This didn’t seem to be a case of a Dr. Frankenstein trying to work with damaged goods. Michael was talking about taking an old, but basically healthy organ and bringing it up to full capacity. He was also completely aware mental jumping jacks weren’t the only route. His surgical experience had shown him the brain could be rewired to achieve dramatic results. And we all know various drugs have the ability to vastly alter our thought patterns. Just ask anyone you know who was hanging out in San Francisco around 1967.
Michael had perfected the process of collecting adult stem cells and expanding them in culture. That’s where Nesler came in. Their breakthrough was a differentiation drug, which guaranteed the adult stem cells knew they should become the same kind of healthy tissue the Alzheimer’s cells used to be. The drug would travel within a powerful immuno-suppression suspension from a surgically implanted reservoir pump in the patient’s abdomen, up the spinal column, and directly into the affected area of the brain.
This consistent infusion of chemicals and stem cells into the brain is a key part of Michael’s theory, however, I can’t get a clear picture of the drug itself. There’s some recent media publicity about the initiation of the clinical trials, but those articles center more on the new hospital research wing and generalities about the drug’s potential for Alzheimer’s patients.
There’s no access to the actual test results: Nesler’s internal documents are all proprietary. I never realized how competitive the pharmaceutical industry is. A successful new drug can be worth hundreds of millions to the company that patents it, and not just a drug for a serious disease like Alzheimer’s. A new hay fever remedy rakes in the same kind of big bucks, maybe more since everybody sneezes. These guys keep their research locked up tighter than a lug nut on a rusted out Chevy.
I’m over-simplifying, I know. A lot of Michael’s papers and studies are way too technical for me. I figure I’m doing pretty darn good just catching the high points. I need some stuff translated into layman’s terms, and I’m counting on being able to get Lily Rudolph to bring me up to speed on several key details without realizing she’s doing it.
Tomorrow’s meeting with Lily will be a true test of my acting ability. I’ve done my homework on Columbia. I even looked up a few of the student hangouts from the late '80s when Michael would have been there: Cannon’s, a classic old bar on Broadway and 107th, Augie’s, also on Broadway near 106th, and the noisy, steamy West End Café up on 112th. It seems Michael was a bit of a jazz aficionado and liked to drop in to the West End to catch tenor saxophonist Willis "Gator Tail" Jackson and the Pazant Brothers playing in the back room behind the big oval bar.
I’ve laid out a resume of impressive yet little-known technical journals where I’ve supposedly been working for the past ten or twelve years. And, I’ve read enough articles about Rudolph to have a respectable arsenal of childhood anecdotes and family connections.
I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.
I’m scared shitless.
I arrive early at Lily Rudolph’s house. House is not the right word. Normal people have houses. This is an estate, a mansion, la hacienda. There is, of course, a gated entry. The wealthy don’t want just anyone driving up to their doors. The Rudolphs aren’t ostentatious enough to have a guardhouse, just a small intercom discreetly stashed in an ivy-covered wall. It beeps as my bumper splits an invisible beam.
"Hello," I yell, as if ordering a burger in the drive through. "It’s Albert Mackey."
There’s no response, but the gate noiselessly swings open. Without a current house-sitting gig, I’m actually driving my own car: a dull gray Ford Taurus I hope to pass off as a rental. I pull through the gate and idle for a minute, staring down the tree-lined driveway, becoming Albert Mackey.
Sometimes I wish I were more like the Incredible Hulk. I wish I could abruptly turn chartreuse and bust out of my suit. When I was about thirteen, I developed a character named Bobby to get through Mr. Corrado’s P.E. class.
I like to think of myself now as trim, but back then, I was just plain skinny. We were playing dodge ball. I still wonder what life lesson we were supposed to be learning in a game whose object is to hurl a large, rubber ball at your opponent and hit him, possibly hard enough to knock him down. The guys in my class who had paper routes were really good. I was small and quick, so I could hold my own with the dodging. I was, however, pitiful in the hurling category.
