“The money. Hundred-dollar bills. Ben Franklins.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t you see? You put your fuck you money together and then you bolt.”
How had the world changed so much on my watch? When I left school, work was a noble pursuit. A lifetime spent behind a desk was the price you paid for a better life for your wife and your children. Sure, it sucked, but you put in the time and at the end of the road you reaped the reward: a pension and some security, perhaps a place in Florida. What you did was who you were and your source of respect. Being a certain age mattered. Gray hair was equated with wisdom, not doddering incompetency. And if you were bold enough to be an entrepreneur, you never imagined a company could be built and sold in six months. It took years, and then, if you were lucky, you might be able to cash out a bit early.
Now nobody cared. Working any longer than you absolutely had to was for suckers. And the age by which you had to get out was getting younger. Pretty soon it would be, “Poor bastard, thirty years old and still grinding it out for the man.” Wearing a suit? That was the sure sign that you were a capitalist tool or, worse, irrelevant in the new economy. The mercantile ethic said to make your pile and get out. But what if you didn’t have a pile? Get out anyway and take your chances? That might have meant something to a twenty-two-year-old like Ethan, but to me, it didn’t mean anything. The shift in the paradigm had been too radical and too swift for me. With my current car’s alignment, I wouldn’t be able to make the turn at the corner.
“Dad, trust me. You’re lucky they fired you. You just don’t see it yet.”
“I can’t send you any more money, Ethan.”
I thought that the stark reality of being cut off would cause Ethan to bolt up in his seat and reconsider his newly found philosophies. I was dead wrong.
“That’s okay. We’re going public. The IPO is next week.”
“It is?”
“Yes. This is it. Strap in and get ready for the ride. Six months from now, if all goes well, we’ll be sipping piña coladas and getting rolfed on a daily basis. Macrocock rules!”
“Ethan, that’s great!”
“We’ll see what happens, but it looks pretty good.”
“What will you do for money until the lockup period is over?”
“I’ll deal, Dad. Don’t worry.”
The way Ethan took my news gave me reason for pause. All this time, I thought I’d be letting him down if I didn’t support him financially. Turns out, I had it backward.
“Listen, don’t tell your sister anything until I speak with her, okay?”
“Sure, Dad. Whatever you want.”
Remarkably, my kids were growing more agreeable as they got older; a very pleasant compensation of age. I said good night to Ethan and shut off the light on my nightstand. A new day would be dawning tomorrow, and with it would arrive my last chance to make amends for the things I’d done and to turn my boat toward insular Tahiti. I climbed out of bed and dropped to my knees. Prayer and patriotism are the last two refuges of a scoundrel, but I needed shelter and I didn’t own a flag.
27
Confessor
4:38 A.M.
Campylobacter. Salmonella. Shigella. Cryptosporidium. Escherichia coli 0157:H7. Ghastly sounding one and all, these were the five most common forms of food poisoning, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. I figured it was time to become better educated about the subject if it was going to destroy my life. The pamphlet that I read from S.T.O.P., the acronym for the organization Safe Tables Our Priority, said that 76 million people per year got sick with a foodborne illness and scared the hell out of me when it came to E. coli and what it might be doing to Cal’s son and his friends.
This stuff was awful. Forget your basic food poisoning. The list of possible conditions it induced read like a medical manual of horrors. Hemolytic Uremic Syndrome. Thrombotic Thrombocytopoenic Pupura. Blood disorders. Kidney malfunction. Neurological dysfunction. And the possible treatments didn’t sound any better. Dialysis. Plasma Pheresis. Bone marrow biopsies. Splenectomies. Chemotherapy. My God, what had I done?
Cal agreed to meet me at Pappy’s for breakfast at 7:30 A.M. The hangdog expression he wore was unlike any I’d ever seen. It was obvious he’d come straight from the hospital.
“How’s Kyle?”
“It’s touch and go. I’ve been there all night.”
“Jesus. I’m so sorry, Cal.”
“I feel helpless. The doctors say we just have to hope for the best. Some of the other kids are being released today.”
“That’s great.”
“Yeah, I guess so. To be honest, I’m having a hard time being happy for anybody else right now. I’m too busy feeling sorry for myself.”
Cal slouched down in our banquette and reached for a handful of sugar packets. He tore them open one at a time and poured the white crystals down his throat with 50 percent accuracy.
“That’s understandable. I’d feel the same way. (Pause) Look, I have something to tell you.”
I was ready to tell Cal about the undercooking. I owed it to him as a friend. And if I wanted to start turning my own sorry existence around, it seemed like a good first step.
“I already heard about your job.”
“Oh, you did?”
“Yes. Didn’t everybody? I’m sorry you got canned.”
“Thanks. That’s all right. But actually, that’s not what I need to talk to you about.”
“Is it the police investigation? ’Cause I already know all about that, too.”
“The what?”
“The police investigation of us.”
“Us?”
“Yes. You and me for Tailburger’s Internet sweepstakes.”
“What are you talking about?”
“After the press broke the story about the Nail Some Tail Sweepstakes at the convent dedication, they started poking their fucking noses around my business. . . .”
“What?”
