Don’t call us, plebe. We’ll call you. Here’s a juicy check to suppress any protests.
I dialed the Dickinson residence. This time a woman answered. Middle-aged, Gallic accent, voice pitched lower than Dutchy’s.
Different pipes, same song: Madame wasn’t available. No, she had no idea when Madame would be available.
I left my name, hung up, looked at the check. All those digits. Treatment hadn’t even begun and I’d lost control. It wasn’t the way to do business, wasn’t in the best interests of the patient. But I’d committed myself to Eileen Wagner.
The tape had committed me.
… a doctor who can help me. Without shots.
I thought about it for a long time, finally decided I’d stick it out long enough to do an intake at least. See if I could get a rapport with the little girl, get some sort of progress going- enough to impress the Victorian princess.
Dr. Savior.
Then, I’d start making demands.
During my lunch hour I cashed the check.
3
Dutchy was fiftyish, mid-size and plump, with slicked-down too-black hair parted on the right, apple cheeks, and razor-slash lips. He had on a well-cut but old-fashioned double-breasted blue serge suit, starched white shirt, linen pocket square, Windsor-knotted navy tie, and mirror-bright black bluchers with extra heel. When I came out of the inner office he and the girl were standing in the middle of the waiting room, she looking down at the carpet, he examining the artwork. The look on his face said my prints weren’t passing muster. When he turned to face me, his expression didn’t change.
All the warmth of a Montana hailstorm, but the girl clutched his hand as if he were Santa Claus.
She was small for her age but had a mature, well-formed face- one of those children endowed early with the countenance they’ll grow old with. An oval face, just this side of pretty, beneath bangs the color of walnut shells.