Ginger Snaps

by Webb Hubbell

  “Drink your wine, Jack. Debbie and I have a few things to tell you.” Novak smiled grimly as the waiter filled our glasses.

  36

  FOR THE NEXT hour, Novak and Debbie told me about Dub Blanchard, his visits to Novak’s gambling parlors, and his kinky preferences with the girls. He’d taken up gambling to relieve the pressures of law school and was quickly hooked. A trip upstairs and a good night at the tables helped restore his bruised ego. He was lucky at first, but soon was up to his ears in debts to the house. Twice he had to call on his uncle for help, the same uncle who would find him a job in Congress after he finally got his JD degree.

  In the beginning, he didn’t indulge his habit in Washington. He managed trips back to Little Rock as often as he could. But his needs grew, and Novak soon set him up with an associate in DC. Novak and his associate extended him credit, knowing Dub was a valuable asset. Debbie told me his sexual preferences became “weirder” over time, but he never hit a girl or asked her to do anything “really sick.”

  Not long after he was appointed U.S. attorney, he came by for a night at the tables in Little Rock. He drank more than usual, lost heavily, and took a girl upstairs. He was too drunk to perform, got frustrated and beat her senseless.

  Novak said, “Because of his position I was called in. I sobered him up and told him I’d make it right with the girl, and that I’d overlook the incident. After all, his favor was worth a lot. He promised to pay me back, and I thought I’d seen the last of him for a while.”

  “How much did he owe?”

  “Thirty-seven thousand.”

  I whistled, and he continued.

  “Much to my surprise, he came in a few weeks later and handed me fifty thousand dollars in cash. He said, ‘Now we’re even. Give the balance to the girl. I won’t be back, and it’s in your best interest to forget I was ever here.’ He hasn’t set foot again in any of my places since, but he didn’t quit playing the tables or enjoying the ladies. That much I know.”

  Debbie interrupted. “He was never my personal client. I knew about his fetishes from other girls, but only Alex knew who he was or what he did for a living. I’d see him at the tables, and once, a long time ago, he asked Alex about me, but Alex told him I wouldn’t play the games he liked. Thank God.”

  I felt quite sure I didn’t want to know what she was talking about.

  She continued, “When I went to court the other day, I recognized him. He might have recognized me, I don’t know. I knew I had to tell you that Dub was a customer, but Alex has an absolute rule about confidentiality. If I talked about his customers, he’d have no choice but to kill me.”

  I was learning more than I wanted to know about a world to which I couldn’t begin to relate. Honor among thieves was hardly an apt analogy. But I understood. I gave it a little thought, and then spoke to Novak.

  “Debbie called to tell you I was alive, that Moira was responsible, and that I thought it was related to Dr. Stewart’s case. You put two and two together. You think maybe Dub’s in the thick of this business. That’s why we’re here. But you need to be sure I won’t talk out of school.”

  “Debbie told me you’d catch on fast.” Novak almost smiled.

  “If Dub’s involved, he’s got to be on somebody’s payroll. Who’s behind all this?”

  “I don’t know, I really don’t. Otherwise I would have taken care of them myself. But I know it’s not about a hundred or so marijuana plants.”

  “For sure. But I can’t even speak with Doug Stewart, and he’s the only one who can give me answers.”

  “I thought a man had a right to a lawyer here in the States. Maybe it’s all rigged after all,” Novak mused to no one in particular.

  I slammed my hand down on the table, scaring Debbie and causing Novak to rise in alarm. “Damn, why didn’t I think of that? I’m sorry, sit down, it’s okay.” Novak didn’t realize it but the word “rig” had pushed a button in my antitrust mind.

  “Think of what?” Debbie slurred a bit—too much wine. Novak sat down, but I noticed he kept his right hand under the table.

  My right hand ran through my hair. I wanted to be precise, to be clearly understood. And I wanted Debbie to hear me loud and clear.

  “Alex, thank you for helping Debbie find me. I owe you my life. But I need to ask you one more favor. In return, I promise you I’ll do everything in my power to expose whoever is responsible for framing you. I’ll do my best to protect Debbie, and I’ll never reveal my source.”

