Catastrophic Page 3

  Might as well put them to use.

  It didn’t take long to discover if people saw a clean desk they assumed he wasn’t busy and were all too happy to give him something to do. If they couldn’t see him behind a wall of legal jargon, then he must be earning his salary.

  Every morning the first task Shane did in the silence of the two-six was rearrange the books. Never did the piles remain the same for consecutive days, his space a bastion of perpetual change.

  Shane’s jacket was off and his tie loosened as he worked his way through another stack of tax documentation. For just the briefest of moments he allowed himself to believe the task was the most grating thing on the planet before the all-too-familiar drum of fingers atop his computer reminded what really was.

  His boss.

  Shane lowered his pen and raised his eyes to see Rex Hartman, a junior partner at the firm and his immediate supervisor. In six months, all Shane had seen him do was make his life a living hell and check his hair in every reflective surface available.

  “You hiding out back here, Laszlo?”

  Shane faked a smile. “No sir, just going through the Martell tax forms.”

  Hartman nodded. “Martell, good group. One of the first clients I brought on board here. You knew that didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t, though I guessed by your signature on the forms that they were yours.”

  Hartman made a small sucking noise and held his hand out to examine his cuticles. “Yeah, an old family friend. You know that’s how business is often done here in New England. Ran into them at a Princeton tailgate, started schmoozing a little bit, one thing led to another.”

  He paused, waiting for Shane to give his story the validation he was seeking.

  The first three months, he bit every time. Now, Shane made a point of waiting him out.

  Hartman raised his gaze to Shane and paused a moment. “So, how were your holidays? Do anything good?”

  “No, just kind of stuck around here. Got caught up on some stuff, that kind of thing. How about you?”

  Shane knew it was an affront to make him ask about Hartman’s vacation, the same one he’d been talking about nonstop since Halloween.

  Whether it was unrelated or as punishment to leaving him hanging a moment before, he wasn’t sure.

  “Took the wife and the kids down to the Bahamas for a couple of weeks, went ahead and brought her parents along too.”

  Shane glanced down at his pasty white forearm and nodded. “Get into anything exciting down there?”

  “A lot of relaxing. Spent some quality time with the family, got some work done at the gym, firmed up the tan.”

  He paused to allow Shane to comment.

  Again he was met with silence.

  “Saw where your old alma mater had a pretty big win in the Centennial Bowl,” Hartman said, the set up for what Shane knew was coming next.

  It was the same comment that eighty percent of the firm had made to him at one point or another.

  “Yeah, they did. I managed to catch a little bit of it on the radio up here, sounded like a good game. Did you watch it?”

  A moment of silence passed. Shane glanced up to see Hartman looking at his reflection in the polished brass shade on his desk lamp.

  “No,” Hartman said, running a finger along his hairline. “I was never much of a football fan. Of course at Princeton we weren’t eligible for bowl games or anything, so I didn’t get into it all that much.”

  It took everything Shane had not to roll his eyes.

  “Yeah, well it’s a pretty big deal in the Midwest. Lot of pride and tradition there.”

  Hartman snorted. “Pride and tradition? Over a game that involves slamming your head into others? Rhodes Scholars, multi-billion dollar endowments, now that’s tradition.”

  Shane raised his eyebrows and nodded.

  “I mean, there’s a reason Beautiful Mind wasn’t set at Ohio Tech,” Hartman added.

  “Wasn’t that movie about a paranoid schizophrenic that almost drowned his own child in the bath tub?”

  This snapped Hartman’s attention away from his own reflection. The faux camaraderie faded from his eyes, replaced by loathing.

  Just as fast, the loathing passed. The sanctimony did not.

  “The reason I wandered back here was I need you to go ahead and finish things up on the Iaconelli and Breathable Air Foundation projects. After that nice long vacation, I’m a little behind right now.”

  Shane felt the blood rush to his face. Otherwise, he made no visible reaction to the statement. It wasn’t the first weekend he’d spent locked away in the two-six, doing Hartman’s work for him.

