Just thinking....

	Gonzo flinched back as Carol stood up and pointed the gun at him, “No, 
stay back!” she shouted.  Then, suddenly, the sound of metal crashing against 
metal distracted her and she turned, firing the gun so awkwardly the bullet 
sprayed insulation from an overhead pipe.  Gonzo surged forward to grab her, and 
knock the gun out of her hands while she was still dazed by her own actions.  
Good job, Stan, he thought, blessing Stanley’s bump of curiosity for bringing 
him down into the steam filled power station, that was perfect timing. 
	Carol’s knees went out from under her, and Gonzo eased them both down to 
the ground, listening to her confused apologies.  “It’s all right, Carol,” he 
told her.  “It’s over now.”  Except for the consequences.  I hope David 
Sandler’s got some time to spare.  He looked over his shoulder, to tell Stan to 
go and get a gurney, but Stanley wasn’t there.
	Gonzo reviewed the past few seconds hastily, but he couldn’t remember 
hearing Stanley’s footfalls, or Stanley saying anything since the gun had gone 
off.  He did remember Stan calling his name, and getting closer each time, as 
Gonzo had first approached Carol.
	“Stan?  Stanley?  Are you there?”  Gonzo called.  Maybe it was a cat who 
knocked those things down.
	“G...Gonzo?”  Stanley’s voice was high and cracked.  “...help...”
	Oh shit.  Gonzo picked Carol up and forced her to walk with him until he 
got to where he could see Stanley sitting against the chainlink fence that 
formed a wall around one of the generators.  His face was white with shock, and 
the hands he held clasped against his chest were red with blood, but he was 
conscious and his frightened eyes met Gonzo’s, pleading.  
	Carol pulled out of her curl of dismay and saw what she had done and began 
to shriek and fight Gonzo’s grip.  “No!  No!  That’s not right!  I messed up!  I 
messed up!”
	“Stop it!” Gonzo yelled at her.  She was so surprised she did stop, at 
least for the moment, and he took the chance to tell Stanley.  “I’m going to go 
and get help, Stan.  I’ll be right back.  Don’t move.”
	“I’m afraid...” Stanley managed to say, but then Carol began to cry and 
writhe again, and Gonzo had all he could do just to deal with her.   Time to go.  
I’m sorry, Stanley; I don’t want to leave you here, but I don’t have a choice.  
I can’t leave you alone with a madwoman.  I’ll be back.
	He pulled her under the big pipe that had barred the way, and then hauled 
her up the stairs, the blood pounding in his ears as the adrenaline tried 
desperately to compensate for what had been too long a day already.  I don’t 
need this.  I really don’t need this.  Hang on, Stanley.  I’m going as fast as I 
can.  But it took forever to reach the parking lot.  He burst out into the 
daylight gratefully and started to yell.
	“Help!  Somebody help!  I need a stretcher and security!  Help!”
	The cry was echoed across the parking lot, as some of the people started 
toward him, and others ran to the main building to get what he’d asked for.  He 
spun Carol into the arms of the first arrival.  “Take her to the psych ward and 
tell them to hang on to her until I can get there,” he ordered.  The second 
person was someone he recognized as an orderly from the fifth floor.  “Go tell 
Dr. McIntyre that Dr. Riverside’s been shot -- and then get the police over 
here.”
	“Dr. Riverside?” It was Gloria Brancusi at his shoulder, “Where is he?”
	“About three levels down,” Gonzo told her.  “Send the stretcher.”  He dove 
back through the door, trusting Gloria to make sure that help came.
	“I’m coming, Stan!  I’m coming!” he shouted as he careened down the 
stairs.  He bounced off the wall as he went around the corner, and cracked his 
kneecap against the concrete floor as he slid under the pipe to get back to 
where Stanley was waiting.
	He was paler -- and there was more blood -- but he was still awake, taking 
each breath as if it pained him.
	“I’m here,” Gonzo gasped.  “I’m here, Stan. Let me take a look.”
“I’m afraid,” Stanley said, in a small voice.  “It hurts.”
	“I know it does,” Gonzo said, peeling Stan’s hands back carefully.  His 
first hope, that it would be one of Stanley’s hands that had been hit, was 
immediately dashed.  There was a ragged hole in Stanley’s shirt, just left of 
his sternum, and the bright stain was spreading perceptibly over his chest.
	“Am I dying?” Stan asked, afraid to look.
	“I don’t know, Stan,” Gonzo said, starting to loosen up Stan’s tie.  “It’s 
awfully close to your heart.  Try to move your legs for me.”
	Stanley grimaced, but he flexed first one leg, and then the other 
obediently.  The strain made him breathe all the harder.  Hopefully that means 
that there’s no spinal damage, Gonzo thought.  He eased Stan away from the wall, 
carefully, and got off the coat and shirt so he could check his back.  “I don’t 
see any exit wound.  It must still be inside.”
	“It hurts,” Stanley said again, pressing one hand back against the wound, 
but seeking out Gonzo’s hand with the other.   “Gonzo, it hurts.” His eyes were 
squinched shut, and he sounded like he was about to pass out.
	“I know it hurts.  Stay with me, Stanley.”   Gonzo heard voices somewhere 
from the higher levels and turned his head to shout, “Down here!”  Stanley’s 
whole body flinched at the sound, and the wounded man gave an inarticulate cry.
