The Organ Broker

by Stu Strumwasser

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX:

  THE WAITING ROOM, TODAY, NOVEMBER 5, 2011

  Michelle went to work a few hours ago. There were several moments this morning when the urge to tell her how I feel almost overcame my drive to get this done. I never really told her that I love her, and now it’s too late in a way. I suppose she knows the truth. Surely now she knows. And I want you to know, Mark, that I’m not mad at you, or at Carrie. Frankly, I’m more inspired by the fact that you finally told me the truth than I am disappointed by the fact that you lied to me for almost a year before then. The fact that you’re not really my son doesn’t actually change anything for me. The current that I’m swept up in now started pulling me toward this end long before you and I even met at that diner. You know, very few things are unstoppable, but I can tell you with certainty that one of them is time. It’s time for me to go and surprisingly, I feel grateful more than I feel regret. Really, I do.

  ◆

  I will pause outside the entrance to the lobby of the emergency room at Columbia Presbyterian, one of the best transplant centers in the world. I’ll be anxious, but not afraid, and I’ll try to appear casual. I will have already brought three copies of this long note to Fed Ex and overnighted one copy to your apartment, one copy to Michelle’s office, and the last copy to Vinny Pearl. As I survey the room through the window I’ll probably feel solid, like a dam quietly holding back a massive wall of water. In my hand will be fifty copies of the letter I wrote. It is addressed “To Whom It May Concern.” In the interior left pocket of my jacket will be the 45. I bought it from a guy selling guns out of the trunk of a car near the Grand Concourse up in the Bronx. It was easy and inexpensive to get such a capable murder weapon. I decided not to take a chance with Wallace. I am going to stop them, and for the chance to do something good I’ll feel grateful to everyone in the world.

  Before I enter the lobby I will make one last call to Pearl.

  “Vinny, it’s Jack,” I will say.

  “Hi. You okay?”

  “It’s time, Vinny. Come to the emergency room at Columbia Presbyterian. But no cops. No lights, no sirens. Just you. Come up here and you’ll know who I am when you arrive.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes. Right now, Vinny. Thanks a lot,” I’ll say softly.

  “Okay. So wait for me, Jack. I’ll head uptown right now, so just wait for me and don’t do anything until I get there, okay? Then we’ll talk and work this all out, Jack. Okay?”

  “Okay, Vinny.”

  “I’ll be there soon, Jack,” he’ll say anxiously.

  “I know. Thanks.” I will hit “end call,” leave the phone on, and toss it aside into the bushes that decorate the entrance to the hospital, before I step through the revolving doors.

  In the foyer of the hospital emergency room there will be a security guard sitting behind a small podium, like the Transportation Safety guys who check your ID at the airports. It will be a bad day for him. It’s one more terrible thing I need to do in order to accomplish my noble goal. Noble? Well … I’ll kill time by pretending to read email on my mobile. Then, I’ll study the room, checking the position of patients, doctors, visitors, children… . There might be a mother with a kid in a stroller entering through security. I’ll have to wait for Wallace to arrive. I’ll think about you, Mark, in those slow-moving moments and I’ll download my thoughts into my heart, as many as I can. It will be important that they get there. I will not be doing this despite you. I will not be doing this despite the fact that Michelle and I have each other now and I am not alone. I will actually be doing it because of her, and because I am no longer alone. I know that is going to be hard for her to take or understand. It was hard for me too and I struggled with it for a long time. Now I am clear.

  Then it will be on. The revolving doors will spin more quickly and through it will emerge my associate, padding along silently on the tiled floor like a leopard. Wallace was wrong and we are different. There is a line that no price can make me cross and he’ll know it very soon. He won’t even look up. He’ll address me only with his presence, approach me using his peripheral vision. Our business was always dangerous, but the danger was never between us, and the threat of violence was remote. He will not expect me to have a weapon. He would never dream of a man like me taking a risk in a hospital with cameras and an armed guard… . He must be disappointed in my frailty right now but he won’t be disappointed for much longer. There is another Afrikaans expression that I learned from Pierre Kleinhans:“Wie nie waag nie, wen nie.” Pierre said it to me many times over the last few years, always with a smug grin. “He who doesn’t take risks, doesn’t win.” I want to win.

