Bitter Business

as by my curiosity about what had prompted Jack Cavanaugh’s wake-up call.
    Panting and with a stitch in my side, I stopped at the newsstand under the viaduct at Fifty-third Street and bought that morning’s Wall Street Journal. Walking slowly, I crossed Lake Park and scanned the front page for whatever might have set Jack Cavanaugh off, but I didn’t see anything. I tucked the paper under my arm and walked the half block to Starbucks and ordered a double latte. Then, cup in hand, I retired to a stool at the counter by the window to search the paper in earnest.
    I found what I was looking for on page fourteen. It was a small item that ran under the headline SHARES OFFERED IN ILLINOIS PLATING AND SPECIALTY CHEMICALS COMPANY. The article went on briefly to describe Superior Plating’s operations and assets. It also quoted Mark Hoffenberg, Lydia’s investment banker from First Chicago, as saying that “Ms. Cavanaugh-Wallace is actively soliciting buyers for her shares in the company.” In the stripped-down jargon of the business press, it was Lydia’s formal announcement that she was serious about selling her shares. Under the circumstances, I found it impossible to decide whether Lydia’s decision to sell her interest in the family business was an act of self-immolation or revenge.
     
    Leaving Cheryl to fend off hysterical Cavanaughs as best she could, I stopped at the hospital on my way to the office to see Daniel Babbage. After Jack Cavanaugh’s wake-up call, I was anxious to hear whatever advice Daniel might be able to offer about how to handle his old friend.
    I eased my car into a quasi-legal parking place on the other side of the Midway, the wide swath of grass that separates the law school from the rest of the University of Chicago. Now covered in snow, it lay like a white carpet at the feet of the University, which stood majestic and incongruous in the pale morning light—quadrangles of medieval splendor in the heart of the city.
    But all the gargoyles in the world don’t change the fact that once you walk through the double doors on Cottage Grove, you’re in a large, urban teaching hospital. I hadn’t been there since Russell died and my reaction was visceral and overwhelming. My step slowed. Memory squeezed my chest so fiercely that for a split second I fought for air. I didn’t need to ask directions to the oncology service. I knew the way by heart. Indeed, on bad nights, I still walked it in my dreams.
    Visiting hours were still half a day away, but in my suit and high heels I went unchallenged, taken no doubt for some sort of administrator. I found Daniel’s room with no difficulty. One of the partners at Callahan was a trustee of the hospital and consequently Babbage had been assigned the equivalent of the presidential suite—a double room that held only one bed and boasted cheesy aqua curtains on the window and industrial-grade carpet of the same shade on the floor. Everywhere you looked there were flowers and cards from friends filled with best wishes.
    Daniel had clearly taken a turn for the worse. His cheeks seemed to have caved in and his skin was unmistakably yellowed by jaundice. I knocked softly on the door frame. His eyes opened in an instant.
    “I was just pretending to be asleep,” he said, struggling to sit up a little. “Damn nurse always comes and tries to poke and prod every time I turn around. I don’t see why they can’t just leave me to die in peace. The doctor says he’s going to come by and talk to me about some new chemotherapy protocol. Doctor! You should see him. He’s just a kid. Ten to one he doesn’t shave yet. I told the nurse I don’t want to see him. I won’t be turned into a guinea pig. I just want to be left alone.”
    “Is there anything I can get for you?”
    “How about a bottle of single-malt scotch and a good cigar, though I don’t think they’ll let me smoke it.”
    “There’s a lounge on the seventh floor where I know you can smoke. I’ll talk to the nurse. I’ll bring the cigars and we’ll get you down there.”
    “You’ve got a deal. How are things going with the Cavanaughs?”
    “It depends on which Cavanaugh you’re talking about. I had dinner last night with Dagny. It was one of the nicest evenings I’d spent in a year. I also met with Lydia yesterday morning.”
    “So how did that meeting go?”
    “On a scale of one to ten, with one being as normal as you and me talking and ten being a conversation with a hallucinating