Red Meat Cures Cancer
Page 26
Plot Thickens was a moth who wanted to be a butterfly, or, to be precise, New York’s next governor, but the immutable laws of nature dictated he would always be a pest and never part of the Papilionidae. I reminded myself of this as I walked into Valentine’s, a nondescript watering hole packed with people who calendar ten-cent-wing night and leave their government jobs at 4:15 P.M. every day. As a state employee and a bit of a boozehound, the attorney general would be found under the bar’s black spray-painted ceiling, somewhere in the vicinity of the big-screen TV located in back (this information courtesy of the attorneys in his office still working well after 5:00 P.M. when I called). Sure enough, as I made my way through the crowd, I saw his unmistakably thick neck and heard his vexing laugh issuing forth from a booth loaded with legal interns whose collective love for Thickens was probably second in quantity only to his own. It bothered me to interrupt what I’m sure was a fascinating lesson on the finer points of civil procedure, but I forced myself onward.
“Hey, Thickens, shouldn’t you be home with your wife?”
To put Plot back on his heels, I asked about his new bride, a legislative aide and former lap dancer, according to published reports. The directness of my question and a large handful of Cajun-flavored CornNuts caused him to choke and then begin coughing. With his eyes watering up from the continual hacking, he looked at me like he’d seen a ghost or, more accurately, a guy he’d screwed over and then promptly forgotten about.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Plot’s tone was hostile at first, but, cognizant of his subordinates, he regained his composure and proceeded to politick me as he had countless others. He couldn’t quite remember my name, but that didn’t stop him.
“Why don’t you join us for a drink?”
“All right. I think I will.”
Plot’s mental Rolodex (picture a torturously slow-moving device) was working overtime to pinpoint our last encounter. Oh, yeah. Now he was starting to get it. I was the guy from Tailburger. But what else? Uh-oh. I was the guy he said he’d help with the SERMON suit until Burton Roxby and Tailburger’s campaign dollars became expendable. The whites of his eyes widened the moment it all registered.
“This is such a surprise, Sky.”
Plot was now painfully aware of my identity.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends, Plot?”
“Well, sure. Uh . . . these are some of the law students who are working for me this summer in the office. This is Caroline. And that’s Rebecca.”
Thickens pointed toward two attractive, stylishly dressed females—Kate Spade bags hugged to their hips.
“Nice to meet you,” I said, returning the nods and smiles of acknowledgment that greeted me.
“And that’s . . . that’s . . . I’m sorry. What’s your name again?” Plot asked the ugliest of the bunch.
“Heather.”
“That’s right. That’s right. Heather. I dated a Heather when I was back in the League. She was a Buffalo Jill, you know, one of their pom-pom gals. Real nice. I think she was from Lackawanna, which is where Ron Jaworski’s from, you know, the Polish Rifle? Took the Eagles to the Big Dance in ’81?”
Although Thickens’s story was met with blank stares by the entire group, my nerve-inducing presence made him prattle on more brainlessly by the second.
“Anyway, nice gal. (Pause) Huge taters. (Pause) No offense to anybody here, but boy, could she fill out a singlet, if you know what I mean. Looked great in horns, too. I’m really digging myself a hole, aren’t I? Hoo boy. We need another round.”
While Plot signaled for a waiter, his group of interns remained silent, politely sipping their Seabreezes and waiting for the awkward conversation gap to be filled.
“I need to speak with you alone, Plot.”
“Okay. I think I can arrange for that. Girls, would you mind giving us a few minutes? (Pause) Make sure you come back,” Plot added desperately.
With the law students gone from our booth, Plot embarked on still more small talk.
“What’s your poison, pal?”
“Plot, I know about the Tailburger contest.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The Nail Some Tail Internet contest? Ring any bells?”
Thickens finally flagged down one of the servers.
“What are you drinking? How ’bout Pete’s Wicked Ale? Nothing better with wings. Waiter, can I get two more Pete’s here and two plates of wings?”
