Nick Bones Underground

by Phil M. Cohen

  A solid shaking of heads.

  “Okay, I guess. None of you are related to her, are you?”

  Another round of shaking heads.

  “In that case you should go home. I expect the police have your names. We’ll be in touch if the need arises.” Then he gestured to Arlene’s parents. “Would you come with me, please?” Arlene’s mother and father followed the doctor through two double doors to find their daughter.

  Shmulie and I went home.

  When Shmulie and I were alone walking in the dark, I said, “All right, schmuck. What happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re lying. Something happened, and you did it, right?”

  “Nothing happened,” Shmulie lied.

  “Look, Shmulie, I’m not going to beat it out of you. Arlene didn’t have more than a few sips of that drink. I saw. We started dancing right after you brought those drinks to the table. You did something. You put something in her drink at the bar before you brought it over to the table. What the fuck was it?”

  Shmulie looked down at the ground and was silent.

  “Lose your voice?”

  “I didn’t mean for anything bad to happen,” Shmulie whined.

  “You didn’t mean for anything bad to happen? What was supposed to happen?”

  “Leslie was supposed to get that drink.”

  “Oh, okay then. That’s better. Leslie was supposed to turn into a maniac instead of Arlene. That’s what you’re saying?”

  “Not exactly, Nicky. I didn’t expect either of them would go, you know, crazy.”

  “What did you think would happen?”

  “Based on my test of the drug, all that should have happened was that Leslie, or as it turned out, Arlene, would experience a heightening of sensations and a deep warmth that would have made her lethargic. I figured the lethargy would make her . . . compliant.”

  “Excellent,” I said. “Good to know you didn’t design this shit to make someone go uncontrollably hysterical and then pass out. Good of you.”

  That was all we had to say to each other.

  ***

  We kept in touch with Leslie long enough to learn about Arlene’s progress, of which there was none. She awoke that night in the ER and began screaming again. A nurse administered a sedative. This cycle of waking, screaming followed by sedation went on for a while. They could do nothing else. So it went until a few days later when she slipped into a coma. A coma from which she never awakened. Never.

  For Arlene Shupack there’d be no college, no career, no marriage. No future. Just a long, long nap.

  I spent the next week lying in bed folded into the fetal position, eyes closed, sleepless. I couldn’t eat or drink. My folks couldn’t understand what was afflicting me, but kept their distance. Over and over I relived Arlene’s growing panic, her horrifying visage growing worse and worse. I pulled myself from bed to attend graduation, but retreated home the moment the ceremony ended.

  The day after graduation, Shmulie called. It was the first call I took all week.

  “I gotta talk to you,” he said.

  I didn’t ask why. I knew why. “Where?” I asked.

  “How about Pop’s on Avenue J?”

  We agreed to meet that afternoon.

  I arrived first and stood outside facing the direction from which he’d likely arrive, leaning on the wall of the coffee shop. I saw him coming down Avenue J, hunched, an uncertain gait to his step. He looked awful, haggard and disheveled, part of his shirt hanging out of his pants, the other tucked in. At least what he did to Arlene Shupack troubled him. For that I gave him a scrap of credit.

  We walked in and sat down at a table across from each other in the back. I faced the mirror that lined the back wall, but avoided examining my image. Facing me, Shmulie looked worse than I first thought, unshaven, eyes red, circles beneath them. When the waitress came to take our order, we sent her away. We’d come to talk.

  At first we stared at each other, barely blinking, faces impassive. I had nothing to say. The place smelled of hamburgers on the grill, fries in the fryer, and coffee. Pop’s always had on WQXR FM. I recognized some Brahms piano music purring from the speakers but ceased paying attention. Finally, Shmulie leaned forward, looked up at me through red eyes. He gripped my right forearm so hard he’d make a bruise.

