Diestro smiled, but Grollman could not tell if he understood the question. “Call me Gabby.”
“Thank God it’s not Ishmael. You like the bulls?” Grollman saw a swirl of magenta. He was convulsed by a storm of mixed literary metaphors.
“You’ll do the osmolalities,” said Gabby unaffected by Grollman’s cultural confusion.
Grollman recombobulated himself and so missed Diestro’s command. “Milt said I should find something to do in here. Got any idea what he meant?”
“You have Alport’s syndrome? I said do the osmolalities.”
Grollman figured he was referring to deafness rather than renal disease and got pissed off, but he didn’t say anything.
“I’m not just talking about ordinary osmolalities either. I mean micro-osmolalities. Ten nanoliters. Use that.” He pointed and a wooden box which was just behind Grollman. “Harvey will teach you how.” He then pointed to a 35 year old man who was smoking a cigarette while peering into the innermost of the three microscopes, which was surrounded by bilious smoke. Harvey gave no sign he heard Gabby’s pronunciamento. Gabby resumed his intense contemplative pacing leaving Grollman standing in the middle of the lab like a floor lamp with a burned out bulb.
After 20 minutes, which seemed like at least 20 minutes, he left the lab. The only other place in the medical center that he could find was the cafeteria. So he went back to it hoping it would be open, though it was still a little early for lunch. It was. There was one person sitting at a table; it was black Milton, the policeman or security guard or whatever he was. He saw Grollman before Grollman saw him and waved at his former client while grinning like a desert sunset. Grollman walked to the table and sat down across from him.