	Gonzo let Stanley lean against him, holding him to keep him warm and 
reassure him while they waited for the stretcher.  He didn’t want to put him all 
the way down on the cold concrete floor, not when Stanley was already shivering.   
It wasn’t more than a minute before two ambulance drivers appeared with the 
stretcher, and Gloria on their heels.  She was carrying an EMT kit, and Gonzo 
felt his hopes rise at the sight of it.
	“Come on, let’s get him on the stretcher, and get some vitals, and start 
an IV,” he ordered.  “Then we can get him out of here.”
**	“Right, doc,” the ambulance men settled the stretcher beside Stanley, and 
helped Gonzo move him, carefully, onto it.  Stanley didn’t want to let go of 
Gonzo, though, and he protested faintly.
	“Don’t leave me.”
	“I’m not leaving, Stan.”  Gonzo pried his hand free carefully.  “But I 
need both hands to take care of you.”
	“I’m so cold.”  Stanley let himself be handled, but his eyes stayed on 
Gonzo, the fear ebbing as he began to pass out.
	“Don’t fall asleep,” Gonzo ordered, taking the stethoscope that Gloria was 
offering him and putting it on.  “Stanley, you’ve got to stay with us.  Tell me 
where it hurts.”
	Stanley struggled to keep his eyes open.  “Sorry.”
	Gonzo listened to his heartbeat, heard something odd about the secondary 
sound, but couldn’t identify it.  He felt carefully around the injury.  “Does 
this hurt?”
	“Not much...” Stanley managed, and then blanched,  “There.”
	“The ribs are broken.”  Gonzo decided.  It feels like someone hit him in 
the chest with a sledgehammer there.  “Is the IV ready?”
	“Just about,” Gloria said.  
	“Have we got a BP yet?”
	“90 over 70,” the ambulance driver told him.
	“Okay, let’s go.  Be careful, keep him level.”
	They had to slide the stretcher under the pipe to get to the stairs, and 
Gonzo found himself close to Stanley’s head as they worked him under it.  
Stanley met his gaze and said, “Gonzo.  Tell John.  Sorry.  Know he’s... short 
staffed...already.”
	I don’t believe this!  “You can tell him yourself, Stan.  You’ll be all 
right,” Gonzo felt the words escape him and wished he could call them back, but 
Stanley’s face relaxed at the facile reassurance.
	“I will?  Promise?”
	Please, God, don’t make me a liar.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I promise.  John and I 
will make sure of it.”  He smiled, and hoped that Stanley was too groggy to tell 
that the smile was pasted on with prayer.
	The worry lines came back to Stanley’s forehead.  “You need...to rest... 
gassed...”
	“I’m fine, Stanley.  I’ll rest when you’re okay,” Gonzo told him, as they 
wheeled the stretcher to the base of the stairs.  
	“Ready?”  The ambulance guys put him and Gloria on the sides while they 
handled the ends, and they started the climb.
	A few feet up, Gonzo was surprised to see more orderlies, and even 
doctors, from the hospital, spacing themselves along the stairs and switching 
off teams as they boosted the stretcher with Stanley upwards.  He lost Gloria 
somewhere near the bottom, and when he ran out of breath, he had to give up and 
pass his corner of the stretcher, and the IV bag to Fergusen, but he followed 
along in the wake of the stretcher, all the way to the top, and wished he had 
the energy to answer Stanley’s calling.
	I’m right behind you, Stan.  I just can’t climb stairs and talk.  Listen 
to Titus.  He’s got you.  Andrews is there too.  We’ve all got you.  See, 
there’s Ernie.  Ernie’s got you.  I’m just following along.  
	Ernie passed the stretcher to the next person up and took a grip on 
Gonzo’s arm, propelling him along.  “We’ve got OR two on standby,” she told him 
as they climbed.  “Are you hurt?”
	Gonzo shook his head.  “I’m okay.”  Except for being out of breath and so 
tired my legs want to fold backwards.  “Where’s Trapper?”
	“Getting the trauma room ready.”   They reached the surface at last, and 
Gonzo was surprised to see an ambulance backed up against the end of the 
building.  The stretcher team headed for it, and swung Stanley inside, and Ernie 
made sure that she and Gonzo got inside too, before the door was swung shut.
	“Dad?” Stanley was whimpering raggedly.  “Don’t leave me.”  There was 
blood on the corners of his mouth now, and more appeared when he coughed 
painfully.  
	“Nobody’s leaving you, Stan.  We’ve got you.”  Gonzo told him, taking his 
hand for the short duration of the ride across the parking lot.  “I’m with you.”   
He must have blood in the lungs.  And his hand is like ice.  We‘ve got to do 
something about the shock.  “Ernie, is there a MAST suit in this thing?”
	“Not that I can see,” Ernie said.  “Stanley, Stanley, honey, stay with us.  
Try to stay awake.”
	This morning she was using that tone of voice on me, Gonzo thought.  And 
Stanley was saving my life.  I wonder if he was the one who pulled me out of the 
Titanic.  I haven’t had time to ask.
	The ambulance shuddered to a halt, and the back door was pulled open by 
Jackpot Jackson, who looked as stunned as Gonzo felt.  He grabbed for the 
stretcher and pulled, willing hands appearing on either side as they set the 
wheels down.  “I’ve got you, Stan,” he said, like all the others had said as 
they had helped.  Gonzo wondered if Stanley would remember.  He and Ernie stuck 
with the stretcher, as Jackpot propelled it into the trauma room, yelling for 
clearance at the gawking staff coming on and off shift change.