"Sandors," Mr. Corrado would shriek from the sidelines, the veins in his wrestler’s neck close to bursting. "I want to see some power behind that ball. Unless, of course, you’d rather play badminton with the girls’ class."
That would make most everybody laugh. Then a couple of guys would start to leap around waving imaginary rackets and the whole gym would lose it. That’s when I called on Bobby. I was already the skins of shirts and skins, so I couldn’t rip off my shirt, but in my mind’s eye, my muscles bulged, my height surged, and my hair got really messy. Bobby was a bully. A take-no-prisoners, shoot-first-ask-questions-later pillar of power. When I was Bobby, I could hurl. I could knock a kid out of his Keds at twenty feet. It’s kind of like those people who can lift up a car in a crisis. Eventually, I could summon Bobby even when I wasn’t mad or embarrassed. Sometimes I’d just be walking down the hall and feel like being Bobby, then I’d turn around and slam some kid into a locker.
These days, my transformations are subtler. Albert Mackey is a good guy. He’s careful and quiet and respectful. Albert Mackey would never consider doing something that would harm another individual. He couldn’t live with himself if he took advantage of a situation. Albert Mackey is a bit of a schmuck. If I’d known I was going to get trapped as Albert, I’d have come up with a better personality. Maybe a quirky habit, like counting the marshmallows in a bowl of Lucky Charms or an interesting hobby, like cage fighting. Given the proper time, I could have developed an entire back-story, complete with evil stepfather and ties to the mob. As it is, Albert is about as boring as I really am.
I press down on the accelerator and roll toward Lily Rudolph’s front door. I have a list of names in my pocket. Names of freelance journalists. Folks who are actually capable of writing a book about Michael Rudolph. I figure I have enough basic research notes to pretend something has been started. I’ll add to that what I find out today from Lily, and then turn over the whole shootin’ match to a real writer. I’ve rehearsed a short speech for Lily in which I explain I don’t have the style to pull off a book. That Michael deserves someone with more skill writing for mainstream readers. I plan to politely thank her for all her time and wish her the best of luck. Have a good life. Then I’ll drive back through the gate in my "rented" Taurus and things will go back to normal. I’ve even selected a nice funeral to attend later this afternoon.
In front of a massive Gone With The Wind porch sits a new silver Lexus SUV. I pull up behind it and kill my engine. Grabbing my leather folder of notes, I release the seat belt and step out into the cool morning air. In the distance a lawn mower hums and on the breeze is a hint of its signature perfume blend of gas and grass. The white ionic columns of the porch reach up two stories and support a full-length, corniced roofline. The windows on both levels are as tall as a man, with black shutters flattened to each side like bat wings against the sunny yellow paint. There’s a small balcony in the exact center with an ornate wrought iron railing framing multi-paneled French doors. If I didn’t know we were in Illinois, I reckon Scarlett should be coming on out right ‘bout now.
Thousands of bits of information tumble through my brain like those giant drums of ping-pong balls. B56: Spent summers in Maine. N42: Started geriatric specialty while still in his residency. I22: competitor rower in college. O16: Married Lily five years ago. G36: No kids. BINGO.
"Albert! Did you find us okay?"
Lily Rudolph glides out the front doors and down the stone steps to meet me. She is wearing jeans, a crisp white shirt and blue Converse sneakers with no socks. Her sleeves are casually rolled up to her elbows and a de
licate gold necklace glints in the sun, the end of it dropping out of site somewhere behind her second shirt button. She’s thinner than I remember from the funeral
"No problem. Good directions."
"Come in, come in. You’ll have to excuse my appearance. I’ve been up to my eyeballs in paperwork this morning and time got away from me. Usually, I at least put on socks to greet my guests."
She smiles and extends her hand. "I’m so glad we’re finally able to get together."
"I only wish it was under better circumstances."
Lily’s smile droops but she maintains her composure. How had Gavin described her at the funeral? Lovely and gracious. He dark hair is wrapped into a loose ponytail that bounces against her neck as she climbs back up the steps.
