The Placebo Effect

by David Rotenberg

  He picked up the phone and punched 4 on the speed dialer. It annoyed him that his lawyer’s number in Toronto had reached number 4 on the list. The phone was answered on the first ring and a voice that he had become all too familiar with said, “To what do I owe this surprise phone call?”

  Josh eyed the second line of cocaine on the kitchen counter. “Hold on a sec.” He put the phone down and with a dexterity born of much practice snorted the line. It flashed bright colours in his head—then the clarity—and the bravery returned. “Sorry.”

  “Sure, Josh.”

  Josh told his lawyer about Decker’s strange request.

  “Let me run this past a few people up here. Maybe someone in law enforcement will salute the flag.”

  Josh hated it when lawyers tried to be cool. “Could this help my situation?”

  “Hard to say. So tell me everything you know about Decker Roberts.” Josh realized this was the last chance he’d have to back out. To not betray his friend and mentor. He licked a finger and ran it along the counter with the coke remains, then rubbed them into his gums—and told his lawyer everything he knew about Decker Roberts.

  26

  JOSH

  DECKER DROPPED INTO THE STAPLES ON THIRD AVENUE AND bought a Cambridge writing tablet and a new pen. Hard things he liked to work out longhand. Then he hopped the bus up Third Avenue and walked over to the park that faced the East River. The one where Woody Allen talked the night away with Diane Keaton in Manhattan—the one to which Decker had taken Seth when his wife’s anguish had been too great for either of them to bear. The one where he’d lied to Seth—telling him that everything was going to be okay. That his mother was going to be just fine. The one where he first sensed that although he couldn’t tell when Seth was being dishonest, the boy could spot every untruth his father ever told him.

  The cold in New York could be as cold as anywhere else, but the day was clear and the sun warmed things enough for Decker to sit outside. The Silvercup Bakery—now studio—was across the river. The great bridge, which once crossed, according to F. Scott Fitzgerald, anything could happen “even Gatsby could happen,” was to his left—and the empty page on his lap. He allowed himself to envision Josh, then he put words in his mouth.

  Garreth knew that he had overstepped his authority when he went to Decker’s studio, but something about that guy… So when the word came down the line that Josh Near was “shopping” Decker from New York City, Garreth went directly to the Crown Attorney’s office and made a pitch to trade Josh’s coke charge for the whereabouts of Decker Roberts, who he said was a suspect in an arson or perhaps a string of arsons, one of which had caused the death of an elderly night watchman.

  It took a bit of doing, but by eight o’clock the deal was done, and by nine o’clock Josh had his assurance that his coke charge would be dropped if he gave up Decker Roberts—and Garreth thought of his father’s rage at a young boy of that same name: Decker Roberts.

  Yslan hit the return key on her iPhone and the name Josh Near came up, followed by his basic data. She scanned it quickly and assumed that he was one of Decker’s students from Toronto. Decker’s movements in New York had at times made sense—at others were indecipherable. She understood him visiting the two places where he had lived with his wife and son, but what was he doing in Patchin Place and why the meeting with Josh Near? But more important was Josh’s phone call to his lawyer in Toronto that they had intercepted. What was that about?

  She hit her speed dialer. Her boss, Harrison, came on the phone, “Yeah.”

  “I think we’ve got trouble here in good ol’ River City.”

  “Do you have enough men to look after it?”

  “If you keep the local cops out of it.”

  “I’ll try. They’re not all that fond of us up there. How soon do you think this is going down?”

  “I don’t know—I’ll get back to you.”

  27

  A LITTLE ACTING

  “YOU’RE NOT GOING TO TELL ME WHAT THIS IS ABOUT, ARE you, Decker?”

  “It’s about truth…”

  “…justice, and the American way—I saw that one too.”

  Decker looked out the window of Josh’s apartment. In Washington Square Park two inline skaters were making magic with their movements. Reaching into the jet stream, Decker thought, and they don’t even know it. He had a strong impulse to retreat to the Museum of Modern Art, surrounding himself with those who had put their heads up in the jet stream—voyaged—and come back to us with their visions of another world: de Kooning, Klee, Jackson Pollock, especially Mark Rothko, whose chapel in Houston was Decker’s North American Chartres.