	Trapper was at the door of the trauma room, frowning at his first glimpse 
of the damage.  “What have we got?”
	“Gunshot -- I think it was a ricochet.  The bullet went in, but it hasn’t 
come out, and his heart sounds wrong.  He’s shocky, his respiration is getting 
worse, and he’s starting to cough up blood,” Gonzo said.  They got in to the 
room and he barked at the waiting team of nurses,  “Get the MAST suit on him.”
	“And oxygen.  I’ve ordered six units of O neg,” Trapper said,  “Somebody 
get a type and cross match by the time we get up to OR.  Harris, let’s get that 
x-ray set up.”
	“John?”  Stanley’s eyes opened, and he tried to turn toward Trapper’s 
voice.  “John, something... moved...inside...hurts...”
Trapper’s expression softened as he leaned over so Stanley could see him more 
clearly.  “It’s okay, Stan.  We’re going to take a picture, and then Gonzo and I 
are going to fix you up.  Just stay with us a little longer.  Can you do that?”
	“I’ll try.”  Stanley bit his lip, but he kept his eyes open as best he 
could. 
	If it were me I think I’d have fainted by now, Gonzo thought, as he helped 
shift Stanley from the stretcher onto the gurney and stood back while the tech 
took two quick x-rays of Stan’s chest.  Maybe you’re just too frightened to 
faint.  No -- you’re just trying to do what we’ve asked for.  You’d try to get 
up and walk around if Trapper wanted you to.  What the hell were you doing down 
there, Stanley?  Why did you follow me?
	“He was able to move his legs earlier,” Gonzo remembered to tell Trapper, 
as Jackpot cleared away the rest of Stanley’s clothes so they could get the MAST 
trousers into place.  
	“Try now,” Trapper ordered, as he got the EKG contacts placed.
	“Stanley?  Move your feet for me,” Gonzo said.
Stanley pulled a face, but his toes wiggled, and his ankles flexed.  “Still 
good,” Gonzo said, and hit the switch to increase the pressure in the MAST suit.  
“How’s his blood pressure?”
	“90 over 50,” Ernie reported.
	“Open up the IV.  Have we got that blood yet?”  Trapper got the EKG set 
and flipped on the monitor.  The line across the screen pulsed erratically, and 
the paper tape bounced under the scribble of the marker wire.  “Gonzo, take a 
look at this.”
	What the hell?  Looks like...”Something’s interfering with the left 
ventricle,” he realized.  “Damn.  Have we got that x-ray yet?”
	“Here, Gonzo,” Harris passed one x-ray to Gonzo and the other to Trapper.  
They peered up through them at the light.
	“Holy...” The bullet’s inside the pericardium.  I can’t tell if it’s torn 
the cardiac muscle or not.  And those look like pieces of rib near the bronchi.  
“We’ve got to get in there, Trap.  I don’t think this can wait.”
	“Damn straight it can’t,” Trapper said.  “Here, hand me that.”  He took 
the second x-ray and lined it up with the one in his hand before he looked 
through both.  “Ernie tell OR to get the heart-lung machine lined up to go.  We 
might need it.  Jackpot, get him started on plasma and a slow lidacaine drip.  
Gonzo, come here and take a look at this.”
	Gonzo started around the table, and a wave of dark fuzz invaded his 
vision.  He paused to let it pass, but Trapper had seen the hesitation.  He took 
the younger surgeon by the arm and pulled him a few feet away from the table.  
“Are you up to surgery?”
	“I promised him I’d be there,” Gonzo told Trapper.  “If I could hold 
together for Ridley, I can hold together for Stan.”
	“It’s not going to help Stan or me if you faint in the middle of his 
chest,” Trapper said, “He’s right about something moving.  See this bone chip?  
Here and then here?”
	“It’s caught in the bronchial tube,” Gonzo figured.  “Every time he 
breathes it gets pushed up or pulled down.”  Gonzo looked over to where Jackpot 
was listening to Stanley’s lungs.  There must be three or four hours work here 
at least.  I’m sorry, Stan, but Trapper’s right.  I’d never make it.    “Maybe 
you’d better ask Martin to assist, Trap.  I can go in, and talk to Stan until 
he’s under, but...” This was harder than it seemed.  “I just don’t want to take 
any chances.”
	Trapper looked over his glasses at Gonzo, concern and understanding in his 
eyes.  “We’ll tell Stan about it later,” he said.  “Now let’s get him prepped 
and up there.”
	“Gonz?”  Jackpot called.  “Gonz, I think he’s asking for you.”
	Gonzo went over to Stanley, and leaned close to his head, moving the 
oxygen mask aside for a moment,  “What is it, Stan?”
	“Top... left drawer...desk...” Stanley was really struggling to get the 
words out now.  We’ve got to get in there soon.
	“There’s something in the top left hand drawer of your desk?”  Gonzo tried 
to make it easier on him.  “Do you want me to look in there?”
	“Yes.”  Stanley managed.  “In...case...give...John...”
	“Okay, Stan, okay.  I understand.  You just take it easy,” Gonzo put the 
mask back into place.  “I’m going to stay with you for now, but when I get a 
chance I’ll look in the drawer.  Okay?