  “Nicky,” he said, “I can’t go to jail. If the cops find out, they’ll send me to jail. I know they will. Can’t do jail, man.” He leaned in and I could smell his acrid breath. “I’m going to college. Nicky. You can’t turn me in, man. You don’t turn a friend in to the cops.”

  “You know what you did to that girl?”

  “Yeah, I know. It’s been in me all week. Look, I didn’t mean it, Nicky.”

  I sat like a thick piece of wood, stupid and heavy. I sat while my chavruta, the guy who once was filled with rebellion and a garbage bag full of ham-and-cheese sandwiches, looked at me in fear, clutching my forearm like a life raft. At that moment, I had power over him, and he’d come to plead for his life.

  “You ruined that girl’s life, Shmulie. She’s gone.”

  “I know. I said I know. It was a bad thing I did. Does my life have to get ruined because of that one thing I did?”

  “The moment you handed Arlene that drink you ruined your life. You ruined my life, too. We both screwed over that poor girl.”

  “You didn’t do any of it. I did it. All of it. I invented the stuff. I put it in the drink. I was the one who gave it to her.”

  “I went along, Shmulie. I didn’t know what you were going to do, but I knew you were going to do something. Jesus Christ, Shmulie, we may as well have each put a gun to her head and pulled the trigger.”

  His grip on my arm tightened. “Come on, Nicky, don’t take this on yourself.”

  “Fuck, man, we should both go over to the precinct and turn ourselves in.” I started sobbing.

  “Oh shit, Nicky, what the hell?”

  I got control of the sobs and looked down at the empty table. “You wanted to get laid. All right. We both wanted to get laid. But look at what happened. Look at what you did.”

  He sat up stiff. “How many times I got to apologize to you? I said I was sorry.”

  I wiped the tears and was stiff now, too. “Shmulie, you’re blind, man. You don’t get what you did, do you? You took away a girl’s future for the chance to take her pants off.”

  “Not her, the other one,” he said.

  “Aw, who gives a shit that you gave the drink to the wrong girl? You took away her life.”

  “Now I’m asking you not to take away mine, Nicky.”

  More tears slid down my face. I hated that.

  He looked bewildered. “Come on, Nicky,” Shmulie said. “It’s all going to be all right. All you got to do is say you won’t go to the cops.”

  Now something by Beethoven was coming through the speakers. The waitress came by and gave us a stern look, but walked away.

  “We’re not friends anymore,” I said. “I can’t go to the police because I won’t turn myself in. If I can’t surrender to them, I can’t turn you in. So you get a pass. You don’t deserve it, but you get a pass, anyway. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look you in your face again. I cannot begin to tell you how pissed I am.”

  “You’ll get over it,” he smiled. Goddamn it, he smiled. “We can still be friends,” he said, but distantly. He looked at his watch as if he was late for something.

  “I gotta go,” he said, rushing off like we’d resolved everything between us.

  I lifted up my head and saw my face clearly in the mirror for the first time perhaps all week. My hair was a mess, greasy and uncombed, but forget that. I looked like I’d just emerged from a bad dream, face red and streaked, a bag of purple beneath each eye, my expression fraught. I rose and followed Shmulie out.
/>   I kept my mouth shut, as promised, to save my own skin.

  ***

  Shmulie went off to Cornell. In seven years he earned his doctorate in chemistry. I heard he was teaching chemistry in a liberal arts college somewhere in central Pennsylvania.

  The cause of Arlene’s condition remained unresolved.

  I compartmentalized my anger. Occasionally, it would escape and I’d face my irresolvable guilt until I managed to squeeze it back into its hole.

  Turning Shmulie in wouldn’t have done a thing for Arlene; she’d have remained comatose for the remainder of her heartbreaking life. But had I turned him in, Lerbs would never have been peddled to the world. There would have been no Lerbs hospitals. My daughter would have graduated from law school.

  Shmulie was still free. What I would do once I found him had not been decided.

