Privileged Conversation

by Ed McBain

  He knows, David thinks.

  “I’m bored,” he says.

  “So go eat your chocolates.”

  David doesn’t get the reference. Nor does Stanley bother to explain it. They are approaching Victoria’s Secret now. Stanley looks in the window. He doesn’t see any crotchless panties, and he confesses that he’s somewhat embarrassed to go inside and ask for them. Will David ask the salesclerk for a pair of crotchless panties, size five?

  “They don’t carry crotchless panties,” David says.

  “Would it hurt to ask?”

  “I’ll ask, but it’ll be a waste of time.”

  “So will any story we give our wives about getting out of town.”

  David looks at him.

  “I’ve been at this a long time, hmm?” Stanley says with his crooked little shark grin buried in his beard. “Not with a patient, that’s a first. And never with a nineteen-year-old, that’s a first, too. But a long time, Davey. A long long time. And I can tell you what a woman will buy and what a woman will not buy. And no woman’s going to believe that thirty psychiatrists attending a conference in New York are going to shlepp all the way down to New Hope …”

  “It doesn’t have to be New Hope.”

  “Wherever the hell. It won’t wash, Davey. They won’t buy it. And if we try to sell it, we’d be jeopardizing everything we have going for us. So the answer is no.”

  “Stanley …”

  “No,” he says again.

  And of course he’s right.

  And of course he knows.

  Luis the doorman seems pleased to see him, and asks how Mrs. Chapman and the “leetle gorls” are enjoying the seashore. David tells him they’re fine, thanks, just fine, and then goes to the lobby mailbox to see if anything has collected there. He is here at the building only to establish a pattern in the unlikely event Helen and Luis ever get into a conversation about his comings and goings. He goes upstairs as part of the deception. Ten minutes later, he is downstairs again and walking uptown to his office.

  Gualterio, the doorman there, seems equally happy to see him and asks if he is already back at work again. David tells him he’s here for some lectures and won’t begin seeing patients again till the fifth of September, the day after Labor Day. Gualterio tells him to enjoy the rest of the summer, and then rushes to the curb when a taxi pulls up.

  Again David is here only to establish a pattern; all is pattern, all is deceit. He checks for mail, goes into his office, sits behind his desk. Dust motes restlessly climb the shaft of sunshine slanting in through the blinds. On impulse, he looks through his Wheeldex for Jacqueline Hicks’s office number, and then debates calling her.

  But why would he want to?

  And what will he say if he reaches her?

  Hi, I’m having an affair with a former patient of yours, and I was wondering if you might be able to give me any insights into her behavior?

  Absurd.

  He dials the number, anyway.

  An answering machine tells him Dr. Hicks is away for the summer.

  Tonight, Kate is wearing an outfit designed to complement the setting she herself has chosen. For this is moonlight and roses, this is candlelight and wine, this is soft violins and soft-spoken waiters, this is cautious footfalls and discreet silences. To echo this faintly Mozartian locale, or perhaps to startle it into modernity, she has chosen to wear a very short double-layered silk organza dress, its bottom layer an apricot color, its top layer a gossamer tangerine—“They had it in blue and green,” she says, “but Fee the Fair says blue and green should never be seen.” She looks like a frothy double-flavored cotton-candy confection. Her long legs are bare, her feet slippered in high-heeled tangerine-colored patent-leather slides. A misty blue eye makeup causes her green eyes to snap and snarl.

  He remembers the joke Stanley fumbled so badly this morning, and he tells it to Kate as they wait for their dinners to arrive. They are sipping champagne. He remembers the bottle of champagne in the limo. He remembers everything about her. It is almost as if she has been a part of his life forever.

  It seems this little boy is sitting in his first-grade class with his hand in his lap when his teacher spots him. “What are you doing there?” she asks, and he tells her he’s playing with his balls. “Why are you doing that?” she asks, and he tells her he’s lonely. “Oh, you’re lonely, are you?” she says, and she drags him down the hall to the principal’s office, and whispers in his ear, and leaves the two of them alone. It isn’t long before the kid’s hand is in his lap again …

  “I love it,” Kate says.

