“Delicious looking. Want to try one, laddie? We need to fatten you up,” he asks, glancing at me before he pops it into his mouth.
I shake my head and he chews for a moment.
“Well, then, Mr. Brown,” he says, finally, “since you’re not eating, tell us all what matter of import you were about to impart when we walked up.”
“Matter of import?” I ask, in as innocent a manner as I can muster.
O’Neill is a psychiatrist by training and he is cagey in the use of his populous manner. He never forgets what you say, and he always comes around to probe a little deeper about what you said earlier. When your defenses are down, he surprises you with a question out of the blue. And then, before you know it, you’re chatting away about things you swore you would never talk about. Suddenly, you’re a monkey
