"Not in the least," Gloria snapped, "Stanley Riverside the SECOND isn't the victim in this story. He's the hero. He saved my life, and Dr. Jackson's too."

"Stanley? The hero? My Stanley?" EJ said faintly.

"Yes!" Gloria's back was up now. Nothing made her more indignant than seeing someone get less than justice. "The man with the gun said his name was Tom Hogg. He complained of a sprained ankle, and he'd been in ER for a full hour before he finally cornered me in treatment room two. I was trying to clean up in there, and he just didn't want to take no for an answer, so when Dr. Riverside came in he very kindly offered to take a quick look at the ankle. The next thing I knew, Hogg had pulled a gun and grabbed me. He told Dr. Riverside to get him 3 cases of morphine, and when we tried to explain to him that it wasn't that easy, he hit me. Then Dr. Jackson came in, and Hogg turned the gun on him. He was pulling the trigger when Dr. Riverside grabbed his gun arm and tried to get control of it. I got away, to go for help, and Dr. Jackson stayed to help Dr. Riverside."

"I was going in to show Stan some x-rays," Jackpot explained to EJ. "And there was a loud noise and the next thing I knew I was on the floor. Gloria went past me, and told me to help Stanley, but the gun was still going off, so I grabbed the first thing to hand. It was an IV pole. And when I got a chance, I hit Hogg over the head. I'm sorry, EJ, I probably could have hit him a little sooner, but I was afraid of hitting Stanley. And then when Hogg went down I was looking at him, instead of Stan. I didn't realize he was hurt until he started to slide down the wall."

"The important thing is that Dr. Riverside did everything right. It wasn't his fault, and he wasn't a victim," Gloria insisted. "And Jackpot did everything possible to help him after he got shot. If anybody did anything wrong it was Hogg."

Jackpot was still concentrating on EJ. "Are you all right?" She was still shaking her head.

"I don't know," she admitted. "It's just... it's hard trying to imagine Stanley fighting someone for a gun."

Jackpot reached over to touch little Stanley's head. "I know. Stanley looked really surprised. But he did grab for the gun, and if he'd hesitated I would have gotten a bullet through the head instead of losing a little hair and skin. He saved me. Whatever happens, you need to know that."

EJ bit her lip and patted Jackpot's hand, but she couldn't quite manage to say anything. After the silence had gone on, the cop cleared his throat apologetically.

"Umm. Dr. Jackson, I just want to be clear. Hogg and Dr. Riverside were fighting for the gun when it went off, and Dr. Riverside was hit."

"That's right."

"And Hogg was injured when you struck him with an IV pole. Was that before or after Dr. Riverside was shot?"

"Almost simultaneously. The gunshot pretty much covered up the sound of the pole hitting Hogg's skull. I couldn't really say which was first." Jackpot took off his glasses and rubbed his face. "Does it matter?"

"I don't think so," Bates admitted. "But the press is bound to ask, and my captain wants me to brief them before the late news. They've gotten both your names, somehow, by the way, so you might want to warn your families."

"Oh, dear," Arnold said. "That's the last thing we need. Would you like to use my phone?"

Gloria went first, while poor Jackson described the fight again in more detail for Bates. Her adopted daughter, Andrea, answered the phone.

"Hey, what happened?" Andrea asked after the initial hellos. "We had a guy come bang on the door and ask us how badly you got hurt in the big shooting at the hospital."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I should have called you, but I didn't think you'd hear anything about it tonight."

"Hey, I wasn't super worried. If you were hurt real bad, Mrs. Shoop would have told me. You aren't hurt, are you? Your voice sounds funny."

"Well, I have a big bruise on my face, and it's not real comfortable, but it isn't serious. But I'm probably going to stay here tonight -- not as a patient -- but because Dr. Riverside did get seriously hurt, and I want to wait until he gets out of surgery and we know how he's going to do."

"Dr. Riverside's hurt?" Andrea said. She sounded uncertain, and younger all of a sudden. "You mean like, shot?"

