Philanthropist

by Larry Hill

  “Why a Prius, Dad?” asked one of the twins. “I like the idea of a hybrid, but there’ve got to be 20 hybrids out there. Did you do your due diligence to find the best?”

  “I looked at all of ‘em. Except for the Prius, they all look like any other car. You see a Prius and you know you are helping to save the planet. If we buy a Chevy or a Nissan, who’ll know that we’re environmentalists?”

  “Do you care whether other people know?”

  “Hell, yes. They all think I’m a killer. At least they should be aware that I am not just a killer. You know, boys, I am thinking of putting solar panels on the house. Stupid, huh, that I’d put solar up, here in the Heights where we don’t get much sun? I don’t care if we don’t save a penny. I want the bastards in the neighborhood to see all those panels and know that Fred Klein is green.”

  “I agree, dear,” said Jennifer, a supporter of the elimination of plastic bags and the unplugging of anything electric when not in use. “We’ll show ‘em.”

  Counselor Greenberg, not thinking there was any need for a face-to-face, called the Klein house to update his client. He asked Jennifer to put the call on speaker so that both she and her husband could hear.

  “First the bad news. The DA is not prepared to take an offer of house arrest, even a long one.”

  “But I can’t go to prison, Irv.”

  “I know how you feel, Fred, and we’re going to do everything humanly possible to make sure that you don’t end up behind bars.”

  “Look Irv, if they sentence me to prison, at my age and my shitty condition, I’ll just have to kill myself.”

  “Oh, my God,” was the response Greenberg barely heard from the wife.

  “Stop that talk! Unfortunately, or really fortunately, if I suspect that you are about to hurt yourself or somebody else, the lawyer/client confidentiality provision doesn’t apply. I’ll have to let mental health know what you are up to.”

  “There you go thinking I’m crazy again. Wouldn’t anybody in his right mind think about killing himself rather than go to jail when most of his life is already behind him?”

  “No, Fred. Most wouldn’t. You know, even if you do get sentenced, it’s not likely to be very long. Whatever judge sets the sentence, he or she’s got to talk with the probation officers and they take things like age and medical condition into consideration. You aren’t going to be serving ten years. That I can guarantee you. And, by the way, I’ve got to give you the good news.”

  “How can there be any good news if you sound like you are giving me up. You say I’m not serving ten years. Does that mean I’m getting five or three? It’d kill me.”

  “No, Fred, I’m not saying that. Now, the good news. Gasparini is, as we were pretty certain, off the case. They don’t want to have your closely followed case involving hit and run judged by an admitted drunk driver. I don’t think they are going to go after him very hard. First offense, nobody hurt. And, the word on the street is that he’ll step down, to spend more time with his family. And the other word out there is that the family, a family of one, the lovely wife, she’s probably going to kick him out of the house. The DA will probably get a plea that he did it, and he’ll lose his driver’s license for a while, have to seek alcohol rehab, and stay on probation for a couple of years. I hear that his blood level was over 2.0, so this was big time drunk driving.”

  Jen asked, “How’s all that good news for us?”

  “Actually, the good news is that the case has been reassigned. Woman named Grace Dadekian. Armenian lady, about 65. Appointed by Deukmejian. And, she’s been reelected a bunch of times, never with competition. Everybody likes her – low key, pretty easy going on sentencing. And she’s not looking for publicity like Gasparini was.”

  “What does she think about old Jewish guys who kill young Christian mothers?”

  “I have no idea. Everybody says she follows the law closely and doesn’t let personal opinions get in the way of justice. Frankly, Fred, I think we’ve got the right judge.”

  “That is good news, Irv,” said Jennifer. “She might look more favorably on house arrest.”

  “True. And, oh, by the way, she’s in a long case right now – some esoteric issue between software companies. Lots of money involved. It’s going to be at least a couple of months before she finishes this one up and prepares for ours.”

  “Reprieve!”

  “We’re not out of the woods yet, Fred, my friend. In the meantime, stay healthy and keep in touch.”

  “Actually, Counselor, wouldn’t I be better off getting sick…er, sicker?”

