John Katzenbach - The Analyst

It was dark inside, and he blinked once or twice while his eyes adjusted to the dim light. There were a few people at the bar, and a table or two empty. A middle-aged waitress spotted him as he hesitated. “You gonna have some dinner, hon?” she asked with a familiarity that seemed out of place in a bar that encouraged anonymity.

“That’s right,” he said.

“All alone?” she asked. Her tone indicated that she knew he was alone, and that she already knew that he ate alone every night, but that some old-fashioned country courtesy out of place in the city required her to ask the question.

“Right again.”

“You want to sit at the bar, or a table?”

“A table, if that’s okay. Preferably in the back.”

The waitress pivoted, spotted an empty seat at the rear, and nodded. “Follow me,” she said. She gestured toward a chair and opened a menu in front of him. “Something from the bar?” she asked.

“A glass of wine. Red, please,” he said.

“Be right back. Special tonight is linguine with salmon. It’s not bad.”

Ricky watched the waitress depart for the bar. The menu was large, wearing one of those plastic covers to protect it from stains, far larger physically than was necessary for the modest selection offered. He opened it and propped it up in front of him, staring at the list of burgers and entrées described on the pages with a flowery literary enthusiasm that sought to conceal the simplicity of their reality. After a moment, he set the menu down, expecting to see the waitress with his wine. She had disappeared, presumably into the kitchen.

Instead, Virgil stood in front of him.

In her hands were two glasses, each filled with red wine. She wore faded jeans and a purple sport shirt, and she had an expensive mahogany-colored leather portfolio pinned underneath one arm. She set the drinks down on the table, then pulled a seat up and plopped herself down across from him. She reached out and took the menu out of Ricky’s hands.

“I already ordered each of us the special,” she said, with a small, seductive grin. “The waitress is one hundred percent correct: It’s not all that bad.”

Surprise riveted him, but Ricky did not react outwardly. Instead, he stared hard across the table at the young woman, continuing to wear the flat poker face that was so familiar to many of his patients. When he did speak, he said only, “So, your thinking here is that the salmon will be fresh?”

“Fairly flopping around and gasping for breath,” Virgil replied breezily.

“That might seem appropriate,” Ricky said softly.

The young woman took a slow sip from the edge of her glass of wine, just moistening the outside of her lips with the dark liquid. Ricky pushed his own glass aside and gulped at water. “Really should be drinking white with pasta and fish,” Virgil said. “But, then again, we’re not in the sort of place that adheres to the rules, are we? I can’t imagine some frowning sommelier emerging to discuss with us the inadequacy of our selection.”

“No, I doubt that,” Ricky answered.

Virgil continued on, speaking rapidly, but without the nervousness that sometimes accompanies quickly spoken words. She sounded far more like a child excited on her birthday. “On the other hand, drinking red has a kind of devil-may-care attitude, don’t you think, Ricky? A cocky quality that suggests we don’t really care what the conventions say-we’re going to do what we want. Can you feel that, Doctor Starks? A bit of adventure and lawlessness, playing outside the rules. What do you think?”

“I think that the rules are constantly changing,” he replied.

“Of etiquette?”

“Is that what we’re talking about?” he answered with a question.

Virgil shook her head, causing her mane of blond hair to bounce seductively. She threw her head back slightly to laugh, revealing a long, attractive throat. “No, of course not, Ricky. You’re right about that.”

At that moment the waitress brought them a wicker basket filled with rolls and butter, dropping both of them into a stifling silence, a small moment of shared conspiracy. When she moved away, Virgil reached for the bread. “I’m famished,” she said.

“So, ruining my life burns calories?” Ricky posed.

Again Virgil laughed. “It seems to,” she said. “I like that, I really do. What shall we call it, doc? How about The Ruination Diet-do you like that? We could make a fortune together and retire just you and I to some exotic island paradise.”

“I don’t see that as happening,” Ricky said brusquely.

“I didn’t think so,” Virgil replied, generously buttering her roll, and biting into the edge with a crunching sound.

“Why are you here?” Ricky demanded, in a quiet, low voice, but still one that carried all the insistence he could muster. “You and your employer seem to have the design of my ruin all planned out. Step by step. Are you here to mock me? Perhaps add a bit of torment to his game?”

“No one has ever described my company as a torment,” Virgil said, adopting a look of false surprise. “I would think that you found it, well, if not pleasant, at least intriguing. And think of your own status, Ricky. You came here alone, old, nervous, filled with doubt and anxiety. The only people who even stared in your direction would have felt a momentary pang of pity, and then gone about the business of feeding and drinking, all the time ignoring the old man that you’ve clearly become. But everything changes when I sit down across from you. Suddenly, you’re not all that predictable, are you?” Virgil smiled.

“It can’t be that bad, can it?”

Ricky shook his head. His stomach had clenched into a ball and the taste in the back of his mouth was acid.

“My life…,” he started.

“Your life has changed. And will continue to change. At least for a few more days. And then… well, that’s the rub, isn’t it?”

“You enjoy this, then?” Ricky asked suddenly. “Watching me suffer. It’s odd, because I wouldn’t have instantly made you for such a dedicated sadist. Your Mr. R., perhaps, but I’m less sure about him, because he’s still a bit distant. But getting closer, I would guess. But you, Miss Virgil, I didn’t see you as possessor of the necessary psychopathology. But, of course, I could be wrong about that. And that’s what this is all about, right? When I was wrong about something, correct?”

Ricky sipped his water, hoping he’d baited the young woman into revealing something. For an instant he saw the start of anger crease the corners of Virgil’s eyes, the smallest of dark signals in the edges of her mouth. But then she recovered and waved her half-eaten roll in the air between them, as if dismissing his words.

“You misunderstand my role here, Ricky.”

“Better explain it again.”

“Everyone needs a guide on the road to Hell, Ricky. I told you that before.”

Ricky nodded. “I recall.”

“Someone to steer you through the rocky shores and hidden shoals of the underworld.”

“And you’re that someone, I know. You told me.”

“Well, are you in Hell yet, Ricky?”

He shrugged, trying to infuriate her. This was unsuccessful.

She grinned. “Maybe knocking on the door to Hell, then?”

He shook his head, but she ignored this denial.

“You’re a proud man, Doctor Ricky. It pains you to lose control over your life, no? Far too proud. And we all know what comes directly after pride. You know, the wine’s not half-bad. You might try a sip or two.”

He took the wineglass in his hand, raised it to his lips, but spoke instead of drinking. “Are you happy, Virgil? Happy with your criminality?”

“What makes you think I’ve committed a crime, doctor?”