  … and the principal asks what he’s doing there and he says he’s playing with his balls and the principal asks why and the kid says because he’s lonely and the principal sends for the kid’s parents and they decide to remand the kid to a psychiatrist.

  “Enter the shrink,” Kate says.

  “So they take the kid to a psychiatrist,” David says, “and the two of them sit staring at each other for a little while until the kid’s hand at last drops into his lap again, and the psychiatrist asks, ‘Vot are you zoing dere?’ Well, the kid tells him he’s playing with his balls, and the psychiatrist asks, ‘Vhy are you zoing dat?’ And the kid tells him it’s because he’s lonely, and the psychiatrist says, ‘Oh, come now, lonely. Vot are you, fife, zix years oldt? How can you bossibly be …?’ and the telephone rings on his desk. He picks it up, listens, says, ‘Ja, hold on vun minute, please,’ and excuses himself to go take the call in the other room. When he comes back to his office, he sits behind his desk and says, ‘Zo tell me, how can a poy, fife, zix years …’ and stops dead and looks at his desk and says, ‘Vhen I left zis office, dere vass a two-pound pox of chocolates on z’desk. Now z’chocolates are all gone. Zid you eat z’chocolates?’ The kid tells him Yes, he ate the chocolates. ‘Vhy zid you do dat?’ the psychiatrist asks. ‘I vass gone only fife minutes, you ate a whole two-pound pox of chocolates? Vhy?’ The kid says, ‘Because I was lonely.’ And the psychiatrist says, ‘Zo vhy didn’t you play vid your palls?’”

  Kate bursts out laughing.

  “Stanley got it all wrong, though,” David says. “He told me to go eat my chocolates. Anyway, he said no.”

  Her laughter trails.

  She nods.

  “So let’s hope nothing happens,” she says.

  There are two messages on her machine.

  The first is from Rickie Diaz.

  “Hi, this is Rickie again,” he says. “I’m wondering if you got my message about the Mets game. I don’t want to rush you or anything, but I really would like to know if you think you can make it. Can you give me a call when you get a chance? The game is this Friday night … well, tomorrow night, in fact, I guess, so try to get back to me, okay? Thanks a lot, Kate. Talk to you soon. I hope.”

  Kate shrugs.

  The second message is from Helen.

  “David, where are you?” she says. “Can you please call me when you get in? There’s something I forgot to mention when we spoke earlier. Love you. Bye.”

  David looks at his watch.

  “I’d better call her,” he says.

  “Sure,” Kate says, and goes across the room to sit on the sofa. She watches him as he dials.

  “Hi, sweetie,” he says.

  “Hi, how’d the lecture go?”

  “It was very good, in fact.”

  “Where’d you eat?”

  “I grabbed a sandwich before it started.”

  “With Stanley?”

  “No, alone.”

  “He’s not so bad, is he?”

  “He’s awful.”

  Helen laughs.

  On the sofa across the room, Kate watches and listens.

  “Do you think you’ll have time to do something for me tomorrow?” Helen asks. “Before you come up?”

  “Well, I won’t be coming up till Saturday, you know.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Saturday morning. I’ll be on the …”


  “I know. I didn’t mean you’d be coming up tomorrow, I meant can you do something for me tomorrow.”

  “Sure, what is it, hon?”

  Hon, he thinks. Sweetie, he thinks. Kate is hearing all this, he thinks. Cat-eyed, she watches him, her face expressionless.

  “Do you know that little shop on Madison and I think it’s Sixty-second or -third? I don’t remember the name, but they sell all kinds of kooky handcrafted jewelry and things?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “Do you remember it? We bought Aunt Lily’s Christmas gift there last year. The quilted cat.”

  “Is that the name?”

  “No, that’s what we bought her.”

  “Oh. Yes, I think I remember it.”

