‘Yeah, that’s it,’ agreed Zecca. He shoved what remained of his
eggs into his mouth, pushed away the sports section, and left his chair. He meant to head straight for the restaurant, but then he remembered he had planned to return to the house to pick up Nan and drive her to her phony doctor for a showdown. He’d give that phony doctor a piece of his mind, and then some, and once and for all make him stop stalling Nan along and interfering with their normal love life. He didn’t know the time he was supposed to meet Nan for her appointment, and he decided he’d better find that out before he went to work.
Nan’s bathroom door was closed. Zecca yanked it open and barged inside. No one there. Then for sure the bitch was in her dressing room. Why those fucking women always took so much time dressing up he didn’t know, when all you wanted with them was to have them bare ass.
Zecca jerked open the door to the dressing room, shouting out, ‘Nan, goddammit!’
No answer. The dressing room was empty.
Zecca spun around. Something fishy. Her clothes rack was empty. He pivoted all round, and his eyes fell on the note Sellotaped to her mirror.
He strode to the mirror, tore off the note, and tried to make out her shaky handwriting. Something real crazy about leaving him. Leaving him! He held the note closer, and read each word carefully. He had it now. She’d walked. The bitch had walked out on him, something no woman since Crystal had ever done or even dared think about.
In a fury, Zecca crumpled her note, balled it up and crushed it in his huge fist.
Anger wrestled with bewilderment. Why would she have done a cuckoo thing like that? He’d been good to her, given the homeless nobody a home and a job, yet she’d walked off. How come? She had nowhere to go, nowhere on earth. She knew no one else, as far as he knew, except…
Except the fucking doctor she’d been seeing almost every day.
That knowledge, and the recollection of their talk yesterday when she so desperately tried to keep him from seeing her doctor, fitted together and told him the whole story.
Nan had thrown him over, left him to shack up with her doctor, who’d probably been screwing her regularly from the first day.
Well, goddammit, Zecca told himself, neither of them would get
away with it. He’d find that hot-nuts doctor and punch him out so he’d never forget not to fool around with anyone else’s woman. Then he’d get his mitts on Nan and drag her back where she belonged. That was it. His course was clear.
Only one roadblock.
Who in the fuck was her fucking doctor? He had to know who deserved a beating before going to wherever they were shacked up and dragging her back with him.
Who in the fuck was her doctor, dammit?
She’d never told him, clever bitch, as far as he could remember. And he could kick himself in the ass for never having bothered to ask her. He just hadn’t bothered, and now his fury mounted once more at her cheating on him.
He tried to think. To go to a doctor, you had to pay him. Therefore there should be bills around. But he always kept track of her bills and filed them at the restaurant office for his accountant and the IRS. Yet he’d never once seen a receipt, or a bill from her so-called doctor. Obviously she paid in cash always, out of the small savings she’d had when she’d moved in or out of her earnings or whatever she skimmed off her household allowance.
No bills, not one.
Wrong. There had been one bill, he remembered, one bill on an MD’s letterhead way back in the beginning. It had slipped through before she got smart. And Zecca had it, and if he remembered right, it had been on the doctor’s letterhead stationery.
He snatched up Nan’s telephone and dialled his restaurant, and got his head waitress who was also his floor manager.
‘Marge,’ he said, ‘I’m coming in, but I have no time for those interviews with the temporary cashiers. Cancel them out for today, and let that bimbo we have stay on and keep robbing us until I throw her out. I’m coming in on something else, a tax matter, so I’ll be in my office and don’t let anybody bother me.’
Leaving the bitch’s dressing room, Zecca tore out of the house, jumped into his Cadillac, and was on his way to sweet revenge.
A half hour later, in the rear room cubbyhole office of his restaurant, he’d checked when Nan had started working for him, knowing she’d gone to fix her fanny with the doctor some time after that.
Ten minutes passed before he had the doc’s receipt in hand. He felt triumphant.
Dr Stanley Lopez - a spic yet - and his charges for the first overall checkup.
The only receipt. No others either because she paid him in cash, or more probably, because he paid her for banging her. Some shots she was getting!
