"See her about what?"
"Paul, under no circumstances, at this stage of the therapy, would I see fit to remove you from the case. You're right—it could be a rude shock to her, set her back, and it might take a long time for her to establish a bond with someone else, even if I could find another male surrogate quickly. No, that's out. What I intend to do is tell Miss Whitcomb I want to discuss her case with her. Then I'll"—he paused—"I'm looking through my engagement book here, and I'm tied up until late afternoon . . . so that's it —I'll arrange with Nan Whitcomb to see her late tomorrow. I'll have a good grandfatherly talk with her."
"What can you tell her?"
"Basically, I'll try to get it through to her that her relationship with her surrogate is not a personal one but a professional one. I think I can manage this without doing her any harm. Once this is done, I feel certain it will make it easier, more comfortable, for you to wind up your last exercise with her without further involvement."
"Thanks, Dr. Freeberg. Thank you very much. My fingers are crossed. I hope you'll succeed."
After he had hung up on Dr. Freeberg, Brandon remained standing in the telephone booth. At last he dug into his pocket for more change. Once he'd found the change, he inserted the coins in the phone, and cheerful again, he began to dial Gayle Miller . . .
Late the following afternoon, Tony Zecca sat tensely and watchfully behind the steering wheel of his Cadillac parked less than half a block away from the Freeberg Clinic. His eyes, as they had been for the last three days, remained fastened on the entrance to the clinic, watching for every person who entered and departed.
Still boiling inside at Nan's deceit, Zecca's real rage was directed toward the man who had seduced her and taken her away from him.
Zecca had been obsessed by the need to find out who Nan's seducer and lover was—and to make the bastard pay for it. So far, Zecca had not succeeded in uncovering the bastard's identity for sure. He had suspected, from the outset, that Dr. Arnold Freeberg, the doctor she had always been visiting, was the culprit, but so far, as of this minute, Zecca had not been able to prove it.
The first day of his clinic watch, Zecca had thought he'd had Freeberg nailed down. Parking at his post, across and not far from the clinic, he had gone inside to case the joint. Luckily, at the receptionist's desk, he had found a stack of brochures describing the function of the clinic, and these had included a biography and photograph of the eminent Dr. Arnold Freeberg.
Once he had learned what Freeberg looked like and what he did for his dirty living, Zecca had gone back to his parked car to watch for him. It had been a long and grueling wait, but just before nightfall of that first day, Zecca's patience and endurance had been rewarded.
He had seen Freeberg leave the clinic, lock the front door, and get into his car in the adjoining parking lot to drive to wherever he was shacking up with Nan. In his Cadillac, Zecca had followed the fucking doctor, trying to decide what he'd do with the bastard once he arrived at wherever he was keeping Nan. Freeberg drove up to a new house at the edge of town, drove into the garage, and was greeted at the front door by a plain, plumpish woman, obviously his wife, whom he was cheating on as far as Zecca could make out. This meant that Freeberg had Nan stashed away in some hot love nest somewhere else.
Yesterday, Zecca had grimly waited once more for Freeberg to close up the clinic and leave, and once again Zecca had followed him when he drove off. And for the second time Zecca had seen the two-faced bastard go into his house to join his wife.
Somewhat discouraged, Zecca continued his relentless vigil all the long afternoon of this third day.
Suddenly, through his car door window, he recognized a very familiar figure walking toward the entrance to the Freeberg Clinic. He saw her from behind as she went to the door and then went inside.
Nan herself, on the way to her lover and her daily shot. The bitch. But the hell with her. It was the old bastard he was going to get.
Zecca's instant response at the sight of Nan was to leap out of his car and confront her. He started to open his door, and then did not do so. Getting his hands on Nan right now was pointless. The smart thing to do was to wait and see if she came out of the clinic with a man, and if that man were Freeberg.
Zecca huddled in the driver's seat, alertly watching and waiting.
