Flash and Filigree

by Terry Southern

Dr. Eichner seemed doubly pleased at the sight of the canapés and at his idea of the way things were going generally.

  “I don’t entertain often,” he said to Jean as he accepted one, “I will say an occasional affair such as this is pleasant.” He tried to move his arm in a gesture that would take in the scene, but only the hand flopped about momentarily.

  “It’s a real down gas,” said Jean, “I’m hot to make that pepper kick.”

  Behind them, Frost, having eaten several more of the wafers, had begun to examine things, walking slowly around the room, looking into drawers and under cushions.

  “Who’s that girl by the door?” he demanded of Jean and the Doctor when his investigations reached them. Dr. Eichner didn’t seem to hear him properly and kept beaming, nodding his head.

  “Are you kidding?” asked Jean in a high voice, looking to where the girl swayed exotically. “You must be zonked out completely. That just happens to be a chick you set turning tricks for crissake!” She stared at him in amazement. “What do you think you’re doing, anyway, poking around the room like that?”

  Frost looked impatient.

  “This is a routine check,” he said, and moved on toward the study.

  “Well, he’s flipping,” said Jean looking after him, “flipping right out of his skull. Now I suppose I’ll have to see to things myself.”

  Dr. Eichner nodded happily, munching one of the paste wafers. He no longer moved his head to follow the dancers and seemed aware of them only when they were directly in front of him, at which time he would beam and sway his head.

  There was an intentness in the way the girls danced, with no change of expression in their faces, and apparently without the least self-consciousness.

  Frost came out of the study abruptly, carrying a shallow wooden box, which he brought to the Doctor.

  “Look at this,” he said, almost angrily, and knelt to place the box on the floor next to the chair. It was a wide felt-lined box and contained the Doctor’s collection of miniature sports cars. Tiny, Swiss-made replicas, they were precision machined and finely detailed, all scaled to perfection, 1:1000, so that each was about the size of a small, oblong wrist-watch. Nestled together in the box, all silver-spoked and gleaming, richly enameled and chromed, they resembled something from a jeweler’s case.

  Dr. Eichner stared at them for a moment without reacting.

  “Good,” he said then, “very good!”

  He eased himself out of the chair and onto the floor.

  “Very good,” he continued, “very good.”

  Rubbing his hands together, he began to take the cars out of the box and to range them about on the rug.

  Frost stood up and watched him briefly.

  “Good,” he said, and stalked away to where Jean was sitting in a corner, eyes closed, throwing palmfuls of pepper into her face, breathing it in hard, and occasionally gagging. She opened her eyes when Frost came up.

  “Man nothing’s happenin’ with this jive, what you think that cat was puttin’ down?”

  “Cut the jargon,” said Frost, “I’m sick of it.”

  “You cut the jargon, daddy-o,” said Jean gaily, “and I’ll cut the horse,” and she threw a handful of pepper in the air and tried to catch it with her upturned face.

  Frost gripped her shoulder. “Head’s up,” he said dramatically, looking darkly toward the door, “it’s the punk.” For at that moment, Treevly and his friend walked in. They were chatting amiably, like two earls strolling the Tuilleries.

  Frost went forward to meet them.

  “Good of you to come,” he said with a weird grimace, “good of you to come.”

  “Delighted,” said Treevly, “delighted. A delightful place. Isn’t it, Syl?”

  “Yes, it’s delightful,” said the other young man, who was somehow similar to Treevly, and while he did not quite have his style, he was well on the way.

  Frost led them to the sideboard and indicated they should help themselves to the refreshments there.

  “This is fun,” said Sylvester. “Isn’t it, Fee?”

  “Fabulous,” said Treevly.

  Frost himself ate several of the canapés quite hurriedly.

  “I’ll just see to things,” he said, opening a drawer of the buffet and peering into it.

  “Yes, of course,” said Treevly and the other young man nearly in unison, smiling broadly.

  “I’ll just check on things,” Frost continued, backing away. “Just routine, of course.”

