I drove past Eastview Mall on Route 96 and saw a sign for its upcoming boat show, Toys for Titans, a title certain to improve attendance from the prior year’s Cruisers for Boozers.
I’d always wanted a boat. Not some dinky Sailfish or thirty-foot Catalina, but an ocean-bound cabin cruiser I could take around the world and live on like Chevy Chase in Foul Play (I know it was a houseboat, but you get the idea). It was a fantasy, of course, and until my financial condition stabilized, it would remain just that and nothing more. Reality, though, awaited me in my driveway, where I found the front door of my house wide open.
I saw no one on the property as I stepped out of my car and looked into the moonlit darkness. Cautiously, I crept along the slate path that led to the main entrance until I could peer into the foyer from behind a large evergreen bush. There on the floor, flat on his back, was King. I rushed to my brother’s aid.
“King, what happened?” I cried out, running toward him.
King had been beaten and was bleeding from the stomach. I tore off his Santana concert jersey and found a large stab wound just below his belly button.
“Oh my God, King. Who did this to you?”
I put pressure on the gash and took a momentary look around. The house was trashed, the contents of every closet, cabinet and drawer dumped haphazardly by the perpetrators. Little, however, appeared to be gone. King, for his part, was conscious but a bit dazed.
“King, are you all right?”
King groaned while writhing back and forth.
“King, are you all right?”
“I-I-I’m okay.”
“Who did this to you?”
“Two guys,” King replied weakly. “Two big guys.”
“What’d they do?”
“They barged in the door. They wanted some videotape.”
“What?”
“They kept asking me, ‘Where’s the videotape? Where’s the videotape?’ ”
“Oh, no.”
I jumped up from King’s side and raced to my bedroom. Sure enough, my camcorder and all of my videotapes, including the one of Muffet and me, were gone from my closet.
“That bitch! I can’t believe this. She stole the tape. She and her fucking goons stole my tape.”
I ran back downstairs and returned to King.
“King, you’ve got to tell me exactly what happened.”
King grimaced in apparent pain.
“Okay. I’ll try. Well, let’s see . . . I had just juiced some carrots and was getting ready to read A Practical Guide to Personal Freedom by Don Miguel Ruiz. Did I mention that book to you?”
“Yes,” I said in exasperation. “King, I need you to get to the point.”
“Take me to the hospital, Sky.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because if I take you to the hospital, the police will have to get involved, and I’m already in enough trouble with the police. I can’t run the risk they’ll find the guys who did this to you and confiscate the videotape. I’ll never get it back, and I need it.”
“But, Sky, I’ve been stabbed.” King forced the words out.
“I know that, and I’m going to take care of you. I’ve got some Neosporin upstairs.”
“I don’t need Neosporin. I need a doctor.”
“King, you’re going to be fine.”
“I’ve lost a lot of blood.”
“You’ve got plenty left. Now stop talking and save your strength.”
I called Cal and told him to come over as quickly as possible. He had been premed for a semester at SUNY Potsdam and could dress a wound like a son of a bitch.
“Holy shit. What happened to your house, Sky?” Cal asked as he came through the door.
“The goon squad from SERMON. They stole the videotape of Muffet.”
“That’s bullshit! That’s breaking and entering.”
“I know it is. But so what? I can’t go to the police about a missing porno tape.”
Cal knelt down next to King.
“Let me get a look here.”
“I got stabbed in the stomach, Cal.”
“So the bloody towel isn’t just for show?”
King shook his head as Cal examined the cut and went to work. “Sky, do you have any Neosporin?”
“It’s upstairs. I’ll get it.”
“I don’t need Neosporin. I need to go to the hospital,” King persisted.
“You’re going to be fine, King.”
I returned from upstairs with the miracle cure for all cuts while Cal tried to place the crime.
“Sky, this is attempted murder. The police will be interested in that.”
“No, it’s not. They didn’t want to kill King. They just wanted to scare him.”
“It worked,” King whimpered from the floor.
“Cal, with everything that’s going on right now, I don’t want to get the police involved.”
It was my fault that King had been stabbed. When you play a high-stakes game of bribery with someone as devious as Muffet Meaney, you put your loved ones at risk. The guilt alone should have driven me to take King to the hospital. For all I knew, he could be near death. He was bleeding like a motherfucker all over the carpet and moaning like a man passing a kidney stone. This was my only brother. My flesh and blood. But I didn’t take him to the hospital. And I didn’t call the police. I had to think.
35
Sales Job
Macrocock.com was up to $73.50 three weeks after its IPO. Ethan assured me that, in between runs on his new Hyperlite 142 Project Honeycomb wakeboarding plank (I’m told the swallow-tail shape allows you to catch something called big air), he was working hard to maintain the stock’s momentum. This was a pretty cavalier attitude considering his father’s fuck you money was riding on the outcome. We were in this together though, and, having come this far on blind faith and a closed kimono, I figured I may as well go the rest of the way with him.
