^"Oh, damn! Damn damn damn! Gwen, how did I get scheduled for frigging Philadelphia tomorrow?" He knew. His own indiscriminate yes-saying caused this. What Doctor Blake really meant was, Gwen, why didn't you stop me from screwing up my schedule again? As Gwen was lobbing secretarial I told you so's, finger wagging, and endlessly iterating don't do your own scheduling's with a smattering of airhead references tossed in, for spice, Blake was wildly dialing pager sequences, moaning into the receiver, "Macaluso! Roger Wilko. Yo! Mac! I need you! Call back. Call back, big buddy. Uncle Milty neeeeds yoooo." This was the same renowned Milton Blake who was elected to the prestigious Emily DeWit-Haberstrom Emeritus Professor of Orthopedic Surgery Chair. Gwen was babbling that his Chair ought to have a flush lever for all the shit he dumps on everybody. The Emeritus Professor flipped her the bird which she flipped back with a plffsssst sound track.

People came from all over the world to see this man when their own doctors were frozen into inaction, having no idea as what to do for strange bone pathologies, and simply giving up. Their medical programming did not take them past impasse. The ominous, "Science has no answer for what you have," did not preclude Milton Blake from having a say. "Science my ass," was his distinguished reply, "It's a wall. Jump it." Science is a teasing aroma. It can be easy or impossible to follow. Seldom is it explicit. You can formulate a thousand highly logical questions. But it doesn't answer, according to Blake." You need both ends," as he pointed at his brain with one hand and grabbed his crotch with the other. He didn't like having his curiosities settled by autopsy. "They come here to be saved, not for us to be educated." Blake's many intuitive successes did much to educate the medical community, but were the stuff of HMO disapproval. He held up a small pamphlet, at a meeting he was addressing, which bore the Amerimed logo. "Our medical knowledge swells huge buildings which have resorted to microfiche. No library can contain it all. We have strung the world with electronic so that - maybe - we might get access to some vital but arcane fact buried in the recesses of who knows what dedicated medical facility. Our single biggest problem is the limits of our shovels, digging through mountains of important discovery. We are looking at cosmic scope when penetrating the workings of the flesh. And what? These TOADS limit their responsibility to this fucking fourteen page large print list? Medicine isn't a list! Medicine is the application of the sum total of human knowledge commitment and intuition to the prevention and relief of suffering." He'd wipe his ass with the pamphlet at that point then toss it at the gathering. "Smell it."

Tomorrow, seven appointments were on the books, seven long distance travelers seeking help. There was no way to know where any of them were right now, what airports, what hotels, whatever. Regardless, the esteemed Dr. Blake had a legal proceeding in another state in which he was the key medical witness in what would be ground breaking action against the large and unresponsive Hell's Malevolence Organizations, or as, he preferred, the TDO's, the Treatment Denial Organizations which he claimed had surpassed cigarettes in their ill effects on the public.

Blake's concept was magnificently simple, a classic counter punch to the left cross these organizations shot out in bribing, lobbying whatever, the ERISA laws into existence. It was ERISA that prohibited law suits against HMOs by patients - no matter what - no exceptions. ERISA was Federal law that superceded and reversed all relevant laws of all the states and communities. No matter what the facts or severity of abuse, they were above reprisal by any person. Period.

However, Blake reasoned that while individuals might not be able to sue, federal powers may not infringe on the rights of states to enact fines for behaviors that adversely affect the welfare of their citizens. It is in a state's interest to protect its citizenry. Actually, what he proposed, in camera, was, "Fine the bastards!" That was artfully translated, by those who knew how, into the language of states rights.

This was to be the preliminary step in a landmark case. But what would Gwen tell tomorrow's patients who had so much emotional energy vested in their long awaited appointments? Coming so far? Yet, there was no easy way out of this screw up, he was assured to the rhythm her ceaselessly wagging finger.

"Maaaaaaaaaaak! Pleeeeeeeeeeese! Call back!" The phone didn't ring more than a click before Blake was pleading into the receiver. "Mac! Thank God. You're the only one who can pull this off," was his hello. Obviously something bawdy was returned, as Blake flushed and then reacted, "Chew on a bone wild man! Here's a chance for big Brownie points! I'll owe ya." Anybody in the room could hear that protracted distant groan of submission, a submissive genie from the phone. There were repeated kissy kissy thank you's intertwining and staving off the curious what is it's and what're you dragging me into's.

