“It’s not like that, Vinny. This isn’t about me. I’m just calling to put something important on your plate.”
“Okay …”
“But you have to wait. You can’t do anything yet. You have to build a file and start collecting evidence, and Vinny, you have to get this right the first time, so please don’t rush it. If you’re patient, and do it right, this is very big for your team. If you rush, you’ll end up with nothing.”
“Sure. What is it you’re giving me, New York?”
He said “New York” facetiously, but the tone of camaraderie, whether fake or not, somehow reminded me of Wallace, and somehow that caused a pang of sadness like a gong being rung in my gut.
“Royston,” I said and then clenched my jaw.
“Who the hell is Royston?”
“Vinny, they have Google on FBI computers …”
“Okay, Royston. R, O, Y? …”
“S, T, O, N. Bye, Vinny.”
“Jack,” Pearl said, softer and more slowly, “why are you doing this anyway?” The tone was collegial, almost one of concern.
“So I can’t back out.”
“Back out of what, Jack? Tell me what we need to know, and let us handle it. Let me help you, Jack. Maybe you really do want to do something right here. So that’s good. That’s the right thing. Let me help.”
“You can’t.”
“Hey, you’re in Prague?” he asked then.
“Oh, please.”
“Wait—” he said.
I hung up.
◆
That night I had the dream again. I was at a dinner table with fine china and white linen and lace napkins. The plates were pearl white, with thin, swirling spirals of dark red along the outer edge … I felt the presence of the others in the room and then I saw them. The men were all dressed in black suit pants. The women wore black or gray dresses. The old ones, their bodies wrinkled and marked with age spots, were mostly white. The younger ones were mostly black or Latino. “Why the hell are they undressed?” I thought in a panic, my pulse quickening.
Then, I was dizzy and there was vomit on my plate, and on the table in front of me. They all stared at me, expressionless, their entrails now exposed in their torsos. “Not to your liking, sir?” asked a man in the second or third row.
“I don’t know you,” I whispered.
“We never spoke,” he said. “Your partner set it all up. But thank you.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. I was barely audible. I was speaking to myself. I was dreaming and I knew it. Then I woke up.
◆
That was about a month ago. I would stop them all, I thought when I awoke. I had waited long enough. Too long. You see, everything shines just a tiny bit brighter when one feels like time is limited. Well, time is always limited, for everyone, always, and much more so than we ever care to admit when we’re running through the city on auto-pilot trying to make a meeting. Of course it’s limited. It’s limiting.
I am very sorry that Mark had to learn the truth about his father and all the pain I’ve caused, but I’m very grateful to have gotten to know him. I’m sorry for Michelle too, that she ran into me in that bar that night, but I am grateful for having met her as well. Mark had no choice when it came to me. The universe made that choice. DNA did, not us. Carrie made that choice. But he did come looking for me.
◆
Now a guy named Vinny Pearl will become my accidental partner, the way Wallace had been for so long. Pearl’s colleagues will Google Royston and all of its executive officers, starting with my friend Mel Wolff. They will search confidential government databases. Pearl will talk with friends at Interpol, and to the South African secret police—but only the one or two guys he knows he can trust to wait and keep it contained.
That may be all it takes. To shine a light on it. Like cockroaches: once you see one, surely there are thousands more just out of sight. Pearl knows that. He’s been around. Little facts will start to surface pointing to things being out of sort. The amount of cyclosporine they use. The amount of donors who end up dead. The sellers coming from Alexandra. Wolff’s assets and Swiss accounts… . Every chain like that has weak links; you just need to start pulling on it. And now I’ve told the FBI where to pull. New York Jack, FBI informant.
Pearl and his people will need some time to get organized now, to get ready. That’s good. This is not a thing I’m in a rush to complete.
I could have built that law practice. Eighteen years ago when Kimball walked into my office I could have just said no and stuck to the plan. I could have overcome things, but I made other choices. That’s the reality of who I am. That’s how things start sometimes—by accident. I have learned that they only end with purpose.
PART VI: MARK AND MICHELLE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO:
TIME
It was on the plane back from Jozi last month that I began to write this down. At first I just started writing a note, hoping to explain some of the things that I thought you had a right to know, Mark. I started with the simple admission of who I am and what I have done. Then I explained the events that led to where I am now, writing for an hour or two when Michelle was at work, or in the shower or at a dinner meeting. I thought it might take a few pages but I seem to have underestimated how much I needed to tell. I wanted to tell you the truth, and Michelle too, and let you decide for yourselves. Like your mother did, Mark. It’s more important to me to tell you the truth than to spin the story to make you see it my way. I regret so much now, but listing the reasons for my regret and trying to somehow apologize might add another hundred pages, and this note is already so long, and time is limited.
By the time October rolled around, Michelle and I had fallen into patterns. We had a bit of an Indian Summer this year. During that ten-day stretch, the temperatures were often in the seventies instead of the fifties. I remember thinking that when it cooled back down, that would be the time. But when the weather turned back to fall, I still didn’t act. It started to get so that almost every day I would pick another time, but when that time came I would come up with a reason to put it off a little longer, each time buying another day or two. All that time, this note grew longer and started to turn into what it has become: not just an explanation, but also a lengthy and detailed confession.
