Tourist Season by Carl Hiaasen Read Free Book Online Page B

giggled. “He’s black , man. ‘Course he had an accent.”
    â€œJamaican? Haitian? American?”
    â€œHe’s no Jamaican, and he’s no street nigger. Diss boy been to school.” Ernesto was very sure of himself. “Diss man, he’s stick.”
    Keyes told Ernesto to think on it some more. He’d need all the help he could get. Especially at Pauly’s Bar.

6
    Dr. Remond Courtney didn’t blink. He merely said: “I’m not sure I heard you right, Mr. Wiley.”
    â€œOh, sorry.” Skip Wiley got up and ambled across the office. He leaned over and positioned his large face two inches from the doctor’s nose. “I said,” Wiley shouted, as if Courtney were deaf, “is it really true that you have sex with mallard ducks?”
    â€œNo,” Courtney replied, lips whitening.
    â€œMergansers, then?”
    â€œNo. ”
    â€œAh, so it’s geese. No need to be ashamed.”
    â€œMr. Wiley, sit down, please. I think we’re avoiding the subject, aren’t we?”
    â€œAnd, what subject would that be, Dr. Goosefucker? May I call you that? Do you mind?”
    Courtney looked down at the notebook in his lap, as if referring to something important. Actually the page was blank. “Why,” he said to Skip Wiley, “all this hostility?”
    â€œBecause we’re wasting each other’s time. There’s nothing wrong with me and you know it. But you had to be an asshole and tell my boss I’ve got a pathological brain tumor—so here I am, about to do something truly pathological.” Wiley smiled and grabbed Dr. Courtney by the shoulders.
    The psychiatrist struggled to maintain an air of superiority (as if this were just some childish prank) while trying to squirm from Wiley’s grasp. But Wiley was a strong man and he easily lifted Courtney off the couch.
    â€œI never said you had a tumor, Skip.”
    Dr. Remond Courtney was remarkably calm, but he’d had plenty of practice. He was by trade a professional witness, a courthouse shrink-for-hire. He was impressive in trial—cool, self-assured, unshakable on the stand. Lawyers loved Dr. Courtney and they paid him a fortune to sit in the witness box and say their clients were crazy as loons. It was laughably easy work, and Courtney was conveniently flexible in his doctrines; one day he might be a disciple of Skinner and, the next, a follower of Freud. It all depended on the case ( and who was paying his fee). Dr. Courtney had become so successful as an expert witness that he was able to drop most of his private patients and limit his psychiatric practice to three or four lucrative corporate and government contracts. Dr. Courtney had hoped this would minimize his exposure to dangerous over-the-transom South Florida fruitcakes, but he’d learned otherwise. By the time a big company got around to referring one of its employees to a psychiatrist, the screaming meemies had already set in and the patient often was receiving radio beams from Venus. The worst thing you could do in such a case, Remond Courtney believed, was lose your professional composure. Once a patient knew he could rattle you, you were finished as an analyst. Domination required composure, Dr. Courtney liked to say.
    â€œSkip, I can assure you I never said anything about a brain tumor.”
    â€œOh, it’s Skip now, is it? Did you learn that at shrink school, Dr. Goosefucker? Whenever a patient becomes unruly, call him by his first name.”
    â€œWould you prefer ‘Mr. Wiley’ instead?”
    â€œI would prefer not to be here,” Wiley said, guiding Dr. Courtney toward the window of his office. Below, fifteen floors down, was Biscayne Boulevard. Courtney didn’t need to be reminded of the precise distance (he’d had a patient jump once), but Skip Wiley reminded him anyway. He reminded Dr. Courtney by hanging him by his Italian-made heels.
    â€œWhat do you