Tell Me Your Dreams (8 page)

R
OBERT
Crowther, the real estate broker from Bryant & Crowther, opened the door with a flourish and announced, “Here’s the terrace. You can look down on Coit Tower from here.”

He watched the young husband and wife step outside and walk over to the balustrade. The view from there was magnificent, the city of San Francisco spread out far below them in a spectacular panorama. Robert Crowther saw the couple exchange a glance and a secret smile, and he was amused. They were trying to hide their excitement. The pattern was always the
same: Prospective buyers believed that if they showed too much enthusiasm, the price would go up.

For this duplex penthouse,
Crowther thought wryly,
the price is high enough already.
He was concerned about whether the couple could afford it. The man was a lawyer, and young lawyers did not make that much.

They were an attractive couple, obviously very much in love. David Singer was in his early thirties, blond and intelligent-looking, with an engaging boyishness about him. His wife, Sandra, was lovely looking and warm.

Robert Crowther had noticed the bulge around her stomach and had said, “The second guest room would be perfect for a nursery. There’s a playground a block away and two schools in the neighborhood.” He had watched them exchange that secret smile again.

The duplex penthouse consisted of an upstairs master bedroom with a bath and a guest room. On the first floor was a spacious living room, a dining room, a library, a kitchen, a second guest bedroom and two bathrooms. Almost every room had a view of the city.

Robert watched the two of them as they walked through the apartment again. They stood in a corner whispering.

“I love it,” Sandra was saying to David. “And it would be great for the baby. But, darling, can we afford it? It’s six hundred thousand dollars!”

“Plus maintenance,” David added. “The bad news is that we can’t afford it today. The good news is that we’re going to be able to afford it on Thursday. The genie is coming out of the magic bottle, and our lives are going to change.”

“I know,” she said happily. “Isn’t it wonderful!”

“Should we go ahead with it?”

Sandra took a deep breath. “Let’s go for it.”

David grinned, waved a hand and said, “Welcome home, Mrs. Singer.”

Arm in arm, they walked over to where Robert Crowther was waiting. “We’ll take it,” David told him.

“Congratulations. It’s one of the choicest residences in San Francisco. You’re going to be very happy here.”

“I’m sure we are.”

“You’re lucky. I have to tell you, we have a few other people who are very interested in it.”

“How much of a down payment will you want?”

“A deposit of ten thousand dollars now will be fine. I’ll have the papers drawn up. When you sign, we’ll require another sixty thousand dollars. Your bank can work out a schedule of monthly payments on a twenty- or thirty-year mortgage.”

David glanced at Sandra. “Okay.”

“I’ll have the papers prepared.”

“Can we look around once more?” Sandra asked eagerly.

Crowther smiled benevolently. “Take all the time you want, Mrs. Singer. It’s yours.”

“It all seems like a wonderful dream, David. I can’t believe it’s really happening.”

“It’s happening.” David took her in his arms. “I want to make all your dreams come true.”

“You do, darling.”

They had been living in a small, two-bedroom apartment in the Marina District, but with the baby coming, it was going to be crowded. Until now, they could never have afforded the duplex
on Nob Hill, but Thursday was partnership day at the international law firm of Kincaid, Turner, Rose & Ripley, where David worked. Out of a possible twenty-five candidates, six would be chosen to enter the rarefied air of the firm’s partnership, and everyone agreed that David was one of those who would be selected. Kincaid, Turner, Rose & Ripley, with offices in San Francisco, New York, London, Paris and Tokyo, was one of the most prestigious law firms in the world, and it was usually the number one target for graduates of all the top law schools.

The firm used the stick-and-carrot approach on their young associates. The senior partners took merciless advantage of them, disregarding their hours and illnesses and handing the younger lawyers the donkey’s work that they themselves did not want to be bothered with. It was a heavy pressure, twenty-four-hour-a-day job. That was the stick. Those who stayed on did so because of the carrot. The carrot was the promise of a partnership in the firm. Becoming a partner meant a larger salary, a piece of the huge corporate-profit pie, a spacious office with a view, a private washroom, assignments overseas and myriad other perks.

