“No, but I think you have excess stress, energy that needs to be released with physical activity.”
“Does this involve a gym?” I asked, pulling her closer.
“No.”
“Good.”
58
After breakfast I took a shower and got ready to leave for Park Avenue with Skippy, who was prancing around, eager to get outside. I pulled on my backpack and called my mother to ask her if she was demonstrating at the Park Avenue home of the Tea Party billionaires. The chanting in the background made her “yes” redundant. I told her I was going to stop by and hung up before she could ask me why. I noticed Jane had sent me an email with her notes on the autopsies, the tests on the dead politicians’ blood, the silk patches and the silver musket balls. As I thanked her, I realized she was getting ready to come with me.
“Can we walk you to the office?” I asked.
“I told you. I’m coming with you,” Jane informed me.
“Don’t you have work?”
“You’re not getting rid of me. I’ve reshuffled things and had the staff take the emergencies so I can come with you,” she explained. “I want to meet your parents.”
“I don’t want you to meet my parents.”
“Why not?” she asked. “Is there something wrong with me?”
I decided to cling to honesty, no matter how much all my senses warned me of danger.
“No. There’s something wrong with them,” I explained. “Also, they think there’s something wrong with me and most people, and they’re not shy about sharing their opinions. On everything.”
“You think I’ll break up with you after talking to your mom and dad?” she chuckled.
“Maybe. They might insult you. Why should you be different?”
“What’s the worst that could happen?” Jane asked.
I didn’t answer. Skippy and I led the way. I noticed Skippy now occasionally watched the sky, alert for any more possible enemy aircraft.
“Good boy,” I told him.
“So, you think the killers—these Tea Party Animals—are ultra-conservatives murdering slightly more moderate Republicans?” Jane asked.
“Looks that way,” I said. “One thing is for sure— whoever is doing it has lots of money. Antique muskets? Silver bullets?”
“Like the Roehm brothers, whose house we’re going to?” she asked.
“Right. Deep pockets and deep hatred.”
I asked Siri to give me information on oil billionaire Hans Roehm and his brother Gert Roehm at 740 Park Avenue in Manhattan. More than a million hits popped up. The two were also paper moguls. Oil and toilet paper, the ass-wipe kings. One story credited the brothers with actually creating the Tea Party by setting up dozens of “astroturf” political groups claiming to be grass roots organizations that spontaneously appeared in response to the election of the first black president in US history. The camera-shy twins, one a coin collector, the other a stamp collector, were identical. The gaunt septuagenarian siblings had silver hair and thick, arched black eyebrows, and looked like clones of Count Dooku from Star Wars, without the beard.
“This is a dark time in our beloved country,” Hans said in one video interview. “We have to put these people back in their place and take back our country—for the real Americans—no matter what the cost.”
The two Roehms were awash in oil money and also ruled Wall Street. They required congressional and even presidential hopefuls to travel to their Park Avenue tower to kiss their rings and beg for support from what one Liberal columnist called “the twin Darth Vaders.”
“Siri, are the Roehm brothers trying to take over the planet?”
“I can’t answer that, Shepherd,” Siri replied.
“Talking to Siri again?” Jane asked. “I’m beginning to get jealous.”
“Jane, you have nothing to worry about—unless Siri learns how to make house calls like you.”
Jane blushed and slugged me on the arm. Skippy jumped and pulled at the leash. He liked hanging with us but he needed to run. I knew the feeling.
59
A white limo glided to the curb ahead of us and parked. The driver door opened and a husky Asian guy in a tight black suit and thin black tie popped out. Skippy stopped and tensed. I kept the leash taut. The driver opened the rear door and stood behind it, then gestured into the dark interior of the limousine.
“Mr. Shepherd?” the driver asked.
“Yeah?”
“Mrs. Anthony would like a quick word with you.”
Jane and I looked at each other, clueless.
“Who?” I asked.
