Transorbital Page 9

  “Did you ever work those floors?”

  “Briefly. Who was it?”

  “No one with whom I was familiar,” he said. “Some psychoanalyst.” The contempt in his voice was tangible.

  “Name?”

  “I suppose, but none known to me.”

  “I wonder,” I said, “if the victim had ever attended one your lectures…”

  “What a queer thing to say,” he replied. “What could possibly be the relevance of that?”

  “I don’t know. Just talking is all.”

  “And you’re presuming foul play. I’d say ‘casualty’ instead of ‘victim,’ until the facts are in.”

  “So what killed this nameless doctor?”

  “Drug overdose, apparently,” Walter said, clucking his tongue for the shame of it all. “They found the needle still stuck in his cold, swollen arm. When will people learn…”

  “Heh. Yeah.”

  “Eerily enough,” he continued, “I happened to be passing through Southern Ohio around that same time. It’s a funny thing.”

  I nearly told him that we had been passing through those parts about that time as well, but thought better of it.

  “Enough of this morbid talk,” he said. “Tell me all about yourself these days.”

  “You’re looking at it.”

  “Oh, come now.”

  “I’m concerned for your safety, Walter.”

  “I appreciate your concern, lad,” he sighed, “but let’s not make much ado about little, all right?”

  “I didn’t think it was anything either at first,” I said, “I laughed it off. But now…I’m not so sure.”

  “People die,” he said casually, removing his perpetually scratched, perfect-circle spectacles. He cleaned them on his shirt and then dropped them into his vest pocket. “That’s how the cookie crumbles. Yes? There is nothing more to it than the random nature of life itself. Trust me, my boy, no one was the least bit concerned until Bruce Haines passed on.”

  “He was killed,” I said. “He was murdered.”

  “Sad business that, to be sure. But everything was just hunky-dory until Haines died. Then, all of the sudden, we’re hearing rubbish about ‘patterns,’ and ‘red flags’ and ‘the general ignorance of law enforcement these days.’ And now we’ve got some Chris Williams character crawling out of the cupboards thinking he’s Basil Rathbone.”

  “Basil Rathbone died just recently.”

  “Oh?” Freeman chuckled, squinting, as if he didn’t want to see me clearly. “Was he a lobotomist too?”

  “So you’ve spoken with Chris?”

  “You know this crackpot?” Freeman asked. He squinted at me sideways, but did not retrieve his glasses. “Oh yes, I suppose you would.” He waved his hand dismissively. “He is at Riverside, isn’t he? My dear boy, listen. I put up with enough delusion and balderdash from my patients. I’d rather not get it from my colleagues. You tell Dr. Williams to tend to his charges and focus his concern on them. I’m sure that’s more than enough to keep him occupied.”

  “I’ll pass that along.”

  “Much appreciated.”

  “So you don’t find anything peculiar about the situation?”

  “I find everything peculiar, lad. Everything.”

  The conversation was becoming more acidic than I had hoped it would. And so early on as well. Here we were having not seen one another in well over a decade, and without missing a beat I find myself once again trying to slow dance with a cactus plant. But hell and goddamn, I hadn’t come all this way back to DC to leave with nothing for nothing.

  “And what about ‘Doc Hollow?’” I asked straight out. “What about that? Odd bit of noise, don’t you think?”

  This gave him a start.

  “Sorry?”

  “Doc Hollow. That mean anything to you, Walter?”

  “Where…where did you hear that?”

  “Little birdies.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Do you make anything of it?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” he said looking away toward the window. “I have a patient who calls me Admiral Sherman and greets me with a salute every third Tuesday of the month. This is the business we’re in, lad. Sick people will say the damnedest things.”

  “So you think it’s a name then? ‘Cause I’m not really certain. Not entirely.”

  “Where have you heard this?” he asked, clearly edgy. “I would really like to know.”

  “It’s like I’m saying, Doc, just here and there.”

  “You’ve been calling on some of my patients, haven’t you?” I suspect that he meant it to sound accusatory, but there was a sheepishness to his tone, as if I’d discovered some embarrassing bit of clutter in his closet.

