A Night at the Operation

by JEFFREY COHEN

  I was planning to solve these problems by playing MacBrickout for a while (you’d be amazed how much you can think about when you’re not thinking), but then I remembered there was a stack of mail on my desk that I had not looked at since Sharon had taken her little trip to the Poconos. I sat down at the desk and started sorting the mail.

  After throwing away catalogs (I didn’t really need new popcorn buckets) and stacking bills, I had a depressingly small pile of mail that actually was addressed to someone other than “occupant.” I disposed of most of it quickly, and then I came across an envelope that was unusual.

  It was plain, with no return address and no distinctive stationery pattern. The address was handwritten (and not by one of those computer programs that’s supposed to look handwritten), in blue ink, to “Mr. Elliot Freed, c/o Comedy Tonight,” with the address of the theatre beneath. It was post-marked in East Brunswick two days before, indicating that it had been stamped by the post office on Monday, and could have been mailed anytime between the post office closing on Saturday and sometime after it opened Monday.

  The letter was strange in that there was absolutely nothing strange about it. It’s rare that a business, especially, gets a piece of mail that isn’t in some way generated by another business. Movie theatres don’t get personal letters, and yet this appeared to be just that.

  I actually used a letter opener I have on my desk, something I rarely do. Sharon had given me the opener when I started the theatre, as part of a stationery set that I almost never use. She thought it seemed “professional” to have such an item. I’m not sure I’ve made this clear, but I don’t have use for the thing.

  Unfolding the letter, I had a sense of importance; this didn’t feel like a casual piece of mail. It was also handwritten, in very clear script, on heavyweight, expensive stationery. It was dated three days ago—Sunday—and it read:

  Dear Mr. Freed:

  I’m not sure why I’m writing to you. We’ve only met twice, and I know I’m not a close friend, but you have had a significant impact on my life, even if that was not your intention. In the back of my mind, however, I know the real reason I’m writing: to say that I am sorry.

  My apologies for the deception I have perpetrated upon you. I hope it has not caused you any serious inconvenience, and I hope that you do not believe I have been attempting to make you feel foolish.

  When we met, I introduced myself as Martin Tovarich, and that was a lie on my part. I was playing the part of Tovarich, simply pretending, and since I had not met you before, it didn’t seem a terribly gross inconsideration. You were, in fact, the last person I was thinking of when I “became” Tovarich. Let me explain.

  Two weeks ago, I visited your ex-wife’s office, complaining of severe headaches that would last all day and make it impossible for me to concentrate on anything at all. She recommended a series of tests, and seemed concerned. I asked her what she suspected might be my problem, and she tried not to say, but rich men become used to having things their own way, and when I insisted, she told me what I didn’t want to hear: that she thought it was possible I had a malignant brain tumor.

  Even an old man fears death. Don’t let them tell you otherwise. I was terrified, and could barely function while undergoing the tests and—worse—waiting for their results. It seemed to take forever, and I aged ten years for every day I had to wait.

  During that time, I naturally got in touch with both my daughters. We’ve never been as close as a father would like to be to his children, but I felt it was important they know about my condition, and I suppose I hoped for some comfort and sympathy from them.

  I was disappointed. While Gwendolyn was sympathetic, she was detached in her concern, asking about the state of my medical care, rather than how I felt or what emotions I might be having. Lillian was colder still. Her questions were limited to my financial affairs. This disturbed me greatly. I love my daughters, and thought they felt the same for me.

  I am a very rich man, Mr. Freed. A chemist by trade, many years ago I developed a process that helped preserve certain kinds of baked goods. It worked especially well in flour tortillas, and I marketed the process to businesses that would find that helpful. When a national taco chain decided to buy the process from me outright, I became a very wealthy man. Since then, I have not worked in chemistry, which I always loved. I have instead worked to keep my finances healthy, which I found tedious but lucrative. My estate is worth over $47 million, and my daughters are aware of that.

  But a few nights ago, Dr. Simon-Freed called to say the tests had come back, and although she said she could give them to me on the phone, I wanted to look her in the eye as she explained the results. I needed to know if she was a person I could trust through an ordeal. My late wife died of liver cancer, and I was with her every step of the way. It’s an awful process. I steeled myself and went back to your ex-wife’s office.

  As you probably know by now, the diagnosis is much less severe than I originally feared, and I am not about to die. That new lease on life was exhilarating, but was tempered by the unsettling glimpse I’d had into my daughters’ minds and how they thought about me.

  I decided to test them, to see if they were truly concerned about my well-being. I emptied the bottle of Valium your ex-wife had prescribed to calm me down into the toilet, left the bottle out where it would be found, and wrote a suicide note. Then I called someone I know in authority (and I’ll say no more about that) and arranged to be classified a “suicide.” It was also arranged that my “corpse” would be brought to the county morgue. My daughters were summoned, and Gwendolyn identified the “body” as mine via video monitor.

  I could then put on some theatrical makeup, call myself “Tovarich,” and observe their reactions to my “death” and the circumstances around it. The look I got was shocking.

