The Alcoholics

by Jim Thompson

  The throaty, perfectly enunciated flood of words began to ebb. Doc patted her affectionately on the bottom.

  “Feel better now? Anything else on your mind?”

  “Well—well, that perfectly beastly Judson, Murph! I lay here losing my mind for want of sleep, and all I asked for was one teeny nembutal—”

  “He couldn’t give it to you, Suzy. You were loaded already.”

  “Well…And you, you heartless beast! You didn’t even kiss me goodnight!”

  “Well, that,” said Doctor Murphy, “will never do.”

  He smacked her soundly on one firm alabaster cheek. He drew away firmly as her arms sought to circle his shoulders.

  “Now, I’ve got to beat it, Suzy. You—”

  “Murph…”

  “Yeah?”

  “Murph, lover, you are going to help me, aren’t you? Oh, darling, I knew I could count on—”

  “Jesus Christ!” snarled Doc. “How hammy can you get?”

  “Hammy! Are you accusing me…You must help me, dearest. I warn you! I’ll kill myself! I’ll—!”

  “With what? There’s nothing on the market that would kill an old bag like you. If there was, I’d make you a present of it.”

  “A b-bag!” Miss Kenfield rolled her great eyes, imploring the heavens to witness this heresy. “This so-called man of mercy calls me a—a—” She choked on the terrible word. Doctor Murphy spoke it for her.

  “A bag. Why, goddam you, Suzy, if you weren’t so damned heavy I’d toss your tail right out that window!”

  “H-heavy,” Miss Kenfield wept. “Heavy! Oh, y-you fiend! Y-you—”

  “Did I get you drunk? Hell, no! I couldn’t get you drunk if I wanted to. You were never by God more sober than—”

  “You cad! Beast!”

  “Did I get you pregnant? No, again. All I’ve ever got out of you is a big fat headache—yes, all, by God! Your god-damned fees haven’t been enough to pay for my aspirin. And yet you’ve got the guts to come to me and ask for an abortion! You know what you can do, Suzy? Go —— yourself!”

  “I wish I had,” sniffled Susan Kenfield.

  Doctor Murphy snorted and headed for the door. Reaching the threshold, he paused and wheeled around.

  “By the way, Suzy. How far along are you?”

  “What’s the difference?” Miss Kenfield shrugged. “Two—three months, I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  “I really don’t see how it could be more than that, Murph. I mean, well, after all”—she patted her abdomen—“it would have to stick out more, wouldn’t it?”

  “Mmm.” Doc grunted noncommittally, and his eyes swept over her body. Small boned. Compact yet lushly curving. With a frame like that…“How long since your last period?”

  “Two or three months,” said the actress promptly. “I mean, I did it about three months ago, but not very good. Not like I usually do it when…”

  “Uh-huh. I see,” the doctor grunted again. At Suzy’s age, a woman was apt to have irregular periods. In any event, some women had been known to menstruate up to the month they gave birth. “Why did you come to me with this, Suzy? You know your way around. Why come to me with an abortion when you could go to any one of a dozen doctors who would jump at the chance to do the job?”

  “But, lover! I—” Miss Kenfield hesitated, and her eyes shifted from the doctor’s for the merest fraction of a second. Then, they met his again; brimming with love and trust, wide with innocent honesty. “But why wouldn’t I come to you, lover? Why should I go to anyone else when I have my own dearest, darling Murph to—”

  Doctor Murphy said a single obscene word, and walked out, slamming the door as Susan Kenfield’s endearments changed suddenly to profane yells of reproach.

  She was lying; well, not exactly lying, perhaps, but covering up something. Holding back on the facts. That was obvious. But it was also obvious that now was not the moment to get the truth out of her. It would take more time than he had to give at this hour of the day.

  He entered the dining room, drew back a chair and sat down at the table and looked at the four patients present.

  6

  Jeff Sloan, the advertising man, was there, looking decidedly wan and dabbling disinterestedly at his food. Then there was Bernie Edmonds, prematurely gray, preternaturally youthful—somehow spruce and smart-appearing even in bathrobe and pajamas. Not so many years ago, Bernie had won the Pulitzer Prize for international reporting. Not so many years ago, he had been managing editor of a leading New York newspaper, and the author of two best-selling books on world affairs. Now, he was a part-time rewrite man on one of the Los Angeles papers, and there was every indication that he was about to be severed from that position.