  “Yeah, sure, shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Great. If you could have those to me by Monday morning, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Sure thing Mr. Hartman.”

  Hartman drummed his fingers along the top of the computer again, pondering something. Whatever it was he let it go and turned on his heel to go.

  Just as fast he turned back around, still moving towards the door. “Oh, and I almost forgot. The Berkman account as well. Got Celtic tickets tonight, won’t be able to get to it.”

  Shane didn’t bother to respond. He was already back behind his stack of law books, trying his best to make sure Hartman didn’t see the look of pure disgust on his face.

  Chapter Six

  Just sixty minutes after departing, Dr. Pinkering and Sarconi walked into the room. Margie had repositioned herself at the head of the bed and together she and Tyler stared back as they entered.

  Sarconi stopped just inside the door, allowing Dr. Pinkering to take the lead. He kept his hands behind his back and made his best attempt to appear pleasant.

  Beside him, Dr. Pinkering swept forward a few feet and surveyed the situation. In front of him two people waited expectantly. The x-ray board on the wall had been turned off, the films put back in their envelope.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by Tyler before he ever got the chance.

  “I’m sorry I snapped earlier,” Tyler said. “You just have to understand some things.”

  Dr. Pinkering held up a hand and smiled. He started to respond, but didn’t get out the first syllable before Tyler cut him off again.

  “First of all, I have never missed a single practice, let alone game, in twenty years,” Tyler said. “I’ve never had surgery. Never broken a bone. I couldn’t even tell you the last time I had a cold.”

  Dr. Pinkering and Sarconi both stared back at him, neither daring to say a word.

  “Point being, I hate laying here. I hate being at somebody else’s mercy. I hate feeling like my body betrayed me.”

  After a moment of silence, Dr. Pinkering bowed his head. “Very understandable.”

  “Second,” Tyler said, “I know people say this sort of thing a lot, but I am not being dramatic when I say this is my future we’re talking about here. NFL contract. Signing bonus. Endorsement deals. A better life for the both of us.

  “If this pitch of yours in any way runs counter to that, I don’t want to hear it. I’m not concerned with the length of rehab time. I’m concerned with getting myself back to one hundred percent. That’s it.

  “Are we clear?”

  “Absolutely,” Dr. Pinkering said, turning to Sarconi for confirmation.

  “Very much so,” Sarconi added, the fat folds under his chin bouncing as he nodded in the affirmative.

  “Okay,” Tyler said. “What is this thing and why do you think I need it?”

  Dr. Pinkering glanced once more to Sarconi. “I’ll start on the back end and then we’ll work our way forward. The reason you need it is just what we pointed out earlier. The type of injury you sustained pretty much destroyed everything at once.

  “A knee can recover from a break or a tendon tear because there is enough ancillary stability to allow for a full recovery. When everything is shattered, there is no reference point, so to speak.

  “We can put everything back toge
ther, but the odds of it all meshing together in perfect alignment are almost non-existent.”

  Sarconi stepped forward from the wall, a black three ring binder in his hand. “As for the first part of your question, that’s where I come in.”

  He pulled a chair over to the side of the bed and positioned it just shy of Tyler’s elbow, facing them both. He propped the binder up on his knee and opened the front cover, a stack of glossy printouts arranged within.

  “We call it the KnightRunner, an homage to your Crimson Knights here at Ohio Tech.”

  On the cover page was the name KnightRunner, designed in a fancy font with bright red lettering. It was superimposed over silhouettes of football, basketball, and baseball players, all in the throes of competition.

  Sarconi turned to the next page.

  “In the past, almost all replacements have been made from a metal alloy. The joints are durable, but aren’t without their problems. Stiffness, grinding, susceptibility to extreme weather conditions.”

  Another page turned.

  “With the KnightRunner, we developed a product that is comprised of a synthetic with the same composite make-up of human cartilage.”

  “Cartilage?” Margie asked. “As in nose and ears?”

