The Placebo Effect

by David Rotenberg

“Not yet. I don’t want him scared away. But I want to know his every—and I mean every—move.”

  At the table at the back of the copy shop Decker stared at his handiwork. The deed for a commercial property in his name looked a shitload like the real thing. The deed was for the Treloar Building.

  Decker put it on the small desk, then moved it to a corner. He put his downloaded copy of Henry-Clay’s MS thesis on the other corner, then moved it to the left. Beside it he placed Mike’s placebo research for Yolles Pharmaceuticals. He took his design for the “Who’s Jumping Now?” and put it dead centre—then flipped open the portable DVD player and punched play. Steve’s mock newscast came up—Decker stepped back to see the mise-en-scène. The flicker from the DVD brought his little stage to life. He smiled at the semblant order there and said, “And now for a holy place for an unholy act.”

  48

  GIVE DREADFUL NOTE OF PREPARATION

  STEVE’S COUSIN, THE SYNAGOGUE’S SHABBOS GOY, A TERRIBLY thin young black man, opened the back alley door to the synagogue and stepped aside for Decker to enter. Decker had always hated the term “goy.” It was as malicious as the slander “kike,” and too many Jews thought it was okay to use the term because they considered themselves victims—and victims always thought they had the right to strike back at their oppressors. Yeah, but how is the issue.

  The Shabbos goy was an old tradition. Because Orthodox Jews—and often Conservative and now even some Reform Jewish Rabbis—will not do any work on the Sabbath, or Shabbos, they needed someone not of the faith to open and shut the synagogue and do basic things like turn on the lights. The relationship that ensued between the often extremely literate (and sometimes very wealthy) religious Jews and often semiliterate non-Jews who took on the role of the Shabbos goy interested Decker. Did the familiarity breed contempt or respect? Did Shabbos goys hide their Jewish employers from the Nazis or aid the Germans in rounding them up? What was the ratio of “good” Shabbos goys to “bad” Shabbos goys, Decker wondered.

  The old building, like any large interior space, was completely unchanged by the arrival of three men. It simply included the new additions. The building was the given—a visitor was an afterthought. The height of the place surprised Decker, as did the two side galleries that looked more like they belonged in an Episcopalian house of worship. Then there was the ostentation. Even when it was built in 1866 it invoked comments from the local press like, “Cincinnati never before had seen so much grandeur.” Of course just down the street was Saint Peter in Chains Cathedral, which just proved that religions of various denominations seemed to enjoy showing off their financial prowess as if their gods loved the pretension of wealth.

  Decker allowed himself to slowly walk the long centre aisle of the place and feel what he thought of as the heft of the space around him—just as he used to do when he walked into a theatre that he had never directed in before. Buildings have their own rhythm and sense of self. To put a piece of art into a building without understanding how the building worked was just folly—like throwing a Rothko randomly into a space, ignoring the ratio of its dimensions. It may have been what caused Rothko to fire three architects and finally contributed to his suicide before the chapel that bears his name was completed in Houston. For a moment, Decker wanted to head to the airport and go there—to just sit in the silence and commune.

  He shook off the impulse and stepped up on the bimah—the altar. He stared at the tabernacle that held the Torah scrolls. Did he want this behind him or behind his adversary—or did he want to ignore it altogether?

  The natural thing was to make Henry-Clay Yolles enter down the centre aisle so that he looked up at Decker on the bimah—like Princess Di’s funeral. Did the Brits know how to stage a pageant in a cathedral or what! When the coffin came all the way down the centre aisle, then turned to the right and the huge doors opened to allow the light in and her coffin out—Decker remembered wanting to cheer.

  But what Decker was planning was not a religious event. It was a worldly negotiation that he wanted played out against a religious setting. The sugar tasting sweeter because of the salt. He didn’t need or want the backup of some folks’ holy books—just the sense of sacred space to set off these most assuredly profane business dealings.

  He climbed to the left gallery and looked across the way—and knew this was the right way to work. He in one gallery, his enemy in the other—with a yawning space between them.

