The Garden of Eden and Other Criminal Delights

by Faye Kellerman

  “I have no idea.”

  “Thousands.”

  “A lot of bunions, Philip.”

  “Corns are no laughing matter, Rabbi.”

  “Not at all, Philip.”

  “It’s not just in medical services where Mr. Benton has taken the social lead. His was one of the first major corporations to provide on-site day care, flexible shifts for working mothers, and free turkeys on Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter.” Philip paused. “And kosher turkeys for our kosher-keeping workers, I might add.”

  “Sounds like a thoughtful man, your Mr. Benton.”

  “That he is, Rabbi.” Philip tensed his body and shook with gravity. “That’s why desperate times call for desperate measures. You being here . . . it was a desperate measure that I took. But one that I hope you will truly understand.”

  “I’m all ears, Philip.”

  “Do you know how Mr. Benton made his money, Rabbi?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “I’m not surprised. He is not a grandstander, like your ordinary billionaire.”

  “I’m not a maven on billionaires, Philip. I wouldn’t know an ordinary one from an unusual one.”

  “Well, let me assure you that Mr. Benton is extraordinary.”

  “I’m assured.”

  “He made his money right here.” Philip held his highball tumbler aloft. “Right in the palm of my hand.”

  “In Bavarian crystal?”

  Philip frowned. “No. In the soft-drink industry. KingCola. A King, as it is affectionately known. ‘I’ll have a hamburger, french fries, and a King.’ How many times have you heard that, Rabbi?”

  “Not too many. But don’t go by me. I don’t patronize fast-food places, because I keep kosher.”

  “But even you, as insulated as you are from pop culture, have heard of KingCola.”

  “Certainly.”

  “But there’s so much more to Mr. Benton than KingCola.”

  Feinermann noticed that Philip was shaking again. “We’ve been over the wonders of Mr. Benton. May I ask what does any of this have to do with me?”

  “I can sum that up in two words. Cola Gold.”

  “Cola Gold? Your chief competitor?”

  “Our enemy, Rabbi!” Philip started foaming at the mouth. “Not just our enemy in the War of the Soft Drinks, oh no, Rabbi. It’s deeper than that. Much, much deeper. If it was only money, do you think Mr. Benton would waste his time on them?”

  Feinermann thought maybe Mr. Benton would bother wasting his time. From his scant knowledge of billionaires, the old man was under the impression that billionaires—and maybe millionaires as well—spent a great deal of time on the subject of money. But he was silent.

  Philip went on, “It’s the whole CeeGee mentality, Rabbi. CeeGee—that’s our code word for Cola Gold.”

  Feinermann nodded.

  “CeeGee’s attitude is Machiavellian—only the product counts, not the people behind the product. Do you know that last year alone, CeeGee laid off over two hundred people? And what replaced these people?”

  “What, Philip?”

  “Machines!” Philip spat out. “Machines took over jobs that had once put bread on the tables of families. How would you feel if a machine took over your job, Rabbi?”

  “Not too good.”

  “Exactly!” Philip pulled the orange handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face and forehead. “We’re not talking about ordinary business competition, Rabbi. We’re not just talking about sugar, flavoring, and water. We are talking sugar, flavoring, and holy water, Rabbi. What KingCola and Cola Gold have going is an all-out holy war.”

  “I see your point, Philip.”

  “So you will help, won’t you, Rabbi?”

  Feinermann stroked his beard, then held his finger up in the air. “Yes, I shall help. Call up Cola Gold and ask for the list of those who’ve been laid off. I could use an extra man to clean up the shul after Friday-night kiddush.”

  Philip bristled. “That’s not what I had in mind!”

  “So if you have an alternative plan, tell me.”

  Philip pointed a finger at the old man. “It rests entirely in your hands.”

  Feinermann looked at his hands. All he saw was air.

  Philip said, “It has to do with CeeGee’s new formula. The one they use to appeal to the youth?”

  “Ah, yes,” the old man said. “I’m aware of it. What is the slogan? ‘The new cola for the now generation—’”

  “Don’t utter those words!” Philip covered his ears and began to pant.