  “I don’t know the name.”

  “Neither do I. But I’ll find it. What did you want?”

  “Can you see if they’ve got something really beautiful but not too expensive that would make a nice birthday gift for Danielle? Harry’s throwing a surprise party for her on Saturday night, and I haven’t been able to find anything really nice up here. You know how she dresses …”

  “Yes.”

  “Very chic, very French. I thought something in that oxidized metal, whatever it’s called, eulithium, eulirium, delirium …”

  David laughs.

  “… whatever, some nice dangling earrings maybe, but not too expensive.”

  “How much is too expensive?”

  “Anything over a hundred dollars.”

  “That sounds like a lot.”

  “Well, you can’t get anything nice for less than a hundred, but don’t spend more than that.”

  “I’ll go there first thing.”

  “I don’t think they open till ten.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “When will you call again?”

  “Tomorrow sometime? After the morning panel?”

  “I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too.”

  “I love you, David.”

  “I love you, too.”

  “Good night, honey.”

  “Good night.”

  He puts the receiver down gently.

  “You miss her so much, why don’t you just go up there?” Kate asks at once.

  “Honey,” he says, “I …”

  “No, don’t ‘honey’ me,” she says. “She’s your honey, don’t give me any of that honey shit. You want her so much, just get out of here. Go do it to her, you want her so much.”

  And suddenly she’s in tears.

  He goes to the sofa and tries to take her in his arms, but she shrugs him away, telling him she’s the one in danger here, she’s the one getting phone calls at the theater from a lunatic, but instead Helen’s the one who gets all his attention, Helen can feel free to call here at any hour of the day or night …

  “Honey, the call was forwa—”

  “I told you not to call me that. Don’t you ever call me honey again, do you hear me? Call her honey if you want to call someone honey. But don’t call me honey, not anymore, do you hear me?”

  She is sitting in the center of the sofa in her misty little delicate apricot and tangerine dress. Tears are rolling down her face, hands clenched in her lap. He wonders why it has come to this again, Kate in tears. Where has his exciting young mistress gone? Who is this troubled woman in her place?

  “Kate,” he says, “I love you.”

  “Sure.”

  “You know that, Kate.”

  But he is wondering.

  “Then why don’t you do something?” she asks.

  “What would you like me …?”

  “You can go shopping for her …”

  “Kate, I’ll do anything you …”

  “But you can’t do one simple fucking thing for me.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Take the letters to Clancy. I want to make sure they’re safe in his hands. Tell him to come here. Tell him I want to press charges against this person who’s ruining my life. I want this to stop, do you understand me?”

  “Yes. But in all honesty, Kate, I think it would be more effective …”

  “Is something wrong with you? I’m being watched, can’t you understand that? Are you afraid to go, is that it?”

  “I’m thinking of you, Kate. I’m trying to find the best way …”

  “Are you afraid he’ll find out you’re fucking me?”

  “Of course not!”

  But he knows she’s right.

  “Are you afraid he’ll tell Mama?”

  “You know that’s not …”

  But it is.

  “Tell Helen up there on the Vineyard? Give her a call and say, ‘Hey, guess what, Mrs. Chapman, your husband’s diddling a dancer in Cats, did you know that?’”

  “I’m not afraid of anything like …”

  But he is.

  “Then why won’t you take the letters to him?”

  “I will. If that’s what you want. That’s …”

  “I mean, I realize it’ll be difficult for you, but at least nobody’s about to kill you, is he?”

  “Nobody’s about to kill you, either.”

  “No? Then why is he hounding me?”

  David sighs heavily. He knows her fear is appropriate; there is, after all, a very real person out there threatening her. But her behavior of the moment seems somewhat irrational, no? A bit peculiar? A tad bizarre? A trifle off the fucking wall, vouldn’t you zay, Doktor? He is an analyst, after all, and not a pig farmer, and he knows a fit of hysterics when it erupts in his presence. But he’s not her analyst, is he? And besides, maybe he’s wrong. After six years with Jackie—admittedly not the best in the business, but certainly capable enough—Kate may have entirely put to rest whatever was haunting her. Either way, it’s not his problem, is it?