It was more than twenty minutes, this wait, and it was getting dark when Zecca's patience finally paid off.
He saw Nan herself emerge from the clinic, someone holding the front door open for her to leave. Next, the someone who had held the door for her emerged, too. It was a man, all right, the man, the old prick who was her doctor, none other than Dr. Arnold Freeberg, the very one Zecca had suspected from the start as the sonofabitch who had wooed her away from him.
Locking the clinic door, Freeberg joined Nan, took her by the arm, and started her down Market Avenue, in the opposite direction from where Zecca was parked.
Zecca contained himself. When he was sure that there was a safe distance between the frigging couple and himself, and he could keep them in view without being spotted, he leapt out of his car.
Hugging the darker areas alongside shut-down buildings and store fronts, Zecca tracked the pair.
They walked together only a short distance, then crossed the street, and disappeared into some tall building. Once Nan and her doctor had gone inside, Zecca quickened his step, hastening to find out their secret place of assignation.
Zecca stood before the building now. It was a hotel. The Excelsior Hotel. So this was where Nan was hiding out, and where her doctor friend was going every day to fuck her.
Zecca's first temptation was to go inside also, learn Nan's room number, and burst in on the two of them locked on her bed, then to beat up on old Freeberg until there wasn't an unbroken bone left in the old shit's body, and then to slam Nan around and take her by the hair and drag her back to his home where she belonged.
Eager as he was to have a go at them, some survival instinct inside Tony Zecca restrained him from the act.
If he burst in on them, and beat up on Freeberg, there could be trouble. Zecca might find himself arrested and in the morning headlines. It was the last place anyone high up in the mob would want him to be. Zecca was only on the fringe of the mob, a lesser light financed by it, doing occasional favors for it, but still one of their boys. The mob did not like any of its own being in the hands of the police or on the front pages of papers. Definitely not.
The getting even, he decided, should be done in a quieter and safer place. The getting even should be done by one of the mob's hit men, more expert in these matters than he himself was.
Maybe.
He started back to his Cadillac. He would think about it.
There were two pull-up armchairs in Nan Whitcomb's hotel room, and Dr. Freeberg waited for Nan to occupy one before he took the other. After refusing Nan's offer of white wine, and gaining her permission to allow him to smoke, Dr. Freeberg lighted a cigarillo and sat back.
"I wanted to speak to you," Dr. Freeberg began, "and intended to do so in my office. Then I thought what I had to talk over with you could be discussed most easily in the privacy of your own hotel room rather than in the clinic or downstairs in the hotel bar. I hope you don't mind?"
"Not at all," said Nan, her curiosity clearly evident. Dr. Freeberg gestured at the room. "I hope you find this comfortable. It was the best I could do when you called."
"I'm grateful you could get me anything."
"Does Mr. Zecca know that you're here?"
"God no, he'd be the last person I'd tell."
"Do you think he'll try to find you?"
Nan shrugged. "I'm not sure. When he found my note, he may have said good riddance. But knowing his ego, I suspect he'll try to find me and drag me back. Even if he traced me, I'd never go back with him, never. Not now."
Dr. Freeberg nodded understandingly. "I can't say that I blame you. You've suffered a particularly brutal experience. But don't think you're alo
ne in that. Your experience, in a way, was not dissimilar to what so many women go through with their husbands or lovers."
Nan seemed surprised. "Really?"
"Usually women with an incompatible mate don't suffer physical brutality, but rather they endure emotional brutality. This is probably because many men get too used to their women and begin to take them for granted. Such men gradually regard their women not only as servants but as someone to service them sexually—someone to have intercourse with—without an exchange of loving and caring, with no time for caressing and enjoying foreplay. These men want only to have their own orgasm and feel better. Such men don't see women as individuals with feelings of their own. They're out of touch with their mates as sensitive human beings to be nurtured and loved."
"You can say that again, in spades, when you speak about somebody like Tony Zecca."