"This book is one of the things that keeps me going," she says, turning and motioning me to follow. "Michael’s work has to be documented. The more people understand it, the more likely someone will pick up the ball and run with it."
"The Nesler trials are continuing, aren’t they?" I ask, trailing behind her as she sweeps through the doors and into a spacious living room with floor-to-ceiling windows, oriental carpets, and furniture that looks too nice to sit on. Lily plops into an overstuffed club chair covered in bright floral tapestry. I guess it is okay to sit. I drop down on the sofa directly opposite her and nonchalantly lean back, but there’s a quicksand pit of pillows behind me, and I feel myself being sucked out of sight. I quickly pitch forward, covering the frantic move by reaching out to place my notebook on the coffee table. Lily doesn’t seem to notice my furniture faux pas. She kicks off her shoes and pulls up her legs underneath her. Criss-cross, applesauce. That’s what Mom used to call it.
"The Nesler trials have a life of their own," she explains. "And the funding is in place for the entire test period. Michael was excited about the drug, but it was always just one part of the picture. But you know that."
I smile.
"So, tell me. What’s our next step with the book?"
My spit evaporates and I can feel my tongue start to stick to the roof of my mouth. I suck in my cheeks to swallow and start into my prepared speech.
"I’ve been thinking quite a lot about that next step," I say, searching for the right tone. "Now that Michael’s gone, I see things taking a new direction. Like you said, it’s important someone continues his work, and the success of this book could have a lot to do with that. I think you need someone on this project with a stronger style. A bigger name. Someone who could help push it up the best-seller lists."
"What are you talking about?"
"I’ve brought some names with me. We can talk about them and I could even call a couple for you if you want."
"You don’t want to finish it?"
Lily looks at me. She’s twisting the gold chain at her neck.
"It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s just that I don’t think I’m the best person for the job. When Michael was alive, I was feeding off his enthusiasm. That carried right over into my writing. Sometimes it felt like I was simply taking dictation. But now, you need someone who can generate that passion out of thin air. I’m a technical writer, Lily. I write the kind of stuff people read because they have to. You need a professional biographer."
I reach into my shirt pocket and pull out my list. It’s a single sheet of paper folded into quarters. I hold it by one corner, as if I’ve pulled it from a hot oven. Lily keeps twisting that damn gold chain.
"But Michael hired you. He must have thought you were the best person for the job. Why else would he go to all that trouble to track you down?"
The gold chain is looped so tightly around her finger it has raised the pendant into view from behind her shirt buttons. A small heart shaped locket knocks against her collarbone.
"I think he wanted someone he could trust to keep the whole thing a secret. He was doing most of the writing himself. I was just correcting his grammar and punctuation."
"Michael hated to write."
"I know," I lie. "But all he had to do was get his thoughts down on paper in whatever stream of consciousness made sense to him. I’d take it from there. I’ve been trying ever since the funeral, but I can’t seem to get going without his jump start."
"If Michael trusted you, then I trust you. I don’t want to work with a stranger. No matter how good a writer he is."
"That’s nice of you to say, but I know my limitations. I’m a damn good medical writer, but I’ve got no business tackling a mainstream biography about someone as important as Michael."
Lily’s eyes drop into her lap. The gold chain unwinds from her finger and the locket tumbles back into its hiding place.
"I’ve got people calling me all day, every day," she says, still looking down. "Asking what they can do to help. I tell them I’m fine, that they’re so sweet for asking, but really I’m fine. I’ve got plenty of people around to help. Lawyers and accountants and administrators of one kind or another are always swarming around."
She looks up at me. Her eyes are no longer clear. They’re tired. Tired and lonely.
"But I’m not fine. Of course, if you tell anyone that, I’ll deny it."
She manages a tiny smile. I can tell she’s struggling to keep from letting go of even one ounce of composure.
"I’m not at all fine. I can’t even visualize what it will be like to have a normal life again. It’s like I’m in some kind of purgatory for the living. This book is a way out. A way to be a part of Michael’s life again. It wouldn’t be the same working with someone who’s just doing a job. It wouldn’t be personal. You knew him."
