“Yes.”
He shrugs. “You can give us the money back, I suppose. The debt relief and the malpractice settlement might make the rest of the recompensation unwieldy and arduous, but let’s not go there quite yet, shall we? I want to assure you that this is all on the up-and-up. My client is a very important man. Because he has the means and craves secrecy, he is hiring you as”—Ivan looks up as though again searching for the right words—“the ultimate concierge physician. Please don’t worry.”
“Good thing you said, ‘Don’t worry,’” Maggie mutters, echoing Sharon.
“Pardon?”
But there it is—that whole thing about recompensation being unwieldy and arduous. It’s too late. She is in it now. There is no way out. It is how they do it. Ivan Brovski might smile a lot, but that smile never reaches his eyes. You don’t cross these people. She should have learned that a long time ago.
Marc’s voice: “I have a bad feeling about this…”
She should have listened. Or maybe not. Nothing has changed. Ivan is right. It is a job, a good one, ridiculously well paid, and really, she had heard rumors about this kind of private surgery for years. Like he said: She is being hired as a concierge doctor. It’s not uncommon.
In the end, this patient, like any other patient, is hiring her to perform specific services, and—not to toot her own horn—he can afford the best.
It’s a win-win.
“Once you board the plane,” Ivan Brovski says, “we will insist on no communications with the outside world. This was explained to you before, but to reiterate: No calls, no emails, no FaceTime, no messaging apps like WhatsApp or Signal or Telegram or—”
“Yeah, I know what a messaging app is, thanks.”
“Wonderful. So if you have any more calls, you should make them now.”
Sure, she thinks.Make more calls now so Ivan can hear every word.
She hits the call button for Porkchop’s payphone and is surprised when the man himself answers.
“Talk to me,” Porkchop says.
“I have a job.”
She again vaguely explains that she will be traveling and will be well compensated for a work assignment she can’t disclose. She throws in the HIPAA and confidentiality talk. Porkchop says nothing. He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t ask follow-up questions. He doesn’t argue.
That surprises her.
When Maggie finishes, Porkchop finally breaks his silence and says, “Put me on speakerphone.”
“Why?”
Silence.
That’s Porkchop. She bites back a sigh and hits the appropriate button and says, “Okay, you’re on speaker.”
“M47-235,” Porkchop says.
Ivan smiles.
“What’s that?” Maggie asks into the phone.
Ivan answers. “This car’s license plates.”
On cue, two motorcycles, one on either side of them, roar past the Mercedes. Pinky buzzes them from the driver’s side, Bowling Pin Guy—she never caught his name—from the passenger’s.
“I expect my daughter-in-law to remain safe and happy,” Porkchop says. “Are we clear?”
Ivan says, “Of course, Mr. Porkchop.”
“Don’t make me have to find you.”
