Lying on the Couch (54 page)

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day preceding the luncheon—either he would bring it to New York or he would wire it. Arthur, reluctantly, agreed to put up the other sixteen thousand.

The following evening Marshal returned home to find a voice mail message from Detective Darnel Collins, New York City Mid-town Manhattan Fraud Squad. Marshal got short shrift when he returned the call. The harried police operator told him to call back in the morning: Officer Collins was off duty, and Marshal's call seemed no emergency.

Marshal's first patient the next morning would be at seven a.m. He set the alarm for five and called New York again upon arising. The police operator said, "I'll page him. Have a good day," and slammed the phone down. Ten minutes later the phone rang.

"Mister Marshal Streider.^"

''Doctor Streider."

"Well, 'scuse me. DOCTOR Streider. Detective Collins, New York fraud squad. Got another Doctor here—Doctor Arthur Randal—says you had a little nasty run-in with someone we're interested in—goes sometimes by the name of Peter Macondo."

"Very nasty run-in. Robbed me of ninety thousand dollars."

"You got company on that. Other folks, too, annoyed with our friend Macondo. Give me details. Everything. I'm taping this— okay?"

Marshal took fifteen minutes to describe all that had happened with Peter Macondo.

"Man oh man, you mean to say, just like that, you handed him ninety thousand dollars?"

"You can't fully appreciate it if you don't understand the nature, the intricacies, of the psychotherapy situation."

"Yeah? Well, we know I'm no doctor. But tell you this: / never handed over money like that. Ninety thousand a lot of money."

"I told you, I had a secured note. Ran it by my lawyer. That's the way all business is done. The bank note commits the bank to pay the note upon demand."

"A note which you got around to checking out two weeks after he was gone."

"Look, Detective, what is this? Am I on trial? You think I'm happy about this?"

"Okay, my friend, stay calm, and we'll all do okay. Here's what we do to make you well. We're gonna arrest this guy eating lunch—

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chomping on his radicchio—next Wednesday, maybe twelve-thirty, one o'clock. But to make this stick we need you in New York to make an ID within twelve hours after the arrest—in other words, before Wednesday midnight. We got a tight agreement.^"

"I wouldn't miss it."

"Okay, man, lot of people counting on you. Another thing—you still got the forged note and the receipt for the cashier's check?"

"Yes. You want me to bring those?"

"Yeah, bring the originals when you come, but I want to see copies of them right away. Can you fax them to me today? Two-one-two-five-five-five-three-four-eight-nine—put my name. Detective Darnel Collins, on them. One other thing. I'm sure I don't need to tell you—but don't, don't, don't show your face at the restaurant. You do and our bird flies, and everybody's very unhappy. Wait for me at the Fifty-fourth Street station—it's between Eighth and Ninth, or arrange with your buddy to meet him after the snatch and come down with him. Let me know which. Any other questions?"

"One other. Is this safe? That's a real check with mostly my money that Dr. Randal's giving him."

''Your money? I thought it was his money."

"We split it sixty-forty. I'm putting up twenty-four thousand."

"Safe? We got two men eating lunch at the next table and three others watching and televising every move. Safe enough. But / wouldn't do it."

"Why?"

"Always can be something—earthquake, fire, all three officers keel over together with heart attacks—I dunno, shit happens. Safe? Yeah, plenty safe. Still, I wouldn't do it. But I ain't a doctor."

Life became interesting again for Marshal. Back to jogging. Back to basketball. He canceled his hours with Carol because he felt sheepish about admitting that he had been stalking Peter. She had fully committed herself to the opposite strategy: pressing him to accept his loss and let go of his anger. It was a good object lesson, Marshal thought, on the perils of giving advice in therapy: if patients don't follow the advice, they won't come back.

Every night he spoke to Arthur Randal. As the meeting with Peter neared, Arthur got edgier and edgier.