Receipt in hand, with Dr Lopez’s address on it, Zecca turned his Cadillac toward the downtown district of Hillsdale.
Fifteen minutes later he slowed in front of a six-storey medical building with a parking lot underneath. Zecca drove down the ramp, left his Cadillac with an attendant, found Dr Lopez’s name on the directory beside the elevators, then took the first elevator going up.
He got off at the fourth floor.
The frosted glass door just to the right of the elevator read: Stanley M. Lopez, MD. Zecca pushed open the door, balled up his fists, and almost bounded across the fancy reception room to where some kind of good-looking Latina gal was busy over some paperwork.
Her expression was startled when she saw Zecca.
He guessed it showed on his face, how he felt, so he tried to contain himself.
‘Yes?’ the receptionist asked.
‘I want to consult with Dr Lopez about my my wife.’
‘She’s a patient here?’
‘A regular.’
‘Her name, please.’
‘Zecca,’ he said automatically, and then he corrected himself. ‘No, actually she likes to use her maiden name. Her name my wife’s name is Nan Whitcomb. She was coming in to see Dr Lopez today.’
The receptionist furrowed her brow. ‘That can’t be, I’m afraid. Dr Lopez had no appointments today. He has to conduct a seminar at USC. You’re sure your wife is a patient who comes here regularly? I just can’t seem to place her name.’
‘I’m sure all right,’ said Zecca grimly, digging into his jacket pocket for the receipt he’d brought along. ‘Have a look. Here’s your receipt for a bill she paid.’
The receptionist took it, stared at it puzzled, then slowly got up and made her way to a file cabinet behind her. She knelt down, pulled out the bottom file drawer, fingered through the tabs, and
then pulled out a manila folder. ‘You’re right, sir. We have a file for “Whitcomb, Nan”. Let me have a look.’
Walking slowly back to the counter, the receptionist had opened the folder and was studying the contents inside. Suddenly, she raised her head, smiling at Zecca. ‘I think it’s all clear now. I was actually right. Your wife isn’t Dr Lopez’s patient. She just visited him the one time for a physical checkup. She was a referral from Dr Freeberg. He always has his patients come to Dr Lopez for a checkup before working with them. Dr Freeberg’s the one you want to see for any consultation.’
‘Dr Freeberg? Nan never mentioned him.’
The receptionist stammered, looking up at Zecca’s glowering face. ‘Maybe because she’s shy. Most wives are, when it comes to this.’
‘Comes to what?’
‘Visiting a sex therapist. Dr Arnold Freeberg’s a sex therapist who runs the Freeberg Clinic on Market Street. About five minutes from here. Your wife must be a patient there. I’m sure Dr Freeberg will be pleased to arrange a consultation with you.’
‘Yeah,’ said Zecca, ‘I’m sure he will. Dr Arnold Freeberg, you say?’
‘Dr Arnold Freeberg. When you leave our building downstairs, turn left, then right at the first block. That’s Market. You can walk it in ten or fifteen minutes. If you’re driving, five minutes. I’ll write out the address of the Freeberg Clinic for you.’
Jamming her card into his pocket, Zecca mumbled his thanks and left the reception room.
Waiting for the elevator, Zecca boiled with inner rage.
So Nan, his little cunt, was living it up with a sex therapist, whatever that was. He didn’t have to guess. He knew. Dr Freeberg, a yid for sure, was sticking it at her daily. And Nan was loving it. Some treatment.
Well, he told himself, as the elevator arrived, he had a more lasting treatment for both of them, when he got his hands on them. He’d make mincemeat of the doc. And he’d bring Nan home on a leash and keep her there on her back where she belonged, until she appreciated what she had.
The first thing to do was to find out where this Freeberg had his Nan stashed. He had to catch them in the act together. Then he’d know what to do next.
Leaving the elevator, he already knew what to do next.
Making Freeberg into mincemeat was too good for the fucking bastard. He should waste the son of a bitch - or have one of the boys who owed him do it for him.
This was the solution. Waste him.
An eye for an eye, like the Good Book said.
The telephone call from Roger Kile, who had introduced himself as Dr Arnold Freeberg’s attorney-at-law in Los Angeles, had come to District Attorney Hoyt Lewis in Hillsdale at eleven-fifteen this morning.