  There was never a tear shed, no expression of concern for my welfare (whether or not I had died painfully, for example), not once. It almost made me want to commit suicide in truth. My eldest daughter said nothing about me that wasn’t about my fortune. My younger one said virtually nothing at all, but she did not seem distraught, merely surprised.

  Nothing can prepare a man for the realization that his daughters don’t love him. Nothing. Parenthood is a huge undertaking, Mr. Freed. You don’t have children yet, but perhaps some day you’ll find out. And if you do, I urge you—don’t be distant from your child. That bond is more important than money, personal success, or any other concern. Love your children, Mr. Freed. More than you want to.

  My despair was deepening—although I found a release in playing Tovarich, as he was a very jolly man—until I happened across you at the doctor’s office, and you suggested I drop by your theatre. And when I did—the film you were showing was the perfect tonic for me, Mr. Freed; it gave me insight into what really matters in this world. The enthusiasm “Tovarich” showed when we met after the showing was genuine. I really did find it a life-changing experience.

  And I thank you for that.

  Let me give you this one piece of advice before I close, Mr. Freed. Don’t ever give up your theatre. It is your passion, as mine was chemistry. It is the purpose you have taken on while on this earth. See it through. Give the gift of laughter to more people, and leave this world a better place. I gave up chemistry, and for all I have gained financially, I have regretted that decision every day since.

  Tonight I have given up the disguise of Tovarich. When I discovered that your ex-wife was under suspicion in my “death,” I could not allow that to go on. I will call my attorney immediately and let her know I am far from deceased.

  Now that I have told you my strange tale, perhaps I will find the courage to face you in person, instead of hiding behind a pen. But I am ashamed of my ruse, and grateful to you for all you have done for me. I would like to help you do that for more people. Perhaps I can do so. We’ll talk when we meet again, and I hope that will be soon.

  Sincerely, and with much gratitude, Russell Chapman
>
  Immediately, I picked up the phone and hit redial. When Kowalski answered his phone again, I said, “This time, I’ve really got something for you.”

  31

  MEG appeared in the theatre perhaps five minutes later, saying Kowalski had called Dutton, who had asked her to “watch the letter” until an East Brunswick cop could be sent to pick it up. Apparently, although Chapman had trusted me with his innermost thoughts, the East Brunswick police department did not. I decided not to dwell on that for long.

  Once I had realized what the letter contained, I had been turning pages with a pair of tweezers I’d found in the desk when I’d bought it. I told Meg about the tweezers, in case it had left marks on the paper. I didn’t tell her that I’d used the time before she arrived to scan each page of the letter into my Mac. What Meg didn’t tell Dutton wouldn’t hurt me.

  Tattletale that I am, however, I did tell Meg about the not-so-subtle threats Wally and Lillian had made toward Sharon. She was skeptical that it implicated them in the shopping cart assault, or even that the shopping cart incident had been an assault. But Meg did find it interesting that when I’d alluded to supermarket materials being used as weapons, neither Wally nor Mrs. Wally had asked me what the hell I was talking about.

  The East Brunswick officer arrived and took the letter, giving me a form that said my “evidence” would be returned to me as soon as the court saw fit. Then the cop left, and Meg, muttering something about “real police work to do,” followed suit.

  At just about that moment, Sharon called back, which was convenient. She was about to take a lunch break, and I had questions. But yesterday’s trip to C’est Moi! had ended badly, so we agreed to meet at Big Herbs.

  Belinda had more customers than usual, but I found a table near the kitchen door and waited for Sharon. “You look better than the last time I saw you,” Belinda told me.

  “I am better,” I said. “Sharon’s not missing.”

  “You know, for two people who got divorced, you really don’t hate each other nearly enough.”

  “I know,” I admitted. “We’re a disgrace to the institution.”

  Sharon walked in just as Belinda went back to get an order of tofu dogs from the kitchen for someone who, clearly, had never seen a tofu dog before, or they certainly wouldn’t have ordered such a thing. My ex sat down across from me, not exactly glowing, as you hear pregnant women are supposed to do. Instead, she was all curiosity.

  “So tell me about this letter,” she insisted.

  I did.

  “That is the weirdest story I’ve ever heard,” Sharon said when I was finished.

  “And it’s not over yet. After he mailed the letter, someone sent Chapman to a different destination than he expected.”

  Belinda came over and, seeing that we looked serious, kept the banter to a minimum while she took our orders, which I don’t remember. Suffice it to say they were vegetable oriented.

  When she walked away, I said, “Now that you’ve been back a couple of days and I’ve had time to think, I have questions.”

  Sharon’s eyes narrowed. “Questions? For me?”

  “Well, they’re really for Albert Einstein, but your legs are cuter.”

  “Not for long,” she lamented. “I’m going to bulk up soon.”

  “Don’t change the subject. Questions.”

  “Fire away,” Sharon said.

  “When you got the results on your pregnancy test, you decided you had to get away and headed for Lake Carey.”

  “That’s not a question,” she pointed out.

  “I’m getting there. Did you go home to pack a bag?”

