The Sweet Box

By Irv Danesh, MD

The feds don't like it when a doctor's group overbills them. Two doctors, veterans of the ER battlefield and caught in the federal financial mess, decide to pull up stakes and go to a place they can make a difference and some money.

On the other side of the country, a small town in northeastern Nevada has everything, a good tax base, a working community, friendly people, and the best Italian food west of New York City. If this town is such a great place to live, why can't the residents find a doctor to take care of their medical needs?

Drs. Abraham Bergman and Malcom York, partners in the practice of medicine, travel to Nevada to listen to a proposition pitched by a three-fingered mayor and a beautiful woman. The woman happens to own and operate the Sweet Box, a legal bordello that has been a part of the town since its establishment in the Wild West of old.

In the meantime, times are changing, and a politician is running for higher office on a platform of morality. In this case, the specific morality of having bordellos participate in the civic structure of small towns in northeastern Nevada. But what is the moral fiber of the politician, and to what lengths would he go to close the Sweet Box and why?

Add in an ex-Army helicopter pilot who also happens to be a flight nurse, his voluptuous pilot/nurse partner, a mysterious brilliant surgeon, and the very available ladies of the bordello and you have the story of the Sweet Box and the small town of Shangri-La in northeast Nevada.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798885059626

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Dedication

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

47

48

49

50

51

52

53

54

55

56

57

58

59

60

61

Epilogue

About the Author

cover.jpg

The Sweet Box

Irv Danesh, MD

Copyright © 2023 Irv Danesh, MD

All rights reserved

First Edition

Fulton Books

Meadville, PA

Published by Fulton Books 2023

ISBN 979-8-88505-961-9 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88505-962-6 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

It takes a lot for a woman to put up with the same man for more than forty years. Five moves and four kids, each one born in a different city, and a husband who often came home crabby after dealing with the urban warfare of an emergency room. You put up with this and oh so much more my Fanny.

Thank you for being my greatest supporter, my love, my rock, my everything.

Here's to the next forty years of fun, food, martinis, adventures, and maybe a few more novels.

1

What do you mean I can't get my usual number of work hours? Dr. Abraham Bergman, ER doc extraordinaire and overweight bon vivant, was pissed. He had a shipment of Cabernet Sauvignon on its way from Napa, and now with the money supply about to get tight, he was almost sorry he had ordered it, but he did like Cabs, so not really. Damn, of all the things he was grateful for in his chosen field was the almost limitless supply of money. He hated counting dollars. Becoming a doc and now staying single was supposed to have relieved him of ever having money problems.

He was a hard worker, toiling thirty-six hours a week for a high hourly salary, and the quarterly bonus made his retirement fund well fed. He had all the food and drink he could ever want, and the money enabled him two two-week trips a year. He loved winter in the Caribbean and summer in the mountains. He had a tidy, orderly life and was pissed that a fucking federal investigation was pouncing on the Physician Management Group that signed his paycheck. If the FBI closed the place down, where would he practice medicine with the seniority he had and the reimbursement to cover the Porsche payments and the rest of what made life fun?

Well, as trite as it is, nothing lasts forever, and it seems not even a job in medicine can be counted on, responded Malcom York, MD. Younger than Bergman by a decade, he was black, handsome, loved music, and barely tolerated work of any kind. When he was a kid in Brooklyn, he dreamed he would one day be playing sax with Dizzy, Stan, or Ahmed in a smoky room that smelled of cheap beer, cheap perfume, and sex sweat. Fortunately, or unfortunately, he also had a tough, demanding mother, who prevented him from his dream as a jazz musician and made sure he had a profession. Incredibly to his mother, young Malcom actually had a high science IQ. Both Columbia undergrad and Harvard Medical School found a place for him. After eleven years of school and specialty training, he was on the front lines of emergency medicine.

How long do you think we'll have a job here? God, I hate sending out my curriculum vitae to shitty headhunters. Those guys always represent crappy ERs, where I'll have to go back to working a lot of disgusting nights and every other weekend. I am way too old to be a starting rookie like you. Abe sighed.