  “I’d…uh…I’d like to think of them as my patients too,” I replied.

  “Ah. I see. With whom have you visited? Where have you been?”

  “West Virginia, Kentucky, Western Pennsylvania…stopped in Ashburn to—”

  “So we have been a busy bee.” Pause, then, “You…You went to Ashburn?”

  “I did.”

  “Well I’ll be…”

  He seemed surprised, and perhaps even a bit unsettled by this piece of news. I realized then I had neglected to ask Salvador our boilerplate questions about Doctor Freeman, and I wondered how long it had been since he had come to visit his single greatest success.

  “Sal sends his best,” I said with a broad smile.

  “And what of this Chris Williams?” Doc Freeman asked.

  “What of him?”

  “Did he go along with…” he tossed his hand as if waving away flying dust. “Bah. I suppose it doesn’t much matter. He doesn’t matter, that much is sure.”

  “I’d like to talk to that kid if I could, Walter. The kid from back when. Joseph Brinkley. Is he still alive?”

  “Of course he’s alive. And he is fine. I just spoke with his father last week. He’s doing odd jobs, I hear.”

  “Can I meet him?”

  “The Brinkleys wish to be left alone, lad. Respect their wishes.”

  “Do you still do it, Walter?”

  “Do I still do what?”

  “The transorbital.”

  I saw him visibly tighten up. He looked back at me with the same angled squint.

  “The procedure has largely fallen out of favor of late. However, I still stand by it. It is solid medicine.”

  “Of course.”

  “So lad…how are we sleeping these days?”

  “Like a baby.”

  “Is that so? No more sleep paralysis? No more late-night near-suffocation?”

  “I didn’t say a healthy baby.”

  “Go on.”

  “Some nights aren’t so bad. It’s definitely worse in DC, for some reason. Worse than anywhere else. It’s an odd thing…but that’s life, right?”

  “You’re going to die without treatment, you know.”

  “What sort of treatment is there?”

  “For the paralysis, not much of anything. For the breathing, there is a surgery. It’s new, but it seems to yield positive results for most people. They can cut out the back of your throat. Open up your air passages.”

  “Why is that always your solution, Walter? Just carve out the offending tissue. It’s a strange first response for a neurologist, isn’t it?”

  “Tell me,” he said turning, suddenly very interested, “is it always paralysis?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Do you suppose you might possibly also be a somnambulist?”

  “A sleepwalker?”

  “However you like it.”

  “I…don’t know. I kinda doubt I’d have both. Right? The two syndromes pretty well cancel each other out…don’t they? And why do you ask?”

  “I’m just curious. I’ve always been fascinated by what a man might be capable of when he’s unconscious. It’s an oddly liberating notion,
don’t you think? That your sleeping self may have this whole other life independent of you.”

  “Why Doc, that’s nearly Freudian of you.”

  “Very funny, lad. And I think you mean Jungian. But what I mean is your physical self, of course.”

  “I’m pretty sure my sleeping self is just trying not to choke to death. What are you getting at, Walter?”

  “Stand up, please.”

  “Why?”

  “Indulge me.” We both stood. I fiddled with my pockets awkwardly as Freeman finally put his glasses back on his face and walked over to me. He put his hands on my face, and a small shiver betrayed me. With both thumbs he pulled down both of my lower eyelids. I began to sweat down my neck. I’d seen those hands do too much to not be a little unnerved.

  “Still?” he said, peering into my eyes. “Still with the Thorazine? I’m amazed you’re not suffering from tardive dyskinesia.”

  “Call it luck.”

  “You’re starting to get a bit of the Shuffle, lad. You realize that, don’t you? I noticed it when you first walked in.”

  They call it the Thorazine Shuffle. It’s not a hot new dance craze on American Bandstand…but it sure as fuck should be.

  “I’m 38 years old, Doc,” I said. “I think you can stop calling me ‘lad’ now.”

