Chapter 13
She awoke the next morning with a painful headache a hangover, she supposed but after taking a couple of Dr. Grossman's pills, flinging herself into a cold shower, she felt fine. She had never felt happier crazy as a bird, she could have sung and today seemed like that exuberant first day of spring.
She put on a pair of flaming-orange short-shorts and a matching polka-dotted halter. Her face was warm, her lips bright red; she even hummed while she salvaged a cup of last night's coffee. She was gay with expectation when the doorbell rang, and it proved a real surprise: Dr. Grossman, himself.
"I've been trying to reach you all week," he said.
"I've been busy."
His eyes were troubled. He said: "But you promised...."
"I know, I know," she cut in, "but with the grand opening of the store just around the corner, I haven't had a second's rest."
He found a chair and sat down. "I'm here about the pills, Miss Lyons ... about Hypothalmic-322."
It came as no surprise to Rita. He was visibly upset and he was about to scold her. "Coffee, Doctor?"
"No, thank you."
"And you're worried about me. Right?"
"Very. This drug ... Rita ... Miss Lyons ... you agreed to abide by certain rules that I laid down...."
"But I came to your office," she offered. "What more do you want?"
"One time," he said coldly. "And you were suppose to come daily. Do you remember?"
Anger bubbled up inside her. He was treating her like a child. She said:
"Why don't you admit the truth, Doctor Grossman? You're not worried about me. You're worried about yourself. You goofed, didn't you? You violated one of the cardinal ethics of the medical profession and now you're worried."
He stuttered. His dignity had been assaulted. "I violated nothing," he said sharply.
The hell you didn't! This new drug you developed ... testing it on a patient ... is that the standard practice? Is that the way it's done?"
"Well ... there are ... there are some allowances and...."
"Allowance, my ass! You were so anxious for success that you were willing to jeopardize a patient's health just for your own selfish gain."
"Now just a minute...."
"Don't back water, Doctor. I wasn't born yesterday."
"But. . r
"You made me a guinea pig, Doctor. A human guinea pig!"
That isn't true. I explained about the drug."
"You explained nothing," she snapped. "You told me I could expect some changes in my personality, that I'd feel better...."
"And you do, don't you?"
"That isn't the point, Doctor. The point is this: You chose to experiment with a new and dangerous drug before it had been clinically approved. You had no more conception of its side-effects than the man in the moon, and if this isn't the most voluble example of malpractice I ever heard of, then my name isn't Rita Lyons!"
"You're being rather harsh, Miss Lyons."
"And I have a right to be harsh." She lit a cigarette.
Tm sorry you feel this way," he offered.
She said, "You're not sorry. You're worried. You're worried because this is a damaging indictment against the medical profession, the drug industry, and YOU." She circled the room, came back to him. "But you needn't be worried, Doctor. I won't sue you. You're safe." i
"Miss Lyons...."
"I don't want to be bugged any longer, Doctor. Just leave me alone...."
"But, Miss Lyons."
"The door is behind you, Doctor. I'd appreciate it if you'd leave."
"Will you promise me just one thing?" he said, standing to leave. "Will you stop the pills?"
She took him roughly by the arm and walked to the door. "Good day, Doctor."
"Promise me you won't take any more of them...."
She pushed him out the door, slammed it in his face. Then, a moment later, she was in the kitchen, taking another of the pills, appraising the number that was left, guessing how long they would last.
There was enough pills to last about three more weeks, she decided. But by that time, her bizarre fashion shop would be in full swing. Yes, the weird-acting drug would give her the strength of purpose to carry her through the ordeal of the opening; after that, she'd need no strength; the dress shop would provide its own.
She spent the rest of the morning on the telephone. She called the Temple City newspapers and arranged for garish full page advertisements to carry the news or her opening. Each of the local television and radio studios were contacted and arrangements made for commercials. She also phoned a Mr. Brockton of the Temple City School Board.
"We can't advertise products like that in our school newspapers. You ought to know that, Miss Lyons."
"Are you refusing?"
Isn't that apparent?"
