"John DeChancie - Castle 08 - Bride of the Castle" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dechancie John)

The phone jingled. Oh, God. Not Herb. "Hello," Max answered dully.
"Mr. Dumbrowsky? Maximilian Dumbrowsky?"
"Yes?"
"Hey," the squeaky male voice said. "I've been trying to reach you for weeks."
"Sorry. I'm not home much. Who is this?"
"Dr. Jeremy Hochstader. You called a physicians' reference service, about a psychotherapist? You gave
your work number. I traced it, and just by chance we happen to work in the same office building."
It took a few seconds for Max to make the connection. "Oh, right. I remember now. Um, look-"
"I was wondering if you still needed help. I'm in the business of helping people, though you might think
that my methods are a little, you know, unorthodox-"
"Listen," Max broke in, "I'm . . . well, I'm really not sure I want to continue therapy at all. If I decide to,
I'll give you a call. Are you in the book?"
"Uh, not really. But first, let me tell you a few things, you know, like inducements. My therapeutic
techniques are very unconventional, and a helluva lot more effective than the usual mumbo-jumbo. And
my fees are very low. I just happen to be in my office tonight. Why don't you drop down and we'll talk it
over? Sixth floor."
"Uh, let me think about it."
Whoever this bird was, he sounded young. Very young. Sounded like a kid.
Hochstader babbled on for a bit, but Max cut him off, pretended to write down the phone number, and
abruptly hung up. Rare bird, Max thought. Sounded like a kid selling magazines to get himself through
college.
Max tried to work on the catalog. He did a few product descriptions, working from the data sheets,
checked the pasteup on the graphics computer in the art room, went back and banged out two more
product descriptions on his word processor, and then fell into a yawning fit.
He couldn't stop yawning.
"Sheeesh!" Max rubbed his jaw. It was sore. "Why the hell am I so tired all the time?" He needed some
chemical stimulation.
Max got up and shuffled out of his hole, went through the main office and out into the dark corridor. He
paused briefly to look at the stenciled lettering on the front door. FENTON
ASSOCIATES-BROCHURES, CATALOGS, PRESENTATIONS, ADVERTISING. Max shook his
head. A long slide from Bulmer, Lewis, and Teller, a big agency where he had worked fresh out of
college. Nothing like starting at the top and working your way down.
Thinking of BLT made him think of Andrea. Long lost Andrea. She and Max had shared a Cleo
nomination for their work on a Kleenex spot. So long ago.
He took the elevator down to the sixth floor, where there were some vending machines. He bought a can
of soda, tore off the tab, and drank as he meandered through the gloomy halls of the old office building.
He passed a lighted office. Another exploited fool. Then he saw the name. JEREMY HOCHSTADER,
P.Hd.
He did a take, noticing the spurious punctuation. P period capital H small d? Right. This joker can't even
abbreviate his degree.
His new shrink. How bloody convenient. Well, what the hell.
The door was slightly ajar. Max eased it open.
"Come in, come in," the strangely adolescent voice Max had heard over the phone sang out. There was
no mistaking it.
Max stopped when he caught sight of the smaller lettering under the name on the frosted glass. He
pushed the door open wider and looked at it. It read PORTALS UNLIMITED.
"Come in, Mr. Dumbrowsky."
Max looked around. Seated at a table in a far corner of the office was a pint-size kid, looking no older
than eighteen, dressed in faded jeans and a tie-dyed T-shirt. His hair was a bit long and mussy, and his
general scruffy appearance went well with a face that was aggressively nondescript, tending toward the