  “Go ahead,” he said, eyes narrowing.

  “Leave Debbie alone, for good. Don’t even think about trying to get her back.” My face had turned to stone. “I want your word.”

  Novak looked grim, almost insulted, but he gave in gracefully.

  “You have my word. I’m happy she is free from drugs and is once again a beautiful young woman. I am a ruthless and heartless bastard, but I keep my promises. Debbie and your precious Micki have nothing to fear from me or anyone in my organization. You have my word. Now I think it is time for us to part.”

  He offered his hand again, and I shook it firmly.

  I pulled back Debbie’s chair and took her arm—she wobbled a bit on her heels. We walked carefully out of the restaurant. I don’t know who looked more relieved, Clovis or Yuri.

  As we parted, Novak said, “Be careful, Jack Patterson. You face formidable adversaries who are not happy that you’re still alive.”

  “Thanks for the warning. I plan to stay that way.”

  37

  I WAS TEMPTED to quiz Debbie, but she’d had too much wine and stress, and before we were a mile down the road she’d fallen asleep. Clovis had some good news: Micki was improving, again out of ICU, and Martin had arrived in Little Rock with reinforcements. While Maggie and I met with Liz in Memphis, Clovis would meet with her security team to make sure they were as “top-shelf” as Maggie had said. He raised skeptical eyebrows when I told him Novak had given his word he’d leave Micki and Debbie alone. His job was to be skeptical. His brow lowered to a frown when he heard Novak’s prediction that Moira would be back.

  Clovis carried Debbie onto the plane, and she curled up in the back seat, fast asleep. After we’d gotten settled in, Maggie told me that the judge had given notice that his rulings would come down tomorrow in open court at ten AM.

  Tomorrow was a Saturday. The judge was a hard worker.

  “Maggie, when we land, I want you to call Janis Harold—see if she can join us in court. We’re going to need all the help we can get. I also need to see Sam tomorrow, preferably after we get the court’s decision.”

  “I’ll see to it.”

  “One last thing. You and I need to go back home for a few days. Is the plane still at our disposal? At some point, doesn’t Walter want his plane back?”

  “It’s not a problem. Walter’s checking out the latest Falcon, looking for a new toy,” Maggie replied, without a glimmer of approval.

  “Will he be available when we get back?”

  “Sure. What have you got up your sleeve?”

  “Maggie, we need to find out what Liz knows. She holds the final piece to the puzzle, whether she know it or not. If I’m right, you’ll see it right away.”

  “Okay, but it seems to me that you’re simply jumping from one crisis to another.”

  THE FLIGHT FROM Dallas to Memphis took less than an hour. We left Debbie asleep in the back of the plane—I knew she’d be safe with Walter’s pilot. Clovis rode in the lead car so he could talk to the head of Liz’s security. Maggie and I followed in an Explorer driven by a guy who looked like he was a pro wrestler in his spare time. Before long we pulled into a circular driveway in East Memphis.

  Liz threw open the door. She was back to the wild hair, exercise pants, and a sloppy grey sweatshirt. Maggie couldn’t control her eyebrows, but did manage to keep the rest of her face straight.

  On the way to the “solarium” Liz whispered, “Jack, I know Maggie doesn’t approve of my hair or these clothes, but t
hey drive my stepmother crazy. I can’t resist.”

  I chuckled and was introduced to the perfect Town and Country couple. They were adorned in matching white pants, and Drew wore a polo shirt with a sweater draped over his shoulders. Cindy wore a flowered silk blouse, scarf, and lots of gold jewelry. Her hair was pulled back and tucked under, all perfectly in place. Tall glasses of iced tea waited on a tray in front of them, but I saw him swirling a martini and she was sipping straight bourbon over shaved ice.

  After we spent an appropriate length of time introducing ourselves and playing “who do you know,” I asked if I might have some time alone with Liz, and we left them happily chatting with Maggie. Liz asked the maid to bring drinks to her father’s library. Most of the house was bright and airy, but here cypress-paneled walls enclosed a large, well-worn desk surrounded by brimming bookshelves and leather wingbacks. Not the sort of room you see too often today. Most men seem to want their private space to be equipped with a 52-inch TV screen and a beer fridge. Liz gestured to the sofa and took up the seat at the other end, sitting on her legs so she could face me.