David had practiced corporate law with Kincaid, Turner, Rose & Ripley for six years, and it had been a mixed blessing. The hours were horrific and the stress was enormous, but David, determined to hang in there for the partnership, had stayed and had done a brilliant job. Now the day was finally at hand.

When David and Sandra left the real estate agent, they went shopping. They bought a bassinet, high chair, stroller, playpen and clothes for the baby, whom they were already thinking of as Jeffrey.

“Let’s get him some toys,” David said.

“There’s plenty of time for that.” Sandra laughed.

After shopping, they wandered around the city, walking along the waterfront at Ghirardelli Square, past the Cannery to Fisherman’s Wharf. They had lunch at the American Bistro.

It was Saturday, a perfect San Francisco day for monogrammed leather briefcases and power ties, dark suits and discreetly monogrammed shirts, a day for power lunches and penthouses. A lawyer’s day.

David and Sandra had met three years earlier at a small dinner party. David had gone to the party with the daughter of a client of the firm. Sandra was a paralegal, working for a rival firm. At dinner, Sandra and David had gotten into an argument about a decision that had been rendered in a political case in Washington. As the others at the dinner table watched, the argument between the two of them had become more and more heated. And in the middle of it, David and Sandra realized that neither of them cared about the court’s decision. They were showing off for each other, engaged in a verbal mating dance.

David telephoned Sandra the next day. “I’d like to finish discussing that decision,” David said. “I think it’s important.”

“So do I,” Sandra agreed.

“Could we talk about it at dinner tonight?”

Sandra hesitated. She had already made a dinner date for that evening. “Yes,” she said. “Tonight will be fine.”

They were together from that night on. One year from the day they met, they were married.

Joseph Kincaid, the firm’s senior partner, had given David the weekend off.

David’s salary at Kincaid, Turner, Rose & Ripley was $45,000 a year. Sandra kept her job as a paralegal. But now, with the baby coming, their expenses were about to go up.

“I’ll have to give up my job in a few months,” Sandra said. “I don’t want a nanny bringing up our baby, darling. I want to be here for him.” The sonogram had shown that the baby was a boy.

“We’ll be able to handle it,” David assured her. The partnership was going to transform their lives.

David had begun to put in even longer hours. He wanted to make sure that he was not overlooked on partnership day.

Thursday morning, as David got dressed, he was watching the news on television.

An anchorman was saying breathlessly, “We have a breaking story… Ashley Patterson, the daughter of the prominent San Francisco doctor Steven Patterson, has been arrested as the suspected serial killer the police and the FBI have been searching for…”

David stood in front of the television set, frozen.

“…last night Santa Clara County Sheriff Matt Dowling announced Ashley Patterson’s arrest for a series of murders that included bloody castrations. Sheriff Dowling told reporters, ’There’s no doubt that we have the right person. The evidence is conclusive.’”

Dr. Steven Patterson.
David’s mind went back, remembering the past…

He was twenty-one years old and just starting law school. He came home from class one day to find his mother on the bedroom floor, unconscious. He called 911, and an ambulance took
his mother to San Francisco Memorial Hospital. David waited outside the emergency room until a doctor came to talk to him.

“Is she—Is she going to be all right?”

The doctor hesitated. “We had one of our cardiologists examine her. She has a ruptured cord in her mitral valve.”

“What does that mean?” David demanded.

“I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do for her. She’s too weak to have a transplant, and mini heart surgery is new and too risky.”

David felt suddenly faint. “How—how long can she—?”

“I’d say a few more days, maybe a week. I’m sorry, son.”

David stood there, panicky. “Isn’t there
anyone
who can help her?”

“I’m afraid not. The only one who might have been able to help is Steven Patterson, but he’s a very—”

“Who’s Steven Patterson?”

“Dr. Patterson pioneered minimally invasive heart surgery. But between his schedule and his research, there’s no chance that—”

David was gone.

He called Dr. Patterson’s office from a pay phone in the hospital corridor. “I’d like to make an appointment with Dr. Patterson. It’s for my mother. She—”

“I’m sorry. We’re not accepting any new appointments. The first available time would be six months from now.”