  Wallace will approach me without humor, and he won’t be in the mood for our usual banter. There will be no “New York!” greeting, or “Strange place for a meeting. I hear the food’s not so great.” His hair will be gray at the temples. He’ll look common, a little thicker in the middle these days, no different than any other guy walking down West A-Hundred-and-Sixty-Eighth today thinking about his prostate medicine or whether he’ll make his year-end bonus.

  I imagine our conversation will go something like this:

  “So what’s the problem, Jack?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “I think I do, but I was hoping I’d be wrong.”

  “This isn’t what we signed up for,” I’ll say. There will be animosity in our eyes, but also affection and regret.

  “I didn’t sign up for anything, New York. I’m just running a business.”

  “The one you started at the Cleveland Clinic?” I’ll ask.

  Wallace’s eyebrows will go up at the mention of his old employer. He’ll glance to the left and right and survey the room, taking in the position of the security cameras. He will probably look at every middle-aged man in the crowded room and try to discern if they might be FBI agents, or perhaps some kind of mercenary working directly for me.

  “So I guess we have a big problem,” he’ll finally say.

  “We do,” I’ll reply.

  “Why would you want to ruin things now, Jack? Now, when there is so much money to be made. We help people, Jack.”

  “Not really. We help some, but only at the expense of others. And this is different. I told you from the beginning this is a different thing. A heart.”

  “It’s getting done, Jack. No matter what you say now it’s still getting done.”

  “What if I asked you not to? Wallace, what if I asked you to leave here, and go get a drink, and tell Harold Lauer that in the end you just couldn’t get the part? Could you do that? Could you consider that maybe we’ve taken enough and just go get that drink with me instead?”

  He’ll look at me, concerned and also sorry, but mostly he’ll be unflappable. I know that’s what will happen. So I’ll have my answer and it will not be a surprise.

  “That sounds almost like an ultimatum, Jack. I’ve got one for you. Walk out of here, and go home, to wherever the hell you go, and get on that plane tomorrow and get this deal done and you can have two million dollars and then a whole lot more. If you don’t, we’ll do it without you. Either way, it’s getting done.”

  “Not if I stop you.”

  “You can’t. You’d only be implicating yourself.”

  “There are other ways.”

  “None that end well for Jack.”

  “That’s a matter of perspective now.”

  Then I will turn to my left, away from him and the entrance, and toward the guard. I’ll step forward and one foot will pass the other, planted firmly on the polished stone floor of the hospital lobby and then be passed by the other. In slow motion I’ll step toward the small security station. “I’m sorry,” I’ll say politely, “I need you to read this.” I’ve rehearsed this all in my head so many times. He’ll squint at me while he reaches out to take the flyer from my extended hand. He’ll begin to read the letter and I will turn back toward the entrance to see Wallace making his way toward the revolving glass doors. In
one sweeping motion I will fling the stack of forty-nine other letters into the air above us, scattering them all over the lobby and the emergency room. My other hand will then plunge inside my jacket and remove the 45. There will be motion all around me, noises everywhere, but I will remain completely focused. The gun will be an extension of my arm, like a golf club. Everything else will recede, leaving only me and the gun. Wallace will be visible through the glass of the revolving doors. I will quickly place the muzzle into my mouth. I might faintly make out the security guard shouting, “No!” as he jumps from his chair, far too late, but I will pull the trigger, unleashing a slug into my own upper pallet and brain. It will be a perfect shot, straight up the fairway.

  ◆

  That was my plan … for a while—but no. I’m not good, and I couldn’t trust myself. Of that, I was more certain than anything else. Jack could not be trusted. Too much was on the line for it all to depend upon Jack. I drafted the letter:

  ◆

  November 5, 2011

  To Whom It May Concern:

  This is extremely important, so please read this very carefully. The first few sentences of this letter are here simply to delay you for a moment while I take the necessary action. In a moment you will get to the real point and you will understand that I am very sorry to involve you in this situation today, but it is unavoidable. I ask that you please act quickly, try as hard as you can not to judge, resent, or evaluate what I am doing, but rather, work immediately to save an innocent life.

