Side Effects

by Harvey Jacobs

  “Are you enjoying the flight? I hope you do since you paid for it all, dearest.”

  “I’m not sure,” Regis said. “I feel like a UFO. How do you get it to stop?”

  “You just say, ‘Stop.’ ”

  “Wonderful,” Regis said. “I heard that you and Belladonna went to visit Simon Apple. I was not pleased.”

  “There’s no keeping anything from you, Regis.”

  “You asked him to sign over his body. That was a lovely thing for you to do in tandem, considering that you despise one another.”

  “We had planned to pool our resources,” Trilby said. “And we don’t despise one another. It’s a simple case of jealousy. We both adore you and we know how much that terrible man upsets you. We thought that having some tangible proof that Apple was no longer a threat to your fabulous empire would keep you as healthy and vigorous as you deserve to be.”

  “Continue,” Regis said. “Any ego replenishment is more than welcome. It’s peculiar that I feel so unsure of my place in the scheme of things. I’ve been waiting twenty years for tonight to happen. It’s the damn legal system. Even with some very powerful people in my pocket, bleeding heart judges kept delaying what is basically an act of patriotic necessity. When I tally what Simon Apple cost my company, my stockholders, my reputation, my nation with his damnable side effects—all that wicked labeling—my small and large intestines curdle. And it was only getting worse. The last Regis Pharmaceuticals product used on Apple, something called Compassarate Dioxide, gave the sonofabitch some kind of deadly skin condition, horrendous hives, prune cheeks . . . ah, let’s forget that one. It was never meant for medicinal use. In fact, it was never meant for marketing except to the military. Even if it has been banned by every branch of the service since somebody is worried about possible lawsuits filed by contaminated pilots, soldiers, sailors, marines and a few factory workers, there’s bad news and good news. Lucky for us, that gook does wonders for stereo sound systems and most of those are made in China and India so there’s still a healthy buck to be made. By the way, you want to know what cured Apple?”

  “Yes, I do,” Trilby said. “In case I ever get hives and prune cheeks.”

  “Oatmeal baths. Oatmeal. What would have happened if Apple came up with a side effect from oatmeal? Do you think the government would have gone against Quaker Oats? Put a warning on that idiot pilgrim face they use on their boxes? Not in a million years. But if they could have hung another side effect around my neck, you can bet your G-spot they would have. Sugarbush, do you know what it took to make sure Apple was kept off Regis Pharmaceuticals drugs in the Death House—the cost of having full-time monitors kept on the prison staff, paid for by guess who? Imagine the dollars wasted over twenty years and that fucker never had so much as a cold. He never needed an aspirin. Not a suppository. Nothing. He’s healthy as a horse. And there’s more. I had to diffuse protests claiming death by lethal injection is cruel and unusual. Can you imagine? I spent another fortune developing a whole new line of drugs for quicker, more effective, comfortable, economical—and strictly kosher—lethal injections. Money that could have gone to deserving doctors out there in the front lines, the ones who write the RXs that keep us going. It makes me wince. It’s a wonder your Regis didn’t burst a blood vessel.”

  “Perish the thought,” Trilby said. “I love my Regis.”

  “The irony is I know the death penalty will come back into vogue despite dry-pussy judges and spineless politicos. And we’ll end up with substantial profits from those bye-bye chemicals. But it will take years and years the way things work these days. You can’t even execute a convicted monk murderer without due process. What a laugh. They should call it undue process. In the old west, if a rustler was caught in the morning he was dangling by lunchtime.”

  “Are you hungry, honey?” Trilby said. “I have some smoked oysters waiting.”

  “This spinning around has me dizzy,” Regis said. “Stop!”

  The moon quit turning, the wings detached, Regis and Trilby tumbled onto her delicious bed. “What I’ve done for humanity does make a difference, doesn’t it? “ Regis said. “It hasn’t all been a selfish quest for glory, has it? My father would be proud, wouldn’t he?”

  “Yes, no and yes, “Trilby said. “Have some champagne.” She poured the sparkling wine into a glass shaped like a slipper. “Regis, you’re one of the most important men of this or any other generation. Century. Millennium. That ever was or ever will be.”

