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spill. I was in a private room on the second floor of the Cambridge Hospital, and all things considered, it was a hell of a lot nicer than the last hospital I had been in, some years ago, in Nevada. For one thing, weak as I was and with an IV tube running into my hand, I could get up and walk out onto the tiled hallway and shuffle my way to an elevator, and head for the streets and Cambridge Square. Oh, I'm sure I would have made the nurses and a doctor or two upset, but they couldn't have held me. By signing a disclaimer and leaving the IV apparatus behind, I could leave if I wanted to. In Nevada, it was different. Quite different. I'm certain that some people wanted me to leave that Nevada hospital as ashes and bone chips in a steel container. Instead, thanks to some luck and timing and good bluffing, I left on my own, breathing and with most of my body intact.
    Not a bad record, considering where I had been and what I had been doing for a living. I put the Globe down when a man a few years older than me stepped into the room: Dr. Jay Ludlow, wearing green hospital pants and a white jacket with the obligatory stethoscope hanging around his neck. He had tan skin and dark curly hair which was receding some, making his forehead shiny, and he was wearing half-glasses, the type favored by this state's senior senator in Washington, when he's not sailing or drinking. He leaned against a pale green radiator and started looking at a couple of papers attached to a clipboard he was carrying.
    "Good news, Lewis," he said. "The lab reports on the tumor came back negative. It's benign. But you know as well as I do that there's no reason you won't get another tumor sometime in the future. It may be next week, it may be next year. I just don't know."
    "That's like telling me the Red Sox need pitching, Doc," I said, resting the Globe on my bed. "It's something that's not really news.”
    "Probably not," he agreed, holding the clipboard against his chest with both hands. "Still, I want to keep you for another week or so. We did some major cutting and I want to ensure you make a good step forward in your recovery. Then you can go back north and I'll see you in a month for a follow-up. Anything you need in the meantime?"
    "Better food," I said, with a joking tone in my voice, but Dr. Ludlow didn't seem to take it as a joke. He scribbled something on a piece of paper and passed it over. It was a man's name, Brett, followed by a four-digit number.
    "Brett works in the cafeteria," Dr. Ludlow explained, "but he also does some outside work. You call and mention my name and he'll take care of you. Even if it means driving up to Saugus to get you a piece of beef from the Hilltop Steak House."
    I thanked him and placed the piece of paper on top of a pile of magazines --- about the only positive thing about a hospital stay is that you can catch up on your reading --- and Dr. Ludlow shifted his feet and said, "I have something to ask you."
    "Go ahead," I said.
    "I'd like some information," he said, not looking at me. "The report on your tumor was an odd one, and it would be helpful if I could learn more about what might have triggered it. What medical records I do have on you and your past history are pretty incomplete…. You know that. If you could give me some family history, some type of exposure or occupational hazard that you might have faced…. Information like that could be helpful."
    I held the Globe in both of my hands and said, "Sorry, Doc. It'd be a hell of a story, but I can't do that, and you know it."
    He just nodded and said, "Well, I knew you'd probably say that, so I plan to send some tissue samples to the CDC in Atlanta and---"
    "Doc, if you do that, it'll be a hell of a mistake."
    "Lewis, I---"
    I didn't let him finish. "Doc, we both have an agreement with men with long memories down in DC. Remember? Guys who have a very focused way of doing business. And our agreement means keeping our mouths shut. Have you forgotten? I haven't. And