“I don’t doubt it,” the President’s emissary said.
“President Nixon should understand that Simon Apple is an anomaly, one in a zillion, a magnet for side effects, a side effects farm. With all the testing in creation, test results evaluated by the government’s finest, most honest doctors and statisticians, we can’t anticipate every bump in the road when we put a new product into circulation.”
“ Viloxidril aka Symmavane was granted rather quick approval by the FDA,” Beem said. “There has been rumor of inadequate testing.”
“Our industry is damned if we do and damned if we don’t,” Regis said, tapping the desktop. “It’s true that certain reasonable exceptions to the usual delaying policies were more than justified when Viloxidril showed excellent potential to ameliorate symptoms possibly, but not definitely, traceable to Nonacripthae .”
“That would be the medication trade-named Hercumite ? One of your products, isn’t it?”
“It’s good that you’ve done your homework, Agent Beem. We’ve never admitted to any liability directly traceable to Hercumite but our Viloxidril did cure a few statistical deviants of their so-called side effects following ingestion of that drug. And as the Lord would have it, Viloxidril has also proved a boon to the cosmetic industry. Virtually every lipstick, face cream, defoliant, shampoo, moisturizer, hair dye and vaginal lubricant is now Symmavane fortified.” Regis’s face changed from a smile to a frown. “What impact the new warning label will have on the sales of those items here and overseas is a matter for serious speculation. It could be huge. A thousand television commercials and print ads will have to be modified. Packaging redesigned or replaced.”
“We understand the ripple effects,” Beem said. “Unfortunate. But unavoidable.”
“And the potential for lawsuits?” Regis said. “How much do idiot juries award these days? What you dismiss as ripple effects are catastrophic. Every side effect is a thorn in the gonads of the gross national product.”
“I didn’t mean to be dismissive,” Beem said.
Regis counted on the fingers of his right hand: “One . . . two . . . three, maybe five Simon Apple clones might be walking around the entire world with bottles on their heads and because of that handful how many stockholders will suffer cardiac arrest? How many people for whom Viloxidril is a boon will deprive themselves of its benefits out of irrational fear? Ah well, there’s no use moaning.”
“The President vowed that a cure . . .”
“Oh, tell the President that Regis Van Clay will bite the bullet however lousy the taste. I’ll get that damn kid out of his jug in time for the eleven o’clock news.”
“May I assure President Nixon that some progress has already been made?”
“I’m pleased to say you may. It just happens that our biotech unit suspects the offending agent in Viloxidril —if there is an offending agent, which we do not admit there is—has presumably been isolated; our genetics team is off and running.”
“Hopefully not running on empty,” Beem said.
“That comment was not necessary,” Regis said.
“I was speaking out of place. Accept my apology. Do you think it would be premature for the President to announce . . .”
“Premature as hell,” Regis said. “On the other hand, he might want to say something optimistic. And I would like President Nixon offer his personal congratulations when we zero in on an antidote for IRA— Ictopera Aqueous Resperacion —and may I expect that the usual decade of fumfering might be avoided before we begin human trials? I’m told that, if there is any delay, the Apple boy will be found belly up in his tank in a matter of weeks.”
“Ugly thought,” Beem said. “The President realizes you can hardly flush a child from the public mind the way you can flush dead guppies down the toilet.”
“So we’re on a fast track with the FDA?” Regis said.
“I’d say so,” Agent Beem said. “We wouldn’t want Simon Apple to die while you’re forced to perform excessive experiments on a frog.”
“Tell me something, Agent Beem,” Regis said, “in addition to your regular duties, I was wondering if you might consider doing Regis Pharmaceuticals what I will call a special freelance service. Within the bounds of ethics, of course.”
“Please clarify, Mr. Van Clay.”
“I want Simon Apple put under surveillance.”
“Toward what end?”
“I’m not sure. Let’s call him a physical nonconformist. That subversive child has invaded my dream life. And I hear his father has approached an attorney about suing for damages. It won’t help our defense if President Nixon continues to call him a heroic victim.”
