Edited to Death

by Linda Lee Peterson

  Father Timothy, on the other hand, looked, as my mother used to say, as if “he’d been rode hard and put away wet.” His faced was lined, his shave uneven, his graying hair in need of a brush and comb.

  “I’m sorry,” I began, “Father Timothy is on your board, and that would be…?”

  “Skunkworks,” they volunteered in unison.

  I grinned and wiggled my little finger. “Link up,” I said. Father Timothy looked mystified. Bender broke into a wide grin, exposing still more of those picture-perfect teeth, and explained, “You know, for luck. When you say the same thing at the same time, you’re supposed to link little fingers and make a wish.”

  Father Timothy looked as if he’d like to be sitting in a nice cool, dark bar, with a short brown drink, and absolutely no one around to chirp about linked little fingers. “Well,” said Father Timothy, “can’t say that I remember such a custom.”

  “Okay, then,” I said briskly, hoping to move things along. “So much for those quaint childhood games. Now, what can I do for you?” I sneaked a glance at my watch and wondered when I could start being pretentious enough to insist that I only saw people with appointments. Probably right around the next millennium, and only then if Gertie could enforce the rule.

  The priest and the prepster (as I realized I thought of them) exchanged glances. They both started at once, and then the priest nodded at the young man. “Go on, Gregory.”

  Gregory leaned forward and gave me the kind of smile that would enable him to go very far in life. “It’s like this, Mrs. Fiori,” he began. “We know that you were working on a story about Skunkworks when Mr. Hart died.”

  “Well,” I protested, “I wasn’t really working on it. I didn’t even know what it was about. My editor had just given me the assignment.” I smiled beatifically at them. “So you see, I really knew very little about your organization.” Bender and the good Father exchanged glances.

  “We were just wondering,” continued Bender, “if you were still planning a story. And if so, could we do anything to help you out?”

  They both settled back in their chairs and looked expectant.

  “Well, I don’t know,” I began. “I mean, the magazine’s story list is pretty much booked for the next several issues.” The priest managed a smile at this, and the look that crept over Bender’s face looked a lot like relief to me. What was this all about? Nonprofits were usually starved for publicity.

  “But then,” I equivocated, “you just don’t know what’s going to fall in or out. Why don’t you bring me up to date?”

  “It’s a pretty simple story,” began Bender. “As you know, a number of organizations have been putting pressure on the FDA to speed up the approval timetable of drugs for use against HIV. Now that everyone’s starting to worry about the long-term effectiveness of combination therapies, it’s becoming even more important to have multiple options.”

  “And the FDA’s responded,” I pointed out, remembering Michael’s observations to Claire during our ever-so-pleasant evening together.

  “Yes and no,” said Father Timothy abruptly. “Look, it’s like this. ACT UP got us part of the way there; the FDA has certainly thinned out the molasses in the system. But when you’ve got people dying, when the conventional therapies don’t work, they don’t want to hear about twenty-four-month timetables instead of thirty-six-month ones. They want something to try now.”

  “And that’s where Skunkworks comes in,” added Bender. “We identify high-potential drugs, match patients who are in the most need, and arrange to get the drugs to them.”

  “How?” I asked. “Through the pharmaceutical company that’s doing the trial? Through the FDA?”

  “That’s a little complex,” Father Timothy said. “Suffice it to say, it happens. And we work with volunteer physicians who track how patients are doing.”

  “So you’re an all-volunteer organization?” I pressed.

  “Mostly,” said Bender. “I’m the executive director, and we have a part-time bookkeeper, but everyone else is a volunteer.” Silence fell in the room. We looked at each other some more. I sipped my cappuccino and started longing for something I felt clear about, selling candy bars for the T-ball league, say, even making small talk at Michael’s partner meetings. I took a breath.

  “Well,” I said, smiling at both of them in my very finest “class dismissed” mode. “It’s been so interesting hearing about Skunkworks. I can’t say when, or if, we’ll pursue a story.” I stood. They looked at each other and stood as well. I held out my hand. “I’m so grateful you took the time to come in, and if we do decide to do a piece on Skunkworks, you’ll certainly be the first folks I’ll call.”