  Someone had put a stack of long-playing records on the machine and music was continuous and varied, Stravinsky’s “L’Histoire du Soldat” was playing now and, at the tango part, Treevly and the other young man began to dance. They danced eccentrically, marking the measure with a haughty and mincing step. Very soon they were actually prancing, like things possessed, faces frozen in serious mien.

  It was so outlandish that it caught the attention of the three girls, who stopped and watched them in silence, nodding and applauding politely at the end, before playing the record over again.

  Frost, however, went his own way, rummaging about the room, as did Jean-baby who was lying on her back now, one arm full length, dropping the pepper bit by bit, most of which was going in her hair. Frost then, after a moment’s pause and a sudden look of complete wildness, plunged out of the room and into the depths of the house.

  Under the effects of the mah-joong and peyote, Dr. Eichner’s concentration on the little cars was so whole that he had failed to notice Treevly’s entrance and, even so, a few moments later had slipped forward and was now sprawled on his knees and face in a heap amidst the cars in a state of near coma.

  It was then that Treevly, in executing some sort of fantastic dervish, stumbled over the Doctor and, half rising in a pique, recognized him. His reaction was very much like that of a cat.

  “Eeechh!” he hissed through his teeth, leaping backward and cringing against the sofa.

  “J’accuse!” he cried, looking wild-eyed, pointing from his half crouch. “Voyeur! Voyeur!”

  Dr. Eichner, whose eyes were half open and shot with a comatose glaze, remained immobile, and seemed to hear only as one hears through a dream.

  Treevly, in his turn, grew bolder and, coming forward from the couch, pointing again, turned to the girls and said: “See here a man obsessed! It is a man . . . obsessed!”

  His friend meanwhile had joined him and, standing over the Doctor, was making little incoherent sounds of derision and snapping his finger at the inert body in repetitive gestures of curt dismissal. Suddenly Treevly took his arm for support. “I feel faint,” he said, putting his hand to his head. “Oh, how I detest intense people!” he cried in real anguish. “Oh, how I loathe them!” But as though the wave had passed, he drew himself up and spoke with menacing calm:

  “Perhaps he hasn’t had the last laugh, after all!”

  And so saying, with a toss of his head, he was away again, he and his friend, lost in the dance, marking the measure with an imperious step.

  Chapter XXI

  “OH WHAT ARE we going to do?” Babs asked hopelessly, as though now they must surely be in for a good spanking, whereupon Ralph kissed her anew.

  Because of the extraordinary events of the evening, the couple had put off their plans for Monsieur Croque’s, and half-past midnight found them still in the back seat of the convertible, having glanced at the screen scarcely a dozen times.

  During the three presentations of Wuthering Heights, Babs had cried a lot, sometimes as in shame and need of reassurance, but mostly in soft bewilderment, and later in a kind of pitiful happiness. Now and again, however, she would sit up, quite suddenly, and turn her face away. “You think I’m terrible,” she would say. This happened usually at the times when Ralph had moved over slightly to light a cigarette, or mix a drink.

  “Don’t be silly,” Ralph would say, kissing her affectionately, whereupon the girl would implore, “Oh, Ralph, do you really . . . do you really love me?”

  �
��Of course I do.”

  “Do what?” she would want to be told.

  “Do love you,” he would say.

  And the girl would sigh and snuggle in his arms, as if she wanted nothing more than their being together like that always.

  But the screen finally went dark, and while the national anthem resounded over the vast lot coming alive with crawling lights, Ralph suggested they go to a motel. And this seemed so scandalous to Babs that she burst into tears.

  “Oh, you do think I’m terrible!” she sobbed. “Oh, why did I do it? Why? You know I didn’t want to, you know I didn’t! You made me do it—you made me do it and now you hate me! Oh, I wish I were dead!” And she tried to bundle herself in the far corner of the seat, face hidden away, as Ralph stroked her hair and reassured her, bringing her face to his and carefully kissing the tears away.

  On the porch of the boarding-house where Babs lived, she said they should not talk or kiss much there because of Mrs. McBurney. But she made Ralph promise to call her next day at the Clinic, where she had Sunday duty, and she whispered finally, “Ralph, you do believe me, don’t you, that I had never . . . I mean, you do know that you’re the only one who has ever . . .”