  Freeman smiled, patted me on the cheek, and walked over to the Southside window overlooking the grounds.

  “Fair enough,” he said. “Fair enough. I’m no longer a young man, either. Nor particularly healthy, alas.”

  “What does that mean?”

  I played dumb, but I knew how sick he was, and how much of a secret he was trying to keep it. He was, at the end of the day, my friend. And if I were inclined to have normal, human feelings I likely would have felt very sad for him. Thankfully I had well taken care of that horseshit.

  For nearly a minute we didn’t speak. He stared out the window across campus, searching for something that wasn’t out there. I looked about the office, feeling no longer at home there. A stranger.

  “You know, it’s funny,” he said finally, not answering my question, “I have not performed a transorbital lobotomy in well over a year…but today, I am consulting a young woman concerning her eldest son. Dr. Chipman’s wife, actually. If you can believe that.”

  “Dennis Chipman?” I asked. “The head shrinker?”

  “The very same.”

  “He’s a good man.”

  “Of course. A credit to his field to be sure.”

  “What’s the problem with their boy?”

  “Violent mood swings. Clear signs of severe manic depression. She is insisting upon a prefrontal. Really won’t hear of anything else. Can you imagine? The wife of a clinical psychologist. But she’s going behind his back to secretly meet with Walter Freeman. She thinks I am the only one who can save her son. It really is a funny thing.”

  “How old is the boy?” I asked. Silence. “How old is the boy, Walter?”

  “That’s confidential information.”

  “No it is not.”

  “Only Walter Freeman can save the boy…” he said, to himself and the window. “Only Walter Freeman…”

  “Doc…hello?”

  “The only one…”

  “Walter…Walter?”

  “Well,” he said, snapping back to reality, “she should be here any moment. She’s actually a bit late.” He cleared his throat and straightened his vest sharply. “It was good to see you. Don’t be a stranger, yes? No sense waiting another thirteen—”

  “Just a minute, Doc. I need to ask you—”

  And with that the door to the office flew open. And in she walked…a High Society Dame if ever I had seen one. Straight from the glossy pages. Conservative and prim, yet still dressed to the nines. Only the wealthy can pull that shit off.

  But I recognized her right away. You want fuck? Vill cost.

  For the moment, I was locked in place.

  “I am so sorry to keep you waiting, Doctor Freeman,” she said, ever so slightly out of breath. She had not even a trace of an accent about her voice. “It has been a rare day. This new maid of ours, god bless her, she barely speaks a word of English, and is simply a—” She stopped short at the sight of me. “Oh…my…”

  I saw it in her eyes—How to play this? I could see her mulling over the option of pretending she didn’t know me. Or perhaps trying to think of a reasonable lie to act out for Freeman, and hope I’d be game for it. Silently, wordlessly, she pleaded with me not to expose her. Not to blow her cover. Not to draw attention…not to draw attention…

  It turned out to be needless worry, as Walter seemed thoroughly oblivious to the sudden shock and tension buzzing in the air.

  “Fret not, Mrs. Chipman,” he said, cool and professional. “Please do come in and have a seat.” He turned to me and said, “We’ll talk soon, yes?”

  “Sure,” I said, numbly shaking his hand. “Sure thing. I’ll see ya. See ya ‘round.”

  I didn’t look at Irina as I left, but I thought I felt her eyes on me as I shut the door.

  Chapter 20

  I left Dr. Freeman’s office even less sure of everything.

  For three days I holed up in the cheapest hotel room I could find trying to reach Chris in Poughkeepsie by telephone. To no avail. We had planned to rendezvous in DC after I met with Freeman, but Chris was nowhere to be found. Nowhere he would normally be. Called and called and called and called, and nothing. What the hell is going on? I thought. And I wondered…if somebody might just be playing me for a chump.

  So I simply hung about, waiting, pondering…with my medicine supply running low. I, of course, had keys to George Washington University, and knew the floors blindfolded. I could get into their stock with relative ease. But at that point I would officially be breaking and entering.