"Marshal, my wife is convinced I'm going to tar myself in this

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whole affair. This will hit the papers. My patients will read it. Consider my reputation. I'll either be ridiculed or accused of investing with a patient."

"But that's the point: you're not investing with the patient. You're acting in consort with the police to trap a criminal. This will enhance your reputation."

"That's not what the press will say. Think about it. You know how they scratch for scandal—especially with psychiatrists. I'm feeling more and more I don't need this in my life. I've got a good practice, everything I've ever wanted."

"If you hadn't read my notice, Arthur, you'd be out forty thousand to this thug. And if we don't stop him he'll keep on going—victim after victim."

"You don't need me— you nail him, I'll identify him. I'm applying for a clinical faculty position at Columbia . . . even the hint of scandal—"

"Look, Arthur, here's an idea: cover yourself—write a detailed letter about the situation and your plans to the New York Psychiatric Society—do it now, before Macondo is arrested. If necessary you can provide a copy of that letter to your department at Columbia and to the press. That will provide you absolute insurance."

"No way I can write that letter. Marshal, without mentioning you—your ad, your involvement with Macondo. How's that stand with you? You were reluctant to have your name made public, too."

Marshal blanched at the idea of any further exposure but knew he had no choice. Anyway, it made little difference—his taped session with Detective Collins made his involvement with Peter a matter of public record anyway.

"If you got to do that, Arthur, do it. I have nothing to hide. The whole profession will feel nothing but gratitude to us."

Then there was the matter of wearing a wire so that the police could tape the closing of the deal with Macondo. With each passing day, Arthur grew more queasy.

"Marshal, there's got to be some other way to do this. This is not to be taken lightly—I'm placing myself in great jeopardy. Macondo is too smart and experienced for us to put this over on him. You talked to Detective Collins? Be honest—you think he's an intellectual match for Macondo? Suppose Macondo discovers the wire while we're talking?"

"How?"

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"He'll pick it up, somehow. You know him—he's always ten steps ahead."

"Not this time. You got police at the next table, Arthur. And don't forget the sociopath's grandiosity, his sense of invulnerability."

"Sociopaths are also unpredictable. Can you say that Peter might not lose it and go for a gun?"

"Arthur, that's not his M.O. . . . it's inconsistent with everything we know about him. You are safe. Remember, you're in a fashionable restaurant surrounded by alert police. You can do this. It's got to be done."

Marshal had an awful premonition of Arthur backing out at the last moment, and in every evening's conversation he drew upon all his rhetorical powers to bolster his timid accomplice's courage. He relayed his concerns to Detective CoUins, who joined with him in calming Arthur.

But, to his credit, Arthur conquered his qualms and anticipated his meeting with Macondo with resolve, even equanimity. Marshal wired the money from his bank on Tuesday morning, spoke to Arthur that evening to confirm its arrival, and caught the red eye to New York.

The plane was delayed two hours, and it was three in the afternoon when he arrived at the Fifty-third Street police station for his meeting with Arthur and Detective Collins. The clerk informed him that Detective Collins was interviewing and directed him to a ratty leather chair in the hallway. Marshal had never before been in a police station and watched with great interest the steady stream of sallow-faced suspects led up and down the stairs by harried officers. But he was groggy—he had been so keyed up that he had not been able to sleep on the plane—and soon dozed off.

About thirty minutes later the clerk awakened him with a gentle shake on the shoulder and directed him to a room on the second floor where Detective Collins, a powerfully built black man, was writing at his desk. Big man, Marshal thought, pro linebacker size. Exactly as I imagined him.

But nothing else was as he had imagined. When Marshal introduced himself he was struck by the detective's strange formality. In one horrific moment it became apparent the detective had no idea who Marshal was. Yes, he was Detective Darnel Collins. No, he had not spoken to Marshal on the phone. No, he had never heard of a Dr. Arthur Randal or a Peter Macondo. Nor had he heard anything about any arrest at the Jockey Club. He had never even heard of the

Jockey Club. Yes, of course he was absolutely certain he had not arrested Peter Macondo while he was chomping on radicchio. Radicchio? What's that?

