Side Effects

by Harvey Jacobs

  “Don’t stop reading now,” Simon said. “What’s for dessert?”

  Beem rubbed at a sore spot below an ear. “The first signs of paralysis became quickly evident; there was a universal reaction of disbelief, then gasps and stifled screams, as the fugu’s poison took effect. In a matter of minutes, the cacophony of fear was replaced with a harmony of silence. The diners, flushed beet red, died where they sat.

  “The next morning their rigid bodies were discovered by a salesman of screw caps who’d hoped to convince the vineyard to abandon traditional corks in favor of his more economical product. The first corpse he found was that of Jiro Kiuki who’d fallen beside his prized wood-burning stove, a few flecks of tainted blowfish clinging to his startled blue lips.

  “Local authorities, influenced by memories of Jonestown and Heaven’s Gate, first assumed that the death of the Digitals was just another cult suicide, an attempt to transport, en masse, to some blissful afterlife. But that early assumption was quickly challenged, considering the highly positive fiscal outlook expressed in Digital doctrine, the prospect of a bountiful grape harvest for their monastery, and by the very fact that Brother Lucas was not found among the deceased.

  “There was still the chance that the cause of carnage was nothing more than food poisoning. The possibility of foul play hardly entered the equation since there was no indication of malice or motivation for mass murder.” Beem closed the report though Simon saw there were a few unread pages.

  “What about the neighbors crazed by those cannons,” Simon said, “or disgruntled relatives of the Shadows? Weren’t they at least suspect?”

  “No evidence, no nothing,” Beem said. “Our boys did a nice, clean job for a change. The investigation was flat on its face and it stayed there until we were ready to bring Luke back into the picture. And Simon Apple, of course.” Beem folded the report and slipped it into his jacket’s inside pocket.

  “There seem to be more pages,” Simon said.

  “Only a list of caper credits and kudos,” Agent Beem said. “The usual hugs and kisses for those involved and certainly deserved. Irrelevant for your purposes.”

  “You got a medal?” Simon said. “Congratulations.”

  “My work was recognized.”

  14

  “Mrs. Fikel is very excited about meeting you personally,” Dr. Fikel said to Regis Van Clay in the backseat of a stretch limo. “You’re one of her heroes. She must have read your profile in Fortune Magazine a hundred times if she read it once.”

  “Nice to hear,” Regis said. Days earlier Belladonna had clipped a tight ring around his penis to keep his erection in play, and even Trilby Morning’s soothing tongue failed to heal that irritated wand. Regis shifted in his seat trying to find a comfortable position.

  “See that house there? The one with the green shutters? That’s where the girl I call Placebo lives,” Dr. Fikel said. “Polly Moon, one of my patients. She’s been in close contact with the Apple boy since they were infants. The illness that led us to administer that first dose of Criptalhalizine to Apple and his subsequent crusting did infect the girl but it was handled by her immune system. Placebo just went on her merry way. She bit Simon once after he was put on Nonacripthae. Actually broke the skin. She showed no effects from either his illness or its antidote. I thought about reporting the information to Regis Pharmaceuticals but, well, say I thought better of it.”

  “You’re depressing me,” Regis said. “I despise children like that.”

  “You don’t mean it.”

  “Of course I don’t mean it. God bless the little bitch. May she live a thousand years without spending a dime on so much as a spoonful of cough syrup. How long before we reach your house, Fukel?”

  “Fikel. Two minutes. It’s just down Poplar Avenue.”

  “Poplar Avenue,” Regis said. “Why do they name streets after trees? Answer me that. Give me one good reason. It really burns my ass.”

  “You’re putting me on,” Dr. Fikel said.

  “No, I’m quite serious. Streets should be named after numbers.”

  The limousine and two smaller sedans filled with a clot of Regis Pharmaceuticals executives pulled up outside Dr. Fikel’s neo-Victorian residence. Honey Fikel, the doctor’s exuberant spouse, was waiting on the porch.

  “That wing holds my office; the rest is home sweet home,” Dr. Fikel said, pointing out the separate areas.

  “Very efficient, very convenient,” Regis said.