  “I heard you were almost killed by my former bodyguard. A bit off-putting. Are you okay?”

  I gave her a truthful but understated version of recent events and explained that one of the reasons we had come was to assess her security. I told her I was still very concerned for her safety. She didn’t bat an eyelash. I gave her a much longer version of my brief visit with Doug.

  “I know Doug would do anything for me, but remember you promised not to make that deal for my immunity without consulting him. A few minutes in Oklahoma doesn’t cut it. Doug’s research is important, and I’m not sure he should agree so quickly.”

  “We may not have a choice. I won’t play that card unless I absolutely have to, but the law isn’t on our side when it comes to forfeitures. But civil forfeiture isn’t the only reason I’m here. Liz, as your lawyer, you can tell me anything in complete confidence. Sometimes when the lawyer is a friend, you’re reluctant to tell him everything, but I need you to tell me the truth. No holding back, okay?”

  “Of course, silly. What else would I do?” Her eyes were very wide.

  “No, I mean it. Not just about what you think is important, but everything.”

  “Jack, I’ll tell you about my sex life if you want, although right now it’s piss-poor. My bodyguards are starting to look hot.” She smiled.

  “Dammit, Liz, I’m not a fucking idiot! Enough of the act. Micki is lying in a hospital fighting death. I was almost tortured and thrown into a dumpster. Your husband is likely to be locked away for life with a bunch of rapists and murderers, and you’re holding out. If I have any chance to get him off, I need you to quit pretending to be an airhead. I need the Dr. Liz Stewart who is as smart as her husband and much more street savvy. What in the hell were you two doing with a garden full of marijuana? What are you hiding?”

  She toyed with her drink for a minute, and then answered in the same blasé manner.

  “Jack, I’m not holding out on you. I promise I’ve told you and Micki everything. I just made some ginger snaps for my friend.”

  “Okay. Then tell me when you had your mastectomy.” My voice was matter-of-fact, no smiles this time. Her face dropped, and her well-formed chest jutted out in reaction.

  “How did you know? Did Doug tell Angie? He swore he never told a soul, but with what she was going through, I can see him telling her. There’s no way you can tell. Dr. French is the world’s best.” She proceeded to show them off through her sweatshirt, arching her back.

  I took hold of her arms and returned them to the couch, clasping my hands firmly over hers. “Liz, I don’t know if he told Angie or not, and you certainly can’t tell from looking. I actually know Dr. French—he has a well-earned reputation. I guessed because of the marijuana and the ginger snaps. But, Liz, none of this is about your perfect breasts. You’ve got to come clean. Do you really think whoever is behind this is going to let Doug or you live, if they’re willing to kill your lawyers? Get real.”

  “You guessed. You had me showing you my boobs because you guessed. I should make you do a hands-on inspection for that bit of trickery, Jack Patterson.”

  Shaking my head, I succumbed to her thousand-watt grin. “Well it was an educated guess. From the way you described your friend who had breast cancer, the way you knew exactly how to handle the plants and mix them with the ingredients, and because of how proud you are of your body, which you should be. Yes, I guessed. I also guessed that the friend you described isn’t the first person who’s benefited from your ginger snaps.”

  Liz threw down her bourbon, got up from the couch, and poured herself another. She bit her lip and spoke with a Liz voice I had never heard.

  “No, Jack, she’s not, and I guess the reason you’re asking is because you want to know if the recipe is Doug’s.”

  “That and a whole lot more.”

  “I’ll give you his formula, but you’ve got to promise to keep it to yourself. Doug made me promise not to share it with a soul.”

  I promised, and she slowly told me about learning she had cancer. The radiation left her weak and exhausted, and the chemo destroyed her hair as well as the cancer. “Losing your hair is so unfair. I mean, here you are, trying to fight this horrible disease with some sense of privacy and dignity, and then your hair falls out. Bald men are ‘in,’ bald women are not. It’s like your body is screaming to the world, ‘I have cancer.’ I know my hair looks wild, but now that it’s back, I just want to let it be.

