Chapter Summary: Dr. Thackery schemes to acquire a new surgical apprentice.
Chapter Warnings: No specific warnings aside from the vague reference to drug abuse which, given the very nature of John Thackery, will be a frequent warning in itself.
Thackery
May 16, 1899
The Presbyterian Morgan Stanley Garden was a charming sight this time of year; narrow tidy paths shaded by full-green trees, bordered by a panorama of picturesque university buildings. Sat outside on the balcony attached to one of the refurbished surgical service's offices, the Deputy Chief of Surgery at the Knickerbocker Hospital, Dr. John W. Thackery, took in the quaint summer atmosphere with a glass of scotch in one hand and an unlit cigarette in the other.
It's quiet on a Saturday afternoon and the slogging heat has just started to burn off into a pleasant breeze. It's easy to sit out and enjoy oneself. To look upon the river and relax, even if just for a little while.
But Thackery was not here to wax lyrical about New York and its charming uptown architecture and stifling hot summers, not quite.
He was here to commit professional larceny.
"Best students this year?" Dr. Reinhart Koff was a wide set German man with a balding crop of blonde hair and an exemplary grasp of English. He'd been in New York for maybe two years and was a leading expert in vascular surgery, a favourite drinking partner of Christensen's whom Thackery had been introduced on afterthought at a conference last year. They were familiar with each other's work. "Well, of course. You've likely seen the tables, sir."
The man lit John's cigarette in an act of courtesy, then his own.
Thack for one did not usually smoke and he feared his aversion to the whole thing was obvious. He was no stranger to the common vices, of course, but this casual not-quite-work talk was wasted on him. He felt restless, out of place. This was no Circus there to amaze and astound, and while he did not rebuff when offered, he was uncomfortable. Eager, too.
In one swell of heaving impatience, he shifted awkwardly in Koff's rickety little balcony chair and frowned at the man.
"I don't care about those," he waved the hand that was holding his cigarette, dismissing the whole idea. "I'm interested in what students you found to be the best. Surgically."
"Any particular area?" Koff made an exaggerated noise of discomfort as he sat down. His chair creaked loudly in protest.
Thack thought about it for a moment. Always the question — he was a renowned Jack of All Trades, and that makes him harder to pin down. "It doesn't matter where they wield the surgical knife – I'll teach them as things occur, so long as they have talent."
"In that case, my list of recommendations is a little different, but why not pilfer someone from one of the local hospitals? At least they're most-part experienced."
Dr. Thackery leaned against his armrest.
Why not? It was what most people expected — it was what the board back at the Knickerbocker all but told him to do, or rather, the Captain, who did not entirely understand the nuances of actual medical practice other than the importance of names and titles. Theirs, especially.
There were plenty of doctors out there who would suffer even the Knick if it meant working under the great Christensen and Thackery, the Captain had told him. Thack can see him now; finger pointed, sage-like, but without the academic power of his real mentor.
He had taken the man's word on the matter thinly. Especially when Barrow had added, on a cheap wage, too.
That pretty much sealed the deal right there.
Do you know what was cheap? Thackery had wanted to say — and intended to, once everything was said and done and he had his quarry seized firmly in both hands. Medical interns. Quarter a dozen, these days, and very willing.
"We're missing a fourth surgeon and there is no way on God's green Earth that Christensen or I will tolerate whatever quack Barrow or Habershorn scrapes up from their society pages." That was the very basics of it. "Reality is, if you want surgeons with certain habits, you have to pass them on yourself."
"Ah, so that's your criteria. You want to ruin some young up and comer with your terrible influence, turn them into a mini-me madman."
Thackery feigned offence. "Why, whatever do you mean, Reinhart?"
"As much as I wish to protect the youngsters from you and your unorthodoxy, there's nothing really wrong with what you're suggesting." Koff conceded, after a moment of hesitation. "In that case, I do have some good news for you."
"Oh?"
"Out of the class this academic year there are about five young men who I think would fit the bill, but two, in particular, I think you'll like. Dr. Ferguson from Chicago and Dr. Chickering fr-"
The effect was immediate. Thackeray sprung up as if suddenly enlightened.
"Chickering?"
Koff raised both of his eyebrows at the sudden outburst.
Thack meanwhile leaned forward onto his elbows and clarified. "Dr. Bertram Chickering?"
"Dr. Bertram Chickering Junior." Koff smiled at Thackery, as realisation dawned. "You know his father, I presume. I recall a bit of a spat a couple of years back."
A spat was an understatement. Thackery knew Dr. Bertram Chickering Sr., yes. That was putting it lightly. They'd had an on and off disagreement for the past ten years. They'd worked together briefly at Bellevue. Ever since Thack came back from Nicaragua it had weaned and intensified depending on their general proximity, but it was always there.
One small mention by name in a theoretical paper regarding malignant growths and their transfer within the bloodstream by Thackery - which most men would take as a compliment, though Chickering was both contentious and smart enough to know better, and that's precisely why Thackery loved to torment him so - and they were well set in their contest. Christensen had made it into a bit of a joke, naturally, but that didn't make it any less real.
He'd completely forgotten the fact that Chickering's son was at Columbia University. It got Thackery thinking.
Thack dragged on the end of his cigarette and gave Koff the side-eye. "Tell me about him."
"Well, he's one our visiting physicians and a boxer who in your defence snapped Dr. Bellamy's jawbone clean into two..."
