Dead Certain

black blazer. Even his shoes were invariably the same. When I’d asked him about it, he explained that whenever he found something that he liked, he stuck with it. As for his shoes, there was something of a story behind them. He’d initially bought the black canvas slip-ons because they were comfortable and cheap. But when he learned that Sears was planning to discontinue the style, he’d used the several thousand dollars he’d made as a graduate student—by selling his solution to Rubik’s Cube through a small ad in The New York Times —to buy every pair in his size that the retailer still had in stock. Shyly he’d confided that he had enough pairs left to last the rest of his life, with one pair set aside to be buried in.
    As Bill Delius rose unsteadily to his feet he tried to stuff his handkerchief back into his pocket, but he kept on missing.
    “Are you okay?” I inquired.
    “Sure. Fine.”
    “You don’t look so fine.”
    “I’m okay, really. Something I ate at dinner didn’t agree with me, that’s all,” he complained. “I’m usually pretty strict about what I’ll eat, but tonight I was so excited, I’m afraid I threw caution to the wind.”
    I was tempted to tell him that whatever he’d washed it down with probably hadn’t helped, but I held my tongue and helped him to his feet, taking him by the elbow and gently steering him in the direction of my car.
    As we passed under the streetlight I couldn’t help but notice that his skin was not just pale, but a pasty shade of green—one that I’d had an opportunity to see quite a bit of in college, usually right before the one afflicted tossed their dinner. I slowed my pace, hoping that if he was going to throw up, he’d do it before he got into my car. We were almost to the door when he lunged for me. At first I thought it was an attempt at ardor, only clumsier and more blatant than the guys who’d hit on me while I played the pinball machine at Mother’s. But as soon as I got a clear look at his face, pouring sweat and in a rictus of agony, I realized that what was happening was infinitely worse. As if to confirm my worst fears, Bill Delius suddenly staggered as if he’d been struck in the chest, let out a feral cry of agony, and then collapsed to the pavement like a dropped marionette.
    Even before he hit the sidewalk I began calculating the alternatives: the distance to the ballroom where the computer wizards were still dining and the likelihood that there was a physician among them; the time it would take for an ambulance to respond to a 911 call; the chance of the paramedics finding us amid the hundreds of doors to the sprawling convention center; and, of course, the probability of my being able to keep him alive using CPR until they did.
    I knew a little bit about heart attacks. While I was still their chief legal counsel, Stephen’s company had been seeking FDA approval for a portable defibrillation device, the equivalent of jumper cables for the heart, designed to be used in situations just like this one. While I wished desperately that I had one now, the information gleaned from that time all came back to me with startling clarity. I knew that CPR alone would not restart his heart. The only way to save him was to get him to the hospital.
    To this day I don’t know how I managed to get Delius into the car. Even though he was thin, he was well over six feet and he was dead weight. It took all my strength to just drag him the few steps to the car and shovel him into the front seat. Within ten seconds of shutting the passenger door behind him, I was on my way to Prescott Memorial Hospital with the gas pedal to the floor, putting the limits of British engineering to the test.
    I dialed 911 from my car phone, weaving wildly through the late-night traffic, struggling to make myself understood to the police dispatcher through my agitation. Passing Soldier Field, I caught sight of flashing lihts in my rearview mirror and slammed my hands Against the steering wheel in frustration, thinking the ponce meant to pull me over. It took me a couple of seconds and the dispatcher’s reassurance to realize that the patrol Car was there to hasten, not hinder, our progress to the trauma center.
    When I pulled up beneath the bright lights of the emergency room entrance, the trauma team was already assembled and waiting like the pit crew at an Indy race. Even before I came to a stop, they swarmed the passenger side and had Delius out of the car and