'Not in this market.'
'No, I'm serious, Alex. We don't make money and these are bottom-line people. Pave it over, put in lots of parking lots.>o 'Well,' I said, 'they might start by paving the ones across the street.'
'Don't hold your breath. We arepeoffs to these guys. Just another form of service staff' 'How'd they get control?'
'Jones-the new chairman-was managing the hospital's investments.
Supposedly did a really good job, so when hard times got harder the board claimed they needed a financial pro and voted him in. He, in turn, fired all the old administration and brought in his own army.'
Another crowd milled near the doors. Lots of tapping feet, weary head shakes, and needless punches of the buttons. Two of the lifts were stuck on upper floors. An OUT OF ORDER sign was taped across the door of the third.
'Onward, troops,' said Kornblatt, pointing to the stairwell and increasing his pace to a near-run. All of them vaulted the first flight with the zest of triathlon junkies. When we got to the top, Kornblatt was bouncing like a boxer.
'Go, team!' he said, pushing the door open.
The auditorium was a few paces down. A couple of doctors were lounging near the entrance, which was topped by a handwritten banner that said ASHMORE MEMORIAL.
I said, 'Whatever happened to Kent Herbert?'
Kornblatt said, 'Who?'
'Herbert. The toxicologist. Didn't he work with Ashmore?'
'I didn't know anyone worked with Ashmore. The guy was a loner, a real-' He stopped himself. 'Herbert? No, can't say I remember him.'
We entered the big fan-shaped lecture hall; rows of gray cloth seats sloped sharply to a wooden lecture pit. A dusty green board on wheels stood at the rear of the pit. The upholstery on the seats was dingy and some of the cushions were tattered. The light, fluctuating hum of occasional conversation filled the room.
The auditorium held at least five hundred chairs but no more than seventy were occupied. The spotty attendance gave it the look of a pass-fail class. Kornblatt and his entourage headed down toward the front of the room, shaking hands and trading a few high-fives along the way. I hung back and sat by myself in the uppermost row.
Lots of white coats-full-time staffers. But where were the private practitioners? Unable to attend on short notice or choosing to stay away? Western Feds had always suffered from town-gown tension, but the full-timers and the physicians out in 'the real world' had always managed to achieve a grudging symbiosis.
As I looked around some more, I was struck by another scarcity: gray heads. Where were all the senior people I'd known?
Before I could mull that, a man holding a cordless microphone stepped into the pit and called for quiet. Thirty-five; soft, pale baby face under a big blond Afro. His white coat was slightly yellowed and too big for him. Under it he wore a black shirt, and a brown knit tie.
He said, 'Please,' and the hum died. A few beepers went off, then silence.
'Thanks to all of you for coming. Could someone get the door?'
Faces turned. I realized I was closest to the exit, got up and shut the door.
'Okay,' said Afro. 'The first order of business is a moment of silence for our colleague Dr. Laurence Ashmore, so if you could all please rise....
Everyone stood. Heads drooped. A long minute passed.
Afro said, 'Okay, please be seated.' Walking to the board, he picked up a piece of chalk and wrote: AGENDA 1. ASHMORE MEMORIAL 2.
3.
4....?