"Mr. Zecca is an extreme example. I simply wanted to reassure you that you are not alone. On a more civilized scale, his behavior goes on all the time everywhere. But soon you'll find there are more thoughtful and sensitive men you can have relationships with . . ."
"I've already learned that, Dr. Freeberg," Nan said, "ever since I met Paul Brandon."
"Yes, of course, Paul Brandon," said Dr. Freeberg, puffing on his cigarillo. "Actually, it's Paul I want to talk to you about."
Nan showed genuine bewilderment. "Talk about what? I've told you all about him, our relationship, in my sessions with you. Haven't I told you everything?"
"Not quite, Nan. Not quite." Dr. Freeberg stamped out the butt of his cigarillo and leaned forward on his chair. "You recall, Nan, don't you, the first meeting we had after you became my patient? The first meeting Paul and I had with you, all three of us together? At that time we made a verbal contract, an agreement. You had a problem, hardly entirely your own. So we set a goal. Through therapy and exercises, we laid out a program that we were confident would help you reach your goal of complete sexual enjoyment. We held nothing back from you. We laid out every aspect of the treatment and exercises. That's true, isn't it?"
"Yes, you did."
"One thing I told you in complete candor. Under my direction, Paul Brandon would professionally help you, be a surrogate partner to teach and direct you. You were paying for Paul's expertise, not for his emotional caring for you. From the start, you knew that your relationship with Paul, while it would become an increasingly intimate one, was a professional relationship, a temporary partnership for a limited number of weeks. You were made to understand that once your surrogate had succeeded in solving your problem, he would have finished his work and would return to his own private life and own personal relationships, and you would have concluded your therapy and would go on with your own private life and your own relationships."
Dr. Freeberg saw that Nan was staring at him, a pained expression on her face. He paused, and waited for her to speak.
"I think I know what you're trying to tell me," Nan said slowly. "You're trying to tell me you think I've fallen in love with Paul, and I shouldn't have."
"That's what I think, Nan, listening and reading between the lines of Paul's reports."
"And you think I've made a mistake?"
"Yes, it's a mistake," Dr. Freeberg said without equivocation. "As your surrogate, Paul cares for you very much—he's developed a bond with you. This is the relationship we hoped would develop between you. It had to develop. But it also has a beginning and an end. Paul is really only a stepping-stone to what is waiting for you in the outside world. Now you both must sever that bond, he to go his way, and you to go yours. He has a private life, and this is merely his work. I repeat, you are paying for his expertise, not for his caring. It would be wrong to expect anything more. Can we discuss it further, Nan?"
She sounded tearful. "No, I don't believe that will be necessary."
"My dear Nan, for everyone the reality of a situation is sometimes difficult to face. I am positive you can do it and be happy soon again." He paused. "Now, how about that glass of wine? Will you pour for both of us?"
In his office in city hall, District Attorney Hoyt Lewis, conscious of the Reverend Scrafield's tense presence across the desk from him, still made an effort to skim the photocopy of Hunter's log a second time.
The journal that Hunter had kept of his exercises with Gayle Miller was meticulous in every detail, and when Lewis finished his hasty second reading he was basically satisfied with the report. Nevertheless, he gave himself a half minute to ponder every aspect of the evidence.
But Scrafield, opposite him, was finding it difficult to contain his own eagerness to proceed. "Hoyt," he demanded, "tell me what you think. It's all there, just like I told you, isn't it?"
"I think so," said Lewis.
"Is anything bothering you?"
"Not really. Perhaps one thing." Lewis dropped the photocopy of Hunter's journal on his desk. "What Hunter refers to here as 'penetration.' It hasn't happened yet. When you depend on one witness, you want everything as explicit as possible."
Scrafield was impatient. "I told you, you don't have to worry. Chet Hunter assures me he'll be humping Gayle tomorrow. He guarantees it and will report to us personally when it's happened."
