The Alcoholics

by Jim Thompson

  I’d like nothing better. Unfortunately, I’m compelled to think of the publicity.

  I can’t—I won’t do it!

  Very well.

  What…w-what will you do, Victoria?

  About you? Well, I believe we are not dissimilar in character. What would you do, Amos—if you were in the position to do what I can?

  …Doctor Perthborg removed his pince-nez, and rubbed them against the lapel of his two-hundred dollar suit. He reaffixed them on his nose and leaned forward, folding his fleshy face into a sympathetic mask.

  “And Humphrey,” he said. “How is the poor boy, Doctor?”

  “Would you like to see him?”

  “Oh, no, no, not at all,” Doctor Perthborg protested. “That won’t be necessary. I have complete confidence in you, Doctor.”

  “Why?” said Doctor Murphy.

  “Uh—why?”

  “Sure. Why? I’m a psychiatrist with a limited g.p. practice.”

  “You underestimate yourself, Doctor. I’ve had glowing reports on your ability.”

  “Ability as a brain surgeon?”

  Doctor Perthborg’s lips compressed, his cheeks puffed out, and for a moment he resembled nothing quite so much as an angry toad. Somehow, however, he managed to smother his annoyance. He spoke to Doctor Murphy kindly, though on a note of gentle reproof.

  “Love,” he intoned, “that’s what our boy needs, Doctor. After all—and I know you’re not the ignoramus in these matters you pretend to be—what else can be done for him? How many lobotomy cases are ever able to resume normal lives, even under the skillful care of the world’s greatest specialist? Not many, eh? We know the record of the specialists, Doctor—many failures, few, ah so pitifully few successes. So let’s do it our way, the way of heart and soul. Let’s keep the boy here in the bosom of his family, and give him…” Doctor Perthborg paused, icily. “Am I amusing you, Doctor?”

  “I was never,” said Doctor Murphy, “less amused in my life. Admittedly, the recovery ratio on pre-frontals is tragically low. As a psychiatrist, I don’t feel that the operation is ever warranted. However—”

  “We had no alternative, Doctor.”

  “I’m not sure that I agree, but let that pass. Humphrey went through the operation. Now, he’s entitled to a chance. The only place he can get it is where the lobotomy was performed. The Paine-Gwaltney clinic in New York.”

  “I disagree, Doctor.”

  “No,” said Doctor Murphy, “you don’t. But we’ll let that pass, too. We have some pretty good local men. Specialists. Let me call one in.”

  “No,” said Doctor Perthborg.

  “Let me call in a non-specialist, then. Any reputable practitioner.”

  “No.”

  “No,” Doctor Murphy nodded, grimly. “You can’t have a quack presiding at Humphrey’s funeral; sooner or later, there’d be one hell of a scandal. You have to have a good man, and no one that’s any good would touch the case.”

  “Come, Doctor.” Doctor Perthborg smiled firmly. “A good man has touched the case. Yourself. One of the best, down-to-earth physicians we have in this blessed state. Frankly, I’m a little surprised, even disappointed, at his attitude, this belaboring of the inevitable. I had every reason to feel, it seemed to me, that we were pretty much in agreement on—”

  “You took me by surprise,” Doctor Murphy nodded. “And I don’t mind saying that the proposition was tempting. It’s either that, or give up my work here, and—”

  “Very valuable work, Doctor. Important. Vital.”

  “I think so. So I’m probably much more sorry than you are to say what I have to. I don’t want the case. Either you have Humphrey removed from here at once, or I will.”

  “B-but”—Doctor Perthborg turned pale—“I c-can’t! You can’t do that, Doctor!”

  “Why can’t I? What’s to prevent me from sending him to the county hospital?”

  “The county!” Doctor Perthborg got a grip on himself. “Doctor, is it—I thought we were being quite generous, but—is it a question of money?”

  “It’s a question of responsibility. Either I share it with someone—someone with a good professional reputation—or it’s no deal.”

  “But you’ve already said that no one who was—uh, did you have someone in mind, Doctor? I’m not sure that the idea would be agreeable to Mr. Van Twyne, but if you could suggest someone of your own discretion…”

  “Can you?”

  “I? Ask one of my associates to—to—!”

  Doctor Murphy grinned at him. “Too good for that, huh? They’re too good. But I’m not.”

  “No, no! It’s just that I don’t know of anyone who meets the necessary qualifications. But if there’s anyone you can—”

  “I was hoping,” said Doctor Murphy, “that he would suggest himself. In fact, I was so sure he would that I took the liberty of having this prepared.”

  He turned over the sheet of paper on his desk and pushed it toward Doctor Perthborg. The doctor picked it up, gingerly.

  “Ummm”—he cleared his throat—“I feel that this is superfluous, Doctor. Entirely unnecessary. Obviously—by implication, that is—Mr. Van Twyne was placed in your care with my full approval. There could be no question in the mind of anyone that you were acting without authority.”

  “But you don’t care to make it a matter of record?”

  “But it is a matter of record! The check for your fee constitutes a record!”