On one of those unseasonably warm days a few weeks ago, Michelle and I went running down along the West Side Highway. We ran past Chelsea Piers and through the Village and into Tribeca before we slowed to a walk. We turned on Chambers Street and followed it in until the end and walked along the renovated waterfront in Battery Park. There is endless manicured landscaping along that path now. There are trees and babies in strollers and dogs and picnics. There are sailboats on the Hudson River. Some people even swim in it now. Some days, the vibe is more akin to Sydney or London than downtown Manhattan. We stopped and leaned up against a railing looking out over the river and across to Jersey City and Hoboken. Michelle said, “I could get used to this.”
“Great day,” I agreed. “So warm.”
“I mean to us, Jack.”
The water was lapping against the dock that supports the path there. There were two helicopters flying up the corridor between Jersey and New York, high in the air and looking black against the bright blue of the sky.
“Yeah.”
Michelle turned to me and said, “I don’t want to miss out on things because I’ve been uncompromising.”
“That makes sense.”
“Don’t do that, Jack.”
“What?”
“Agree with me.”
“You know,” I said to her, “I never feel like you want anything from me. I think that’s why I like you more than the others.”
“What others?” she said with a mock accusation.
“Before you.”
“You didn’t exist before you met me.” She paused, then, more seriously, added, “And I want things from you, Jack. I just don’t need anything. That’s the difference. And I want that
for you too. To want things from me, and from life, and to be able to want things without somehow feeling like that’s a problem.”
She was right, and I knew it right then, standing on the concrete at the edge of the Hudson River, Michelle backlit by the sinking sun. I had avoided disappointment by turning myself off. And by avoiding people. We were both silent for a long moment and I moved closer to her and said, “There’s something else I want to tell you.”
She looked up at me with what I thought was apprehension.
“I’ve got a son.” She didn’t respond and after a few seconds I continued. “His name is Mark. He’s twenty-two and lives here in New York. I was with his mother in law school and I didn’t even know about him until last year.” She moved her hand on top of mine. We were okay. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about this before. I wanted you to know and I’d like you to meet him one day.”
◆
That was one of many times when I decided that it was time to get started. Tomorrow, I thought. Then, I’d do nothing. When one has friends and family, they literally become a sort of fabric you’re woven into and that’s life I guess.
“Jack,” she said quietly, peering into my eyes, “that’s great.” The water was lapping gently at the concrete, the air was crisp but warm, and she was holding onto my hand with both of hers. It was perfect, and I was present enough to know it.
◆
Michelle and I went to my club at Doring-On-The-Hudson in Westchester that Friday. I had completely stopped working and I was spending a lot of time writing this letter. Michelle, things will change soon, I thought, as she pushed a tee into the ground with the ball cupped in her fingers. I cleared my mind of those thoughts and became acutely aware of the conditions and the flag past the fairway on the short par three that is the first hole there. She hit her first shot cleanly and placed it on the fairway, if a bit short, hooked just a hair to the left. I was impressed. I thought she might scoff at golf, mocking the pretentious social aspects rather than appreciating the true meditative nature of the game. I took out my three wood and stepped up to the tee and felt certainty flowing through me.
“Jack!” from Michelle. I turned my attention to her. “So this guy walks into a bar and he says, ‘Ow. Shit …’” I nodded. “Cause he walked into the bar. You know?” she said, almost giggling, “the bar itself.”
“I heard you.” I recommenced my approach. I let it go. The club, my arms, the tee … Thwack.
“What the hell was that?” she asked, incredulous, but smiling broadly.
“I told you I was good.”
“Jack, it almost went in.”
“It’s probably about a four-foot putt.’
“What?? Oh, shit. That was amazing.” She laughed a little. The sun was in our eyes. The air was rich. “Well give me one good tip. One.”
“Your backswing. You bring the club back too quickly. It’s a pretty common problem. Come back slower.”
“That’s it?” she said, laughing a bit. “Even I’ve heard that before.”
“Well, maybe you’ll actually listen to me.”
“Okay,” she said and grasped my forearm. I took a step toward our cart but she held my arm and said, “You’re a nice man. The last few months have been different for me. I feel less worried about things now that you’re in my life.” That was hard for me to hear since I was considering actions that might remove me from her life. “You have a good heart, Jack,” she added.
The sound of those words kept creeping into my head over and over for the rest of the day. I shot nine over that day and missed two easy putts. “Good heart,” she’d said. Would she be okay if her boyfriend disappeared and didn’t call her for months? Could she feel safe again after learning that she had spent months living and dining and making love and sleeping with New York Jack, one of the world’s biggest kidney brokers?
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE:
CONFESSIONS
A day or two later the weather turned cold, and shortly after that Philip finally started heading south. It often happens the same way with kidney patients. The descent of their decline suddenly accelerates and you can tell they’re on their way out. I told Wallace to have the client charter a plane for me, Philip, and a nurse to go to Johannesburg. I made arrangements with Wolff. Wallace seemed relieved, and Mel Wolff seemed excited.
