Silent Treatment

For twelve years, the Jade Dragon on the Upper West Side of Manhattan had prided itself on exceptional food at very reasonable prices. As a result, on an average weekday its 175-seat capacity turned over twice, and on weekends as many as five times. Tonight, a warm Friday in June, the wait for a table was half an hour. Seated in his customary spot, Ron Farrell was commenting to his wife Susan and their friends Jack and Anita Harmon on how the place had grown since he and Susan had first eaten there almost a decade ago. Now, although they had moved three times, they made a point of coming to the Jade Dragon alone or with friends every other Friday, almost like clockwork. They were nearly done with a meal that the Harmons had proclaimed as good as any Chinese food they had ever eaten when Ron stopped in mid-sentence and began rubbing his abdomen. With no warning, severe cramps had begun knotting his gut, accompanied almost immediately by waves of nausea. He felt sweat break out beneath his arms and over his face. His vision blurred. "Ronnie? Are you all right?" his wife asked. Farrell took several slow, deep breaths. He had always handled pain well. But this ache seemed to be worsening. "I don't feel well," he managed. "I've...I've just gotten this pain, right here." "It couldn't be what you ate," Susan said. "We all shared the same-- " Susan's face suddenly went ashen. Beads of perspiration sprang out across her forehead. Then, without another word, she lurched sideways and vomited on the floor. Standing by the kitchen door of the crowded restaurant, the young assistant chef watched the commotion grow as one by one, the four customers at table 11 became violently ill. Finally, he reentered the massive kitchen and made his way nonchalantly to the pay phone installed for the use of the hired help. The number he dialed was handwritten on a three-by-five file card. "Yes?" the man's voice at the other end said. "Xia Wei Zen here." "Yes?" The chef read carefully the words printed on the card. "There are four leaves on the clover." "Very good. You know where to go after your shift. The man in the black car will take the empty vial from you in exchange for the rest of what you are now owed." The man hung up without waiting for a reply. Xia Wei Zen glanced about to ensure no one was watching, and then returned to his station. Work would not be nearly so taxing for the rest of his shift. For one thing, there was a good deal of money awaiting him. And for another, there would be many fewer orders coming in from the dining room tonight. The call came into the emergency room of Good Samaritan Hospital at 9:47. Four Priority Two patients were being transported by rescue squad from a Chinese restaurant twenty blocks away. Preliminary diagnosis was acute food poisoning. Priority Two. Potentially serious illness or injury, non-life-threatening at the moment. It was a typically busy Friday night. The nurses and residents of the large teaching hospital were already three hours behind. The twenty available treatment rooms were full, as was the waiting room. The air was heavy with the odors of perspiration, antiseptic, and blood. All around were the sounds of illness, misery, and pain--moans, babies crying, uncontrollable coughing. "Palmer, Michael is the author of 'Silent Treatment' with ISBN 9780553095166 and ISBN 0553095161.