  The doctor and Regis Van Clay entered the sprawling house followed by the Regis team. After introductions, Honey showed them where to hang their coats, then led the group into the living room where she’d set out an assortment of tiny sandwiches and home baked cookies.

  There was a large silver samovar filled with steaming Earl Grey tea. When Honey noticed Regis Van Clay examining the samovar’s decoration of nymphs and satyrs, she bubbled, “There’s an interesting story attached to my centerpiece. Dr. Fikel’s father was a prominent surgeon here in Glenda. During the Great Depression he often bartered his services. I think the samovar came from a Russian Jew in exchange for a gall bladder.”

  “What did he get for a kidney?” Regis said, checking his distorted reflection in the gleaming silver artifact.

  “I know he got a gravy boat for tonsils and adenoids,” Honey said, passing around embroidered linen napkins.

  “Lovely bit of history,” Regis said, draining his cup of scalding tea without a wince. Belladonna often filled his navel with thimbles of flaming brandy. “Now, can we get on with things? Is the child ready?”

  “In my office,” Dr. Fikel said, “with his father, Robert J. Apple. Which reminds me. Mr. Apple is something of a photographer. He’d like to take a few pictures of you and your associates for our local newspaper.”

  “No pictures,” said a young man who Regis introduced as Ellis Rose, Director of Public Relations. “No publicity. I thought we made that clear.”

  “Glenda has a small town mentality,” Honey said. “A visit by someone as important as Regis Van Clay is big news for us and hard to keep quiet. If you’d allow Robert J. to . . .”

  “Get this stupid twit out of my face,” Regis said.

  “You’re talking about my wife,” Dr. Fikel said flatly.

  “Maybe Mrs. Fikel could go upstairs and read a book. Watch The Price Is Right,” Ellis Rose said.

  “Honey?” Dr. Fikel said.

  Honey Fikel snorted and headed for the kitchen. Dr. Fikel led the Regis delegation through the door that connected with his office where Robert J. waited, camera in hand.

  “Simon is in the examining room playing with your stethoscope,” Robert J. said. “My son is curious about everything.”

  They found Simon Apple naked on a table listening to his own heartbeat. “What a fantastic specimen,” Regis said. “And this was a sickly child before Nonacripthae?”

  “Unbelievable,” said John Openheim, Vice President for Product Development. “A young god.”

  Regis Van Clay patted Simon on his head. “So you’re the little lad who forced us to attach warning labels to every bottle of Cripthalizine,” Regis said. “You owe me thirty-seven million dollars.” He chuckled. His people laughed. “Look at you now. Nonacripthae has turned you into a marvel. Gentlemen, observe this cherub. Dr. Frankel, everything you indicated in your reports was not only accurate, it was understated and we thank you.” Regis reached out his hand.

  “Not Frankel, Fikel,” Dr. Fikel said, grasping the hand as Robert J. photographed the moment. The largest of Regis’s bodyguards reached out a third hand the size of an udder and slapped the Nikon out of Robert J.’s grasp. His camera split open against the Spanish tiled floor. Before Robert J. could react, Dr. Fikel patted him on the shoulder. “I meant to tell you. Mr. Van Clay is camera shy.”

  While Robert J. bent to retrieve his Nikon’s body parts, Regis grabbed Simon Apple and swung him toward the ceiling. “Those government bastards pressured us to brew up an antidote to save your sor
e-ass, boy, and oh how the Lord doth work His magic. Now we have ourselves a product every moppet in the Free World will beg for. Mr. Apple, Simon here is on the glory trail.”

  “As long as he’s healthy,” Robert J. said.

  “Your son has been chosen as poster boy for the drug we’ve christened Hercumite, the largest advertising campaign in pharmaceutical history. Of course, before the big drum begins to beat we’re required to conduct intensive product testing but I am confident that Nonacripthae is destined to be another aspirin, a drug for the ages. I think a prayer is in order here.”

  Regis released his hold on Simon who dropped to the ground near the remains of his father’s fragmented camera. “Sorry, bambino. I forgot I was holding you. And look here, not a scratch on the child, not a mark, not a drop of blood. And not so much as a peep out of him.” Regis bowed his own head and shut his eyes. “Dear God, all of us at Regis Pharmaceuticals thank Thee for yet another blessing. Amen. Now, gentlemen, I think we are entitled to rejoice!”