  “I’ll let you answer that question for yourself. Sounds pretty stupid to me.”

  Later that night, Fred and Jen were home alone. Jason and Rebecca were staying at her place and the televised Golden State Warriors basketball game had ended up with a defeat for the homeys.

  Fred pushed himself out of the recliner, stretched, glad that he could still touch the ceiling, and announced that he was going to bed. The 10 – 10:30 period was his usual time to make evening ablutions, read for a very short time and turn off the light. Insomnia had not been a problem for him since the head surgery. In his more active, earlier days, an occasional sedative/hypnotic served him well.

  Jennifer, a night-person, usually read or watched movies until the wee hours. But this time, she showed up in the bedroom just as her husband, attired in his usual sleep garb, the day’s boxers and a T-shirt, slipped in under the sheets and duvet. He hadn’t had a pair of pajamas on since he was eight. “I’m pretty tired too, honey. And there’s nothing good on the classic movie channel. I think I’ll read in bed, if that’s OK with you.”

  “Sure, why not.” Fred could, if necessary, put a night mask on so that the reading lights would not be an issue. Jennifer took her cotton nightgown into the bathroom, washed and brushed, and returned to bed, her mystery novel in hand. Fred didn’t look up, his eyes fixed on an old Sports Illustrated. Neither the 76-year- old nor the 44-year-old said anything for a few minutes. Fred didn’t notice that his wife hadn’t turned any pages even though he knew her to be a speedy reader. Jen did notice that Fred’s magazine would briefly drop from his hands only to reassume its upright position as he awoke. Her heart beating stronger and quicker, she folded down a corner and set her book on the bedside table. If I’m going to do anything, I better do it now.

  “Fred, honey.”

  “Huh?”

  “We haven’t made love in a long time – a real long time.”

  “I know. And, it’s all my fault.”

  “No, no. It’s nobody’s fault. It’s life. But we don’t have to give up. Do you want to make love to me…now?”

  “Shouldn’t we wait ’til the morning? We used to always do it in the morning.”

  “No, my love, I’d like to do it now.”

  “I’m not sure that I should or could. You know that I have a bad heart – pacemaker and heart pills. You know that Dr. Jameson wouldn’t give me any Viagra – said I wasn’t healthy enough for it.”

  “So, who needs Viagra? You old goat, I bet you’ll be able to get it up just fine. Little Freddy has had a good long rest.”

  “I could have another heart attack and you’d have a dead man lying next to you.”

  “I’m willing to take that chance, if you are. Your heart has been doing pretty good ever since you got out of the hospital. No chest pain, no skipped beats. You’ll do just fine.”

  “OK, if you really want to. Remember that before the pacer, I always used Viagra, so I’m not sure Fred Junior will be able to grow very tall.”

  Jennifer laughed aloud. Her husband hadn’t referred to his reproductive organ as Junior since early in their marriage. “I’ll bet Junior will be ready for quite a growth spurt. If you agree, let me suggest a plan of attack. You lie there and I’ll do all the work.”

  “OK.”

  “Lights on or lights off? I’d vote for on, sort of like morning.”

  “Why don’t you just leave your bedsid
e lamp on – that’s enough light.”

  “Check.” She turned off the overhead light and dimmed the bedside one a notch.

  All too aware that she could conceive, Jennifer had been back on birth control pills since the abortion. Fred was, of course, unaware. But she knew well that his years did not make him infertile. Pablo Picasso, Anthony Quinn, and Rupert Murdoch were potential role models as advanced-age fathers, all older than Fred Klein.

  “Time to shed the clothes,” she said as if she was a physical education teacher for middle-schoolers about to change for their first gym class. Fred started to twist out of his tight gray T. “No, that’s my job.” She had him sit bolt upright and lift his hands high as if signaling a touchdown. Off it came, exposing the loose chest and abdominal skin and the still ruby-red but well healed incision atop the hockey puck-sized pacemaker.

