Kill the Boss Goodbye

by Peter Rabe

  “No, I don't,” said Emilson.

  “Hepatitis.”

  “He had no symptoms while he was here.”

  This time Dr. Jouvet smiled voluntarily. “We specialists—” and he laughed— “are all cursed with the same single vision.” Jouvet turned serious, folded his hands. “However, that's the very reason I am here.”

  “Mr. Fell's hepatitis?”

  Jouvet ignored it.

  “My examinations are always quite complete, perhaps even excessively so. On that basis you will understand that I—though being an internalist—took notice of Mr. Fell's psychological problems. I am here because you are the logical one to clarify matters to me.”

  “Well,” said Emilson, “of course. You came all the way from New York—”

  “Of course not. Let me make this clear. Mr. Fell has engaged me, for the time being, as his attending physician. I have accompanied him back to San Pietro. There was some justification for his move—a man of his age has often a number of things which require attention. Under the circumstances anything you can contribute to my understanding...”

  “Oh, of course.” Emilson put out his second cigarette. He didn't light another one. “By my lights, Doctor Jouvet, your patient should not be out of a sanatorium.”

  “You don't say.”

  “Yes. Let me explain. Or first, rather, let me qualify. Because of Mr. Fell's discharge, against my advice, my observations were not complete. But a manic syndrome was obvious.”

  “A manic depressive?”

  “I'm not sure it's cyclic. In fact, to classify it as manic is descriptive only, and from a psychiatric point of view not too meaningful. Clinical research seems to indicate, in most cases, that a manic depressive psychosis is actually—”

  “Doctor Emilson, for my purpose the descriptive classification will do. I doubt whether I could follow you beyond that.”

  “Oh, it's not really—”

  “Really, Doctor, this is not false modesty.”

  Emilson was disappointed. He had hoped for a chance to be thorough, to sit down with a colleague. But then internal medicine was really no fit background for a technical airing of Fell's case. “Let's say we discuss the prognosis,” he said. “Again, you flatter me, Doctor. I would need a description of symptoms first.”

  They both laughed politely. Then Emilson said, “Has he been very active?”

  “No. The lethargy induced by the liver condition—”

  “Yes, that would counteract any inclination toward—”

  “Except for this. I have never seen a patient respond to treatment quite as quickly as Mr. Fell did. That is, as far as the lethargy goes. And even when it was at its height it was sporadic.”

  “As if he were pushing it out of the way?”

  “Exactly,” said Jouvet.

  “Descriptively, that would be one of Mr. Fell's chief attributes, to push aside all obstacles to his—to the progress of his psychosis.”

  “It sounds ruthless.”

  “No, not ruthless; inconsiderate. No moral scruples and therefore no concept of right and wrong.”

  “But no—ah—vicious intent.”

  “Certainly not. In fact, the manic's optimism and self-assurance make any sort of viciousness unnecessary. You may even find that Fell can be very generous. He will feel that he can afford to be.”

  “Rather an incautious trait.”

  “The picture is: careless, outgoing, optimistic. Quite likable, for that reason, but by no means reliably so. The patient can switch allegiance at the drop of a hat.”

  “Tell me this, Doctor Emilson. Would Mr. Fell tend to be dangerous?”

  Emilson thought for a moment, then shrugged. “To others, no. Not by intent, anyway. To himself, yes.”

  “Meaning?”

  “The increase of tempo in the manic is a record of his disintegration. The more he displays all I have described, the closer he comes to the collapse which ends with a full-blown psychotic delusion. At that point—” Emilson shrugged again— “the patient is very hard to reach.”

  “It sounds tragic,” said Jouvet. “Yes, it is. Whether this will be so in the case of Fell—”

  They both shrugged this time and Jouvet said, “Then what keeps him sane?”

  “That is hard to say. You say he hasn't cut down on his responsibilities, removed himself from the pressures of his business?”

  “I didn't say, but you are right.”

  “They all have a core of health,” said Emilson.

  “Which sustains it in one case and not in another?”