  “No. I had already done a home test, and I really knew what the lab test would say. I had packed some things in a travel bag that morning, and, as you know, I keep some clothes up at the cottage.”

  “But before you went to the lake, you were in a hotel bar in the city with some guy,” I said.

  Sharon’s voice dropped in pitch a little. “That’s not a question, either,” she said ominously.

  “Yes, it is.”

  She smiled. “It was just Lennon. I ran into him when I was getting into my car. He was going into the city that night after work, and I offered to give him a ride to Penn Station. He thanked me by buying me a drink, but don’t worry, I didn’t have any alcohol.”

  “No, you had milk and seltzer,” I said. “Which, by the way, is disgusting. And if you were going to Lake Carey, what were you doing driving to Penn Station? That’s completely in the wrong direction.”

  “Oh, I just wanted to talk, I guess, and Lennon needed the ride.”

  A picture began forming in the back of my head, but it was fuzzy, like an old Polaroid. I decided to press on, and give it time to develop.

  “Swell. So you’re all emotionally jumbled because you’re carrying my baby, and your first impulse is to hop in a car with Lennon Dickinson, master of mirth.”

  “What?” she burst out. “Oh honestly, Elliot. You can’t be jealous of every man I know.”

  “First of all, yes I can, and second, that’s not what this is about. Chief Dutton found credit card receipts in my name in a trail that starts at that hotel bar. From there, someone went on quite the shopping spree, including Manhattan souvenirs, jewelry, and some very interesting lingerie.”

  “And you think it was Lennon? This is a reach, even for you, Elliot.” Sharon’s face couldn’t decide if it was amused at my childish jealousy or concerned for my questionable sanity.

  My Polaroid was finally developed, sharp and clear.

  “I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” I said. “I keep a credit card in my wallet, but I never use it. Lennon insisted on seeing it the day I came in for my physical, right before you went to the lake. I was paying my co-pay in cash, and there was no reason for him to ask for the card, but he’s Lennon, and I didn’t want to push it, so I gave it to him.”

  “And he gave it back to you, right?” Sharon asked.

  “No. He gave me back a card, and I put it in my wallet without looking at it. I’m willing to bet he gave me his own, and kept mine.” I told her about the waitress at the diner cutting up “my” credit card in front of my mother and me. “I thought it was because mine had been cancelled, but I’ll bet you it was because Lennon’s was way over his limit. Besides, Lennon never said he’d seen you that night, that you’d gone into the city with him. He didn’t want anyone to connect the credit card receipts with him, even when we thought you might be in danger.”

  “Oh, this is absurd. Elliot, Lennon Dickinson is a doctor.”

  “So was Jack the Ripper, if you believe some of the accounts,” I said.

  She scowled at me. On her, it looked good. “You’re being obtuse. Lennon makes good money. He doesn’t need to steal your credit card to buy underwear for his girlfriends.”

  “How do you know it’s for his girlfriends?”

  “Okay, now you stop that. How do you explain a doctor stealing a patient’s plastic to go on a cheap shopping spree?” Then, as an afterthought: “It was cheap, wasn’t it?”

  “Don’t worry. Dutton and I called the company, and I’m not liable for the charges.”

  “Yeah, but the underwear. How cheap . . . ?”

  “Let’s stick to the point, shall we?” I was taking the moral high ground, which was unfamiliar territory for me.

  Belinda came with the food, and we started to eat whatever it was. “I don’t believe it,” Sharon said. “I’ve known Lennon for five years. I can’t believe he’d just—” She stopped, and stared ahead for a moment, not seeing the restaurant (which was just as well) or me (less encouraging).

  “What?” I asked.

  Sharon’s eyes didn’t focus on me, but she did appear to hear what I was saying. “That was the night I had the conference with Russell Chapman, where I told him that he didn’t have cancer,” she said. I waited, as I knew she was getting around to a point. “Naturally, Lennon and I spoke about it quite a bit in the car. When you get to
give a patient good news, it’s always satisfying, so we like to make the moment last as long as it can. But Lennon’s questions were odd.”

  “Odd in what way?”

  “He seemed to be curious about Chapman’s business interests, like he wanted stock tips or something. He asked me if I knew whether Chapman would advise a guy on financial matters. Asked if I knew whether he’d be interested in investing in new products.”

  That was odd, and I said so. “Sounds like Lennon’s interest in Chapman’s state of mind was about equivalent to that of Lillian and Wally’s,” I said. “All they wanted to know about was his money.”

  “Lennon’s got money to invest with Russell Chapman, but he can’t afford pots and pans? What does all this mean, Elliot?”

  Like I knew.

  “Did you tell him where you were going? Because he never said a word, even when we were frantic.”

  “No. I made a point of it. Told him I was going out for the evening, and nothing more.” So at least Lennon wasn’t cruel enough to watch everyone squirm—he really didn’t know anything.

  We agreed it would not be advisable for Sharon to confront Lennon Dickinson immediately. For one thing, the evidence was entirely circumstantial, and for another, we had no idea what it meant. So the plan was for Sharon to observe Lennon for a day or two and see if she could spot any more unusual behavior.