"I meant the progeny." Thackery groaned.
"Junior isn't much like his father, I'm sure you'll be pleased to know." Koff shrugged. "We get a lot of his sort here; crème de la crème second and third-generation New York doctors. They usually start opening up practices or scampering off to Europe."
Thackery glanced at Koff and then back at his cigarette. "And Junior falls into which category?"
"The former, I'd say. Personally, I think he's a bit too good to be wasted on house calls. Sure, he's young - they all are - but he's got all the makings of a decent enough surgeon, given time."
"You're not giving me any reason to not go chasing after him, Doctor," Thackery observed, his tone of voice feeling a little strange. He cleared his throat.
Koff shrugged. "Then let me give you the bad news. He's already spoken for. Presbyterian has offered him an internship. I imagine his father had something to do with it. Bellevue, too."
That was a promising sign.
"No reason I can't intervene." Thack declared, easily confident, as he was in most things.
Koff shrugged again. "Sure."
Thackery picked up his glass to ponder the possibilities. If he didn't take the opportunity now that he had it, it could be years before his next chance. Christensen had chosen him, Gallinger had been picked up by the Board of Directors just over two years ago. Now there was a new opening and Jules had given unofficial authority to Thack in regard to their next candidate.
And Thack did not want a seasoned professional like the board was insisting. They didn't believe him when he told them; currency these days was shifting towards training doctors. Halstead's revolutionary strategy for residency and internship wasn't just something Thackery wholeheartedly agreed with, by God, he wanted in on the effort.
He didn't want someone tainted by rules and bureaucratic procedure, bogged down by rigidity to the point of inflexibility, to stagnation. No, he wanted someone young, with drive, with talent, yes, but young.
Someone malleable, who could be brought up into the profession thinking that progress was an endless path of trial and triumph, not merely the means to an end. Thack knew all too well — a doctor's time spent learning and researching and experimenting wasn't over when he finally got comfortable with his skills, when things got easy. It never ended. There was always more to learn. So, so much more.
How many years had Thack spent floundering under the wing of inept, detached clinicians? Caring not for the advancement of medical science but just the profession at its barest values. Wanting to desperately grow and change and develop but being held back at every turn. Until Christensen.
Until the Knick.
He often imagined what someone could do if you gave them that freedom and momentum from the get-go. Imagined what he could have done. Now, he had that opportunity.
Thackery stared Koff down and demanded, resolute. "Tell me the worst of it."
Koff sighed and rubbed at his wide forehead. "Aside from the fact that Dr. Chickering Sr. will tear your arms off for so much as looking in his son's direction? You'd terrify the poor boy."
Thack frowned back, peevish. "I'm the perfect gentleman."
"Rii-iight, and I'm the King of Prussia." Koff snorted. "He's too... How to put it..? Reasonable?"
"Too reasonable?"
"You gravitate to go-getters. Junior's inoffensive. Maybe I'll even go as far as to say a pushover. If I hadn't taught him half of what he knows I'd think him a bit of a dope."
"But he is intelligent." Thack decided, refilling his drink.
"I'd say so. Sheltered, but not stupid. Very cunning when he wants to be, I suppose," the other doctor frowned in thought. "Took him about thirty seconds to completely grasp the concept behind your J.M. Christensen's placenta repair and yet when I ask him to improvise he stares at me as if I'd insulted him. The boy has some of the rawest talent for conceptual innovation I've seen in years, he just doesn't know how."
It sounded too good to be true. So much so that Thackery was almost suspicious. "And you're trying to stop me?"
"I'm trying to warn you about the realities of mentorship. The boy might be smart, might have a healthy appetite for curiosity, but he's young, even for his age. You go throwing yourself at him in your entire manic glory and I guarantee he'll run in the opposite direction. He's normal, Thack. You forget whose son he is."
He had a point, Thack supposed. Fine then. "So I'll be gentle at first. Any last glaring faults?"
"The boy's likeable."
"How is that a concern?"
Koff shook his head as if Thack was being deliberately obtuse.
"Because he'll wrap you around his little finger like-" he snapped his fingers together. " -that. I know what you're like, what you and Christensen are both like. You'll fall head over heels for him, fail to discipline him properly, overindulge him and make a complete monster, inflicting upon us unsuspecting lesser surgeons a horrific mirage of Thackery-impressed brilliance and polite, protestant charm. God forbid. None of us will be safe, least of all you. You'll never want to let him go, and when he does, you'll hate it. Like a broody mother with an empty nest."
Despite the half-warning, Koff wasn't being totally serious. Thackery bit back the laugh and nodded. Now was not the time for laughing at his own expense.
There was work to be done.
"Let me ask you one last question. If I was to get my hands on him for a talk, would you think reigning him into the Knick would still be possible?"
Koff did not reply straight away. Instead, he puffed on the end of his cigarette until it began to smoulder near his fingers.
"He's a good doctor," The German said eventually, putting the cigarette out by grinding it into the balcony, which he then flicked mindlessly over to the street below. "But he'd be wasted in general practice."
"So you approve?"
"Approve of what?" Koff asked, folding one leg over the other and settling with his glass. "You haven't requested anything yet."
Thackery stubbed his own cigarette out into the nearby ashtray and drained the rest of his drink in one go.
"That's right." He shot back, standing up. "I haven't."