Hey, who are you calling a rookie. I have to do at least half your work along with mine, and then every time an ultrasound needs to be done on a trauma, you come looking for my black ass. Come to think of it, I resent you because you've been in this shithole ER for so long you only work a half weekend a month by contract. You aren't even out there with the ladies. You get all those weekends off and don't even use them properly. Me, I get pussy only on alternative weekends, so a big fuck to you. Malcom laughed. He had been Abe's partner on shifts for a long time. He revered Abe as the guy who went out of the way to show him the ropes and how to survive in this job called emergency medicine. Ten years with Abe and in his soul, he knew this road was going to end sooner than later. Malcom felt joined to Abe and just didn't want to work with anyone else.

*****

Okay, everyone settle down, said Jeffrey Sumter. Jeffrey was a short, rotund man with a florid face and black, greasy hair, what there was of it. As the administrator of Save Lives Emergency Physicians Inc., I'm here to explain our present financial situation and lay down some of the plans our board and the partners think will help us survive.

Abe was not pleased. He had worked the night shift, busy with the usual druggies, murderers, rapes and rapists, and children brought in for high temperatures that hadn't actually been taken by the mother. Now he was forced to stay for the meeting. His eyes felt hot and his eyelids like lead. All his body told him was to find a bed and sleep. He grabbed another cup of coffee from the urn and two glazed donuts, which he justified because he needed the sugar for energy. He was being punished, so why should he punish himself?

As you know, Sumter reported, the federal government is investigating Medicare billings, and we have the bad luck of being tagged. Initial reports have found errors in the billings, and the feds want their money back, with interest and penalties. We at SLEP of course are fighting this, but the attorneys are not getting anywhere with the government. We suspect that within a couple of weeks, Washington will demand you cut them a check for compensation, and we will have to make some sort of arrangement between you doctors and SLEP as to the attorney fees. Now we know this is a burden, and we are looking at creative ideas as to solving the financial crunch. I know you will be professional and help in saving the medical group. You know we will back this group to the extent we financially can.

Abe did not like where this was going. He was old enough and had worked enough ERs to know when there was trouble, it was usually the administrators like Sumpter who were the cause of the disaster and then making the working docs pay for all their mistakes. He was sick of paying for the mistakes.

Malcom, I think we are getting fucked up the ass without the benefit of KY jelly, he whispered.

I think you might be right. What do you want to do? You're the senior guy here.

Abe thought a minute and realized the group was going to get screwed no matter what. He looked at Malcom and thought whatever he had saved for a retirement far in the future was now just air. His own career had the benefit of government programs to keep him in the money as long as the economy held out. Malcom, on the other hand, had a whole career ahead of him full of investigators and public scrutiny for every penny he worked for. The public, government, and insurance companies were trying to get medical care gratis on the backs of the doctors who provided it.

I think we need to get some things clear, Abe addressed Sumter. First, the billing company. we always assumed they were certified. If they are, they must be insured for these kinds of mistakes.

Sumter nervously replied, They have been at this for a while. They have never had trouble with their billing practices.

What is the name of the company? The doctors will want to make contact with the company to see what the government complaints are about. The docs will want to be involved in the defending of the billing, Abe replied. Is there a contact person who we can speak to or will travel here to meet with us?

SLEP administration is handling this, but in the meantime, we will be handing out copies of the rejected billings sent to the government for the patients you saw. The bills give the patient's names and medical record numbers. The inspector said the government expects payment within thirty days and—

What the fuck do you mean those bills are ours? You guys did the billings, not us, and you never answered the question, was that billing company legit, or wasn't it? In any case, you contracted with them and then took a good percentage of the billable total. You and that company need to pay the government, not us! Malcom yelled. He stood up, and it looked like he was going to punch out Sumter and probably would have if Abe hadn't grabbed him.

Malcom, try to calm down, Abe whispered.

What do you mean ‘calm down.' Those bozos sent out the bills, not us. This isn't our problem.

Abe gave Malcom a look, and Malcom slowly sat down. This is more complicated, isn't it, Abe?