  “Not in my book, it isn’t,” said Doctor Murphy. “The implications are all one-sided. For fifteen thousand dollars, I give an implied promise to help Humphrey. I promise something and accept payment for something which I can’t possibly deliver. You and the Van Twynes are in the clear. You accepted my professional word—mine alone—and I let you down. Huh, uh, Doctor Perthborg. Not for me.”

  “Now, Doctor. You know we haven’t the slightest intention of…”

  “You haven’t now, no. But it’s not hard to imagine what you’d do if it was a case of your necks or mine.”

  “But this”—Doctor Perthborg looked down unhappily at the paper—“the wording of it, Doctor: ‘As the duly authorized physician to Humphrey Van Twyne III (incompetent), and having thoroughly examined and studied the aforementioned patient, I am in complete agreement with, and hereby agree to, the recommendations made by Dr. Pasteur Semelweiss Murphy, consulting physician-in-charge…’ ”

  “Well?” said Doctor Murphy.

  “What recommendations? What am I agreeing to? I can’t go out on a limb like this!”

  Doctor Murphy shrugged. “Well, let’s re-word it then. Be specific. Give me your ideas on what should be done for Humphrey.”

  “But I don’t know—”

  Doc grinned at him.

  Doctor Perthborg sighed.

  Reluctantly, he uncapped his fountain pen and scrawled his signature at the bottom of the page.

  “There you are, Doctor. And here’s your check. You’ll notice I’ve had it certified.”

  “Very thoughtful of you,” murmured Doctor Murphy.

  “So if you’ll just sign this receipt…”

  Doctor Murphy leaned back in his chair. Hands clasped behind his head, he stared thoughtfully up at the ceiling.

  “You know, I’ve been thinking, Doctor. Establishments such as mine are always somewhat suspect, so I’ve been thinking…”

  “Yes?” said Doctor Perthborg shortly.

  “Well, the Van Twyne philanthropies are well known, and it’s only logical that the family should have a deep interest in alcoholism. That being the case, and assuming that this situation has a strong potential for unpleasantness, suppose I accept that check as a donation rather than a fee?”

  Doctor Murphy continued to stare at the ceiling. He was afraid to look away from it; certain that Doctor Perthborg would take one cold, calculating glance at his face and read the plan that was in his mind.

  He waited—for hours it seemed. The silence became unbearable. Then, he heard a sl
ow, thoughtful exhalation, and the squeak of a chair.

  And the brief scratching of pen against paper.

  “An excellent idea,” said Doctor Perthborg. “I think the one word will cover it, don’t you?”

  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…’ ”

  18

  T he long sanitarium day was ended. Ex-corpsman Judson had ascended the long stairs from the beach, and the great kitchen of El Healtho was dark and silent, and in their quarters Josephine and Rufus slept the sleep of the just.

  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’ got eighteen 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.”

  About the Author

  James Meyers Thompson was born in Anadarko, Oklahoma, in 1906. In all, Jim Thompson wrote twenty-nine novels and two screenplays (for the Stanley Kubrick films The Killing and Paths of Glory). Films based on his novels include The Getaway, The Killer Inside Me, The Grifters, and After Dark, My Sweet.

  …and Savage Night

  In May 2012, Mulholland Books will publish Jim Thompson’s Savage Night. Following is an excerpt from the novel’s opening pages.

  Savage Night

  I’d caught a slight cold when I changed trains at Chicago; and three days in New York—three days of babes and booze while I waited to see The Ma
n—hadn’t helped it any. I felt lousy by the time I arrived in Peardale. For the first time in years, there was a faint trace of blood in my spit.

  I walked through the little Long Island Railway station, and stood looking up the main street of Peardale. It was about four blocks long, splitting the town into two ragged halves. It ended at the teachers’ college, a half-dozen red brick buildings scattered across a dozen acres or so of badly tended campus. The tallest business building was three stories. The residences looked pretty ratty.

  I started coughing a little, and lighted a cigarette to quiet it. I wondered whether I could risk a few drinks to pull me out of my hangover. I needed them. I picked up my two suitcases and headed up the street.

  It was probably partly due to my mood, but the farther I got into Peardale the less I liked it. The whole place had a kind of decayed, dying-on-the-vine appearance. There wasn’t any local industry apparently; just the farm trade. And you don’t have commuters in a town ninety-five miles from New York City. The teachers’ college doubtless helped things along a little, but I figured it was damned little. There was something sad about it, something that reminded me of bald-headed men who comb their side hair across the top.

  I walked a couple blocks without sighting a bar, either on the main drag or the side streets. Sweating, trembling a little inside, I set the suitcase down and lighted another cigarette. I coughed some more. I cursed The Man to myself, calling him every kind of a son-of-a-bitch I could think of.

  I’d have given everything I had just to be back at the filling station in Arizona.

  But it couldn’t be that way. It was either me and The Man’s thirty grand, or no me, no nothing.

  I’d stopped in front of a store, a shoe store, and as I straightened I caught a glimpse of myself in the window. I wasn’t much to look at. You could say I’d improved a hundred per cent in the last eight or nine years, and you wouldn’t be lying. But I still didn’t add up to much. It wasn’t that my kisser would stop clocks, understand, or anything like that. It was on account of my size. I looked like a boy trying to look like a man. I was just five feet tall.