The Fifth street cafe was a small yet atmospheric storefront restaurant located in the heart of downtown. Small tables were crammed in against one another-“a cozy setting” was the way one Sacramento Bee food critic described the venue. The menu was displayed in green fluorescent writing on a lighted board above the bar. For those customers who had forgotten their reading glasses, a one-sheet typewritten menu was supplied.
Madison arrived ten minutes late, having been detained by a patient with a frozen shoulder. The hostess pointed him in the direction of Harding, who was sitting at a table near the window. She was wearing a tight burgundy knit shirt that conformed to her body. Her hair was brushed back and fell gently across her shoulders.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said.
She motioned for him to sit down in the chair to her right. “I got here late, too. I’ve got this pain in my right ear, like something’s stuck in it.” She grimaced and plucked at it with her fingers. “It really hurts.”
“Here, let me take a look,” he said, leaning over toward her.
“Got stuck on the phone with this retarded kid’s parent and he talked my ear off,” she was saying as he examined it.
“It’s a child with mental retardation,” he said, “not ‘retarded kid.’ And I don’t see anything in your ear.”
“There’s got to be something there,” she said. “Take another look.” She moved closer; he inched forward toward her ear. She tilted her head back and giggled.
“That tickles,” she said.
“Still don’t see anything.”
“Hopefully it’ll just go away. It’s probably from spending too much time on the phone.”
“So what did that parent want?”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle. But some people have all the nerve.”
Madison sensed more problems and although he was afraid to hear what had happened, he knew he had to ask.
“How so?”
The waiter came by and greeted them, then recited the daily specials. “Do you need a few more moments?”
Madison glanced at Harding, who shook her head.
“No, we’re ready,” he said. He gave the waiter their order, then unfolded the napkin and placed it on his lap. “So what kind of nerve?”
“Very demanding. Wanted this and that for his daughter, I told him we couldn’t help him, that we had a limited budget and the money only went so far.”
Madison was hesitant to pry further. “How did he take it?”
“Not very well. He was persistent, so I finally had to tell him that if he didn’t like what we had to offer, he could go somewhere else.”
“You didn’t really say that, did you?” he asked, instantly regretting his confrontational tone. “Why didn’t you just say that you’d do what you could to help him, and if we couldn’t get him everything he needed, you’d find out what other agencies he could contact?”
“I just didn’t want to take his garbage anymore.”
“Brittany, we talked about this Monday night-”
“Phil, I’m sorry, but you don’t know what it’s like dealing with these people.”
“I deal with the public every day. People in pain, people who’ve had all sorts of terrible injuries. They’re not always the most outwardly pleasant individuals to talk with at first. But you warm them up, pull them out of their doldrums.”
“If I got paid as much as you do, I’d be more patient too.” She stared at him smugly, apparently feeling that she had both justified her position and put him in his place.
Madison clenched his jaw, fighting back an angry response: it would only create a scene. He instead fell silent, hoping to communicate his disapproval in a more indirect manner.
Harding pulled out a compact mirror and checked her makeup. It appeared to Madison to be an attempt to ignore him, a power play, to show him that he had not rattled her. She pursed her lips, snapped the mirror closed, and faced him. “I really have made an attempt to be more pleasant with these people, you know.”
He sat there looking at her, a bit perturbed. Was this her attempt at being civil, at making up? “Good. It’s important to remember that we’re servants of our membership.”
“I understand.”
“That question I asked you the other day about whether or not you were going to submit an application for your position… Do you know what you’re going to do?” He sat back and waited for her reaction.
“I’m going to apply,” Harding said. “Unless you think it would be fruitless.”
He gave an ambiguous shrug of his shoulders. He didn’t want to lie to her. “Why don’t we cover our planned agenda.”
As he began to list the issues they would need to cover, Harding picked up a piece of bread and tore it into pieces.
Several days later, Madison saw John Stevens, Sacramento General Hospital’s chief of staff, exiting the elevator.
“John!” Madison said, heading over toward Stevens. “How goes administration?”
“Usual bullshit. Wish I was back in private practice, tell you the truth.”
“C’mon, it’s me, John. Be honest. You thrive on the power.”
They both laughed. Madison knew that John Stevens hated people who possessed power and despised those who held it over others. But unforeseen medical problems-a tremor that made it impossible for him to continue performing surgery-left him with few options. Since he was well liked and a hell of a good physician, the hospital offered him an executive position at Madison’s urging. He took it, and despite the fact that he hated paperwork and politics, he had actually thrived in his new career.
“Before I forget,” Stevens said, “I’ve got a question. About the Consortium.”
Stevens had sat on the CCMR board last year as a favor to Madison, since Madison needed his friend’s sound organizational skills and planning abilities. He had served his year obligation, but declined another term due to other commitments and a position on another organization’s board with which he had worked for fifteen years.
“Sure,” Madison said. “Go ahead. What do you want to know?”
“I heard there’s a lot of stuff going on-some problems. Thought you should know about it.”
“Problems?”
“With that interim admin officer. What’s her name?”
“Brittany Harding.” Madison suddenly felt the rudiments of a headache forming. “What’ve you heard?”
“That you and Harding had words the other night.”
“Where the hell did you hear that?”
“I spoke with Kathryn Heath. She spoke with Chuck Nallin.”
“Chuck Nallin?”
“He supposedly ran into Harding at a gas station and she started talking his ear off.”
“I didn’t realize Chuck knew her that well.”
“That was the strange thing about it. He’d only spoken to her once before, a couple of weeks ago.”
Madison said nothing. He stood there, staring straight ahead down the hall, trying to reason it out. Nurses and orderlies passed by and occasionally weaved around them. What the hell is Harding up to?
“What’s going on, Phil?” Stevens was saying.
“Huh?”
“What’s the deal?”
“I wish I knew, John. When I figure it out, I’ll let you know.”