  “I went days without being able to hold anything down. Doug couldn’t bear seeing me like that, so one night he made me a batch of ginger snaps. I didn’t think I could manage even one down, but I did. The first batch was more than a little strong, and the trip was pretty wild, but over time Doug modified the recipe until he had it down to perfection. Without those cookies, I’m not sure I’d have made it.”

  “Did he teach you how to make your own?”

  “Not at first. Not until I was fully recovered. We had a mutual friend who was going through a similar hell, and I begged him to let me make her a batch. He finally relented. They’re not that much different from regular ginger snaps.”

  “So, exactly how many have you made?”

  “I couldn’t tell you. I always keep some in the freezer for friends in need. Do you have any idea how many women my age get cancer? But Doug watches me like a hawk. He wants to be sure he knows exactly where they’re going. That’s why he’s going to be so mad at me for giving some to Sheila. This time I forgot to ask.”

  “Liz, don’t start again. I need candor, not bullshit. He was growing hundreds of plants—how could he possibly know when you snipped a few for cookies?” I asked.

  “He controlled the spice.”

  “The what?”

  “That’s what he calls it. Besides the marijuana, the recipe calls for a level tablespoon of ‘spice,’ no more, no less. He keeps it locked in a safe in the basement. Whenever I make cookies, he gets it out and gives me a level tablespoon. I don’t mind. It takes a lot of work on his part to make the spice, and it’s what makes the cookies taste so good.”

  I gave her a look. “Liz, the truth, remember? I’m not somebody you play bridge with.”

  “That’s for sure. Doug says the spice helps with the actual cancer, not just the wasting and the pain. He made me promise not to tell a soul.”

  “Does it?”

  “Well, the truth is, I don’t know. I only know what it did for me. Doug tells me not to read anything into it, calls it an uncontrolled environment. But it did help, and my friends have said the same thing. They’re very grateful.”

  “So that’s why you don’t want to give his research to the Feds, and maybe that’s why Doug told me it’s not about the marijuana.”

  “That’s what I think.”

  “Did the Feds remove the spice from the safe?”

  “No, I was lucky. I told him I was going to make a batch the ni
ght before the raid. He got it out and made me promise to only use a tablespoon. I forgot to give it back, just put it with the regular kitchen spices, and when they raided our home that was one of the few things they didn’t take. Go figure. That’s why I was so anxious to get back into the house, but I couldn’t tell Micki. It’s now in Daddy’s safe. He has no idea what it is. Do you want it?”

  “No. It’s probably safer here with you than it would be with me. Liz, why didn’t you tell Micki any of this?”

  “Doug made me promise. Six months ago, he and I had a ‘come-to-Jesus’ talk. Usually it’s about me spending too much money or my flirting. He worried about people talking and the cops finding out what was in my cookies—you know how people talk. But he knew how much they could help people, so . . . we agreed that if anyone asked about the cookies, I would play dumb in general and for sure not mention any special ingredient. He said if push came to shove, he had a plan, and that it included you. That was it. That was all he told me.”

  “Why was he was so worried all of a sudden?”

  “I don’t know—maybe because I had three or four sick friends with cancer?”

  “Don’t do it, Liz. Don’t patronize me. I think you know exactly what his research is about. You may not know what kept him awake at night, or what his plan was, but you know.”

  “Why don’t you tell me? You seem to know.”

  “I think Doug was working on a cure for cancer using some chemical compound found in marijuana. You told me about his grafting and pruning—I think he was experimenting with crossing the properties of other plants like kale that are known to have cancer-limiting effects. I think the special spice you talk about consists of ground seeds or other parts of hybrid plants he has been developing over time. I think his research precisely documents every step he has taken over the years.

  “Everyone knows marijuana can help with the pain and side effects of cancer treatment, but Doug thought it might actually have curative qualities when combined with other plants. I may not have the science right, but I bet he was improving the marijuana in ways that nobody had thought of or tried. Most people grow different strains of marijuana to improve the high. Doug was developing different strains to find a cure for cancer.