to me.
“This is how deeply they hold their scientific principles,” he said. “A couple of years ago they decided that being a homosexual wasn’t really an aberration. It was just an alternate life-style, picked by choice. You know why? Because they were picketed by some gay-rights shrinks. That was then. Now their new achievement is deciding masochism doesn’t really exist.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“Because the feminists forced them to. According to them, if the headshrinks say that there’s a sickness called masochism, then men who beat up on women can always claim that the women wanted them to beat up on them because they were masochist sickoes. You see what I’m getting at, Trace? These people change their scientific views every time a political breeze blows, and what the hell kind of scientific views are those? Mark my words. In the twenty-first century, people are going to realize that psychiatry was no more scientific than trying to make gold out of lead. They’re freaking alchemists.”
I was watching Ramona while McCue was talking. She seemed to have heard it all before, because she was just listening with a bemused smile. That’s one of the things people put up with who hang out with drunks; they have heard it all before because drunks always repeat themselves.
Or have I already said that?
As McCue came out from behind the bar, Ramona asked, “What actually do you do besides drinking with Tony?”
“I’m from the insurance company,” I said. “We’ve got a policy on him and I just came up to look things over.”
“Trace is going to make sure you don’t kill me,” McCue told her. “He’s here to guarantee that you don’t strap me to some couch and stuff my head with psychobabble until it bursts. ‘Hollywood star Tony McCue died yesterday, his head exploded after being stuffed with bullshit by his psychiatrist, Doctor Death.’”
She snapped around. “All right, Tony. That’s enough for a while. I don’t like being called Doctor Death.” She turned back to me. “Good luck in trying to keep him alive. I don’t envy you your job.” She walked away toward the entrance to the dining room.
McCue was leaning backward, his elbows reached out behind him on the bar, looking out over the dining room, which was still empty save for Dahlia Codwell, sitting at a table, sipping martinis from the pitcher she had made.
“Beautiful woman,” I said about Ramona. “But you have truly pissed her off.”
“Not really,” he said.
“You could have fooled me,” I said.
“That’s because you’re not an actor. You’re not used to looking at how people really move,” he said. “Did you see when she walked out? Straight-up walk, hip-swishing, very elegant. If she were really angry at me, she would have marched out leaning forward from the waist. No, she wasn’t mad. She just had to tap a kidney and she wanted to make an interesting exit. It comes from hanging around with me too long.”
“Keep it up, she may not be around too much longer,” I said.
“Not before she finishes her book,” McCue said. “You’ve got to understand, Trace. The most important thing in her life is really being a celebrity shrink. You know what kind of patients she gets now in New York? Career women who really want to be lesbians. Business executives who talk about having trouble with relationships when what they really mean is that they want to kill their wives and they won’t be happy until they do. The dullest kind of nut cases. Ramona wants to get away from all that. She’s got to get to Beverly Hills, and I’m the ticket.” He smiled at me and I thought I could understand the charm of a rogue like him. He had a way of smiling that made you think no one else had ever seen him smile quite so fully, quite so warmly. Maybe it was a trick actors had. I know a lot of politicians have it. Warm smile for you, only you, then clap an arm around you in a hug and, while they’re hugging you, look
“This is how deeply they hold their scientific principles,” he said. “A couple of years ago they decided that being a homosexual wasn’t really an aberration. It was just an alternate life-style, picked by choice. You know why? Because they were picketed by some gay-rights shrinks. That was then. Now their new achievement is deciding masochism doesn’t really exist.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“Because the feminists forced them to. According to them, if the headshrinks say that there’s a sickness called masochism, then men who beat up on women can always claim that the women wanted them to beat up on them because they were masochist sickoes. You see what I’m getting at, Trace? These people change their scientific views every time a political breeze blows, and what the hell kind of scientific views are those? Mark my words. In the twenty-first century, people are going to realize that psychiatry was no more scientific than trying to make gold out of lead. They’re freaking alchemists.”
I was watching Ramona while McCue was talking. She seemed to have heard it all before, because she was just listening with a bemused smile. That’s one of the things people put up with who hang out with drunks; they have heard it all before because drunks always repeat themselves.
Or have I already said that?
As McCue came out from behind the bar, Ramona asked, “What actually do you do besides drinking with Tony?”
“I’m from the insurance company,” I said. “We’ve got a policy on him and I just came up to look things over.”
“Trace is going to make sure you don’t kill me,” McCue told her. “He’s here to guarantee that you don’t strap me to some couch and stuff my head with psychobabble until it bursts. ‘Hollywood star Tony McCue died yesterday, his head exploded after being stuffed with bullshit by his psychiatrist, Doctor Death.’”
She snapped around. “All right, Tony. That’s enough for a while. I don’t like being called Doctor Death.” She turned back to me. “Good luck in trying to keep him alive. I don’t envy you your job.” She walked away toward the entrance to the dining room.
McCue was leaning backward, his elbows reached out behind him on the bar, looking out over the dining room, which was still empty save for Dahlia Codwell, sitting at a table, sipping martinis from the pitcher she had made.
“Beautiful woman,” I said about Ramona. “But you have truly pissed her off.”
“Not really,” he said.
“You could have fooled me,” I said.
“That’s because you’re not an actor. You’re not used to looking at how people really move,” he said. “Did you see when she walked out? Straight-up walk, hip-swishing, very elegant. If she were really angry at me, she would have marched out leaning forward from the waist. No, she wasn’t mad. She just had to tap a kidney and she wanted to make an interesting exit. It comes from hanging around with me too long.”
“Keep it up, she may not be around too much longer,” I said.
“Not before she finishes her book,” McCue said. “You’ve got to understand, Trace. The most important thing in her life is really being a celebrity shrink. You know what kind of patients she gets now in New York? Career women who really want to be lesbians. Business executives who talk about having trouble with relationships when what they really mean is that they want to kill their wives and they won’t be happy until they do. The dullest kind of nut cases. Ramona wants to get away from all that. She’s got to get to Beverly Hills, and I’m the ticket.” He smiled at me and I thought I could understand the charm of a rogue like him. He had a way of smiling that made you think no one else had ever seen him smile quite so fully, quite so warmly. Maybe it was a trick actors had. I know a lot of politicians have it. Warm smile for you, only you, then clap an arm around you in a hug and, while they’re hugging you, look
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