The explosion in Marshal's mind was deafening, even louder than the explosion detonated by the discovery, weeks ago, that the bank guarantee had been forged. He grew lightheaded and folded into the chair the detective offered.

"Easy, man. Easy. Put your head down. It might help." Detective Collins rose and returned with a glass of water. "Tell me what's happened. But I have a hunch I know."

Marshal dazedly told his whole story. Peter, hundred dollar bills, Adriana, P. U. Club, bicycle helmets, the psychiatric newspaper ad, Arthur Randal's call, sixty-forty split, private eye, Jaguar, the twenty-four-thousand-dollar wire trap, the fraud squad—everything—the whole catastrophe.

Detective Collins shook his head as Marshal talked. "Man, that smarts, I know. Hey, you don't look good. You need to lie down.^"

Marshal shook his head, and cradled it with his hands as Detective CoUins spoke. "You okay to talk?"

"Men's room, quick."

Detective Collins led him to the men's room and waited in his office while Marshal vomited into the toilet, rinsed his mouth, washed his face, and combed his hair. Slowly he walked back to Detective Collins's office.

"Better?"

Marshal nodded. "I can talk now."

"Just listen for a minute. Let me explain what's happened to you," said Detective Collins. "This is the twice-bit gig. It's famous. I've heard about it lots, but I never, ever seen it. I learned about it in fraud school. Takes real skill to pull it off. Operator got to find a special victim: smart, prideful . . . and then, what he does is, bites them twice . . . first time hooks 'em by greed . . . second time hooks 'em by revenge. Real skill. Man, never seen it before. Takes cool nerve because anything can go wrong. Take one for instance—if you get only a little suspicious and check with Manhattan telephone information to get the real police station phone number, it's all over. Man—nerve. Major league stuff."

"No hope, eh?" Marshal whispered.

"Give me those phone numbers, I'll run a check on 'em. I'll try everything I can. But the truth? You want the truth? ... no hope."

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"What about the real Dr. Randal?"

"Probably on vacation out of the country. Macondo got into his voice mail. Not hard to do."

"How about tracking the others involved?" Marshal asked.

"What others? Ain't no others. His girlfriend probably the police operator. He must have been the others himself. These guys are actors. The good ones do all the voices themselves. And this guy's good. And long gone by now. For sure."

Marshal stumbled downstairs, leaning on Detective Collins's arm, refused a ride to the airport in a police car, caught a cab on Eighth Avenue, went to the airport, caught the next plane to San Francisco, drove home in a daze, canceled his patients for the next week, and climbed into bed.

TWENTY-NINE

^^ /y/yonty^ money, money. Can't we talk about anything else, Carol? Let me tell you a story about my father that will answer, once and forever, all your questions about me and money. Happened when I was a baby, but I've heard about it all my life—part of the family folklore." Marshal slowly unzipped his sweatsuit jacket, slipped it off, refused Carol's outstretched hand offering to hang it up, and dropped it in a heap on the floor next to his seat.

"He had a tiny, six-by-six, grocery store on Fifth and R streets in Washington. We lived over the store. One day a customer came in and asked for a pair of work gloves. My father pointed to the back door, saying he had to get them out of the back room and that it would take him a couple of minutes. Well, there was no back room. The back door opened onto an alley. My father galloped down the alley to the open market two blocks down, bought a pair of gloves for twelve cents, rushed back, and sold them to the customer for fifteen cents."

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Marshal pulled a handkerchief out, blew his nose hard, and unabashedly wiped the tears from his cheeks. Since his return from New York, he had abandoned all attempts to conceal his vulnerability and wept almost every session. Carol sat in silence, respecting Marshal's tears and trying to recall when she had last seen a man cry. Jeb, her brother, refused to cry, though he had been abused routinely by everyone: father, mother, school bullies—sometimes for the specific purpose of making him cry.