Annette and I were closer than ever, thanks to my rectal cancer. She marveled at my upbeat attitude and took me to a wig shop in anticipation of my hair loss. When it didn’t come, despite regular radiation treatments at a local bar called Hoot’n Nanny’s, she marveled at that, too. Better yet, thanks to my beloved’s position of influence, the Crooked Creek candidacies of Ned, Ted and Fred Fanoflincoln were moving forward. Now the only obstacle to getting my pension back was my lack of the Muffet Meaney videotape. After attending to King for a few days, I called my tormentor at SERMON.
“You know your henchmen almost killed my brother.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“I’m a very busy woman, Sky, so if you have anything worthwhile to say, I suggest you spit it out.”
“Now there’s something you’ve never done.”
“You know what your problem is?”
“I don’t know how to have fun?”
“No. You’re a bad loser. And you’re also a lousy lay.”
“Well, why don’t we let others be the judge of that? I’ve got plenty of copies of that tape you stole from me, and pretty soon your ass will be spread across screens from Westwood to Washington, D.C.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“Oh, am I? You wish I was bluffing.”
There was only one problem with my puffery: I was bluffing. I never bothered to make a copy of the tape because I never imagined that Muffet would actually send someone into my home to steal it.
“Sky, I think we’ve said everything there is to say.”
“No, we haven’t.”
“What else is there?”
I paused for a moment.
“You’re a bitch on eighteen wheels.”
I was left with limited options. I could try to steal the videotape back, but, considering my upcoming court date and lack of heavy weaponry or a Humvee, it probably wasn’t a realistic possibility. The tape could be anywhere. Alternatively, I could find a new source of
leverage over the Fanoflincoln brothers to get my pension back. This made infinitely more sense, but what more did I have to offer? Nothing. Even the impending Crooked Creek club memberships had required me to contract terminal cancer. At this rate, I’d be dead before I received my first retirement check. Out of desperation, I enlisted Cal to pay a visit to my old boss and his idiot children at the hospital. Cal wanted to get his wife, Jenny, back, and I had a plan.
The Link was still comatose at St. Mary’s, and his sons, between rounds of golf, Crooked Creek membership mixers and trips to the driving range, were maintaining a constant bedside vigil. When we entered, however, the peaceful scene I anticipated was under assault from a heated debate.
“Fred, you are so full of shit!” Ned’s voice was raised.
“All I’m saying is I heard it on the Discovery Channel.”
“Lincoln was not gay. He had four kids, for God’s sake,” Ted followed.
“I can’t believe you’d say that within earshot of Dad. Shame on you.”
“They found these letters to his lover, though,” Fred persisted. “They say he was flaming.”
“Shut up! Just shut up! He was not flaming. You’re talking about the Old Railsplitter. The Great Emancipator. The man our whole family is named after. I don’t want to ever hear you say that again.”
“All right, but I think he was splitting more than just rails.”
“Shut up, I said!”
As soon as they saw my face, the brothers clammed up out of apparent embarrassment. Relations, though not friendly, were more civil between the Fanoflincolns and me since we’d struck our deal. To their credit, after blood work revealed the Link’s cholesterol level was 880 and his body fat percentage was 98, they grudgingly backed off their position that I was the only party responsible for their father’s demise. I didn’t gloat over the admission, however, hoping that on some level, my approach would improve my bargaining position.
“Sky Thorne. What brings you here?” Ted inquired upon spying me.
“Well, I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d say hello.”
“Did you bring the videotape you’ve been promising?”
“Not yet. It’s being edited.”
“Edited for what?” Ned asked.
“Edited to eliminate my white ass. You don’t want to see that, do you?”
“Hell, no,” roared Ted.
“How are the Crooked Creek cocktail parties going?”
“Okay, I guess,” Ted replied. “Why do we have to go to so many?”
“It’s just standard procedure. You’re required to meet a certain number of members.”
“Well, it’s a pain in the ass,” Ned opined. “And I don’t like the people I’m meeting.”
“Neither do I,” Fred added.
“Then you’ll fit right in. Most of the people there hate each other anyway. It’s part of the place’s charm.”
“So if you didn’t bring the videotape, what are you doing here?”
Ted didn’t like to make small talk.
“Believe it or not, I’m here about a business proposition.”
“What do you mean?” Ted asked, a confused look on his face.
“Let me introduce you to Cal Perkins.”
Cal stepped forward from the sterile hallway where he’d been lurking and waved nonchalantly at the brothers.
“Hello.”
“Who’s this mope?” Fred asked with scorn, putting me on the defensive immediately.
“This mope, for your information . . .”
“Wait a minute. Is this the guy who did PR work for us?” Ted suddenly recognized Cal’s name.
“Wait, is this the porno guy? What’s he doing here?” Ned was displeased. “You’ve got some nerve showing up here.”
“Now, hold on a second, Ned. Cal’s here with an offer you can’t refuse.”
“Oh, yeah. Just watch us,” Fred spewed.
Cal, infinitely more skillful and savvy than he appeared, knew to tread gingerly as he made his pitch.
