by Jim Thompson
It is a maddening sensation. Jeff, to whom it was new, and who was undergoing a relatively light form of it, was almost at the point of yelling when Rufus came upon him.
Rufus had observed him from a small staircase window, nothing with satisfaction that the alcove in which Jeff was sitting would prevent his being seen from almost every other point in the house. Such opportunities seldom came Rufus’ way, and he promptly took advantage of this one.
“Mr. Sloan, I believe,” he said, with such crispness as he was capable of. “How are you feeling, suh?”
“Why—uh—” Jeff looked at him uncertainly, and half-rose from his chair. “Why, all right, I guess.”
“Sit still please. And kin’ly lean back.”
Rufus pulled the stethoscope from his pocket, adjusted the ear-pieces and slid the detector inside Jeff’s pajamas. He listened gravely, his eyes professionally serious as they stared into Jeff’s. He stood back at last and returned the stethoscope to his pocket, his pursed lips and drawn-together brows obviously indicative of disconcerting knowledge.
“Well?” Jeff laughed nervously.
“Your heart always been like that?” said Rufus.
“Like—like what? There’s never been anything wrong with my heart that I know of.”
Rufus shook his head, searching for some safe but authentic temporization. “Well, now, o’ course it could be simple—sympathetic. A reaction to some other condition. Kin’ly open your mouth, suh.”
Jeff opened his mouth.
He was a little puzzled. He had thought Rufus only a flunky about the place, a waiter and man of all work, yet here he was assuming the functions of a doctor…Would they have an interne around such a place?
Everything about this place was cockeyed. If this guy didn’t seem to act quite right—and Jeff couldn’t say why he didn’t seem to—well, it was only natural.
Rufus looked down at him, frowning, stroking his chin with one hand.
“ ’Magine you’re pretty constipated, aren’t you, suh?” he said hopefully.
“Not so you could notice it,” said Jeff.
“ ’Magine your head aches pretty bad, don’t it?”
“Well, yes. But, look now—uh—” Jeff hesitated. For a doctor this bird was a little rough in the English department, but—
“Stand up, please.”
“But—if you don’t mind, I’d—”
“Up!” said Rufus firmly.
Jeff Sloan stood up. Rufus placed a hamlike hand against each side of his head, and began to move them in a gentle push-pull motion.
“Feels better, don’t it, suh? Makes it feel kinda nice an’ easy.”
Jeff, his head wobbling from side to side, backward and forward, agreed that it did feel better.
Rufus’ hands pressed tighter. Their motion grew faster. “Jus’ relax,” he said. “Jus’ let it go an’ I give you a…’justment!”
He gave a sudden quick jerk. There was a loud pop from the immediate vicinity of Jeff Sloan’s neck. He yelled, pulled violently out of Rufus’ grasp, and fell back against the house.
“God Almighty,” he gasped, his head bent over and slightly to the front of his left shoulder. “Y-you’ve broken my neck!”
“No, s-suh. No, I ain’t, suh.” A premonition of impending disaster set Rufus’ insides a-tremble. “You jus’ ain’t let me finish the ’justment, suh, ’at’s all. I give it one more teeny-weensie twist, an’—”
“Jesus,” he grunted, “how stupid can a guy get! I’m goddam lucky I got a head on my neck at all!”
Jeff glared at him. His head poised at a ludicrous angle, he stamped off the terrace and into the house. Boy, he’d had it! All he needed now was to have some of these jokers give him the horse laugh.
Fortunately—for the physical welfare of anyone who might have encountered him, as well as his pride—he arrived at his room unobserved. He closed the door, placed a chair against it (it had no lock) and sank down on the bed. He started to lie back, and a sharp twinge brought him suddenly upright.
He tried again, on his side. He tried it on the other side. He tried it on his stomach. Groaning, a little desperate, he sat up again.
He managed to light a cigarette, and smoked, moodily, moving the cigarette back and forth to his lips with a wide sweeping motion. He flung it to the floor, cursing, pushed himself up off the bed, and went into the bathroom.