"Yeah." Gloria felt a wave of exhaustion hit her, and leaned against Arnold's desk. "He's in surgery. Look, I'd have you come here, but the place is crawling with reporters, and besides, once I hear anything I'm going to find a corner and sleep. The news stations will probably announce any changes in Dr. Riverside's condition, but I can call if you want me to."

"Naw, that's all right. You sound like you should go collapse some place. Just call me before I go to school, okay?"

"Okay. Bye."

She pushed down the contacts and handed the phone to Jackpot, who thought for a moment before he dialled.

"Hey, Tony? This is Jackpot Jackson. You know, third floor? Um, listen, have you noticed if anyone's hanging around my place? Oh, they are. Reporters. Yeah, there was a shooting here. We don't know yet, he's still in surgery. No, I'm okay. No, I don't think so. Sure, that'd be great. Thanks, Tony. Good night." Jackpot hung up, and Gloria, who had listened to his half of the conversation reached over to squeeze his arm sympathetically. He gave her a sketchy smile. "I'll have to invite you over for that drink some other time," he said. "My landlord says the hall is crawling with reporters."

"That's all right," she said. "I guess I'd just as soon stay close to the hospital until we know something anyway."

"Well, I'd appreciate it if you'd let Mr. Slocum know how to reach you," Bates said. "Just in case there are any further questions." He nodded his head in farewell and went out the door.

They had just settled into chairs when the door opened again and Ernie, still in surgical greens, and trailed by an indignant Stanley Riverside Senior, came in. She paused briefly when she saw EJ, but then went straight to Arnold while Riverside Senior fumed behind her. "Trapper sent me," she said, coming straight to the matter. "He wants you to get on the phone and lean on every blood bank in the city for baby blood. We're cleaned out, and Bay General hasn't got more than three units. If they've got units they should send them, and if they know donors they can just refer the donors here. Send cabs for them, if necessary, but do it fast."

"How much do we need?" Arnold said, settling into his chair and reaching for the phone.

"Ten units minimum, but try to get twenty in case the cross matching fails."

"Now look here!" Riverside Senior growled. "What the hell is baby blood? What are you asking for? I demand to know what's happening to my son!"

Ernie spun on him. "Baby blood is O negative with a low titre for both A and B factors. Sometimes it's called universal donor blood, and it happens to be Stanley's blood type. Unless we can get more of it, and soon, Trapper and Gonzo will have to stop operating, and if that happens you won't have a son." She realized who else was watching and took a grip on her anger. "I'm sorry, EJ. We're doing everything we can."

EJ was stricken, but she tried not to look it. "I know." Her hands were tightened around her son. "Are you going back in?"

"Yes."

"Tell them... Tell them I know."

Ernie nodded acknowledgement and left, pushing her way through the crowd of reporters that had gathered at the door.

"Baby blood," Riverside Senior repeated. "It's just like him to have baby blood."

"You probably have it too." Jackpot said. "Blood type is genetic."

"I don't know," the old man admitted. "I've never given blood."

"Now why am I not surprised," EJ said. "My Stanley donates regularly. He donated blood just three days ago."

"Then why don't they give him that?" Riverside senior exclaimed.

Jackpot took a grip on his temper, and then took a hold of Riverside Senior's expensive sleeve. "Look, why don't we go down to the blood bank and see what you've got to offer. Then you can start phoning your friends and see if any of them have got the right type of blood too."

"I can do better than the phone," EJ said. She handed the baby to Gloria and headed out into the hall, where Bates was talking to TV cameras. She went right up to him. "Excuse me, Sergeant." She squinted at the reporters against the bright lights. "Is this going to be on the air soon?"

"You're on the air now, lady," one of the cameramen called.

"Good." She faced that direction. "We need O negative blood. Right away. Can you tell people that? Donors should come to San Fransisco Memorial, and if they need cabfare I'll pay for it."

