Definitive Therapy

Part Two

 SESSION FIVE

          I tried to hide my agitation as the session began, tried to pretend that nothing untoward had happened.  The Joker, for his part, was less cooperative than usual.  Despite the fact that we were alone, he said not a word.  Just sat there staring at me.  Grinning.

          Finally, I turned off the tape recorder, ready to terminate the session.

          Then he spoke.  "Don't you like your new car?"

          I bit down on the insides of my cheeks to keep from shouting out my anger.  I couldn't let him see how shaken I was, how he'd got to me.

          It had happened this morning.  I'd been running late and so it was especially frustrating when I couldn't find my car in the Gotham Gardens' parking lot.  At first I'd thought I'd simply forgotten where I'd parked it, for there was a Mercedes in the spot I usually used.  Soon it became clear that my car was gone.  But who would steal that old junker? 

          Agitated now, I walked over to my usual spot and checked out the Mercedes.  It was new.  A brand new 560 SEL.  Royal blue.  My favorite color.  I thought about how I was going to own one of those someday, and I wondered which tenant in a low rent apartment complex like Gotham Gardens could afford such a beast.

          Then I saw the keys in the door lock. 

         I peered through the driver's window.  There was an envelope on the front seat.  With my name on it.  I yanked open the car door and tore open the envelope.  Inside was the registration card – in my name – and a sheet of purple stationary.

                                                        For the exclusive use

                                                         of Dr. Harold Lewis.

          A playing card was attached.  A Joker.

        "Well?"  The Joker said now from the other side of the table.  "Aren't you even going to say thank you?"

          No.  I wasn't going to say thank you. 

          "How'd it drive?"

        I'd been running late already and had no choice but to drive the Mercedes to work.  How'd it drive?  Like piloting a cloud.  But I'd been too angry, too unsettled by this arrogant intrusion into my life to enjoy it. 

          I steadied myself.  Finally, I felt able to speak calmly.

          "Where is my old car?"

          "Gone.  Dead.  Kaput.  Junked.  Pounded into a neat little cube of twisted steel and sent back to the melting pot from which it came."

          "Listen, pal," I said, "if you think such a blatant attempt at bribery will get you special treatment from me, or turn me into some sort of clandestine ally, you're sadly mistaken.  I'm not for sale." 

          Not ever,  I thought.  Especially not to the murderer of Colin Whittier.

     "Of course you're not.  Do you really think I'd be so clumsy as to try to bribe you with a car?  A car?  Good gracious me, no.  It's just that I simply couldn't bear to know that my personal physician was driving around in public in that ancient Toyota.  A Celica, no less!  I've got a reputation to uphold.  How do you think it looks to my organization when they see their leader's doctor driving a Jap junker?  It was an intolerable situation that required an immediate remedy."