	Stanley nodded slightly, his eyes relieved.
	Trapper had taken the chance to get on the phone and page Martin, but he 
came back now and noted where the preparations were with satisfaction. “Okay, 
let’s get him upstairs.  Ready?”
	“Ready,” several voices said.  Gonzo took a deep breath and braced himself 
for the dash.  
	“Hold on, Stanley, here we go,” he said, and they went.
	
	It’s like a bad dream that just goes on and on and on, Gonzo thought as he 
scrubbed and followed Trapper and Martin and Ernie into the operating room.  He 
went over to where Pete was getting Stanley ready, and smiled under his mask.  
“I’m here, Stan,” he said.
	“And so am I,” Trapper told the injured man over Gonzo’s shoulder.  
	“Can...I...sleep...now?”  Stanley asked Gonzo, his eyes worried.
	“Sure, Stan.  Pete, why don’t you get started?”
	Pete put the mask in place, “All right, Dr. Riverside, I want you to just 
breathe and relax.   Breathe and relax.”
	Stanley’s eyes closed, and his face relaxed into unconsciousness while 
Pete, like the artist he was, carefully monitored his level of awareness.  
“Okay, Trapper, get in there.”
	It’s not much fun just watching, Gonzo realized as the operation went on.  
He was too tired to follow what Trapper was doing, and he found a seat and sat 
down after a while and tried not to think about the steady rhythm of the 
respirator.  He was hungry all of a sudden.  He hadn’t had a chance to eat all 
day.
	“Gonzo?”  Jackpot’s voice sounded tinny through the speaker.  “Gonzo, the 
police want to talk to you.”
	Gonzo looked over to the observation room, where Jackpot was standing near 
the microphone, and Gloria Brancusi was crouched in one of the chairs.  They 
both looked distraught, and Jackpot was clutching a slip of paper in one hand.    
“Now?”  Gonzo asked.
	“They need to know if there’s any danger to any one else,” Jackpot said.  
“They found a gun, but you and Carol are the only witnesses to the shooting, and 
she was so hysterical they had to sedate her.  They say they can’t let anyone 
leave the premises without more information.”
	“Go on, Gonzo,” Trapper said.  “Stanley will forgive you when he wakes 
up.”
	I don’t want to leave.  I’m not really helping, but I don’t want to leave.  
Not with Stanley’s chest open like a Christmas turkey’s.  “There’s not that much 
to tell.  Carol was the one with the gun, and she’s the one who was sending 
threats too, so as long as they’ve got her under wraps, no one else is in 
danger.  Not even Ridley.”
	Jackpot looked surprised, but he nodded.  “I’ll tell them.”  He left the 
observation room, quietly, and Gloria watched him go, and then turned back to 
watch the operation again.  She’s been crying, Gonzo realized.  I didn’t think 
she liked Stanley that much.  Hell, I didn’t think I liked Stanley that much.  
But somebody has to like him.  He tries so hard and his father doesn’t even 
pretend to care.  Oh, God.
	“Gloria, did anyone call Stanley’s father?” he asked.
	“I don’t know,” she said, pulling herself together.  “I don’t think so.  
Unless Mr. Slocum thought of it.”
	“Damn.”   Gonzo felt the whole situation starting to overwhelm him, and he 
took a deep breath to keep himself calm for a little longer.  “Trapper, do you 
think he’ll make it?”
	“Well, here’s the bullet,” Trapper said, putting something into the bowl 
that Ernie was holding.  “And I don’t see any actual tears in the cardiac muscle 
-- so I’d say his chances are pretty good.  You go call old man Riverside, and 
take a nap, and I’ll tell you what I think when I get out of surgery.  You look 
paler than Stanley does.”
	“All right,” Gonzo said, and headed out the door.  He got as far as the 
changing room before the damn broke, and undressed hastily, so that he could 
hide in the shower until the tears ebbed.  
	Jackpot was waiting for him with a towel and a clean set of greens when he 
finally felt like he could face the world again.  Gonzo took them and said, 
“Thanks.  How’s it going in there?”
	“All right, I think.  Trapper’s loosened up enough to start making jokes, 
anyway.  How are you holding up?”  Jackpot was looking him over carefully, and 
Gonzo felt grateful for the concern.
	He waggled a hand.  “So-so.  I’m hungry, but I’m too tired to do anything 
about it.  And I’ve got to call Stanley’s father -- unless you or Arnold did.”
	Jackpot grimaced.   “Oh, man.  I never even thought of it.  And Arnold 
left early -- I don’t think he even knows what happened.”
	“Damn.”  I was hoping to get out of it.  “Well, the sooner he gets 
notified, the better.  Could you get somebody to send up some food for me to 
Stanley’s office?”  
	“Sure.  Right away.”  Jackpot left, looking relieved at having something 
definite to do.