Sumter cleared his throat. As your friend Dr. Bergman will tell you, it is geometrically more complicated. Our company doesn't have the money or the will to fight the government. The board of Save Lives Emergency Physicians Inc. would like to thank you all for your service and will include your final paychecks in the packet along with the total individual bill from the government. Our company has notified the board of the hospital as to the problem, and they too would like to thank you. The board has terminated our contract, and because of that contract, you can't work for any ER within fifty miles for a period of two years. A new contract group will be here at 7:00 a.m. The new group has enough doctors to cover the place, so please clean out your personal effects by the morning. The government has also told us you will not be able to bill Medicare until your bill is paid up. If payment comes within thirty days, no criminal—

Criminal, what the fuck! Malcom yelled.

Charges will be filed. I'm sorry, gentlemen. Good luck to you all. You will all be getting your packets in the morning by registered mail. Whoever is on tonight's shift will be paid for tonight by separate check, assuring us you will cover the last shift. Thank you again. I'm sorry this happened. Good day.

Malcom looked at Sumter as he was walking out and yelled, You realize this is not over! I will sue!

Sumter turned around, looking at Malcom. You won't, young man. The company has filed for bankruptcy, and there are no assets. You'll pay a bunch of lawyers a thousand dollars per billable hour and get nothing. Again, I am very sorry. Good day.

2

Abe and Malcom were sitting in Abe's luxurious townhouse, both having martinis in front of them that were hardly touched. They could hardly face each other; such was their shock and helplessness.

What am I going to do? I still have about a hundred thousand in school loans, and the rent on my apartment is due in two weeks. Plus, the inconvenience of food, martinis, and condoms. I like the ribbed ones, for the ladies, you know. They're a few more shekels, but I love hearing those ladies scream in happiness. Malcom looked like he was about to cry. He took a big gulp of his martini, almost draining the glass. Why did my mother force me into this shitty field. I'm not rich, and it's been ten years since I graduated medical school. At this rate, I don't know if I'll ever make enough to even get a real car like you have. If my parents had let me be a musician, there would be booze, drugs, and pussy galore.

Malcom, you can't even play that horn of yours. You would have ended up doing Bar Mitzvahs in Scranton. On the other hand, you are a genius doc, and I'm proud to work with you. Abe put an arm around his friend. You complete me.

Malcom fake sniffled and replied, You mean you really think I'm a great doc?

Fuck no, I wouldn't let you touch me, but I do love working with you. Those fake sex stories about your dates give me a woody, and at my age, that is a miracle in itself. He smiled.

"Ha-ha, so what are we going to do, Yoda? This ER is washed up, and I've got to get a job to quickly pay back the $45,000 the government man nicked me for. I'm pretty sure I'll never get a dime from fucking Save Lives Inc.

Only $45,000, huh. You are a lazy fuck. I'm billed $65,000 and change. I have to borrow half of that and get the rest from my saving. I think the main thing is to get free and clear of the government. Once Uncle Sam is satisfied, we can find new jobs, maybe even new careers. Maybe get out of the ER. The question is where? I'm sick of the snow, and the Northeast is getting boring with all the liberals. Maybe we should look at this as a two-step plan.

How so, mentor of mine?

Well, we both have these personal loans to pay off. I, for one, would like to go someplace a little cheaper to live in. That leaves out California. Besides taxes, the whole state is one big malpractice machine. Colorado is too cold, plus I hate the outdoors and skiers in those puffy jackets and pants. Florida is cheap except in the areas we would want to live. So unless you plan to eat meals the rest of your life straight from a blender and trade in your car for a golf cart, that leaves one place where property is cheap, there are plenty of in-door things to do, and no state income tax.

Malcom smiled. And where is that Abe, Disneyland?

Close, Abe answered. First, we both need some high-paying shifts at a relatively quiet ER. How are you fixed health wise? You think you can do without medical insurance for a year?

Sure, I'm strong like a bull, but where are we going after these high-paying shifts?

The Silver State, Nevada. It will certainly be a change for the both of us.

