“Showgirls,” I said to Nita.
“Or strippers,” she said.
Finally he told them they were now wearing bikinis and it was time to dance. They did, rivaling anything the go-go girls had to offer, albeit a clothed version. In the miniskirts it was still fairly racy.
As the four women, post-trance, returned to their tables, Bryant encouraged applause from the audience, who again hooted and hollered and clapped.
“That concludes the entertainment portion of our presentation,” he said, in a more serious manner. Or as serious as a guy in a red coat and turban could be. “Now it’s time for the commercial announcement.”
That produced light laughter.
He spoke briefly of his clinic on the Sunset Strip and mentioned his other locations — San Diego and San Francisco — before announcing his seminar beginning tomorrow at the Flamingo: “The Bryant Method and Technique of Hypno-Analysis.”
Very somber for a man in a stupid hat, he said, “This is a course for doctors of medicine, of osteopathy, and registered nurses, thirty of whom have signed up. I will be discussing treatment of Anxiety, Frigidity, Impotence, Homosexuality, Insomnia, Kleptomania and, of course, the Walking Zombie Syndrome.”
“Of course,” I said.
“Cotard’s Syndrome,” Nita said matter of factly. “People who think they are dead but are walking around.”
“You might be too smart for me.”
“I might.”
Bryant was saying, “I am accepting six volunteers to participate in what I call Instant Therapy. Before your very eyes, I will take a case history, administer the Bryant Association Test, arrive at a diagnosis, and affect a cure, in any one of the afflictions I just mentioned. Follow-up may be needed at my Los Angeles location, but a basic cure is guaranteed, demonstrated for the medical professionals in attendance. You will pay the same amount as they — $175 for the course, including lunch and a cocktail party on the day you are scheduled.”
This guy was the most dangerous kind of huckster — a knowledgeable con man.
“It’s psycho-surgery,” he said off-handedly. “Much like removing a bullet. You’ve got to find out what you’re looking for — the bullet, that is, the traumatic incident, and sew up the wound with positive reinforcement.”
He got his seminar participants, practically rushed by beauties, a few of whom he had to disappoint, two of which had been his subjects earlier. He wrote their information down.
I said to Nita, “That ‘bullet’ business hits a little too close to home.”
“Your doc’s a clown,” she said thoughtfully, “but no laughing matter. Even after all that burlesque, I can believe he could’ve made a robot assassin out of Sirhan.”
Bryant returned the chairs to the tables and slipped backstage. At the same time Elaine Nye in silver lamé panties and all that fetching skin came through the red velvet curtains onto the stage, bouncing out dancing to the band playing “Gloria.”
Nita said, “Maybe we should slip out and come back for Elaine later. I wouldn’t want us to be seen by Bryant.”
“I’m afraid if Elaine doesn’t see us sitting out here,” I said, “she might just take off.”
Nita nodded. “Young women like her can disappear awfully easily these days. A change of name, and poof.”
I gave her a look. “They can disappear more ways than one. I have to make that clear to her.”
Nita nodded again.
We found the most out-of-the-way table we could and settled there, ordering another round of soft drinks. Still, I made sure Elaine, on stage, noticed us; but generally I felt we were tucked away where Bryant wouldn’t make us. Elaine had indicated he’d be out of here now that the intermission show was over.
That was when a massive presence loomed over us.
“Mind if I join you?” Dr. Joseph Bryant asked. He was out of the red jacket and in a more discreet herringbone leisure suit, apparently the work of Omar the Tentmaker.
“Please,” I said. “Sit.”
He did, making the chair disappear. “I hope you enjoyed my little presentation, Mr. Heller.”
“It was a dandy. How do you hang on to your M.D. license, anyway? Instant Analysis? Jesus.”
A pudgy paw waved that away. “The patient signs off on the session, and the document defines ‘Instant Analysis’ as simply a first session. No, I’m fine with the AMA. They approve of me and my work wholeheartedly.”
I grunted. “So they approve of drugging and kidnapping? Even without a prescription?”
The smile between the big bug eyes behind the glasses and the Amish beard was thick-lipped and wet, no more disturbing than a bad X-ray. “That’s why I wanted to speak to you, Mr. Heller. Why I’m interrupting your evening out. Would you mind introducing me to your charming friend?”
“Not at all. This is Nita Romaine. You may have seen her on television.”
His smile widened. “I believe I have. I Dream of Jeannie?”
I should have known. A guy with a sultan’s turban in his wardrobe was bound to watch that show.
Nita admitted, “I did several of those. I hope you enjoyed them.”
“Oh, I did, dear. I did.” He turned to me, serious. “Mr. Heller, your assumption that I had you narcotized in some fashion the other day, that’s simply not the case. Marguerite called me to lend a hand, after you passed out. And I did.”
“Yes, and I want to thank you...”
“No, that’s quite all right.”
“...for not giving me a post-hypnotic suggestion during your intermission spiel and start me clucking around the room like a chicken.”
Nita smiled.
Bryant looked offended.
“My arm still hurts,” I said, “where you gave me that shot of God knows what. Did you find out what you wanted to know? I’d hate for you to go to all that trouble for nothing.”
He stood and the chair fell behind him, as if he’d made it faint under his weight. “I told you I gave you a sedative. You got violent. And I can see that you have a streak of violence in your nature, and it’s a pity I don’t have a slot left tomorrow in my seminar so that you might receive instant analysis. You could certainly use it.”
He stormed out through a side exit.
Elaine on stage had noticed this. She was smiling and doing her go-go thing, but a tightening around the eyes gave her away. The other two dancers came back on and she slipped off through the red curtains.
She emerged from backstage perhaps five minutes later in a thrown-on-looking blue-striped blouse and denim shorts. She leaned a hand against our table and said, “I’m gonna talk to the manager. Tell him I’m sick or something. Okay? And we’ll go see your pals at the FBI. Are they open at this hour?”
“It’s Vegas,” I said. “Everybody’s open at this hour.”
That got a tiny smile out of her and she went back to the bar, where the bald middle-aged manager was back talking to the bartenders. She was explaining animatedly and he was nodding, shrugging, obviously giving her the go-ahead. It was about four-thirty A.M. now and things were winding down.
I followed Nita and Elaine out that side door, and we walked around the parking lot at the rear of the building. Dawn wasn’t far away but you’d never know it — night was a blackness alive with the fireflies that were the city’s thousands of neons. I was unlocking the Jag when I got grabbed.
I heard Nita squeal and had a glimpse of her standing on the rider’s side being held from behind by a guy who I recognized at once, even though I’d only seen him that one night, that key night: the curly-haired fan who’d infiltrated the Royal Suite, and who’d later gotten an autograph from Bob on a poster tube in the Pantry.