  “So what is it you want me to do?” Josh asked.

  “A little bit of acting, playacting if you wish.”

  “With a lawyer?”

  What was that strange edge to the word “lawyer”? For the umpteenth time Decker asked himself if he trusted this young man. But what choice did he have? Charendoff had seen him twice when he had sent him to do his dirty work up in Stanstead, so he needed someone like Josh Near to get access to him. Finally he responded, “Yeah, with a lawyer—think of it as playing a scene and the lawyer’s your acting partner.”

  “What’s my action, Decker? If I had the right to write the end of the scene, what would the lawyer do?”

  “I taught you that.”

  “And a bunch of other stuff, but answer my question, Teach.”

  That edge again. “Are you all right, Josh?”

  “I’m fine, Decker.”

  Decker couldn’t resist. He flicked his eyes shut. Squiggled lines—then flattening into trapezoids. At least partially a truth. But then again what answer to the question “Are you all right?” doesn’t have some ‘squiggle’ to it?

  “In fact, I’m getting better and better,” Josh added apropos of nothing in particular.

  Perfect rectangles—a truth.

  “Don’t do that!” Josh snapped.

  “What?”

  “That eye-closing thing.”

  Decker didn’t realize it was so obvious, but then again Josh was a superb actor—and a great actor sees and hears like the narrator in a major Russian novel. “Sorry.”

  “Do I bore you, Decker?”

  Decker was about to say “Hardly” but pulled out his notebook and turned it to face Josh. “Look. Just go through it with me like we’d go through a film scene or an audition. Okay?”

  “We going to chart?”

  “I don’t think it’s necessary—this is all done in one take.”

  “Drone notes?”

  “They’ll be obvious when you hit them.”

  Josh shrugged.

  “So look, I’ve written out the lines I need you to say in capitals. The lawyer’s probable answers are underlined.” He looked up and Josh was all concentration—good. The guy had incredible focus when he wanted to use it. “So you begin with a greeting of some sort—any way you like—to which he then responds something like: ‘I represent lots of performers.’”

  “Actors,” Josh said sharply. “I’m an actor not a performer. Circus guys are performers.”

  “Right. Actors. So he says he represents lots of actors. And you respond to that with: ‘I need someone who can help me with things on both sides of the border—I’m a Canadian. You knew that, right?’ To which he answers, ‘Sure, absolutely.’ Although I’m sure he didn’t have a clue about that. But you continue: ‘So I have business dealings on both sides of the border. And in Quebec as well. Can you handle things in Quebec? It’s Napoleonic Code law there.’ He probably hadn’t heard of Napoleonic code law since law school—and even then only in passing—but I’m sure he’ll say something like: ‘We have loads of resources in the firm.’ Then he’ll probably mention Louisiana since it has Napoleonic Code law.”

  “How do you know shit like that, Decker?”

  “I just do. Then I need you to ask him: ‘Have you ever been to Quebec?’ I have no idea what his answer will be to that,
but whatever it is, positive or negative, you continue: ‘I like the eastern townships south of Montreal a lot. I’m thinking of setting up a business near the border.’ If he asks you what kind of business, hedge as if you’re hiding a great prospect and say: ‘Not sure but I think there are real opportunities up there.’ Then you be sure to say this exactly: ‘You or your firm ever done any business up there?’ Let him answer that. Then ask: ‘Ever been up there yourself?’ Let him answer that too then say: ‘I met the Irwin family there a while back. Do you know them by chance?’ Let him answer that, then cut him short, claim you have a meeting and that you’ll get back to him. Once you get the answer I want you to cut off all conversation.”

  “Who are the Irwins, Decker?”

  For a moment Decker really wanted to share his knowledge of the potential murder, then he stopped himself. “Just a name drawn from a hat.”

  “You’re a lousy liar, Decker.”

  Decker was really tired of hearing that.