God, he groaned, staring at his lopsidedness in the bathroom mirror, why couldn’t he have seen that the guy was a screwball? He knew he was only a flunky, knew he must be, and yet, by God, he’d gone right ahead and…
He started to turn on the water, then saw that a hand towel was lying in the sink. He picked it up and—
“Huh!” he gasped, and his head snapped up in surprise. His neck popped again, and he grunted out an “Ouch!” and then he was looking into the mirror again, moving his head to and fro, laughing in sheer delight. It was all right. The damned thing had slipped back into place. That little jump he’d given, when he’d seen what was in the sink…
“What do you know,” he said, tenderly, and lifted it up. “Baby, you are a life saver!”
He sniffed it. He sipped, cautiously. He drank and said, “Whuff!” and “Wow!”
A hundred proof, by gosh. A full tumbler—better than half a pint—of hundred proof whiskey.
He drank again, the why of the miracle brushed aside in the urgent need to enjoy it. To hell with why. Who cared about why? It wasn’t some kind of crappy trick; it wasn’t doped up. It was real honest-to-Hannah whiskey, drinkin’ whiskey, and he could feel the old lead flowing back into his pencil already.
“A life saver,” murmured Jeff, and he meant it literally.
He sipped at the whiskey until the glass was approximately two-thirds full. Then, he dripped water into it until the level reached the top again. He took another sip, held it in his mouth a moment, savoring it judiciously. He nodded with satisfaction…Very shrewd, he thought, congratulating himself on the “discovery”; unaware that the trick was the oldest in the alcoholic’s repertoire. You could get that high-proof taste in your mouth, then cut your drink back to its original size; and it was almost impossible to tell that it had been cut. Within reasonable limits, you could have your whiskey and drink it, too.
He carried the glass into the bedroom, pushed the chair more tightly against the door and sat down on the bed again. He sipped and smoked, self-confidence and optimism surging through his body in a nerve-warming, lilting tide. That was one thing about going without a drink for a while. When you did get one, it really did you some good.
He grinned, unconsciously, out of sheer high spirits. Boy, he thought, was I moaning low. And not a reason in the world for it, either. No one had tried to brush him off. Bernie and those other guys were all right. They must have put this whiskey over here for him. Maybe he ought to step over there, and—
But suppose they hadn’t done it? Suppose he should thank them, and…well, aside from the fact that he didn’t have enough to share, that he damned well wasn’t going to share, it would be kind of embarrassing—they might think he was needling them about the way they’d acted—if they hadn’t given it to him.
Come to think of it, hadn’t Bernie mentioned the brand the Holcombs had?…He had! And that brand wasn’t hundred proof.
This stuff now, this must, if he knew anything at all about whiskey, be some of the sanitarium’s stuff.
He hesitated, letting his fingers loosen a little on the glass. And, faintly, from the dining room came the tinkle of the luncheon chimes. He relaxed his grip a little more, and the glass slipped slightly, and abruptly he tightened his fingers again, and jerked the whiskey up to his mouth and took a generous gulp.
There was one good drink left, a little less than a third of a glass. Jeff put it under the bed, against the inside of one of the legs. He jerked the chair away from the door, staggered and righted himself and went out.
11
Doctor Murphy always ate with his patients, those of
them, at least, who were able to get to the dining room. It was often a nuisance to do so—nerve-wracking and time-consuming. But he felt that it was necessary, and worth the effort. Much could be discovered about the condition of a patient by his appetite or lack of it, and his manner of eating. Also, by eating with them, he could still any alcoholic suspicions that he looked down on them or was enjoying better food than they.
With the exception of Susan Kenfield, and, of course, Humphrey Van Twyne, they were all at the table today; even the General was there, very erect and urbane and so shaky that he could hardly get a spoonful of soup to his mouth. Doc Murphy studied him from the corner of his eye. He slipped something into Rufus’ hand, and whispered to him. A minute later the General’s coffee cup was removed, and another set before him. He drank, and his tremblings quieted, and he began to eat.
Doc sighed, silently. It was all wrong; it was murder. But you had to choose: slow murder or quick starvation. When a man had only one thing to live for, bad though it might be, how could you strip him of it completely?