  Feinermann stood and quickly handed Philip his glass of KingCola. By now the ice had melted and the drink looked watered down. But it looked pretty good nonetheless, because the rabbi’s mouth was dry from fasting. “Philip, calm down and drink.”

  Philip slurped up the remains of his soft drink.

  “I beg your pardon,” the rabbi said. “I didn’t realize it would cause such a reaction. I won’t say another word.”

  Philip took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It’s not your fault, Rabbi. You couldn’t have known.”

  Feinermann said, “I take it by your reaction that the new . . . youthful formula has been successful.”

  “Youth!” Philip despaired. “What do they know of Mr. Benton’s greatness and humanism?”

  “Why don’t you tell them?”

  “As if they’d listen. As if this generation cares about humanism. Did you know that soft drinks are a forty-eight-billion-dollar industry? Did you know that colas—both caffeinated and decaffeinated—comprise a forty-percent market share? And who do you think drinks cola?”

  “Who?”

  “Youth!” Philip exclaimed. “Youth, youth, youth! Those rats at CeeGee have not only exploited the workers, they’ve exploited our youth! Did you know that they’ve signed DeJon Jonson to a twenty-million-dollar ad contract?”

  “He’s the fellow with the lamé glove?”

  “He’s the hottest thing in the recording industry, Rabbi. And CeeGee’s got him under contract.”

  “Twenty million is a lot to pay for a fellow with just one glove. Surely you can find a chap with two gloves for a cheaper price.”

  Philip glared at him.

  “What do you want from me, Philip?” Feinermann asked.

  “I’ve tried everything, Rabbi. This is my last desperate attempt to gain a victory for our side—the side of truth and justice. The key is in your hands because . . .” Philip paused for dramatic effect. “Because you are one of the handful of people who know Cola Gold’s secret formula.”

  The rabbi’s eyes widened. “Me?”

  “There’s no use in denying it, Rabbi,” Philip stated. “You are one of the privileged who know every single ingredient, additive, and flavoring, artificial or otherwise, that give CeeGee’s new formula its unique taste.”

  “Philip—”

  “You, Rabbi, have personally checked the formula in an official capacity in order to give sanction to the kosher-keeping world that the new formula is as kosher as their original formula. Don’t deny it, Rabbi, don’t deny it.”

  “A minute, Philip. Give an old man a minute. Two would even be preferable.”

  Feinermann needed to collect his thoughts.

  He had to think back, because the job had not been part of his regular duties. The assignment had been given to him because Rav Gottlieb, the mashgiach for Cola Gold, had come down with a flu named after one of the continents—Asian or African. Feinermann hadn’t thought much about it at the time. Gottlieb had been certifying all Cola Gold Inc. beverages as kosher for over twenty years. Still, the corporate wheels hadn’t wanted to wait for an old man’s recuperation. Gottlieb had suggested Rav Morris Feinermann as a substitute.

  As Feinermann recalled it, the CeeGee people hadn’t been happy to deal with him. Only reluctantly had they parted with the formula, and then they’d sworn him to secrecy. At the time Feinermann had thought the management overly dramatic.

  He
stroked his beard. A mistake on his part to underestimate the competition.

  Philip couldn’t contain himself. “I want that formula, and you will give it to me. You will give it to me because you, like Mr. Benton, are a humanitarian and have the best interest of people upmost in your mind! If we lose our market share, Rabbi, our sales will go down. If our sales decrease, it will be necessary to lay people off from work. And why? Because a cold, heartless manufacturer prefers to use robots rather than people. You’re a humanist, Rabbi. You will help.”

  “But I can’t give you the formula, Philip. It would be unethical. And there’s also a very practical reason. I don’t remember it. All the Latin-sounding chemical names they use for flavoring. Very confusing. Perhaps if you had kidnapped me earlier . . .”

  “Had we known about the precipitous rise in their market share, believe me, Rabbi, we wouldn’t have waited so long. Still, it’s never too late.” Philip pounded the table. “I’ll help you, Rabbi. I have lists and lists of chemicals, the finest hypnotists to help you with memory recall. We will work day and night if we have to. I will do anything within my power, sacrifice myself, because I believe in Mr. Benton.”

