Well, you know. Along with Arnie’s tape, that thought took a little of the edge off my anxiety. It was just nice to know that someone else’s well-being could be more important to me than my own. Any sign that you’re not a piece of shit is reassuring, don’t you agree?
Kind of a major disclaimer there, huh?
Funny about my willingness to die. To be honest, I used to have doubts on both sides of that question: whether I’d be willing to die for something or someone, or whether I’d be ferocious enough to survive a catastrophic event. Like when that crazy tsunami hit Southeast Asia, there was that supermodel on vacation who wound up clinging to a tree branch for hours before being rescued. I wondered if I had it in me to hold on like that. The survival instinct in animals makes sense because they think they’re going to live forever—but us? Fighting like hell for another day of putting on shoes and deciding where to have lunch? Sometimes it seems like, if I reached the end of my rope, I might be the kind of guy to decide, a little too early perhaps, to let go.
Lately, I’ve been trying to think the best of myself and believe that I’d buck up and survive. I guess that’s progress too.
V.
Agent Horton didn’t sound overly surprised when I told him about what had happened with Byron. Not that he knew Byron. But on cop shows, the FBI always has disdain for local cops.
“I don’t want you to worry about this. I promise, I won’t let anything happen to your wife. As you might imagine, I have selfish motives. Your wife is helping me in an investigation.”
“I appreciate that, Agent Horton, but my selfish motive has me worried that this Byron guy can drop by my house any time.”
“I understand. First, I want to tell you that, judging from what you told me of your conversation, Byron was simply trying to scare you.”
“He succeeded.”
“I know. And he knows. He has too much to lose by carrying out his threat. He’s a detective. He knows he’d be caught. But he went right for your greatest vulnerability—your family. That said, I will do two things immediately: one, I will post a man on your house. Check that: I’ll post a woman. Agent Francine Brooks. She’s top notch. She’ll maintain surveillance as discreet as possible.”
“Discreet? You could put nine agents on my lawn with a bazooka and I’d be fine with it.”
“With all due respect, no, you wouldn’t. I won’t tell you how to conduct your marriage, but it would be a mistake to tell your wife what Byron said. There’s no point in terrifying her. Like I said, the odds of Byron following through are minimal. You’ll have to trust me on that. I am authorized to post an agent at your home because of the hate group investigation. Tell your wife that. I’ve already e-mailed Agent Brooks. She’ll be at your home within a half hour.”
“That’s wonderful. Thank you so much.”
“My pleasure.”
“You mentioned there were two things you were going to do.”
“Right. I’m going to look into this Byron fellow and make sure I have my ducks in a row if I decide he needs to be neutralized.”
Neutralized? I’m sure Horton thought Alyse was a great girl. But now, even I felt he was going to mysterious lengths to protect her. I said, “Really?”
Horton paused as if having a momentary argument with himself. Then, he said, “I can’t get too deeply into this. One of the bidders who showed interest in Mr. Brushstroke’s art is tied to a group that’s financing another group that’s been trying to get their hands on some pretty serious—”
I screwed it up. Feeling so close to getting a classified national security briefing, I eagerly said, “Serious what?” Horton stopped. In his pronounced exhale, I could hear my security clearance drop below zero. Horton simply said, “You did me a big favor by calling me. I’m grateful. That said, these kind of investigations have a way of being derailed by the most unforeseen snags. Detective Byron could easily become such a snag. And I won’t let that happen.”
I was disappointed to fall out of the loop on top secret information. But still, I was impressed. In fact, I said, “You’re so thorough, Agent Horton. It’s almost surprising how badly you guys fucked up 9/11.”
Chill, Commie. I didn’t say that.
Actually, I said, “Jeez, Agent Horton, you should have your own TV show.”
“I think I’ll pass on that. By the way, if you have an old-style mini-cassette player, make copies of the conversation your chiropractor buddy recorded. Give one copy to Agent Brooks, keep one in your office, one at home, and one in a safety deposit box.”