He dropped the problem and moved on to another, ever-present and always hateful. Money. Mentally, and detesting himself for doing it, he began to add and subtract, divide and multiply, to figure over and over, always arriving at the same hopeless result.
The General? Nothing, next to nothing. No more than enough to take care of his medicines.
Bernie Edmonds? Nothing.
Susan Kenfield? Not now. Suzy was always broke and abysmally in debt after a binge. Not now, and now was all that counted.
The Holcombs? Yes. Right on the dot. They would even be good for a generous loan—which, of course, he couldn’t ask for or accept. You couldn’t be in debt to an alcoholic whom you had to treat. Inevitably, the debt would influence the treatment.
Jeff Sloane? Yes.
Van Twyne…?
Doctor Murphy’s calculations ceased abruptly. He caught Rufus’ attention, and whispered to him again. Rufus, who had been hovering about Jeff Sloan with a mixture of curiosity and relief, looked aghast.
“Me, Doctuh? You mean you want me to feed ’at—”
“Yes,” said Doctor Murphy. “What’s the matter? You were anxious enough to fool around up there yesterday.”
“Yes, suh, but I wasn’t foolin’ around his mouth.”
Doc grimaced. “Go on, now. He’s the same as a child—perfectly harmless. How many times do I have to tell you that?”
“Yes, suh. You tell me that, but do you tell him?”
Miss Baker started to rise from her chair. “I can do it, Doctor. I’m all—”
“Rufus can do it. I’ve got some case reports I want you to type up.”
“But I can do that, and—”
“Rufus!” snapped Doctor Murphy. “Move!”
“Yes, suh. Right away after a while, suh, jus’ soon as I take care all you—”
“Josephine can do anything that’s left to do. Now, get moving.”
Rufus moved, his great shoulders slumped in dejection. Miss Baker murmured an inaudible word of apology, and left the table. Frowning, Doc watched her enter the area-way to his office.
He hadn’t acted very subtly in the matter, but he’d had to head her off. At any rate, there wasn’t much sense in being circuitous now when he was going to have to go straight to the mark this afternoon.
He lighted a cigarette and picked up his coffee cup; glanced casually around the table as he smoked and sipped.
The Holcombs had eaten almost nothing. Which must mean that they were out of whiskey and were retaining their inner glow as long as possible by refraining from eating. Bernie had eaten most of his soup and part of a sandwich. Which must mean, since the Holcombs had been his source of whiskey, that he was resigned to sobering up and getting the agony over with. He was trying to face up to his problem.
Doc was rather pleased with Bernie. Bernie could have remained alcoholically eased for several hours yet, but he had chosen to square away with reality now. Necessity, of course, had helped to dictate the choice; what he would do, if he got hold of more whiskey, was another matter.
But he would get no more. The Holcombs would get no more.
Jeff Sloan…
Sloan had taken a few spoonfuls of soup, then sat back and begun smoking. He was sweating and his face was flushed, but otherwise he seemed at ease. There was a sureness about his movements, a kind of arrogant geniality in his manner, which was strangely incompatible in a man who had mixed whiskey with the most violent of alcohol-allergy compounds. Strange. Incredible. But alcoholic behavior had a way of being incredible. Sloan was a super-egoist; he’d keep going as long as he was able to stand up. Which couldn’t, of course, be much longer.
Certainly, he couldn’t have had any more whiskey. Regardless of his will-to-resist, a very little more and he’d be dead or as near death as a man could be without dying. How he’d managed to get away with what he had, with every sip turning into poison, how he could have made the attempt to move in on the Holcombs (Miss Baker had reported Bernie’s brush-off), how a man could fight and beg for something that was killing him—!
Doc put down his coffee cup, and turned slightly in his chair.
“How are you feeling, Sloan?” he said.
“I’m feeling all right,” said Jeff. “How are you feeling, Murphy?”
The Holcombs turned, as a unit, and stared at him. Bernie frowned, and the General looked a little shocked.
“What’s the matter?” Jeff’s voice rang loud through the room. “He didn’t call me mister, did he? Didn’t say how’re ya Jeff, did he?”
“That’s right,” said Doc quickly. “I’m sorry. You’re sure you’re feeling all right, Jeff? Don’t you think you’d better make a stab at your lunch?”