  “Thank you, Trilby. What time have you got?”

  “You’re my only guest this evening, Regis.”

  “No, I mean literally. Clock time.”

  “A quarter to midnight.”

  “They’re wheeling him in now.”

  “You know,” Trilby said, “the only thing that bothers me and I’m sure I’m being too much of an alarmist, but it was you who taught me—”

  “Make your point. I want to fuck.”

  “You mentioned a whole new line of drugs for successful lethal injecting . . .”

  “ Bridgecataphan aka Hyberpoid, Ebolapril Irreversus aka Cemavoma, and Neuroniflash aka Deckorpa,” Regis said. “In little bottles that click into place so easily any idiot could—”

  “How do you come up with those marvelous names? Well, I was saying to myself, Trilby, you shouldn’t mention anything to upset Regis, not on a night like this, but what if Simon Apple ends up getting some terrible side effect from his lethal injections? That could force my Sweetiepie to paste new warning labels on those little bottles. It could impact the company’s bottom line. Those drugs could end up on the scrap heap of good intentions. And my little stock portfolio—”

  Regis bolted upright, gasping for breath. He grabbed for Trilby’s French telephone, dialing frantically. “Give me Warden Donal’s office—I know it’s after hours—I know you have an execution scheduled—I know he’s not at his desk—Whoever you are, listen carefully. This is Regis Van Clay—Yes, that one. I must speak with the warden or Brian Beem—Of course he’s one of the witnesses. Probably in the front row—I realize it will be difficult but this is a matter of life and death—No, I was not trying to be funny. Get Donal or Beem on the line immediately—It’s two minutes to twelve, asshole. You can’t mean that every phone in the chamber is being used by the press. I know phone reception is jammed during—There’s always a line kept open in case of the governor granting—I told you, this is Van Clay. Regis Van Clay. Do not, I repeat, do not proceed with—This execution has got to be stopped. Don’t dare tell me you’re not empowered to—Hello? Hello?” Regis heard the sound of empty air.

  Trilby leaned over to kiss one of the puncture wounds inflicted, then expertly sutured, by Belladonna. “Did I say something bad, Uncle Regis?”

  “Do you begin to comprehend what Apple has cost me by forcing us to slap warning labels on Cripthalizine aka Cribangel, Nonacripthae aka Hercumite, Viloxidril aka Symmavane, Aquathaline aka Zepharia, Expeloton aka Sepronalol, Xanelul aka Harpacinimon, Solacitrex aka Silentush, Thumicsk aka Retdema, and the amalgam of Thumicsk and Solacitrex —”

  “Aka Stalagamide, ” Trilby said. “You see, I do listen and learn.”

  “Let’s not forget Compassarate Dioxide, which never did get an aka. I’ve got to remember to have my Regis Muse Horizons team come up with a zippy—”

  “Regis, you’re turning the color of an persimmon. Please calm yourself. I wasn’t serious. It was just silly Trilly making a joke. I shouldn’t have mentioned—”

  “Are you aware that we’re into trillions in lost revenue?”

  “I’m trying to grasp . . . you know I’m a simple girl, Regis. Trillions elude me,” Trilby said in a frightened voice. She noticed the pupils in Regis’s eyes rolling counterclockwise.

  “On the bright side,” Regis said, “I can envision a very active demand for Bridgecataphan aka Hyberpoid, Ebolapril Irreversus aka Cemavoma and Neuroniflash aka Deckorpa. Even if we do lose the death penalty market in the U.S.A., I’d wager those
items—cleverly marketed, packaged and presented—would have powerful Third World appeal, an attractive growth area. Instead of ‘Ask your doctor ’ our tag line would be ‘Ask your dictator. ’ ” Regis, perspiring a flood, rested his chin on his fist. “If Simon Apple does survive in any kind of working order, or even as a vegetable, I can always get my boys to find a cure for survival.”

  “You always see your glass as half full,” Trilby said. “It’s what I love most about you. Now lay back, take deep breaths, and let’s pretend we’re both marshmallows.”

  “Maybe I should think about creating a pill specifically designed to cause side effects,” Regis said, slamming his fists on the mattress.