  Steve entered the old synagogue and stood at his skinny cousin’s side, awaiting instruction. “So?”

  “Perfect,” Decker responded. “One here,’ he pointed behind him. He then pointed across the way to the far wall of the other gallery and said, “One there and the last one by the front door below the rose window.” A rose window in a synagogue? Very odd. He made a mental note to check that out.

  Steve followed Decker’s directions and jotted a few specifics on a small pad. “Can you find an outlet up there?” he asked.

  Decker did.

  “Good,” Steve said, “and there’s one by the front door. I’ll check the other gallery.”

  “There’re lots of outlets up there,” Steve’s cousin said.

  “What about ways of hanging the screens?” Decker asked.

  “No problem, we have lots of high-test cable to support huppahs and build sukkahs.”

  Decker stared at him.

  “Hey man, I’m the Shabbos goy. I work here, I know the ins and outs of this Jewish thing,” Steve’s cousin said. He and Steve pounded fists.

  “Good,” Decker said, then added, “I’ll be right down.”

  It took Yslan’s guys only two runs with the metal battering ram to punch a hole in Steve’s front door. And even less time to establish that he had packed up and run.

  Decker sat in one of the side pews and looked at Steve. “I’ve gotten you in pretty deep. You can just walk away from all this. To this point you haven’t done anything wrong or illegal.”

  Steve looked at Decker and said, “You changed my life the last time we met, and you’re going to do it again.”

  Decker closed his eyes briefly—three straight lines across his retina. A truth—although an uncomfortable one for Decker. He didn’t like the idea of having other people’s lives on his conscience. “You brought your computer?”

  “Here it is.” Steve held it out to Decker.

  Decker took it and handed over his wallet and all his remaining cash.

  “Whoa—what’s that for?”

  “Expenses and to pay you for your computer and for safekeeping. You’re going to have to pay the Super Store for the amount remaining for the screens when they arrive, and you’ll need help, and I want you to pay for that help—and pay yourself. And pay your cousin. Maybe buy him some groceries. He looks like he needs some.”

  “Fine, but this is a lot of money.”

  “Four thousand two hundred and ninety short of what it ought to be.”

  “Wha—”

  “Some guy on East Fifty-eighth owes me over four grand, and he better believe I’m going to collect.”

  Steve looked at Decker and was about to ask what that was all about then decided against it. Instead he asked, “Don’t you need some cash in the meantime?”

  “Sure. Give me a hundred. It’s all I’ll need.”

  Steve reluctantly took the money and pocketed the wallet—with Emerson Remi’s card that had the electronic tracking dot on it. He headed out, but Decker called him back.

  Decker showed him the two remote controls the store had given him. “Show me how these work.”

  Steve gave a smile and showed Decker the basic commands.

  Steve said, “So, it’s tomorrow?”

  “Right. Let’s say we’re set by eleven o’clock. Eleven thirty is half hour—midnight is curtain.”

  “No problem. I’ll get the screens delivered shortly after the evening service here is finished.”

  “When’s that?”

  “Shabbos goy said just past nine.”


  Decker was a little taken aback to hear the slander from Steve’s lips but he managed, “Good.”

  “Where you going to be until then, Mr. Roberts?”

  “Far away from you. I’ve made your life complicated enough without me endangering you by being close. Remember, don’t go home until this is all, all over.”

  Steve nodded. “Cribs for me. Where you going to sleep tonight?”

  Decker shook his head.

  “Got it.”

  A sharp whistle from behind the bimah drew both of their eyes.

  Steve’s cousin stepped forward. “Someone’s coming.”

  “Good luck, Mr. Roberts.”

  “And back at you, Steve.”

  It was only hours later that Steve realized that he had pocketed one of the remotes—it would change his life in ways he never expected.

  As Steve and his cousin left the synagogue, an Escalade slowly pulled out from a side street and Emerson watched the dot on his BlackBerry move slowly across the street map.