“No,” said Jeff.
“Well”—Doc laid his napkin on the table—“If you gentlemen will excuse me…”
“Wait a minute,” said Jeff. “I want to talk to you.”
“Uh-huh. Well, I’m afraid—”
“I don’t want any whiskey. That’s all you think about, isn’t it? All you think I think about. This is business. Want to talk a little business.”
“I see. In that case we’d better go into my office, hadn’t we?”
“Not necessary. Just want to know what you’ll take for this place. Cash on the barrel-head.”
Doctor Murphy forced a laugh. “Got a buyer for me? Well, thanks, but I’m afraid I couldn’t sell it. After all, what would I do if I didn’t have a place for you gentlemen to visit me?”
“You mean,” said Jeff, “what would you do for another gravy train?”
He looked around the table, grinning, pleased with his shrewdness, and gradually the grin stiffened and disappeared.
“Just a statement of fact,” he said surlily. “Manner of speaking. Couldn’t swing it if it wasn’t a good deal.” He waited. He went on again, stubbornly, sullenly. “Well, it is. Couldn’t help but be. Figure it out yourselves. Not kicking. Glad it is that way. Can’t make money where there isn’t any to make. Doc can get you guys—guys like us—to shell out fifty bucks a day instead o’ thirty, I’m all for it. It’s got to be an A-1 racket or I couldn’t—”
“That’s right,” said Doctor Murphy. “Bernie, will you see the General back to his room. I want him to lie down a while.”
“Now, wait a minute!” said Jeff. “I’m talk—”
“Yes,” said Bernie, “let’s wait and see what else Mr. Sloan has to say. Go right ahead, Mr. Sloan, you’re doing me a lot of good. A little more of your babble, and I’ll be about ready to go on the wagon.”
“B-but”—Jeff kicked back his chair, his face suddenly livid. “Think I’m drunk, do you? Well, let me—”
“I hope you are,” said Bernie. “I don’t see how you could be, but I hope so. I’d hate to think that you were so goddam imbecilic as to believe that—dammit, tell him, Doc!” Bernie’s voice choked up with disgust. “How many of us do you ever get any dough out of? How long has i
t been since I paid you anything?”
“Bernie!” snapped Doc, icily. “You have no right to—”
“Then, I’ll tell him. I—”
But Jeff Sloan was not there to tell. He had left the table. He was leaving the room, sick, sober with shame. Hating himself. Hating and despising them as they must hate and despise him.
Why had they let him go on? Why hadn’t they shut him up before—?
He had to hate them, to move the smothering shroud of hatred from himself to them.
He closed the door of his room behind him, and almost snatched the drink from under the bed. God! He’d have to get out of here some way. Get to a bar—get back to the apartment with a fifth! If he could just get out of here, he’d show ’em a—
The door crashed open. The drink sailed from his hand, and Doctor Murphy was gripping him by the shoulders, shaking him, yelling at him.
“How much? How much have you had?”
“N-not v-very m—” Jeff couldn’t get the words out, not with his teeth rattling like castanets.
Doc released his shoulders, and grabbed his left arm. He jerked up the sleeve, and pressed a thumb against his pulse. “Don’t get excited, now! Take it easy. Just tell me how much—how—
“Why, damn you, Sloan!” he breathed. “I’ve been half off my rocker worrying about you. You’ve had me going around in circles, wondering how in the hell you were doing it! You took five years off my life, just now and—by God!” he roared. “I ought to murder you, Sloan!”
And then he dropped down on the bed, his head buried in his hands, and rocked and whooped with laughter.
“Got a cigarette on you?” he said.
Jeff Sloan gave him one. Hastily he struck a match and held it.
“Thanks.” Doc puffed out a cloud of smoke. “You know I’d have sworn you took that pill. I was sure the boys hadn’t given you anything to drink.”
“Well”—Jeff hesitated. More than anything else he wanted to play square with Doc—to do nothing that would endanger this wonderful friendliness that had reached down to pull him from outer darkness.
But it would sound so funny, saying he’d found the whiskey in the sink. And he couldn’t be positive that the boys hadn’t…
