Chapter 3
DR. HILARY HACKTHORNE, chief of psychiatric service, MacDonald General Hospital, New Orleans, Louisiana, elevated his long legs and arranged his feet on his desk. He was tall and rather Lincolnesque in that he had fierce craggy features plus a ruff of unruly black hair. No matter what the fit of his clothes, he always appeared mussed.
Seated on the other side of the desk was his favorite resident, Rodney Barrett, who would soon be leaving to enter private practice.
The older man leered at the other sourly. "So the doctor now has all his qualifications to go out and diddle with people's minds, hey? I wonder. Think you'll remember anything I've taught you? Think you're tough enough to operate on your own?"
Barrett grinned. "Tough! In order to endure you, a man has to be tough as rawhide."
"I make it that way on purpose. No one, lad, in this pseudoscience we practice can afford a thin skin. Every day, the biologists give us lessons that amount to insults. In psychiatry, we are just beginning to learn how much we don't know."
"Except for the Freudians, of course," said Barrett, and laughed.
"What do you mean by that?"
"They're always quick to tell me that they have all the answers."
"The Freudians think they have all the answers-and the reason they're so dogmatic is the subconscious realization that they have no such thing. They're hung out on that ectoplasmic limb of symbolism, oedipal vapors, retreat to the womb, seeing a penis in every barber pole, dream interpretation and the like. In fact, practically all psychoanalysts lean on such maunderings of black magic. They're stuck with them. And like the kind of modern artist who couldn't paint anything recognizable if his life depended on it, they can't come up with a comprehensible statement or finding. Why, they've invented a whole new language in which to express their obscenities. An internist and a surgeon have no trouble understanding each other, but thrust a psychiatrist into the conversation and all others have to duck for cover." Hackthorne paused to light a long, thin cigar. "By the way, what are your plans? You've been vague about them-"
"Because my plans are fluid at the moment. I'm not sure where to locate, so I'm still looking around. And that's why I asked to talk to you, sir-I thought you might hear of something. If so, please let me know."
Hackthorne nodded. Barrett stood up, shook hands and left.
Alone, Hackthorne scowled expectantly at his intercom box. It replied to the look by buzzing insultingly. "I knew it, you bastard, you can't keep quiet for ten minutes on end," he told it grumpily. He flipped the switch. "All right, what is it this time?"
"A Mrs. Isaac Blumendahl to see you."
"I don't know any Mrs. Isaac Blumendahl," he replied in his most ill-tempered tone.
"It ain't necessary to know me," came the shattering reply, almost causing the squawk box to jump off the desk. "I'll take care of that right now."
She did, kicking the door open and bursting into the office.
Astonished, Hackthorne sized her up. She was stout but obviously strong and active. Her face was round and truculent, her sky-blue eyes hard and knowing. She was dressed in a well-tailored suit of gray gabardine. Her shoes were sensible.
"I'm Missy Blumendahl," she roared.
"Er. How do you do?"
"I do great." She thrust a plump hand at him, a hand ablaze with diamonds. "Dr. Alcide Fontenot sent me to see you."
"Oh, Alcide... " He took the proffered hand and winced as she shut down on his like a man. "You mean that sawed-off little sawbones?"
"The same."
"Why, we served in the Navy together. How the hell is he these days?"
"The same. As ornery and cranky as ever. Like you, I suppose."
Hackthorne guffawed. "Please sit down, Mrs. Blumendahl-"
"Call me Missy," she blared, and perched herself in a leather chair.
"Er, yes, Missy. Well, to start things off right I was about to tackle a before-dinner drink. Join me?"
She blinked owlishly. "Damn, is this the way you practice psychiatry?"
"Not ordinarily. However, being a psychiatrist renders one psychic sometimes. I have divined that if you're in need of psychiatry, I'm a one-legged chimpanzee."
She let go a gust of healthy laughter.
"Bless your soul, you couldn't be more correct. Sure, I'll have that drink-provided it has alcohol in it."
Dr. Hackthorne produced bourbon from a desk drawer, walked to the water cooler and arranged doses. Handing one to Missy, he sipped from the other and sat down.
"Now," he queried, "exactly what can I do for you?"
"As you remarked, nothing's wrong in my belfry. But I do have my vices, among which is meddling. And I have finally meddled myself into something out of my league. You see, we have a fellow back home whom I've elected for the booby hatch-" She made an annoyed gesture. "Hell, I'm not doing this right." She swallowed some bourbon and started over again. "Fact is, Alcide Fontenot said you, as chief of service, might know some young graduate just ready to set up a practice. I ask that you send him to our county to look it over and consider locating there. We've money around, these days. Oil, gas, water power, several small plants and two big ones, prospering plantations-"
"You mean farms?"
"More like ranches. Anyway, people are making money and becoming modern. Why, some can get all the way through a Martini without making a face. They're almost to the place where they can enjoy a rare steak instead of a burnt-out one. We have a number of thriving small towns and Kenton, which is getting to be quite a city. In short, we can support a psychiatrist or such is my opinion."
He nodded and clasped his bony hands. "All right, you can support one. But why do you need one?"
She shrugged. "Modern-type stresses are disturbing to a population not used to them. A cultural revolution is going on, and it has casualties. Also, some of the old ingrown families are producing offspring who are peculiar, to say the least. For instance, this fellow I mentioned-" She took considerable time telling him all she knew about Barry Norton. "I'm fond of the girl who's promised to him and I don't want to see anything happen to her," Missy explained. "Now, I know that the mere presence of a psychiatrist might not even slow down the murdering bastard. But I'd feel a lot better with one around."
"You call him a murderer?"
"I sure do. One of the sweetest kids you ever saw was found dead one morning. Christine Delery was her name. Strangled, raped and slashed to ribbons." Her mouth trembled and her face was pale. "Well, I got him picked for the culprit. I can't prove a thing, of course."
He sipped his drink. "If you have no proof, a psychiatrist can't put him away any more than a cop can. Just the same, I can understand that you'd feel better having a head-shrinker around. Folks might get used to him, a Martini and a rare steak all together in the name of progress."
"Do you have a man?"
"Might have. Name of Barrett. He's from the north but would prefer to locate somewhere down here."
She handed her glass to him for a refill. "Alcide said not to send us some analytical witch-doctor. He said you'd know what he meant."
Dr. Hackthorne raised thick gray eyebrows. "I do, indeed. You see, Alcide and I agree that effort should be devoted to keeping psychiatry honest-which is to say, scientific. Barrett I can guarantee. Of course, he's had some troubles of his own, but I think that should make him a better doctor-"
"What kind of troubles?"
"Oh, the usual, except he took his harder than most. Too much the gentleman, so he would love this female to white heat then leave her high and dry. All he was doing was setting her up for the first Casanova to come along. It finally happened and he was crushed. As therapy I put him on others whose basic trouble was somewhat like his. He's still woman-shy but on the way back to normalcy, I'd say."
Missy nodded, then rose and gave him a strong right hand. "Nice of you to see me, and forgive me if I took too much of your time. Ask the boy to correspond with Alcide."
"I'll do that. You'll hear in a few days."
Her eyes were steady on his. "Look, I got the damnedest shack east of the Mississippi River and enough room to float a liner. I live high on the hog and have some mighty fine friends, including Alcide Fontenot. Why'n hell don't you drag yourself up for a visit? Stay as long as you want to."
He grinned. "I might do that if I get a chance. Can I just fall in without notice?"
"Hell, yes. Any time. I'm going to hold you to it."