Spill the Jackpot

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The nurse said, “Doctor Crabtree wants to see you before you see the patient. Will you follow me, please?”

She walked ahead. Professional efficiency emanated from her in the rhythmic pound of her heels, the rustle of a starched uniform. She turned right, pushed a door open, and stood holding it.

“Mr. Lam,” she announced.

I walked in, and she pulled the door shut behind me.

Dr. Crabtree had a thin nose with penetrating pin-point eyes. Looking at him, you had the impression of staring at a long, straight line with a dot on each side.

“Mr. Donald Lam?”

“That’s right.”

Long, cold fingers wrapped themselves around my hand “Sit down.”

I sat down, said, “My plane leaves in forty-seven minutes.”

“I’ll try to be brief. You’ve come to get Mrs. Cool?”

“Yes.”

“What do you know about her condition?”

“Not much. She had flu and pneumonia. The doctor in Los Angeles suggested this sanitarium for a long rest.”

“Did he tell you why?”

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