  “In the case of Mr. Fell, I believe it is his wife.”

  “She sustains him?”

  “So it seems.”

  “How is this?”

  “Without being clinical, he feels safe with her. And so she becomes his sane spot.”

  “I must remember this,” said Doctor Jouvet.

  “I wish you would,” said Emilson, “because if he should leave her, that could be the signal.”

  “For what?”

  “That he has broken with sanity.”

  When Dr. Jouvet left, Emilson was still disappointed. He felt dissatisfied with the surface descriptions to which Dr. Jouvet had held him. It did injustice to the case and would be slight service to Jouvet.

  But since Jouvet was no doctor he felt satisfied with what he had learned. It was a shame about Fell. He meant no harm. But Jouvet was sure that the men in Los Angeles, in the beige office, would think of it differently.

  Chapter Twenty

  Cripp didn't get to see Janice that evening because Fell kept him busy. They had a meeting with some of Fell's lawyers; they had a conference with two men from the zoning board; and men there was a long session with the accountants. Fell went home at three in the morning and Cripp went to his place. He thought he had just gone to bed when Fell called him up again, seven a.m., but when Fell heard Cripp's voice over the phone he merely told him to go back to sleep and to meet him at the motel around noon.

  When Fell hung up Cripp was wide awake. He knew where Fell would be—out at the building site, watching the shovels and the bulldozers. Fell wasn't likely to leave there before noon.

  Cripp knew Janice's sleeping habits, but he thought it might be important enough and called her immediately. Once he got past Rita, Janice told him to come along at any time.

  She saw his car pull into the drive and a while later heard his irregular step on the tiles in the hall. Uneasily, she remembered sitting here and listening to Sutterfield come into the hall. When the door opened she got up, came across the room, and said, “Good morning, Cripp. Have some coffee?” He said yes and they both sat down at the small table by the window. They didn't talk while she poured.

  “It's a little odd,” said Janice, and smiled. “I've never done this before—talk about Tom to somebody else.”

  “Perhaps we shouldn't,” said Cripp. He watched the steam from his coffee cup and then looked up at Janice. She seemed taller than he.

  She said, “We may not know what to talk about, but I think we should. It—something doesn't feel right, about Tom.”

  “I know, but perhaps it's just the way Emilson talked, making you feel this way.”

  “That would be nice. That would be the best. Except—”

  “I know. It feels the same way to me.”

  “Cigarette?”

  Cripp nodded and took one, then lit hers. He forgot his own.

  “I haven't seen Tom very much,” said Janice, “but perhaps that in itself is what worries me.”

  “I've seen a lot of him. He never stops. He does as Emilson says, keeps going all the time.”

  “Is he doing anything foolish?” Cripp shrugged, then took the time to light his cigarette. “I don't know, Mrs. Fell. I honestly don't. Perhaps I'm more confused than he is.”

  “If he would only do less,” said Janice. “If I could see him more.”

  “Can't you tell him?”

  Janice looked at Cripp without talking
. Then she leaned forward.

  “That's it. That's the thing, Cripp. I can't talk to him any more. It's as if I weren't there.”

  It embarrassed Cripp and he looked out the window, at the lawn with the dry patches.

  He said suddenly, “Perhaps you should leave. Go away for a few days and make him take notice.”

  “He needs me.”

  “But he doesn't know it.”

  “I'm afraid to leave, Cripp.”

  Cripp understood that. He looked down at his feet.

  “I just thought, you know, a little shock—”

  Janice nodded. She took a new cigarette, then put it down again.

  “Why fool ourselves, Cripp. The fact that we're sitting here shows something is wrong. Why fool ourselves?”

  When Cripp spoke again he said it fast, to be done with it. “I'm going to call Emilson.” Then his courage ran out. “If it gets any worse,” he added.

  “Yes. We may need him. I'll talk to Tom. I'll try and make him see...” She frowned, shook her head, didn't go on. It had never been like this between her and Fell. There had never been such a wall. As if he were trying to hide from her, pull away. But that wasn't it. There was nothing cagey about him. It was more as if he were losing touch and did not try to reach her.