*****

One year later

It was chilly in the desert evening, but Frank, a tall, weathered-looking man in his sixties, had just been paid and didn't want to go back to his empty studio apartment. Besides, he was sure his next-door neighbor had finally gotten home from his two weeks on the road hauling paper products. That meant a sleepless night for Frank as he faced the constant banging of the bedframe on the wall, moans and groans, and an occasional scream of happiness that exploded from a young couple still in love and separated for a long time. Damn, he never recalled his ex ever that happy to see him or his equipment. Now he was just lonely and needed some release. He also needed a night away from happy noises that he wasn't involved with.

Frank went back to his apartment and took a quick but thorough shower and put on a clean shirt and jeans. Brushed his teeth and slipped his dress cowboy boots on. Frank needed a little fun at the Sweet Box.

*****

It was early in the evening, so it was still quiet as Frank parked and entered the Sweet Box, an establishment that had been around when the first silver mines had opened in northeast Nevada. Of course, in those days men got to the Sweet Box on a horse, mule, or took a long hike. The place had been lit by kerosine lamps, and the quality of the whisky wasn't as good as it is now. But today the bar was still there, an antique with a copper top and mirrored walls with every form of adult beverage known to man. The piano was also still there and occasionally used by either a patron or the owner of the place. The couches and tables had an old-worldly look and matched the stained wood and tasteful wallpaper. Art on the line of turn of the century nudes with ladies draped in chiffon adorned the walls.

Good evening, Frank, a tall, voluptuous raven-haired woman greeted him. What are you drinking tonight?

Hi, Ms. Natalie. Oh, the usual, I guess. How are you this evening?

Just fine, Frank. Enjoying the quiet more than the girls are, I'm sure. Bourbon on the rocks then?

You remembered, Ms. Natalie, he said with a smile.

I always remember how to treat my most polite and kind customers. Why don't you have a seat by the fireplace, and I'll bring you your drink…unless you are in a hurry?

No, Ms. Natalie, I'm in no hurry.

Wonderful, the girls will be in soon, and I'm sure will be happy to see you.

Is Jenny here tonight? Frank asked hopefully.

She isn't, but because you are a special man, tell you what. I don't think she is busy tonight. Why don't I see if she can come over? Maybe I can sweeten the deal if I tell her you'll buy her a drink.

Frank smiled shyly. I was planning to anyway, Ms. Natalie.

Just as Frank was halfway into his second drink, the drapes parted, revealing a hallway. About a dozen ladies came in in every size, age, and color. Frank didn't see his favorite, Jenny, and was disappointed, but he realized that he was just a customer, and the ladies had schedules.

Natalie came over to him and said, Frank, I phoned her, and she sounded really happy that you wanted to see her, so she told me if you can wait a half hour? You know a lady wants to be presentable for a man. She will be here. She also said if you can't wait, she more than understands and—

Ms. Natalie, Frank said, would you mind calling her back and say I would be honored and will wait for as long as she needs. I'm in no hurry.

I'll be happy to call her back, Frank, and let me bring you another drink on the house.

Why, bless your heart, Ms. Natalie, but I can pay for it. It isn't necessary—

Frank, we do this for our very special customers. You relax now. Jenny will be on her way.

*****

Natalie was in her office when her emergency beeper vibrated. Natalie bolted up from the chair and checked the number. Fuck, room number 6, that was Jenny and Frank. She couldn't imagine a problem. Frank was a sweet man, and Jenny was a pro. She wouldn't have set off the emergency beeper unless she was in trouble, but even the sweetest men sometimes lost it, and Frank had had more alcohol than usual. Fuck, why did she insist on the comped drink? She hoped Max's beeper, her head of security, had gone off as she quickly headed for room 6.

*****

Oh no! Natalie, in her years at Sweet Box, had never had this happen. Poor Jenny, naked, was sprawled over Frank's equally naked body, him with an erection and blue. Jenny had dragged him off the bed and onto the floor and was pumping on his chest in perfect compliance with the American Heart Association's instruction for CPR.