  “Don’t try acting, Decker, it’s beyond your reach.”

  Decker didn’t reply, glad to have moved past the “who are the Irwins” question.

  It took Josh only one phone call. “Okay, my people have set the meeting for two tomorrow afternoon at that restaurant.”

  “Did they reserve you a table?”

  “Of course.”

  “Get them to tell you which one.”

  “Sure.”

  “Good.” Decker was about to leave when he said, “Bring your cell phone. I’ll call you before you enter the restaurant, then leave your phone on, on the table and connected to me.”

  Bob’s Big Ol’ BBQ was on Twenty-second around the corner from the Chelsea Hotel where Leonard Cohen, another fine Canadian boy, made it with Janis Joplin and then wrote a song about it. A sort of kiss and sing thing. The restaurant was a New York City chic diner—pulled pork on a white bun for $17.95. Decker arrived a few minutes early and walked carefully past Charendoff as the man perused the menu. An expensive leather briefcase was at the lawyer’s side. As Decker had assumed, Charendoff arrived first and took the side of the booth facing the door—the power position. Decker had reserved the booth behind them and sat back to back.

  Decker ordered a ludicrously overpriced glass of red wine. Then another.

  Josh was late. Even for a star he was pushing the acceptable limit.

  Decker cursed him quietly and ordered dinner.

  A commotion at the front of the restaurant signaled Josh’s arrival. Decker sighed and swallowed the second glass of wine. It hurt going down. He flicked the toggle on his miniature digital recorder and checked the position of the polished soup spoon to his left at the table’s edge. He adjusted it slightly so that he had an image of the lawyer in the concave of the spoon—three-quarters turned away and upside down, but an image nonetheless. Then he cupped his hand over his cell phone’s tiny earpiece in his left ear.

  Josh finished signing autographs and posing with young women for photographs. Decker always wondered about boyfriends’ willingness to take pictures of their ladies draped around stars. Didn’t they know that their girlfriends would be fantasizing about the star the next time the two of them were mid coital thrust?

  Josh approached the booth. He held the script folded vertically in his hand. Decker smiled to himself—first audition, hold the script. It lowers expectations and gives you something do with your right hand, but never look at it.

  Josh, without referring to the script, went right to the first beat. “Thanks for meeting me on such short notice, I really appreciate it.”

  “Sure, my pleasure.”

  “So look, I’m in the market for a new kind of representation. I want a nonentertainment lawyer—someone smart that I can deal with in confidence—for a second opinion, if you understand me.”

  Then he put his cell phone on the table.

  Nicely done—smooth, Josh.

  Charendoff said that was a wise thing then added, “It’s always my pleasure to meet people of real talent.”

  Decker smiled. It seemed that Charendoff was on the right track to get to “So what can I do for you” when Decker heard the sound of a zipper opening followed by a dull thunk on the table behind him. He glanced at his strategically placed soup spoon—a leather-bound stack of paper was on the tabletop.

  “Mr. Near. Do you mind if I call you Josh? From your work I almost feel like I know you personally. So is it okay if I did that—call you Josh, I mean?”

  “No, sure, Josh is fine.”

  “Well Josh, I hope you don’t mind but I’ve taken the liberty of bringing you a copy of my latest screenplay. I think it’s something special—and there’s really a fine cameo in it for you.”

  Sound of the thing being pushed across the tabletop.

  Decker winced.

  “I actually only do this lawyer thing so I can have the freedom to write. Well, you know how it is.”

  Decker heard Josh stutter then mumble something—a sure sign he didn’t know what to do next. Then he heard the scuffling of running feet and felt a strong hand grab him by his forearm and yank him to his feet. Then a woman’s face was so close to his that he could smell the perfume at the base of her neck. Then in a whisper he heard her southern accent say, “Mr. Roberts, you are in danger, come with us quickly.” Then she kissed him full and hard on the mouth. “Whoa there, big boy,” she said loudly, “come on, honey, not here in front of all these fine folks.” Then two sets of hands propelled him toward the front door with a flurry of “Hey, bro, you’ve had too much to drinks” and before he knew it he was in the back of a black tinted-windowed SUV roaring toward the Holland Tunnel.