	
	When Gonzo got to Stanley’s office and sat down at the desk, he remembered 
what Stanley had asked him to do, and opened the top left drawer.  He found 
Stanley’s address book there, and a neat stack of the small notebooks that he 
knew that Stanley usually carried in his pocket.  Curious, he flipped through a 
couple of them, and found meticulous, and sometimes cryptic notes about 
symptoms, patients, staff, equipment, and supplies.  “3 EKG units -- beg if 
nec.”  “check side eff. dopamine”  “Brancusi still wrd abt bro.”  “I hate it 
when we get addicted newborns!”  “new gurneys!”  Some of it made a little sense, 
but it was mostly the kind of thing that Gonzo kept in his head.  Of course, 
Trapper wrote out schedules and stuff too.  Maybe it was just part of being a 
department head.  I hope my life never gets this complicated.  He went through 
the address book to find Riverside Senior’s phone numbers, one for his main 
office, one for home, and several for different clubs.  He dialed the first one, 
and pulled the drawer out to see if he could figure out why Stanley had asked 
him to look in it while he waited for an answer.  At the back of the drawer, 
there were two envelopes, each labeled with precision: “G. Alonzo Gates, M.D.”  
on one and “John T. McIntyre, M.D.” on the other. 
The phone at the other end of the line was picked up and an older man’s voice 
said, “Riverside,” in a crotchety tone.  “What is it now?”
	“Mr. Riverside, this is Dr. Gates, at San Francisco Memorial.”
	“Gates?  How the hell did you get my private number?”
	“I found it in Stanley’s address book,” Gonzo began, but he was 
interrupted.
	“I told him to memorize it, not leave it lying around for anyone to find.  
What does he think he’s doing, leaving it out in the open like that?”
	Gonzo’s temper flared.  “Will you listen for a minute?  Stanley’s in 
surgery, and I thought you should know so I looked through his desk.”
	“Surgery?”  The voice at the other end was still disgruntled. “He hasn’t 
got the brains to be a surgeon.”
	If I weren’t just about to give you rotten news I think I’d tell you 
exactly what I think of you, you old cheapskate.  “He’s not the surgeon, Mr. 
Riverside.  He’s the patient.  He got shot.  The bullet lodged near his heart.”
	There was a gratifying silence.  “Bullet?”  the old man finally said.  
“Did you say bullet?”
	“Yes.”  Gonzo said.  “Dr. McIntyre’s operating now.  It happened about an 
hour ago.  I’m sorry you weren’t informed sooner.”
	“Shot.  It must be a mistake.  How could he have annoyed anyone enough to 
get shot?”
	“Look, it was an accident,” Gonzo said.  “The girl who shot him was just 
trying to scare us away.  Now are you coming?”
	“It’s damn inconvenient.  I have things to do, here!  I’m giving a speech 
at my club in half an hour.”  But Gonzo could hear the scrape of a chair.  “When 
will he be out of surgery?”
	“An hour and a half, maybe two hours from now, unless something goes 
wrong,” Gonzo said.
	“The whole evening gone then,” Riverside grumbled.  “All right, I’ll get 
there as soon as I’ve arranged for another speaker.”
	“He’s in operating room two,” Gonzo said.  “I’ll try to arrange for 
someone to meet you in the waiting area.”
	“Right.”  Riverside hung up, and Gonzo -- who had expected to have to 
explain a lot more -- found himself resentful at having been let off the hook.  
You might try pretending that you care, he thought at the old man, and slammed 
the handset onto the cradle.
	“Bad news?”  Jackpot was at the door holding a tray, looking uncertain.
	Gonzo shook his head.  “No, no, I was just talking to old man Riverside.  
That man is bad for my blood pressure.”
	Jackpot relaxed.  “What did he do?  Blame you for Stanley getting hurt?”
	“No, he’s too busy blaming Stanley.  It’s ‘inconvenient’, but he’s going 
to come.  Who do you know that would be willing to hold his hand outside OR?  I 
told him I’d have somebody meet him.”
	“Not Gloria,” Jackpot said, as he brought the tray over to the desk.  “She 
nearly punched his daylights out the last time she had to cope with him.  Maybe 
Andrews.  He wouldn’t give her any crap.”
	“Hasn’t she gone home for the day?”
	Jackpot dropped into a chair and rubbed at his eyes.  “No.  She’s 
upstairs, along with the rest of the ER dayshift, waiting for word on Stan.”
	“Really?”  Gonzo poked through the tray.  Tuna fish.  Chips.  Coffee.  Oh 
well, it’s food.  “Nice to know that somebody gives a damn whether he lives or 
dies.”
	Jackpot shrugged.  “You can’t let the old man get to you, Gonz.  If finds 
a way to get you to react he’ll end up manipulating you, too.  He wants his own 
way.  Five bucks says he’ll use this mess to convince Stan to get out of 
Emergency Medicine.”
	“Why would he do that?”  Gonzo asked.  “Stan’s good at Emergency 
Medicine.”
	“Of course he’s good.  Do you think I would have taken my residency here 
after my internship if he weren’t?”  Jackpot stole a handful of potato chips 
from the tray.  “But as near as I can tell, his father wanted him to do 
something flashier, or more profitable -- like plastic surgery.  Emergency 
Medicine is the only thing Stan’s father has never been able to win the fight 
on.”
	Gonzo sighed.  “Maybe it’s just something about being a father that screws 
people up.  My real father was a jerk, too.”
	Jackpot shrugged.  “My dad’s no prize, either, but at least he leaves me 
alone.  Stan’s father spends half his time ignoring his existence and the other 
half telling him how to tie his shoes in the morning.”  He pushed himself 
upright.  “I don’t know, Gonz.  Half the time I want a wife and kids, and the 
other half I think all I’d end up doing is making their lives miserable.  Not 
that I have any prospects at the moment.  But when something like this happens, 
it makes me want them.”  He went to the door.  “Are you going to stay here, or 
move up to Trapper’s office?”