“Faith Anthony, sweetie,” a high, raspy female voice echoed from inside the car, a voice both sweet and sharp, like chocolate syrup poured over a pile of broken glass. “Don’t be afraid, I won’t bite. At least, not too hard. Hop in!”
Skippy and I peered inside. An aging diva, dressed in a pink silk gown at ten on a Tuesday morning, was ensconced in the white leather rear seat. Her elevated cheekbones screamed high-end plastic surgery. Her impressive platinum-blonde hair and perfect makeup job bespoke a fancy salon. She was wearing pearls, real ones probably, around her neck. A wooden breakfast-in-bed table, which had been converted into a small desk, was propped above her lap, cluttered with two cellphones, a small computer and a notepad and pen. She looked like a well-preserved fifty but it was a lie. Her perfume was no doubt expensive but the aroma irritated my nose.
“Please come in,” she said. “If you don’t mind, Ad will keep your friend company outside while we have a quick chat, Francis.”
Jane shrugged. I handed her the leash. Skippy sat.
“I don’t like my first name,” I told her. “I prefer just Shepherd, thanks.”
“Okay, Shepherd,” she said, extending her hand like a duchess.
I couldn’t shake her hand, so I just tugged at her thin, hard fingers, topped with gleaming pink nails. One had a diamond ring with a faceted shiny rock the size of an ice cube. Her hand smelled of musky perfume and Marlboros.
“Just call me Faith. Everybody does.”
“Okay, Faith. Look, I usually use Uber cars or one of those rental bikes to get around. I can’t afford to travel in these things.”
“Sure you can afford it, dear boy,” she chuckled. “The Daily Press pays you very well.”
Then she told me my exact salary.
“So you’re not a car service?”
“You’re joking but you really don’t know who I am, do you?”
“You’re a rich lady in a big white limo,” I answered.
“Amazing,” Faith said, shaking her head in wonderment at my vast ignorance.
“Among other things, I write page nine every day in the New York Mail. You used to work there, I would think you would have noticed.”
“I wasn’t there for long. I quit after my bosses decided to lay me off in an unusual way.”
“Yes, I heard those allegations,” Faith said. “Hard to believe.”
My memory told me I had heard something about her but I couldn’t remember what it was.
“Believe it. So you’re the gossip girl at the Mail? What can I do for you?”
“You can come home, dear boy. All is forgiven. The editor would like to hire you back at double your current salary at the Press.”
“I’m a popular guy,” I told her.
“You’re a very effective guy. You’re kicking our ass and we will pay you a lot more to leave the Press and start kicking their ass. That is the power of the free market in action.”
“Ginny Mac just offered me this deal last night and I said no.”
“Yes, I know.”
Her perfume finally got to me. I sneezed.
“Bless you,” she said.
“Thanks. Why do we say that when someone sneezes?” I wondered aloud.
“It’s an old thing,” Faith explained. “Your soul is sneezed out of your body and the devil can jump down your throat and take your soul unless someone says ‘God Bless You’
in time. At least, that what the nuns told us.”
“Huh. So, you just saved my soul?”
“I’m trying, Shepherd.”
“I didn’t say yes to Ginny Mac, why would I say yes to you?”
“Because I am much more persuasive,” she said. “I am a powerful friend and a very bad enemy. I know everybody and everybody knows me.”
“I didn’t know you,” I pointed out.
“But you do now,” she said, the friendly tone becoming slightly harder. “And I know you now. If you continue to fight against us, you’ll force us to cut you down to size. Nobody wants that. If you come back to the Mail, we will make you rich and famous. That’s a promise.”
“From you or from this shy editor?”
“Both.”
“What’s his name?”
“Come with me to the office and you can meet your new boss. We can have a lot of fun together, Shepherd. You’ll be a celebrity. I will make you.”
“I’m already made, thanks.”
“I heard about your little fistfight the other day,” she said, her Upper-East-Side voice suddenly veering downtown. “You think you’re tough but you were just lucky. Maybe next time you won’t be so fortunate. We can protect you.”
