Part 7 (1/2)
Doc grimaced. ”Go on, now. He's the same as a child- perfectly harmless. How many times do I have to tell you that?”
”Yes, suh. You tell me that, but do you tell him?”
Miss Baker started to rise from her chair. ”I can do it, Doctor. I'm all-”
”Rufus can do it. I've got some case reports I want you to type up.”
”But I can do that, and-”
”Rufus!” snapped Doctor Murphy. ”Move!”
”Yes, suh. Right away after a while, suh, Jus' soon as I take care all you-”
”Josephine can do anything that's left to do. Now, get moving.”
Rufus moved, his great shoulders slumped in dejection. Miss Baker murmured an inaudible word of apology, and left the table. Frowning, Doc watched her enter the areaway to his office.
He hadn't acted very subtly in the matter, but he'd had to head her off. At any rate, there wasn't much sense in being circuitous now when he was going to have to go straight to the mark this afternoon.
He lighted a cigarette and picked up his coffee cup; glanced casually around the table as he smoked and sipped.
The Holcombs had eaten almost nothing. Which must mean that they were out of whiskey and were retaining their inner glow as long as possible by refraining from eating. Bernie had eaten most of his soup and part of a sandwich. Which must mean, since the Holcombs had been his source of whiskey, that he was resigned to sobering up and getting the agony over with. He was trying to face up to his problem.
Doc was rather pleased with Bernie. Bernie could have remained alcoholically eased for several hours yet, but he had chosen to square away with reality now. Necessity, of course, had helped to dictate the choice; what he would do, if he got hold of more whiskey, was another matter.
But he would get no more. The Holcombs would get no more.
Jeff Sloan . . .
Sloan had taken a few spoonfuls of soup, then sat back and begun smoking. He was sweating and his face was flushed, but otherwise he seemed at ease. There was a sureness about his movements, a kind of arrogant geniality in his manner, which was strangely incompatible in a man who had mixed whiskey with the most violent of alcoholallergy compounds. Strange. Incredible. But alcoholic behavior had a way of being incredible. Sloan was a superegoist; he'd keep going as long as he was able to stand up. Which couldn't, of course, be much longer.
Certainly, he couldn't have had any more whiskey. Regardless of his will-to-resist, a very little more and he'd be dead or as near death as a man could be without dying. How he'd managed to get away with what he had, with every sip turning into poison, how he could have made the attempt to move in on the Holcombs (Miss Baker had reported Bernie's brush-off), how a man could fight and beg for something that was killing him-!
Doc put down his coffee cup, and turned slightly in his chair.
”How are you feeling, Sloan?” he said.
”I'm feeling all right,” said Jeff. ”How are you feeling, Murphy?”
The Holcombs turned, as a unit, and stared at him. Bernie frowned, and the General looked a little shocked.
”What's the matter?” Jeff's voice rang loud through the room. ”He didn't call me mister, did he? Didn't say how're ya Jeff, did he?”
”That's right,” said Doc quickly. ”I'm sorry. You're sure you're feeling all right, Jeff? Don't you think you'd better make a stab at your lunch?”
”No,” said Jeff.
”Well”-Doc laid his napkin on the table-”If you gentlemen will excuse me . . .”
”Wait a minute,” said Jeff. ”I want to talk to you.”
”Uh-huh. Well, I'm afraid-”
”I don't want any whiskey. That's all you think about, isn't it? All you think I think about. This is business. Want to talk a little business.”
”I see. In that case we'd better go into my office, hadn't we?”
”Not necessary. Just want to know what you'll take for this place. Cash on the barrel-head.”
Doctor Murphy forced a laugh. ”Got a buyer for me? Well, thanks, but I'm afraid I couldn't sell it. After all, what would I do if I didn't have a place for you gentlemen to visit me?”
”You mean,” said Jeff, ”what would you do for another gravy train?”
He looked around the table, grinning, pleased with his shrewdness, and gradually the grin stiffened and disappeared.
”Just a statement of fact,” he said surlily. ”Manner of speaking. Couldn't swing it if it wasn't a good deal.” He waited. He went on again, stubbornly, sullenly. ”Well, it is. Couldn't help but be. Figure it out yourselves. Not kicking. Glad it is that way. Can't make money where there isn't any to make. Doc can get you guys-guys like us-to sh.e.l.l out fifty bucks a day instead o' thirty, I'm all for it. It's got to be an A-1 racket or I couldn't-”
”That's right,” said Doctor Murphy. ”Bernie, will you see the General back to his room. I want him to lie down a while.”
”Now, wait a minute!” said Jeff. ”I'm talk-”
”Yes,” said Bernie, ”let's wait and see what else Mr. Sloan has to say. Go right ahead, Mr. Sloan, you're doing me a lot of good. A little more of your babble, and I'll be about ready to go on the wagon.”
”B-but”-Jeff kicked back his chair, his face suddenly livid. ”Think I'm drunk, do you? Well, let me-”
”I hope you are,” said Bernie. ”I don't see how you could be, but I hope so. I'd hate to think that you were so G.o.ddam imbecilic as to believe that-dammit, tell him, Doc!” Bernie's voice choked up with disgust. ”How many of us do you ever get any dough out of? How long has it been since I paid you anything?”
”Bernie!” snapped Doc, icily. ”You have no right to-”
”Then, I'll tell him. I-”
But Jeff Sloan was not there to tell. He had left the table. He was leaving the room, sick, sober with shame. Hating himself. Hating and despising them as they must hate and despise him.
Why had they let him go on? Why hadn't they shut him up before-?
He had to hate them, to move the smothering shroud of hatred from himself to them.
He closed the door of his room behind him, and almost s.n.a.t.c.hed the drink from under the bed. G.o.d! He'd have to get out of here some way. Get to a bar-get back to the apartment with a fifth! If he could just get out of here, he'd show 'em a-.
The door crashed open. The drink sailed from his hand, and Doctor Murphy was gripping him by the shoulders, shaking him, yelling at him.
”How much? How much have you had?”
”N-not v-very m-” Jeff couldn't get the words out, not with his teeth rattling like castanets.
Doc released his shoulders, and grabbed his left arm. He jerked up the sleeve, and pressed a thumb against his pulse. ”Don't get excited, now! Take it easy. Just tell me how much-how-.