Le Meredien in Beverly Hills has a firm policy
against recommending a doctor. This does not mean that it never calls, only
that a call from Le Meredien means a guest making trouble, and the harassed
employee has chosen Doctor Oppenheim as the lesser of two evils, the greater
being burdening his boss with the problem.
“I’m here to
see the gentleman in 499,” I informed the concierge. “Is there anything I
should know?”
She made a show of checking her computer. “That would
be Prince Mahmel. He’s been asking for a doctor. Repeatedly. The Saudi
consulate had your number.”
Concealing my pleasure at that news, I thanked her and
headed for the elevator. 499 stood at the end of the hall, the largest suite on
the floor. Its door stood open. Knocking and then pushing it further, I
encountered the smell of alcohol, never a good sign when the patient is Moslem.
No one was in sight, but a doorway led to the bedroom and the prince, a small
figure in a huge bed, covers drawn up to his chin. Balding and past forty, his
disheveled hair was the single unkempt feature, and a goatee the only evidence
of his foreignness
“Pain. Terrible pain,” he announced loudly.
“Where is the pain, Mr. Mahmel?”
“Kidney. I have kidney stones in my kidney.” He threw
the covers to one side and pointed to his right flank. “My doctor prescribes
Dihydroco, but I have no more.”
“That’s not a drug I’m familiar with.”
“It is from London. I live in London.”
“Do you just need a prescription?”
“Also a shot. The pain is unbearable.”
I examined the prince and tested his urine for blood.
Everything was normal but this can happen with a kidney stone. I thumped his
back over his kidneys, and he groaned. I was not convinced. Le Meredien wasn’t
a potential client, so I could expect no advantage from pacifying the prince,
and no damage from a complaint.
“I’ll give you a Toradol injection.” An excellent pain
remedy, Toradol is similar to ibuprofen but probably not what he expected.
“Many thanks.”
Any doubt about the prince’s drug consumption vanished
when my needle jerked to a halt half an inch beneath the skin. Fibrosis from
hundreds of injections had given the prince’s buttock muscle the consistency of
wood. I forced the syringe down and delivered the injection. Anticipating the
pleasures ahead, the prince clutched my hand in gratitude.
Yanking open the drawer of the bedside table which
turned out to be stuffed with hundred dollar bills, he snatched a handful and
pushed them into my grasp.
Grateful the prince had forgotten his request for a
prescription, I thanked him and hurried out. Later I counted fourteen bills. I
gave them to my wife who bought a Chinese rug for our living room.
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