“You’re going to protect me? Is the paper still owned by the same man? Is Trevor Todd still hiding out in New Zealand?”
“What do you care who owns it?”
“Because I don’t like that guy,” I told her. “I didn’t like a lot of the people who worked for him. Let me know when Trevor Todd is in jail where he belongs and somebody else owns the rag.” I reached for the door. “Nice meeting you, Faith,”
“You really do not want to say no to me, Shepherd.”
“I just did.”
“Change your mind,” she said, offering me a business card between her bony fingers.
“Change your perfume,” I suggested. I was out of the order-taking business.
“What was that all about?” Jane asked, after the limo zipped away.
“Fucked if I know.”
“Do you know who she is?”
“Of course,” I protested, as we resumed walking with Skippy. “Faith Anthony. Gossip columnist for the New York Mail.”
“Among other things. How mad was she?”
“Who said she was mad?” I asked. “In fact, she offered me a job back at the Mail for twice as much money.”
“Really? What did you say?”
“No, of course. You know I won’t work with those people.”
“So she wasn’t mad about her son?”
“What son?”
Jane looked at me like Faith had. Like I was the dumbest tourist in New York.
“You idiot. You beat the hell out of her son Jay-Jay. Her full name is Faith Potsoli Anthony. She’s the daughter of the Godfather, Paulie Potsoli.”
“Oh. I thought he was dead?”
“He is,” Jane agreed.
“Well, she did mention the fight but she didn’t mention Jay-Jay was her son.”
“What did she say?” Jane demanded.
I told her.
“You jerk. She made you an offer you can’t refuse and you refused it.”
“I thought she was just a gossip columnist?”
“Sure. Never arrested. But the men in her family have different jobs. Don’t you read the papers? Her son, her husband, her uncles, her cousins are all mobsters; thieves, bookies, pimps, drug dealers. Killers.”
“She seemed nice.”
60
My parents were front and center at 740 Park Avenue, behind blue metal NYPD barricades that had been placed beyond egg-throwing distance from the ornate entrance to the building. My mother’s sign read BILLIONS FOR BILLIONAIRES BUT NOT ONE CENT FOR HUNGRY KIDS? My dad’s message was GREED BREEDS EVIL DEEDS.
A small group of their fellow demonstrators were weakly chanting my father’s slogan. We squeezed into the protesters’ pen and greeted my parents. Skippy, happily sniffing and jumping, always ready to make new friends, introduced himself.
“This must be Jane.” My mom actually smiled, extending her hand for a formal shake. “I’m Amanda. Wow, aren’t you gorgeous.”
Jane blushed. I could see my dad agreed. I couldn’t help thinking that they were surprised Jane was beautiful because I didn’t deserve it. My dad also shook hands, like we were going to discuss a used car.
“Aren’t I gorgeous, Mom?” I asked.
Jane laughed. My parents didn’t break a smile. In the awkward silence that followed, Jane asked why they were demonstrating against the Roehm brothers and I cringed, knowing my dad would give a full lecture on the subject. If you asked Professor James B. Shepherd what time it was, you got an hour on the history of clocks.
“The recent publicity surrounding Senator Hardstein is a case in point,” my father told Jane. “I don’t care who he was—pardon my French—screwing, only that he was screwing the taxpayers. Hardstein was posing as a liberal democrat but he helped ram the law through Congress that allows hedge fund managers and billionaires to pay only twelve per cent tax, while their minimum-wage workers pay forty. In this country we have now come full circle, from having the wealthy pay high tax rates, to giving billionaires a free ride while the dying middle class and working class pay the freight but get no bank interest to build savings. The economic game is criminally rigged.”
He went on for a bit and I interrupted with questions about the Roehm brothers’ political opinions. My father cut right to the chase.
