Mercy

CHAPTER 4

Roman Janowski-Romey, to everyone who knew him-sat at his expansive desk fingering the embossed invitation. The black-tie celebration would honor Charles Whitmore as the “Hospital Administrator of the Year.”

Anger and resentment rose in Romey’s throat. Whitmore was a fraud, the exact sort of asshole John Fogerty sang about in “Fortunate Son,” one of Romey’s favorite Creedence Clearwater Revival tracks. Whitmore got the job at Boston General because his family had been at the center of Boston’s illustrious medical history since the 1850s.

Big deal, Charlie, thought Romey as he gazed out his massive office windows at the green emerald square of the hospital quad five stories below. Daddy got you a job running an internationally renowned medical center with arguably the best medical staff anywhere and a patient service area that includes every millionaire in the world, and so you succeeded. Bully for you!

Romey knew he was the real deal. White Memorial had been a second-rate hospital before he took over. By instituting some unique and unusual methods, he had managed to make the hospital one of the best-run medical facilities in the state.

“Anybody can do a Whipple procedure on a sheik with pancreatic cancer who will die in a year anyway,” Romey had said during a board meeting. “The real trick, the reason you pay me so well, is because I can take the bread and butter of medicine-arthroscopy, gallbladder removal, and pneumonia-and create a margin of fifteen percent. Let the other hospitals battle to attract top doctors who want their egos affiliated with a worldwide organization. I’d rather have enough funds to give bonuses to my physicians so they will do what it takes to improve our bottom line.”

Heads nodded, and no one objected to Romey’s raise-a raise that pushed his salary into seven-figure territory and gave him another seven in bonuses. With that kind of income, Romey could be short and bald, with a noticeable belly and ears like radar dishes, and still attract plenty of leggy blondes, including the two who were his current mistresses. Nancy, his wife of thirty-five years, was willing to accept her husband’s indiscretions in exchange for her cushy lifestyle as long as he had the courtesy not to flaunt the girls in her face. Romey obliged happily. He would do anything to keep Nancy from making good on her longstanding threat to divorce him in the most costly way possible.

Romey folded the invitation in half, then tore it in two. The difference between Romey and Charles Whitmore, Romey knew, was flash and renown. The time had come for Romey to step out of the shadows and build his empire.

He looked at the pile of folders on his coffee table and knew where to begin. Romey slipped on his headset and dialed the direct line for the president of Suburban West Medical Center.

“Allyson Brock’s office,” said the friendly voice on the other end.

“Is Allyson in? It’s Roman Janowski from White Memorial.”

“Just a minute, Mr. Janowski, she’s just ending a meeting, but I know she will want to take your call.”

Of course she will. She’s drowning.

A brief interlude of insufferable elevator music followed before Allyson picked up the line.

“Romey, to what do I owe the honor of this call? You city boys rarely give us folks toiling in the hinterlands the time of day,” said Allyson, her voice almost dripping with honey.

“Not true, my dear. I always think that those who run small suburban hospitals have a lot to teach us all.”

“Well, what can I do for you, Romey?”

“Word on the street is that one has never played golf until they have played with you. A history with the LPGA, I understand.” In fact, Romey knew everything about Allyson’s brief time on the tour-just as he knew everything about her divorce; her two kids in college; her over-mortgaged houses in Wellesley, Martha’s Vineyard, and Loon Mountain; and her addiction to Nordstrom and Saks.

“I didn’t know you played.”

“Well, I am just learning, but I figure I might as well learn from the best, so I am hoping you might be able to find some time next Wednesday for a round with an old duffer.” Romey was sixty-five, hardly old, but Allyson was fifteen years his junior.

“Sounds like fun. I generally play at Beechwood.”

“Actually, Allyson, I want to show you my home course in Duxbury. Shall we say two o’clock?”

Allyson’s voice grew a bit tense as she agreed to Romey’s offer. She was shrewd enough to know Romey had something else planned. Why else would he want her at a club where she had never played before, and would know no one?

Romey moved to his couch, where a stack of files sat in front of him. He had a lot of homework to do before the round of golf, and none of it involved a ball, club, or tee. He opened the files to review the audited financial statements of Suburban West Medical Center, its Medicare cost report, IRS 990 forms, and notes from physicians who’d once worked at SWMC. Plenty of ammunition to guarantee the only one who would score an eagle on Wednesday would be Roman Janowski.