  “Are you cold?” Jen had planned for this by turning the thermostat heat up to 71 from its usual nocturnal 66. Fred shook his head implying that he was fine – not cold and certainly happier with 71 than the usual ambient temperature which he found more than a bit brisk.

  “And next…” She grabbed the elastic of the boxers at both hips, asked him to rise up a bit, and slowly, methodically, took off his pants. She purposely looked at Fred Senior’s face as she was exposing Junior, but she could not help but get a peek at the latter, finding that the organ she hoped would stand tall lay flaccid like a sea cucumber.

  Her strip tease followed. Off went the nightgown in one fell swoop. The silver heart-shaped pendant and earrings, both given to her by him early in their courtship, were the only remaining accoutrements. She had already plugged in the IPod and was playing Mahler’s First Symphony, their song. Ideally, she would share a pre-coital joint with him, but in all the years they had together, marijuana was never discussed, let alone used. Instead, she brought a a chilled bottle of Dom Perignon out of the bathroom, popped the cork and nakedly offered her naked husband a fluteful. He gladly accepted and asked for a refill. She had two glasses and became aware that her pulse rate had slowed.

  Their sexual encounters in the last few years of his pre-felony life, averaging about once a fortnight, involved little in the way of foreplay - a kiss or two, some foot frolics short of fetish, and mutual hand-on-genital stimulation. The Viagra which Fred would consume half an hour before, in the days before he knew his heart wasn’t perfect, made a quite acceptable erection totally predictable. Oral sex had never entered their repertoire. Barbara Klein had an insurmountable aversion to fellatio and figured she couldn’t ask her husband to go down, in fact, stopping him the first few times he had tried. Fred had gotten it in his head that his life was going to be void forever of those pleasures and no amount of persuasion by his younger second wife could erase the imprint.

  Jennifer lay with Fred on top of the sheets. She held his hand, rubbing his thumb with hers. “I love you, Fred Klein.”

  Fred smiled, but said nothing.

  “I LOVE YOU, FRED KLEIN!”

  “I love you too.”

  She got on her knees, straddled her husband and the still sleeping Junior, and kissed him firmly, forcing her tongue through his first resisting but eventually surrendering mouth. He lifted his arms and stroked her still youthful nulliparous breasts. Beginning to glow inside, Jennifer put both hands between Fred’s legs and perceived a little bit of life there. She caressed, she rubbed lightly, she grasped firmly, she squeezed tightly – a little more life, but the shaft didn’t rise above the leg upon which it slept. She slid back toward his feet with Junior in both hands and leaned over, mouth agape.

  “Please don’t do that.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why.”

  She didn’t. “All right, my love. I won’t. What would you like me to do?”

  “Just lie on top of me.”

  “I’ll do that.” She gently settled her body on top of his and he, with the limited strength left to him, wrapped his arms around her. The pacemaker box, pushing out the skin above his left chest wall, forced its way into her right breast. For her it was a unique and not unpleasant experience. They lay face to face, chest to chest, stomach to stomach, groin to groin, thigh to thigh for some ten minutes.

  “Jennifer?”

  “Yes dear.”

  “Is there any more of that champagne?”

  “There sure is.” Jen hid her sadness well. She poured two glasses. It was warm but wonderful.

  CHATEAU D’YQUEM, 1921

  Sixteen months had elapsed since the event on California Street. Much had transpired but most San Franciscans, save, of course, the Kleins, the Spencers, their attorneys, and the Superior Court, had forgotten about the episode. A Google search of Fred Klein or Teresa Spencer would have yielded nothing newer than nine months of age.