Max arrived seconds later. What the fuck? he gasped.

Jenny, what happened?

Jenny, her face sweaty and red with exertion, breathlessly said, I don't know. He had just cum. I thought his grunt was just afterglow, but he turned clammy then blue and collapsed. He wasn't breathing. I dragged him to the floor to give me a hard surface and set off the beeper. Then I started CPR.

God, where was that doctor? Oh fuck, he was gone. No time to cry. Max, run to the clinic and get the automatic defibrillator now.

Yes, ma'am, Max said as he ran out of the room. Natalie got down on the floor and took over the chest pumping. Jenny put Frank's head into a head tilt and started breathing for poor Frank.

Please, God, Natalie cried. Don't let him die all because that shit doctor we had left before we could find a replacement.

*****

Christ, I can't take much more of this. Four nightshifts in a row, and I'm too burned out to get my dick serviced. Malcom yawned as he got his bag to leave the ER.

Stop your complaining. At least you only work till four in the morning. I'm here till seven if the schmuck that is supposed to relieve me shows up. Last week the asshole told me they usually send him his schedule, but they didn't, so he didn't think he had any shifts. I told him the schedule is on the computer. He looked at me like I was a jerk because he gets a personalized schedule in the mail. I swear I almost speared him with that spike we use to put in central lines, Abe slurred. How come you get the 8:00 p.m. to 4:00 a.m. shifts, and I get the 11:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m. shifts?

Malcom laughed. You see, that is the one instance that institutional racism works for me. They see my black skin and automatically think I'm not competent enough to handle the place for the balance of three hours by myself.

I guess, in that case, they have made a wise decision. As to your original question, if I'm doing the math correctly, two more months and we are not only paid up from the government extortion, we also have a little to start a new life. You get your double-oh license for the Silver State?

All done and ready.

Great, two months and away we go.

Malcom laid back, a smile on his face. I can't wait. Show girls, casinos, that big ass dam, and no snow. Great place to blow all my money on. I hear the restaurants are even getting better and better.

Abe looked uncomfortable, and Malcom's smile turned to a frown. I know that look. What are you up to, and how am I getting fucked by following you?

Uh, not so many showgirls yet, mumbled Abe.

No showgirls? There are a zillion showgirls in Nevada. The state is lousy with them. They grow them in secret factories, Malcom cried out.

Also, does a very good diner count as a restaurant?

Malcom, now pissed off, yelled at Abe, What did you get us into? No showgirls, no restaurants, what are we going to be, house docs in a nunnery where the average temperature is hotter than hell?

No, we are going to be big bosses in Shangri-La, Abe said with a smile.

Maybe you are, Abe. Shangri-La, what the fuck is that? Not Vegas or Reno? Goddamn it, Abe, I have to think about whatever Shangri-La is versus living in a double-wide and drinking for the rest of my life.

3

Abe please see the patient in room 9. I'm begging you. He is the fourth asshole I've had to deal with in the last hour. I'm tired, I'm pissed, and I'm thinking of just walking out except my ex hasn't sent the child support check, and the kids need my paycheck to eat.

The floor nurse was a nice and once pretty woman who had spent decades too long working in this inner-city ER. The results of this mistake was a handsome, no longer beautiful woman with pale dry skin indicative of no time between family and career to care about her looks, a raspy voice from years of smoking to calm the anxiety, and to a physician of Abe's caliber, the start of upper abdominal bloat that could be the first signs of liver disease from chronic alcoholism. Sure, I'll go and get him straightened away. Why don't you go to the lounge and take a ten-minute breather. You look like your suicide vest is about to blow.

Thanks, Abe, maybe tell the security guy to stand near, just in case.

Abe chuckled. Why, the hospital forbids security from touching a patient even if that person is swinging at the staff the administration has hired to work this dump.

She walked toward the lounge, and Abe walked over to room 9 to see Mr. Funt, all six foot, two inches of heavily muscled drug addict. Abe had had run-ins with this guy before. The nurse was correct. This guy was not only an asshole, but he was also dangerous.