“I’ll suggest to the President that in the Apple affair he bank the fires of enthusiasm.”
“It would be appreciated.”
“By the way, you mentioned that Viloxidril is being used in certain feminine hygiene products. I trust we’re not facing any wider threat lurking over the horizon.”
“Not one woman has shown any sign of ichthyologic mutation. I wouldn’t worry about a plague of mermaids threatening the nation.”
“For the sake of argument,” Agent Beem said, “if a female suffering from IRA was discovered, would that mean her intimate partners might suffer from exposure?”
“Agent Beem, I doubt you’ll have to trade your trigger finger for a tentacle anytime soon,” Regis said. “The chances are one in a trillion. So, will you consider some discreet arrangement with Regis Van Clay? A mutually profitable symbiosis?”
“It might be possible,” Beem said. “One in a trillion you say? Not none in a trillion?”
29
Marvin Klipstein wandered into Quikpix, produced a roll of film for developing, ordered double prints, then said to Robert J., “I feel as if I know you. I once had the pleasure of dating your lovely wife. It was nothing serious, I assure you. We went to a few movies is all, then coffee and cake. I admit I was quite taken with the beauteous Francine but I never felt the feeling was mutual. When I read that she’d become your bride I was happy for you both. I was glad she found her knight in shining armor so close to home. I don’t suppose she ever mentioned me or suggested that you give Marvin Klipstein a call?”
“I’m afraid not,” Robert J. said. “A shame she missed you. I’d tell Francine you dropped in but we’ve been divorced for several years. What was your name?”
“Klipstein. Marvin. And I’ve embarrassed myself.”
Simon came to the front of the store carrying envelopes filled with finished orders.
“This must be our young hero,” Klipstein said, smiling. “The maimed boy I’ve read so much about.”
“No, I’m the kitchen sink,” Simon said, forcing an angry air bubble.
Klipstein’s chubby, gray face looked like a collage made from snippets of egg carton cardboard. His bald, polished skull was slightly pointed. He reminded Simon of a manatee. Klipstein blew his nose into a Kleenex with force enough to disintegrate the fragile tissue. That blast made Simon think of South Sea natives trumpeting warnings of approaching pearl hunters.
“Curb your dog,” Robert J. said to Simon, then told Marvin Klipstein, “Let me apologize for my son. He’s still a bit touchy what with all the recent hoopla. Simon is usually better behaved.”
“No offense intended, none taken,” Klipstein said, tucking the crumpled Kleenex into a jacket pocket. “This can’t be easy for him. I think it’s a triumph that Simon is holding up so well. A tribute to you, Mr. Apple. And to one or both of his mothers, as the case may be.”
Driving the forty miles from his office in neighboring Freebush, Klipstein had calculated the monetary value of the Apple family’s pain and suffering. All the way to Glenda he told himself that the Apples must surely be represented by some major law firm in New York, Philadelphia, Boston or Washington D.C., but there was always the vague chance that every lawyer in America had made the same assumption.
He presented Robert J. with his business card: marvin klipstei
n, esq. attorney at law. “I’m not in the habit of chasing ambulances, but if I’m not stepping on toes, I was wondering if you’ve sought legal counsel regarding damages.”
“Not yet,” Robert J. said. “Though it’s been talked about.”
Klipstein let out a long sigh and flushed purple. “You have a potentially huge case here, Mr. Apple. Huge. You should certainly consider seeking recompense on behalf of your family, especially Simon here. If you decide to go ahead with litigation, I would be more than proud to represent you. On a contingency basis, of course. There would be no expense incurred by you, not a red cent.” Klipstein sneezed again.
“God bless,” Robert J. said reflexively.
“Bless us all,” Klipstein said. “Excuse my allergies. Please tell me, am I being too forward? I’m saying what needs to be said sooner or later. And sooner is better.”
“It’s just that I have an aversion to involving Simon in any legal tangle just now,” Robert J. said. “He has enough stress on his plate.”