  “Yes, I know,” said the boy, very pleased.

  Chapter XXII

  FRED EICHNER HAD no memory of how he had reached his bed the previous evening. He awoke, feeling very cross, with the taste of gall and waste in his mouth; it was almost noon.

  “Put me on to Martin Frost,” he said, after snatching up the phone at bedside and dialing the latter’s number.

  “Mr. Frost? Well, Mr. Frost has discontinued this service. This is an answering service.”

  There was something in the girl’s voice that gave the Doctor pause and flashes of doubt.

  “Is . . . is this Jean?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Jean, Jean-baby.” The last words passed the Doctor’s throat with the grotesque uncertainty there of a reversed fish-hook.

  “This is an answering service. I understand that Mr. Frost left the country. I understand, from one of the girls here, that—”

  “Never mind,” snapped Eichner, recovering, “this is F. L. Eichner, a client of Mr. Frost. Please tell Mr. Frost that I have no further need of his services. You may tell him to bill me, as of this date, and to consider his interest in the case closed. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well then. Thank you, and good-bye.”

  “Good-bye.”

  The Doctor replaced the receiver momentarily, then dialed the Clinic. It was Eleanor Thorne answered the phone.

  “We’ve been trying to reach you, Doctor—at your home. There was no answer there.”

  “I’ve been indisposed,” said Dr. Eichner curtly. “Why were you calling?”

  “A police representative was here to see you.”

  “What do you mean? An officer of the police?”

  “Yes, Doctor, a policeman. An ordinary policeman, in a car. There were two of them. One remained in the car.”

  “I see.”

  “They wanted to see you.”

  “They?”

  “What?”

  “All right, where are they now? They’re no longer there I take it.”

  “No, he said they would be back. I hope nothing is wrong, Doctor, I told him that you were not to be—”

  “All right, now, I want you to go to my office. In the upper left drawer of the main desk you will find a list of the names and telephone numbers of certain agencies. When you have this list, call me here and give me those names and numbers. You may phone from my office. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  “Very well. Please do this as soon as possible. Let this case take priority over anything else you may have to do at the moment.”

  “Yes, I will, Doctor.”

  “Thank you, Nurse. Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye, Doctor.”

  Fred Eichner was out of bed in a bound. He put paper and pencil by the telephone, and had just entered the bathroom to begin his toilet when the phone rang. The Doctor was back to the bed and had the receiver up at once, pencil in readiness above the paper. “Yes, go ahead.”

  “I’d like to speak to Dr. Eichner, please. This is Sergeant Fiske of the Los Angeles County Police.”

  “I see,” said the Doctor, lowering his pencil.

  “Is this Dr. Eichner here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh well, Doctor, this is Sergeant Fiske. You remember me . . . we rode down to the station together, after that accident of yours. We’ve been looking for you at the hospital.”

  “Yes, I remember you, Sergeant.”

  “Yeah, well, they got those guys, Doc. You were right about that all right. The Chief said we ought to tell you as soon as we could get hold of you.”

  “What? What’s that you’re saying?”

  “It was a gang, trying to knock off somebody. ‘Good-Time’ Gimp Spomini. He’s got a car like yours. You see, they thought it was you.”

  “You mean they thought I was him? he?”

  “The Chief said to tell you it was a case of mistaken identity. They mistook you for him—because of the car, and because he was around there—he was supposed to be coming down that road then. His girl lives out there, you see.”

  “I see! Good! Excellent! So the case is closed, is that it?”

  “This case is closed, yes. They got him last night. He had a car like yours.”

  “They got him? The rival gang got him? Killed him?”

  “No, he’s in the hospital. They say he’ll be all right. But he identified them, you see, identified the rival gang. We got the whole bunch.”

  “Well, I’m glad he wasn’t seriously hurt!”

  “No, he wasn’t seriously hurt. He’s a cripple . . . that’s why they call him Gimp. ‘Good-Time’ Gimp Spomini, he’s called. Wanted, They’re all wanted.”

