Drug of Choice

She went outside. Clark watched her go, unable to help noticing her body. He heard her drop a dime into the phone, and he thought about what she had said. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the list of physicians and their phone numbers that Harry had given him. It was rather odd that she claimed she didn’t know George Washington well, he thought.

Because he had noticed a telephone bill in her purse. It was a bill three months old, and there were numerous long-distance charges to a number in Santa Monica.

The number was the office phone of George K. Washington.

Odd.

He found himself listening to her conversation on the phone.

“Harvey? Listen, it was beautiful! Just beautiful! Scrambled my brains. Wow! Yes…. I’ll talk to you later. No, no problems at all. I think it’s working. Fine. Right Bye….”

She hung up.

Clark went out to sign her discharge papers. It was a brief formality, and afterward she shook hands with him and said, “Why don’t you walk me out to my taxi?”

“All right.”

On the way, she said, “You really are cute. I was watching you sign the forms. When are you coming over for a drink?”

“I’m pretty busy, Miss Wilder.”

“I told you, call me Sharon.” She smiled. “And even busy doctors get some time off.”

Outside the hospital, he was surprised to find a half-dozen photographers. Sharon forced him to pose with her, and they took several more pictures as he helped her into the cab.

She looked out the window and said, “Remember that drink. My bar is always open and waiting.”

Then she reached up and kissed him.

The flashbulbs popped.

3. TAILSPIN II

He was tired when he got home. The apartment, as usual, was a mess; he never seemed able to get it completely clean, even when a girl was coming over.

He pushed a pair of dirty socks off the couch and sat down to read his mail. There were bills for the most part; a letter from a friend in the army, saying he hated it; a note from his travel agent reporting that Clark’s tickets to Mexico City were waiting, and that hotel reservations had been confirmed.

Clark was due for a month’s vacation, to start in a week. He had been looking forward to a trip to Mexico, a chance to get away from California and everyone he knew, a chance to be by himself.

Now, he suddenly found the prospect of a month alone in Mexico City less agreeable. It surprised him to find he was thinking differently, and it was several minutes before he realized what had changed.

Sharon Wilder.

As soon as he thought of it, he pushed her from his mind. It was foolish to even contemplate; film people were terrible, demanding, petty and childish; he shouldn’t even consider getting mixed up with…

He sighed.

He got up and made himself a drink, and then decided that he would call her, that it couldn’t possibly hurt anything if he just called.

Sharon’s number was not listed, so he called Gertrude Finch and got it from her.

A stiffly formal male voice answered: “Miss Wilder’s residence.”

“This is Dr. Clark calling. I wonder—”

“Oh yes, Dr. Clark. Miss Wilder left a message for you.” He had a queer sensation, part pleasure, part something else. “She did?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll get it for you.”

There was a pause, and then: “Dr. Clark? Pier Four, Marina Capitan. That’s in Long Beach. You’re to arrive after nine.”

Clark frowned.

“Shall I repeat that, sir?”

“No,” he said, still frowning.

“Very good, sir. Thank you for calling.”

The man at the other end hung up.

“What do you know about that?” Roger Clark said aloud. And he decided that he knew nothing about that, and went to shower and change.

Marina Capitan was an elegant, exclusive mooring filled with huge powerboats. At night the boats, all polished wood and gleaming chrome, rocked quietly in the dark. On pier Four, a large cruiser was lighted and noisy; Clark headed toward. it As he approached he could see people dancing on the stern and on the foredeck, and inside, people packed tight, drinking, talking, laughing.

He climbed the gangway, noting the name neatly stenciled on the bow: TAILSPIN II. As he came aboard he met a short, stocky man in bathing trunks and a knitted blue shirt

“Who’re you?” the man said.

“Roger Clark.”

“I don’t know you,” the man said.

“I’m looking for Miss Wilder.”

“Oh yes,” the man said. He smiled. “You’re the sawbones.” He stuck out his hand. “Glad to have you aboard. Always glad to have a doctor: we may need you, after the broken glass. My name’s Pietro O’Hara.”

“How do you do. What broken glass?”

“Oh,” O’Hara said, “there isn’t any yet but there will be. I know: I’ve given parties like this before.”

“It’s your boat?”

“Of course.” He grinned. “Business expense, naturally. Couldn’t manage it otherwise. Come on down and get yourself onto my accountant’s ledgers, and have a drink.” O’Hara squeezed through the crowd toward the bar, and Clark followed. The people were well-dressed, though rather garishly; the women were showing a lot of—

“Scotch?” O’Hara said.

“Please.”

— back, breasts, and legs. He noticed several quite stunning.

“She won’t be here for a while,” O’Hara said.