“If your question is are the Roehm brothers the Tea Party Animals behind this latest coup attempt, my answer is very possibly but you’ll never prove it,” he said. “The obscene system of massive bribery we call campaign contributions already makes it almost impossible to discover who gave what cash to which candidate or even if foreign countries are buying congressmen.”
“This kind of thing would be even more secret, I would think, since it is openly criminal and involves murder,” my mom added.
“Exactly,” my father agreed. “If the Roehm brothers are not behind this conspiracy, they would certainly agree with it.”
The demonstrators began buzzing as a black limo pulled up in front of the entrance. All signs went up and a chant began but then died out after a handsome gray-haired man emerged. It wasn’t one of the Roehm brothers but apparently another resident. He looked at us, bounded over with a beaming smile and began shaking hands of the protesters like a politician. My parents rushed to clasp his hand. He looked familiar.
“Who’s that?” I asked my mom.
“Don’t you recognize Walter Cantor?”
She intoned his name with reverence. I had a vague memory of a liberal billionaire who believed successful people did not give back enough to the people and wanted them to pay more taxes. Can’t be many of him. He lived in the same building as the evil Tea Party twins?
“Professor Shepherd,” Cantor said, pumping my dad’s hand and then my mom’s.
“This is our son, Francis, Mr. Cantor,” my mom told him.
They called him “mister.” Cantor grabbed my hand.
“F.X. Shepherd, right? I’ve been reading your stuff.”
My parents seemed stunned. At our feet, Skippy nuzzled Cantor’s leg, then sat and presented his paw. Cantor laughed and shook it. Jesus. Everybody loves a lord.
“Keep up the good work,” Cantor said, with a final wave. “Take care, everyone.”
He strode inside. The other protesters congratulated us. A liberal billionaire had singled us out. He said he read my stuff. My parents were bursting with pride. Weird.
“You got here just in time,” my father said.
“That was amazing,” my mom said, in a reverential tone.
“I got a shot,” one of the protestors said, waving his phone.
I hadn’t seen my parents so awed since we visited the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C. when I was twelve. My parents didn’t believe in organized religion. For them, democracy, the idea of A
merica, was a religion.
“If he wants to give back so much, he could have at least asked us all in for lunch,” I joked. “It’s hot out here.”
My parents weren’t amused. Jane elbowed me in the ribs.
“Jane, tell me about your practice. I understand you’re a vet?”
Jane gave my mom a short version of her life and work. My dad seemed to be pouting for some unknown reason.
“So, you know Cantor?” I asked him.
“Not really,” my dad replied modestly. “I met him at a conference a few months ago. He gave a speech and afterwards I gave him a copy of my book.”
“He might be able to help you,” I said, instantly regretting it.
“Help me?” my father asked sharply. “You think I need help?”
In Kansas, some asshole was always trying to take away my parents’ tenure at the university or threatening to fire them or calling them communists.
“No, I just meant, with a friend like that, maybe he could put in a word at a better school or foundation or something, that’s all. I wasn’t…”
“A better school?” he snapped back. “It was good enough for your mother and myself, although I recall you weren’t able to complete your coursework there, were you?”
“I dropped out, Dad.”
“In the sixties, one dropped out. You just disappeared down a black hole of secrecy.”
“Whatever. Look, could we not do this? I don’t want to…”
“Why did you come here?” he demanded.
“I wanted to see the Roehm brothers. Jane came because she wanted to meet you.”
“Didn’t you want to see us?” my mother asked, always my dad’s wingman.
“Sure I did. It’s always a blast. Especially when dad gets jealous because his tame billionaire also knows my name.”
All of us spoke at once. Jane tried to interrupt with a change of subject. My mom’s shrink eyebrows were up and she began to analyze the group dynamic. James was scolding me about maturity, while practicing making me evaporate with his eyes. I was asking if we could skip this part.
Skippy silenced us by barking at us. We noticed the other protesters were watching us. First the billionaire flesh-pressing and now a family feud with fur flying.
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