  “I see.”

  “Well, this case is closed then, Doc; I mean, as far as you’re concerned. The Chief said you ought to know about it. The Chief will probably call you about it himself.”

  “Yes, of course. Well, I’m very glad you called, Sergeant. Meanwhile, convey my best wishes to your Chief—for a job well done.”

  “All right, Doctor, I will.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  “What? No, they just said you would want to know.”

  “Yes, it’s a great relief, of course. Thanks again.”

  “That’s okay. Well, good-bye.”

  “Good-bye, Sergeant.”

  The Doctor had no sooner put down the receiver than the phone rang again.

  “F. L. Eichner here.”

  “Doctor,” it was Eleanor Thorne calling, “I’ve been trying to get you—”

  “Nurse Thorne, you have that list: dispose of it. Into the wastebasket beside the desk with it! The case is closed, you see.”

  Chapter XXIII

  “WELL, MISS SMART,” Dr. Eichner was speaking brightly into his inter-office phone, “what’s on the agenda for today?”

  “You have Miss Stapleton at two, Doctor . . . Mrs. F. L. Richmond-White at three . . . and a Mrs. Hugo Gross at four-thirty this afternoon. Miss Stapleton is here now, Doctor.”

  “Good. Have her come in.”

  The early afternoon passed pleasantly enough for the Doctor. Miss Stapleton and Mrs. Richmond-White were two of several women who checked with him each Sunday to see if any new complexion-aids had been discovered during the past week.

  Both their skins were perfect, a condition they attributed to proper diet and to the Doctor’s prescribed methods of care—which had become, more or less, the focus of their lives.

  As for Dr. Eichner, he had, over the years, developed such an esoteric intimacy with their skins, that, through various tests and analyses he was able now to appreciate that, quite aside from their being perfect in the ordinary, unblemished sense, they were also theoretically perfect. This pleased his taste
for the abstract, and, of course, his acute sensitiveness to points of dermatic structure.

  Actually, these women were not very pretty. They were, for the most part, wealthy and well educated; and their collective gestalt was a strict fascism, drawn solely on lines of skin-condition. Two vast hulks of society had been simply written off as “starchy” and “oily.” To describe what remained, a slang with quasi-humorous ramifications—that hallmark of organization—had evolved to include such expressions as “ducking” (for “duct-flow”), “vel” (from “velvet”) for skin, “salting the vel,” meaning a form of perspiration; and, in current usage among the more vulgar young were the obvious derisions “grease-ball,” “potato-face,” “leather-tummy,” “a real imp” (from “impetigo”), “a stupid ex” (from “eczema”), “a scroffy,” and so on.

  In light conversation among themselves, for want of a more practical frame of reference they usually spoke of public figures, and in so otherwise an unbiased way as to frequently link persons like Madame Nehru and Jane Withers. More seriously, however, as in their visits with Dr. Eichner, they spoke of “stability,” and “level-problems.”

  Dr. Eichner would say: “Yes, the endo is steady now, very steady.” Or, “I want to try something, Miss Trumbel. Oh, we’re on safe ground all right, but I’ve been toying with the idea of cutting down that ecto-lymph potential . . .”

  About three-thirty Fred Eichner took tea alone in his office, followed by a quarter-hour’s nap. He spent the next half-hour with his automotive correspondence, checking the run-down, point by point, on the latest performance sheets of a supercharged Pegaso and the Ferrari 375. After this comparative study, he perused the sheets more casually, making an occasional notation, however, on the margin of the sheet at hand. Finally, he paused and took up the inter-office phone: “Miss Smart. For tomorrow, first opportunity: get the Alfa Romeo people, have them send their representative around with the 3-Liter Disco Volante—after confirming these figures: ‘Displacement—145.24. One, forty-five point, two-four.’ That is the figure I want checked specifically. Motor Sheets lists a two-hundred b.h.p. at 6,000 r.p.m. for that displacement. Now, check on this; there may be some discrepancy. I know this model, you see, and—however, is that clear?”