  Sarconi pointed at Margie and turned another page. “Sort of. At a most basic molecular level, yes it is the same as the cartilage found in the nose and ears. The difference though is that the KnightRunner condenses the material into density that is stronger even than the original bones.”

  Tyler turned his head to glance at his mother, but said nothing.

  Sarconi saw the gesture and pushed ahead to the next page.

  “Think of it in terms of PSI, or pounds per square inch. Cartilage found in your knee or nose has a PSI of about 50. Bone, such as the femur in your thigh has a psi of about 350.

  “The KnightRunner? Over 1,200.”

  Sarconi allowed himself the slightest hint of a smile. Behind him, Dr. Pinkering rocked back on his heels, watching the Bentley’s for any outward sign of acceptance.

  “If this were used, what does it mean for my playing ball?”

  The small smile on Sarconi’s face grew a shade larger.

  Dr. Pinkering raised his left hand and snapped his wrist back to stare at his watch. “Right now it is January 1st. Most times, a surgery like this would require at least twelve months of rehab, probably closer to eighteen. After that, if everything breaks your way, you’re looking at maybe returning to the form you were at last night.”

  “With the KnightRunner,” Sarconi said, “you’ll be ready to return the opening kickoff this fall.”

  Tyler raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.

  “Dr. Pinkering, Mr. Sarconi,” Margie said, her voice rough after the previous day she’d had, “I don’t mean to be a fly in the ointment here, but who pays for a procedure like this? How much would it even cost?”

  Dr. Pinkering was quick to reply. “This was an injury sustained during an athletic contest, meaning Tyler’s scholarship will cover it.”

  “Yes,” Margie conceded, “but I mean for this new KnightRunner thing. I’m not sure experimental procedures are covered.”

  “The university has catastrophic injury coverage for just this sort of thing,” Dr. Pinkering said. “Everything will be taken care of.”

  “Besides,” Sarconi said, casting a glance to Dr. Pinkering, “we were kind of hoping to make this an advantageous situation for everybody here.”

  “Meaning?” Tyler asked.

  “Meaning we were hoping that starting this fall, when you’ve recovered and returned to football stardom, you could serve as a poster child of sorts for us.”

  “After that, it could become the first of those endorsements you mentioned,” Dr. Pinkering added.

  The astonishment of a moment before evaporated from both Tyler and Margie. They stared back at Dr. Pinkering and Sarconi, letting their words sink in.

  “So it was a bait-and-switch,” Tyler muttered.

  “Who’s your poster child now?” Margie asked, her voice raised to cover for her son.

  “Excuse me?” Sarconi asked.

  “You said you want Tyler to be your poster child. Who is it now?”

  “Well, see, at the moment...” Dr. Pinkering began.

  “So what you meant was guinea pig,” Margie said.

  “No, what he meant was, at the moment we’re allowing the product to speak for itself,” Sarconi said.

  “But don’t let that fool you,” Dr. Pinkering said. “I can assure you there is quite an extensive list of patients that have achieved wonderful results with this product.”

  “Just none with the kind of name recognition of a Tyler Bentley,” Sarconi added.

  Both Margie and Dr. Pinkering began to speak, but Tyler quieted them by raising a hand. He waited a moment for the air to clear, drawing in several deep breaths.

  “Again, you have to understand that this is a lot to process for us. This is my career, our future, we’re talking about here.”

  Dr. Pinkering and Sarconi both murmured their understanding.

  “So two things are going to happen here. First, you’re going to get one of these patients in here and let us pick his brain a little bit. If we like what we hear, we’ll finish this discussion later.”

  Sarconi dipped his head in acknowledgement.

  “And the second thing?” Dr. Pinkering asked.

  “If I’m not going into surgery just yet, bring me some more morphine.”

  Chapter Seven

  The next morning Tyler and Margie were both awoken by a heavy rapping on the door. The shades were pulled and the room still dark, making it impossible to know what time it was.

  Still, it felt very early to the both of them.

