'No. Only a pragmatist. Let me tell you all about the treatment.'
'Sure,' Morrison said. 'As long as you understand that as soon as I get out of here I'm going to buy five packs of cigarettes and smoke them all on the way to the police station.' He suddenly realized he was biting his thumb-nail, sucking on it, and made himself stop.
'As you wish. But I think you'll change your mind when you see the whole picture.'
Morrison said nothing. He sat down again and folded his hands.
'For the first month of the treatment, our operatives will have you under constant supervision,' Donatti said. 'You'll be able to spot some of them. Not all. But they'll always be with you. Always. If they see you smoke a cigarette, I get a call.'
'And I suppose you bring me here and do the old rabbit trick,' Morrison said. He tried to sound cold and sarcastic, but he suddenly felt horribly frightened. This was a nightmare.
'Oh, no,' Donatti said. 'Your wife gets the rabbit trick, not you.'
Morrison looked at him dumbly.
Donatti smiled. 'You,' he said, 'get to watch.'
After Donatti let him out, Morrison walked for over two hours in a complete daze. It was another fine day, but he didn't notice. The monstrousness of Donatti's smiling face blotted out all else.
'You see,' he had said, 'a pragmatic problem demands pragmatic solutions. You must realize we have your best interests at heart.
Quitters, Inc., according to Donatti, was a sort of foundation - a non-profit organization begun by the man in the wall portrait. The gentleman had been extremely successful in several family businesses - including slot machines, massage parlours, numbers, and a brisk (although clandestine) trade between New York and Turkey. Mort 'Three-Fingers' Minelli had been a heavy smoker - up in the three-pack-a-day range. The paper he was holding in the picture was a doctor's diagnosis: lung cancer. Mort had died in 1970, after endowing Quitters, Inc., with family funds.
'We try to keep as close to breaking even as possible,' Donatti had said. 'But we're more interested in helping our fellow man. And of course, it's a great tax angle.'
The treatment was chillingly simple. A first offence and Cindy would be brought to what Donatti called 'the rabbit room'. A second offence, and Morrison would get the dose. On a third offence, both of them would be brought in together. A fourth offence would show grave co-operation problems and would require sterner measures. An operative would be sent to Alvin's school to work the boy over.
'Imagine,' Donatti said, smiling, 'how horrible it will be for the boy. He wouldn't understand it even jf someone explained. He'll only know someone is hurting him because Daddy was bad. He'll be very frightened.'
'You bastard,' Morrison said helplessly. He felt close to tears. 'You dirty, filthy bastard.'
'Don't misunderstand,' Donatti said. He was smiling sympathetically. 'I'm sure it won't happen. Forty per cent of our clients never have to be disciplined at all - and only ten per cent have more than three falls from grace. Those are reassuring figures, aren't they?'
Morrison didn't find them reassuring. He found them terrifying.
'Of course, if you transgress a fifth time -'
'What do you mean?'
Donatti beamed. 'The room for you and your wife, a second beating for your son, and a beating for your wife.'
Morrison, driven beyond the point of rational consideration, lunged over the desk at Donatti. Donatti moved with amazing speed for a man who had apparently been completely relaxed. He shoved the chair backwards and drove both of his feet over the desk and into Morrison's belly. Gagging and coughing, Morrison staggered backward.
'Sit down, Mr Morrison,' Donatti said benignly. 'Let's talk this over like rational men.'
When he could get his breath, Morrison did as he was told. Nightmares had to end some time, didn't they?
Quitters, Inc., Donatti had explained further, operated on a ten-step punishment scale. Steps six, seven, and eight consisted of further trips to the rabbit room (and increased voltage) and more serious beatings. The ninth step would be the breaking of his son's arms.
'And the tenth?' Morrison asked, his mouth dry.
Donatti shook his head sadly. 'Then we give up, Mr Morrison. You become part of the unregenerate two per cent.'
'You really give up?'
'In a manner of speaking.' He opened one of the desk drawers and laid a silenced .45 on the desk. He smiled into Morrison's eyes. 'But even the unregenerate two per cent never smoke again. We guarantee it.'
The Friday Night Movie was Bullitt, one of Cindy's favourites, but after an hour of Morrison's mutterings and fidgetings, her concentration was broken.
'What's the matter with you?' she asked during station identification.
'Nothing . . . everything,' he growled. 'I'm giving up smoking.'
She laughed. 'Since when? Five minutes ago?'
'Since three o'clock this afternoon.'
'You really haven't had a cigarette since then?'
'No,' he said, and began to gnaw his thumb-nail. It was ragged, down to the quick.