“Absolutely, but first I must have your help.”
“What do you require from me?”
“I want a few things. First you must call my wife and tell her I will be delayed. She should go hear the Megilla without me, and she shouldn’t worry. I’ll be home in time to deliver our shalach manot—our gift baskets—and our charity to the poor.”
“What do I say if she asks questions?”
“Sarah’s a practical woman. As long as I can make deliveries tomorrow, she won’t care. Next you must get me a Megillas Esther. It’s nighttime, and I need to read it before I can eat.”
Philip said, “I’ll find you this . . . Megilla.”
“Be sure it’s a Megillas Esther. There are five megillos.”
“Rabbi, I assure you you’ll get the whole Megilla,” Philip said. “Anything else?”
“I’d like to eat after I read. A kosher meal.”
“Done.”
“Not so fast, Philip. It is not enough to have a kosher meal. I must have a seudah—a feast. Not a feast in terms of food. I must have a feast in terms of a party, a gathering.” The rabbi thought a moment. “I want to have a feast, and I want it to be in your honor, Philip. You have shown me the light.”
“Why, Rabbi, I’m so honored.”
“The Marxes can come, too. That will make it quite a deal. And also, you must invite your Mr. Benton as the guest of honor.”
Philip didn’t like that idea at all. “I don’t know if I can do that, Rabbi.”
“You want the help?” Feinermann asked.
Philip thought of his five-figure monthly mortgage. “He’ll be there. But you mustn’t tell him you were—”
“‘Kidnapped’ is the word, Philip. But I’m willing to let bygones be bygones. I’m not even angry about it. I think it was the Almighty’s way of telling me something.”
“You are a remarkable man, Rabbi,” Philip said.
“So you will call up your Mr. Benton?”
“Yes,” Philip said. “And we will have a feast—to celebrate our new partnership, shall we say?”
“I don’t know if ‘partnership’ is the right word, but if you meet my conditions, I will help you. That’s all for now.”
Feinermann stopped talking, wondering if his idea would work out. The part about the banquet he’d cribbed straight out of the Megilla. But he didn’t feel too guilty about it. If it worked once, maybe it would work again.
Left alone in the library, Feinermann read the Megilla aloud, intoning each word with precision, stomping his foot loudly whenever he came to the name of the evil Haman. According to Jewish law, Haman was so wicked that one’s ears were not even supposed to hear his name. Also according to Jewish law, one was required to hear every word of the Megilla, including the name of Haman. A difficult dilemma, Feinermann thought.
When he was done, he closed the Hebrew text, imbued with a sense of purpose. He buzzed Philip, and the bald man came in, a grin slapped upon his face.
“We have prepared a most sumptuous kosher meal for you, Rabbi Feinermann. I’ve phoned Mr. Benton, and he can’t wait to meet the man who will bring KingCola back to its rightful number one position.”
The bald man rubbed his hands together.
“Now, don’t worry if it takes a little time to recall the formula in its entirety. We have an excellent staff who’ll be at your beck and call . . . Tell me the truth, Rabbi. Did they indeed use trichlorobenzoate? I’m not a taste expert, but I swear I detect a little trichlor in their new formula.”
“I don’t remember, Philip. And even if I did, I couldn’t tell you.”
“B-b-b . . . but you swore,” Philip stammered.
“I swore I wouldn’t tell Mr. Benton that you abducted me—a big concession on my part. And I swore to help you. I will help you. But I will not give you Cola Gold’s formula!”
A buzz came over the intercom. The secretary said, “Mr. Benton’s limo has just pulled up, Mr. P.”
The bald man began to sweat. Out came the handkerchief. Feinermann noticed it was a new one—white linen, starched and ironed. Philip said, “So help me God, if I hadn’t asked Mr. Benton to come personally, I’d tear you limb from limb.”
“Not a smart idea, Philip. And against religious law as well.”
“Banquet in my honor! This was just a ruse, wasn’t it?”
“It worked for Queen Esther—”
“Shut up!”
“Are you going to let me help you, or are you going to sit there like a sodden lump?”
Philip glared at him. For the first time he realized he was working against a formidable opponent. “Just what do I tell Mr. Benton?”