“I’m really not hungry, Plot.”
“I insist. It’s on me. Hey, what’s the money for if you can’t share it with friends? That’s what I always say.”
“Very generous of you, but I’m here to talk about the Tailburger contest.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t?”
“Nope. Never heard of it.”
“I see. (Pause) Well, that’s too bad, considering you won the grand prize.”
Plot’s face, hardly poker to this point, lit up.
“I did? I won?” he asked excitedly. “You’re kidding me. The trip to the Lust Ranch?”
“Yup.”
“With my choice of hookers for a weekend?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And free use of a Tailmobile for a year?”
“It’s a four-wheel-drive SUV. Orange and purple. All yours.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“You bagged the big burrito.”
“Hot damn . . . !”
Plot’s undoing was his uncontrollable need to talk strategy.
“. . . You know, I figured if I just entered enough times . . . oops.”
The attorney general knew he was caught.
“All right, what the hell do you want?”
Plot Thickens wasn’t a bright man, but he was savvy enough to know public disclosure of his involvement with Tailburger’s contest would cost him the upcoming election against Governor Puma. Plot’s crusade against porn was the cornerstone of his campaign, and despite revelations about the incumbent’s transsexual wife, Joey, Plot saw things from the voters’ perspective—better the sick, twisted pervert you know than the one you don’t.
“I want you to talk to Humpy Wheeler.”
“Humpy Wheeler? Is he on your ass? That crazy injun tried to prosecute me for child support. (Pause) Twice. There’s nothing I can do for you there.”
“Listen to me. Cal Perkins . . .”
“Who’s that?”
“He owns the Lust Ranch.”
“Good man.”
“Listen! He also ran the Tailburger contest promotion. (Pause) He and I have been indicted on a couple of charges. They’re minor felonies, but they carry time, and Wheeler wants blood.”
“Sky, I told you. Wheeler hates me. And even if he didn’t, I don’t know what I’d be able to do. Crazy fuckin’ humpbacked injun,” Plot added disparagingly.
“Don’t screw around here, Plot. People always want something they can’t have. An Achilles’ heel. Your job is to find out Wheeler’s weakness, his fondest unmet desire, and then cut a deal to fulfill it. Cal and I will take short probation terms, but that’s it.”
“And in return?”
“Your contest victory will disappear under a pile of paperwork, soon to be shredded and lost forever.”
Thickens leaned back in the booth and pondered the proposed exchange.
“Can I still go on the trip to the ranch?”
“I think that can be arranged.”
Thickens thought about the situation for another fifteen seconds.
“Okay. You’ve got a deal.”
Plot reached his hand across the table to shake on our agreement. I began to do the same out of habit, but stopped short of his grip.
“There’s one more thing.”
Plot pulled his hand back.
“What do you mean? What else is there?”
I fell silent for a moment, engulfed by the cacophony of smoky
conversation. My body and soul wanted to leave the topic of the SERMON suit alone. My heart. My head. My sense of right and wrong. My word. My loyalty to Cal. Only the money troll wanted to come out and cross the bridge. And admittedly, my surging self-preservation mechanism, the part of a person that allows him to turn cannibal on a deserted island, had been tripped. Sure, the risk of raising the SERMON suit ran high, and if the conversation boomeranged on me, I would place myself and others in jeopardy, legal and otherwise. But the Fanoflincoln brothers had been clear about the deal. The video and the Crooked Creek membership in exchange for my retirement money. Without the video, I needed something big, like Tailburger’s exclusion from the impending legal class action, to secure my pension.
“Sky, I said what else is there?” Thickens repeated his question. (Pause). “Sky, are you listening to me? (Pause) Sky?”