I am an asshole. An asshole at a crossroads. Turn to the right. It’s a wide-open path. Admit the whole ugly truth. It will be painful, but only for a little while, and I’ll never see her again anyway, so who cares if she thinks I’m the biggest shithead to ever darken her door. Turn to the left. Big, bad briar patch. Gnarly, prickly vines twisting every which way. Could be a trap. Think about it, Brer Rabbit. Think before you jump.
"It’ll be a lot of work, Lily. I’ll need a tremendous amount of your help."
"I don’t care. I want it to be a lot of work. I want it to take up every minute of my day."
The list of names is still in my hand. I crumple the paper into a ball and toss it onto the coffee table. Lily smiles.
"Thank you. You won’t be sorry," she says. "I promise we can do it. I know we can. It’ll be the best book you’ve ever written."
It’ll be the only book I’ve ever written.
FIVE
I’m settling into my new digs. Lily’s put me up in a furnished condo with a view of the lake. She said she knew us "artistic types" liked unconventional spaces. I reminded her I was not artistic but was certainly grateful for the absurdly gracious surroundings.
The unit is a single story with a garage below and nine-foot ceilings above. A trio of large, square windows looks out west across the water. When the sun sets it will burn out your cornea if you don’t shut the drapes. When they’re closed, their heavy floral pattern reminds me of my grandmother’s footstool. She’d sit in her rocker to read Goodnight Moon and I’d perch at her feet to listen. It’s funny how I can’t remember what I wore on my first date or who spoke at my college graduation, but I can remember my grandmother’s blue sneakers with the flat white soles and six silver eyelets lacing up to a bow.
There’s a sleek granite breakfast bar separating the front room from the small gourmet kitchen. Someone has gone to great pains to coordinate the designer tile backsplash with polished chrome pendant lights and the clear maple floors. It’s really quite nice. Too bad I can’t cook.
For the last five days, Lily and I have worked every afternoon. She has dozens of notebooks filled with copies of Michael’s interviews and articles. Each one has been neatly trimmed and encased in its own plastic sleeve. I used to have a baseball card collection I kept like that—protected in individual vinyl envelopes like those slices of American cheese. Except vinyl melts at 176° F. I i
magine at 1200° F, the average temperature of a house inferno, it liquefies.
I’ve told Lily I’m spending mornings at various research libraries. Her daily routine is so jam-packed with charitable obligations and appearances on behalf of Michael, I’m sure she never gives my absence a second thought. This schedule allows me to make an appearance at the office in the morning, enough time to make a little headway on the Klein case. That’s kept Dennis off my back.
It turns out during previous lawsuits Mr. Klein identified himself as a Type 1 diabetic with severe ulcers due to the stress of his injuries. He is, at least temporarily, at a loss to explain why, in his delicate condition, he was leaving the Dunkin' Donuts with a large black coffee and three raisin danish. I’ve also located two people who were in the doughnut shop that morning and are prepared to testify they saw Mr. Klein lingering outside the window for at least five minutes. One woman swears she saw him drop something. She says she remembers it because she was shocked to see a grown man deliberately littering. If I didn’t know what an awful knee injury poor ol’ Hugh had sustained, I’d say we have him on the run.
This afternoon Lily is taking me for my first visit to Nesler Pharmaceuticals. She says Howard and Gavin are anxious to talk about the clinical trials. They’ve called her almost every day since the funeral to inquire about the book. Lily speaks highly of them both. She says Howard is a brilliant scientist. He and Michael talked enzymes the way some guys talk fishing or cars or women. And she thinks Gavin is cute, because he tries so hard to be helpful. Cute, huh? I suppose there are also people who think those little dogs with smashed in faces and an under bite are cute. I can’t fault Lily for looking on the bright side; my first instinct is to search for the rotten spot in someone’s character. It’s a really nasty habit brought on from too many years spent sorting out the goody two shoes from the rock crawlers. It’s probably just cynicism. They’re probably great guys. Michael wouldn’t work with anyone less. Michael would never have worked with me.
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