  Seated on Bernie’s right, were the twin Holcomb brothers, John and Gerald. Fifty-ish, plump-ish, bald-ish, the brothers Holcomb owned one of the more successful Hollywood literary agencies—far too successful, in Doctor Murphy’s opinion, for their own good. They had become leaders in the field back in the early days of pictures, and long before their alcoholism had reached the point of incapacitating them, the functions of the agency had been delegated to employees whose high pay and equally high degree of competence were legends in the industry. Now G. & J. Holcomb, Inc. (Literary Properties) maintained branch offices in the major cities of the world; and Gerald and John Holcomb—with a six-figure income and no demands on their time—maintained more or less permanent living quarters in El Healtho Sanitarium.

  They had been released, after ten days of treatment, early in the current week. Last night, after an absence of less than forty-eight hours, they had returned. Hopelessly, helplessly drunk. Sodden to the gills.

  Logically, they should not have been able to get out of bed this morning. They should have been too hung-over and shaky and sick to budge from their room. Yet here they were, feeling quite chipper apparently, and they had actually eaten a considerable part of their breakfast.

  Doctor Murphy could only account for their conduct in one way. Turning his head slightly, he called to Rufus.

  “Yes, suh?”

  “Our friends here”—Doc nodded to the Holcombs—“have some whiskey hidden in their room. See if you can find it.”

  “Yes, suh.”

  “Did you hear the man, brother? Whiskey in our room! Now, why would he think that?” It was John Holcomb.

  “Why, indeed?” said Gerald Holcomb. “A very rash, impulsive man, if you ask my opinion. Pay him no mind, brother.”

  “There’s something in the atmosphere here,” said Bernie Edmonds. “It makes the best of us jumpy. I’ve noticed it in myself, you know; seem to be very nervous and shaky every time I come here.…”

  He and the brothers Holcomb discussed this nominal phenomenon, gravely, with Jeff Sloan throwing in an occasional dead-pan gibe.

  Doctor Murphy suddenly shoved back his plate.

  “Why do you do it?” he said. “That’s what I don’t get—why the hell you do it! You come here to stop drinking, because you’ve drunk so much you’re goddam near dead. And yet you spend all the time you’re in here trying to get a drink. Why? I’m damned if I get it!”

  Bernie Edmonds wagged his gray head thoughtfully. “I’ve never been able to understand it,” he said, his tone indicating that the problem was not one of personal concern.

  “It’s a very interesting question,” said Gerald Holcomb, in much the same tone. “Brother and I were discussing it only a night or so ago. You remember, brother?”

  “I do indeed,” nodded John Holcomb. “I believe we made a mental note to ask our good friend, here, the doctor, about it. But since he seems to be as baffled as we are…Mr. Sloan? Do you have an opinion?”

  Jeff Sloan shrugged. “The only opinion I have right now is that I’m going to fall apart if I don’t have a drink. How about it, Doc, as long as we’re on the subject?”

  “You’ve had one,” said Doctor Murphy shortly, and he thought: Dammit, are they all crazy or am I? They act like— />
  “Just one, Doc. I only had an ounce. What’s an ounce of whiskey for a man with a bad case of shakes?”

  “All you need. All you’d better have.”

  “Well,” said Bernie Edmonds, blandly, “every case is different, of course, but my own experience has been that a little whiskey is like a little knowledge—actually dangerous, you know. Less medicative than, uh, aggravative. Aggravative, Holcomb: Is that a good word?”

  “If it isn’t,” said John, “it should be. At any rate, Bernie, I certainly agree with your sentiment.”

  “A beautiful and concise restatement of an ancient truth,” said Gerald. “To wit: A man can’t fly on one wing. I believe we’re all in agreement, here, Doctor. Mr. Sloan needs and should have another drink.”

  “Give him one yourself,” snapped the doctor. “I know damned well—Did you find it, Rufus?”

  “No, suh. Sure ain’t no whiskey in that room,” said Rufus.

  “But—all right,” said Doctor Murphy.

