Michael Crichton - Drug of Choice

“Well, no—”

“I’m afraid it’s necessary to make an appointment to see the doctor.”

“Actually, I just wanted to see him for a few minutes—”

The receptionist shook her head. Other things moved as well. “I’m sorry, Dr. Shine is very firm. You must have an appointment to see him. After all,” she said, in a reasonable voice, “if he took people without an appointment, where would we be?”

Clark was thinking that over when she said, “I can’t tell you how many people—sick, troubled people like yourself—have come to us and asked to see the doctor for just a few minutes. He has to keep his schedule. Think of all the suffering, the unhappiness, the sad and lost souls that we treat here.”

“In Beverly Hills?”

“Rich people,” the girl said sternly, “are not necessarily happy people.”

Somehow, the way she said it, Clark had the feeling she was quoting somebody. He had an idea who it might be.

“Look, Miss—”

“Connor. Janice Connor.”

“Look, Miss Connor, I’m not seeking advice for myself.”

“A relative? Your wife?”

“No, I’m not married.”

“I see,” she said. She began to smile at him.

“Actually, Miss Connor, this is a professional matter concerning a mutual patient of Dr. Shine and myself.”

“Well…”

“And Miss Connor, I know this may be impertinent of me, but…”

“Yes…”

“Are you free for dinner?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Eight o’clock?”

“Yes,” she said.

“And about seeing Dr. Shine…”

“He has a free half-hour,” she said, “at ten-thirty.”

The office was large, furnished as plushly as a bordello. Clark entered to see Dr. Abraham Shine rising from behind his desk.

“Dr. Clark, is it?” Shine said.

“Yes.” Clark looked at Shine. It was a shock to see how old the man was. His face was heavily creased, his hair white and thin, his body paunchy.

“I’m from LA Memorial.”

“Oh, yes. One of your people called me about Sharon Wilder, if I remember.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, I have a free half hour. If you don’t mind sitting by the pool, we can talk there.”

“Of course.”

They went through a rear door, and walked up the grassy lawn toward the mansion. Shine led him around to the back, toward a large swimming pool. Shine dropped into a deck chair and motioned Clark to another alongside.

“Time was,” he said, “when I’d use these half-hour breaks to swim. Madly: five miles a day. Now, I couldn’t get from one end of that pool to the other.” He sighed. “I’m seventy-two years old, and feeling every minute of it.”

Shine shook his head, and stared at the Water. There was a moment of silence; Clark waited, then said, “About Sharon Wilder…”

“Oh yes. Sharon. Remarkable young woman. She’ll go far, I think. Very far, in this town. When she came to me, of course, she was rather upset.”

“How so?”

“Well, she was just beginning her, ah, campaign to appear on the cover of everything published in the western world. She is a sensitive girl, and she was bothered by a recurrent delusion.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. She was convinced that she was just a pawn, an instrument being manipulated by some shadowy organization.”

Clark thought of Tony Lafora. “But her agent is—”

“Not her agent,” Shine said. “It had nothing to do with her agent. She was bothered by thoughts of some kind of giant, scientific corporation which was controlling her life and career. She dreamed about it.”

“Very peculiar.”

“Not really. It’s a rather common delusion among young girls in this town. I suppose because it isn’t really a delusion—for many of them, it’s absolutely true. The studios manipulate them, humiliate them, exploit them, use them. And then discard them when they begin to show the wear and tear.”

“What corporation was Sharon worried about?”

“She couldn’t say. That was the trouble. She couldn’t get that clear in her own mind. It was a sort of free-floating, American anxiety. Fear of the great corporation—”

“—in the sky.”

Shine laughed. “I suppose. Anyway, I cured her of it by my usual method: hypnosis. My techniques are unorthodox, but they work. I put her into a deep trance, and then counter-suggested various ego-affective principles. After three sessions, she was convinced that her destiny was in her own hands, that she was free. That’s not really true, of course, but it is an easier delusion to live with.”

“I see,” Clark said.

At that moment, a strikingly beautiful blonde girl appeared by the pool. She could not have been more than eighteen or nineteen, and she wore a very small, very thin red bikini. “Your daughter?”

“My wife,” Dr. Shine said, with a contented sigh.

The girl nodded to them, and dived into the pool. She swam back and forth with long, easy strokes. They watched for a while, then Clark said, “Did you prescribe any drugs for Sharon?”

“No. I do not believe in drugs. They are a waste of time. Psychoactive drugs depend heavily upon suggestion; every clinical study has proven that, beyond question. I prefer to give the suggestion directly, and skip the chemicals.”

“Do you know if she was taking any drugs from other sources?”

“Yes. Certainly she was. Her sexual frustrations were driving her to seek satisfactions in other areas. At one time I was afraid she would become a narcotics addict, but that never happened, fortunately.”

“Did she talk much about drugs?”

“Only in the beginning. They fascinated her: part of her preoccupation with manipulation and artificial personalities, supplied from some external source. She believed, for a time, that drugs could really change her, make her something else, something different. I was able to correct that attitude.”

“What is your opinion of her present status?”

“Sharon’s? Excellent. One of my most successful cases.”

Clark nodded politely. He was obviously getting nowhere. He stood, thanked Dr. Shine for his time, and was about to leave when a thought occurred to him.

“By the way,” he said, “have you ever treated any Angels?”

“Angels?”

“Hell’s Angels.”

“Funny you should ask. I have one under treatment now.”

“Who’s that?”

“Arthur Lewis. A wild one. His father’s a television producer, and there is a lot of money. The boy’s assimilating it badly. Victim of affluence, you might say. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondered,” Clark said.

Ten minutes later, after Clark had gone, Mrs. Shine climbed out of the pool and towelled herself dry.

“Who was that?” she asked her husband.

“A doctor. He’s been treating some of the coma people, and I’m afraid he’s puzzled. He didn’t come out and say it, but it was on his mind.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all,” Dr. Shine said, smiling.

“You mean he’s—”

“Exactly. He’s the one.”

“Poor guy. He was kind of cute.”

“Don’t worry,” Shine said. “He’ll be well taken care of.”

RETURNING TO HIS APARTMENT, Clark found Peter Moss in the lobby. Moss was the detail man for Wilson, Speck and Loeb, the drug company. As usual, he carried a huge satchel stuffed with samples.

“Hello, Roger. I was just calling to see if you were home.”

“Come on up,” Clark said.

They rode the elevator together. “Got some great new stuff this time,” Moss said, patting the satchel. “Great new stuff.”

“What is it this month? Antihypertensives?” There had recently been a spate of new antihypertensive drugs from several companies. The detail men were pushing them like mad.