“First of all, I’m very sorry for your father’s condition. I’m really hoping he pulls through.”
“Yeah, yeah. Right. Now out with it. What’s this offer we can’t refuse?”
“Okay. I’ll get to it. How would you gentlemen like to own a business with a 3,000 percent profit margin?”
“What? The porno business?” Ted scoffed.
“Not quite. The adult entertainment business. Video, Internet, telephone, mail order, retail and wholesale. Chat lines. Love lotions. Vibrators. I could go on and on. If you don’t know, it’s one of the fastest growing businesses in the world.”
“You must be joking. Do you really think we’d willingly enter the very industry that nearly killed our father and shamed Tailburger?” Fred thought he spoke for the whole family, but was wrong.
“Fred, will you please put a sock in it? (Pause) Cal, if this business is so profitable, why are you selling it?”
Just as I expected, Ted was interested.
“Personal reasons. Some of them related to unwanted publicity. Let’s just say I’m ready to get out.”
“Ted, this is the guy who was responsible for the Nail Some Tail contest.” Fred was indignant.
“I know that, but just give him a chance. Cal, what’s the business worth?”
“I’d say about fifteen million.”
“And what are you asking for it?”
“Eight.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all. (Pause) Plus Sky’s pension. Payable immediately.”
Ned, Ted and Fred looked at each other, suddenly suspicious of our entire visit.
“Why are you asking for the pension? We’ve already struck a deal for that.” Ted looked at me. “What’s going on here, Sky?”
Cal stepped in.
“Sky’s not asking for it. I am. My reasons are my own. I want to make sure my friend here gets his retirement money no matter what.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. What are you saying here? Are you saying there’s a problem with our club memberships going through? Sky, is there a problem with our club memberships at Crooked Creek?”
Just as I’d hoped, the brothers’ pathetic need to belong to a stupid golf club threw them off the scent of the missing videotape.
“Guys, as far as I know, there’s no problem. Your candidacies are on track. But I can’t guarantee anything. Somebody could blackball any one of you and you’d be done.”
“That’s bullshit. You never talked about blackballs before. You said we’d be members.”
“And you will be. (Pause) So long as you don’t get balled.”
“Who’s going to ball us?” Ted asked nervously.
“Nobody in his right mind. That I can say for sure,” I answered with confidence. “But, then again, you just never know.”
The brothers seemed staggered by the mere possibility of exclusion, having come this far in the process.
“Sky, you titfucker, you’re changing the deal.” Ted was animated now.
“I am not. This isn’t my deal. It’s Cal’s deal.”
“Then Cal is the titfucker, and you both can go to hell. The only deal is the first one. Club memberships and the videotape in exchange for the pension. That’s it. Now get the hell out of here.”
“Just think about buying my business, Ted. A better offer will never come around again. Do you have any idea what it costs to get a million cock rings made in Malaysia? Pennies, I’m telling you. Talk about markup.”
“I said get the hell out of here,” Ted barked as he pushed us out the door of his father’s room.
Cal and I left, justifiably worried (particularly me) that our calculated risk had backfired. Cal asked me if I’d expected the backlash and, of course, I covered and said yes. Secretly, though, I wondered if I’d misjudged the Fanoflincoln brothers, the same anthropoid apes I’d been observing in boardroom captivity for years. Was it possible their lingering deathwatch changed them as human beings for the better?
Perhaps it had. They say that can happen to the worst of men. But to the Fanoflincolns—men whose redeeming qualities were so well masked you’d need Rick Baker and an industrial-size vat of Noxzema to try to find them? It was hard for me to believe. If true, the result for me was disastrous. Without the videotape to bribe Muffet Meaney into pulling Tailburger out of the SERMON suit, I was entirely reliant on Plot “Back in the League” Thickens to do the deed. Only one problem: I’d promised Cal I wouldn’t use the information about our perverted attorney general and his victory in the Nail Some Tail Sweepstakes to do anything other than help us escape prosecution in our pending criminal suit. “Just secure a short probation term for each of us,” Cal insisted. “The most important thing to me is my marriage.” His words left little room for equivocation.
And so I was stuck. Placed in the unenviable position of lying to my best friend or, alternatively, losing my last opportunity to capture my pension. What Cal didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, I tried to convince myself. On the other hand, if the whole thing cratered, I might have his broken marriage on my conscience for the rest of my life. I had something to lose here, too. A jail term of any length could end the last remaining hope either of us had for female companionship for a very long time. We’d be dating men named Bubba and trading cigarettes for protection. What a way to spend our golden years. It wasn’t, however, just about our love lives. The bottom line: I didn’t want to break my promise to Cal. Whatever progress I’d made as a person had been largely obliterated by my lies to Annette and others, and now I risked snuffing out my self-worth and the last scintilla of my integrity by breaching the unbreachable and putting Cal and his marriage in jeopardy by my actions. Why did my desires and basic needs continually put me at odds with the truth? There was no time to answer this question. Albany awaited.
36
Plea Bargain
ALBANY, NEW YORK
Red Meat Cures Cancer Page 25
