When she arrived, she was tempted to walk around to the back to see if she could look through the window again, but she decided against it. She rang the doorbell. He answered, and he was in a very good frame of mind. “Hey, what are you doing here?”
“I was out doing errands and was really hungry. Do you want to have an early bite?”
Max looked at the clock. “You want to eat at four? Seriously?”
“Well, not at four, but maybe in an hour.”
This was the moment she had been dreading. There she was, twenty feet from the bedroom. What would he do? How could he force her to leave? It would be so rude. Then Max said, “I don’t mind eating early. Let me get a coat.” Kathy walked in and looked at the living room.
“Your place is so clean.”
“Yeah. The woman was here yesterday. My sink was smelling something awful.” Kathy saw that his bedroom door was open a crack and decided to just get it over with. She walked toward the room; Max made no attempt to stop her. Kathy opened the door and there it was. Nothing. A clean room with clean walls and fresh sheets on the bed and a vacuumed carpet. It even smelled of a scented candle that was unlit on the nightstand.
Kathy thought she was going crazy for a minute. She knew what she had seen, but it wasn’t there. Should she just ask him what had happened? But that would lead to a discussion of why she was snooping around his house in the first place, and what good could come of that? So she said nothing. In her mind she tried to spin this as a positive. Perhaps what she took as a dangerous obsession was no more than an old-fashioned way of doing research. Compile all the information you can, put it up on a board, and stand back and look at it. The more she thought about it, the more it made sense. It was temporary. It was nothing. As a matter of fact, she used to do something similar in high school when she was trying to learn where all the African countries were. As she was standing there lost in her own rationalization, Max touched her shoulder.
“Come on. If you’re hungry, let’s go. I don’t care if it’s early.”
And then Kathy really felt stupid. Not only had she misjudged him but now she, a person who always thought she would be happier living in Spain where they ate at midnight, had to have dinner at four-thirty. It served her right, she thought; this was what she got for being paranoid about someone she loved.
* * *
As Brad Miller was eating his lunch, an administrator of the Pasadena facility asked him if he would come to the office when he was through. Brad had given up on trying to get his money, so he felt as if he was going to be reprimanded for something, that maybe there was some kind of problem. He finished his egg salad sandwich, which tasted as if it had been made a year ago, then got up from the table, left the tent, and walked the three hundred yards to the office complex. He went upstairs and sat down in a waiting area until someone called his name, then he walked down the same drab gray hallway, which still had no pictures on the walls, and into the same cubicle he had been in before. Except this time there was a woman there. “Please sit down, Mr. Miller. I’m Mrs. Yellin.”
“You’re new here?”
“I’m new to Pasadena. I have been working in Lancaster at another facility.”
“Where’s the fellow that had this office?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you going to tell me I’m getting my money for my condo?”
“Yes and no.”
Brad brightened up. “Yes? There’s a ‘yes’ involved?”
“Well, no.”
“You said ‘yes and no.’”
“Mr. Miller, we need the space here in Pasadena. We have been more than happy to let you be our guest for these months, but now it’s time to leave. To help you do that we can offer you twenty-five thousand dollars.”
“Twenty-five thousand dollars? That’s shit. That’s all I’m going to get for my condo?”
“This is not a payment for your condo. We will advance you this money against the time when the payments will be worked out for Los Angeles property, which as far as we can tell is not in the near future. But with this money, which you won’t have to pay taxes on, we would like you to move somewhere else, and free up space for others who haven’t been as fortunate as you.”
“Fortunate? That’s a joke, right? Now I’m fortunate. Go figure. I thought when my entire life was taken from me that that was a bad thing; little did I know I was fortunate. I’ll have to remember your way with words so if I ever deliver a eulogy, I can say how fortunate the person is to be lying in the dirt.”
Mrs. Yellin smiled. She’d had to put up with people being sarcastic her entire life. She was used to it. This was still better than her last job, working for that crap airline in Louisiana that was never on time and had just five planes, with two always in repair. Oh, the bitching she heard all those years.
“Mr. Miller, I only meant that there are people like you whose lives were turned upside down who are still sleeping in parks. They have trouble finding food to eat.”
“Well, if they come here, warn them about the egg salad. Personally, I would rather eat in the park.”
Mrs. Yellin ignored his sarcasm. “So do we have a deal?”
“What is the deal?”
“We will advance you twenty-five thousand dollars and you will leave in one week.”
“And if I decide to stay?”
“You would lose the money and be thrown out anyway.”
“Deal,” Brad said. “Let me try and make some arrangements.”
As he walked back to the tent, he actually felt better than he thought he would. Hell, they were going to kick him out no matter what; at least he had twenty-five grand. He went back to his bunk, looked one last time at the worn-out brochure, and called his son.
* * *
“So you have a date?”
“I don’t have a date. I’m taking a client to a football game,” Paul said.
His partner, Owen Stein, was not buying it. They had not been getting along for the last six months. No sex, no laughing, just some quiet dinners with nothing to say. Owen thought something might be going on.