	“I’ll go up to Trapper’s office as soon as I’ve eaten,” Gonzo said.  
“You’ll let me know if there’s any news, right?”
	“You bet.”
	After Jackpot left, Gonzo found the envelope with his name on it, and slit 
it open, to have something to read while he ate his sandwich.  Inside, he found 
some legal looking documents, and a handwritten letter.   He picked up the 
sandwich in one hand, and started to read.
	
	“Dear Gonzo,
If you’re reading this, it’s because I’m hurt, or sick, or worse, and 	someone 
needed to go through my desk.  If I’m not any of those things, I’d appreciate it 
if you didn’t read any further, but I expect you will anyway.  I can’t really 
object.  If I found a letter with my name on it, I’d read it too.  Anyway, the 
reason I’m writing this is because I have a favor to ask.	If you aren’t 
willing to carry it out, please ask John if he would mind.  But I’m hoping that 
you’re reading this because I’m sick, and I’d really rather John didn’t know 
what a fool I’ve been making of myself unless it’s really necessary.
You see, what I need you to do is to oversee the Corcoran Memorial Fund -- and 
to collect my paychecks and sign them over to the fund each week but quietly, 
please.   Neither my father nor John is to know about this.  The fund is 
administered by an excellent lawyer named Lawrence Hagerty, who works out 	of 
the Gabler building downtown.  If you need more details, he can give them to 
you.  Please don’t be concerned about my needing the money.  My grandfather left 
me funds in trust which more than cover my needs, and I do have other 
investments, some of which have proven sound.
If I’m dead, of course, there won’t be any paychecks, but my will allots monies 
to the fund, and it will still need oversight.   Mr. Hagerty is just an 
	administrator, and if the needs of the hospital change, he isn’t the right 
person to decide how to best use the money.
If I’m dead, there’s something else I’d like to ask you to consider; taking over 
my position as Chief of Emergency Services.  I know that administration is not 
your idea of medicine, but Emergency Services requires a strong 	background in 
diagnosis, and a willingness to find ways around bureaucratic roadblocks.  My 
methods have been less confrontational, but I think yours would 	be effective.  
Once Jackson finishes his residency, I think he would make a good Chief of 
Emergency Services, but without experience, I doubt the board would give him the 
job.  
I trust you won’t find these things too onerous.  I’d ask John, but he has too 
many responsibilities as it is.  Thank you for saving my reputation when Cheri 
Williams was accidentally dosed with florium.  It meant a great deal to me to 
discover that you believed in my competence.  Regardless of your 
	eccentricities, I have always believed in yours.

Stanley H. Riverside, II

P.S.	When I added that codicil to my will, the one about giving you all my 
ties, it wasn’t meant as criticism.  At least I don’t think it was.  It was 
meant to be a joke.  

	Gonzo put the letter down and looked at the legal documents.  The first 
one was a power of attorney, and the second was a letter, advising the payroll 
department that Gonzo was authorized to collect Stanley’s checks until Stanley 
said otherwise.  There was a card from Hagerty, and several deposit slips made 
out for the Corcoran fund, which identified the bank and the account number for 
him.  He went back to the power of attorney and read it more carefully, but it 
was as open-ended as he’d thought the first time.  If I wanted to, I could clean 
out Stanley’s bank accounts with this, Gonzo thought.  He’s trusted me with the 
whole kit and caboodle.  Stanley, you’re an idiot!  What if I weren’t honest!    
	Gonzo’s head hurt, and the food hadn’t really helped as much as he had 
hoped it would.  He looked at the envelope with Trapper’s name on it, but it was 
much thinner.  Probably only one or two sheets of paper inside.  He flipped it 
over to see if it was sealed, and it wasn’t.  Biting his lip, he pulled out the 
letter inside.

	Dear John,
I know that this letter is probably coming to you at a bad time, but I can’t 
think of another way to apologize for making you executor of my will.  Knowing 
Dad, he’s trying to fight it, and I know you will be wasting a lot of valuable 
time in 	court, but I just couldn’t think of anyone better to stand up to 
him.  I never could, anyway, and he’s too good at bribing people to trust a 
lawyer.  So fight him, please.  And I know that the statue was a dumb idea, but 
a picture on the wall would probably just get lost, and I’d like to be 
remembered, somewhere, at least 	for a little while.  Maybe a plaque.  You 
decide, John.  I know you’ll do the right thing.
Thank you for only yelling at me when I needed to be yelled at.  And thank you 
for telling me when I did things right as well as when I did them wrong.  I hope 
I became the doctor you told me I could be.  I tried.
Keep an eye on Jackson.  He’s going to be one of the best emergency men in the 
country before he’s done, but he still doesn’t know how much he doesn’t know.  
Remind him to listen to the patients as hard as he can.  And tell him I was hard 
on him because I knew he could excel.
If you don’t want the car, I think it should go to Gates.  If he can keep the 
Titanic functioning, he must know enough about cars to give mine the kind of 
maintenance she deserves.  And if he doesn’t want it, then sell it to someone 
who really wants to keep it up, not just someone who is looking for a status 
symbol.   
I have always been grateful to you for your friendship.  I hope I have been 
	worthy of it. 
	Sincerely,
Stanley

	There were two p.s., each written with different inks.