Milton Blake, MD was born Milton Cummings Blake. With a stuffy name like that, he either had to be a street fighter, a bull shit artist, or top dog of something intellectual. So declared Dr. Osten who then diagnosed that Blake was - an "injustice killing street fighter bull shit wizard professor of the enigmatic."

Macaluso thought that to be too harsh. Miltie was just doing too much, "He doesn't have enough hands for all his brains." Now he needed a hand. Here was the deal. Tomorrow, Mac would see Milton's patients, telling them that Professor Blake would do the main part, the second part, of the consultation series, on the following day. Tomorrow's preliminary meeting would scout out any additional laboratory and coconsultation needs. Blake showed Macaluso how to use his office microscope, "The usual. You're as good at this stuff as I am,.." to an emphatic hand waving no-I'm-nots. Blake insisted, "Trust me. You are. You just don't know that you are."

 Macaluso, exasperated with uncertainty, contended, "You don't have to kiss up! I said I'd help. But, really, I don't know all that weird stuff that gets sent to you."

 Blake began, "What makes you so sure that .. oh aggghh ... whatever... Gwen, is my ride set up?"

Marcus asked Blake, "What do I say if I don't understand the x-rays or if the histology specimens are way too..."

"Here!" He was shown a back door in the next room of Blake's office, "My secret!" It opened into to a small private hallway. The next door in that small hallway on the left was a back door to the radiology office of Dr. Kishorkumor, who everybody called Kishy. Kishy was a world renowned bone radiologist whose stature in his field was equal to that of the famous Milton Blake. "Just show Kishy the x-rays. Suddenly, what he knows, you know. They'll think you're a wizard. OK?"

Marcus, felt that old odd aversion, silently thinking, "Is that fair?" Then he reconsidered, it isn't about fair. Results are all folks want. Before he could formulate anything to say, Blake led him to the third door on the right, the back door to Dr. Muhammad Quereshi's office.

"Show Ham whatever slides they give you. Ham is the best bone pathologist in the universe. If he rambles too quickly, just do what I do."

"Which is?"

"Pinch his nostrils closed. He's.."

"I'm not.."

"..an obligatory nose breather. Stops..

"..pinching the man's.."

 "..him cold."

"..nose. You're jerking my chain."

"No. I'm not. Your choice, but if you can just get him to speak slowly and clearly, whatever he says it is - trust me - it is! OK? Ham and Kishy, Kishy and Ham, you've got it made in the shade. Like I said. You won't need me. Just tell them what they need to know and that I will be in the day after tomorrow to set up a treatment game plan. They'll have way too much information to assimilate in a single session, anyway. This works out better. This is probably how we should always do it. You'll be fine. You know more odd ball stuff than anybody I ever met. Wing it."

So why didn't Marcus feel good about it? Winging wasn't his style. The prepared mind sees, was his preference. He hit the books and took Dr. Blake's histology teaching slides home. Mina couldn't help but question why he was so furiously reviewing stuff that he does not treat. She was assigned the job of picking random slides and hiding the written diagnosis. "Not bad, boobie," which was her 'you got it right' phrase. "But why are you doing this? You got a bet going?" She got the it's a long story dodge, and that's all.

The Carlin family was surprised to not see Dr. Blake, but accepted what they were told. Mr. Carlin handed over the x-rays in a thick folder and the tissue slides in a padded container, "Here they are. Tell us what you think," then whispered, "Albert is our only child. We'd die if..." Mr. Carlin broke it off as little Albert was straining to hear.

Dr. Macaluso put up the first x-ray on the view box. "Uh huh. I see. OK," another, "Uh huh. OK Yes. Annnnd, this one. OK. Mm hmm. Yes," which was doctor talk for, "What the shit is this?" Taking the glass slides from the protective carrier and perusing them under the microscope, "Ahhh. Yes. I see. Very interesting... Folks wait here, I need to check a reference in my other office..." Yeah. Right. His other office. Ham and Kishy. Kishy and Ham. Thank goodness he had these guys. Imagine not having any idea of what to even suggest. As he went out the back door to show Kishy the x-rays in great anticipation he was also wondering what nuances Ham would add the analysis. After all, the pathologist usually gets the last word. See him last.

"Yo. Kish. Check these out," snapping x-rays smartly up into place on Kishy's wall sized x-ray light box. "How would you categorize this?"