"Then go to hell!" she said, and hung up.
And a moment later, she was even less kind to a Mr. Spinoza, the building contractor. He had phoned to say that he couldn't possibly make the promised deadline on her store, that he needed at least two more days.
"Then you'd better work some overtime, Mr. Spinoza".
"But overtime costs money. The men get double-time after four-thirty. I'd lose my shirt."
"I don't give a damn about your stinking shirt! And I don't care if your men get quadruple-time. I want that shop opened on the day you promised. It's in the contract."
"Be reasonable, Miss Lyons. There've been some unexpected delays...."
"I don't want alibis, Mr. Spinoza. I want results. I've got ads in all the papers and I'll not be made a fool of. Either you finish the building according to the terms of the contract or I'll...."
"You'll what?"
"I'll sue you for every nickel you've got!" She slammed down the phone.
She took another pill, another shot of bourbon, one more cigarette. Her breasts tingled. She felt a sudden constriction in the area of her loins. She touched herself. Her nails dug into the skimpy shorts. A great sigh escaped from her lips. Then the phone rang. This time it was Henry Ridgewood.
"I tried to warn you," he cried. "I tried to tell you what would happen and you wouldn't listen."
"What the hell are you blubbering about now?"
"I told you that there'd be protests."
"Balls on the protests!"
'That's easy for you to say. You don't have to face it."
"You want a crying towel, Henry."
"Go ahead. Be funny. It's a big joke to you, isn't it?"
"Well what do you want me to do about it? It's your problem. You handle it."
"That's just it, Rita. I am handling it. I've been handling it all morning: Petitions, ladies' civic leagues, the PTA. The outer office is filled with 'em right this very minute, and they don't want your shop in Temple City. They want you to get out, Rita. Now!"
'Tell 'em to go to hell."
His exasperation bubbled over. "I can't do that, Rita. You know I can't. I have a certain responsibility to the voters. There's a matter of personal integrity...."
"Crap!"
"Rita!"
Tm sick of this personal integrity bit and duty to the voters. Are you afraid to stick up for what you believe?"
"But they're right, Rita. You can't tell people they're wrong when you know they aren't."
"You will, Henry. You will if you know what's good for you."
"But what should I do?"
"Do?" She moistened her lips. "Give 'em a hammer and a pound-box of salt. Tell 'em to pound it. . . and you know where."
"Rita!"
She hung up. She stalked angrily to the kitchen and poured herself another shot of bourbon. She gulped it down.
Suddenly, the whole wall seemed to explode. The window crashed in. Glass flew. Rita hit the floor. She heard the clamor of voices in the street below.
Cautiously, she picked herself up and waded through the broken glass to where a window had once been. Twenty or thirty people had gathered and were pointing upwards. Rita turned and gazed at the opposite wall. There was a hole in the plaster a hole the size of a quarter. The slug would be inside, she thought
She phoned Henry Ridgewood. Her voice was impersonal, matter-of-fact:
"Somebody just tried to murder me, Henry."
"What!"
She told him what had happened. And then: "I want you to get your hind-end over here. And now!"
"Rita, I don't want any part of this. If it's turning into a shooting fracas, then count me out."
"I don't wanna say it again, Henry. Get your ass over here!" She hung up. Then she dialed the police station. She asked for Police Chief Juneau.
"I've seen better marksmanship from a Boy Scout with a BB gun."
"What are you talking about?"
"Somebody just tried to blow my head off," she said acidly. "I don't suppose you'd know anything about that, would you?"
"Now look here...."
"Okay, forget I said it. Just get up here."
He blew up. "Just a minute, Miss Lyons. You're talking to the Chief."
"And I'm also talking to a fat bastard that plays games with his innocent little stepdaughter. Are you coming up here, or not?"
"I'll send a couple of men to investigate," he said weakly.
"You'll do nothing of the kind. I said you."
"You're going to get yourself stomped to death one of these days, lady. You're gonna get that pretty little face of yours carved up like a hunk of raw hamburger." , . .
"Don't take any bets on it, pervert. You II lose.