"Why's that?"
"He's a damn workhorse." Sprague glanced at the pipe in his fingers and scrubbed the bowl with his thumb. "And I'll tell you one thing—if ever anybody needed a break in his routine, it's David. I've been trying to get him to take a vacation ever since his son died, and all I ever managed was two days on a golf course. He drives himself too hard, too goddamn hard."
"I've seen it happen before," I told him. "Not much left when you lose your family."
"Oh, it's understandable, all right. Just not conducive to good health. Even machines wear out if they're mistreated." He rocked back. "Now, Mr. Hammer ... what can I do for you?"
He was familiar with what had happened and, when I mentioned what Billy had told me about lax security at the hospital, agreed Saxony had its flaws in that area and admitted he didn't see a solution.
"In most cases," he told me, "it's a plain case of oversize institutions with heavy traffic in and out of restricted areas. Keys can be lost, duplicated, and used before locks can be changed. Because of a supervisory shortage, one person will be in charge of a maintenance crew or cleanup team. Then again, you can even have the problem of some authorized person removing drugs without accounting for them."
"Medical personnel?"
He raised an eyebrow and nodded. "There have been such cases. We had two right here, where underpaid interns were so far in debt they took the chance. And they blew their careers right out the window."
I nodded, then asked, "Much pilferage lately?"
"Holding at the usual rate. Why?"
"They say things are getting tight on the street."
He tented his fingers before his face, and his eyes narrowed. "Wait until the Snowbird gets back. It'll loosen up, then."
"Who?"
His smile was a world-weary one. "His right name is Jay Wren, a little joke his mother played on him. Locally he's known as the Snowbird, a big-time pusher who moved in on this ... I believe the word is... 'turf,' a few years ago."
I sighed smoke. "I don't know which surprises me more, Doc—that I never heard of this Snowbird, or that you know all about him."
He shrugged. "On the latter score, Mr. Hammer, we deal with more than our share of drug-related illness here, from infection caused by dirty needles to O.D.'s and full-scale addiction. So we have a better than layman's knowledge of what goes on in the world around our facility. As for your lack of knowledge of the Snowbird, he would have been until very lately too minor a player to have made it onto your singular scorecard."
"But he's moved up?"
"And beyond. He represents a new generation, and possibly a threat to the older one."
"You mean the Syndicate? The Evello crowd? Your former patient, Junior?"
"Yes. Our former patient." He puffed at his pipe while he weighed what to say. Then: "My understanding is that there's an uneasy alliance between the Snowbird and the old-guard mob. He has the means and the methods to get the product to a, let's call it, younger audience."
I sat forward. "Wren wasn't on my scorecard till just now. What about the cops? Is he on theirs?"
"The police have him pegged, all right, but they haven't caught up with him ... yet." He made a disgusted face and a sound to match. "It's a shame to watch these people living it up on the blood of school kids."
"Where is the Snowbird now?"
Sprague shrugged again and sucked on his pipe. The fire had gone out and he picked up the crystal lighter from the desk, flicked it a half-dozen times without getting a flame, then put it down in annoyance.
"I give David a nice new present," he said, "and he doesn't even bother to put fluid in it—just like him."
"He doesn't have your slogan up yet, either," I said with a little smile, gesturing to the framed "Caveat emptor" parchment leaned against the wall.
"He has seemed preoccupied of late," Sprague said. "But then, most doctors are."
I handed him my Zippo across the desk and, when he was stoked up again, he handed it back and said, "Wren was here, or rather at Saxony ... we discharged him a month ago. He still had the cast on his leg, and all I know is he told David he was going to take a vacation until it came off."
"What happened to him?"
"Automobile accident."
"Like with Junior Evello?"
Sprague gave me a twisted smile and laughed. "Billy tell you about the celebrity suite?"
"He mentioned it."
"No, Wren didn't get clipped by a lady driver. He was getting out of his limousine on the driver's side in heavy traffic and got swiped by a truck. Far as I'm concerned, it's too bad it didn't roll over him, although that wouldn't have done more than put a temporary dent in the drug scene around here." He shrugged. "Somebody else would have taken over anyway."
I asked, "How bad is it up here?"
He was inspecting the chewed end of his pipe. "We only get to see the ones who are crippled by it, of course, but it's a good indicator of the trend. In brief, it's growing fast. The sad part is that the growth rate is largely in the younger group. Our methadone program here never stops expanding. Right behind it is the VD problem. Until a few years ago you rarely saw an under-eighteen-year-old patient. Now they're coming in sucking lollipops."
"And that's not all they've been sucking," I said.
He gestured with an open palm. "Free love is expensive for these children. When the Pill replaces condoms, social disease has a field day. But what I truly despise is the way these children treat it all like a big joke—no concern for themselves or anybody else."
"Doc, you said it—they're children. They don't have the maturity."
"They're mature enough to mouth the phrases—society pushed them into it, society can take care of them—only society can't tell them what to do, because they're 'doing their own thing.' Over fifty percent of our drug-abuse patients are repeaters, Mr. Hammer, and fifty percent of those have arrest records ... and who knows what percentage will die early, and bring others down with them."
"Any answers?"
Sprague made a face and spread his hands. "If you could pick out one specific group as being responsible and direct your attention toward them—maybe. But it's spread to the rich and poor, educated and uneducated, and all the strata between. Nobody gives a damn because it's their life, right? But if things go awry, society will take care of them."
"Drug chic, they call it."
"A disease, I call it." He shook his head in grave frustration. "David and I have spoken about this so very many times. And yet he seemed to get along with both Wren and Evello—treated them with the deference and courtesy you would any patient."
"Doesn't that have something to do with that oath you took?"
His eyes flared. "But we don't have to be friendly to them. Businesslike is enough! I've asked David why he ... fraternizes with such scum, but he's never had a reason that makes sense."
"Why, does he have one that doesn't make sense?"
"Several times he's said to me, 'Alan, it takes dead cells to create a vaccine.'"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Who knows? He's said it so often, it ought to be on parchment in one of these stupid frames." He tapped the sludge out of his pipe and leaned forward on the desk, looking at me carefully. "Which brings me to you, Mr. Hammer. In view of your reputation, and your profession, your interest in the matter here is a little disconcerting."