Couch Canyon is what they call Bedford Street in Beverly Hills. It’s the street where all the psychiatrists have their offices.
“She got him all the way out here?” I asked.
“A star is a star. And that’s Marvin Orgell.”
“It is?” I had heard of Orgell before. He was one of Marilyn Monroe’s psychiatrists. He was the one who got what’s-his-name to get cleaned up and get married and have a kid. He had also shrunk the heads of several other big stars and studio executives.
Marvin Orgell was in fact a member of a professional group living in Los Angeles and existing as stars in their own right. A certain collection of doctors, lawyers, business managers, even chauffeurs were considered stars. To use their services or to invite them to your parties was considered a big deal. I mean people like Greg Bautzer and Rex Kennamer and Leo Rangell. In Hollywood society, they were as familiar as Gregory Peck or Kirk Douglas. Marvin Orgell was in that category.
It’s what you call credits. All Los Angeles is built on credits, like screen credits. You want to buy a house? The real estate agent will whisper in your ear that this house was built by Gary Cooper’s agent and was remodeled by Shirley Templepersonally. You want a school for your kids? You’ll be told that Bob Culp and Steve McQueen send their kids there. You want a lawyer? Get the lawyer who handled one of Yul Brynner’s divorces. A doctor? The internist who treats Groucho Marx is probably best.
Credits.
Well, Marvin Orgell had plenty of credits. His patient list sounded like the cast for the biggest film spectacular ever made. And that does something to a doctor or a lawyer or a psychiatrist. For one thing, they are privy to all sorts of information—who’s making what deals, who’s fucking who, who’s hiding in the closet. That gives them a kind of power in a town that thrives on gossip. For another thing, they have the usual professional power, magnified because of the stakes of the business. A lawyer who holds up McQueen’s contract can delay an $8 million movie, where any delay costs thousands of dollars. An internist who says that Mr. Peck is too ill to work can shut down a multimillion-dollar enterprise. That kind of power can go to your head. And it often does.
“Better mention to him about the press,” Claude said to me, with a pitying look.
“Can’t we get one of the lawyers to do it?”
“Better do it yourself,” he said. “Now.”
I said I would, and Claude went away.
At this point, it was a little after six a.m., and my excellent mood was totally shot. I couldn’t remember why I’d felt good when I got up—I certainly didn’t feel good anymore. I sat across the room and watched Brenda talking with Orgell. He was being sympathetic and patting her arm.
I finished my coffee and went over. Because the truth was that Claude was right—somebody had to tell Orgell to keep his mouth shut. The chances were that he would, of course. But everybody remembered the fiasco in 1957, whenRemember the Westwas shooting and got into trouble and somebody’s shrink told the press that it was all because the star was having an unhappy affair with a male extra. That shelvedRemember the West—which you don’t remember, because you never saw it. Nobody ever saw it. The picture was killed and the star was canned, and the psychiatrist continued to babble about how it was better for everyone to be honest and straightforward and face up to reality. He completely forgot that movies, like politics, are unreality. That’s the point of them.
I wandered over—sauntered, you might say—and greeted Brenda.
“Good morning, Harvey,” she said. “Do you know Dr. Orgell?”
“Only by reputation. It’s a pleasure, Doctor.”
“So good to meet you,” Orgell said, in a trace of a Viennese accent. I was surprised by that and then wondered why I was surprised. Of course he would have a Viennese accent, even if he was from Brooklyn.
“It’s wonderful to have such a distinguished visitor on the location,” I said as charmingly as I could manage.
“And you are wondering when I will leave?” he asked.
“No, of course not.”
“Something is on your mind.”
“Well, actually, I wanted to advise you that there are a lot of reporters around at the moment, and?—”
“No statement from me?”
“It would be advisable.”
“I am here,” Orgell said, “to do whatever is in the best interests of my patient, Miss Conrad. I will follow that principle as I see fit.”
“I’m sure,” I said, “but I merely wanted to advise you that the legal ramifications may go beyond any individual’s circumstance.”
“I have no concern for legal ramifications. I have concern for my patient.”
“I merely bring the situation to your attention, Doctor.”
“Thank you for doing so.”
