Free The Alcoholics by Jim Thompson

are."
    "Wonderful!" chuckled Bernie Edmonds.
    "It's not," said Gerald seriously. "It's simply one of those circumstances, such as you mentioned a moment ago, which is a certain way, regardless of whether it should be. Look at it this way. We hire an alcoholic for a responsible position, and he works out fine. We hire a half a dozen and they work out fine. But the seventh one-the seventh does not. In one day he loses us more-and this is no exaggeration, it's happened-more than we can make in a quarter. He loses us more than the other six have earned for us. And we never know when one of the other six, or all of 'em, will pull the same stunt. We just can't take the chance. Brother and I, ourselves, never go near the office when we're drinking."
    "Never," John nodded. "That's one reason… well, you see our position, Bernie. If we can't trust ourselves-a point concerning which there is not the slightest doubt-how can we trust another alcoholic?"
    "Sure," said Bernie. "I was only kidding about the job. I don't know what in hell I'd do around an agency."
    "Wait a minute, Bernie!" Gerald stood up. "Brother and I feel very badly about this. Isn't there something we-?"
    "Can't think of a thing," said Bernie.
    "Why don't you try another book? I'm sure if you can give us something to show around, ten thousand words, say, and an outline, we can get you an interesting advance." Bernie paused. Several seconds passed, while the brothers watched him anxiously, and then he shook his head.
    "What would I write about? I don't do fiction. I'm completely out of touch with the world scene-anyone or any thing that could be built into a book… No, I'm afraid not."
    "Think it over," urged John. "Don't be in too big a hurry to say no. There must be some way-"
    "Is there some way," said Bernie, "to turn the clock back to about 1944? See you at lunch, gentlemen."
    He winked at them, and, shoulders thrown back, carpet shoes slip-slapping jauntily, left the room.

10
    Jeff Sloan had had a very bad morning. It might not have seemed so to others, but that has nothing to do with the case. Only the person affected has the right to judge the goodness or badness of his situation. Jeff would have described his as pretty damned lousy.
    He'd had one vitamin shot last night-a vitamin shot and something to make him sleep. That was all, and… well it was their place to see that he did take the antabuse, wasn't it? It was their place to keep him from drinking. That was why he was paying thirty bucks a day. If he had to do it himself, why give them anything?
    He had come here to get squared away, and they weren't doing a damned thing for him. Just keeping him here. Letting him louse around in a crummy old bathrobe.
    He couldn't understand why this place had been recommended so highly, why his employers had insisted on sending him here. By God, he couldn't understand it! It wasn't as if there weren't any other sanitariums for alcoholics. ( And he wasn't a real alcoholic, of course; always 'd been able to handle the stuff .) There were plenty of 'em-places that guaranteed to cure you of drinking. And they didn't charge any thirty bucks a day either!
    He pulled a chair back into an alcove, for a brisk breeze was sweeping in from the ocean. His robe drawn tightly around him, he hunched down in the chair, his normally good-humored countenance almost laughably peevish.
    He would have liked very much to obtain his clothes and check out of El Healtho, but to do so was impractical if not impossible. His employers would doubtless be phoning to inquire about his condition, and if he wasn't here-if he was sufficiently recovered to leave here- they'd expect him back on the job. He wasn't quite up to that yet. Moreover, Doctor Murphy quite likely would refuse to release him.
    He pondered this last probability, phrasing it mentally as a situation in which they locked you up in jail and charged you for staying there… Could they get away with it? Maybe. Maybe not legally. But you