  She turned abruptly when the car came through the gate and stopped next to Cripp's. Fell jumped out and walked into the house immediately. If he had recognized Cripp's car he gave no sign of it.

  “Stay,” said Janice. “If he asks, we'll think of something to say.”

  The door to the room wasn't all the way open when Fell said, “Jan, I had to...” He hesitated when he saw Cripp but walked straight toward them. He nodded at Cripp, smiling, then bent down to give Janice a kiss.

  “Pour me some.” He nodded at the coffee.

  He watched her fill a cup, pulled up a chair, and leaned toward Janice.

  “You know where I was? Out there with those machines. And suddenly, Jan, I had to see you.” He stopped abruptly, leaving a solid silence. Then he smiled at Janice. “I haven't seen you much, lately.”

  He patted Janice's hand and then picked up his coffee. He didn't see the smile of relief on Janice's face.

  “Tom,” she said, “you promised, after the season, we'd go to the mountains.”

  “I did, and we will.” Then he looked at Cripp. “How come you're up this early? I thought when I called you...”

  “I came over to talk to Janice,” said Cripp. “I thought, and she thought, that...” But Fell wasn't listening. He slapped one hand on his knee and said, “You know, it's a good thing you're here. I've got to see Sutterfield—”

  “Tom,” Janice interrupted.

  “And I want you to come along,” he finished.

  “Tom,” Janice said again, “Cripp and I talked about you.”

  “You did?” Fell got up.

  “Tom, are you paying attention?”

  If the words made no impression, the tone of voice should have, but Fell only frowned. Then he put his hand on Janice's shoulder and gave a small squeeze.

  “I'll be home early tonight, Jan. We'll talk about our trip.”

  Then he was at the door, and Cripp followed him out.

  Chapter twenty-one

  Sutterfield wasn't in his office and the old girl with the pink glasses couldn't say where he was.

  “Call his home,” said Fell. “See if he's there.”

  “I'm sorry, but I never call Commissioner Sutterfield at his home. We have a rule.”

  “Oh, come on,” said Fell and pushed the phone her way.

  “I am very sorry. However—”

  “Come on, now.” This time Fell slapped her on the back, like a comrade, and for a moment she seemed to choke. She found her voice high up someplace, sounding mean.

  “I must insist. And please get off my desk or I'll call—”

  “Go ahead, call him.”

  “—call the police!”

  “But, honey,” said Fell and he leaned down on one elbow, “youare the police.” For one second he smiled, then it was gone. “Take the phone, Cripp. You call Sutterfield.”

  The way Fell sat on the desk she couldn't get up without touching him and that thought was enough to keep her stiff in her chair. Cripp phoned Sutterfield's home, but he wasn't there either. He called the bank without luck, the racing commissioner's office, and then the real estate board.

  “Where is he?” said Fell. He was smiling at the woman, but she thought he was going to bite.

  “This outrage—”

  “I'll call Commissioner Sutterfield and have you arrested,” said Fell. “Where is he?”

  It couldn't be much worse, she thought. He was leaning so close, and leering, and he had both hands on the arms of her chair and with one brief twist could have sat in her lap.

  “I refuse!” Her voice quavered.

  Fell changed so abruptly she didn't know whether to be grateful or scared.

  “Come on, let's have it. You're holding me up.”

  Cripp noticed how Fell hadn't just changed for effect but was tense and meant it.

  “Where is he?” said Fell again.

  “In his—he is at the club this morning. The Athletic Club.”

  Fell got off the desk and left without saying anything more. In the car he said, “The Athletic Club. I'll give him a workout!”

  Fell wasn't a member, so they wouldn't let him in, and when he said who he was they got huffy about it. It worried Cripp. He saw how Fell held one lip in his mouth, without talking, and then took his hands out of his pockets.

  “Send Sutterfield out here,” was all he said.

  The deskman thought he hadn't heard right.

  Fell took the bell off the desk and started to tap the button.

  “Sir—” started the deskman, but then an attendant came running in answer to the bell.

