All he really wanted was the information on the front sheet. Turning his back to the clerk, Adam copied down all the personal information he could find on Smyth: health insurance information, social security number, wife’s name, and birth date. That was a good start.
Returning the chart to the rack, Adam took the elevator back down to the library on the main floor. A research assistant directed him to a compendium of American physicians. Looking up Stuart Smyth, Adam checked the schools the man had attended from college through residency and was interested to note that he’d done a year of surgical training in Hawaii. Adam also memorized all of Smyth’s professional associations.
His final act before leaving the medical center was to call Christine at GYN Associates under the pretext of setting up an appointment with Baumgarten and Stens the following week. He managed to learn that Smyth was an avid tennis player, a lover of classical music, and a movie buff.
Back in the Buick, Adam drove across town and tumed right on Eighth Avenue. As he approached Forty-second Street, the city changed from office buildings and warehouses to garish movie theaters with harsh neon lights and adult bookstores advertising twenty-five-cent X-rated flicks. Streetwalkers in high-heeled sandals and miniskirts beckoned to him as he parked his car.
Adam wandered east, lingering in front of magazine stands. After many offers of drugs, he was approached by a thin man wearing one of those narrow mustaches that Adam remembered from thirties films.
“You interested in a real lady?” asked the man.
Adam wondered if a real lady was the opposite of the kind that you had to inflate. He was tempted to ask but wasn’t sure if the thin man would appreciate his humor.
“I’m interested in some ID cards,” said Adam.
“What kind?” asked the man as if it were an everyday request.
Adam shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe a driver’s license and a voter’s registration card.”
“A voter’s registration card?” repeated the thin man. “I never heard of somebody asking for that.”
“No?” said Adam. “Well, I’m sort of new at this. I want to go on a cruise, and I don’t want anyone to know who I really am.”
“Then you want a friggin’ passport,” said the man. “When do you need it?”
“Right now,” said Adam.
“I trust you got cash.”
“Some,” said Adam. He’d been careful to lock most of his money, plus his own identification cards, into the glove compartment of the car.
“It will cost you twenty-five for the driver’s license and fifty for the passport,” said the thin man.
“Wow,” said Adam. “I only have fifty on me.”
“Too bad,” said the man. He turned and started toward Eighth Avenue.
Adam watched him for a moment, then continued walking toward Broadway. After a few steps he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Sixty bucks for both,” said the thin man.
Adam nodded.
Without another word the man led Adam back toward Eighth Avenue and into one of the many stores that were plastered with hand-lettered signs reading “Going Out of Business! Last Three Days! Everything Reduced!” Adam noticed that the “Last Three Days!” sign was brittle with age.
The store sold the usual assortment of cameras, calculators, and videotapes and a handful of “authentic Chinese ivories.” A center table supported a line of miniature Empire State Buildings and Statues of Liberty, plus coffee mugs with “I Love New York ” on the sides.
None of the salesmen even looked up as the thin man led Adam through the length of the store and out the rear door. In the back of the building was a hall with doors on either side. Adam hoped he wasn’t getting himself into something he couldn’t handle. The thin man knocked on the first door, then opened it and motioned Adam into a small, dark room.
In one corner was a Polaroid camera on a tripod. In another was a drafting table, set under a bright fluorescent light. A man with a shiny bald head sat at the table. He was wearing one of those green visors Adam remembered seeing on cardplayers in old westerns.
The thin man spoke. “This kid wants a driver’s license and a passport for sixty bucks.”
“What name?” asked the man with the green visor.
Adam quickly gave Smyth’s name, address, birth date, and social security number.
There was no more talk. Adam was positioned behind the Polaroid camera and several pictures were taken. Next, the man with the green visor went over to the drafting table and began to work. The thin man leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette.
Ten minutes later Adam walked back through the store, clutching his phony IDs. He didn’t open them until he reached the car, but when he did he found they looked entirely authentic. Pleased, he turned the car toward the Village. He had only an hour or so to pack.
When he reached the apartment, he was surprised to find the police lock unengaged. He pushed open the door and saw Jennifer and her mother.
“Hi,” he said, quite amazed. “This is a nice surprise.”
“I was hoping to catch you before you went to Puerto Rico,” said Jennifer.
“I’m not going to Puerto Rico,” said Adam.
“I don’t think you should be going anyplace,” said Mrs. Carson. “Jennifer has had a shock and she needs your support.”
Adam put his things on the desk and turned to Jennifer. She did look pale.
“What’s the matter?” asked Adam.
“Dr. Vandermer gave her some bad news,” replied Mrs. Carson.
Adam did not take his eyes from Jennifer’s face. He wanted to tell Mrs. Carson to shut up, but instead he stood directly in front of his wife. “What did Dr. Vandermer say?” he asked gently.
“The amniocentesis was positive. He said our baby is severely deformed. I’m so sorry, Adam. I think I’ll have to have an abortion.”
“That’s impossible,” said Adam, slamming his fist into his palm. “It takes weeks to do the tissue cultures after an amniocentesis. What the hell is wrong with this Vandermer?”
Adam strode to the phone.
Jennifer burst into tears. “It’s not Dr. Vandermer’s fault,” she sobbed, explaining that the abnormality was so severe that tissue cultures weren’t needed.
Adam hesitated, trying to remember what he’d read. He couldn’t recall any cases where tissue culture wasn’t needed.
“That’s not good enough for me,” he said, putting through a call to the Julian Clinic. When he asked for Dr. Vandermer, he was put on hold.
Mrs. Carson cleared her throat. “Adam, I think that you should be more concerned about Jennifer’s feelings than about Dr. Vandermer.”
Adam ignored her. The Julian Clinic operator came back on the line and told Adam that Dr. Vandermer was doing a procedure but would call back. Adam gave his name and number and then dropped the receiver into its cradle.
“This is crazy,” he mumbled. “I had a strange feeling about the Julian Clinic. And Vandermer…” He didn’t finish the sentence.
“I think the Julian Clinic is one of the finest hospitals I’ve ever been in,” said Mrs. Carson. “And except for my own doctor, I’ve never met a more caring man than Dr. Vandermer.”
“I’m going over there,” said Adam, ignoring his mother-in-law. “I want to talk to him in person.” Picking up his keys, Adam strode toward the door.
“What about your wife?” demanded Mrs. Carson.
“I’ll be back.” Then he left, slamming the door behind him.
Mrs. Carson was furious. She couldn’t believe that she had originally favored the marriage. Hearing Jennifer weep, she decided it was better not to say anything. She went over to her daughter, murmuring, “We’ll go home. Daddy will take care of everything.”
Jennifer didn’t object, but when she got to the door, she said, “I want to leave Adam a note.”
Mrs. Carson nodded and watched Jennifer write a short note at Adam’s desk, then put it on the floor by the door. It said simply: “Gone home. Jennifer.”