MDs
Time Of Death

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Time Of Death

Cut to the interior, where Dalgety and Jolly Maid are dancing down the stairs into the lobby, adjusting their clothes. A group of male doctors is standing around a bulletin board, sniggering over a color photocopy that's pinned to it. It features a woman flashing her bra -- naughty! -- at the camera. One of them guffaws something to indicate that the bra-baring blonde is the new hospital director. So she's off to a promising start. Dalgety cuts between the leering masses and the picture, barely glancing at it, and addresses the group by apologizing for being late, adding that he's "still feeling [his] way around." Jolly Maid scoots around the edge of the group with a knowing smirk. I pop a Tums, just in case there's more lines where that one came from. Dalgety tells the group, made up of student doctors, that today they'll start with physical exams. Some wiener says, "I thought you said the HMOs don't like to approve physical exams." Dalgety confirms that it's true. "So why bother?" the wiener asks. "Because we're doctors, not managed-care technicians," Dalgety zings. He ducks into a hallway just in time to avoid the dropping anvil.

Kellerman scoots out of the elevator and strides across the lobby. "Dr. Kellerman?" a silky female voice calls. He stops and spins in its direction. A blonde in a tiny black suit is perched against a chair back, eyeing him. She sashays toward him, drawling, "Dr. Bruce Kellerman?" His Adam's apple bobs in affirmation. "Hello," he manages. She stands in front of him and declares, "I'm here to serve you." Back of the line, sister. His Adam's apple bobs even harder. "Really?" he asks, hardly daring to believe the luck. She smiles broadly and brandishes a huge manila envelope. "These papers have to be signed today and returned to your wife," she says, barely suppressing the urge to laugh. She presses the envelope against his chest and backs away. He makes the obligatory "ex-wife" correction. Already at the door, she pauses and repeats, "Ex-wife." She pushes open the door, which looks to be some cheap-ass plywood and Plexiglas prop, given the way it gets stuck.

Cut to an office featuring a big leather chair, classical music, and a smugly smiling middle-aged suit who seriously reminds me of Kevin McDonald's character, Sir Simon Milligan. Any minute now, Scott Foley should pop up from behind the desk in a little black leotard, and the two of them will go on and on about how eeeevil they are. But I digress. This guy's eeeevil without any help from Hecubus, smirking with satisfaction at the color photocopy of the new director's boobies. The office door swings open and said director, fully clothed and even sporting a kicky little hairband, stands in the doorway clutching a box and smiling. "Frank Coones?" she beams. He scrambles to hide the photocopy, oozing, "Shelley Pangborn! Welcome! You're early!" She staggers in with her box and says something about the early bird catching the worm. Coones shoots her an oblique look, pastes on a smile, and shakes her hand. He buttons his jacket and falsely assures her that he "loves playing tour guide to the new directors," and makes a point of letting her know that he's been doing it a lot lately. She demurs that she's counting on him to "show her the ropes" and exposits, "Especially since my background hasn't exactly been in health care." Coones insincerely asserts that "management is management," and asks what the name was of the amusement park she used to run. She says she'd rather keep that little bit of history between the two of them. "Don't ask, don't tell," Coones says hollowly. He leads her out to begin the tour.

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