The Alcoholics Part 7

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-.

"Why, d.a.m.n you, Sloan!" he breathed. "I've been half off my rocker worrying about you. You've had me going around in circles, wondering how in the h.e.l.l you were doing it! You took five years off my life, just now and-by G.o.d!" he roared. "I ought to murder you, Sloan!"

And then he dropped down on the bed, his head buried in his hands, and rocked and whooped with laughter.

"Got a cigarette on you?" he said.

Jeff Sloan gave him one. Hastily he struck a match and held it.

"Thanks." Doc puffed out a cloud of smoke. "You know I'd have sworn you took that pill. I was sure the boys hadn't given you anything to drink."

"Well"-Jeff hesitated. More than anything else he wanted to play square with Doc-to do nothing that would endanger this wonderful friendliness that had reached down to pull him from outer darkness.

But it would sound so funny, saying he'd found the whiskey in the sink. And he couldn't be positive that the boys hadn't.

"Well, let it go," said Doc. "Sit down. . . . How are you feeling, by now? Like to have a good big shot?"

"Gosh, you mean I"-Jeff sat down-"I-uh-guess not."

"Sure you would," said Doc. "You feel like you made a horrible horse's a.s.s of yourself-which you did, of course-and you want a drink to forget it. Well, that's all right. Want it. Just don't take it. . . . Incidentally, what's your att.i.tude toward the booze now? Still think you can handle it?"

"Well, I-it certainly hit me hard this time. The little bit I had this morning. Why, Doc, I can-I've polished off a couple of pints in an-"

"You'll never be able to do it again," said Doctor Murphy. "Or maybe I should say you'd better not do it unless you're prepared to face much worse situations than you created a while ago. You've crossed the line, as we say in alcoholic circles. You've lost your license to drink. From now on, every drink you take will affect you a little worse than the last one. I tell you that. Bernie or the Holcombs or the General or any other alcoholic will tell you the same thing."

"Why do they drink then?" said Jeff.

"That I don't know. I can point to certain things which are factors in their drinking, but I can't answer the basic questions. I can tell you this: It's ten times harder for a man Bernie's age to stop drinking than it would be for you. . . . Tell me, why do you want to drink anyway?"

Why? Jeff shook his head. "I don't know, exactly, never thought much about it. There's a lot of drinking in my line of work, and well, you get all keyed up and can't let down-or you need a little lift when-"

"No," said Doc. "Those are excuses. They're not the reason. There's only one reason any alcoholic ever drinks. Because he's afraid. I know-I seem to be contradicting myself there. I do know why Bernie and the others keep on drinking, but I don't know the why of that why. What makes them afraid, that is. Why they keep on trying to bolster their courage with whiskey when it does nothing for them any more and does so much against them."

"I don't know, Doc," said Jeff carefully. "Not bragging, but I'm considered a-"

"I know. But whatever you're considered-iron-nerved, a pinch-hitter, a guy who knocks 'em cold and wraps 'em up-it isn't enough for you. You're afraid. You've got to keep showing people. The more you show 'em the more you have to. And when you can't . . ."

"Well, maybe . . ."

"No maybe, Jeff. You're that way. What you have to do is accept the fact-and accept yourself as you are. Right now your fears are illusory; they have no actual basis for existence. But if you keep on drinking, you'll have very real cause for fear. You'll be afraid to meet people, afraid they'll snub you or talk about you. Your work will start slipping, and the more it slips the greater the tendency for it to keep slipping. In short, you'll not only think you're a b.u.m but you'll be one. And with all respect to my patients, I'm not using the word too loosely."

Jeff grinned half-heartedly. "I don't doubt you at all, Doc. I know I certainly acted pretty stupid. But-"

"Yes?"

"Well, it's . . . I don't mean that I'm any stronger or better than these other fellows, but-well, I don't think my own case is quite the-"

"I see," said Doc quietly, fighting down a wild desire to laugh-or weep. It hadn't done any good. It never did. They were intelligent people, and you laid it on the line for 'em. And they listened and nodded, and threw in a word now and then. And when you were through . . . "I see," he repeated. "Bernie Edmonds-they didn't come any better than Bernie. And the General and the Holcombs; you know who they are. All big men, smart men-and they can't handle it. But you can."