  Yslan received word that Steve had left his house for places unknown. Twenty minutes later she was standing in his kitchen with Mr. T at her side. “Tear it apart. I want to know everything this guy knows.”

  “No computer,” Ted Knight announced.

  “Laptop, no doubt, and he took it with him.”

  “How do you know he has a computer at all?”

  “Because this is 2009 and everyone has one.”

  The two men nodded.

  “Find him. Find him fast.” Then she noticed the picture in the side of the bathroom mirror—a pretty female singer, à la 1940. “And identify this girl.”

  Decker fired up Steve’s computer, went to the synaesthetes website, and, staying far away from the chat room, contacted Eddie. The coffee shop was about to close, and the counter girl was giving him the evil eye—he’d sat over that one cup of coffee for almost an hour. Arrange a meeting for me, Eddie.

  With whom?

  Henry-Clay Yolles of Yolles Pharmaceuticals.

  Sure, he typed. What’s the meeting about?

  Tell Mr. Yolles that if he wants the Treloar Building he’d better take a meeting with me.

  Okay. When and where?

  Decker gave him the time and the name of the synagogue.

  Odd time, odd place, Decker.

  He’s an odd guy—likes to burn down people’s homes. He didn’t bother adding “And killing people like Mike Shedloski.”

  Okay—consider it done.

  And Eddie—

  Yeah?

  Get me this asshole’s e-mail address.

  Eddie contacted Henry-Clay and told him who wanted to meet him and when and where and about what then shut his computer and grabbed for his dope stash. He rolled a bomber thicker than his thumb and dragged long and deep. Much later that night he awoke on the newly made bed and found the doll was on his chest and his damaged leg vibrating of its own accord in its brace. He couldn’t stop its jackhammer action and it ached as it hadn’t ached for many, many years.

  Henry-Clay received the news from this Eddie person with equanimity. He’d faced many negotiations in his time. Yeah, the time and place were odd, but it was just a negotiation—and he liked negotiating. He took the hard copy of the e-mail he had from Congressman Villianne and folded it carefully. He’d deal with this Yslan Hicks person later. Now he had to deal with this freak who could tell when someone was telling the truth.

  In a way he admired Decker for having found him out—and then for taking the battle to him. He wondered for a moment if Decker had found out about Ratio-Man’s demise, then he cast it aside. How could he? And even if he did—who cared? There was nothing there to link him to the murder.

  He called for MacMillan and his men, then opened the safe in his room and took out the medical report he had received from Victoria, British Columbia, and the new agreement he’d signed concerning the bladder cancer treatment BCG.

  He sat at his computer and typed a simple e-mail: Track down the kid and be ready. Then he pressed send—good. He was in motion again—it was always better to be in motion.

  Decker was surprised how much a cheap room cost in Cincinnati—eighty dollars—and cheap hotels didn’t bother with the charade that expensive hotels did. Expensive hotels wanted their customers to believe that they were the very first people ever to use the room, the toilet, the bed. Cheap hotels didn’t bother with that.

  Decker put Steve’s computer on the table beside the lumpy bed and remembered to recharge the cell phone.

  And dreamt of a filthy child in his arms—and cried in his sleep.

  The morning dawned bright and clear—a cold December day in Cincinnati.

  Hialeah made her final phone calls and prepared the signs for the march on Yolles Pharmaceuticals.

  Steve’s cousin rechecked the synagogue’s schedule and informed Steve that all was clear for a nine o’clock delivery. He had six guys ready to help—for a price.

  Steve relayed, verbatim, what Decker had told him to tell his cousin. “Set up the screens, pay the guys, leave the side entrance of the synagogue open and the lights on in the two galleries, then take the money and get yourself something to eat.”

  Steve’s cousin laughed. “That Mr. Roberts concerned about my health?”

  “He thinks you’re way too thin.”

  Yslan flooded the black sections of Cincinnati and northern Kentucky with agents and copies of the young black woman’s photograph. At 11:45 they got a solid hit. Four minutes later they had an address, and within the hour they had broken down the door to her apartment—and found nothing of value, although they came across several love letters from Steve.