“And one to leak to the media?”
Surprisingly, Horton didn’t dismiss the idea out of hand, and I’d only meant it as a joke!
VI.
When I called Alyse, I followed Horton’s suggestion to lie to her about the FBI agent posted near the house. I spoke fast to hide any leftover terror in my voice.
Alyse—boy, she can cut to the chase—said, “Why did Horton call you at the office rather than calling me?”
I tap danced with a bit of truth, “Actually, I called him,” and a big chunk of lie, “I just wanted to know more about the hate groups.”
Alyse said, “You sound a little weird.”
“I do? Maybe. I had a Coke at lunch. Sugar, caffeine.”
My last patient of that day was Brian Singer, a guy I play basketball with. Good player, nice outside shot. Knows how the game is played. Great guy. Under normal circumstances, this would be a fun, chatty office visit. I did my best to pretend these were normal circumstances and I guess I pulled it off.
Actually, Commie, Brian has a decent game, but I do blow by him pretty easily on the offensive end. Just so you know.
Brian started feeling pain in his right Achilles tendon a few months earlier. Now, with the pain increasing, he worried about the possibility of having to endure surgery and months of rehab. I fiddled around with his tendon, gauging his response. It was a piece of cake diagnosis.
“Relax. Tendinitis, my friend. Here’s the game plan: We’ll start you off with a series of small injections of a sclerosant to ease the pain. We’ll get you into some orthotics, and you can do the physiotherapy yourself. It’s just a fancy term for calf stretches.”
“Awesome.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-four.”
“Right. About the age when all your shit starts falling apart. I can’t predict which body part will betray you next but, as far as your Achilles is concerned, you’ll be splashing jumpers again in no time.”
I said exactly what Brian wanted to hear, which is, let’s face it, a huge part of my job. He was thrilled. Still, seeing a health care provider whom you know in regular life? I wouldn’t do it. I’d only leave my health up to a total stranger, someone I could mythologize to the level of off-the-charts genius.
Hey, remember when Farrakhan had heart surgery performed by a Jewish doctor? Say, Lou: Before I crack open your fucking rib cage, you care to clarify your remarks about Judaism being a “gutter religion?” That was a big victory for the Jews. Up there with The Six Day War and Caroline Kennedy marrying that Schlossberg guy.
My mother always wanted me to marry a Jewish girl, but she was willing to give me a waiver if I could bring home Caroline Kennedy. Another reason Judaism makes occasional sense. It leaves room for ad-libbing.
Actually, you want to hear something unbelievable? A while ago, a kid in my neighborhood, Jared Horowitz, started dating a Catholic girl. But how did I hear this described? He was caught dating a Catholic girl. Like he’d knocked over a fucking CitiBank branch. Jared was the varsity point guard at the Mordechai Lehman School, the girl was a cheerleader at Saint Whoever’s Sacred Heart, and somehow they hooked up. When his parents found out, their faces went all Picasso (as Alyse described it). They were like: This is it; the end of the Jewish people, and it’s all our fault. We, Aaron and Jackie Horow
itz, will go down in history as having spawned the child who led to the demise of our people.
So crazy. We’ve been around for five thousand years! Even if the religion does die out, we’ve had a pretty good run, right?
Anyway, I don’t know what happened to Jared and Mary Theresa Whatever, but I pictured them stealing moments together, whispering, We gotta get out of this town. Of course, in the movies, that “town” doesn’t have a train going to Penn Station every half hour. But the same problem pops up everywhere. How do you rescue kids from adults?
After taking care of Brian, I poked my head out and heard Sylvia on the phone saying, “I’m sorry, Mr. Washington, but we will have to charge you for the missed session.”
Clarence Washington played hoops for Hofstra about thirty-five years ago, then got cut by a few NBA and ABA teams. Whatever. His feet are a mess (his big toenails split horizontally, like he’s got two-ply nails).