I made the long drive west along Route 90 listening to news radio. An E. coli outbreak at a Sizzler in Wauwatosa, Wisconsin, had caused the owners to voluntarily shut the place down. Somehow the bacteria leapt from the meat to the melon, and now fruit lovers were dropping like fruit flies and regretting their decision to belly up to the enticing Sizzler salad bar. Though I’d once been numb to reports of foodborne illness, my experience with Cal’s son forever altered my attitude and reaction to such stories. Now I empathized and genuinely commiserated with the people affected. In sympathy, I even assessed the energy necessary to get involved somehow in fighting for food safety. And although I knew I was an unlikely activist, I was glad to be free from my association with Tailburger. Well . . . almost free.
37
Passages
BACK HOME
In my absence, rain plastered a smattering of leaves and grass on my driveway. My garage door opener revealed a surprisingly spry King, who should’ve been convalescing upstairs, but for some unknown reason was preparing to play handyman. Dressed in a pair of old denim overalls and a painter’s cap, he looked like a poor man’s Bob Vila as he mixed a can of Dutch Boy blue with his Taiji ruler.
“What the hell are you doing?” I asked as I climbed out of my car.
“I’m going to paint your house for you.”
“You’re supposed to be in bed. You were stabbed ten days ago. Remember that?”
“How about showing some gratitude? Your place could use a coat or two, if you haven’t noticed. How do you like the color?”
“I don’t mean to be an ingrate. I really don’t. It’s just that I’m familiar with your historical reliability as a provider of services.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I don’t want a half-painted house when you head out to Aruba on a Princess cruise ship in two weeks.”
My criticism struck a determined nerve.
“I’m not going anywhere. I want to paint the fucking house.”
“I’m not sure which of your two pronouncements is more troubling to me. Probably the first, but it’s close.”
“Step out here for a minute, wise guy.”
King, who had healed quite nicely despite a lack of professional care, took me by the arm and led me out of the garage.
“Turn around.”
I did as instructed and stared up at my dilapidated dwelling. I’d never seen it look so bad.
“Now, Sky. (Pause) Look at this place and tell me it doesn’t need work.”
He was right, of course. It was falling apart, the victim of neglect for too long. The sad part—it was still hard for me to say yes to an offer of help, particularly one from him.
“The place looks fine.”
“What are you talking about? Are we looking at the same house?”
“I think it’s okay.”
“Trust me. It is not okay. The wood’s rotting out. The shutters are faded. The trim is cracked and chipped. You can’t let it go another winter.”
“Look, I don’t want you to paint it, okay? I just want you to leave it alone.”
“Let me paint it.”
“No! It can last another winter. Maybe two.”
“You’re an asshole. You know that? A real asshole.”
King stormed back into the house and I followed, dragging my briefcase and body over the domestic threshold yet one more time. I wanted to tell King about Albany, but he’d scarcely care now, not that I’d blame him, given my loutish behavior. I owed him an apology, but somehow couldn’t find the energy to deliver it. Instead, I consoled myself with the list of telephone messages he’d taken for me while I was away. Cal. Annette. M.C. Shufelbarger. Ethan. It was close to 5:00 P.M., and I wanted a drink before I did anything. The early edition of the local news would be coming on and I indulged the thought of one half hour’s mindless viewing. I plopped down on my brown sectional, lit a Commodore and channel-surfed until my nemesis, Katie Gomez Chang, was staring me straight in the face. Before I could turn away, she spoke.
“Tonight’s top story is the tragic death of one of our community’s biggest, and I do mean biggest, business leaders. Frank Fanoflincoln, founder of the Tailburger restaurant chain, is dead tonight at seventy-four. According to a St. Mary’s Hospital spokesperson, Mr. Fanoflincoln died an hour ago after watching a DVD of the film Glory, starring Matthew Broderick and Denzel Washington, one of his all-time favorite movies, and eating a large bowl of diet lime Jell-O, his first meal after awakening from a coma. Although his life ended in a humiliating miasma of pornography, atheism and the handicapped, he meant many things to many people in the greater Rochester area. Later in the broadcast, we’ll look at the life of this hometown hamburger king, Civil War enthusiast and enormously fat man.”