  Young Bender beamed at me. “Oh, thank you, Mrs. Fiori. We really appreciate your interest.” Father Timothy looked distinctly relieved. “Nice to have met you,” he said. He edged Bender to the door, they both smiled one last time, and disappeared. I sipped and contemplated a minute more, and then wandered down the hall to Puck’s office. The door was closed and covered with yellow stickie notes that read, variously, “Do not disturb, Brilliant Music Critic at Work,” “Enter upon pain of death,” and most warmly, “Just Fuck Off.” I tapped on the door and pushed it open. The office was in its usual disarray, Billie Holiday was crooning God Bless the Child over the stereo, and Puck was accompanying the music with a series of gentle groans interspersed with snores. He was lying flat on the floor, fully clothed, with the exception of his boots, which sat atop his desk. He was all in black, except for some hot pink socks decorated with a lovely overall pattern of Mick Jagger-esque out-thrust tongues. “Nice socks, Morris,” I observed.

  Silence. “Puck,” I called. “Puck, darling, wake up.”

  More silence. “Puck,” I said, a little more firmly, “I really, truly need to talk to you.”

  He hauled himself to a sitting position and half-opened his eyes. “I am way, way too old for this.”

  “For what? Gainful employment?”

  “No. Partying all night.” He squinted up at me. “And it’s your fault. It was some record release party.” He creaked to a standing position and flopped into his chair. “Is that sissy swill you’re drinking caffeinated?”

  “Sure is. Want some?”

  “Yeah, thanks,” he reached for the cup, drank it down, and ricocheted the empty container into the trash can.

  “Okay, I’m here, I’m among you, I’m so, so happy to be alive,” he grimaced.

  “You don’t look happy,” I noted. “You look terrible.”

  Puck regarded me sourly. “Is there any chance at all Quentin will come back from the dead and take this job away from you, Miss Priss?” he asked. “He knew enough to leave me alone after a big opening night.”

  “No chance at all,” I responded. “I believe you’re stuck with me, and if you want to go get yourself some more coffee and a couple of aspirin, I’ll wait right here. I have a little assignment for you.”

  Puck looked as if he were considering an argument, thought better of it, then rambled down the hall. While he was gone, I used his phone to call Stuart and ask if Puck and I could stop by later that morning.

  An hour later, with Puck somewhat revived, but bitterly complaining about out-of-office assignments that didn’t involve alcohol, drugs, or rock and roll, we pulled into Quentin’s drive. Stuart met us at the door. “You want to go through the kitchen, Maggie? You think we’ve got one of your Dutch ovens?”

  “Uh huh,” I said vaguely, heading to the kitchen. “I know you’ve got errands to run, Stuart. Go on; I promise to put everything away when I’m done.”

  Stuart looked puzzled, but collected his keys and headed down the stairs.

  “Don’t forget to lock up when you guys go,” he called over his shoulder.

  Within twenty minutes, Puck and I had every pot and pan out of Quentin’s cupboard. And with miniature screwdrivers in hand, we began removing every handle from every pot. Inside the handle of a lovely copper-bottomed sauté pan I found wh
at I was looking for: An elongated, foil-wrapped cylinder. We looked at each other. I weighed the cylinder in my hand, then peeled the heavy foil off. Inside lay a plastic-wrapped vial filled with clear, amber liquid.

  “Holy shit,” said Puck. “How’d you know there’d be something in these handles, Maggie?”

  “A hunch. I thought I smelled a skunk at work,” I said, feeling smug. “It’s that nonlinear, sissy-swill-drinking brain of mine.”

  “Well, that’s that,” said Puck. “Let’s call your big buddy over at the SFPD.”

  “Not so fast,” I said. “I invited you along because you’re my drug expert.”

  “Gee, imagine how flattered I am,” said Puck.

  I was busy attempting to pry the stopper off.

  “So does this look like anything you know?” I asked.

  “You mean, like something recreational,” asked Puck. “Gimme a sniff of it.” I passed the vial over. While he examined it, I took a closer look at the aluminum foil. “What does this wrapping stuff look like to you?” I asked, tossing it to him.