You know what? I think I’ve told you enough about Clarence’s toenails. More relevant is that, like most ex-jocks, his life after hoops has been a downer of an epilogue—bouncing between sales jobs and “community outreach” stuff, whatever that means. To me, it meant he could use a break.
I snapped my fingers to get Sylvia’s attention.
She covered the phone and said, “Mr. Washington got pulled over for speeding, so he won’t be making his appointment.”
“Tell him he won’t have to pay for the missed appointment.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, Sylvia. I’m sure.”
“Mr. Washington, never mind. We’ll just reschedule, and don’t worry about the fee.”
Sylvia hung up and said, “He sounded relieved.”
And I said, “Goddamn cops.”
Sylvia—did I mention she goes to church every day?—looked at me like I was Satan. I give a guy a break and, two seconds later, I’m the devil incarnate. No good deed, huh?
“I’m sorry, Sylvia. I’m just tired and cranky.”
As I said that, I thought I was just making a lame excuse. But I was tired and cranky. I went back to my office, slumped into my now piss-ruined chair, and realized I’d hit a wall. All the stuff going on—cops, reporters, hate groups, Audra, FBI—I’d had enough. The whole devil-may-care high from throwing a bottle through a window had worn off. That school’s-out feeling of spouting off at the mouth had lost its potency. Apparently, three days on a tightrope is my limit.
VII.
In a new twist on my usual nutcase ruminations, I started trying to remember what was on my mind before my conscience developed a rap sheet. What the hell was filling my head at this time last week? For the life of me, I couldn’t remember. I began trying to retrace my life—what was going on with Alyse, the kids, me—before simply making the smart choice and stopping the whole exercise. After all, what if I tried to retrace beyond a week earlier and couldn’t pinpoint any prevailing mind-set at any time in my life? That would suck, right? A lifetime of utterly disposable thought? Yikes. Instead, I just shook my head and thought, I want my boredom back.
Sylvia buzzed me to let me know that Alyse had called during Brian’s appointment. “I’m sorry, I forgot to mention it.”
“No problem, Sylvia. And, again, I’m sorry for my language before.”
Fifty fucking years old and still apologizing for using bad words.
I picked up the phone and, a bit more raggedly than I’d meant to, said, “Hi, honey, what’s up?”
“The bidding. That’s what’s up.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yeah. I posted one of You-ey’s untitled pieces and had a thought: What if I make up some kind of name that sounds a little provocative to people who hate Jews and blacks? So, I called up Horton and asked him about it and he thought it was a really good idea!”
Alyse had an all-new excitement in her voice. Just as I was flagging in my propensity for intrigue, Alyse was growing in hers.
“So what name did you come up with?”
“You won’t believe it. You ready?”
“Ready.”
“The piece has a big ‘DO NOT ENTER’ sign You-ey stole from an off ramp of the 59th Street Bridge. He graffiti-ed the sign with the stenciled words ‘THAT MEANS YOU-EY’ and posed puppets of a man and a woman—you only see the backs of their heads—over the sign. Then he photographed the whole thing and framed it in a stained glass window he stole from a church in Brooklyn. It struck me that it was like a church telling everyone to keep out. So, I called the piece ‘F-asterisk, ALL Y’ALL.’”
“F* All Y’all?”
“You like it?”
“It’s not very subtle.”
“Why not? I used an asterisk. Besides, you want to be subtle with Neo-Nazis?”
“Good point, honey.”
“I started the bidding at $24,000.”
“Jesus. That’s higher than Horton suggested.”
“I know. But the last bid was $46,000.”
“Holy shit. When do you cut it off?”
“That’s up to Horton. He’s been goosing the bids like he said he would.”
“Okay, here’s a dopey question: Do you get the commission?”
“Why’s that a dopey question? I asked Horton the same thing.”
“And?”
“He kind of ducked the question.”