District Attorney Lewis scratched his nose, lost in thought, and his head made a motion of assent. "Yes, Hunter appears reliable enough. I had him checked out again. His record as a member of the police reserve is perfectly clean, and he's well motivated to come through, according to Ferguson over at the Chronicle. But what's keeping him from screwing the lady? That's not the worst assignment in the world."
"All in due time, Hoyt. He's got to follow their rules, that's all. Don't upset yourself. He'll come through. You can bet on that."
Hoyt Lewis sat up. "I intend to bet on that."
"What's the next step?" Scrafield wanted to know. "How are you going to proceed?"
"The usual way. I'll start with a press release—notify Ferguson what my office plans to do . . . tell him I'm readying a criminal complaint against Dr. Arnold Freeberg for pandering."
"What about Gayle Miller?"
"Not yet, not until she's actually committed her act of prostitution. But we already have sufficient evidence to announce the forthcoming complaint against Freeberg on the pandering charge. So the first announcement will concern Freeberg alone."
"Can I make it the subject of my broadcast tomorrow night?" asked the Reverend Scrafield eagerly.
"No objection, as long as you confine any fire and brimstone to what's contained in my announcement."
"When can I mention the prostitute?"
"As soon as Hunter scores with her," Lewis promised. "That'll be immediately after tomorrow. Then I'll proceed against them jointly, issue arrest warrants against Freeberg for a felony and against the Miller woman for a misdemeanor. I'll have them brought over to the jail to be booked and their bail set, and have them arraigned before a judge in forty-eight hours."
Scrafield was smiling. "And then what?"
Hoyt Lewis also smiled. "Then they go to trial, and both wind up out of business and in the slammer."
"And you'll wind up on every front page," said Scrafield, grinning.
"And so will you, my friend," said Lewis, standing. "If Freeberg and Gayle Miller do their part, we'll do our part. It's in the bag, I promise you."
Chapter IX
"Gayle," he asked, "is this exercise my graduation?"
Adam Demski and Gayle were nude in her therapy room, seated beside each other on the edge of her floor mat.
"It could be," Gayle replied. "I expect it will be."
"If I rise to the occasion," Demski said with amusement.
"You'll rise to it," Gayle promised.
Observing him, she liked what she saw, contrasting his demeanor with the rigid, frightened person she had first laid eyes on a few weeks ago. Beside her was a young man who appeared confident and relaxed enough to make jokes and to smile. His attitude pleased her, and she could not imagine that he would suffer a relaps
e into his old impotency.
"Gayle," he said, taking her hand, "when we do penetration . . ."
"Yes?"
"I'd like to be on top this time."
Gayle considered this but only briefly. She decided that he was ready for the more usual position. That he would never consider himself a success until he could consummate sexual intercourse from the male superior position. The missionary position was the way of the world for most men, what they believed was expected of them.
Now Adam Demski wanted to prove, to himself, that he was ready to have a real encounter in the real world. That meant thrusting from the top. Success in that way would fully reinforce his new feeling of potency.
"Of course," Gayle found herself saying. "I see no problem."
She wanted to add that there were many other positions that might be better for him, more comfortable for him, even more effective, with some future mate, but she did not want to confuse him at the moment. There would be time to discuss variations when he met with Dr. Freeberg and herself for their final talk.
Right now he wanted to prove himself in the popular male position, and she'd made up her mind to do everything possible to make it work for him.
"Shall we begin, Adam?"
"I want to."
Gayle eased herself down on the mat, and Demski followed her. Then she swung her legs around and adjusted her body until she was stretched out fully on her back. Immediately, he was on his knees on the mat, hovering over her.
"Not so fast, Adam," she cautioned him. "I think we both could use some preliminary play. I want to lubricate naturally, and I want you to achieve a complete erection before penetrating me."
"Of course," Demski said apologetically. "I guess I got a little eager."
"No hurry. Let's enjoy every moment of this, from our foreplay to the climax."
"I'm for it," Demski agreed, dropping down next to her and stretching his body alongside hers.
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