  Regis tugged at the blue silk tie of a top-shaped man with a bald, round head and a smiling face. “This is Sam Heineman, our Chief of Legal Services. He’ll remain here in Glenda for as long as it takes to work out terms and conditions of a contract, all the necessary crap that goes with celebrity. I have no doubt that everyone involved will be more than satisfied. Regis Pharmaceuticals is prepared to pay generously for the exclusive rights to Simon Apple’s name, image, persona, the whole ball of wax.” Regis slapped his palms together. “I think that concludes our business today. Dr. Fekal, I ask you to apologize to your lovely wife for my outrageous behavior. Explain to the chubby cow that the heat of battle brings out the worst in a man. Please convey my thanks to her and remember to say that her tits are world class and her raisin cookies were memorable down to the tiniest crumbs.”

  “I’ll pack a few for you to take along,” Dr. Fikel said. “For the road.”

  “Tits or cookies?” Regis said. “Just kidding. I’d accept but I have a thing about puking in my car. Now, before we leave, let me kiss our angel goodbye.”

  Simon, who’d been playing with a broken portrait lens, jerked back his head and began to yap like a puppy. “What in hell is that all about?” Regis said as Simon crawled across the floor and climbed the shelves of Dr. Fikel’s library.

  “He’s a bit hyperactive at times,” Dr. Fikel said, “it comes on suddenly. Nothing alarming. Excess energy. And he dotes on attention.”

  “He caught my attention,” Regis said. “He climbs like an ape.”

  “A power baby,” Robert J. said.

  “Our living testimonial,” Regis said. “A power baby. I like it. Make a note of that, Sam. And make sure that Mr. Apple receives a top-of-the line Hasselblad with every accessory known to man and a lifetime supply of film.”

  “Not necessary,” Robert J. said. “The Nikon . . .”

  “And throw in a tripod,” Regis said. “Jesus, I feel good about this. I feel like I just fucked a butterfly.”

  15

  “The thing is,” Agent Beem said, “we had a real problem with Brother Lucas’s body. Every calculation of winds and currents said it would turn up somewhere in the Hamptons. I told them never to trust an ocean but nobody listened. They wanted the Hamptons because it’s a class area. The media loves anything that happens out there. Attention must be paid. I said to them why in hell would Apple shlep the corpse across Long Island instead of dumping it near the Digitals’ vineyard on the North Shore, say Mattituck or Jamesport but no, they had their hearts set on East Hampton, Southampton, Bridgehampton, Westhampton, like that, some trendy South Shore sand pile. I suggested a compromise, say, Sag Harbor or Shelter Island which made more sense but I was overruled.”

  “Why not dump Brother Lucas in a ditch?” Simon said. “Wouldn’t that have made for an easier autopsy?”

  “No question, Simon. You’re absolutely right. Salt water could have easily corrupted any evidence, not that evidence was a factor since it was added later.” Beem traced the body’s voyage over an invisible map. “As it was, the body somehow took the scenic route, drifted from Hampton Bays, curved around Montauk then came in on high tide and ended up in fucking Greenport. Back on the North Shore, exactly where I suggested, not two miles from Luke’s monastery. Jesus, Greenport. Strictly blue collar.

  “At least the cadaver was intact except for the usual wear and tear. Some shark could have loused up our whole scenario. We would have had to start over again. Let me tell you, it would have taken a miracle to get the New York press to pick up the story of a floating monk in Long Island Sound. It’s ironic, but if the whole enchilada of Digitals hadn’t been eliminated, which was never part of the original blueprint, Lucas would have ended up as a two-inch paragraph on the obit page. You might still be walking around free. That is, until we came up with some other way to nail you.”

  “Perish the thought.”

  “I’ll drink to that. The way it turned out, a little girl found him. When she saw Luke bobbing in the surf she thought he was a beached whale or some kind of walrus. Then she waded out to get a better look. His bald head was powdered by sand diamonds. His robes were still attached, like wings. She decided he might be an alien who fell out of a flying saucer. Cute kid. She prodded old Luke with a coke bottle she’d carried down to the shore to toss to the waves. It had a note in it with her name, address, and a love letter. When she saw what was left of Luke’s face she tossed the bottle into the breakers and yelled for help. Smart kid.”