  Just as I had at Walter’s office, I felt like a stranger in DC, a town that I had always considered home. Since I was an orphan. Since forever. I doubt that I ever really belonged, bouncing around as I did, but I surely did not now. But by this time I could hardly navigate myself around the city. As if everyone had shifted all the furniture while I was away.

  On the third night, cabin fever overtook me, and I had to get out.

  I made a crawl through some of my favorite, familiar old haunts. I found some of them frozen in time, and some nearly unrecognizable of late. I couldn’t decide which bothered me more.

  Down on 18th and Columbia I settled in at Frank’s Place, longtime my dive of choice back when. I’d always liked this area of town (which they were now calling Adams-Morgan), close as it is to Dupont Circle where I used to live for a time some years ago. I always liked the neighbors in that area, Mexicans for the most part, folks always ready and eager to throw some dice and drain a few bottles. My kind of crowd.

  In the time since I had last been around, somebody had loaded the jukebox at Frank’s with old jazz records, and this night some sad character must have dropped every coin he hand to his name on old Duke Ellington sides. They played all through the night, one after the other. It was almost enough to keep my mind off the fact that I had just shot up the last of my juice. Almost. I sat in the corner pouring whiskey down my throat, wondering why on god’s gray earth I was there.

  I saw Irina enter the bar, but I pretended that I did not. I watched her out of the corner of my eye as she eased past the ripped pool tables, pensive and unsure. Slowly she approached my table, and our eyes finally met.

  “Hi there,” she said with a little wave.

  “Gamarjoba,” I replied.

  She smiled. I indicated the vacant seat.

  “Thanks,” she said, sitting, still wearing her dark, velvet swing coat. It was too dim inside the joint to see much of what else she was wearing, but it appeared to be a more sensible get-up for the joint than what she’d had on days before when I saw her in Doc Freeman’s office. Here was a chick who knew how to play her surroundings on their t
erms. Smart all the way.

  “Hey,” she said. “Hi. Hi there. How are you? So…yes. I thought I might find you here.”

  “Yeah?”

  “These used to be my stamping grounds too, right?”

  She shouted over to the bartender, “Gin and…just gin. Double. On the rocks. Thank you.”

  “You could stay awhile,” I said.

  Without standing, she peeled the coat from her shoulders and draped it over the back of her chair. As casually as I could, I scoped out her bare arms. Just in case. They were smooth and clear, and I breathed a little sigh of relief, even though she never took the needle in her arms anyway.

  “I have to say,” she said, attempting a chuckle, “you gave me quite a shock the other day.”

  “Right back atcha, doll.”

  The bartender brought her drink to her.

  “Keep them coming,” she said to him indicating both of our glasses.

  “You got it, sweetheart,” he said, heading back to his station.

  “Where have you been all these years?” she asked me.

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “I don’t suppose I do, do I.” She took a deep drink. “Duke Ellington, right?” she said, bobbing her head lightly to the music.

  “You know I love it.”

  “I know you do.”

  “You’ve certainly done well for yourself,” I said. “That’s really great to see.”

  “I’m not normally accustomed to sneaking around behind my husband’s back. Believe that or not.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I like Dennis,” I said, then corrected myself. “Dr. Chipman. He always showed me a lot of courtesy and respect. I can’t say that for a lot of the doctors I’ve known. But he was always a stand-up fella. How did you meet?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  I did not. “Touché,” I said.

  We clinked glasses and gulped. She didn’t flinch, clearly a more experienced drinker than when last we met.

  “So…forgive me for prying,” I said, “but what’s going on with your boy?”

  “We have three boys,” she said.

  “The oldest. You know what I mean.”

  “Dennis would be horrified to find out I’ve been secretly meeting with Walter Freeman. Walter Freeman, of all people. But I’m at the end of the end of the end of my rope. Our son…Julien…God save me. He has kicked me, bitten me, scratched me, he pulls my hair, he has sprained my left wrist, broken three of my toes…I can’t take it anymore. There’s only one solution. I wish there was some other way, but—”