Mr. Funt, how can I help you this evening?

Funt almost snarled, It's the Jew doctor. I don't want to see you. Find me someone else. A spic or nigger doctor. Either is better than a Jew. At least they understand my problem.

Abe sighed. He had had it just like the nurse had. Mr. Funt, as I have explained before at this time of night, there is only me. Now, how can I help you?

My back is killing me, and I ran out of my meds. I need a shot and a script for at least a hundred oxy…now! he yelled.

Abe shook his head. I'll be back in a second. He turned on his heel and went to the closest computer near Funt and typed in instructions for the clinic notes on Funt. He also waved security over, just in case. His nurse came back from her break and made a beeline toward Abe.

You still dealing with Funt? she said.

Abe printed off a note and nodded. "Stay here and get ready to call 911. I have little faith in my negotiating skills or security saving the day.

He stood in front of Funt. I just printed off the latest note your clinic doc posted. He has ordered that you be given no further oxy or any other narcotic. He says you may have ibuprofen, acetaminophen, and/or rehab. I am in full agreement, as is your orthopedist, who also found nothing wrong with your back. Mr. Funt, may I offer you—

Tylenol and Motrin, fuck you, you fucking Jew.

Abe felt a bomb go off by his nose, and it all disappeared.

*****

Abe woke to Malcom standing by his gurney. His nose had been packed and taped, and his eyes were beginning to swell and blacken.

Hey, champ, he got you with one swing, but then the cops showed up, and the guy will be on Motrin and Tylenol for a while for legitimate pain. You have a broken nose, which plastics set and said you were ugly before, and you'll still be ugly. CT of your head showed brain without pathology. Neuro says you may have a small concussion.

So I'm good to work.

Malcom shook his head. Admin is pissed off at you saying they are going to terminate you. That nurse said that Funt was the one who started and escalated it. The security guard told them you didn't even get a punch off. Admin still wants to fire you.

They do. Well, we will see. They are here to see me?

Yup, you need a lawyer? Malcom looked worried.

Malcom, how many more shifts do you have to work? Want to quit?

Please, Abe, I'm sick of this dump, and now it's even dangerous.

Go home, but on your way out call the director of this dump from an ER phone. That will guarantee he won't answer it at this time of night. Leave a message telling him there was an emergency, and you can't work further shifts. Tell him Dr. Bergman almost got killed in the ER, and administration will need to talk to him.

Malcom smiled. You have a slimy plan? Maybe that knock to the head made you smarter.

Maybe it did, Abe murmured.

*****

My lawyer will send you paperwork that will terminate the contract between me, Dr. York, and this hospital.

You don't seem to understand, Dr. Bergman. We are firing you for fighting with a patient. You have a half hour to clear your personal belongings out of here. Also, we need your insurance information to bill for your nasal fracture and head injury.

Abe reached for his cell and pushed a button to speed dial a number. Hey, Mannie, it's your cousin Abe… Yes, I know Malcom and I were supposed to meet you for dinner. Looks like I will have lots to tell you about… Yes, Malcom and I are working at that hospital you had trouble with. The one you were researching for an exposé… You know I just got beat up by a drug addict… Yup, broke my nose, gave me a concussion… Hospital is firing me even though every witness says I never even tried to punch the patient… It's weird, they won't let security intervene, even if staff is in danger… They also want to bill me for treatment, isn't that workman's comp? Yes, of course, I'll go on record… No, my own lawyer figures we can own this shithole hospital…who'd want it. The patients are unsafe. There will be mostly empty beds…

Dr. Bergman, you can't talk to the press! the administrator yelled.

Mannie, hang on… He turned to the administrator. I think this is the US of A. I can talk to whomever I want. Besides, you fired me. My lawyer is going to sue you personally, the hospital, and the hospital board. The newspaper, of which Mannie is one of their famous investigative reporters, is going to drag all of you through the mud, just because you don't give a crap as to the safety of the people who work here.

But—

No buts. Lawyer will call in the morning. Work it out with him, and if I were you, I'd call a real security company to police this place tonight with permission to save your employees from danger. Now get the fuck out of my sight.