“She doesn’t have six months,”
David shouted.

“I’m sorry. I can refer you to—”

David slammed down the phone.

The following morning David went to Dr. Patterson’s office. The waiting room was crowded. David walked up to the receptionist.
“I’d like to make an appointment to see Dr. Patterson. My mother’s very ill and—”

She looked up at him and said, “You called yesterday, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I told you then. We don’t have any appointments open, and we’re not making any just now.”

“I’ll wait,” David said stubbornly.

“You can’t wait. The doctor is—”

David took a seat. He watched the people in the waiting room being called into the inner office one by one until finally he was the only one left.

At six o’clock, the receptionist said, “There’s no point in waiting any longer. Dr. Patterson has gone home.”

David went to visit his mother in intensive care that evening.

“You can only stay a minute,” a nurse warned him. “She’s very weak.”

David stepped inside the room, and his eyes filled with tears. His mother was attached to a respirator with tubes running into her arms and through her nose. She looked whiter than the sheets she lay on. Her eyes were closed.

David moved close to her and said, “It’s me, Mom. I’m not going to let anything happen to you. You’re going to be fine.” Tears were running down his cheeks. “Do you hear me? We’re going to fight this thing. Nobody can lick the two of us, not as long as we’re together. I’m going to get you the best doctor in the world. You just hang in there. I’ll be back tomorrow.” He bent down and gently kissed her cheek.

Will she be alive tomorrow?

The following afternoon, David went to the garage in the basement of the building where Dr. Patterson had his offices. An attendant was parking cars.

He came up to David. “May I help you?”

“I’m waiting for my wife,” David said. “She’s seeing Dr. Patterson.”

The attendant smiled. “He’s a great guy.”

“He was telling us about some fancy car that he owns.” David paused, trying to remember. “Was it a Cadillac?”

The attendant shook his head. “Naw.” He pointed to a Rolls-Royce parked in the corner. “It’s that Rolls over there.”

David said, “Right. I think he said he has a Cadillac, too.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” the attendant said. He hurried off to park an incoming car.

David walked casually toward the Rolls. When he was sure no one was watching, he opened the door, slipped into the backseat and got down on the floor. He lay there, cramped and uncomfortable, willing Dr. Patterson to come out.

At 6:15, David felt a slight jar as the front door of the car opened and someone moved into the driver’s seat. He heard the engine start, and then the car began to move.

“Good night, Dr. Patterson.”

“Good night, Marco.”

The car left the garage, and David felt it turn a corner. He waited for two minutes, then took a deep breath and sat up.

Dr. Patterson saw him in the rearview mirror. He said calmly, “If this is a holdup, I have no cash with me.”

“Turn onto a side street and pull over to the curb.”

Dr. Patterson nodded. David watched warily as the doctor
turned the car onto a side street, pulled over to the curb and stopped.

“I’ll give you what cash I have on me,” Dr. Patterson said. “You can take the car. There’s no need for violence. If—”

David had slid into the front seat. “This isn’t a holdup. I don’t want the car.”

Dr. Patterson was looking at him with annoyance. “What the hell do you want?”

“My name is Singer. My mother’s dying. I want you to save her.”

There was a flicker of relief on Dr. Patterson’s face, replaced by a look of anger.

“Make an appointment with my—”

“There’s no time to make a goddamn appointment.” David was yelling. “She’s going to
die,
and I’m not going to let that happen.” He was fighting to control himself. “Please. The other doctors told me you’re the only hope we have.”

Dr. Patterson was watching him, still wary. “What’s her problem?”

“She has a—a ruptured cord in her mitral valve. The doctors are afraid to operate. They say that you’re the only one who can save her life.”

Dr. Patterson shook his head. “My schedule—”

“I don’t give a shit about your schedule! This is my mother. You’ve got to save her! She’s all I have…”

There was a long silence. David sat there, his eyes tightly shut. He heard Dr. Patterson’s voice.

“I won’t promise a damn thing, but I’ll see her. Where is she?”