Doctors (68 page)

“You leave it to me,” Bill said gratefully.

Barney hung up and looked at Emily. “Pretty good news, huh?” he asked.

“I’d say it was fantastic news—how come you don’t seem excited?”

I am, Barney thought to himself. But I know what’s keeping me from celebration.

Though he had promised not to broach the subject when she had moved in with him, he could not restrain himself from dropping unsubtle hints.

As they would jog through the park, he would point to little children playing with balloons, or mothers wheeling tiny babies, and say, “We’ll have one of those some day—and then you’ll have to marry me.”

But Emily would always come up with the same response. “We’re happy as we are, Barn. Let’s make the most of it for as long as possible.”

Since she would repeat the phrase like a litany, Barney had begun to worry what the hell she meant by “as long as possible.” That we’ll keep on having fun before we take on the responsibility of children? Or—she couldn’t mean—as long as we’re together? Could she?

Tu-doh Street in Saigon was known to most GIs as “Joy Street.” Its corridor of gaudy pink and blue neon-lit attractions fulfilled
all
the wildest dreams of sensuality that a cloistered monk could be expected to repress.

Thus, Captain Hank Dwyer, M.D., felt he was in a sensual Disneyland, whose wonders never paled. And he would return to this fleshly paradise every chance he could.

The girls were so beautiful—delicate, slender ivory statues,
whose exquisite hands could rouse a man to passion with a single touch.

True, they accepted money for their company, but in return they offered more than physical delights. They were aware that men sought out their company to cure loneliness as much as sexual desire. They gave them comfort, company, and—there is no other word—a kind of worship.

For men have huge psychic appetites and a hunger for assurance that they are the kings, the ruling gender. And whether they are in battle in the Wall Street jungle or the paddies of Vietnam, they come home hungry every night and need to stand on their pedestals and be replenished.

But the Americans in Southeast Asia were secretly upset by the news that reached them of the changes taking place back in the U.S.A.

Rumor had it that their pedestals were actually being chipped away.

For at the very moment they were firing their weapons here in Nam, at home there was another kind of war. Only, instead of burning villages, the combatants were setting their bras on fire.

To the soldiers in the field, the news of Women’s Liberation was disquieting. How could they fight to free a foreign country if they faced the specter of returning home to be prisoners?

Hence, here on Joy Street, they found refuge in the arms of the most captivating women they had ever seen. The jet-black hair and eyes, beguiling smiles—and, most of all, the childlike sensuality, for many looked like budding-breasted teenagers in early bloom.

And the nectar and ambrosia! How could a country that—beyond its capital—was wracked with strife, bloody and staggering, obtain the finest French cuisine and vintage wine? Though peasants were starving in the villages, here in Saigon itself there was no shortage of
pâté de foie gras
or champagne. In fact, there was nothing you could get in Paris that you could not get in Saigon—except peace.

A mere dozen miles from Joy Street, eighteen-year-old soldiers—farm boys from the fields of the Dakotas, blacks from urban ghettos like Chicago and Detroit—were being killed and maimed, never really understanding what they had been fighting for.

And yet many of their countrymen back home were cursing them for following the flag and dying for their country.

There are only two ways for a doctor to confront the gruesome wounds of war: by hardening his senses—or by feeding them.

Hank Dwyer chose the latter course. And as the fighting grew fiercer—in a single day he might see ten soldiers whose legs had been blown off by hidden mines—he was so steeped in blood that he grew numb. The only time he felt alive was in the arms of Mai-ling.

They had met on Joy Street under what were then commercial circumstances. But he soon assured himself these porcelain goddesses were from educated families that had dispersed, disintegrated, or just disappeared—that they, too, came to Joy Street hungering for real companionship. And after a week of nightly visits, Hank persuaded Mai-ling to come and live with him in the air-conditioned villa he shared with two other officers who had also acquired Oriental “brides.”

Indeed, they had the makings of a small commune. For one of the other women had a child already, one was pregnant, and Mai-ling, the new arrival, soon learned from them that her ties with America would be greatly strengthened if she were the mother of a child whose father was a U.S. Army officer.