P.S.  John, please persuade Mrs. Shoop to accept the money that I put in 
	the codicil that I added to the will this morning.   I tried to invest in 
the gyms, but they haven’t made a public offering, so that didn’t work, and I 
can’t think of another way to thank her for all that she’s done.
	SHR2

P.P.S.   John, I know that you and Miss Brancusi are friends, and I know that 
you are angry with me about that comment I made about her brother, but I did 
have a good reason.  It’s just that I was tired and I wasn’t as discreet as I 
should have been.  You know that he has an alcohol problem, already.  But he 
also was the cause of those visits I was getting from those ruffians.  I co-
signed a loan for him for 500, and he changed the amount to fifty thousand, 
without my permission.  He’s returned the money now, to the lender, but I’m 
afraid he hasn’t 	learned anything from the experience.  He’s certain to abuse 
Miss Brancusi’s trust again, but I don’t know how to prevent that, except by 
making sure that at least one other person knows what happened if she needs 
someone to talk to about him.  I hope it isn’t too much of an imposition.  This 
letter just keeps getting longer, but I feel like it’s not going to make you 
feel any better when you read it.  I’m sorry.
	Stan


	Oh, Stan, you’re right about that.  This isn’t going to make Trapper feel 
better -- but maybe I should let him read it anyway.  He underestimates you as 
often as I do.   And we shouldn’t, should we?  It’s not like you haven’t tried 
to fit in -- it’s just that you’re a square peg, and this place is all round 
holes.  Gonzo got to his feet and tucked his own letter and the legal papers 
back into the envelope.  He put Trapper’s letter back into it’s envelope too, 
and decided to take Stanley’s phone book with him, just in case there was 
someone else in there who really ought to be notified.  The couch in Trapper’s 
office was a lot more comfortable -- and maybe if he could take a nap, his head 
would stop aching.

	“Gonzo?  Gonzo, wake up,” Trapper was saying from somewhere far away, but 
Gonzo remembered that there was something important he had to find out from 
Trapper and made himself open his eyes.  He was surprised to see Trapper only an 
armslength away, bending over the couch with concerned eyes that relaxed a 
little when they met Gonzo’s gaze.  “That’s better.  How do you feel?”
	Gonzo sat up and rubbed at his head.  “Stiff.  And my mouth tastes funny.”  
But his head wasn’t as painful as it had been, now, and a lot of the aching 
weariness of the afternoon had dissipated.  He remembered what he needed to ask, 
suddenly, and looked to see if Trapper’s expression would tell him the answer.  
But Trapper had gotten up to look out into the night lights of the city beyond 
the window.  “How’s Stan?”
	Trapper turned back to him, and he was smiling.  Gonzo breathed a little 
easier.  “He’s in recovery.  The surgery went fine.  Not as fast as it might 
have gone with your magic fingers, but we weren’t working against a deadline on 
Stan, and Martin did all right.”
	“No complications?”  Gonzo asked, relieved.
	Trapper shrugged, and made a face.  “Well, nothing I couldn’t handle.  
There were pieces of rib all over the place, so we had to dig them out -- and 
Martin had to count the sponges three times before he got it right -- but once 
we got the bullet out and the pericardium sewn up, Stanley’s vitals stabilized 
and stayed right where Pete wanted them.”
	“That’s good,” Gonzo said, standing up to stretch.  “Did his father show 
up?”
	Trapper made a surprised noise. “Yes -- yes, he did.  With a blonde on 
each arm for solace.  I think the orderlies from ER were more interested in how 
Stanley was doing than Riverside was.   "  Trapper settled into his chair, 
tiredly.  “Half the dayshift was hanging around the corridor outside OR.”
	Gonzo got up and went over to see if there was any coffee in Trapper’s 
coffeemaker.  There was, so he poured a couple of cups.  “You should’ve seen 
everybody helping get him the stairs from the steam room.  I hope he remembers.”
	“What the hell was he doing down there, anyway?” Trapper asked.  
	“He was following me,” Gonzo said, bringing one of the cups over to 
Trapper and settling into a chair.   “And I was following Carol.  She had left 
one of those notes in my locker.  Same writing, same paper.  But this time she’d 
signed it.”
	“Carol?” Trapper said, his brow wrinkled.
	“That volunteer.  You know, the blonde?  The one with the crush on Ridley?  
Anyway, she was the one who was making the death threats.  But they weren’t 
against Ridley, they were against me.  She thought I’d rejected her.”  Gonzo 
knew he was getting things out of order, but Trapper didn’t look too confused, 
so he kept going.  “Well, when I saw the note, I knew I had to find her, and she 
had just left -- I saw her leaving the locker room before I went in it -- so I 
started after her.  Jackpot had seen her going out to the parking lot.  And when 
I got to the parking lot I saw Stan, so I ran over to him.”  
	Gonzo tried to remember Stanley’s exact words.  “He said that the surgery 
was a strain, and I should be resting.  And when I asked him about Carol he said 
this was no time to be chasing women, but he told me which direction to look, 
and I saw her and ran after her.  And behind me I could hear him saying 
something about...  I can’t remember exactly.  Something like ‘my reality too’.  
But I was chasing Carol.  I could hear Stan behind me, yelling my name, but I 
didn’t look.  And Carol got to the annex door and went in, so I followed along.  
