The doctor unlocked his desk drawer. There were many pill bottles inside. He took the cap off one bottle and shook out a pill. He handed it to Piggy. Valium. A yellow one. That would be about as helpful as handing a child a penny. Piggy took it without comment.
“I’ll let you have some privacy,” the doctor said, finishing his coffee and throwing away the cup.
“Not necessary,” Piggy said. He was hoping that he could still win the doctor over, so that he could turn the conversation around to that poem. Piggy’s usual way, as Jane had pointed out to him, was to point his finger and demand information. Jane had tried hard, lately, to make him what she called “civilized.” Piggy had found that speaking bluntly to people usually worked fine, but Jane thought he was a bad example for Nicole. He created tension that was unnecessary, and he was a bully. She had a small Evian water spray that she would take out of her purse and spray in his face, when he made non sequiturs. Now she was dead, and he was going to have a dry face the rest of his life and never learn. He thought about demanding that his wife spray him in the face. It seemed unlikely. She was too tranqued-up to push a spray bottle, and she never listened to him when he talked, anyway. The doctor was halfway out of the room.
“No, no,” Piggy said. “Just a quick call. I’ll do the hard stuff from the office. Please sit down.”
The doctor sat in a chair. There were folders stacked on a table. He opened one and began to read.
Piggy wanted to impress the doctor favorably. He remembered to say hello.
“Hello,” Piggy said. “How are things at the office?”
“What?” his secretary said.
“I’m fine,” Piggy said.
“What’s wrong?” his secretary said.
“Do you have that number handy?” he said.
“Mr. Proctor, is this really you? If everything is all right, say, ‘I like New York in June.’ ”
“What the hell do you think?” Piggy exploded. “That I’ve been kidnapped?”
“Oh my God,” his secretary said. “Oh, don’t worry, Mr. Proctor, I’ll take care of everything. I understand.”
“Don’t hang up!” Piggy hollered. “Are you out of your mind, Dora?”
“Don’t do anything to make them suspicious,” Dora said. “I’m dialing the police on the other line.”
“I’ll kill you!” Piggy said. “I haven’t been kidnapped! You goddamn imbecile. Talk to the doctor. He’ll tell you I haven’t been kidnapped.”
The doctor, looking very taken aback, got up and took the phone. “Hello? To whom am I speaking?” he said.
“Who are you? What do you want?” Dora said.
“I’m Dr. Endicott,” he said. “Is there any problem?” He looked at Piggy as he said this.
“Tell her, ‘I like New York in June,’ ” Piggy said, suddenly remembering what she had said to say.
“Mr. Proctor, if everything is all right, I’ll leave it to you to chat with whoever is on the phone,” the doctor said, his hand over the receiver. He took his hand away and held the phone out to Piggy.
“Well, thank God War of the Worlds isn’t on the radio today, or I wouldn’t even have one numbskull to answer the phone,” Piggy said. “Will you give me that goddamn phone number?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Proctor. I couldn’t understand the way you were talking to me and I thought …”
“Hurry up!” Piggy said.
She gave him the number.
Piggy slammed the phone down so hard the desk vibrated. The doctor jumped. He started to say something, then looked down at the folder again. Piggy knew that he had made a terrible impression.
“Sorry,” Piggy said. “I guess everybody gets a little excited when they come in.”
The doctor hesitated a moment. Then he nodded.
“Christ,” Piggy said. “This is a real tragedy. I’m not myself, I can tell you that.”
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” the doctor said.
“I’ll just — let me make this one call and then I’ll be on my way,” Piggy said. He picked up the phone. The doctor gave him a half smile and went back to the folder. People were talking on the phone about buying Coleco. Piggy pushed a button and got an outside line and charged the call to his office.
“Hello?” a woman’s voice said.
“Hello,” Piggy said. “How are you today? This is P. G. Proctor, calling from Los Angeles. May I please speak to Hildon?”
“I must tell you that I am coming down with a cold and that you have disturbed my nap,” Maureen said. “It is within my rights to say that I consider my rest more important than continuing this conversation. I am going back to bed now.”
She hung up. Piggy looked at the desk top. He thought he was going to explode. He felt a murderous rage toward the woman who had answered the phone, toward his asinine secretary, and toward Jane, for dying. To say nothing of what he felt toward her husband, who drove them both over a cliff. He clenched his free hand and released his fist, then hung up and sat in the doctor’s chair.
“Terrible connection,” Piggy said. “Have to try later.”
“Mr. Proctor, are you going to be able to drive?” the doctor said. “Do you think it might be a good idea to call Mrs. Proctor, or a friend?”
“Mrs. Proctor already racked one up this week,” Piggy said. “Tailgating on Rodeo. Smashed in the front of the 450.”
The doctor nodded.
“Say,” Piggy said, ripping another piece of paper off the doctor’s prescription pad. “What was the name of that poet again?”
The doctor looked like he was about to speak, then stopped. Piggy thought the doctor wasn’t going to tell him. The two of them looked at each other, across the room.
“William Butler Yeats,” the doctor said. “Y-e-a-t-s. The poem is titled, The Second Coming.”
Piggy wrote it down. “All that money, and he plagiarizes,” Piggy said.
“It isn’t plagiarism to take a phrase from a poem for a title,” the doctor said.
“Sure it is,” Piggy said.
“No,” the doctor said.
“Maybe Yeats and Dormett both came up with the same idea. Coincidence,” Piggy said.
The doctor looked at him.
“Making a mountain out of a molehill, right?”
The doctor gave him his half smile again. He held out his hand. “Mr. Proctor,” he said. “If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to call.”
“Thank you,” Piggy said, folding the piece of paper and putting it in his pocket. “Hell of a day, huh?”
Piggy was confused in the corridor for a while, until he found the Exit sign. He followed it to the elevator, and rode to the basement. He had no memory of where he had parked. There were probably a million cars in the garage. He suddenly wanted to be in his car very much. He felt furious and exhausted, and he would feel better if he could sink down in the driver’s seat. He walked through row after row of cars, then remembered that he had parked far down one of the rows. He began walking vertically, instead of horizontally. It took fifteen more minutes to find the car. He took out his car key and opened the door and sat in the driver’s seat. A woman got in a car not far from his, started it, backed out fast and hit a car behind her. She pulled forward, cut the wheels sharply as she backed up again, and drove away. Her license plate said Lucky-7. Piggy started his car. The radio was on. He turned it off. He drove the wrong way down a one-way lane until he got to the booth.
“Did you see which way those arrows were pointing?” the attendant said.
“You see which way my finger is pointing?” Piggy said, holding up his middle finger.
The attendant laughed. “What do I want to fight for?” he said.
“Have a real life experience. Put it in your screenplay,” Piggy said.
“My screenplay’s about a whorehouse in a cave in prehistoric times,” the man said. “I want De Niro to play the bouncer. You think knocking your teeth down your throat would add anything?”