The Alcoholics (14 page)

Doctor Murphy thought it would. He was sure-ha, ha – that it would. Just the word 'Donation' across the corner of the check. That- -ha, ha-that would take care of everything.

Doctor Perthborg looked at him with cynical amusement. He shook hands, and said good-day.

And as he drove away, he permitted himself a scornful and wondering laugh… The pitiful damned fool. Practically going into hysterics when he got his hands on that fifteen thousand! Why, if he'd been half the man that he, Doctor Perthborg, was, he'd have put on the squeeze for two times fifteen thousand!

Meanwhile, Doctor Murphy remained in his office. He remained at his desk, staring rather dazedly at the check.

There it was. He'd never thought he could get away with it. He felt unnerved, exhausted-wanting to yell with sheer relief yet lacking the energy to do it.

The check rattled in his trembling fingers, and he dropped it hastily. He gulped and brushed at his eyes… Fifteen grand! The sanitarium could coast a long time on that. And Humphrey Van Twyne would have his chance-the one in a thousand chance for normality, usefulness, happiness.

But it had been too much. He had given everything he had to get this far, and this far was really nothing. As yet he had done nothing. The last conclusive step was yet to be taken. A step across the abyss… or into it.

The door opened and closed gently. Miss Baker came firmly across the room.

"Ith there… ith there anything I can do, Doctor?"

"I don't know." Doctor Murphy barely looked up. "I mean, no, I guess not. Just thinking. Trying to think something through."

"If ith… I hope it doethn't conthern what I thaid about Jothephine. She's really a very sweet perthon, and I thimply mithunderthtood what she wath-"

"No," said Doc. "Josephine's all right."

"Mithter Thloan? Did he tell you? I put a full glath of whithkey in hith room today right after lunch."

Doctor Murphy glanced at her sharply. Then he shrugged. "So? It doesn't matter. Everything's all right now. You. Sloan. The General. Bernie. The Holcombs…" Doc laughed tiredly. "I don't know how the hell it happened, because I've been a bigger damned fool than usual. But everything's all right. Everything and everyone, but-"

"Yeth, Doctor?"

Doc shook his head.

Of course, they didn't want publicity, and there'd certainly be plenty if they decided to get tough. They'd be shown up for the rotten bunch of stinkers they were. There'd be a scandal that would make Humphrey's past exploits seem like Sunday school stuff… So the odds were all that they wouldn't do anything. They'd take their licking, and the day might even come-if Humphrey turned out okay-when they'd thank him for it.

But… but you could never be sure which way an outfit like that would jump. The fact that it was against their interests to kick up a fuss didn't mean that they might not do it. Undoubtedly, there was a strong streak of nuttiness in the entire family. If they got sore enough, they could make him wish he'd never been born. They could get his license pulled, hound him from place to place, break him and keep him broken. And the fact that they'd be in the soup too wouldn't help him any.

He didn't think they'd do it. They were too damned selfish, too shrewd to hurt themselves to get at another. But he couldn't be sure- he didn't
know
. And he wouldn't know until it was too late to back up.

Suddenly, he was almost terrified.

"Doctor…" She was looking down at the check, now, and somehow she seemed to know. She already knew he was a damned fool, and the check was enough to fill in the picture. "You crathy man," she breathed. "You know you're crathy?"

She moved unbidden to the filing cabinet. She consulted a white address card, and returned to the desk.

"Thath the Paine-Gwaltney Clinic, Forest Hills, New York… Straight telegram, Doctor?"

"Straight telegram," said Doctor Murphy, and he dictated. " 'Returning Humphrey Van Twyne your care. Also air-mailing photostat of carte-blanche authority from Van Twyne agent. Urge you spare no expense.'… How many words is that, Lucretia?"

"Nineteen, counting Van Twyne ath one word. Shall I try to cut-"

"Add two," said Doctor Murphy." 'Good luck…'"

In the double room of the Holcomb brothers, the General remarked that chronically opposed as he was to leaving pleasant company, he would have to ask to be excused: for the first time in years, he was honestly sleepy. And John stated that, oddly enough, he and brother also felt like sleeping. And Bernie and Jeff confessed to the same almost-forgotten sensation, and they all smiled at one another, happily, and said goodnight.

In her room, Susan Kenfield said, "Kitchy-koo, you darling, lovely, adorable, hideous little bastard," then she released him to the somewhat shocked nurse and peacefully closed her eyes.

In Room Four, Humphrey Van Twyne urinated in his winding sheets, and for a moment there was a flicker of intelligence in the chiseled white mask of his face. Eons, ages ago, there had been a void, black, empty, awesome, and then there had been this sudden wet warmth. And then? Then?

On the rear terrace, looking down upon the phosphorescent highway of moonlight which stretched endlessly into the Pacific, Miss Baker said she just knew everything would be all right, and Doctor Murphy said, well, he thought so too, and it'd damned well better be.

"We have a new patient, Doctor. I think you'd better see him."

"Bad?"

"Pretty well into delirium. Beaten up and rolled, apparently. I had to pay his cab fare."

"Damn! Okay, I'll be right with you." He ran to catch up with Judson.

"Better rig up a saline drip… What's his name, anyway? His job?"

"Couldn't quite get his name, Doctor. But he was babbling something about being a writer."

"Well, we'll wash out his bloodstream, get him back to work as soon as possible. That's what all these birds need. Something to keep-grab him!"

They grabbed him together, the puke-smeared, wild-eyed wreck who staggered suddenly into the corridor. He struggled for a moment, then went limp in their arms sobbing helplessly.

"T-tomcats," he wept. "S-sonsbitches t-thirty-four f-feet tall an'… n' goteighteen tails, n'… n'…"

"Yeah?" said Doctor Murphy.

"… n' oysters for eyeballs."

Doctor Murphy chuckled grimly. "Yes, sir," he said, "we'll knock him out, wash him out, and get him back to work. I've got a job all picked out for this character."

"A job? I don't-"

"C-cats," sobbed the writer. "N' every damn one a lyric s-soprano…"

Doctor Murphy regarded him fondly. 'A grade-A nut," he said. "A double-distilled screwball. Just the man to write a book about this place."

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20/10/2007

LRS to LRF parser v.0.9; Mikhail Sharonov, 2006; msh-tools.com/ebook/