Riverside senior, who, like Gloria and Jackpot had followed her into the hall to see what was up, started forward. "And I'll pay 1000 dollars each to the first ten donors whose blood matches my son's," he roared, and the cameras swung toward him. "Get that on the air."

"Cash?" one of the reporters asked.

"Cash!"

Jackpot and Gloria looked at each other and rolled their eyes. "Oh, brother," Gloria said.

Jackpot shook his head. "Let's hope the bums and junkies aren't listening. Look, give me little Stanley, and go warn the blood bank what to expect. I'll collar the old man and drag him down there just as soon as I can."

"When the reporters find out who you are..." Gloria objected, but she handed him the baby, who was beginning to fuss about all the noise.

Jackpot shrugged. "I'll just have to deal with it. Maybe some of them are O neg too."

"Good luck." She headed for the elevator and Jackpot took a deep breath and waded into the fray.

"Mr. Riverside," he said, when he got close enough, "Dr. Riverside, if you'll just come with me, we'll get you established down by the blood bank."

"Thanks, Jackpot," EJ said, taking her son while the reporters started to swarm toward them.

"Dr. Jackson," half a dozen voices shouted. "Dr. Jackson! Give us a statement!"

"I'm taking Mr. Riverside down so he can donate blood," Jackpot said, taking the old man's arm again. "And if any of you want a statement you can join us, because I'm not talking to anyone who hasn't donated blood."

"But I'm A pos!" one of the reporters protested.

Jackpot steered Riverside Senior and EJ towards the elevators. "You got a donor card?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Sure," the reporter said, starting to dig for a wallet.

"Bring it down," Jackpot said as the elevator doors swung open. "And I'll think about it."

The doors of the elevator closed and Riverside Senior shook off Jackpot's grip. "Young man, do you know who I am? I am the chairman of the board of this hospital and I demand some respect."

"Big Fat Hairy Deal," Jackpot said, his patience shot. He glared down at the man. "You know, Stanley talks about you being the chairman of the board all the time. He's proud of you, and I have never understood why, because you're a lousy father. I'm willing to bet that half the people you know are going to look at that TV broadcast and say, 'I didn't know he had a son', because I've stood by and seen them tell him that to his face, and not just once, either. He's the best damn emergency man in the state; he's loyal and dedicated and generous and one hell of a diagnostician, and as far as I'm concerned the only reason you're important at all is because you might -- just might -- have the right blood type to keep him alive."

"I am not a lousy father!" Riverside senior protested, his chin jutting out pugnaciously.

"Then prove it!" Jackpot said.

The elevator doors opened onto the first floor, and Jackpot was relieved to see Gloria waiting for them. "Mr. Riverside, if you'll just come with me," she said, leading away the businessman, whose bristliness eased noticeably at the sight of a curvaceous female. Jackpot followed her with EJ, a little more slowly.

"Are you sure that was a good idea?" EJ asked him, glancing up at the thunderclouds on Jackpot's face. She had had a special place in her heart for him ever since little Stanley's arrival, when Jackpot had been the one to hold her hand through early labor. "He can be pretty vindictive."

Jackpot made a face. "If Hogg dies, my career's pretty much down the tubes anyway. And if Stanley ..." he took a breath, "if Stanley doesn't make it, I'm not sure I could stay here anyway."

EJ stopped, and Jackpot turned to look at her. "Don't leave unless you really have to," she said. "Stanley would hate that. He's always saying you're his choice as a successor."

"Really?" Jackpot asked. "I didn't think he was planning on going anywhere."

EJ ducked her head a little, half a smile on her face. "Well, he does always end up by saying that a few more years of experience wouldn't hurt your chances with the board." The smile faded. "Seriously, Jackpot, he's been dreading the day you get an offer from one of those new shocktrauma centers on the east coast, because he knows it would be a boost for your career, and he's indignant because they haven't sent you one yet."

Jackpot found himself caught between laughter and tears. "I've been talking about the shocktrauma centers because I think we ought to open one," he said. "Not because I want to leave. I turned down Baltimore six months ago."