  My name is Jack Trayner. For eighteen years I have been a black-market organ broker. I have done terrible things and I am trying to do something good today. In room 1705 in the cardiac unit of this hospital is a patient named Philip Lauer. He knows nothing about what I am doing. Philip is O positive and has been tissue-typed for a heart transplant that he desperately needs. However, he has AIDS and will never get a heart through conventional means off a UNOS list. I am also O positive and have also been tissue-typed and we are a good MHC match. I hereby consent to have the transplant surgeons at this facility give my heart to Philip Lauer—and ONLY Philip Lauer. TIME IS OF THE ESSENCE. They have only four hours to complete this procedure, so please do not delay. Do not think, and do not question, at least not until my heart is again pumping inside of Philip Lauer. Once that is done, the hospital may harvest every organ in my body and give them to whomever they deem to be appropriate recipients.

  An FBI agent named Vinny Pearl will be here soon as well. Please tell him to expect a long letter from me tomorrow. Tell Agent Pearl that Wallace from Connecticut, Wallace Kendrickson, another organ broker, will be visible with me on your surveillance video right before this shooting. He has houses in Coral Gables, Florida and South Norwalk, CT. He was once a nurse at the Cleveland Clinic Transplant Center. More recently, he was my partner. He won’t stop now unless someone stops him.

  Please tell them that I had money, but neither Mark nor Michelle really needs it, and my pal Vinny would have seized it anyway, so I made other arrangements. I sent a hundred grand to a guy who does research on cryogenics with a note that merely said: “You helped me once although you didn’t even know it. Good luck with your research. I hope you live forever, but in the meantime, get some freaking air conditioners. And stay away from The Siren. –New York Jack.” The rest I gave to a friend in Brazil. I trust him to use it to pay for a bunch of kids’ cancer treatments.

  Now please, do not delay. Please help give Philip Lauer a chance to live. I am glad and feel lucky for what I have done today. Thank you. –Jack Trayner

  ◆

  That was my plan; if only Jack could have been trusted. I didn’t print the letter. Even as I was writing it I could feel the uncertainty creeping into my gut. Pangs of self-preservation were collecting in my throat with each sentence. I needed a certain plan—one that didn’t depend on an act of nobility. You see, everyone is flawed, Mark. Anyone who’s been alive for a while has nicks and dents in the front of their shinbones from running into life’s many tables. Some are just more flawed than others. What’s incredible, just as much for the fact that it’s true as it is for the fact that I never knew it, is that we’re constantly afforded opportunities for a little redemption. I wanted to do something good, but no one leaps from a cesspool like the life that I have built into being any kind of hero. Evolution takes place in steps, and maybe it can for people too. I know this much: I’d rather be a rat than a killer. I may not have sacrificed myself in that emergency room lobby, but I did get Philip on a plane to Brazil.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN:

  BURNING DOWN ROYSTON AND ANOTHER JACK

  When I told you to convince Harold Lauer to move Philip to Columbia Presbyterian that was for your benefit, Mark, not Lauer’s. I had already reached him the day before and explained how it was going to go. It wasn’t the first time that I negotiated with the rich father of a son who needed a life-saving organ. The conversation was dry and pragmatic and lasted no more than a few minutes. I introduced myself to Lauer and once he understood that I was the partner who sourced the parts, he also believed that I had all the cards and Wallace had none, because time was running down more than usual. I explained that Lauer could have what he wanted for Philip, and that the transaction would cost two million dollars—not five—but only if he did it exactly as I game-planned that it needed to be done. I told him that you would call. I told him that you would beseech him to move Philip to Columbia. I told him to pretend to resist but then concede, and move him. I didn’t want you to know that I was talking to Philip’s father until we were already over the ocean. And of course Harold Lauer did what I asked. At that moment he would have done anything I said, absolutely anything. This time, however, I did not squeeze a few extra drops of cash from him to ferment in the bottom of my apartment closet. I took nothing.

  Part of the fee was to cover the cost of three private jets. The first one left with Philip, his father, an attending physician and nurse, and a few hundred grand in medical monitors and emergency equipment—bound for Rio. That flight was safely in the air long before I went uptown to meet my old partner.

  ◆

  The conversation began much the way I had imagined that it might for weeks. He’s just making a living, Wallace said. He’s not a part of anything. He’s just running a business.