“. . . One thing led to another and now they’re saying we both knew that minors were entering the contest. The whole thing is a fucking mess.”
“What the hell happened, Cal?”
“Well, some new child protection law requires Internet sites to obtain permission from parents to take data from children under eighteen, and we didn’t get it all the time.”
“How often did you get it?”
“To be honest, never.”
“Why not?”
“Well, for starters, we’re a porn site. We’re not supposed to allow underage kids to log on or to take any information from them. We had a parental warning posted, but our intake function was a rubber stamp. The kids caught on pretty quickly that we weren’t being too careful about checking their ages when they entered the sweepstakes. Word spread and we ended up collecting lots of data from minors. We got a little sloppy.”
“So what are we talking here? A slap on the wrist? Maybe a misdemeanor?”
“Actually, it’s a felony because of the prostitution prize. The contest drew a lot of twelve-year-olds.”
“Jesus Christ, Cal. This can’t happen. Why the fuck didn’t you close off the Web site to minors? Period.”
“You wanted to sell more burgers. You said, ‘Cal, raise my market share.’ How the hell do you think that happens? By magic wand?”
“I told you to keep it legal.”
“You told me to increase your market share. You knew we were tapping into the teen market.”
Cal was right. I’d buried my head in the sand when it came to the decision about minors. The fact was, I didn’t want to know the truth so long as he produced results for me. And now, I had the audacity to get mad at him. My slide into hell had to stop.
“You’re right. I knew. (Pause) I knew something else, too.”
“What’s that?”
“Cal, it’s about Kyle. I fucked up.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I fucked up royally, Cal. Kyle’s sickness—i
t’s my fault.”
“Sky, I told you. I don’t blame you just because you work for Tailburger. It’s not your fault.”
“No. Listen to me. The Link told me he wanted Tailburger to start undercooking its burgers—the insides—to make them soft. He told me to put the policy in place. The Link gave the order, but I carried it out. I did it.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because I needed to keep my job—long enough to get my pension. I know it’s pathetic, but I never thought it would affect anyone. I’m truly sorry, Cal.”
“You’re sorry? You’re a complete asshole. Are you telling me my son is lying in a fucking hospital, near death, because of some goddamn corporate policy you didn’t have the balls to squash?”
I nodded.
“I’m sorry, Cal.”
“Why didn’t you tell me what was going on? Do you think I would have kept buying burgers from you guys? Are you fucking kidding me?”
“I’m sorry, Cal. I want to make it up to you any way I can.”
“You can’t make this up to me!”
“I’m sorry. I am so sorry.”
“That’s not good enough, Sky. If Kyle dies, it’s on your head. Do you hear me? And another thing. We’re not friends anymore. Fuck you!”
Cal picked up and left me alone in the booth. He had been my best friend for as long as I could remember. And now, he was gone.
28
Caught
When I returned home that evening, my worst fears were realized. A police squad car sat in my driveway, and a wall of a man, dressed in blue, stood at my door. For a split second I thought about going on the lam—making a run for it like Butch and Sun-dance. “No,” I told myself. “That’ll only make you look guilty. And you’re not guilty. You’re just a man who used adult entertainment for purposes of marketing. That’s all. Stick to the story.”
“May I help you, officer?” I was out of the car now, walking slowly up the driveway. The officer turned around and met me halfway down the blacktop.
“Are you Schuyler Thorne?”
“Yes, I am. What seems to be the matter?”
“Mr. Thorne, I need you to come downtown with me.”
“What for?”
“We just want to ask you a few questions.”
“About what?”
“A matter we’re investigating. It involves a guy named Cal Perkins. Do you know him?”
My inner voice went into overdrive. Act like you have no idea what he’s talking about. Play it cool.
“Never heard of him.”
What are you doing? You’re lying to a cop. Are you crazy?
“I see. Well, I still need you to come with me.”
“What are you after him for?”
“I’m really not at liberty to say anything more. I need you to come with me to the station.”
Whatever you do, don’t act guilty. He’ll smell it on you like English Leather.
By now I was standing face-to-face with Officer Krupke. Actually, it was more like face-to-chest. Still, I wasn’t going to let this guy intimidate me.
“Aren’t you going to read me my rights?”
“I’m not arresting you. I’m just taking you in for questioning.”
“Oh. All right.”
“Are you ready to go or do you need a minute?”
“I want to call a lawyer.”
I’d seen NYPD Blue and knew these interrogations could get pretty rough. I called M.C. Shufelbarger from my cell phone on the ride downtown and told him to meet me at the fifth precinct. When it came right down to it, I liked the way he had handled the whole Roxby matter. Dignified. Restrained. Discreet. Roxby’s trial, set to begin in a few weeks, would only sharpen the razor blade of my chosen counsel. No question about it. When you were in trouble with the long, hairy arm of the law, Shufelbarger was your man.
Police headquarters smelled like a hamster cage. After filling out some forms, I was led into a windowless room and told to wait. Thirty minutes and four cups of bad coffee later, a squat man in a pale blue short-sleeved dress shirt and standard-issue police pants entered. A second man, silver-haired and dressed in street clothes, followed closely behind. Last was Shufelbarger, his bow tie askew as usual, who shut the door behind him and threw his enormous leather satchel on the metal table in the middle of the room. I shook hands with my attorney as the short cop started a small tape recorder and began.