Lewis had speculated through the week whether the call would come from Dr Freeberg himself or his lawyer, and what Freeberg’s decision would be. Now he knew that Freeberg had hired a lawyer to make the call for him. And now Lewis would know what decision Freeberg had made.
‘I’m calling you,’ Kile was saying, ‘to discuss the ultimatum you’ve given my client, Dr Arnold Freeberg. As Dr Freeberg’s attorney, I am empowered to discuss the matter on his behalf.’
‘Mr Kile,’ said Hoyt Lewis coolly, ‘I’m not certain there is much to discuss.’
‘Perhaps not,’ said Kile. ‘At the same time, to be positive my client has your ultimatum right, I would appreciate it if you would repeat the terms of your offer to him. I’d like to hear, in your own words, what you told Dr Freeberg when you visited him.’
‘I’ll be glad to oblige you. I presume you intend to record exactly what I conveyed to Dr Freeberg?’
‘I do, sir.’
‘Very well,’ said Lewis. ‘In my one meeting with Dr Arnold Freeberg, I informed him I had investigated his practice of employing sexual surrogates, mainly female, to cohabit with males for pay. I told him that, from evidence available, his present role as a therapist fell under a California statute that regards pandering as a crime. I told him that his female surrogates fell under the section that regards prostitution as a crime. I told him that if so charged and convicted, he was liable to a prison sentence of up to ten years, and the single sex surrogate I selected as an example to be charged could, on conviction, serve a prison sentence of a half a year.’
‘And then you offered my client a compromise,’ stated Kile.
‘Yes, a compromise out of a spirit of generosity. Actually, Dr
Freeberg possesses no criminal record, this is a first-time offence excluding his run-in with my counterpart in Tucson - and in the belief that Dr Freeberg had misunderstood the law of California, I offered him another chance. Quite simply, Mr Kile,-I told him he could avoid any charges or prosecution if he ceased his use of sex surrogates and confined his practice solely to that of being a licensed therapist. On the other hand, if he elected to ignore my offer, but persisted in operating, as he has been doing, I would have him arrested, arraigned, and prosecuted.’
‘Let me interject something right here, and be frank about it,’ said Kile. ‘When I first undertook defending Dr Freeberg and his surrogates, I was a bit uncertain about his work and about the law. I knew Dr Freeberg was legitimate and sincere, and was directing his surrogates, but one possibility niggled my mind. That he was covering himself with his advice and his directions, and that the surrogates might be prostitutes masquerading as surrogates. When I began my researches, I talked to a number of sex surrogates. I learned quickly that there was a qualitative difference between a sex surrogate and a prostitute. Today I am satisfied, to a moral and legal certainty, that there is no question at all that the surrogate and prostitute are qualitatively different beings. Freeberg and his surrogates are healers. The pimp and his prostitutes are nothing but exploiters. Obviously, every other District Attorney in California and New York acknowledges this difference and that’s why there has never been, in twenty-five years, a legal action against a therapist and a surrogate.’
‘Mainly because the moral climate in this country had not deteriorated to its present low ebb,’ said Hoyt Lewis. ‘Now it’s reached a new low, and I want to put a stop to it. The process of cleansing has to start somewhere, and I’ve decided it should start here. I repeat, I can’t see a clear distinction between a pimp and his prostitutes, and a sex therapist and his sex surrogates. This test case will prove there is no real distinction, and when I’m through not a state in the Union will permit the use of surrogates.’
‘But you must acknowledge,’ insisted Kile, ‘that a vast difference in motivation and behaviour separates a female surrogate from a common prostitute?’
Hoyt Lewis’s voice hardened. ‘I acknowledge no such thing. I am familiar with the arguments. Dr Freeberg presented them to me most eloquently. To my mind, they don’t hold up, and they won’t
hold up in a court of law. A female sex surrogate is as unlicensed as a streetwalker - ’
‘Mr District Attorney,’ Kile interrupted, ‘I see the surrogate as secondarily licensed under the law. She is, after all, serving with the continuing guidance of a fully-licensed therapist and serving in the capacity of an adjunct or assistant to him.’