Feinermann held up his hand. “You let me handle your Mr. Benton.” He stood. “First we will eat.”
The meal started with cabbage soup. The main course was boiled chicken with vegetables, kasha and farfel stuffing, and a salad of chopped onions, tomatoes, and cucumbers. Dessert consisted of apple strudel, tea, and coffee.
Feinermann wiped his mouth with satisfaction while studying the faces of the men who had abducted him, introduced to Benton as chauffeurs. Elvis and Donnie were in their thirties; both had bad skin and little ponytails. Without the masks and the guns, they were not impressive as thugs. But Philip had gotten them for free. You buy cheap, you get cheap. The old man noticed the food was not to their liking. He expected that. But Benton had cleaned his plate.
Everything was going according to plan.
The rabbi asked for a moment to say grace after the meal. While he gave benedictions to the Almighty, he sneaked sidelong glances at the great industrialist/philanthropist.
Patrick Benton had been a tall man in his youth. From the film, Feinermann remembered a strapping man of thirty whose frame easily topped those around him. But now, with the hunched shoulders and the curved spine, Benton didn’t seem so tall. His eyes were watery blue, his skin as translucent as tracing paper. What was left of his hair was white. The rabbi noted with pride that most of his own hair was still brown.
Finishing up the last of his prayers, Feinermann sat with his hands folded and smiled at Benton. KingCola’s CEO smiled back.
“I don’t know when I’ve eaten such tasty . . . nostalgic food. All these exclusive restaurants I go to, where everyone knows my name and kisses my keister.” Benton waved his hand in the air. “Food that doesn’t look like food, and the portions aren’t big enough to feed a flea. Damn fine grub, Feinermann.” He turned to his assistant. “Philip, make a note of where the chow came from. This is the kind of cooking I like.”
The bald man quickly pulled out a notepad and began to scribble.
“So.” Benton harrumphed. “I understand you have a way to help out KingCola. Philip was sketchy with the details. Give me your ideas, Rabbi.”
“Mr. Benton, first I want to say what an honor it is to meet you, even though this was not my idea.”
Philip turned pale.
“Not your idea?” Benton questioned.
“Not at all,” the rabbi said. “I’ll be honest. I didn’t know you from any of the other philanthropists with names on buildings until Philip here convinced me to come and meet you. Even so, I wasn’t crazy about the prospect. His idea of help and my idea of help weren’t exactly the same thing.”
Benton looked intrigued. “How so?”
“You see, Mr. Benton, I worked with Cola Gold in a very tangential way. It was necessary for me to learn the formula of their new line of cola—”
“Good God, Rabbi! You know the formula? That would be worth millions to me!”
“I take it you’d pass a few million to me in the process. But that’s not the point. I can’t give you the formula. That would be unethical.”
Benton sat back in his seat. “Yes, of course.” He ran his hand through thin strands of white hair. “However, there’s nothing . . . unethical . . . about you making . . . suggestions for additives in our competing brand of new-generation cola.”
“The problem is, Mr. Bent
on, I don’t know anything about new generations, period. I am from an old generation.”
Benton turned to Philip. “So this is why you interrupted me at the clubhouse?”
“Hold on, Mr. Benton,” Feinermann said. “Don’t be so rude to Philip. The man is not my best friend, but he does have your interests at heart. I don’t have any suggestions for your new-generation drinks. But I have a lot of suggestions for your old-generation drinks.”
“What old-generation drinks?” Benton asked.
“That’s the problem,” the rabbi said. “There are none. Mr. Benton, I watched your life story many, many times. Not my doing, but be that as it may, I feel I know you quite well. We have a lot in common. We both had immigrant parents, grew up dirt-poor in New York, the first generation of Americans in our family. We were the dreams and hopes of our parents who sacrificed everything so we could have it a little better, nu? We lived through the Depression, fought in World War Two, gritted our teeth as our hippie children lived through the sixties. And now, in our waning years, we sit with a sense of pride in our lives and maybe bask a little in our grandchildren. Am I not correct?”