  “How about it, Doc,” said Sloan. “Make it a good shot this time, huh?”

  Doc Murphy looked at him. He had given Sloan an antabuse pill, and it takes no great amount of whiskey, in combination with antabuse, to prove damn-near fatal.

  “All right,” said the doctor. “Rufus, bring Mr. Sloan an ounce and a half of bourbon.”

  He held out his keys. Rufus took them, returned after a moment with the drink; and Doc carefully returned the keys to his pocket.

  “Now, I’m warning you, Sloan. You shouldn’t take that drink. You’re going to wish you hadn’t, and you’d be a lot better off without it.”

  Jeff Sloan nodded. “I don’t doubt you a bit, Doctor,” he said, and he swallowed the drink at a gulp.

  Doctor Murphy shoved back his chair and stood up.

  He strode out of the room and out the front door.

  Bernie bowed his head at Sloan in a gesture of appreciation. “Nice going. A very nice act. Doc’s thoroughly convinced that you’re about to suffer the agonies of the damned.”

  “And does he love it,” grinned Sloan. “I’ll have to do some more eye-fluttering and sweating for him. If I play it just right—suffer in just the right amount—I may be able to make him for three or four more shots.”

  “You’re positive you didn’t swallow any of the antabuse?” said John Holcomb. “It doesn’t take much of it to—”

  “You’re telling me,” said Sloan. “I’ve had that stuff before. Couldn’t sit down. Couldn’t lie still. Couldn’t get my breath and my heart kept fluttering and stopping. I wasn’t sick, you know. Just so damned uncomfortable and uneasy that I wished I could die and get it over with.”

  “But I thought Doc watched you take it?”

  “Oh, I put it in my mouth all right. But I tongued it into my hand when I took my drink.”

  He demonstrated the trick, while the Holcombs and Bernie looked on admiringly.

  Then Gerald glanced meaningfully at John and the two of them glanced at Bernie, and all three stood up.

  “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Sloan…”

  “Oh, sure,” said Jeff easily. “You fellows go right ahead. I’m feeling no pain, for the moment.”

  The brothers murmured appreciation for Sloan’s tact and understanding. Bernie Edmonds felt constrained to explain the situation.

  “We—the Holcombs, I should say—have less than a quart. As long as you can get it out of Doc, you’d probably better do it.”

  “Sure,” said Sloan. “I’ll manage. What about this old guy, the General? I spotted him out on the terrace this morning. Looked like a man who could use a slug, if I ever saw one.”

  “That’s right,” said Bernie. “I don’t see how we can give the General a drink. He’d wind up by taking the whole bottle, and Doc would—well, I don’t like to think about what Doc would do. It’s too bad, but…”

  “I understand,” Sloan nodded. “Well, I’ll see you gentlemen, after a while.”

  Glowing comfortably from the whiskey, he arose from his chair and sauntered across the room. He stepped through the French doors and out onto a flagstoned patio overlooking the front yard.

  Must cost something to maintain a place like this, Sloan thought idly. But for thirty bucks a day—thirty bucks plus extras per patient—Doctor Murphy could doubtless afford it. For that kind of money, he could afford something much better than this; and, Sloan thought critically, keep it up much better.

  Of course, the place wasn’t filled to capacity, but it wouldn’t have to be. Say there were only seven patients, such as was the case now. Well, seven times thirty was two hundred and ten—more than that when you figured extras, but call it two hundred and ten. Two ten times three sixty-five…why, hell, it figured out to around eighty grand a year! And if half of that wasn’t profit then he, Jeff Sloan, didn’t know his tail from a turnip.

  His eyes narrowed, suddenly, in a kind of good-natured disgust as he saw the doctor emerge from a clump of shrubbery near the far end of the lawn. He had been down on his hands and knees—a doctor, mind you, crawling on his hands and knees—and he arose holding a bottle. He held it up to the light, shook it, then hurried it away in the direction of the trees.

  Then, head down, he came striding up a curving graveled walk to the patio.

  Sloan stepped down off the flagstone to meet him.

  “Oh, Doctor Murphy. I’d like to talk to you about—”

  “Huh!”—the doctor looked up startled, then roughly brushed past the advertising man. “Later. Haven’t time for you now.”