  Fred was soon to turn 77. He was more youthful than he was as he hit 76, but not close to the young septuagenarian of 75 when no one who met him would have referred to him as old. Jennifer and the boys decided to throw him a birthday party. A year before, nobody but family and maybe his poker buddies would have thought of attending. Who wants to celebrate with the killer of a young mother? The guest list for #77 was not going to be extensive. Fred never was one to accumulate large numbers of friends. He knew many. He confided in few and was the confidant of even fewer. Art Schofield and the five other regular poker players would be there. The CEOs and CFOs of the charitable organizations to which the Kleins had generously contributed and who had reason to hope for more – they’d come and bring significant others, as often as not from the same gender. The stock broker who had helped make Fred and Barbara and Jennifer so wealthy said yes. The only one of his many physicians and surgeons invited was Alison Jameson. She accepted her invitation making Jennifer worried about the menu. Jen did not know of the doctor’s marital status, so she addressed the invitation: “& Guest.” The guest proved to be a young female Ob/Gyn resident from the General Hospital. Fred and Jen had not become close to their neighbors, but at least the two contiguous ones had treated them well, even after the reporters trod on their lawns, so they got invitations and accepted them. Irv Greenberg was not on the invitation list; Jason advised against it, correctly assuming that he would consider it inappropriate, and decline. The Mayor and Vice-Mayor both sent their regrets. The family dentist, veterinarian (in spite of there being no living Klein pets), optometrist and insurance broker rounded out the list. Only the insurance man sent regrets as he and his 23-year-old fiancée were going to the Galapagos.

  Jennifer was thrilled. She hadn’t entertained anyone other than a relative or an attorney for almost a year and a half. Their marriage had always included the hosting of cocktail and dinner parties, informal brunches and barbecues. The Democratic Party had frequently asked them to host receptions for visiting politicos. In this most Democratic of cities, that meant greeting the grandees and the celebrities. And, there they would be the next day in the Chronicle. All of that stopped when Meagan Spencer lost her mother.

  Pouring over cookbooks, Jennifer blurted out, “To hell with Dr. Jameson,” to Jason’s girlfriend, Rebecca, who had volunteered to help in the preparations.

  “Who is that?” she queried.

  “Oh, I thought you knew. Dr. Allison Jameson is my primary care person and Fred’s too. She’s one of those doctors who think that you are what you eat. I doubt she’s had a morsel of anything with fat in it since medical school. Fred thinks that she had something to do with his accident – he was so pissed off that she wanted him to change his diet that he couldn’t concentrate.”

  “I thought that he had no memory for that event.”

  “He doesn’t remember hitting her, but does say that he remembers how he felt when he went to his poker game. Here – what do you think of this?” She had picked out a pork tenderloin with a sauce that involved both cream and fois gras. “That’ll show her.”

  “It sure will. You’ll probably have to arrange an ambulance on stand-by for the heart attacks and strokes.�
��

  “That would be funny if Fred hadn’t had both at once.”

  “Oops. Sorry.”

  Jennifer had declared the fete to be black tie optional. Like most philanthropists, accustomed as they are to attending formal balls, Fred had more than one tuxedo. He chose the 1950s style one over the one from the 80s. The invitees, without exception, came in tuxes and long gowns. Car parkers had been hired, an absolute necessity for large events in San Francisco. Also hired were college students to pass the hors d’oeuvres and beverages. Fred, a wine lover and collector for decades, tapped his collection, figuring that it was time to switch his status from collector to distributor. His cellar contained well over one thousand bottles, many dating back to the fifties and sixties. Why die with them unopened? First growth Bordeaux and Grand cru Burgundies filled the glasses. Jason, who had hoped to be an inheritor of the collection, cringed when he saw obvious oenological ignoramuses downing the five hundred dollar a bottle vintages as if they were chugging Budweiser.

  The dinner was a big hit. The pork course with its astronomically high fat ingredients was the piéce de resistance. Not heard by the family were mumbles about the appropriateness of pork at a birthday bash for a Jewish man. Sandwiching the main course were a Maine lobster bisque and arugula salad at one end and bananas flambé as the finale. Seven candles in silver sticks were brought out with the dessert and the guests broke into discordant song. The invitees had been asked, in lieu of gifts, to make a contribution to a favorite charity and each person or couple was asked to name aloud the receiving organization, without mentioning a number.

  “Speech!” All eyes fixated on the honoree. Fred had a pretty good idea that he was going to be asked to talk. He had jotted notes on the hackneyed back of an envelope. He stood tall but had his hands on the back of an easy chair to brace himself.