“For the record, please state your full name.”
“Hold on a minute,” Shufelbarger interrupted. He opened his bag and slowly began pulling out assorted materials. Two minutes later he was still going strong.
“What are you doing?” I asked him under my breath.
“Trust me,” he replied.
When Shufelbarger finally finished, a mountain of extraneous legal matter including hornbooks, pens, stationery, Wite-Out, legal pads and a ruler sat between us and them. Since none of this stuff could have anything to do with my case, I surmised it was all for effect.
“Okay, now I’m ready,” Shufelbarger informed my interrogators.
The officer in charge, slightly perturbed, continued.
“For the record, please state your full name.”
“You don’t have to answer that, Sky,” Shufelbarger blurted out.
“Yes, he does. I’m only asking him his name,” the officer insisted.
“If you’re going to badger my client, this interview will end right here.”
The two cops looked at Shufelbarger like he was nuts, but I admit I enjoyed the overzealousness.
“It’s all right, M.C.,” I assured him.
“Okay, but it’s your ass,” he protested.
“Schuyler Witherbee Thorne.”
“Mr. Thorne, do you know why we brought you down here tonight?”
“No. Not exactly.”
“Don’t play games with us, Thorne,” the plainclothes officer threatened.
The good cop–bad cop routine had begun.
“Don’t talk to my client like that. He’s innocent until proven guilty.”
“Good point, M.C.,” I encouraged my counselor.
“Mr. Thorne, we’re investigating Cal Perkins. Do you know him?’
“You don’t have to answer that, Sky.”
“M.C.! Let me just answer the questions!”
“Okay, but it’s your ass,” Shufelbarger repeated.
“Yes, I know him. He’s my best friend.”
“I see,” said the diminutive detective in a knowing way. “And how long have the two of you been in the porn game?”
“I am not in the porn game.”
“My client has rights! And one of them is to be free from accusations of being a pornographer.” Shufelbarger was standing now, shaking his finger at the accusing officer. This guy was good.
“Did you or did you not play a role in the Nail Some Tail Sweepstakes?”
“Don’t answer that, Sky.”
“That’s a complicated question,” I admitted.
“Yes or no. Did you have anything to do with that contest?”
“Don’t answer that, Sky. Admit nothing.”
This time Shufelbarger’s instruction made sense. I was suddenly feeling vulnerable to word twisting and coercion.
“Admit it,” shouted the taller of the two. “You masterminded a prostitution contest aimed at children. You and your sick-bastard friend, Cal Perkins. Admit it.”
“That’s not true! I had no idea young children would see the site.”
“So you knew about the contest?”
“Well, yes, I mean, no. I mean, I didn’t know what was happening with the kids.” My stammering unnerved Shufelbarger.
“Shut up, Sky. That’s it. This interview is over. I’m not going to sit here and let my client get railroaded by a couple of rent-a-cops.”
“Rent-a-cops?! Fuck you, Shufelbarger!” the stout cop barked.
“No. Fuck you!” Shufelbarger shot back.
“M.C., I’m not sure al
l of this animosity is necessary.” I was concerned about pissing off the police.
“They’re trying to screw you, Sky, and you don’t even know it.”
Shufelbarger began furiously packing his pile of notepads, pens
and papers—all of them covered with yellow stickies—back into his briefcase. He had clearly offended the detectives, but what could they do about it?
“We’re going to have to detain your client. We’ve got more questions.”
“What the hell are you talking about, you Miranda-less leeches? You can’t detain him and you know it.”
“We can if we arrest him.”
“You wouldn’t dare, you shitheaps.”
“Oh, yeah. You want to test us?”
Shufelbarger’s face was flushed now, and I couldn’t help but feel like things were trending quickly against my best interests.
“Hey, M.C., why don’t we live to fight another day? I think the officers are just trying to do their jobs.”
“Is denying you your constitutional rights part of their job? I don’t think so!”
“That’s it. Mr. Thorne is under arrest.”
“On what charge?” I demanded.
“Contributing to the delinquency of a minor. Disorderly conduct. Take your pick.”
“That’s horseshit,” Shufelbarger cried out, pounding his fist on the table.
As I was led out of the room in handcuffs, Shufelbarger assured me he’d arrange for bail.
“I’ll get you out, Sky.”
“You better. You’re the one who got me in,” I called back, pissed he had been so belligerent with my freedom at stake. Adding insult to injury, since the arraignment couldn’t take place until morning (something about the judge being at his summer cottage), I had to stay the night in a Monroe County jail cell with a suspected serial rapist named Fingers Tremble, who spent most of the evening masturbating and asking me what I thought about the special effects in Star Wars: Episode One. My one phone call, to Annette, was strained, to say the least.
“You’re where?”
“In jail. Just temporarily though.”
“What happened?”
“Well, they’re accusing me of corrupting minors with the prostitution sweepstakes we were running.”
“Sky, how could you let this happen?”
Red Meat Cures Cancer Page 20