He would have said more, but the other elevator opened and began to pour out reporters, and he had to catch back his feelings and concentrate on keeping the press from overwhelming EJ as they led the way to the blood bank. When they got there, they saw that the bank labtechs had rooked some orderlies into setting up extra donor beds, and that Riverside senior was already starting the process of donating a unit.

"What blood type are you?" he asked EJ quietly.

"O positive."

"Me too," he said. He glanced back at the reporters and saw more than one starting to roll up a sleeve. "Mrs. Martin," he called to the chief lab tech. "Do you want to concentrate on O negative donors first?"

"Yes, but we're low on just about everything, so don't disappear," the plump, middle aged matron, told him. She turned on the pool of reporters with a predatory air. "Now, if you know you're O neg, raise your hand."

Jackpot winced. EJ, who was the only one in a position to see, looked concerned. "Are you all right?"

"I hate needles," he admitted quietly, and then looked over to the techs with an assumed alacrity. "Mrs. Martin, we'll be back. We've got to make sure that there are people with the money for cabfares at the entrances in case other donors arrive."

"I just hope I've got enough money," EJ said.

"We'll think of something."

EJ was beginning to look frazzled, and the baby was fussing when a cab pulled up and two older ladies clambered out across the way in the parking lot. Jackpot was busy redirecting one of the donors, so he didn't see them at first, but EJ did.

"Oh, no. I should have called them," she groaned.

"Called who?" Jackpot asked, turning to look. He recognized the new arrivals at once. The shorter lady, with the extravagant bouffant hair and the overdose of personality was Mildred Winthrop -- Nanny Mil -- who had been Stanley's governess when he was a child. The taller, thinner and more hesitant of the pair was Thelma Krackin, who had posed, at Nanny Mil's instigation, as Stanley's real mother two Mother's Days ago for the sake of "borrowing" twenty thousand dollars from him to buy a restaurant. The scam had failed, at least in the sense that Stanley had discovered the truth, but only because Nanny Mil had been diagnosed with colon cancer and Thelma had done her best to help. And Stanley, to everyone's surprise, had not only forgiven them, but had stayed an investor in the restaurant, and still occasionally dragged acquaintances along to taste the blue plate special and see the two headed snake. Jackpot liked both of the ladies, although he only trusted Nanny Mil as far as he could see her, and knew that Stanley sometimes still called Thelma when he needed what he termed "Mom" advice. "No," Jackpot said to EJ. "I should have called them." He waved them over.

"Dr. Jackson!" Nanny Mil exclaimed. "EJ! And is that little Stanley? We came as soon as we heard." She descended on EJ with a hug and took over the baby, who calmed down out of sheer surprise.

"Is Stanley all right?" Thelma asked Jackpot, clutching at a wicker basket with both hands, her eyes large with concern.

"He's still in surgery," Jackpot said. "There have been several people come to donate, but I don't know yet if they've gotten what they need. You should go inside, up to the waiting area."

"I know I'm not the right blood type," Thelma said. "Stanley explained that. But I brought some sandwiches and some good coffee. The machine coffee is terrible here. Have you eaten?"

"No," EJ said, at first repelled at the notion, but then looking closer, at the basket. "Is there any chocolate in there?"

"Of course there is." Nanny Mil might be annoying sometimes, Jackpot remembered, but she had an unerring memory for which buttons worked best on people -- including the ones that calmed them down. "Now, let me find someone to take over for you and we'll go find a quiet place to wait for news." She sailed in through the doors and Jackpot knew she would do exactly what she said she would.

"I'd better go back to the bloodbank," he told EJ. "I did tell those reporters I'd talk to them, and I'd just as soon do it when they can't get their teeth into you."

"I'll stay with her," Thelma promised. "This is the week your mom was going visiting in Indiana, wasn't it?" she stated, "So Milllie and I will just have to do for tonight."

"How did you know that?" EJ asked.

