They applauded and I smiled. The applause stopped and I poured myself a drink of water. There was something in the water. I showed Agabiti. He handed me the other glass. I inspected it to be sure it hadn’t been used. Someone coughed. I poured water slowly and drank. Someone shifted and a chair creaked. I looked at my watch, the door, and the wallpaper, and stood up.
“My notes were lost on the plane from London,” I said with a sad smile, indicating I would go on in spite of the burden, “so my comments will be brief. Super-Ego, Self and Ego,” I said, looking at the faces in front of me and trying to do Paul Muni. “I think it is a false battle because we have not yet clearly defined what we mean by those terms.”
There were a few nods of agreement, so I went on.
“I’ve studied with both Freud and Jung,” I said humbly, wondering who the hell Jung might be, “and I tell you frankly I’m not sure that either of them has defined the terms to the point where it is reasonable to say a real battle exists.”
More nods of approval, but even more nods of disagreement.
“I don’t mean there isn’t a real point of controversy,” I said quickly, looking directly at one of the people who hadn’t liked what I had said. “There’s a difference between controversy and battle. What I am calling for and what I call for in my book is a concentration of definitions. Until we define, we are doing ourselves, our patients and patients for a hundred years to come a disservice.”
Some wild applause.
“We are physicians first,” I said holding up a finger, “and psychiatrists second.”
They were talking among themselves, approving, nodding, arguing as I paused to take a long drink. Dr. Agabiti was grinning up at me with his arms crossed. I held up my hands.
“I’ve had a long, difficult trip,” I said. “Time zones and all that. And I just arrived. So, I’ll move right to the questions.”
One of the two women in the room stood up, pursed her lips and said,
“I don’t quarrel with your desire for definition, Dr. Derry, but I fail to see how definitional problems are involved in the issue of Jung’s acceptance of a collective unconscious and Freud’s rejection of it.”
I nodded sagely, looked at Dr. Agabiti as if we both knew the answer and spoke.
“You are absolutely right,” I said. “It is a basic problem. It is something that cannot be reconciled and therefore it is something we accept and build on.”
I punched my fist into my hand for emphasis, expecting someone to rise from the audience and throw a chair at me. No one did.
The next question came from a young man with a Boston accent. His hair was brown and wavy. In five years he’d be fat. I could see he didn’t like Derry.
“Nothing you have said so far, Dr. Derry, has any substance,” he said. “You’ve been evasive. What if I were to say that the case history in your book of Roy Wood’s breakdown revealed clearly that your suggested approach is of no value in affecting a cure?”
“I would simply disagree,” I said.
“And what if I were to say that your refusal to mention the drug used in that case indicates an unethical refusal to share medical knowledge that could help patients? Either your approach is without merit and insufficiently tested, or you should mention now before this body the specific drug you used.”
The assembly thought this was a reasonable request. They had me. I could make up a drug, but they’d know it was a fake, or I could think up some real drug I had seen on Shelly Minck’s shelf back in the dental office. If they believed me, some of the people in the room might try it, and I had no idea what Shelly’s drugs might do to some poor nut.
“Well?” said Boston, his hands folded in front of him.
“The drug is scapalomine,” said a voice in the back of the room. “Dr. Derry doesn’t want to mention it because he and I are still conducting experiments in Capetown.”
Groucho Marx stood up and continued. “I’m the chief of staff at Dr. Derry’s hospital in Capetown, and I suggested that he not give the information, but under the circumstances and with the warning I’ve just given, I think it will do no harm now.”
“Dr.-” Boston began.
“Hackenbush,” said Marx seriously. I expected a roar of laughter or recognition, but there was none. Maybe the doctors never went to the movies. “And now, gentlemen, I’d like to talk to Dr. Derry in the hall for a moment. I know this is unprecedented, but if you’ll just bear with us, I think I can persuade Dr. Derry to reveal something that will be of great scientific interest.”
Agabiti looked confused and gazed around the room. No one appeared to know what to do.
“I don’t think you can convince me, Dr. Hackenbush,” I said somberly, “but I’ll listen. I’ll be right back.”
I hurried quickly through the door with Marx and whispered to him as we got in the hall.
“Where did you get that scapalomine business?”
“It’s true,” said Groucho, “I read this quack Derry’s book and asked some questions out at U.S.C. The drug is probably scapalomine.”
“You read medical books?”
“Of course,” he said. “I’m a doctor, aren’t I? Now what were you doing in there?”
I explained about Nitti’s boys as we passed the Andrew Sisters, who looked surprised to see me out so early. There was no one else in the twelfth floor lobby. Everyone was in the various meeting rooms. In one room, there would be a long wait for Dr. Derry and Hackenbush to return.
“My advice as your physician,” whispered Marx, “is to get the hell out of here. Let’s get back to our room and shove you under the bed.”
We pushed the button for the elevator, and Marx kept going through the pantomime of serious conversation. Our chances looked good. Nitti’s men weren’t in the lobby, and they had a lot of territory to cover. A few seconds later I drastically revised our chances. Costello was in the elevator. He stood back against the wall with his hand in his coat pocket. There was no running from him. I nodded toward Costello so Groucho would know, and we stepped in as the doors closed.
I wondered if Costello would shoot Marx, me, and the blissfully unaware elevator operator, or try to get me out where he could handle my demise slowly and painfully. I thought that painful demises were more his style.
He leaned over my shoulder with familiar garlic breath.
“I got a message,” he whispered. “Tonight at eleven, you be at the New Michigan with Marx. Servi will be there. You got the message?”
“I got the message.”
“Good,” he said. “Things don’t go right, I get you.”
Groucho and I rode down with Costello to the lobby and watched him leave with the other two.
He had probably thought Groucho was Chico.
“What was that all about?” asked Groucho as we got back in the elevator.
“My pal Al Capone remembered me,” I said.
9
O.K., I told myself. Assuming Servi does get Chico off the hook, you still have two questions. First, who killed Bistolfi, Morris Kelakowsky, and Canetta? The second problem was tied to the first-how to get the Chicago cops to unlist me as public enemy number three or four and moving up fast. The most obvious solution to problem one was that at least four people were involved in some scheme to cheat the mob and Nitti out of $120,000. The killer was determined not to split that money into smaller chunks. Maybe Killer was worried about my getting too close. That led to an obvious conclusion. Killer might want me dead now unless there wasn’t anyone left for me to get