Hank took the news impassively. If it had been Cheryl who’d announced this, he would have lost his temper and insisted that the pregnancy be terminated.

But here in Southeast Asia things were completely different: the taking care of children was accepted as exclusively the province of women. And besides, Mai-ling understood that every man by nature was polygamous, and she would wait patiently all night till he came home to her … from Joy Street.

Barney Livingston, M.D., was born on June 16, 1937, in King’s County Hospital, Brooklyn. He was “launched” on April 20, 1970, in the Versailles Room of the St. Regis Hotel, New York.

In the interim, between the preview
PW
rave and publication date, Berkeley had engineered a sale to a paperback house for fifteen thousand dollars, a price Bill Chaplin considered modest but one that so staggered Barney he spent half the day writing the figure on his notepad.

In a festive mood, he went out to be fitted for a made-to-measure suit.

My God, he thought to himself, as the tailor measured him from every conceivable angle, he’s more thorough than a doctor.

Nothing was left to chance. The master tailor even asked him, “Which way do you dress, Dr. Livingston?”

The question totally confused him. I mean, how did anybody dress? He said nothing.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” the tailor said respectfully, “I didn’t hear your answer.”

“I didn’t really understand the question.”

The tailor tried to rephrase it. “The way your member fall—”

“My what?”

“Your member, sir,” he answered, indicating Barney’s crotch as unobtrusively as possible. “In the majority of men, it usually rests on the left.”

Unreal! This guy is asking me on which side I hang my cock!

“Well, let’s go for the left,” said Barney, choosing the statistically preponderant alignment. And also hoping that the measurements would not get any more detailed.

“My God, do you look great,” said Emily enthusiastically. “I’d better watch out at the party or some woman will seduce you on the spot.”

He took her in his arms and said, “Listen, kid, when you’re in a room with me, I wouldn’t even notice Raquel Welch.”

“Is Bill’s new ‘Playmate of the Year’ going to be there?”

“Yes,” Barney answered with a grin, “his editorial assistant has made all the arrangements.”

“Bet she’s a knockout.”

Barney sighed. “Oh, Em, you know I want to be monogamous. I want to grab you by the left hand and squeeze a ring onto your finger.”

Emily was not reassured. She was conscious that when limelight suddenly shines on some men they get priapic thoughts.

“Then there’s the golden goddess of physicians—”

“You mean Laura?”

“Am I finally going to meet this creature—or is she someone you dreamed up just to make me jealous?”

“I’m sure she’s much too busy,” Barney casually replied. “I had Bill send her an invitation just so she’d know I would have wanted her to be there.”

Twenty minutes later, they were in the lobby of the St. Regis. Estelle, Warren, and his wife Bunny (looking very pregnant) were waiting nervously.

“Why didn’t you go up?” asked Barney cheerfully. “The early people get the best hors d’oeuvres.”

He hugged his mother, who had arrived from Florida that morning.

“Thanks for flying up,” he said.

“Oh, Barney, do you think I’d miss a grand event like this? I was a librarian, remember? To me, the greatest thing a man can do is write a book.”

Warren did his best to conquer all his pangs of jealousy. “C’mon, let’s go and see what kind of goodies Berkeley House is serving in the author’s honor. If they’re inadequate, I’ll file suit tomorrow.”

They were not the first to arrive. Indeed, most of the champions were already there. Breathless with excitement, Barney introduced his mother, brother, sister-in-law, and Emily to the immortals of the sporting pantheon.

“That Rafer Johnson is the handsomest man I’ve ever seen,” Estelle whispered to Barney.

And as the other brand of heavyweights appeared—the heroes of the media—the Fourth Estate was snowed.

The festivities were at their height when an unexpected visitor arrived.

And Emily knew instantly that it was Laura Castellano. Though simply dressed in a dark navy suit, unadorned by anything but her golden hair, the doctor looked breathtaking.

Barney rushed to welcome her, exchanged a kiss, and immediately brought her over.

“Em, meet Laura—my best friend since kindergarten.”

Both women answered in unison, “I’ve heard so much about you—”

“I’m glad you could come,” said Emily, “I know how busy you must be.”

“I wouldn’t have missed this for the world. Barney’s my dearest friend. And I think
Mind of a Champion
is brilliant.”