  Without waiting for acknowledgement, Sarconi pushed the door open and smiled. “Good morning folks. How are you feeling this morning?”

  Margie did her best to blink herself awake, a yawn distorting her features. On the bed beside her, Tyler rubbed his hands over his face and stretched his arms out above him.

  “I’ve been better.”

  “Yes of course, of course,” Sarconi responded. “I’m sorry if I woke either of you, it’s just that I have someone here I’d like you to meet and I didn’t want it to wait.”

  Tyler squinted and turned his head to glare at Sarconi. “Already? You were just here what, eight or nine hours ago?”

  Sarconi waved a hand at the comment and said, “I make it a point to keep in touch with all of our patients. I gave Kenny a call last night and asked if he could come by. He was a little hesitant at first until I told him who was considering the replacement. After that, he couldn’t get over here fast enough.”

  “Kenny?” Margie asked.

  Sarconi pushed the door open a few more inches and motioned into the hallway. “Come on in.”

  Through the door a tall, slender, black man with long arms and a shaved head walked in and smiled. He was older than Tyler, though his shaved head meant he could be anywhere from late-twenties to late-thirties.

  “Tyler, Ms. Bentley,” Sarconi said, his voice almost a purr, “this is Kenny Walker. You might remember him from his days in the NBA.”

  Kenny snorted. “More like day. I wasn’t there but a minute before I blew out my knee and that was that.”

  Margie glanced from her son to Kenny. “But isn’t that why you’re here? To tell us about this new knee and how it got you back onto the court in no time at all?”

  “No ma’am. I mean, yes I am here to tell you about the knee replacement and how effective it’s been for me, but no, it didn’t save my career.”

  Kenny smiled again and said, “You have to understand, this all happened to me fifteen years ago. Back then, medicine wasn’t what it is today. They put me together the best they could, but it was never strong enough to make it back into the league.”

  Without thinking, Margie reached out and touched her son’s shoulder.

  “So what hap
pened?” Tyler asked.

  “I spent four years bouncing between surgery and try-outs. I must have worked out for every team in the NBA at one time or another. A few times they liked what they saw and would give me a couple of days in training camp. Few times they said they’d be in touch and I never heard from them. Couple of times the knee gave as I was working out for them.”

  “Never happened, huh?” Tyler asked.

  “In the last fifteen years since my injury I’ve had eleven knee operations, but not a single day in the NBA.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Tyler said.

  Kenny shook his head. “Don’t be. I’m not a hard luck story here. I used the time I was nursing my knee to finish up my degree. Things could have been a lot worse.”

  A moment of silence passed, each side uncertain of how to proceed.

  “So am I right to assume that at least one of those surgeries was for the KnightRunner?” Margie asked.

  “Yes,” Kenny said, nodding his head. “I met Marcel about a year ago at a conference here in Columbus. My knee was still giving me troubles and I was looking into every alternate treatment on the market. Acupuncture, Chinese massage, you name it, and I’ve tried it.

  “Anyway, I bumped into Marcel at the conference and we got to talking. I told him I was looking for some new therapy techniques; he told me he was looking for a market to start pitching his new product.”

  “So quite the chance encounter?” Tyler asked.

  “No, not really,” Kenny said. “At first I balked big-time. I’m in my thirties, with a long road ahead of me. I had no desire to get a full replacement, but a few months went by and my knee continued to get worse. It even got to the point I was walking with a cane.

  “In the end, I called Marcel and told him I didn’t care if he had to cut me open himself, I was ready to try it.”

  Sarconi laughed behind him. “Those were his exact words.”

  Kenny chuckled and nodded. “I was the third person to ever receive a KnightRunner. That was seven months ago and, well...”

  In a fluid motion he crossed his ankles and turned in a sharp circle for them. He then did a series of knee raises and side to side lateral movements. Margie and Tyler watched as he jumped a few times into the air and drew his knees to his chest. To finish the impromptu routine, he stood on one leg and did a full squat.