I was at Michelle’s place, late on Tuesday night, November first, when one of my phones rang. It was you, Mark.
“Jack? Jack?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Mark.”
“I know,” I said, getting out of bed and walking out into the living room. I stood in front of Michelle’s large windows, looking south down along West Broadway.
“I think he’s dying.”
“What did they say?” I asked, “they” being the doctors of course—the gatekeepers between this world and the next.
“T-cells, white blood cells … It’s all a mess. Blood pressure fucked up. There’s a arrhythmia. I think this is it.” You were practically whispering. I assumed you must have been in the room with Philip. Were you? You had been in the room with him while I ran along the waterfront and made love and went out to dinners. My last meal went on for weeks while Philip was slowly dying. The thought of that is sickening to me now.
“I’m sorry, Mark,” I said, and decided once again that this was the time to act. His heart hadn’t stopped. He might still have days. Tomorrow, I thought. Everything was in place. There was a plane chartered, but maybe I wouldn’t even need a plane. I had gotten Philip moved to Columbia from Cornell. I had typed up the letter. I was nearly done with this explanation. It wasn’t too late yet, but it had to be now.
“All this time,” you were saying, “I’ve known it was happening, but he was better for a while and… .” You were straining to keep it down to a whisper. “This shouldn’t happen to someone so young,” you said, sobbing a little.
“He’s too young, Mark. I know. And he’s a good guy.”
“He is, but I meant me. I’m too young. I’m too young to lose the person I love like this. I’m too young to take it that someone with AIDS doesn’t deserve a heart. What kind of a thing is that?” I said nothing. “Jack, I need to talk to you about something else.”
◆
You asked to meet in person and we arranged to meet at the hospital the next day at 11 a.m. I went back into the bedroom and Michelle was awake, sitting up in bed. The light was dim but she was visible, like a movie image or a faint holographic projection. She is so beautiful. When people have sex they are literally connected. Maybe all our lives we’re desperately trying to achieve some state of connectedness, even if only for brief and fleeting moments. I sat down on the bed beside her and neither of us spoke. Tomorrow.
◆
The next day I went up to Columbia to meet you as you had asked. As I entered the emergency room lobby, I carefully studied the layout. A revolving glass door separated the building from the sidewalk. There was a large wooden piece of furniture just inside the doorway which held all sorts of literature about different health issues and pharmaceutical products. There were modern-looking leather and chrome chairs gathered around cheaper-looking glass coffee tables. I made mental notes. The security guard, information desk, and entrance into the hospital beyond the waiting room were all slightly to the left.
When I got up to Philip’s room, he was sleeping and you were sitting on a black plastic chair looking up at the television on the wall. You stood when you saw me and stepped forward to give me a quick embrace.
“How is he?”
“The same.”
“How are you?”
You exhaled a little. “Same.” Then I followed you out into the hallway. About twenty feet down the hall past Philip’s room were a half a dozen plastic chairs lined up against the wall. We sat, and you turned to me.
“Okay,” you said, then took a deep breath and went on. “Here’s the thing. This is hard, so please… . I lied to you, Jack. I lied to you and I fee
l really bad about it and I want to tell you.” I waited. “Jack, when we met that day at that diner, I knew more about you than I told you.”
“Okay.”
“Carrie—my mom—wasn’t unsure about what you do. She knew you got that guy Kimball a kidney, and she knew that you had done it again. She wasn’t uncertain about any of it. And she didn’t tell me about you when I turned twenty-one, and she never wrote me some letter a long time ago. I made those parts up.”
We stared at each other for a few moments. “So, did you come to find me that day for a reason, Mark? For a specific reason?” I knew the truth, but I figured everyone has a right to say they’re sorry.
“Yes, but I want to be clear because what I did was wrong. It’s bad and I can’t do this without telling you the truth. And because I didn’t know I’d like you, Jack. I didn’t expect that. I thought I could lie to you and not care. I resented you. I didn’t really know anything about you but I had you pre-judged as a coke-dealer asshole who treated my mother shitty and then disappeared.”
“Go on.”
“Jack, look, I was in New York for years and never gave a shit about trying to find you until Philip got sick. My mom didn’t care. I came to find you because—”
“Mark, I knew that. You’re not a good liar. It was clear to me as soon as you told me that Carrie knew about Kimball.”
“What was?” you asked.
“That you found me in order to help Philip. I knew it wasn’t about me. Of course I knew that. I don’t blame you.”
“Jack, you don’t understand. I’m not twenty-two,” you said. “I’ll turn twenty-one in a few months, Jack. Do you understand what I’m saying?” You were holding back tears.
The truth hit me just as quickly as the lie did that day at the diner. “You’re saying the math doesn’t add up,” I whispered. “It means you were born two years after Carrie and I split up.”
“I’m sorry.”
“How could she do this?” I asked, still speaking in a whisper. “How could Carrie do that to me?”
The Organ Broker Page 21