  “Heavy, isn’t it?” he said, puzzled. Then his face cleared. “You know what this stuff is? It’s like the seal they used to put on wine bottles, the one that’s lined with lead, the one they’re replacing so all us winos don’t die of lead poisoning.”

  I looked at Puck. “Even when you’re hungover you’re pretty good,” I said. “Of course it’s lead-lined. That’s so you can’t see inside the handles if you X-ray them.”

  Puck sat back on his heels.

  “Well, Maggie, you’re one smart broad, but I don’t know what you’re going to do with this information. I have no idea what this stuff is—it doesn’t look like anything I’ve seen sold on the street to be smoked or sniffed or shot up. But then, I’m not as up to date as I used to be.”

  “That seems like a step in the right direction,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, don’t sound so self-righteous. Let’s remember who came to whom for an expert opinion.” We sat in silence for a few minutes.

  “Puck, start putting this stuff away, would you?” I asked, and headed into the living room.

  “And do it quickly, would you?”

  “Hey,” he called, “thanks for the help. Whatever happened to ‘if you make a mess, you’ve got to help pick it up?’”

  But I wasn’t listening to Puck talking, I was listening to the very particular kind of racket it makes to move a lot of pots and pans very quickly. And I was thinking that the perfect thing to cover that noise up was some heavy metal rock.

  We left Stuart a note, claiming we couldn’t find the allegedly missing Dutch oven, and surveyed the kitchen for any telltale signs. Then I tucked the vial in my purse and we headed out the door.

  Puck dozed off in the front seat, exhausted by the heavy lifting, I guess. He woke up as we pulled into the garage. We set out up Sutter Street back to the offices, with Puck alternating complaints about all the work I’d dragged him away from and pressing me for assurances I’d call Inspector Moon.

  “I’m calling, I’m calling,” I said. “I just need to think some things through.”

  “Yeah, well, while you’re thinking things through, there could be some nut out there who gets wind of the fact you’re interfering with his hot scheme to ship essence-of-sheep-pituitary into the good old US of A,” said Puck. “And, not to be a coward, lady, but when they come after you, I’d just as soon not be around.”

  “My, how gallant,” I said, as we stopped at the door to Puck’s office.

  He caught my hand. “Come on, Maggie, I’m serious. Get some help with this stuff. You’re getting in way over your head.”

  “Oh, I’m getting some help,” I said. “I’m definitely going to some higher authorities.”

  Puck let his breath out and examined my face, clearly looking for signs of truthfulness and good character. I obediently put on my good Girl Scout face.

  “Cool,” he said. “I knew you’d wise up.”

  “Very soon,” I said, disengaging my hand. “First, I think I need to pray about it.”

  27

  Of Mass and Mah-jongg

  Just before we turned out the light on Saturday night, I flung my book on the floor, snuggled up to Michael, and said, “I’ve got a great idea about tomorrow morning.”

  Michael didn’t stir. He was engrossed in Sports Illustrated.

  “Michael?” I slipped my hand under his t-shirt and rubbed his stomach.

  “Hmm?”

  “What are you reading?”

  “A story about basketball salaries.” He turned a page. “You didn’t marry the right Michael,” he observed. “If you’d married one of these others—Jordan, say we wouldn’t have to worry about putting the kids through college. We could just buy their way in. Actually, if you’d married somebody named Shaquille, we’d simply buy them a college outright.”

  “Don’t you want to hear my cool idea about tomorrow morning?”

  He let Sports Illustrated fall to his chest and regarded me with suspicion.

  “Does it involve trowels or chicken manure in any way?”

  “Not at all. I was thinking church.”

  He regarded me with disbelief. “Church? What kind?”

  “Mass,” I said briskly. “St. Peter’s and Paul’s, ten a.m. And then we can take the kids to some funky Italian North Beach place for brunch. And we can hang out at City Lights bookstore for a while. And then,” I concluded, warming to my topic, “when your mother calls Sunday night you can tell her what we did with the little heathens. It will make up for them telling her latkes are their favorite food.” Michael’s sainted mother lived in terror the boys would turn into little Hasidic Jews while she wasn’t looking. She kept asking me how Jesus fit into my worldview. I always told her I thought anybody who could turn water into wine was my idea of the perfect house guest. Michael turned out the light and pulled me to him.