‘Sorry, Mr Kile. I disagree. Dr Freeberg’s sex surrogates, at his instigation, are performing lewd sexual acts for hire. They are prostitutes in disguise. I won’t have that in Hillsdale.’ He paused. ‘I see no purpose served in continuing this debate. I have given Dr Freeberg a fair choice. Freedom to continue his practice in Hillsdale without the use of sex surrogates, or prosecution for pandering and prostitution if he persists in using surrogates. I assume you’ve called with his decision?’
‘I have.’
‘What is his decision?’
‘I am empowered to state, as Dr Arnold Freeberg’s attorney-at-law, that because we are certain he is behaving within the law, he will continue his practice and his use of partner surrogates.’
District Attorney Hoyt Lewis had not anticipated with any certainty that this would be the decision. He had guessed that Roger Kile had presented his feeble arguments on behalf of his client to make Lewis think twice about prosecution, and that, when the chips were down, he would back off into the compromise. This was better than he had hoped.
‘Dr Freeberg is going on with the sex surrogates, you say?’ Lewis repeated. He felt strangely elated. ‘That’s definitely the decision?’
‘Definitely.’
Lewis wanted to say, ‘Your funeral,’ but aware that he was being taped, he refrained. He said instead, ‘I’m sorry. I guess there’s nothing more to add except I’ll see you in court.’
‘If you have a case,’ said Kile mildly.
‘Mr Kile, I assure you, I very much have a case.’
An hour later, District Attorney Hoyt Lewis had the Reverend Josh Scrafield across his desk from him.
‘I hate to break in on your day, Reverend Scrafield,’ the District Attorney began. ‘I know how busy you are, but since this concerns the matter of Freeberg and his sex surrogates ’
‘There’s not a thing that concerns me more than that matter. That quack doctor is polluting our community.’
‘I’d offered Freeberg a compromise, as you know,’ said Lewis. ‘His lawyer just phoned me with his decision.’
‘And?’ said Scrafield eagerly, coming forward in his chair.
‘Dr Freeberg has elected to ignore my offer. He intends to continue his use of surrogates.�
��
‘He’s going on with his foul practice?’ said Scrafield, with delight in his voice. ‘He’s going to continue?’
‘And so are we,’ said Lewis calmly. ‘We are going to prosecute to the full extent of the law.”
The Reverend Scrafield wet his lips. ‘Pandering and prostitution,’ he said, half to himself. ‘Mr District Attorney, you can’t lose. We’ll beat the drums for you the minute you give the green light. You’ll win the case, and enjoy all the benefits and advantages to be derived from the victory. This is the greatest thing that could have happened to us. The case against Freeberg is open-and-shut.’
Hoyt Lewis nodded. ‘I believe it is, that’s why I’m proceeding. But it all depends on the star witness you brought me.’
‘Chet Hunter? Never mind about him. He’s enrolled as a patient with Freeberg, busy every day at that clinic or somewhere with a young tart named Gayle Miller.’
‘They’re going at it?’
‘Chet Hunter assures me they are. I haven’t seen him since we were all together, but I speak to him regularly on the phone.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Lewis, ‘he’s keeping some written record of his daily uh - activity.’
‘He is. A day-by-day record, a journal, it’s all on paper.’
‘Excellent,’ said Lewis. ‘Now is the time to see Hunter again and find out what he has for us.’ Lewis rose behind his desk. ‘There’s still that one thing to nail down, the one truth I must have.’ His tone underlined what followed next. ‘That they are actually engaged in sexual intercourse,’ he said. ‘That’s the key. After they do that, we’re on our way. I’ll serve Freeberg and Miss Miller immediately. Until then, we’ll hold off. As soon as Hunter tells us that intercourse has taken place, he’s to deliver his tape recording of the pay-off session to us. He will be using a tape recorder, won’t he?’
‘Of course. He knows all about it.’
‘I’ll require that corroborative evidence on tape to support
Hunter’s verbal testimony in court.’ Momentarily, Lewis worried. ‘Can he get away with it? How’ll he do it?’
(1987) The Celestial Bed Page 19