"Well, now"-Jeff squirmed-"I didn't say that, Doc. I know I'll certainly have to watch myself from now on, be doggone careful when I drink, but-"

"But you're not an alcoholic. A real alcoholic. You've just been drinking too much, and all you have to do is cut down on it. Well, you could be right. I'll have your clothes brought back to you and you can leave."

"Leave!" Jeff sat up sharply. "B-but-I am a little shaky yet, Doc-"

"Oh, you can fix that," said Doctor Murphy. "Put a few stiff ones under your belt-just enough to get straightened out on, you know-and you'll be all right. But I want you to do me a little favor before you go. I've got a problem I want to discuss with you in confidence, the strictest confidence, understand, and get your advice on. I've been needing to talk it over with someone, but there's no one here but these alcoholics and-"

He shrugged deprecatingly, and stood up. Jeff also arose slowly, his eyes searching the Doctor's face.

"Look, Doc, I'm not-I don't think I've made myself exactly clear-"

"Sure, you have. You're not an alcoholic, and I need to talk this over with a non-alcoholic. Someone whose advice will be unprejudiced and dependable. You don't mind helping me out, do you? It'll only take a few minutes, and then you can leave."

"But-" Jeff still hesitated, trying to discover some vestige of irony in the doctor's countenance or words. There seemed to be none. For that matter, there may well have been none. Certainly, Doctor Murphy knew the futility of trying to convince a man, by any method, against his will.

"All right, Doc," said Jeff. "I don't know-"

"I'll explain," said the doctor, and he led the way out of the room and up the stairs.

They reached the heavy door of Room Four, and Doc pushed. The door swung open, and they stepped in, and-.

"Oh, my G.o.d," he groaned.

12.

Humphrey Van Twyne III still lay motionless in his coc.o.o.n of winding sheets, raised slightly off the horizontal now by the tilting upward of the table slab. On the far side of the table, the side furthest from the door, was a small serving stand which Rufus was facing, his back to Humphrey Van Twyne.

The index finger of his left hand was clenched tightly between Van Twyne's teeth.

Doctor Murphy took in the component parts of the picture in one swift glance. Obviously, Rufus had turned toward the serving stand, while he was still giving Van Twyne a bite of food. And Van Twyne had snapped down on his finger, thus holding his hand behind him, holding him helpless.

The big Negro was trembling with strain and fear. Doc stepped swiftly around in front of him, looked rea.s.suringly into the ashen face.

"Have you loose in a moment," he whispered. "How bad has he got you? Into the flesh?"

"D-d-don't think s-so, suh. I j-just r-r-reachin' ovah-"

"Sure. Might have happened to anyone, and you handled it just right. Now, just hang on and-"

Doc turned, wheeled around Jeff, standing wide-eyed and pale, and looked down into Van Twyne's unwinking idiot's eyes. He raised a hand-dropped it again. Useless to pinch his nostrils shut; he could still breathe through his mouth. And his instinctive animal reaction to a seeming attack would be to clamp down on that finger.

Doctor Murphy raised his hand again, his left one, and laid it gently against Van Twyne's head. He began stroking the bandages, softly, soothingly. "Good boy," he murmured. "Good, fine, nice. Good boy, good, good, good . . . Rufus, move back this way as far as you can but don't move your finger. . . . Good, nice, fine, good, good, good boy . . ."

Doc's hand moved up to Van Twyne's forehead, rested there a moment, caressingly, and slid slowly downward until it was lying over the man's eyes. "Good, good boy, sleepy-bye good boy, nice fine good sleepy . . . Rufus . . . a fine good . . . Rufus, this good, good boy has . . . all right, Rufus . . ."

Rufus pulled. His finger slid free, and he staggered forward and went down on his knees. Doc helped him to his feet, stood with an arm hugging the Negro's shoulders as he nodded to Jeff Sloan.