  “So you had your body.”

  “And we had you by the short hairs.”

  “But I never set eyes on Brother Lucas. I never went near that man.”

  “So how come three witnesses saw the two of you together at a local motel? And how come your DNA was found in that motel room? And how come you used your credit card to pay for the suite with the heart-shaped hot tub? And how come Simon Apple’s DNA was found up Brother Lucas’s consecrated ass? Is that what you’re going to ask me?”

  “Rhetorical questions, I suppose,” Simon said.

  “You wouldn’t like the answers,” Beem said.

  “I never even had a credit card. Nobody would give me credit,” Simon said.

  “How in hell did you live without a credit card?” Beem said. “That always puzzled me. No Amex, no Visa, no MasterCard, no Discover, not even Diners Club? When your lawyer tried to make a thing about that, I think it put off the jury. He should never have accused the prosecution of conjuring a card out of thin air. You could see distance creep into those juror eyes. A man who pays cash? In this day and age?”

  “Guilty as charged. By the way, how much credit did I have?”

  “I think we got you ten thousand at 9.9 percent for balance transfers and a 14 percent APR for purchases.” Beem said. “There was an additional fee for transfers, 3 percent of the total amount but not to exceed a maximum of fifty bucks. And 21 percent for cash advances.”

  “Thanks for nothing,” Simon said.

  “Don’t mention it,” Beem said. “So, Simon, did you change your mind about the lobster?”

  “No. I’m standing pat on that one.”

  “I didn’t think you’d give in. Face it. You’re just not a team player, Apple.”

  16

  In the months that followed Regis Van Clay’s visit to Glenda, Nonacripthae aka Hercumite was given a cheerful pink color and the taste of chocolate pudding. It was tested on generations of lab rats and on infants in Zambia and Nicaragua. Results of the tests were entirely positive; there were no negative findings aside from rare reports of nausea, diarrhea, constipation and esophageal spasm which might easily be attributed to nutritional, environmental and psychological factors.

  Dr. Fikel examined Simon Apple regularly. Results of those examinations were forwarded to the Regis Pharmaceuticals New Jersey headquarters. Simon’s progress continued to amaze. The “power baby” grew rapidly into a power boy. His code name at Regis was, understandably, Clark Kent.

&nb
sp; When it was certain that Hercumite would easily pass FDA muster, Simon was spirited to Minneapolis where Regis’s advertising agency, Bleier, Larkin & Koblenz, arranged for him to be photographed by award-winning still and cinematic professionals. The photographers worked under the supervision of the agency’s senior art director, Nevins Littlejohn, an acknowledged genius whose credits included classic portraits of Shirley Temple and the zeppelin Hindenberg. A happy Robert J. was present at those intense studio sessions, even permitted to snap his own pictures with the foolproof camera that replaced his shattered Nikon.

  Back home in Glenda, Robert J. was privileged (as stipulated in the contract written by his lawyer, Marvin Klipstein, Esq.) to examine proofs of magazine and newspaper advertisements and to view early cuts of television commercials for Hercumite featuring Simon supposedly interacting with a zodiac of sports heroes. Along with those ads came store displays—life-sized, self-standing, cutouts of Simon dressed in various team uniforms. Those materials arrived in packages marked confidential! for your eyes only!

  Because Robert J. had signed a nondisclosure agreement, he was forbidden to display those items at Quikpix or in any public place until Hercumite was officially introduced to the American public. But Robert J. was not discreet; soon everyone in Glenda knew their own Simon Apple was destined for blazing celebrity.

  Predictably, Simon was invited to attend Munchkin Academy, the most prestigious nursery school in town. The offer, which included a partial scholarship, was accepted.

  On his first day, shaking from separation anxiety, Simon was welcomed at Munchkin by a special assembly of students and faculty. He was handed a bouquet of helium balloons, offered a glass of what the dean called “Simon Apple juice” and a tray of cupcakes decorated with his initials, and entertained by a magician who pulled roses from his ears.