*****

"Shangri-La?

Abe chuckled. Yes, Shangri-La, Nevada. Small town near Elko with a big future.

Malcom frowned. Abe, what did you commit us to? I'm not a country boy. In fact, grass makes my eyes water, and trees I like in parks, very small parks. I like concrete, glass, and steel. I like theaters, shows, delicatessens, and hot chicks in very short dresses struttin' their stuff. I won't last a week in the middle of nowhere.

Abe looked critically at Malcom then sighed. You know what is wrong with both of us? We are lazy and complacent with our own futures. We worked in that shitty ER, and both of us never bothered to check on what that fucking contract management group was doing in our name. Shame on us. The money was good, the working hours decent, and we worked relatively hassle-free. Life was good. You had your women, I had my car and condo, and look where all that complacency got us. Fucked.

Everyone was in the same boat, Abe. We went into this for the lifestyle, and I guess at one time to help people. Besides, neither of us had enough money to start our own group. We still don't have any of that. We need a future that will get us somewhere besides just a good bottle of wine away from bankruptcy.

Abe was quiet for a beat, then looked Malcom square in the face. Malcom, I remember when I met you. You were right out of residency. You were a happy guy, always singing and making the nurses laugh with your horrible jokes. You were a little wet behind the ears and needed some medical guidance on how a real ER doc deals with a nonacademic ER. I loved working with you and, in my idealistic period, thought of the education I had received from guys who were more experienced than me. I wanted to give that kind of education to you. Then one day you would teach a new Abe that had just left residency the ropes, like I had done for you. Perfect, right?

I know, Abe. I owe you a career, but times change, and I changed… Maybe you're right. I changed, but not for the better.

No, I know the real you is under there somewhere. The new medicine just added layers of ‘I don't give a fuck.' If you continue being a doctor under these circumstances, you'll just end up old, embittered, and with a crap reputation. Listen, I know this is a leap of faith, and I won't hold you to any of this. I'll give you half of the money we collected for all this hard work. Take it and build yourself the life you want. No hard feelings, we'll part as friends and wish each other luck. Now do me a favor and go. I'll get the money to you.

Malcom was quiet and obviously troubled. He got up and went to the door. I just can't take that chance, Abe. He opened the door and walked out.

Abe went to the bar and opened a bottle of twenty-year-old single malt he had been saving to toast their partnership. He felt tears form, but they never came.

He looked at his watch, figured two hours behind, and reached for his phone, punching in the numbers for his contact. Hi, I hit a large bump. How much more time do I have to complete the deal?

Abe hung up and poured himself a full glass of expensive scotch.

*****

Goddamn it. If I told you once, I've told you a million times. Always check his dick for a drip or a sore and then put on the condom.

But I did. I swear it, cried Holly. I didn't see anything.

Paula, who had the manager position that night, was standing two feet away from Holly. How many fingers, Holly? She held up her hand with the middle finger extended.

Holly squinted and then squinted some more. Two fingers, I see two fingers.

Paula moved her hand to a couple of inches from her face. Fuck you, Holly. I keep telling you to wear your glasses so you can actually see the guy's dick when you check it. I told you no man is going to care about your damn glasses as it's not your eyes he wants. Now you are out of the rotation for a month, and we are short as it is. If it were up to me, your cute little ass would be out of here forever. What is it, three times in the last year with a sex disease? You're lucky it has only been the clap or chlamydia. It could be syphilis or something much worse next time.

But he wore a rubber…

You know they break. Fuck, and Doc Patel is long gone. Now you're going to have to go to Vegas or Reno for state testing and treatment. Now pack up and get out of here.

Holly started crying as she started packing her small bag.

*****

Three-Fingers Jackson, the mayor of Shangri-La, Nevada, was disappointed. He thought he had solved the number one problem his town had. The problem wasn't poverty, as the townspeople had decent-paying jobs in the silver mines, and Costco had already broken ground on a distribution center. The roads were fixed, and there was even more than one traffic light thanks to the taxes the companies paid. There were farms, and thank the good Lord there had been snow and good runoff that had filled the reservoirs, so crops looked decent. No, the problem he still couldn't fix was a doctor for the town.