I wouldn’t have found her, but she dropped something, and that let me know which 
direction she’d gone.  And I heard Stan call my name a couple of times, but by 
then I’d caught up to Carol and I was concentrating on her.  She’d really lost 
it, Trap.  She had this big old gun, and she was threatening to kill herself 
with it, and I was trying to talk her out of it.  And then a whole bunch of 
stuff crashed off to one side, and she fired the gun.  I thought she hit an 
overhead pipe -- in fact, I know she did -- but the bullet must have ricocheted 
and hit Stan.”  Gonzo took a sip of coffee.  “I don’t know if he knocked over 
the stuff deliberately or not.  I wasn’t really doing a very good job of talking 
to her, and the distraction gave me a chance to get in there and get the gun 
away from her.  But when I looked around for Stan he wasn’t there.”  
**	Trapper had listened to the whole story carefully, but his forehead hadn’t 
smoothed out.  “Why didn’t you tell somebody when you found the note?  We had 
policemen all over this place,” he growled impatiently.
	Gonzo jammed a hand into his hair.  “I don’t know.  I wish I had -- but I 
didn’t think of it.  How was I supposed to know that Stan was going to chase 
after me?”
	Trapper snorted.   “As green around the gills as you still looked after 
that surgery?  Of course he chased after you!  If I had thought you were going 
to try anything that strenuous I would have block-tackled you myself!”  
	“Look, I’m sorry, all right?  It’s my fault, okay?”  Gonzo knew he was 
yelling, but Trapper had started it, and it had been a lousy day.  “I should 
have done something different but I didn’t, and I don’t know how to go back and 
fix it!”  The weariness was back, and he leaned forward and put his head in his 
arms on the desk, and gave up trying not to cry.  Screw Trapper if he didn’t 
understand.
	But when he managed to look up, Trapper’s eyes weren’t angry any more, and 
he had put a box of Kleenex where it would be handy.  “Sorry, Gonzo.  I just 
wanted to kick something, and you were handy.  You’d think after nearly losing 
you this morning I’d have more sense.”
“You’d think after nearly getting myself killed I wouldn’t have the energy left 
to make a fool out of myself,” Gonzo countered, drying his face and blowing his 
nose.  “I’m so tired.  And I’m not looking forward to having to deal with 
Stanley’s father.”
	“Why would you have to?” Trapper asked, surprised.
	Gonzo dug the envelopes out of his back pocket and scaled Trapper’s across 
the desk.  “You may or may not want to read that.  It’s an ‘if I’m dead’ letter.  
Mine’s an ‘if I’m hurt’ letter -- Stanley wants me to handle his financial stuff 
for him till he’s better.”
	Trapper put on his glasses, and studied the envelope in his hands as if it 
might go off, and then looked over the top of his glasses at Gonzo.  “How are 
you supposed to do that?”
	Gonzo dug through the papers for the scary one.  “It’s a power of 
attorney,” he said, as he handed it over.  “Unlimited.”
	Trapper whistled.  “Old man Riverside’s not going to be happy about that,” 
he said.  
	“No kidding.  And the letter says if he gets hurt so bad he can’t come 
back to work, he wants me to be Chief of Emergency Services.”  Gonzo took back 
the document and tucked it into the envelope.  “Can you imagine me as a 
department head?”
	Trapper’s expression turned thoughtful.  “Well, it would be fun watching 
Arnold Slocum’s reaction,” he admitted.  “But no, not really.  Not as a 
permanent position, anyway.  You’ve still got too much energy to be willing to 
sit for two or three hours a day fighting with paperwork.”
	Gonzo laughed, a little shakily, but his emotions seemed to be coming back 
into balance.  “The budget meetings would be a lot louder,” he said.
	Trapper smiled and nodded, but his attention had gone back to the envelope 
in his hands.  “I take it you read this?”
	“Yeah.”  Gonzo said.  “Yeah, I did.  I was hoping it would explain why 
mine said what it did, but it didn’t.”
	Trapper didn’t seem to mind, “Do you think I should read it?”
	Gonzo nodded, and waited while Trapper opened the letter and read.  He 
tugged on his beard when he finished and put the letter away into his drawer.  
“I wonder what he says in his will.”
	“It sounds to me like he leaves most of his money to the hospital,” Gonzo 
said.  He went over to the couch and found the address book that had fallen down 
among the cushions.  “Here, look at this.  It’s all doctors and charities.  I 
thought Stan did a lot of social stuff, but I can hardly think of anyone who 
might be interested in knowing that he’s hurt who doesn’t work here -- can you?”
	Trapper scowled.  “What about the people at his country club?  The ones he 
golfs with?”
	“When was the last time Stan took a day off to go golfing?”  Gonzo asked.  
“He’s been in here every Sunday afternoon since the weather got warm.”
	“I don’t know,” Trapper’s exasperation was starting to get the better of 
him again, but fortunately, there was a tap on the door and Ernie Shoop leaned 
in.
	“Oh, there you are, Gonzo.  Stanley’s asking for you.”
	“He’s conscious?” Gonzo said, surprised.
	She made a sort-of gesture with one hand. “Not exactly.  But when his 
father left he got very agitated.  He’s calling for you, too, Trapper.”  
	“His father’s left already?” Trapper asked, levering himself to his feet.
	“He talked to Stan for a couple of minutes and then told him that he had 
to go to some kind of meeting.”  Ernie’s voice was rich with disgust.  “His car 
probably left scorch marks in the parking lot.”