  “Hush,” Trilby cooed. That’s no way for a marshmallow to behave. Let me coddle your blood pressure, dear one.”

  96

  Being wheeled on his back into the Death Chamber, escorted by a cortege of luminaries along with his guards, Simon felt like a potentate borne on a litter to his coronation. He was neatly wrapped in a ceremonial robe, securely strapped in place, attached to an IV by transparent plastic tubes plugged into the tops of both wrists by thick needles. Finding receptive veins and inserting those needles had been a painful process but that memory was quickly retreating.

  Simon saw that both tubes carried pinkish fluid flowing into his body. He remembered a nurse remarking on the wasteful use of a backup system when one tube was quite sufficient, but her comment brought only a sharp reprimand from the doctor in charge of his pending assassination. Simon was feeling better and better. The streams of pinkish wine, mingling with his blood, had definitely affected his thinking. What he needed was a cup of strong coffee. He tried hard to tell somebody that he took his coffee black with no sugar but the words congealed in his mouth.

  His eyes began seeing the world through a kaleidoscope of soft pastels. He heard quiet whispers replace the sound of the squealing gurney wheels when the parade suddenly stopped. He thought the whispering came from Rabbi Bakla and Father Mahoney but he couldn’t be certain. Simon managed to turn his head toward a large stained glass window illustrated by portraits of faces he recognized and the faces of strangers. He saw Brian Beem, Warden Donal, Speed Sage speaking into a portable microphone, Dr. Fikel from Glenda sitting next to—could it be Tabitha Ulman or was it Victoria or possibly Polly Moon—beautiful Placebo—come to cheer him on? And Marvin Klipstein, Esq., taking notes, always thinking ahead. Those faces, familiar and unknown, were so frozen, so fearful, so molded by suspense, it made Simon want to laugh but his own face had gone rigid too.

  Then he saw the purple liquid in his IV tubes turn milky brown and felt a twinge of anxiety as the new juice came closer to his skin. He felt his body spasm, drenched in pain that stormed over him like the storm that drowned Manhattan the day he pushed a refrigerator with its own ice-making machine past the herd of Steinway pianos in the building where the great Wallace Waldo sat in his conference room watching Benny Valaris, William Shakespeare’s casting director, bugger a chorus line of hopeful Lady Macbeths. Then up Fifth Avenue toward Polly Moon’s penthouse. The trip took some doing but her tip eclipsed the effort. Placebo. His wife!

  Things began to go black when the pain ebbed leaving Simon in such a void he missed the cramps and spasms. A third color was inching down the plastic tubes, a heavy greenish gray moving slower than the others but surely on course, on target, on schedule.

  Simon heard a scurry of bodies surrounding his pallet and felt himself slapped and prodded, felt the tubes ripped from his wrists, fell deeper into the velvet darkness that took him into its quicksand heart.

  97

  “No vital signs. This man is dead.”

  “Use the paddles again,” Brian Beem said. “Inject a bolus of adrenalin directly into—”

  “Look at the cardiac monitor. Flatlined. No brain waves. Simon Apple is dead.”

  “The prisoner expired at one minute past twelve o’clock midnight,” Warden Donal said, “in accordance with—”

  “Fuck us all,” Beem said. “When Regis Van Clay gets here we’ve got to present a united front. Our story is that we did what we could to stop the execution, but his call came too late. There is such a thing as too late. Too late is too late.”

  “Get the corpse out of here,” Warden Donal said to an aide. “Bury the body in Potters Field. Cover the corpse with lime.”

  “You’d better hold back on the lime,” Brian Beem said. “Until we hear what Mr. Van Clay has to say about disposal plans. Grisly as it sounds, I think he wants the remains as a trophy or just to make absolutely sure Simon Apple is no longer on the scene.”

  “Fine. We’ll wait for him in my office. I think we could all use a drink.”

  “Excellent thought,” Brian Beem said. “We’re going to need all the courage we can swallow. Regis sounded pissing hysterical. Furious. Frenzied. And he’s a very vindictive man.”

  “How could he expect me to ask the governor to commute Apple’s sentence after the fact?” the warden said.