I sat stunned, a glass of bourbon glued to one hand, a burning cigarette in the other. You never know how you genuinely feel about someone until they’re dead. And now I knew how I felt about the Link. Somehow, some way, despite everything he’d put me through, despite the countless times he’d forced me to compromise myself, he’d gotten to me. I cared about that fat fuck. I cared about him a lot. You would’ve thought I’d be dancing on his grave, but I wasn’t. Instead, I was in tears. The sobbing started quietly and then crescendoed, leveling off to a loud, rhythmic heaving. King heard me and came downstairs to the study.
“What’s wrong?”
“Itsa Link,” I blubbered.
“What?”
“Tha Link.”
“Jesus. What did that asshole do to you now?”
“He . . . he . . . he . . .”
“Out with it. What’d he do?”
“He . . . he . . .” My sobbing made speaking impossible.
“I’ll kill that guy. I swear. You know me, Sky. I’m not a violent man, but I will kill that guy or I’ll get someone else to kill him. El Jefe is one phone call away. Now, c’mon. Get yourself together and just tell me what he did.”
“He . . . he . . . he . . . died.”
Suddenly my composure returned.
“He died?”
I nodded at my brother while catching my breath.
“Oh. (Pause) Well, good. Then I can cross his murder off my list. (Pause) But wait, now I’m confused. Why in the hell are you so upset? Isn’t this the guy who’s made your life miserable for the last twenty years?”
“Yes.”
“Then I don’t get it.”
“I don’t either.”
King came over and sat next to me, placed his arm around my back and cradled my head against his shoulder. For a few minutes we sat together, one aging man holding another, both expecting the embrace to feel awkward at any moment. But it never did.
“Sky, do you need anything? How ’bout a run to the Sweet? That’ll make you feel better.”
“No, not tonight. I think I’d rather be here. Thanks for the offer though. (Pause) Maybe tomorrow.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.” I nodded.
King stood up and reflexively crossed his arms.
“No problem. (Pause) I’ll tell you what. I’m going to leave you alone f
or a bit, but I’ll be upstairs if you change your mind.”
“Fair enough.” I managed a smile for King before he turned to leave.
“King.”
He paused at the doorway and looked back at me.
“About . . . you know, earlier, in the garage?”
“You’re sorry?”
“I am.”
“It’s okay . . . I’m a shitty painter anyway.”
King’s exit left me alone with my original unanswered question and an opportunity to examine my mourning a bit closer. Why was I so upset? As a child, I’d once pretended my parents had died and allowed myself to feel imagined emotions, acting out a version of grief I wouldn’t experience for real until many years later. It was then I’d learned, in the most painful way, that the profundity of loss for someone you truly care about is deeper than anything you could ever imagine or wish upon an enemy. This was a different kind of grief though, entirely distinct from what I’d felt for my mother, father or Jess. So what was it?
I concluded that my feelings were as much about my own mortality as they were about the Link’s. From somewhere within, I felt a deep sense of loss because a piece of my own personal history, for better or worse, was gone. And with it, a large passage of my life. My theory was an evolving one. If surviving longer than the Link meant winning, I cried the way a victor cries for a vanquished foe. The way Frazier would cry if Ali died. My greatest opponent—gone. But if surviving longer simply meant surviving and nothing more, I cried the way you do when someone significant in your life, whether cruel or kind, lives no longer. The way a son cries for a sometimes abusive father. The way Cratchit would cry if Scrooge died. The person you love and hate at the same time— off with the angels.
The telephone rang and, out of habit, I picked it up.
“Hello.”
“Sky, it’s M.C. Shufelbarger.”
“M.C., this is a bad time. Can I call you later?”
“Sure, Sky, but I’ve got good news.”
Plot couldn’t have cut a deal with Humpy Wheeler this quickly. Or could he? Either way, it was an inappropriate time to discuss the matter. It would have to wait.
“I don’t want to talk about my case right now, M.C.”