Drug of Choice

He took a cab back to the Long Beach pier, got into his car, sat down and thought things over. He was feeling suddenly very peculiar. He had just spent the night with Sharon Wilder — every man’s dream — and he could remember nothing about it. He had slept in her bed, and showered in her shower, eaten breakfast in her kitchen and God knew what else.

And he could remember nothing about it

Today was his day off, and he had intended to spend it with the travel agent, discussing his vacation plans. But he was puzzled, feeling off-balance. Reaching into his pocket, he found the list of doctors Sharon Wilder had been seeing. An internist, a dermatologist, a psychiatrist, and the mysterious Dr. George K. Washington.

He decided, for no very good reason, to pay a call on the psychiatrist.

Dr. Abraham Shine seemed to own two houses. One was located near the road, a modern, rectangular structure. There was a sign by the door which said, “Office.” Farther back, along a gravel drive, was a mansion of pink stucco, secluded among carefully tended shrubs and bushes. Clark parked and went into the office.

He immediately found himself in a small but plush reception area. Two things attracted his attention. There was a massive modern structure sculpture of interlocking polished chrome spheres. And there was a receptionist with large eyes and spheres that did not interlock.

“May I help you?”

“I’m, uh, Dr. Clark, Roger Clark…”

“Yes, Doctor. Do you have an appointment?”

“Well, no—”

“I’m afraid it’s necessary to make an appointment to see the doctor.”

“Actually, I just wanted to see him for a few minutes—”

The receptionist shook her head. Other things moved as well. “I’m sorry, Dr. Shine is very firm. You must have an appointment to see him. After all,” she said, in a reasonable voice, “if he took people without an appointment, where would we be?”

Clark was thinking that over when she said, “I can’t tell you how many people — sick, troubled people like yourself — have come to us and asked to see the doctor for just a few minutes. He has to keep his schedule. Think of all the suffering, the unhappiness, the sad and lost souls that we treat here.”

“In Beverly Hills?”

“Rich people,” the girl said sternly, “are not necessarily happy people.”

Somehow, the way she said it, Clark had the feeling she was quoting somebody. He had an idea who it might be.

“Look, Miss—”

“Connor. Janice Connor.”

“Look, Miss Connor, I’m not seeking advice for myself.”

“A relative? Your wife?”

“No, I’m not married.”

“I see,” she said. She began to smile at him.

“Actually, Miss Connor, this is a professional matter concerning a mutual patient of Dr. Shine and myself.”

“Well…”

“And Miss Connor, I know this may be impertinent of me, but…”

“Yes…”

“Are you free for dinner?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Eight o’clock?”

“Yes,” she said.

“And about seeing Dr. Shine…”

“He has a free half-hour,” she said, “at ten-thirty.”

The office was large, furnished as plushly as a bordello. Clark entered to see Dr. Abraham Shine rising from behind his desk.

“Dr. Clark, is it?” Shine said.

“Yes.” Clark looked at Shine. It was a shock to see how old the man was. His face was heavily creased, his hair white and thin, his body paunchy.

“I’m from LA Memorial.”

“Oh, yes. One of your people called me about Sharon Wilder, if I remember.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, I have a free half hour. If you don’t mind sitting by the pool, we can talk there.”

“Of course.”

They went through a rear door, and walked up the grassy lawn toward the mansion. Shine led him around to the back, toward a large swimming pool. Shine dropped into a deck chair and motioned Clark to another alongside.

“Time was,” he said, “when I’d use these half-hour breaks to swim. Madly: five miles a day. Now, I couldn’t get from one end of that pool to the other.” He sighed. “I’m seventy-two years old, and feeling every minute of it.”

Shine shook his head, and stared at the Water. There was a moment of silence; Clark waited, then said, “About Sharon Wilder…”

“Oh yes. Sharon. Remarkable young woman. She’ll go far, I think. Very far, in this town. When she came to me, of course, she was rather upset.”

“How so?”

“Well, she was just beginning her, ah, campaign to appear on the cover of everything published in the western world. She is a sensitive girl, and she was bothered by a recurrent delusion.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. She was convinced that she was just a pawn, an instrument being manipulated by some shadowy organization.”

Clark thought of Tony Lafora. “But her agent is—”

“Not her agent,” Shine said. “It had nothing to do with her agent. She was bothered by thoughts of some kind of giant, scientific corporation which was controlling her life and career. She dreamed about it.”

“Very peculiar.”

“Not really. It’s a rather common delusion among young girls in this town. I suppose because it isn’t really a delusion — for many of them, it’s absolutely true. The studios manipulate them, humiliate them, exploit them, use them. And then discard them when they begin to show the wear and tear.”