“Nothing’s going on,” Paul said. “We’ve both been under a lot of pressure, that’s all. Life isn’t always full of roses.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” Owen asked.
Paul remembered the first time he saw Owen. He was shopping for a mirror and went into an antiques store, and the man who came up to him and asked if he needed help smelled so good. And he looked pretty good, too. He was younger than Paul by eight years. He had gray sideburns and blue eyes and thick hair that didn’t seem styled. It just grew correctly. And he was tall. Taller than Paul by two inches. Normally Paul didn’t go out with younger guys—he liked older men or men his own age—but he and Owen started dating.
Paul didn’t like the effeminate type. He liked guys who could pass for straight, as he could, and he liked guys who kept in shape. Owen exercised religiously and at forty-two he looked thirty; the only thing that showed his age was the gray in his hair. They both went to the gym, and they liked the same movies, art, and music. There was nothing really wrong with the relationship, but Paul wasn’t in love the way he wanted to be. When they had moved in together he’d felt that maybe that would do the trick, but years had gone by and the magic that was barely there to begin with was fading. Owen liked Paul more than Paul liked him. And Owen was the jealous one.
“So who exactly are you taking to a football game? What kind of client?”
“It’s a guy who works at the Justice Department who is helping me with inside stuff. We’re trying to see what these bombings are about and he’s got information I need.”
“What’s his name?”
Paul should have just told him and left it at that, but he made a mistake when he said, “Why?”
“What do you mean, ‘why’? I was just asking his name.”
“Listen, Owen. He could get in big trouble for the stuff he’s telling me. I don’t know that he wants his name ban
died about.”
“Bandied about? What the fuck is wrong with you? It’s me, for fuck’s sake.”
“Jack. Jack is his name.”
“Fine. Have a great time with Jack.” And Owen walked out of the apartment.
What’s wrong with me? Why did I make the name such a big deal? Paul knew the answer. He just didn’t want to think about it.
It was freezing cold at the Redskins game. Paul thought Jack Willman looked great that day. He had on a herringbone scarf, gloves, jeans, and cool retro sneakers. He didn’t remember Jack being that cute, but maybe that had something to do with his argument with Owen.
Paul really didn’t want to screw up this important contact. If they had a relationship and it went bad, who at Justice would ever give him this kind of information? But he couldn’t help looking at Jack as someone he might really, really like.
“These seats are incredible. I’ve never sat in seats like this,” Jack said.
And they were incredible. Robert Golden always got the best seats at every event. Golden wasn’t even a football fan, but when Paul Prescott said he needed great seats at the Redskins–Bears game, Golden had them in thirty minutes. The seats were at the forty-yard line, two rows behind the Redskins bench. You could actually hear what the coach was saying to his assistants. It was so clear that Paul wondered if the other team didn’t have guys sitting there, just to spy. “How long have you been a football fan?” he asked Jack.
“A long time. I wouldn’t call myself a crazy fan, but it’s like watching a car accident. I like that part of it.”
“What do you mean?”
“When these guys run into each other, I’m just happy it’s not me. I can’t believe they take this abuse and I can’t believe I get to watch it. I don’t feel that way from any other sport. I don’t know, sort of a vicarious thrill, I guess.”
“I never looked at it that way,” Paul said. “I’ll watch it with that perspective from now on.”
Jack smiled at him. “You know, we’re finding out all kinds of stuff on that suicide bomber. I’m actually going to write something up and give it to you. Just so you can understand who these people are.”
“That would be great. You mean like a profile?”
“Exactly.”
“That’s great. The more we know about these guys, the better chance we have of stopping them.”
“Well, you may not be able to stop them without some big changes in the law.”
“What do you mean?”
“Big cuts in medical for the seniors, less Social Security, the stuff that makes them crazy. That kind of thing.”
“I don’t think that’s possible,” Paul said. “Then we would have another issue that would get out of hand. The olds are capable of just as much violence.”
“You mean an old guy might walk in and blow up a kid’s birthday party?”
“Very funny, but there would be protesting and yelling like you never heard. They would throw any politician out of office who even suggested that stuff.”
“Well, personally, I think you’re going to have to throw a bone to these people. And a pretty big one at that.”
At that moment, the Redskins scored and the crowd went crazy. Jack leaped to his feet and cheered and Paul followed him up, but he wasn’t really paying attention. He was thinking, What kind of bone could you throw a guy who’s willing to blow himself up?
* * *
The President’s mother was now ensconced permanently at the Compassionate Care Facility in Baltimore, Maryland. Compassionate Care was a very successful business, housing thousands of older people who needed sophisticated machines to keep them in their comas. Hospitals certainly couldn’t handle them and nursing homes had no place for people living on machines only. Plus, the equipment was so expensive that the investment was only possible for a few extremely rich entrepreneurs. Nate Cass was one of them.