Benton stared at Feinermann. “Exactly! I see you as a man with vision! Philip, hire this man on as a consultant. Start him at—”
“Wait, wait,” Feinermann interjected. “Thank you for the offer, but I already have a job. And I’m not so visionary. I know how you feel because we’re from the same generation. I saw your mother, Mr. Benton. She looked like my mother. She probably knocked herself out chopping meat by hand and scrubbing floors with a sponge.”
“Her hands were as rough as sandpaper, poor woman.”
“And I bet she always had a pitcher of iced tea in the icebox when you came home from school. Maybe some shpritz from a bottle with the O2 pellets?”
Benton smiled. “You’ve got that one down.”
“No cans of cola in her refrigerator.”
“Just where is all this leading?” Philip asked.
“Shut up!” Benton replied. “We’re reminiscing.”
Again Feinermann wiped his mouth. “I’ll tell you where this is leading, Philip. Pay attention, because it has to do with business.”
The bald man wiped his forehead. “I’m listening.”
Feinermann said, “You have a multibillion-dollar business that provides beverages to America. And all of your products are aimed at the young or the ones who wish they were young. Not that I have anything against the new generation, but I can’t relate to them. And I don’t drink the same things they drink. I want my glass of tea with a lemon. I want my old-fashioned shpritz without essences of this flavor or that flavor. Whatever happened to tonic water and ginger ale, for goodness’ sake?”
“We have ginger ale,” Philip protested. “King Ginger.”
“Ach!” The rabbi gave him a disgusted look. “Relegated to the back of the cooler. The young people think it’s a drink for stomach maladies.”
“You have to realize that New Age drinks comprise a measly three hundred and twenty-seven million dollars of market sales,” Philip said. “Ginger ale’s a drink with no appeal.”
“It appeals to me,” Feinermann insisted.
“The rabbi’s got a point,” Benton said. “The New Age drinks do appeal to the older set. And let’s not forget the growth rate, Philip—fifteen percent as compared to two percent in the industry as a whole.”
“There you go,” Feinermann stated. “When are you companies going to wake up and realize there is a whole generation out there waiting for you to appeal to them?” He turned to Benton. “You gobbled up dinner tonight because it reminded you of your mother’s cooking.”
Benton bit his lip. “I see what you’re saying. But, Rabbi, you have to realize that carbonated beverages are still a youth-oriented market.”
“Because you choose to woo the youth. What about me?”
“The elderly market is tricky,” Benton said.
“Even if you convert them to your product, they’re just going to keel over anyway,” Philip said.
Benton glared at his assistant. “I beg your pardon.”
“No . . . I mean . . . not you, Mr. Benton—”
“Calm down, Philip,” Feinermann said with little patience. “Yes, we’re all going to die. Even your Mr. Benton here. But I see your point. So don’t market them as old-fashioned drinks. Make them family drinks. Seltzer, tonic water, ginger ale—promote them as new, lighter, less sugary drinks with a history of America. Show teenagers and grandpas drinking them at the family barbecues. What could be better?”
Philip said, “I’ve got the hook, sir—a New Age drink with a touch of nostalgia.”
“I like it, Philip,” Benton said.
“And what about iced teas?” Feinermann said.
Philip said, “Only a four-hundred-million-dollar share of the market.”
Feinermann said, “But combine it with your three-hundred-and-twenty-seven-million-dollar New Age share, Philip. That’s almost a billion dollars.”
“Man’s got a point, Philip.”
“Tensel’s has a lock on tea, sir,” Philip said. “Besides, I heard Heavenly Brew is coming out with a new line. Lots of teas for such a little market share.”
“Ah, Heavenly Brew. That’s not tea. Not tea the way Mr. Benton and I remember it,” Feinermann said.
Benton nodded. “True. We had tea that rotted the gut. How about a new full-flavored tea drink, Philip? It just might work, especially if we get a decaf version.”
“Very good, Mr. Benton.”
Feinermann said, “We’re a lost generation, Mr. Benton, just waiting for someone to sing our tunes. Stop regurgitating old cola recipes and expand your horizons.”