“Oh, yes, I understand your feelings. But with President Nixon demanding a full investigation of that Viloxidril drug’s rapid approval by the FDA, you’re in a win-win situation here. To my eyes, Regis Pharmaceuticals and possibly a trusted agency of the United States government are clearly liable. I’d say you owe it to your son, your current wife and yourself to spin the proverbial wheel of fortune. We could be talking millions.”
“I’ll give it some thought,” Robert J. said.
“Let me say one other thing. If my son were the victim of irreparable damage I wouldn’t hesitate to sue the ass off anybody and everybody responsible for his tragedy. I’d call that a prime parental duty.”
“Two things,” Robert J. said. “You used the words irreparable and tragedy. The President promised to use the full authority of his bully pulpit to see to it that Simon will be cured.”
“His bullshit pulpit,” Klipstein said. “When did that pompous prick go to medical school? I don’t mean to sound negative or to frighten you but chances are, with the Watergate mess, Nixon will be kicked out of the White House before Simon’s problem takes a U-turn. Then what?”
“I gather you’re a Democrat?” Robert J. said.
“Just being realistic,” Klipstein said. “Facing hard facts.”
“The film you brought in will be ready in an hour,” Robert J. said. “Here’s your claim check.”
That evening, over dinner, Robert J. said to Rowena, “Klipstein drips when he gets worked up. He left a stain on my tie. Maybe we should hire him. He’d shower the jury with snot if they didn’t find for the plaintiff.”
“It can’t hurt to set up a consultation,” Rowena said.
“I don’t know. Did I tell you he said he knew Francine? I can’t help wondering if he ever . . .”
“Yesterday’s newspaper,” Rowena said and gave her new husband a long kiss.
A month later, Simon was scheduled to file a deposition in the case of Apple v. Regis Pharmaceuticals. Robert J. watched Rowena help him dress in a new blue suit when Dr. Henry Fikel made an unexpected house call. He told Rowena to disconnect Simon’s auditory input jack. The doctor had something private to communicate.
“I have news that may change the direction of your thinking,” Fikel said. “The Marine Biological Unit at Regis stumbled on a substance they call Aquathaline Dehydrosis . It has something to do with shrimp emulsion. They claim it grew lungs in a carp’s bladder. Now the fish is surviving on land.”
“That’s incredible,” Rowena said, brushing at a crease in Simon’s lapel. “But I don’t see how . . .”
“The Regis people are willing to risk allocating a portion of their supply for Simon’s use. It’s beyond precious. There’s only one test tube of Aquathaline Dehydrosis in the entire world. One problem is, it’s never been tested on anything but a strain of rodents highly reactive to Viloxidril. They grew gills. Now they’re able to handle oxygen. The results are very promising though there has been a slightly elevated mortality rate in the test group.”
“If it’s only been tried on mice and half the mouse population dropped dead, how come they feel ready to offer it to Simon?” Robert J. said.
“It always comes down to who you know,” Rowena said.
“She’s so right,” Dr. Fikel said. “This is strictly against accepted procedure and would be entirely off the record. What it comes down to is whether you’re willing to wait five years or more for a properly supervised trial in certain Third World countries. As for risk, we have no idea if other complications will surface from Viloxidril or how long Simon can last in a tank. You’ve got to know those dead mice might have succumbed to the massive Viloxidril infusion or to the subsequent dose of Aquathaline Dehydrosis or both.”
“It’s certainly a crap shoot,” Rowena said.
“It’s all we’ve got,” Robert J. said.
“One more thing,” Dr. Fikel said. “The Regis people are demanding you agree to the same restrictions as before concerning any legal claims against the company resulting from prior or future illness related to either drug. There’s the additional provision that you agree to keep utterly mum about any unauthorized experimental procedure related to Aquathaline. In short, you would remain in an official denial mode. You’d be willing to sign a document stating that you never heard of the drug and were never approached by any Regis representative about its existence. Only Regis Van Clay would have the authority to release you from that silent mode in the event treatment proves successful. On the upside, the Regis folks do agree to underwrite a generous term insurance policy on Simon’s life covering a two-year period and exempting any prior conditions. Somewhere in an amount of at least seven figures.”