Kishy smiled with his half glasses down on the tip of his nose, then turned to the images, inspecting each one ever so carefully, the way a jeweler inspects a rare gem. Kishy returned his gaze to Marcus and with that same pleasant smile asked, "So vat in hell dis is?" as Marcus's face dropped. "I'm tinking dis you got vrom Mars, maybe?" That was not what Marcus wanted to hear. It was now a mini parade. Kishy and Marcus trotted over to get the official final word from the irrefutable Muhammad who at a glance into his microscope smiled broadly with his finger pointed straight up in the air, "Aha!"

The combined response was, "Aha what?" A stream of Arabic flowed rapidly as his eyes pitching and facial gestures indicated that he was describing what he saw under the microscope. His rapid fire telling suddenly went nasal sounding and ground to a stop as Kishy had him by the nose. "Dis is vot Blake does," he smiled at Macaluso as Marcus just slumped his neck.

"Aha what?" Marcus repeated. "What is it?"

"Aha. You got me. I have no idea what this is. So, what is it?" Interestingly, he also brought up Mars in a meandering list of what it wasn'ts.

Fresh back from his other room, Marcus was being shot to pieces by machine gunned questions about treatment plans and prognosis. Bleeding, he just blurted, "I have no frigging idea what this is!" to three sets of eyeballs popping out in stone silence. To the rescue, little Albert broke the ice with "But Doctor Blake will know!" Thus spake Alfred. Everybody quickly clung to the wisdom mouthed of this babe. Gwen assured the family that Dr. Blake always knows, always.

 "See you tomorrow at, um, three fifteen?" She penciled in tomorrow's first appointment.

The second patient came alone, presented his x-rays to uh-huh's and microscopic slides to I-see's and watched as his substitute doctor stepped into his other office for a few minutes. Kishy remarked that the bus from Mars must be unloading here today. The aha's of Muhammad were followed by, "That's two! So far, you are winning."

"Winning? Shit!" Marcus staggered from Ham's room with his face in his hands. This time he cut to the bottom line. "Sir, Dr. Blake will go over this with you tomorrow. I, frankly, don't know what this is."

That was a mistake, as the gentleman went in to a reverie of "I knew it was bad. I knew. Nobody wants to be the one to break the news!" He began screaming, "WHY DON'T YOU JUST TELL ME THE TRUTH! I CAN TAKE IT!"

"Sit down, sir." Marcus looked him seriously in the eyes, "Listen carefully to what I have to say. Please don't interrupt. OK?"

"Yes doctor. Yes. Just tell me. I can take it."

Marcus began, "Your doctor, Dr. Blake, was called to Philadelphia to testify in a Federal proceeding against a very big and powerful company. He had no choice. I was asked to take his place here to get things started until he gets back. They thought I was smart enough to do this job. I am not. I have no idea what I am doing. I don't want to tell you wrong things. I simply am not up to this job. I have failed you utterly. I beg your forgiveness."

The patient transformed and turned healer. "Doctor! I'm so so sorry. Anyway, you're being way too hard on yourself! My goodness. Nobody anywhere knows what my problem is. If you keep working with Dr. Blake you'll eventually learn what he knows. It's important that his knowledge be passed on. You are a good doctor. I can tell." He paused then asked, "Who's Doctor Blake up against?"

"AmeriMed."

"Ohhhh no. Not them! Call him. Please. Tell him not to mess with them. I know things. Trust me on this. I know things."

The body language was clear. You couldn't miss it. This man's reaction plainly expressed that Milton Blake might soon be dead. Gwen went ashen and was already frantically dialing. Marcus stood anxiously by as she repeated with trepidation what were apparently Blake's triumphant declarations, "Whipped their asses? I see. Really. Put it to them? I see. Oh. Uh huh. Well, you're done then? OK. Your ride didn't show? No. I did call. I called. No. I did. Listen to me, that is why.. Yes. A gentleman here has me worried, Milton. Maybe you shouldn't take that other ride. I don't know who they are. I know you're a big boy, but sometimes there are bigger... But.... but.... Milton! Jesus! We're being told that you might be in danger! Yes. Danger. D - A - N - G - E - R. Cabeesh? ... It wouldn't hurt to... OK . OK. Yeah. G'by."

The rest of the afternoon was a punishing repetition of the same, "We'll see what Dr. Blake has to say." Gwen later confided, I know exactly what he'll say, "It's an idiopathic pleiotropism with indefinite circumscription requiring extirpation," and they'll fall at his feet in thanks. Marcus easily translated that to "I don't know what you have nor how far it goes, but I'll chop at it til I run out of it or you." He slumped out, "Bye Gwen," muttering "Osten's the wizard."