Benton exclaimed, “Glad you brought all this to my attention, Rabbi! Philip, make a note to bring all this crap to the board’s attention this Thursday. And, Rabbi, you will join us at the meeting, won’t you?”
“Thursday I have a funeral to preside over. I’m afraid I must pass. Besides, I’ve stated my piece. Perhaps now your Philip will leave me in peace?”
“Absolutely! Philip, stop pestering the rabbi.”
Philip nodded like a Kewpie doll.
Feinermann stood. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to take my leave.”
“Certainly, Rabbi,” Benton responded. “And anytime you need anything, just ask.”
“Thank you, Mr. Benton.” The old man shook hands with the philanthropist and bade him goodbye. As he was accompanied back to the car, walking in the cool March air, he reflected on how much he missed his childhood. Not the part about being beaten up by Tommy Hoolihan . . . and he didn’t miss the cholera and polio, either. But he did miss his youth—a generation that grew up without TV. And a good glass of ginger ale . . . corporations do forget about the elderly—a reflection of society, he supposed.
Ah well, at least he’d sleep in his own bed tonight.
When they arrived at the Cadillac, Feinermann said to Philip, “You don’t have to come back with me. The Marxes know the way.”
“The Marxes?” Philip said.
“Private joke, Mr. P.,” Donnie/Karl said.
Philip shook hands with the rabbi. “I’m sorry if I inconvenienced you.”
“No problem,” Feinermann said. “I’ll integrate the experience into next week’s sermon.” He opened the door to the backseat. “By the way, Marxes, what did you do with the face masks?”
“They’re in the trunk,” Elvis/Groucho said. “Why?”
“Unless you’re planning another abduction, give them to me,” Feinermann said. “I’ll use them in the Purim festivities! Why let them go to waste?”
These last four stories and essays deal
less with mystery and more with my
favorite subject—family. My husband,
Jonathan, and I have been married for
thirty-four years, a union that has
produced four children and a lot of
material for my fiction. I thank the
m
all—husband, parents, children,
grandparents, uncles, aunts, and
cousins—for my beautiful life.
FREE PARKING
“Free Parking” is a charming tale that
addresses the gap between generations.
Its origin was a conversation I had with
my daughter Rachel. I chose the game
Monopoly as a nexus for the story
because that was the board game that
my mother and her sisters used to play
with their mother. Family lore states
that Grandma was so sedentary, her
daughters used to move her token
around the board for her.
ALL OF OUR FAMILY TRADITIONS ARE STUPID, BUT at least this one’s harmless. And just maybe Great-granny enjoys it, although she never says so to me. At eighty-seven, Great-granny doesn’t say much of anything. Not that she’s senile. She knows all her children, her grandchildren, and her great-grandchildren, but she just doesn’t talk anymore. Mom says she never talked much to begin with, so I suppose the adjustment was an easy one.
Great-granny has been in an old-age home for about six years now. It’s called the Golden Years, and it’s a nice place, especially in the summertime. It has a fenced backyard that holds a sweeping lawn outlined with beds of jeweled marigolds. Behind the fence sits Taylor’s Woods, full of sweet-smelling leaves and crunchy bark that decays into soft ground that sinks beneath your sneakers. The backyard also has an old swing set off to the side. When I was younger, I used to pass the time swinging. Even back then the seat—a black leather strap—was cracked and dry, and the chains that held it creaked as I rose and fell. The rusty rhythm used to rock me into a trance, making the visiting hours go quickly.
But now I’m twelve and too old to swing, too old to play explorer in the woods. Mom expects more. Not that she makes me come. But if I’m going to come, I have to behave like an adult, whatever that means. I never liked the way adults act around old people. They’re uncomfortable with them, like being elderly is contagious. They’re freaked out by the palsies and the bladder bags, by the toothlessness and drool. None of that stuff bothers me, but maybe that’s because I’ve been visiting Great-granny forever. Besides, it isn’t that much different from my schoolmates, with Emma Tolosky munching on her hair, or Sammy Robertson squeezing his zits, or the worst . . . Jason Rathers picking his nose and rubbing it in his history book. I’ll take Granny over Jason any day of the week.
The Garden of Eden and Other Criminal Delights Page 24
