If bourbon were air, there would be nothing left to breathe in the room. Shandy grabbed so much in the Club Level drawing room, she had to ask the concierge for a tray while Dr. Self made a cup of hot chamomile tea and looked the other way.

“She sure must be something special,” Shandy says. “No wonder you hate her so much.”

It was metaphorical. Everything Shandy represents causes Dr. Self to look the other way, and she’d looked the other way so long, she didn’t see the collision coming.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Dr. Self says. “You’re to leave this very pretty little city and never come back. I know you’ll miss your beach house, but since I’m only being polite to call it yours, I predict you’ll get over it quickly. Before you pack up, you’ll strip it to the bone. Do you remember the stories about Princess Diana’s apartment? What happened to it after she died? Carpet and wallpaper torn out, even the light-bulbs removed, her car crushed into a cube.”

“No one’s touching my BMW or my bike.”

“You’re to start tonight. Scrub, paint, use bleach. Burn things—I don’t care. But not a drop of blood or semen or spit, not an article of clothing, not a single hair or a fiber or a morsel of food. You should go back to Charlotte where you belong. Join the Church of the Sports Bar and worship the god of money. Your erstwhile father was wiser than I. He left you nothing, and certainly I have to leave you something. I have it in my pocket. And then I’m rid of you.”

“You’re the one who said I should live here in Charleston so I could be…”

“And now I have the privilege of changing my mind.”

“You can’t make me do a fucking thing. I don’t give a shit who you are, and I’m tired of you telling me what to say. Or not to say.”

“I am who I am and can make you do whatever I please,” Dr. Self says. “Now’s a good time to be pleasant to me. You asked my help, and here I am. I’ve just told you what to do so you can get away with your sins. You should say ‘Thank you’ and ‘Whatever you wish is my command’ and ‘I’ll never do anything to upset or inconvenience you again.’”

“Then give it to me. I’m out of bourbon and out of my mind. You make me feel crazier than a shithouse rat.”

“Not so fast. We haven’t finished our little fireside chat. What did you do with Marino?”

“He’s gonzo.”