  “The one you started at the Cleveland Clinic?” I asked. Wallace’s eyebrows did go up at the mention of his old employer, just as I thought they might. He glanced to the left and right surveying the room and taking in the position of the security cameras, checking out every middle-aged man in the crowded room trying to discern if they might be FBI agents or perhaps some kind of mercenary working directly for me.

  “So I guess we have a big problem,” he finally said.

  “We do,” I replied.

  “Why are we here, Jack?” Wallace asked calmly, so calmly that it sounded like a preamble for violence. I pointed to one of the security cameras. He exhaled deeply and closed his eyes against the magnitude of us both unravelling right there in that lobby. After all of those years. All of those kidneys.

  “Why would you want to ruin things now, Jack? Now, when there is so much money to be made. We help people, Jack.”

  “Not really. We help some, but only at the expense of others. And this is different. I told you from the beginning this is a different thing. A heart.”

  “It’s getting done, Jack. No matter what you say now it’s still getting done.”

  “What if I asked you not to? Wallace, what if I asked you to leave here, and go get a drink, and tell Harold Lauer that in the end you just couldn’t get the part? Could you do that? Could you consider that maybe we’ve taken enough and just go get that drink with me instead?”

  “That sounds almost like an ultimatum, Jack. I’ve got one for you. Walk out of here, and go home, to wherever the hell you go, and get on that plane tomorrow and get this deal done and you can have two million dollars and then a whole lot more. If you don’t, we’ll do it witho
ut you. Either way, it’s getting done.”

  “Not by killing someone innocent.”

  “So what’s the plan Jack?” Wallace nearly whispered. “What are we doing here?”

  “Burning bridges,” I said, matching his tone and feeling a tightness in the back of my sinuses, tears starting to well up in my eyes.

  “Mine?” he asked, sounding defeated.

  “Everyone’s.” He waited. Then I added, “The Lauer kid is already on his way to the airport. His father has a charter waiting there for us to go to Jozi. We all go. Including you and me.”

  “Me?” Wallace asked, sounding weak. “I’m not going to Johannesburg.”

  “The FBI gets here in five or ten minutes. We’ve been filmed. I am doing this last deal and then I’m out. You and me and Wolff are going to sit down and work through things—”

  “I am not getting on a fucking plane to South Africa, Jack.”

  And this is where my acting skills kicked in. “But the bridges are already burned …” I said. I knew he needed a minute to process. He would have been physically unable to walk had he not been granted a few moments. But Pearl was truly on his way to Columbia and we had to go. “Call Mel,” I said. Wallace looked up from the floor. I drew a phone from my pocket and held it out to him.

  “I have it,” he said softly. He put his own cellphone to his ear. He spun on his heel, away from me, pushing choice words into the mouthpiece, nodding intermittently. Then, we looked at each other. He nodded again, yielding, and we exited to the car I had waiting for us on the street. Whatever their own plans might have been, and despite what other schemes Kleinhans and Wolff might have been formulating at that moment, they did believe that the patient was on his way, and that we were both coming with him.

  ◆

  The clouds above us were a bit blurry through my watery eyes and I surreptitiously dabbed at them with the heel of my hand, self-consciously, trying not to let Wallace see me. There were thick, overlapping waves in the sky that looked like foam gently spreading out above a massive cappuccino. We sat in the back seat of the town car, each orienting his body toward our respective windows and away from each other. The entire way to Kennedy neither of us uttered a word. I casually led the way up the ladder-like stairway and into the private plane. I crouched to sneak under the low ceiling and turned to see Wallace enter behind me. I felt dizzy, like I had a flu coming on, scared to stop walking for fear that I would somehow sink into the quicksand that must really lie on the floor where it appeared to be carpeted. Wallace’s momentum carried him a few steps into the plane before he seemed to realize that there were three tall, young men in the cabin who closed ranks behind him, cutting off access to the doorway. They had dark and smooth South American skin. They were Juan Guillermo’s guys. They wore suits and their ties were loose at the neck and it appeared that they had flown all night from Brazil only to wait for hours on the runway, to wait for us, and to gather in Wallace like a car service and then to return to Brazil with him.