Thelma smiled sadly. "Stanley mentioned it at lunch the other day, when he stopped by to show us some baby pictures."

Jackpot headed inside, trying not to think too much about the questions the reporters would ask. He stopped at the Emergency desk to see if there was any new word about Stanley, and was told that the blood bank had gotten at least 5 units crossmatched and sent up to OR, but that there was no new information about Stanley's condition. He didn't ask about Hogg. He was pretty sure that he didn't want to know.

At the blood bank Jackpot found the reporters were waiting for him, arms bared to display their bandages. Also waiting for him was Sergeant Bates. That made him pause for a moment, but he went over to the cop and asked, "Did you have some more questions, Sergeant?" in what he hoped was a normal voice.

"No," Bates said, "I'm just doing my job as press liason, and keeping an eye on things. I thought you could use some help with these clowns, and besides, sometimes they ask questions that are actually relevant." Bates suggested that they move the reporters down to the cafeteria, which seemed reasonable, and gave Jackpot a chance to get a cup of coffee for sustenance. He sat down and faced the reporters, feeling like he was up against a firing squad

But most of the questions, to Jackpot's surprise, did seem irrelevant. How old was he? Where did he go to Med School? When did he get his degree? How tall was he? How long had he worked with Dr. Riverside? The first questions seemed like such a waste of time that he felt himself getting impatient with dread for the questions that would cut closer. At last someone asked him to describe what had happened, and he told the story again, being careful to mention that Stanley had been trying to protect him and Gloria, and even that Stanley had told them both to leave the danger area. But that left him second guessing himself for staying. And when one of the reporters, a foxy-haired terrier of a man, asked Jackpot why he had picked up a weapon, he just blinked. "A weapon?"

"Yes. The club you used on Hogg. Couldn't you have used less violent measures? The man appeared to be suffering from some kind of psychosis."

Jackpot couldn't answer -- he'd still not given himself a satisfactory answer for that one -- but Bates shifted position and took the floor. "You'll have to excuse Mr. Franklin, Doc. He's perpetually convinced that all authority figures use excessive force." The other reporters nodded and even laughed, although the foxy-haired man merely sniffed. Bates went on. "Let's get something straight. The perpetrator, Tom Hogg, is a good 6'8" tall, and weighs something in the order of 300 pounds. He was, at the time of the incident, wearing heavy motorcycle leathers, and when Dr. Jackson here was assessing the situation and deciding on his best method of 'restraint', Hogg was firing -- not just carrying, but _firing_ a Smith and Wesson .25 caliber pistol with a twelve shot clip, for which he had two more clips in his pocket. We've dug 6 bullets out of the walls of that examination room, and another one from the wall across the hallway. If you listen to the security recording from the emergency entrance, you can time the shots, and there's about 75 seconds from the first shot to the last. So we've got a man who's willing to shoot at everything in sight, a hall full of innocent civilians, and another doctor in danger of his life -- and let's not forget that the first shot came so close to hitting Dr. Jackson that we've got some of his hair in the envelope with the bullet."

"He could have used a hypodermic and a sedative," Franklin persisted, petulantly.

"Through motorcycle leathers?" Bates said dismissively. "And wasting how much time trying to find a hypo and the right medication?"

Jackpot wished he could go someplace quiet and think through what Bates had just said, but the journalists were asking if the bullet had really pulled out some of his hair.

"I guess so," he answered, feeling gingerly of the surgical cap over the bandage. His head was still very tender, and he made himself stop fussing at it. "One of the nurses put some antiseptic on it, but I haven't had time to look at it."

"Can we see it?" A small man with a camera asked.

"Yick," someone else said, "haven't you had enough of gore for tonight, Mike?"

"I'd rather not," Jackpot said, with embarrassment. "I'm going to look like enough of a gloryhound for talking to you like this."

"Then why do it?" Camera man asked.

"It got you all into the blood bank, didn't it? The odds were pretty good that some of you would be O neg."