  “I was never a big student of sacrifices, Philip. The bottom line, my young friend, is I will not divulge anything that was given to me in confidence.”

  Philip’s face went crimson, and his eyes became steely and cold. Then his lips turned up in a mean smile. “I can see you’ll need a bit of convincing.” He rang a bell. In walked the Marxes. Red-faced Philip turned to them and, with his irritating chuckle, said, “Take Rabbi Feinermann to the dungeon!”

  The Marxes gasped.

  “Not the dungeon,” Karl exclaimed. “Not the dungeon, Mr. P. Not for a rabbi!”

  “To the dungeon!” Philip ordered. “And no food and water for him.”

  That part was acceptable, Feinermann thought. He was fasting anyway.

  The old man told them to walk slowly. His back was sore from the car ride, and he was a little light in the head from not having eaten. Then he said, “And just what is this dungeon?”

  “Corporate torture, Rabbi,” Groucho responded solemnly. “It’s better if you don’t know.”

  The rabbi sighed. “I’ll survive. Our people have experienced all sorts of adversity.”

  “Yeah, you guys have sure had some hard knocks,” Karl added.

  “If you got any personal role models, Rabbi,” Groucho said, “you know, people you admire ’cause they’re strong—maybe now’s the time to start thinkin’ about them.”

  “There is no shortage of Jewish martyrs,” Feinermann said. “Take, for example, Channah and her ten sons. A bit of a zealot, Channah was, but righteous nonetheless. She instructed her ten sons to die rather than give themselves over to the Hellenic ways.”

  “Did they listen to her?” Karl asked.

  “Yes, indeed, they did. The youngest was only six, yet he accepted death rather than bow down to the Greek gods and goddesses.”

  “That’s terrible,” Groucho said. “A six-year-old kid, what does he know?”

  “They were probably more mature in those days,” Karl said. “After all, didn’t most people kick the bucket around thirty?”

  “Still, the kid was only six,” Groucho said.

  “Surely your corporate torture could not be as terrible as that,” Feinermann piped in.

  Karl said, “If thinking of this broad helps you along, Rabbi, then more power to you.”

  “Then I shall think about Channah. And I shall also think about the Ten Martyrs our people read about on Yom Kippur. Our holiest rabbis were tortured to death by the Romans because of their beliefs. One was decapitated, one was burned, one was flayed, and one of the most famous of our sages, Rabbi Akiva, had his flesh raked with hot combs.”

  “Those Romans were surely uncivilized people!” Groucho exclaimed. “Gladiators, lion pits, and torturing men of the cloth. Even Mr. P. wouldn’t do that.”

  “Comforting,” Feinermann said.

  “Yeah, Rabbi, that’s the spirit!” Karl cheered on.

  Feinermann thought: So maybe this was his chance to show his faith, like the Ten Martyrs. Always the little Jew against someone of might—the Persians, the Romans, the Spanish of the Inquisition, the Cossacks, and, most deadly, the Nazis. Not to mention Tommy Hoolihan, who beat Feinermann up every day for two years as the small boy of ten with the big black kippah walked home from heder. His mother thought that the bruises he’d sustained were from falls. She must have thought he was the clumsiest kid in New York.

  Twenty-five hundred years of persecution.

  Yet the Jews as a nation refused to die. Could he, like Rabbi Akiva, die with the words Sh’ma Yisroel on his lips and mean them?

  Feinermann thought about that as the two masked men led him to his destiny.

  Perhaps he could die a true martyr, perhaps not. But if he couldn’t, he wouldn’t worry about it too much. After all, how many Rabbi Akivas were there in a lifetime?

  He had expected darkness and filth, chains and nooses hanging from the ceiling. And some red-eyed, emaciated rats ready to eat his kishkas out. Instead Feinermann was brought into a semicircular projection room. The auditorium consisted of a wide-angled screen and a half-dozen rows of plush chairs, maybe seating for fifty in all.

  Not so bad for a dungeon, Feinermann thought.

  They placed him in the center row and shackled his feet and hands to the chair. He watched fearfully as Karl took out some masking tape. But all Marx did was tape the old man’s eyes open. Not tight enough to prevent him from clearing his eyes of debris, but firmly enough to prevent him from pressing his lids together.