  “Now, just a minute!” said Sloan. “This is—”

  “I said I didn’t have time, Sloan!”

  “But this is important! It—”

  “It’ll keep then,” Doc Murphy flung over his shoulder, and he disappeared through the French doors.

  Jeff took an angry stride or two after him; then, red-faced, kicking surlily at the gravel, he moved around the house to the rear terrace.

  The good feeling, the sharpness of mind he had known a moment ago, was beginning to leave him. Now he felt shamed, cheap, and, more than that, damned good and sore.

  He wasn’t drunk, was he? He’d been entirely polite and business-like, hadn’t he? Well, then. Where did that bird get off at, treating him like some Spring Street bum?

  Moodily, he sat down on the terrace and lighted a cigarette, sat staring out at the ocean. Of course, he had insisted on having whiskey this morning; he’d tricked Murphy into giving him two drinks. But Murphy didn’t know he was being tricked, and he’d been pretty tricky himself, and—and, anyway, anyone was apt to need a couple of quick ones when he got up in the morning, and—and the guy had been goddam rude right from the start. If he hadn’t tried to throw his weight around, he, Sloan, wouldn’t have—might not have—taken even one drink.

  Rationalizing, pushing down the unpleasant facts which his subconscious mind sought to present to him, Jeff talked himself into a mood of warm self-righteousness. This Murphy would have to be shown, that was all. Let these other characters take his guff if they wanted to—(why did they do it, anyway? pretty big people, some of ’em)—but Jeff Sloan would show him.

  Show him, uh, something.

  He’d think of something…just as soon as he got another drink or two.

  He sauntered into the house and down the hall, wondering how he could broach the matter to the Holcombs in a way at once polite and insistent. They struck him as being pretty cold fish, if they wanted to be. Bernie Edmonds, too, for all his airy geniality. They were old friends, acquaintances, at least, and he was an outsider, and…but surely they wouldn’t turn him down. Fact was, they’d already promised to take care of him. They might have done it, hoping he’d refuse—as he had refused—but they had offered, and when he explained why he couldn’t hit up the doctor for the time being.…

  He walked more slowly, hearing the doctor’s voice through the open door of a room ahead of him.

  “…all right, General; you just lie here for ano
ther hour…sit tight, too, Rufus. Don’t do any stirring around for the next fifteen minutes…”

  “Yes, suh.”

  “Get all that milk down you. Miss Baker, you put plenty of corn syrup in it?”

  “Yeth, Doctor.”

  “Good. Good…”

  Jeff Sloan came parallel with the door and looked in.

  The old boy, the General, was stretched out on the bed with his eyes closed, while Doctor Murphy affixed a bandage to his right arm. Rufus, his body bared to the waist, was slumped forward in a chair, sipping from a glass which Nurse Baker held for him.

  The position of her body slightly hiked the white skirt of her uniform, and Sloan got a glimpse of creamy pink flesh. Then, the doctor had turned, and was looking at him with a mixture of emotions in which resignation predominated.

  “All right, Sloan. Still after a drink, eh?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Jeff began coldly…Had he said he wanted a drink? Hadn’t he only wanted to discuss a strictly business proposition?

  “Well?”

  “As a matter of fact”—Jeff swallowed heavily—“yes.”

  The doctor frowned. “I don’t know how in the hell you’re…But, okay. Got your keys with you, Miss Baker?”

  “Yeth, thir.”

  “Get Mr. Sloan a drink, then. Give him—uh, well—two ounces, and check his reactions after he takes it. Check him very carefully, understand?”

  “Yeth, doctor.”

  “And I’ll see you in my office as soon as you’re finished.”

  “Y-yeth, thir.”

  Jeff Sloan followed her up the hall, wondering how a trick as cute as this had been allowed to run around loose so long. He considered the possibility of arranging a date for a few days hence, after he was back in circulation. But, intriguing as the idea was, he couldn’t really get his mind on it for the moment. He’d have to think about it later, after he’d had—

  After he’d demonstrated a thing or two to Doc Murphy.

  He watched. fidgeting, while she unlocked the liquor closet and filled a two-ounce glass. He was so anxious for the drink that he almost forgot to simulate the symptoms which the whiskey was supposed to bring on.