"Four of us," a tall woman said. "And one of the cross matches was good for Dr. Riverside."

"I don't get it," another reporter said. "What's the big deal about the blood? Why put a big appeal onto the TV stations? Don't you guys have blood here?"

Jackpot breathed a sigh of gratitude for the diversion. "Not enough." He said. "This time of year we're always short on donors. And O neg is what we use the most of anyway. Look, when someone comes in here, bleeding, we have to start giving them blood right away. Stanley ..." he took a breath, but went on, "...Dr. Riverside... when we're doing a blood drive, he likes to point out that the human body can exsanguinate in three minutes. That means a person can lose enough blood that they've got almost no blood pressure, and there aren't enough red cells taking oxygen to the brain for it to survive. So when a bleeder comes in, we start by ordering six units of O neg from the blood bank. While it's coming, one of the nurses draws some of the patient's own blood to use for typing and cross matching. This is all in the first couple of minutes. With luck, we've got some blood on it's way into the patient before the lab has a chance to spin down the test tube and start figuring out the patient's blood type."

"Why O neg?" the curious reporter asked.

"It's the universal donor type. And when someone's bleeding badly, it's the best blood type to risk the chance of cell clumping. If they're bleeding very badly the first unit or two might not even stay in the blood vessels long enough to cause any problems even if they aren't a perfect match to the subgroups."

"So you use six units of O neg on every patient who needs a transfusion?"

"Not usually. The lab tries to get a cross match as soon as it can, to give the patient blood that most closely matches his own, so usually by the third or fourth unit of a donation, we have crossmatched blood and can send the rest of the O neg back to the bank."

"So why didn't my blood crossmatch to Dr. Riverside's if I'm O neg?"

"Well, there are the main groups, A factor, B factor, AB which means you have both factors together and O, which represents zero, for neither factor. A person can have a high or low titre for one or the other factor as well. High titre blood doesn't always do well in low titre patients. Low titre blood does all right in high titre patients, though. Dr. Riverside has what we call 'baby blood.' That means he has O negative blood and low titres for both A and B factors. We can give blood that he's donated to anyone, with almost no risk of a bad reaction. But that means only other donors who are O neg with low A and B titres can donate to Dr. Riverside."

"So if my blood cross-matched to Dr. Riverside, then I've got 'baby blood'?" a reporter asked.

"Probably." Jackpot felt his headache coming back. "When the phlebotomists aren't so busy you can ask them for more details. Sometimes you can get away with a higher titre for one group or the other because the tests aren't as accurate as crossmatching."

"Hey, Dr. Jackson," one of the orderlies came into the cafeteria. "Mr. Slocum's looking for you."

"Excuse me," Jackpot said, and escaped. As he walked towards the elevator, he asked the orderly, "Where did Slocum want me?"

"He didn't, actually," the orderly said. "Actually, Miss Brancusi said you'd probably be happy to be rescued. She's in Dr. Riverside's office with the other Dr. Riverside."

Jackpot went to Stanley's office, skirting around the police tape that still limited the use of treatment room two. Every staff member he passed asked how he was, and Jackpot was tired of answering. He got to the office and looked at the sign on the door, running his hand along the letters. "Stanley Riverside, II, M.D. Chief of Emergency Services." He was so used to seeing the words there he'd hardly thought about them, much, except to wonder when he would have his own name on an office door. But now he found himself noticing how impermanent the name placard was. A screwdriver and five minutes work, and Stanley would disappear.

Jackpot changed his mind about going in. He headed for the elevator instead and went up to the top floor, and then went to the stairwell and climbed the last bit to the roof. The door was supposed to be alarmed, but it hadn't been repaired for months, and he got out into the darkness unnoticed.

Leaning against the parapet, he could see the parking lot and the ambulance entrance, where cars pulled up and moved away, but the voices were only vague murmering. There was a breeze, cool now that the sun had been gone so long, and he turned up the collar of his labcoat absently and stared at the lights of the Golden Gate Bridge off to the north.