  “Scream when you can’t take it anymore.” Karl stood up. “Nothing personal, Rabbi. I’d like to help you, but I can’t.” He moved closer to the old man’s ear and whispered, “I’m into Elvis for a lot of bread.”

  “Elvis?” Feinermann said.

  Karl swore and hit his face mask, whispering, “That’s Groucho’s real name. Don’t say nothing or we’ll both be in deep water. Let’s just get this over with.”

  As Groucho dimmed the lights, Feinermann waited solemnly, wondering why Elvis didn’t hide under an Elvis Presley mask. It would have seemed like a natural disguise.

  Soon the old man was sitting in total darkness. All he could hear and feel were the sensations his own body provided—the whooshing of blood coursing through his head, his heartbeat, the quick steps of his nervous breathing.

  Then the first outside stimulus. A motor running. The room slowly beginning to brighten as shadowy shapes illuminated the movie screen. Sound . . . music . . . bad music. Not only was it sappy but it was old and distorted. It sounded as if it had come from an ancient, irrelevant documentary—the kind they show frequently on PBS.

  On-screen was a fuzzy sienna image of a young man digging up potatoes. A voice-over with a reedy mid-Atlantic accent explained that this man was Patrick Benton, Sr., the potato farmer. The shack in the background was Benton’s house in County Cork. The film went on to explain the hardships of Irish potato farming, including the great famine of the eighteen hundreds.

  A little history lesson never hurt anyone, the rabbi thought. Still, he wished he could blink in earnest. Next on the screen was a boat stuffed with Irish immigrants approaching Ellis Island. He wondered if Tommy Hoolihan’s parents were aboard.

  Then a cut to a tenement house, not far from where Feinermann grew up. He recognized old buildings that had been razed decades ago. The old clothing, the pushcarts, faces of men and women who still believed in the American Dream. Nostalgia gripped his chest. The film switched to an indoor shot—a frame of a woman with a plump face holding a baby in her arms. She looked like Feinermann’s mother. In fact, she could have been any one of a thousand immigrant mothers.

  His eyes were watering, and he knew it wasn’t because he couldn’t blink. The moisture in his orbs represented something deeper.

  The baby had been christened Patrick Jr. Fein
ermann didn’t know Mr. Benton’s forename, but he was pretty certain he was looking at the great philanthropist himself. As the film progressed, it was clear to the old man that what he was watching was Patrick Jr.’s rags-to-riches story. From the son of a potato farmer to the CEO of one of the biggest corporations in the world.

  Only in America.

  The old man watched with rapt attention.

  Philip said to Groucho, “How long has he been in there now?”

  “Close to six hours, sir.”

  “Incredible.” Philip paced. “Simply incredible. Most ordinary men would have cracked hours ago. Seeing that same story over and over. Are you sure he didn’t puke? Puking is usually the first sign that they’re coming around.”

  “No sign of puke anywhere,” Karl said. “It’s really amazing. That thing is so corny, I almost puked. And I only had to sit through it once.”

  “Maybe it’s because he hasn’t eaten,” Groucho suggested.

  Philip thought about that for a moment. “Did he retch at all?”

  “Not even a single gag,” Karl said.

  “I just don’t understand.” Philip pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his face. “If psychological torture isn’t bringing him around, we’ll have to take sterner measures.”

  Groucho said, “Surely you’re not suggestin’ physical torture?”

  “Our market share in the industry is plummeting.” Philip wrung his hands. “CeeGee’s new formula is wiping us off the map. I’ve got a five-figure monthly mortgage and a Range Rover owned by the bank. I’m gonna crack that old geezer somehow!”

  Over the intercom came Feinermann’s voice. “Marxes, can you hear me?”

  “Rabbi, it’s Philip. We can hear you. What do you want?”

  “I think we should talk.”

  “Are you going to help us, Rabbi?” Philip inquired.

  “I will help you, I will help you,” Feinermann said.

  Philip broke into a wide smile and whispered to his henchmen, “I knew it, I knew it. No one can sit through that much hokey drivel and come out sane.” Into the intercom, he said, “I have your word that you will help me, Rabbi?”