  He wonders again where his sweet young mistress has gone. Will this ranting young woman on the couch—how appropriate that she’s on a couch, he thinks—next confess that she has a weeping boil on her ass? Quite frankly, he doesn’t want to hear about it. Until ten minutes ago, she was his lover. When did she get to be his patient? Tell it to Julia, he thinks.

  Maybe he is a pig farmer, after all.

  Maybe all he ever wanted from her was exactly what she’d provided all along. Maybe all he wanted was an eternal roll in the hay with a flaky twenty-seven-year-old dancer. Maybe the only difference between him and Stanley Beckerman, after all, was the eight-year age gap between their respective little roundheel darlings. Maybe if he grew an unsightly beard and dressed in clothes he found in a Dumpster, he’d be Stanley Beckerman exactly.

  No, he is not Stanley Beckerman.

  Nor was meant to be.

  “Kate,” he says patiently, soothingly, “the man is a classic …”

  “Please don’t give me any shrink bullshit, okay?” she says. “All I know is you won’t take the letters to Clancy …”

  “I just told you I would.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “Go now.”

  “Now? It’s almost midnight.”

  “So? Don’t cops work past midnight?”

  “I’m sure it can wait till tomorrow morning.”

  “Sure. Let him come here tonight and kill both of us …”

  “Nobody’s coming here to …”

  “… in our own fucking bed!”

  “Kate, try to calm down, okay?”

  “He knows where I live, he’ll figure out a way to get in here. Even if we double-lock the door …”

  “Kate, there’s no way he can …”

  “He knows how to do things!”

  “You’re not making sense.”

  “Is he making sense?”

  “He’s a fucking lunatic!”

  “Exactly! Suppose he comes here tonight? Suppose …?”

  “I’m here tonight,” he says simply.

  She looks at him.

  She nods.

  “Then promise me
you’ll go first thing tomorrow.”

  “I promise you.”

  “Because I want this to end.”

  “I’ll go tomorrow.”

  “It has to end, David.”

  “I know,” he says.

  It already has, he thinks.

  Here in this office where he has helped so many other troubled people in the past, he sits behind his desk on Friday morning, and tries to determine how best he can help this troubled person who has been a part of his life for the past month and more. He has promised her he will go to the police, but he realizes the danger inherent in such an act. How can he explain that an encounter presumably ended after July’s lineup has apparently blossomed by August into a relationship close enough for him to be running this errand for her?

  Kate. From the park. The victim, remember?

  He can visualize Clancy’s cold blue eyes frisking him.

  Just how well do you know this young girl, Dr. Chapman?

  Well … ah … casually. This is a … ah … casual relationship.

  The cold blue eyes mugging him.

  And yet, it had to be done. David suspects that the man harassing Kate is as harmless as most of the obsessive stalkers out there, but the possibility that he might become truly dangerous makes it imperative that the police go to see her at once. The trick is to alert them without …

  Are you afraid he’ll find out you’re fucking me?

  Yes, he thinks.

  The trick, then, is ending this honorably and decently without creating any problems for himself.

  And, yes, of course, without causing unnecessary hurt and additional damage to a person obviously traumatized sometime long ago. And still struggling—despite Jacqueline Hicks’s treatment—to understand whatever the hell happened to her back then.

  He looks up the number of the precinct.

  He hesitates a moment, his hand resting on the receiver. Then he picks up the receiver and dials the number, and tells the sergeant who answers the phone that he would like to talk to Detective Clancy, please.

  “Clancy’s on vacation,” the sergeant says.

  “Can you tell me when he’ll be back?”

  “Monday morning, eight o’clock. One of the other detectives help you?”

  He hesitates for merely the briefest tick of time.

  “Thanks, I’ll try him later,” he says, and hangs up.

  Reprieve, he thinks.