Shangri-La had started out in the late 1800s as a silver mining town. The vein was rich, and the old, original minors had stayed and brought their women and eventually kids. Where there are families, civilization comes, and so schools, stores, and a small clinic followed. Life was decent and became better when air-conditioning and satellite TV came to be. Internet soon followed. It was a liberal town, not Democrat liberal, but the liberalism of you mind your own business and I'll mind mine, and when the important stuff comes up, we will figure it out as a community. The town boasted Catholics, Protestants, Jews, some Muslims, blacks, whites, reds, and a couple of Asians. It also had a couple of Gay couples. No one cared what went on in someone else's bedroom, and sometimes it was more than vanilla. All in all, the town was stable and happy, except for the lack of medical facilities. Dr. Patel had been the town's only doctor for thirty years. He boasted of the hundreds of babies he had delivered and was saddened by the hundreds he couldn't save over the many years. The town loved him, but when he reached sixty-five, he sadly told the town he needed to retire and go back to his family home—Atlanta. The town started a search, but over the three years the town had been searching, it hadn't been possible to find a doctor who was willing to be on call to the town 24-7. Patel, being tired of waiting forever for a doctor to take over, just disappeared one day leaving the town with no medical care. Like the town itself, doctors evidently had changed. They no longer wanted to work solo, be on call, work weekends, and they certainly didn't want the salary the town could afford even if the salary was very good if the particular doc wanted to raise a family. The town supplied a house, rent-free. the school system was great as the town insisted on the three Rs, reading 'riting, and 'rithmetic. It also provided civics, history, and all the subjects the town thought a good future citizen should know.

No, thought Three-Fingers, the new docs wanted a state-of-the-art hospital with specialists, Wednesdays off for golf, and the weekends off for trips to Vegas, and don't call me after 8:00 p.m. He knew, at the rate they were going, he and the town would have to get used to not having a Dr. Patel replacement around. The next medical facility was almost a hundred miles away, not great for an otherwise booming town.

Now this Abe Bergman looked like he was pulling out. He had partner problems and, for some reason, money problems. Theoretically, whatever doctor came in should be able to grab his bag and move into the house. The town supplied furniture for the house, federal malpractice insurance, and even a four-wheel drive pickup truck. A new doctor should be able to move in, see patients, and not have a high overhead. Bergman was even offered a free round-trip ticket to see the town, but Bergman declined, saying he felt he knew the town, and he was fine with it. That was strange as Three-Fingers never remembered a Dr. Bergman coming to town. Then again Three-Fingers knew his memory for strangers could be sketchy most days.

Damn, without a doctor, the town would never expand. Shangri-La would never attract more business, and like they say, if you're not moving forward, you are dead. Three-Fingers pulled out his corncob pipe and packed it with his special thinking blend, three-quarters Balkan Sobraine and one quarter Maui Wowwi. An idea began to glimmer in his brain. He took a big puff and smiled. You'd have to be an idiot to turn down a deal like this. He reached for his cell.

Hey, Maury, I want to run something by you for a legal opinion. It's for a deal I want to make with two potential partners and what my and their potential exposure could be if things go down the toilet.

*****

Abe was in a funk. Without Malcom, was he really into an independent practice, and why was he so hot fired to make sure Malcom was in this with him? He frankly wasn't sure. Over the years he considered Malcom like a son who would take over the family business. At this point, he really had no family left. Unbeknownst to most everyone, including Malcom, he had had a family once a long time ago. He'd married a girl who was the love of his life. They had a child and were happy as far as he was concerned. Of course, he didn't realize that while he was being happy with the building of his professional life and the comfort of having a family at home, he really wasn't there for his wife and child. He had gone to work in a small town with a bustling ER and had all the stimulation he needed. His wife had none of that, being at home with the child. She was uncomfortable with the town as she was a fresh immigrant