  “Don’t try to be rational at a time like this,” Brian Beem said.

  When Regis Van Clay arrived, his limousine was followed by something that looked like a cross between a hearse and an armored car. He seemed surprisingly calm and in control. “I realize I’ve acted badly tonight,” Regis said. “You people performed to the best of your ability. Simon Apple is dead, you all agree to that. I was wrong to have asked that his life be spared.”

  “I want to say how impressed we were with the way that cocktail of yours dispatched the perpetrator. One, two, three, fini. Congratulations, Mr. Van Clay, and please extend my thanks and admiration to all the folks in your company who contributed to the formula. Compared with the stuff we used last month, I won’t go into specifics, this execution was, if I can use the word in such dire circumstances, perfect.”

  “Thank you, Warden Donal. Thank you all. Now, I would like the body placed in the maximum-security transport parked downstairs. I have all the necessary papers allowing me to take possession of the deceased.”

  “Would it be improper for me to ask why you . . . ?” Warden Donal said.

  “Please get on with it,” Regis said, forcing a smile.

  Warden Donal made a call to the Death Chamber. He shook his head from side to side then hung up the phone. “I’m afraid I have some negative news for you, Mr. Van Clay. There appears to be some screwup with the Apple body. It was already claimed by a lady. It seems she and Simon Apple were married by a rabbi and a priest earlier this evening. As Mr. Apple’s spouse, and since there was no prior objection, when the coroner finished certifying Apple’s demise, the woman had every right—”

  “Find the two of them,” Regis said to Brian Beem in a voice that slithered like a wet snake. “Or I will hold you personally responsible for allowing Apple to evade custody yet again. The fiscal fate of the United States of America hangs in the balance here. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “There is no ‘two of them’ to find,” Beem said. Apple is legally dead. No heartbeat. No brain waves. No reason for agitation.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Regis said. “Don’t jump to conclusions. You don’t know that subversive shit. Simon Apple is a corkscrew turning in my heart. Until I know he’s a well-baked Apple locked in an urn I will not rest easily. Who would marry that menace? Can we plead insanity? Is it too late to get an annulment?”

  “The woman seemed genuinely distraught. She claims she’s pregnant.” Warden Donal said. “I wouldn’t be too concerned if there is reason for concern.”

  “Excuse me?” Regis said. “Pregnant? Is it possible that Simon Apple’s chromosomes are still swimming in the gene pool?

  “Postmortem pregnancy is a common fantasy of a bereaved lover. There’s absolutely no chance that Simon Apple left any progeny. Zero chance,” Warden Donal said. “Well, maybe a ghost of a chance. There’s always the possibility that the marriage was consummated. But considering the time frame, I’d say the only way they could have co
njugated is by mail. It’s inconceivable that the lady conceived.”

  “This is no time for humor,” Regis said. “Do you see me laughing?”

  “I’m sorry,” Warden Donal said. “I just want to put your mind at ease. By the way, Mr. Van Clay, I’ve been meaning to ask you, is it true the major drug companies spend more on gifts and perks to seduce doctors into pushing your merchandise than you people spend on research?”

  “By the way, Warden Donal, I’ve been meaning to ask you, how’d you like to be put in charge of a nice little prison in Kazakhstan? Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the wife is pregnant. I feel it in my bones.”

  98

  Polly Moon followed her hunches. She also nursed a remnant of necrophilia dating back to her Goth days at Glenda High. She and her friends had spent many happy hours smoking pot and chanting arcane phrases culled from The Book of the Dead for Dummies, a volume of forgotten lore that somehow found its way onto a shelf of the school library.

  Their object was to stir the dust of a few Egyptians who dated back to the days when gods and goddesses leaned close to earth and, bored or just listless, cohabited with mere mortals. The Goths were anxious to interview someone seduced or violated by creatures with human bodies and hawk heads, cat heads, hippo heads or some reasonable facsimile of those deities. Despite all the chanting, no citizens of the Nile Delta abandoned their sarcophagi, unwrapped themselves and came to Glenda to set things straight. Polly Moon never paid the library’s late charges due on the book; every year or so she got a threatening letter.