  “Never mind, Jordan.” The deskman sounded hurried. “The bell—”

  Then another attendant came running because the bell was still going. They both stood there watching Fell dingle the bell button up and down.

  Then the deskman had an idea. The reading room opposite was empty and the two attendants were there.

  “Grab him!” he said. It sounded dramatic. “Throw him out!” But the attendants didn't get it.

  Fell showed them. He reached out for the closest, spun him around and kicked his rear. The man sailed across the foyer. Cripp saw how Fell liked it, how he pushed away from the desk to grab for the other man.

  “We don't want any trouble,” said Cripp, and he stepped between the two. “We don't want a commotion, so just get Mr. Sutterfield. Please,” said Cripp.

  The man across the foyer had picked himself up and Fell had a smile on his face. “Hey,” he said, “hey, you,” and started toward the man.

  “Tom, listen.” Cripp held his arm and Fell must have noticed the grip because he stopped and the smile disappeared. “Tom, listen to me,” said Cripp. “The clerk says he'll get Sutterfield. He'll get him right now.”

  Fell relaxed.

  “Let's go,” said Fell, “you're holding me up.”

  He had stepped back to the desk. The clerk looked at him, scared now because he couldn't make Fell out, but seeing the way Fell was looking at him he didn't feel like fooling around any more.

  “He has the—Mr. Sutterfield is in the conditioning room. He is—”

  “The what?” said Fell.

  “Steam bath: He will be out—”

  “Show me the steam bath.”

  The clerk sent one of the attendants along to direct Fell and Cripp to the steam bath.

  There was a heavy man on a table and the masseur was working on him. There didn't seem to be anyone else but then they saw the row of steam cabinets along the far wall, and Sutterfield's head was lying on top of one.

  Sutterfield was looking weak. When he saw Fell he made a sudden rattle inside his box, then looked weak again.

  “If you're well done on all sides,
Herbie, come on out so we can have a talk.”

  “Milton!” said Sutterfield. He was craning his neck to see the masseur and called “Milton!” again.

  There was one last slap from the back of the room, then the fat man grunted as he got off the table and Milton called back, “Coming right up, sir.”

  Sutterfield might have had something else in mind when he called “Milton” but the masseur had his routine. He talked a blue streak while he turned off Sutterfield's steam and slammed open the cabinet.

  “Up and lively now,” he said and helped Sutterfield out of the box. Then he held a big sheet up and Sutterfield had to walk over to it in order to get wrapped up.

  “Christ!” said Fell. “You look awful.”

  Sutterfield couldn't even talk. His bony legs stuck out below.

  “Don't you think so, Cripp? I think he looks awful.” Fell grinned after Sutterfield, who was being led away by the masseur.

  They waited in a room called the Antler Den with wagon wheels hanging from the ceiling for chandeliers and a lot of ranch-type equipment all over. There were so many antlers it looked dangerous. Then Sutterfield came in, fully dressed, and sank into a chair. He still looked weak.

  “How are we doing?” said Fell. It didn't sound like small talk but neither Cripp nor Sutterfield knew what he meant. Fell seemed to think they would all know what was on his mind so he just said it again, “How's the progress, Herb?”

  “Progress? What progress do you mean? Do you realize, Fell, you have seriously compromised me? I not only demand an explanation, but I'm warning you—”

  “You're wasting my time,” said Fell. He leaned forward in his chair, eyes wide and hard. Only his face looked animated. “I'm getting sick of you, Sutterfield, make no mistake. Don't yammer, don't make excuses, just follow through when I ask a question. Cripp, you got a cigarette?”

  Cripp fumbled for his pack, nervous now. There was something electric in Fell's behavior and it seemed to infect those around him. Cripp handed a cigarette over as if he could hardly wait to get rid of it.

  “So talk sense, Herb. I want to hear what you did.”

  Sutterfield knew no more than before, only this time it didn't make him querulous. Instead he felt anxious and rushed. “What I did?” he said. “About what, Fell, I can't seem to remember.”