The Cass family, one of America’s richest, was based in Nashville. Ronald Cass, the patriarch, went into the termite business in 1945 and in ten years had the largest exterminator company in the world. Cass Exterminator was in forty states and twenty countries and by 1955 was clearing one hundred million dollars a year. Ronald’s five sons took the family fortune and had turned it into thirty billion dollars by 2000, investing in industries as varied as snack food and fertilizer. They were one of the first owners of the modern-day factory farm. After Perdue, they had the largest chicken business in the world.
They then decided to go into health care, the only business they saw with no end in sight, and they played everything perfectly. The second eldest son, Nate, had a gift for this, and he invested in private health insurance, research hospitals, pharmaceuticals, and a small but growing area, life support, taking care of the people in irreversible comas who could still live many years.
In the 2020s, the religious right grabbed control of the life-death question. Evangelicals filled the courts with lawsuits, and doctors became even more afraid to pull the plug. The same mind-set that created the need for a Walter Masters made the Cass family more money than they had ever imagined. Their Compassionate Care Facilities were unlike anything that came before, beautiful surroundings where people could go and dream, if that’s what they did, until their hearts stopped. Nate Cass invested in new equipment that was much smaller and designed in pleasing colors, so that when family members came to visit, everything looked normal. The old-fashioned heart and breathing monitors and pumps and drips were replaced with machines that were part of the bed frame, placed against the wall where visitors couldn’t even see them. All tubes were under the gowns, which were no longer hospital-like but fashioned and styled by real designers. Whenever the family came to visit, the patients wore makeup. They were presented as if they had just been outside taking a stroll, wearing nice outfits and with a glow in their cheeks, and the result was that comatose people seemed just fine, as if they were only taking a short nap.
Of course there were people who were against all of this. President Bernstein, for one. But legally, the courts wanted proof that the brain was dead. If there was any activity at all, a doctor could not euthanize without everyone, including the patient, signing off.
The evangelicals didn’t care what the brain was doing; they felt Jesus was in there no matter what. They went before juries and convinced them that even the slightest brain wave could produce a dream. One of their lawyers came up with a line that stuck: “These people could be enjoying a world that we will never know unless we are there. To end it is murder.” And as a result, the Cass family cashed in. Thousands of people slept in their centers, sometimes for a decade or more, at great cost to the government.
The President’s mother lived, if that was the right term, in a third-floor corner suite. There was pretty wallpaper in her room and a little writing desk and a small couch. There was even a ceiling fan. Air-conditioning was only turned on when someone visited, so the fan not only had a homey look but also saved the business a fortune. Why cool the rooms?
Susanna went to visit her that Friday, unannounced. When she arrived, the staff was miffed at showing anyone a patient before she was made up and prepared, but of course no one was going to keep the secretary of the Treasury out. She asked to see the President’s mother alone, which the centers did not like. They always wanted a staff member in the room so they could tell the relatives and friends how well the person was doing. “I think I saw a smile the other day,” they would say. Or, “He is doing much better today than last week.” All the kind of garbage that made the living feel better.
Susanna got her way. She was escorted to the room, but she walked in by herself. My God, she thought, this woman is dead. She could see immediately that there was no life left. As far as dreams, Susanna didn’t care; she did not believe in spending millions of taxpayers’ dollars to perpetuate a dream. How do we know the dream is even pleasant? Imagine years and years of being trapped in a falling elevator or never being prepared for the final exam.
As she
was leaning over the bed, she thought how happy the President would be if she could just end his mother’s agony and his at the same time. She looked around for a switch, not that she would do anything. But the machines were so well hidden that she couldn’t even be certain where the power was coming from. At that moment the door opened and the doctor on duty, Sharim Soulazo, stood there with a big smile on his face. “Madame Secretary! To what do we owe the honor of your visit?”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Dr. Soulazo. I am the day manager of the facility and I’m also a stockholder.” He laughed a little at his joke. She didn’t.
“I told the President I wanted to see where his mother was kept. I am here to understand the situation. That is all.”
Dr. Soulazo was confused. Why would the secretary of the Treasury be concerned with the president of the United States’ mother?
“Did you know her?”
Susanna was annoyed by the question. She decided a quick lie would end the conversation. “Yes. I did. We were friends. She was a lovely woman.” Susanna then picked her bag up off the couch and made her way to the door.
“Do you want to know any specifics?” he asked.
“Like what?”
And then Soulazo gave her the standard speech. “She seemed to smile yesterday; she had a very good night. She seems better this week than last.”
Susanna couldn’t stand him.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’m glad she is getting on so well.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
As October 21, the date of the Immunicate stockholders’ meeting, approached, Max told Kathy how excited he was about driving to Dallas. Kathy didn’t share his enthusiasm for this particular road trip. She had seen Sam Mueller’s lecture and quite frankly did not want to sit through a boring stockholders’ meeting, but she didn’t want Max to go by himself.
“It’s almost a thousand miles. That’s a long drive. Do you really feel up for that?”
“You’re right,” Max said. “Let’s fly. We can rent a car when we get there.”
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