  Decker tried to sleep the day away. There was nothing more he could do. The protest was scheduled for sundown. The delivery was at nine o’clock—the meet at midnight—Midnight in the garden of good and plenty, he thought. Then the disturbing refrain “one of these things is not like the others, one of these things just doesn’t belong” rose in his mind and like a king cobra, flared its hood and slowly turned its dead eyes to face Decker.

  Emerson had had enough of what he thought of as “following the dot.” Besides, Cincinnati bored him. Only Decker held some interest for him, and it had been days since he’d last caught a glimpse of him—and he was beginning to worry.

  At five thirty Decker fired up Steve’s computer and sent a quick message to Henry-Clay Yolles—LOOK OUT YOUR WINDOW YOU CREEPY TURD!

  Henry-Clay did as instructed and was surprised to see a gathering of almost a hundred African-Americans, all of whom were carrying signs. He blanched—not from the numbers of people but from what was on their signs: “I worked here” and “What’s Your Ratio!” and, most concerning, “Who’s Jumping Now?”

  At seven o’clock an unusual group of worshippers entered Isaac M. Wise Temple for evening prayers. Not your typical elderly mix of men. And the young rabbi who usually worked his way through the prayers mechanically found his eyes flitting from his text to the unusually rough, short-haired, blond Scottish-looking men who kept craning their heads in various directions as the service proceeded.

  The young rabbi breathed a sigh of relief when they got up and left, or at least he assumed they’d left since they moved into the darkness near the entrance. He would have liked to have concluded that this was God’s work, but he knew better than that.

  Shortly after their supposed departure the service ended and the place emptied of its few congregants. Steve’s cousin reported, “The delivery truck is going to be on time—they just phoned to confirm.”

  “And they have the screens?”

  “Yes, cuz—be cool. We’ll set them up like you wanted and then leave the side door open—just like you said.”

  “Thanks. I owe you.”

  “No you don’t—you paid me just fine, cousin, but, Steve, you lock up when they’re done. It’s all got to be cleaned up before morning prayers, okay?”

  “Got it.”

  “You going to
be there?”

  “Later. First I’m going to see my girl.”

  Yslan pulled the sign out of Hialeah’s hand and said, “I need a word with you.”

  “Do you really?” Hialeah challenged as many strong and angry black eyes turned in her direction.

  Yslan held her ground. “I just need to know if you know this man.” She held up a photo of Steve.

  Emerson was driving fast now. The dot was on the move—crazy fast—and jutting down alleyways and through garages. He followed and came out at what looked like a demonstration in front of Yolles Pharmaceuticals.

  The crowd was moving in on Yslan, and despite the muscle she’d brought with her she knew she was in danger. Then she saw Emerson. Emerson! What the fuck was Emerson doing here? He was looking at his cell phone and turning his head. She followed his look—and there was Steve.

  “Thanks very much, ma’am, for all your cooperation.”

  Yslan knifed her way through the crowd and got to Steve as Mr. T was hustling him away.

  Emerson approached with a broad smile on his face.

  “Arrest him.”

  Ted Knight pushed Emerson against the retaining wall and quickly frisked him. He threw Emerson’s BlackBerry to Yslan, who scanned the map and surmised that there was a tracking device involved and the tracking device’s signal was being generated from Steve Bradshaw.

  Yslan turned on the young man but was surprised by the resistance she met. Even after they hustled him into a car he refused to offer up any information.

  But when they searched him they found Decker’s wallet and the remote control Steven had inadvertently pocketed.

  “What’s this for?”

  “TV. I like TV.”

  “You’re in a world of trouble and you don’t even know it!” Mr. T shouted.

  Yslan looked at the thing. Way more complicated than most—then she saw the high def key, and the one that controlled the number of pixels, and knew that this was for a very modern, probably huge-screen TV. Not the kind of thing that most people could afford to own. She flipped the thing open and saw the Super Store’s label on it. “It’s a rental. Get them on the line; I want to know where the monitors were sent.”