  Through the circular window in the swinging kitchen door of the restaurant Emerson Remi watched the action too—a Dubonnet on the rocks in one hand, a brisket on rye in the other. Being a reporter for the Times allowed you to know the cooks in places like this. He saw everything from his perch: Charendoff’s early arrival, then Decker’s, finally Josh’s ostentatious entrance. He noted the vertically folded pages in Josh’s hand. Earlier he had picked out the two undercover cops near the front door of the restaurant. They hovered—watchers shouldn’t hover. Then there was the Scottish-looking thug at the bar. The whole thing appeared to Emerson as a set piece—with too many performers—sort of a MAD magazine Spy vs. Spy times two or three. Then he saw Josh approach Charendoff’s booth and the two undercover cops tense. Josh sat opposite the lawyer and Decker tilted his soup spoon as he slid an earplug from a cell phone into his left ear. He saw Josh put his cell phone on the table. The lawyer brought out a thick sheaf of bound papers, then all of a sudden there was motion all around. From the side of his eye he saw the two undercover cops being badged by guys in grey suits, while Yslan, looking very pretty, kissed Decker and exited with him in a flurry along with two other men. As they did Emerson saw Josh slip out the side door of the restaurant. Then all was as it was before except Charendoff sat alone in his booth with his stack of bound papers and scowled. It was as if nothing had happened: the waiters waited, the patrons… patroned, although the Scottish guy had slipped out somehow.

  Then he noticed what no one else seemed to have noticed—Josh had left his cell phone on the table.

  Emerson entered the restaurant, sauntered over, reached down, and picked up the cell phone—and wondered if this could somehow get him to Yslan and her synaesthetes.

  He was pretty sure it could.

  28

  GARDEN STATE

  THE WOMAN WHO HAD A FEW MINUTES BEFORE PLANTED A big one on him turned from the front seat and faced him. For the first time Decker noticed the extraordinary colour of her almost translucent eyes.

  “I think you’ve got the wrong…”

  “You’re a very bad liar, Mr. Roberts.”

  Again with the bad liar!

  “I would suggest that you shut up until we get to where we’re going.”

  “And where would that be?”

  “Somewhere safe,” she said then adde
d, “truthfully—somewhere safe.”

  Decker looked past her as they roared into the tunnel and was astonished to see the Holland Tunnel at four o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon—completely empty. He sat back. The wall tiles whipped by him so fast he thought they were flying—and in some ways they were. Decker clutched his laptop to his chest and reached for a seat belt.

  “Is there a seat belt law in New Jersey?” the woman with the translucent eyes asked.

  “I’m not dying in New Jersey. It would just be too stupid.” He buckled up. And they sped on. He wanted them to talk or spit or do something. They didn’t. The beautiful girl looked straight ahead. The two men who had hustled him into the SUV—one beside him, the other driving—didn’t remove their wraparound sunglasses or move a muscle. The one in the backseat was a cleaned-up version of Mr. T. The one who drove had immaculately coiffed grey hair—Ted Knight from the old Mary Tyler Moore Show. Finally Decker said, “So, aren’t you going to put a blindfold on me or something?”

  “Why, Mr. Roberts, do you like being blindfolded?” the woman said as she turned toward him.

  “Not particularly. So if you’re not going to blindfold me, you won’t mind telling me where we’re going.”

  “Deeper into New Jersey,” she said. A smile creased her wide, expressive mouth.

  “So you don’t mind me seeing where we’re going?”

  “With some people I’d mind—a lot. Not with you. You use buildings as markers to find your way home, Mr. Roberts. When your usual subway entrance is closed and you have to use another exit, you haven’t got a clue where you are. You set records for a lack of sense of direction, so I don’t mind you seeing where we are going because you haven’t got a chance in hell of finding the place again—do you?”

  Decker glanced at Mr. T out of the side of his eye. He was tempted to ask how she knew that stuff about him but thought better of it when Mr. T momentarily turned his gaze toward him.