to greet the child.
“Don’t miss the meeting,” Kornblatt called after her, without breaking
step. When we were clear of the crowd, he said, “No library, no Psych
department, no overhead for grants, total hiring freeze.
Now, there’s talk about more cutbacks in all departments-straight
across the board. Entropy. The bastards probably plan to tear the
place down and sell the real estate.”
“Not in this market.”
“No, I’m serious, Alex. We don’t make money and these are bottom-line
people. Pave it over, put in lots of parking lots.>ø “Well,” I said,
“they might start by paving the ones across the street.”
“Don’t hold your breath. We arepeoffs to these guys. Just another
form of service staff” “How’d they get control?”
“Jones-the new chairman-was managing the hospital’s investments.
Supposedly did a really good job, so when hard times got harder the
board claimed they needed a financial pro and voted him in. He, in
turn, fired all the old administration and brought in his own army.”
Another crowd milled near the doors. Lots of tapping feet, weary head
shakes, and needless punches of the buttons. Two of the lifts were
stuck on upper floors. An OUT OF ORDER sign was taped across the door
of the third.
“Onward, troops,” said Kornblatt, pointing to the stairwell and
increasing his pace to a near-run. All of them vaulted the first
flight with the zest of triathlon junkies. When we got to the top,
Kornblatt was bouncing like a boxer.
“Go, team!” he said, pushing the door open.
The auditorium was a few paces down. A couple of doctors were lounging
near the entrance, which was topped by a handwritten banner that said
ASHMORE MEMORIAL.
I said, “Whatever happened to Kent Herbert?”
Kornblatt said, “Who?”
“Herbert. The toxicologist. Didn’t he work with Ashmore?”
“I didn’t know anyone worked with Ashmore. The guy was a loner, a
real-” He stopped himself. “Herbert? No, can’t say I remember him.”
We entered the big fan-shaped lecture hall; rows of gray cloth seats
sloped sharply to a wooden lecture pit. A dusty green board on wheels
stood at the rear of the pit. The upholstery on the seats was dingy
and some of the cushions were tattered. The light, fluctuating hum of
occasional conversation filled the room.
The auditorium held at least five hundred chairs but no more than
seventy were occupied. The spotty attendance gave it the look of a
pass-fail class. Kornblatt and his entourage headed down toward the
front of the room, shaking hands and trading a few high-fives along the
way. I hung back and sat by myself in the uppermost row.
Lots of white coats-full-time staffers. But where were the private
practitioners? Unable to attend on short notice or choosing to stay
away? Western Feds had always suffered from town-gown tension, but the
full-timers and the physicians out in “the real world” had always
managed to achieve a grudging symbiosis.
As I looked around some more, I was struck by another scarcity: gray
heads. Where were all the senior people I’d known?
Before I could mull that, a man holding a cordless microphone stepped
into the pit and called for quiet. Thirty-five; soft, pale baby face
under a big blond Afro. His white coat was slightly yellowed and too
big for him. Under it he wore a black shirt, and a brown knit tie.
He said, “Please,” and the hum died. A few beepers went off, then
silence.
“Thanks to all of you for coming. Could someone get the door?”