  “That’s a great idea, honey. I love that church, I love that neighborhood, and it won’t kill any of us to spend Sunday morning that way.”

  “We can pray for the resurrection of your career,” I said.

  Michael looked at me. “Always a wisecrack, huh?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I feel so miserable about this cloud hanging over you.”

  He pulled me closer. “Someday the cops will figure out who killed your elderly, slimeball lover, and I’ll be back to going to boring, contentious executive committee meetings.”

  “Aside from the elderly and slimeball comments, this is more evidence that you’re a generous guy,” I said.

  “Remember,” he said, “even my generosity has its limits.” With that, he kissed my nose, turned over, and fell asleep.

  As I drowsed away, more pangs of guilt drifted into my consciousness. I was accumulating vast numbers of spousal points for simply suggesting Mass, and of course, my motives were far, far from pure. But then, I thought vaguely as I drifted off, doesn’t the end justify the means, or the Mass, or some m-word.…

  Sunday morning found the Fiori clan scrubbed and wholesome, scrambling up the steps to St. Peter’s and Paul’s as the bells rang. It was a perfect, wintry San Francisco morning. Blue skies, chilly air, the last of the scarlet and gold leaves clinging to the trees in the square, and dozens of ancient Italian ladies, dressed in black from their headscarves to their sensible shoes, making their way to choice seats in the church. It was a Mass that hovered somewhere between New Age and Classic Vatican II—a few references to social justice, a cherubic boys’ choir, a few pleas for help in the weekly soup kitchen, and bingo announcements. I gave Michael a superior smile and he leaned over to whisper in my ear, “Someone who comes from a culture that elevates mah-jongg to a holy ritual has no cause to look so uppity about a few bingo cards.”

  I was prepared to deliver my mah-jongg is an ancient Chinese game requiring great skill and cunning, not to mention its prominence in The Joy Luck Club, not to mention the fact that my Great Aunt Floss, a player of brillia
nce and acumen, also made kugel for which Michael was willing to perform unnatural acts, when Josh leaned over, waved a remonstrative finger, and said, “Mommy, we zip our lips in church.”

  Damn children. They absorb your lectures and feed them right back to you.

  Later, as we were gathering coats and scarves to head out into the weak, wintry sunshine, I caught sight of a familiar face. Several, in fact. “Michael, make sure the boys don’t forget anything. I want to say hi to somebody.”

  I began weaving through the crowd, trying not to knock any elderly worshipers to the ground, and came out to the front steps. Standing at the bottom of the steps were John Orlando (a.k.a. Jack Rowland), Glen, Father Timothy from Skunkworks, and another young man, very pale, dressed in khakis, a collarless shirt, and a leather jacket. None of them looked particularly happy, or sanctified, for that matter, but they were so engrossed in their conversation, they didn’t see me ’til I arrived, somewhat breathless, at Glen’s side, and slipped my arm through his.

  “Glen, what a nice surprise,” I said.

  Glen looked like the surprise was anything but nice. His arm stiffened, then relaxed. “Maggie. The surprise is mine. Didn’t know you went in for Mass on a Sunday morning.”

  I smiled at the entire circle, “Oh, you know, trying to give our boys an ecumenical upbringing. Michael’s Catholic, you know.”

  “I know,” said Glen, “and there’s that lovely St. Luke’s just two blocks from your house.”

  “Lousy cookies and coffee,” I said. “I hear they serve biscotti here. And besides,” I added, “there’s that lovely Mission Dolores two blocks from your house.”

  “I take your point,” said Glen. He gestured to his companions. “You all know each other, I believe.”

  Father Timothy nodded, “Mrs. Fiori, so pleasant to see you again.”

  The other young man smiled at me and gave a little wave. He looked very familiar, so I assumed I’d seen him around Small Town’s offices.