Maybe it was in the envelope.

She waddled out an hour later, after making sure no one was nearby. She removed the mail from the box, hustled back into the trailer. Her calls to Mr. Mulrooney were not returned. His secretary said he was out of town.

The meeting occurred late at night, just as Clay was leaving his office. It began with unpleasant business and did not improve.

Crittle walked in with a sour face and announced, “Our liability insurance carrier is notifying us that they are canceling coverage.”

“What!” Clay yelled.

“You heard me.”

“Why are you telling me now? I’m late for dinner.”

“I’ve been talking to them all day.”

A brief time-out while Clay flung his jacket on the sofa and walked to the window. “Why?” he asked.

“They’ve evaluated your practice and they don’t like what they see. Twenty-four thousand Maxatil cases scare them. There’s too much exposure if something goes wrong. Their ten million could be a drop in the bucket, so they’re jumping ship.”

“Can they do it?”

“Of course they can. An insurance company can terminate coverage anytime it wants. They’ll owe us a refund, but it’s peanuts. We’re naked on this, Clay. No coverage.”

“We won’t need coverage.”

“I hear you, but I’m still worried.”

“You were worried about Dyloft too, as I recall.”

“And I was wrong.”

“Well, Rex old boy, you’re wrong about Maxatil too.

After Mr. Mooneyham gets finished with Goffman in Flagstaff, they’ll be anxious to settle. They’re already setting aside billions for the class action. Any idea how much those twenty-four thousand cases could be worth? Take a guess.”

“Shock me.”

“Close to a billion dollars, Rex. And Goffman can pay it.” “I’m still worried. What if something goes wrong?” “Have a little faith, pal. These things take time. The trial out there is set for September. When it’s over, the money will pour in again.”

“We’ve spent eight million on advertising and testing. Can we at least slow down? Why can’t you take the position that twenty-four thousand cases is enough?”

“Because it’s not enough.” And with that Clay smiled, picked up his jacket, patted Crittle on the shoulder, and left for dinner.

He was supposed to meet a former college roommate at the Old Ebbitt Grille, on Fifteenth, at eight-thirty. He waited at the bar for almost an hour before his cell phone rang. The roommate was stuck in a meeting that looked as if it would never end. He gave the usual apologies.

As Clay was leaving, he glanced into the restaurant and saw Rebecca having dinner with two other ladies. He stepped back, found his bar stool, and ordered another ale. He was very aware that she had once again stopped him in his tracks. He wanted desperately to talk to her, but he was determined not to interfere. A trip to the rest room would work fine.

As he walked by her table, she looked up and immediately smiled. Rebecca introduced Clay to her two friends, and he explained that he was in the bar waiting for an old college buddy for dinner. The guy was running late, it might be a while, sorry for the interruption. Oh well, gotta run. Nice seeing you.

Fifteen minutes later, Rebecca appeared in the crowded bar and stood close beside him. Very close.

“I just have a minute,” she said. “They’re waiting.” She nodded at the restaurant.

“You look great,” Clay said, anxious to start groping.

“You too.”

“Where’s Myers?”

She shrugged as if she didn’t care. “Working. He’s always working.”

“How’s married life?”

“Very lonely,” she said, looking away.

Clay took a drink. If not in a crowded bar, with friends waiting nearby, she would have spilled her guts. There was so much she wanted to say.

The marriage is not working! Clay fought to suppress a smile. “I’m still waiting,” he said.

Her eyes were wet when she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Then she was gone without another word.

33

With the Orioles six runs down to the Devil Rays—of all teams—Mr. Ted Worley awoke from a rare nap and debated whether to sneak to the toilet then or wait until the seventh inning. He’d been asleep for an hour, which was unusual for him because he napped every afternoon at precisely two. The Orioles were dull but they had never put him to sleep.

But after the Dyloft nightmare he didn’t push the limits of his bladder. Not too many liquids, no beer at all. And no pressure on the plumbing down there; if he needed to go, then he did not hesitate. And what if he missed a few pitches? He walked to the small guest bathroom down the hall, next to the bedroom where Mrs. Worley was perched in her rocker doing the needlepoint that consumed most of her life. He closed the door behind him, unzipped his pants, and began to urinate. A very slight burning sensation caused him to glance down, and when he did he almost fainted.

His urine was the color of rust—a dark reddish liquid. He gasped and braced himself with one hand against the wall. When he finished, he didn’t flush; instead he sat on the toilet seat for a few minutes trying to collect himself.

“What are you doing in there?” his wife yelled.

“None of your damned business,” he snapped back.

“Are you okay, Ted?”

“I’m fine.”

But he wasn’t fine. He lifted the lid, took another look at the deadly calling card his body had just discharged, finally flushed, and walked back to the den. The Devil Rays were now up by eight, but the game had lost whatever importance it had in the first inning. Twenty minutes later, after three glasses of water, he sneaked down to the basement and urinated in a small bathroom, as far away as possible from his wife.

It was blood, he decided. The tumors were back, and whatever form they now had they were far more serious than before.

He told his wife the truth the next morning, over toast and jam. He preferred to keep it from her as long as possible, but they were so joined at the hip that secrets, especially any related to health, were difficult to keep. She took charge immediately, calling his urologist, barking at the appointment secretary, lining up a visit just after lunch. It was an emergency and tomorrow just wasn’t acceptable.

Four days later, malignant tumors were found in Mr. Worley’s kidneys. During five hours of surgery, the doctors removed all the tumors they could find.

The head of urology was closely monitoring the patient. A colleague at a hospital in Kansas City had reported an identical case a month earlier; a post-Dyloft appearance of kidney tumors. The patient in Kansas City was now undergoing chemotherapy and fading fast.

The same could be expected for Mr. Worley, though the oncologist was much more cautious in his first postop visit. Mrs. Worley was doing her needlepoint while complaining about the quality of the hospital’s food, which she did not expect to be delicious but why couldn’t it at least be warm? At these prices? Mr. Worley hid under the sheets of his bed and watched the television. He graciously muted the set when the oncologist arrived, though he was too sad and depressed to engage in conversation.

He would be discharged in a week or so, and as soon as he was strong enough they would begin aggressively treating his cancer. Mr. Worley was crying when the meeting was over.

During a follow-up conversation with the colleague in Kansas City, the head of urology learned of yet another case. All three patients had been Group One Dyloft plaintiffs. Now they were dying. A lawyer’s name was mentioned. The Kansas City patient was represented by a small firm in New York City.

It was a rare and rewarding experience for a doctor to be able to pass along the name of one lawyer who would sue another, and the head of urology was determined to enjoy the moment. He entered Mr. Worley’s room, introduced himself because they had not met, and explained his role in the treatment. Mr. Worley was sick of doctors and, if not for the tubes crisscrossing his ravaged body, he would have gathered his things and discharged himself. The conversation soon made its way to Dyloft, then the settlement, then to the fertile grounds of the legal profession. This fired up the old man; his face had some color, his eyes were glaring.