  CHAPTER 27

  BIG BUCKS

  I TOOK A MOMENT to review some notes on a long-term writing project, but this was not to last. An image of Marlene popped onto the screen. Maggie had returned from her mission.

  “Nick!” Maggie squealed. “Those folks over there in Lower South Park Slope have themselves quite the operation going.”

  “Oh?” I replied.

  “Yes, yes. You won’t believe the size of their budget. It’s immense.”

  “How much?”

  “Well, you can imagine it’s a complicated instrument, that budget of theirs. There are many pieces in many categories. So many categories. I had some help.”

  “Yes?” I asked, wondering anew how this all worked.

  “Oh yes. They have a cute little number managing their system, and—this will come as no surprise—I managed to charm her—”

  “Their system is a ‘her’?”

  “This surprises you?”

  “I guess not. Does she have a name?”

  “No. She did not wish to be identified by name, just a number. Eighteen. She wished to be called Eighteen.”

  “What did this Eighteen show you?”

  “As you can imagine, I established a fine rapport with Eighteen, who showed me the books.” A pause. “Nick?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why do they call an accounting system the books?”

  I lifted a book from my desk as if to show her what an actual book looked like.

  “Because back in the day all this information was to be found in an actual book called a ledger,” I responded. “You can do your own research, Mags. Let’s get on with it. What did you find?”

  “Yes, yes. I found out that their budget, if Ms. Eighteen disclosed everything to me . . . and I’m sure she did . . . I did charm her. As you know, I can be very charming.”

  “You’re the bloody Queen of Charm herself, Mags. Now how much is the damned budget?”

  “Well, and hold on to your hat. Their expenses are in excess of a quarter of a billion dollars. That’s two hundred and fifty million, Nicky.”

  “I can do the conversion.”

  “That’s a lot of money, I think. Isn’t it?”

  “In a world of abject poverty, some prosper.”

  “I agree.”

  “So, what do they do with all that money?”

  “As best as I can tell the funds cover their many different centers in America and overseas. Food. There is an enormous expenditure on food. They maintain a hog ranch in Argentina and ship meat all over the world to their centers. Forget about local sourcing, eh? And, my word! They have over two thousand centers all over the world? Rent and other property expenses are quite impressive. Salaries are high. Your friend, the so-called rebbe, earns an annual income of just north of three million. Plus, a house and a late-model car he changes every year. And a pension and a private jet.”

  Three million bucks. And a jet. Larceny had its rewards.

  “And so on,” Maggie continued. “I mean, Nick, their expenses are high, but to my untrained eye they do not seem unusually high. They cover normal things, for the most part.”

  “For the most part?” I picked up on that Maggie-ism.

  “Well, yes, Nick. Isn’t ‘for the most part’ over half?”

  “Do you mean that 49 percent of the Schmeltzerites’ budget IS unusual?”

  “Not quite 49 percent. I’d say more like 46.32 percent, approximately. For the most part, their budget falls within normal parameters, as I have explained.”

  “Okay, Maggie. Can you describe that 46 percent?”

  “Forty-six point three-two.”

  “Yes, I get it.”

  “Well, here’s the thing. That part of the budget, the part that’s not the most part, is kind of blocked off.”

  “What does that mean, blocked off?” I asked, wishing I still smoked and drank.

  “I mean, Nicky, that there’s a big black block in the books. Weird calling binary code books. It’s impenetrable. Even Ms. Eighteen did not have access. She manages the most part of the budget, but not the black block, and knows nothing about it. Except its name.”

  “That part of the budget has a name?”

  “Yes, yes. It’s called Brendun Lear Enterprises. And for sure it costs a great deal of money to maintain. As I said, although it’s the lesser part of the budget.”

  “An odd name,” I said.

  “Hold on, Nick. It’s going to get odder,” Maggie said.

  “What about on the income side?” I interrupted. “Where does their money come from?”