“I do, too,” said Emily, “and if you liked the piece
SI
excerpted, you’ll go wild when you read the book.”

“But I’ve read it all—Barney sent me galleys.”

Emily’s worst fear was confirmed. She’d sensed from the beginning that Barney’s deepest feelings were pledged to the quasi-legendary Laura—however many times he protested that their friendship was platonic.

She found herself unable to sustain the conversation. Spying a co-editor from
SI
, she excused herself and hurried off.

“Isn’t this terrific?” came a sudden voice from behind Laura.

She turned and there, looking handsome and sartorially elegant as usual, was Bennett Landsmann.

“Ben,” she cried, and they embraced warmly. “How are you?”

“You know the answer to that,” he said, grinning. “How is any resident? He’s either half-alive or half-dead. On this exceptional occasion, however, I’m happily half-drunk.”

“So what do you think of our mutual friend’s success?”

“You and I both know it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy,” Bennett replied. “And how about that Emily? She’s a real winner, isn’t she?”

“She’s lovely,” Laura answered. “We haven’t had much of a chance to talk yet, but she seems like a real live wire. Are they happy?”

“Barney loves her, I know that,” said Bennett. “He wants to marry her. Yet for reasons we might diagnose as cryptogenic, she keeps saying no. But Barney figures they’ll keep going as roommates till he wears her down.”

“Hey, listen, Landsmann,” Laura chided, “no offense, but I didn’t fly all the way from Boston just for a class reunion. I wanna meet the stars. Where’s Jackie Robinson?”

Bennett pointed. “Do you see that mob across the room? Behind it is the man himself. I haven’t met him either, so I think I’ll ask the party boy to introduce us.”

“Great. You run interference through this crowd and I’ll be right behind you.” And off they set.

Bill Chaplin was ebullient. The party had exceeded his expectations.

To see Jesse Owens talking track with Roger Bannister (flown over just for the occasion), and watch Joe Louis and Muhammad Ali strike pugilistic poses for the cameras. God, what a fight that would have been—the Brown Bomber in his prime against the self-styled Greatest.

Bill had asked Bannister, now a practicing neurologist in London, to propose the toast.

He was brief and to the point.

“Having had both experiences, I can safely say that four hours talking to Dr. Livingston is far more stimulating than four minutes on the track.

“I think Barney should be congratulated for his imagination
and for his insights, which demonstrate that an athlete has a soul as well as a body.”

There was appreciative applause, and as the two doctors shook hands for the cameras, Muhammad Ali shouted, “Hey there, Doc, you forgot to mention
me
—I got the most soul in this room!”

Barney glanced over at Estelle and Warren. His brother looked as if he’d burst with pride. His mother was dabbing her eyes. And he thought, Oh God, if only Dad were here.

“I got everybody’s autographs.”

“Oh, Bunny, you didn’t. That’s so corny,” Warren chided.

“They didn’t seem to think so. Ali even scribbled a poem on a napkin for me.”

Barney had arranged for a small group (what he called the “home team”) to come back to the apartment for deli sandwiches and champagne.

“Hey, Bun, that’s wonderful,” said Laura as Warren refilled her glass. “Can we hear it?”

Bunny withdrew the cloth napkin from her pocket. “It’s a little short but it’s genuine Ali: ‘Livingston may be the latest star/but me Ali is still the best by far.’ ”

There was suitably appreciative laughter.

“Save that, Bunny, it may be valuable some day,” Barney advised.

“I’ll do more than that,” she replied happily, “I’m going to frame it.”

Emily brought out a huge platter of the best cold cuts the Carnegie Delicatessen could offer, and everybody munched as they continued to consume champagne as if it were Doctor Brown’s celery tonic.

“Hey, Barney,” Laura asked, a little tipsy, “just among the gang here, who did you think was the most impressive guy you interviewed?”

“I honestly don’t know,” he answered, even woozier than she, “but I can tell you one thing. If I had to choose a single person in the world to have dinner with—” He paused for dramatic effect and then concluded, “—it would be Emily.”

The little group of inebriates applauded.

“So when’s the wedding, Barn?” called Bunny.