“Our lawyer anticipated something like this might happen,” Rowena said. “That the rumor of some secret cure might be used to get us to drop our lawsuit. Besides, Mr. Klipstein says any such agreement would be worthless, tantamount to holding our Simon hostage. That would amount to blackmail.”
“Your lawyer says? Do you know who represents Regis Pharmaceuticals? Shanahan, Coran, Berkowitz and Sharpton. And that’s just in the United States. Regis Van Clay plays golf with Zeus and Odin. Your lawyer handles real estate closings. Look, Regis Van Clay called me personally. He’s waiting for your reply. This is no delaying tactic. Mr. Van Clay is being pressured by the White House to save Simon Apple. Oh, I forgot to mention that he’s willing to pay for Simon’s tuition to any accredited college if he lives long enough to make it to college.”
“What about stock options?” Robert J. said, surprising himself.
“I think they might sweeten their offer with options,” Dr. Fikel said. “They print plenty of paper on Wall Street.”
“We could postpone Simon’s deposition,” Robert J. said. “I’ll call Marvin Klipstein. He’ll have apoplexy. He’ll snort from all his openings. Get me the phone and a raincoat.”
Rowena switched on Simon’s subterranean ears. “What’s happening?” Simon said.
“Change out of the suit,” his father said. “We’re on hold.”
30
It was nearly five when Warden Donal came to Simon Apple’s cell with a gift of mixed nuts arranged in a circular plastic tray. He found Simon trying to scratch his initials onto one of the steel walls with the tip of a ballpoint pen. “It would take etching acid,” Donal said. “The days of plaintive final scrawls dug into concrete are long gone. As God is my witness, I can remember a time when your predecessors not only gouged out their famous last words with files and utensils, they wrote in blood, which was rather pathetic, and actually knocked out their own teeth to use as scrapers. Some of those outbursts were pure poetry. But they were often offensive. Incendiary, obscene or banal. Hardly uplifting for future occupants. Times change. The moving finger writes and then moves on. I want you to know that when this facility was designed, I did lobby for a slab of slate to be incorporated into each Death House cubicle but the No Frills gang laughed that off. I don’t know if chalk on
a blackboard would have satisfied the urge to immortality but it might have helped somewhat. Where did you get that pen? Pens are off limits in here. That was a rhetorical question. I don’t expect an answer.”
“I suspect trying to leave messages on the cave walls is a basic instinct. Like tattooing a butterfly on your ass,” Simon said.
“Nicely put,” Warden Donal said. “You do have a way with words. You must be curious about my visit.”
“A bit, yes.”
“I did want to say goodbye and wish you well but there is something else. Writing on the walls isn’t the only tradition we’ve lost.”
“Like a last cigarette?”
“Well, yes, but that’s a health issue. I was referring to the riot. When I first began in this business it was mandatory for a restlessness to grip the inmates on the day of an execution. You could smell the stinking fog of anxiety in the halls. Everyone was tense. The mood was explosive. In the last hours we could count on the inmates to beat on the cell bars with tin cups, spoons and plates. They made what I always thought was a wonderful music of rage. I meant to record those archetypical thumps and clangs and the guttural lyrics that gave them dimension. Unfortunately, I never did. When we changed over to Styrofoam cups and plastic utensils the timbre of protest was hardly equivalent.”
“It is hard to thump and clump with Styrofoam,” Simon said. “You could say the whole country’s thumping and clumping is pretty much muted these days.”
“I don’t want to get into the politics of metaphor or the metaphor of politics,” Warden Donal said. “I do admit that I always felt the Dead Man Walking riot served a definite purpose. It functioned as an escape valve for all kinds of pent-up fury and frustration. The riot had a particular form—like a sonnet. A beginning, middle and end. Of course, no execution was ever postponed because of unrest or upheaval, but the calm that settled over the prison after the death sentence was carried out was a beautiful thing. It’s hard to explain. It was like the calm eye of a hurricane, spiritual weather, an opportunity for reflection and self-examination.”
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