“So, he didn’t say no outright.”
“No, but he definitely didn’t say yes either.”
“Gee, we could get a year of college tuition out of this.”
“Or the down payment on a co-op in the city.”
“How great would that be?”
“So great.”
“So, did the FBI woman show up to watch the house?”
“Yup. She introduced herself. Seems really sweet.”
“That’s nice.”
“Are you okay, hon?”
“I’m a little tired. I’m gonna come home soon.”
“Good. Come home.”
“Okay. I love you.”
“I love you too. And, by the way, I was very impressed you said it in front of your patient before.”
“Yeah, I’m making great strides, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely.”
You know what? I don’t like hearing, “I love you too.” That “too” makes it sound obligatory, don’t you think? He said it, so I guess I gotta say it back.
How are we on time? Shit. I gotta move it along here.
Arnie, God bless him, made five dubs of my conversation with Byron. He kept one, plus the original on his phone. I looked around my office trying to figure out where to hide two of them. It was like hiding a key outside your house. You look for a spot that burglars or, in this case, cops wouldn’t think of. Then you realize that if you thought of it, someone else could. So you look for a spot that wouldn’t be the first place anyone would look. Half the time, a week later, you’ve forgotten where you put it.
I wound up putting one in Brian Springer’s file. No one would look there unless they had hours to search the place, plus seeing Brian at hoops every week would remind me of where I’d put it. It’s good when you can reduce someone to a mnemonic device. I wrapped the other tape in plastic and put it in the bottom of an unused anti-bacterial soap dispenser. Then I got out my Blackberry and made a new contact entry: Jack McCoy. (Yeah, as in Jack McCoy the prosecutor from Law & Order; what of it?) I put in a fake phone number, right down to the 555 exchange, and under the heading of “spouse,” I wrote down where I’d hidden the tapes.
Maybe I had a touch of a taste for intrigue left in me after all.
I grabbed one more cassette and got in my car. As soon as I pulled out of the garage, my cell rang.
You.
VIII.
“Commie! If you’re calling, something really good must have hap
pened with the dog.”
“Actually, I’m walking it right now.”
“You? How did you wind up with it?”
“All the sides of the argument got so out of control, the judge didn’t know what to do, so I volunteered to take custody of the dog while everything got sorted out. The judge just wanted to get the case off his desk. So he said, ‘Fine, Mr. Moscow. Take the dog.’”
“Well, the dog is your client.”
“It’s actually a really great dog. I wouldn’t mind keeping it permanently.”
“Well, while it’s in your custody, you can always clone it.”
“Great idea! Two more clones and I’ll have Cujo.”
“I can’t believe I’ve been following this story since it broke and you’re right in the middle of it. It’s so weird.”
“I know. It’s totally bizarre.”
“Before I first heard about the dog, there was a story about gang-bangers in Cincinnati car-jacking Priuses so that their drive-bys would be quieter.”
“That’s going on all over. I heard about that from a DA friend. A guy driving a Prius in Atlanta was killed during a jacking.”
“Jeez.”
“Yeah.”
“Hey, if you murder someone who drives a Prius, do you get both the gas chamber and the electric chair?”
I heard you totally lose it on the other end of the line—that you spit out a mouthful of coffee from my joke. I just wished you lived here. If I could have my family hang out with you and Arnie, that would be enough. Most of the boxes of life would be checked off and I’d spend less time drumming my head with horseshit thoughts.
I’m not explaining this well.
I considered suggesting that Arnie would be a great addition to our week in the Cayman’s, but I thought maybe it would be a bad idea to invite people you didn’t know to your vacation place. More horseshit thoughts, huh?
Anyway, then you asked me what was going on with me.
“Actually, Commie, I’ve had some pretty tasty intrigue in my life lately as well. Something’s been going on—I’ve been dealing with cops, FBI agents. It’s too much to explain right now. I’ll tell you about it soon, when there’s time.”
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