Dale's oldest daughter, Samantha, a blond‑haired track star and math whiz, had—at age thirteen—developed a rare form of kidney cancer and needed a transplant. She was given six months, tops, to live.
Stone Aimes had done a profile of her in the paper he worked for then, the New York Globe, and he'd found a transplant donor, a young girl on Long Island with terminal leukemia, who was able to the knowing she'd saved another person's life. The two had met and cried together, but Samantha was alive today because of Stone Aimes. It was a hell of a chit to call in, and he'd sworn he never would, but now he felt he had no choice. The truth was, Dale Coverton would have walked through fire for him. The question was, would he also violate NIH rules?
Stone hoped he would.
He stopped at the pay phone at the corner of Park and Eighteenth Street, an area where nine people out of ten were wearing at least one item of clothing that was black. It also seemed that six out of ten who passed were talking on cell phones. He took out a prepaid phone card and punched in the access number and then the area code for Bethesda, Maryland, followed by Dale's private, at‑home number. It was, after all, Sunday morning.
"Hey, Atlas, how's it going?" That had been Dale's nickname ever since he lifted two kegs of beer (okay, empty) over his head one balanced on each hand, at a Sigma frat blast their senior year. It now seemed like an eternity: for Dale, two wives ago, and for Stone, one wife and two live‑togethers.
"Hey, Truth and Justice, over and out." It was their all‑ purpose old code phrase for "I aced the quiz. I hit with the girl. I'm doing great."
"My man, I need some truth," Stone said. "Justice may have to wait."
A big delivery truck was backing up against the sidewalk, its reverse‑gear alarm piercing and deafening. The mid‑morning sun was playing hide‑and‑seek with a new bank of clouds in the south.
"That thing you told me about? Is that it?" Dale's voice immediately grew subdued. He was a balding blond guy with just enough hair left for a comb‑over. Beyond that, his pale gray eyes showed a special kind of yearning. He wanted truth and justice to prevail.
"Don't do anything that won't let you sleep nights. But this situation is very special. I was hoping I wouldn't have to come to you about what we talked about last month, but I'm running out of time and ideas." He paused, listening to the sound of silence. "I suppose it's too much to ask."