“Great turnout,” said Chet, the sudden civic bureaucrat.
“Tom Hanks and his wife, Rita, always make an appearance. They’re good people. Gee…who was there? Jerry Seinfeld, Marcia Clark, Jay Leno. There’s someone who’ll give you a run for your money.”
Chet rolled with the punch. “He’s got a helluva car collection. But I was an unlucky man this year — got trapped in a ring-toss booth with Sharon Stone. It was sheer hell.” The dentist asked if the star wore panties and was promptly swatted by his wife. “Let’s just say that with or without, she arouses some fairly basic instincts.” Everyone laughed as Marion went for coffee.
“Anyway,” said Horvitz, “Chet liked what we were doing and wanted to come along to see how this thing works, on a personal level.”
“I hope that’s not too much of an intrusion,” Chet said diffidently.
“Hell, no,” said Kenny, “but I warn you: by the time you leave here, I will be your dentist.”
“Kenny, stop it!” cried Marion, from the kitchen.
“You have to promise to bring in a photo for my Wall of Stars.”
“It’s a deal.”
Horvitz dug in. “Kenny, your profession certainly hasn’t been untouched by this terrible disease and its attendant controversies.”
“We certainly have been.”
“As you know, there’s a lot of lip service given to ‘awareness.’ What’s wonderful about ViatiCorps — and its database of professionals like yourselves — is that you and Marion can do something concrete, something tangible, to ease human suffering.”
“That’s what’s so appealing,” said Marion, bringing in the tray. She looked to her husband, then added: “To me.”
“How exactly does it work?”
“Simplicity itself. I have a client who’s perfect to wet your feet with.”
Horvitz reached for his satchel, and Chet passed it on. He sorted through documents, grousing about life as a “great paper chase.” Then he found what he was looking for: a Polaroid of a wispy-haired man in his forties. Chet knew the picture had been taken by a nurse who supplied ViatiCorps with leads on the dying, for a percentage.
“He’s a costume designer. Has a T-cell count of twenty-two.”
Marion looked pained as she examined the photo. “Is that very bad?”
“It’s not great.”
“What’s a normal count, Stu?” asked the dentist, with alacrity.
“It’s a little arbitrary, but as a guide or indicator, that’s about all we have. The government defines full-blown AIDS as anything under a hundred T cells.” Marion screwed her eyes and nodded. “You and I may have six or seven hundred. Funny thing is, you can have nine hundred and still be on your way out.”
Ken shook his head. “That’s insidious.”
Marion tucked now shoeless feet underneath her and studied the photo; Chet noted a passing resemblance to Sally Field. “What’s his name?”
“Philip Dagrom. He’s actually fairly well known for what he does. He was working on Blue Matrix up until a month or so ago. I saw him on Friday. He’s pretty much clinically depressed.”
“Who wouldn’t be?” said the dentist.
“He doesn’t look all that terrible,” said Marion, grimly fascinated. “Don’t they usually have those spots? What are they called?”
“Kaposi’s sarcoma. Phil’s had everything but KS. Now, he’s losing his sight.”
“Real science fiction stuff, isn’t it?” Chet chimed in.
“It’s diabolical, believe me,” said Horvitz. They made a fairly decent tag team. “But Phil’s a fighter. We’re still looking at an expectancy of three to six months — don’t quote me now!”
“Was he an addict?”
“No, no. A hemophiliac — also gay.”
“Wow,” said Marion. “Double whammy time.”
“I’ve worked on hemophiliacs.”
“I always wanted to know,” said Chet, “how you fill a cavity in that situation.”
“Very carefully!” laughed the dentist. “What kind of insurance does he have?’
“A two-hundred-thousand-dollar policy. We can get it for maybe sixty cents on the dollar.”
“We give him a hundred and twenty thousand,” said the dentist, “which ultimately nets us—”
“You become eighty percent beneficiaries, with ViatiCorps retaining twenty.”
“Receivable upon his death.”
“That is correct. And that is subject to federal tax, not state.”
“Why did he wait until now? Pretty soon, he won’t be able to enjoy himself.”
“That’s the risk they take. Maybe he didn’t need the money, Kenny — until now. Or maybe he was just in denial. You have to understand there’s a finality involved in the selling of a policy.”
Marion bounced up. “I’ve got great pastries from Mani’s, sugar-free — muffins, too. Chet?”
“Love some.”
“Then follow.”
Chet brought his coffee with him. On the way, he amended his observation, telling her she looked like a young Mary Tyler Moore. She seemed to like that.
Back in the living room, the dentist was concerned. “Stu…if we do the deal, what happens if he lives a full twelve months — or more?”
“It’s an inexact science, but I’ve got a pretty good gut. We’ll also furnish a doctor’s opinion so you know we’re not whistling in the dark. Let’s say, for argument’s sake, he lives a year instead of six months. You’d still be earning twenty-three percent on your money.”
The dentist nodded. “That’s better than CDs.”
“You betcha.”
Chet chose a chocolate croissant while Marion poured a refill. She asked if he wanted sugar and he said, Just dip your little finger in there. Marion blushed; all in good fun. Gotta keep a hand in, Chet thought.
“Soupy Sales used to come on your show all the time,” she said.
“He was marvelous,” said Chet. “An early genius of the medium, like Ernie Kovacs.”
“And those pie fights! Weren’t those crazy days?”
“They certainly were. Good days.”
They walked back to the living room and Marion replenished the cups. Horvitz was explaining how the couple could go in on a pool if they were leery of forking over the full amount.
“What will Mr. Dagrom do with the money, Stu?” she asked, then looked toward her husband. He was tucking into a bear claw. “If we buy the policy and give him the cash?”
“I understand he wants to take a cruise. I think he’d like to die in Greece. He evidently used to travel there quite a bit.”
The dentist grew pensive. “I know this is a pretty big hypothetical, Stu, but let’s say — for argument’s sake — that out of the blue, a cure is found.”
Marion was mildly embarrassed. “I don’t think we have to worry about that, honey.”
“No, I’m glad you asked,” Horvitz said. “It’s a good question, don’t feel bad about asking anything, that’s why we’re here. Put it all on the table, so there aren’t any surprises.” The advocate clasped hands together as if in prayer, then placed them to his lips. “Even if a cure were found, and that’s highly unlikely”—a glance at Marion—“from everything we know…the people we’re dealing with are just too sick to be helped.” His logic was irrefutable; the room responded with a moment of silent gravity. “What I’d really like to get you in on,” he said, emptying a second pink packet into his coffee, “is an IV-drug user. Once you hand them the money, they tend to shoot it straight into their arms. Dramatically shortens their expectancy.”