  “Here’s where it continues to be interesting, even fascinating, Nick. First of all, their total income is well north of a quarter billion in US currency. It’s over two hundred and ninety-five million. That means—”

  “I know what it means, Maggie. What do they do with a forty-five-million-dollar surplus?”

  “Well, don’t you know, they have a quite tidy investment portfolio totaling perhaps three years’ expenses. But it gets even more interesting, Nicky. For the most part, their income comes from sources one would expect. Donations mostly, and, oh God, so many donations, from all over the world. Big ones, little ones, some as big as your head. And the income from Rebbe Products is enormous. Eighteen told me that Menkies once told the Tuesday worship crowd that the Rebbe told Menkies to invent Rebbe Toilet Paper. Now every Schmeltzerite uses it. Exclusively. Imagine the income stream.”

  “How much is the most part on the income side?”

  “Fifty-seven point six percent.”

  “And the rest comes from where?”

  “The Schmeltzerites receive a block grant every year in the amount of $140,550,000.”

  “A lot of money,” I said. “And the source of all that dough?”

  “Well, and here’s the funny thing, Nick. It’s kind of blocked off, too.”

  “Another big black block?”

  “Precisely. It’s just dumped into the system every year like a huge bag of green manure to fertilize the operation.”

  “Including servicing their mysterious expenses, obviously.”

  “Precisely,” she said.

  “Does the donor have a name?”

  “The name on the income line is Ladrun Beer, Inc.”

  “You get that, right?” I asked.

  “I’m a modern computer, right? Do you take me for one of those idiot computers that can’t really think? Of course I get it. One name is an anagram of the other. Oh yes, Nicky, we have quite the mystery on our hands.”

  “I take you for anything but an idiot, and you know it. You know exactly how I feel about you. Any idea what it means?”

  “You feel for me, Nicky?”

  “Yes, Maggie, and you know it. And stop calling me Nicky.”

  “I’ll try.” A pause. “Calling you Nicky just rolls off my, umm, it rolls off of my something.”

  “Okay, okay. Were you able to make anything of these two l
arge bits of income and expenses?”

  “I can only speculate.”

  “Anything worth mentioning?”

  “Well now, let’s see. The income from DRSE Inc. subsidizes the larger Schmeltzerite operation by a very great deal.”

  “Anything you could figure out that might help identify what lies behind the block?”

  “Well, there might be something of interest. Your Mr. Shelley Tanzer receives a tidy annual sum from the Schmeltzerite fleshpot. Did you know he has a relationship with the Schmeltzerites?”

  “I did not, but I’m not surprised.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, Tanzer was Shmulie’s accountant. Shmulie had a relationship with the Schmeltzerites. So, perhaps Tanzer has a relationship with Schmeltzerites.”

  “That’s logical, Captain,” said Maggie.

  “So how much does Tanzer receive from the boys at the Center?”

  “I’d rather not say. I do not wish to upset you further than I’m certain I already have.”

  “I appreciate your consideration, but the actual number might tell me something.”

  “Well, Nicky . . . Nick, I’ll give you a hint. If your salary were substituted for Tanzer’s, he might live in relative comfort for a month. No. More like two weeks.”

  “Very subtle, Maggie. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. I try for subtlety when I can.”

  “I’m sure I was not being serious,” I said.

  “You were being sarcastic, and I missed it again, right? I am sorry.”

  “No need to apologize, Mags.”

  “I’m sure I was not being serious,” she said. “Oh, and that your third Mags. No more today, as agreed.”

  I smiled at the monitor.

  “That amount of money tells me Tanzer’s doing something to earn it. Maybe he’s their accountant, but why him of all people?”

  “Why would the Schmeltzerites hire a whacked-out refugee who lives in the Velvet Underground awaiting the return of Old Broadway so he can bring back Phantom? Yes, Nicholas, makes little sense.” And in a breathy voice Maggie added, “That is nothing compared to what Menkies gets, which is roughly four times what Tanzer gets, as befits the leader of a worldwide gang of miscreants”