by Andy Siegel
“Well, I’m pretty sure I’m the only one in here mixing Viagra with cardiac meds,” he quips. We chuckle like fourth graders. The majority of adult males in New York City are simply mature-appearing fourth graders. This is a fact not open for debate.
Henry’s in his late sixties, just shy of six feet, and likes to wear Italian designer pinstripe suits with cowboy boots. Henry commands attention, but I’ll explain more about him later since the house lights are dimming now.
NOT AN ANGEL’S HALO
“Good evening and welcome to Jingles Dance Bonanza.” The crowd goes quiet at the sound of the anonymous male voice coming over the speaker system. “We’re proud to present for your viewing pleasure one of your all-time favorites.” He pauses. “That’s right, gentlemen,” he continues, “I know many of you have missed her, but tonight she’s back and better than ever.”
Clapping and cheers erupt. But before the announcer can complete his intro, a happy chant—“Cook-ee! Cook-ee! Cook-ee!”—begins to sweep the room.
I lean into Mick. “So what’s with this Cookie?”
“I’m not a real regular,” he explains. “But her situation—her reputation—is unusual. It’s like she’s more than a dancer. She’s a friend to a lot of these guys, an actual friend. Not just looking for the quick lap-dance cash-out. She actually cares about her customers and what they have to say. I only met her once, a while ago, but I gotta tell you, she left me feeling good, too. She has a gift that way. And it’s sincere.”
“Yeah, Mick, I’m certain she cares about you.”
He gives me a look. “You’ll see,” he says.
The announcer continues. “So, without any further ado, Jingles Dance Bonanza proudly presents Cooooookieeeeeee!”
The lights start flickering and, up high, a vintage disco ball starts spinning. The pulsating reflections remind me of my bar mitzvah and the Bee Gees. It’s virtually a given that “I Will Survive” will begin playing as the black velvet curtain splits open. And it does. Yep. However, what I see on the stage causes me to give my eyes a rub and do a double take. And it’s not just me. The entire room seems to be in shock, too.
This Cookie did survive, by the looks of things. Just not unscathed.
She’s tall, dark-haired, and wearing a police uniform, posing aggressively with her hands on her hips. In her right hand, she’s holding a big black whip that’s curling down to the floor. But that’s not why the crowd’s wide-eyed. What’s shocking them is the thing on her head. She’s got a halo. Not an angel’s halo but rather a medical one, a brace of the sort worn by broken-neck survivors.
Henry pokes me. “What’s that around her head?”
I turn to Mick. “You do the honors.”
He nods and asks Henry, “You want the simple explanation or the detailed one?”
“I’m a man who prefers detail but, given the circumstances, how about splitting the difference?”
“You got it.” Mick actually looks taken aback himself. “That’s a halo brace. It’s generally used in the treatment of neck fractures located at the second cervical vertebrae, referred to by doctors as C2, just below the base of the skull. That black metal ring running around her forehead—why it’s called a halo brace—is secured by screws drilled directly into her skull. They penetrate the bone approximately one-eighth of an inch and, once tightened, exert about six pounds of pressure per pin site. So the ring is held in position by the pressure of the pins, rather than their depth.
“Enough tension, meanwhile, is created to stabilize her head and neck. Underneath her shirt, she’s wearing a plastic, padded stabilizing vest, attached to which are the four metal rods you see coming up from her shoulders—two in front, two in back. These are securely attached to the halo to arrest neck movement, since the medical recommendation for halo-wearing patients is little or no activity. Pressure on the device can disrupt the anatomical alignment of the surgically set vertebral bone fractures. The danger lies in too much movement causing a fracture fragment to migrate and sever the spinal cord, resulting in instant paraplegia. And possibly death. That’s about it.”
“Thanks,” Henry responds. “I’ll remember to ask for the simple version next time.” He looks at us with a serious expression. “Gentlemen, we can only salute this girl’s uncommon dedication to her art form. I think it’s safe to say that never before could exotic dancing have carried the risk of such serious consequences.”
I quickly turn my attention back to the stage. I don’t want to miss a thing.
Strutting down the catwalk, Cookie does seem a little nervous. Suddenly, one guy initiates a loud slow clap, breaking the hush. He stands, soon joined by more and more of the audience. When the entire room is on their feet, cheering starts up. They’ve gotten over the initial shock of seeing the head contraption she’s wearing, with its daunting black rods jutting up past the top of her head.
Cookie herself is teary-eyed and wearing a big smile. It’s plain to see how happy she is. She waves to several obvious regulars, who’re excited to be acknowledged.
Now she picks up her pace, increasing the suggestiveness of her body language. Yet something’s not right; she begins pitching forward with her right hand outstretched.
“Oh, shit!” Mick yells. “She’s going down!”
“Head first!” Henry adds.
The whole place falls silent again. I realize I haven’t been breathing.
Then, to my amazement, Cookie’s audience erupts into cheers. She’s not going down. What appeared to be a halo-busting, spinal cord–piercing forward plunge has evolved into a neatly executed front one-handed cartwheel. I can hardly believe my eyes a second time.
She completes the maneuver with the precision of a gymnast. But my breath stopped again as I watched the rod tips barely clear the floor.
Her fans are loving it. “More!” one patron pleads as she cartwheels again, landing in a front split a few feet from my astonished gaze. Though the crowd is roaring, those in the know—Dr. Mickey Mack and I—are caught between the world of entertainment and the world of deep concern for her.
Cookie is looking around, turning at the waist from the spread eagle position with her head fixed. You feel as if she’s touching each individual there with her careful regard. Her arms are wide-open with palms up, as if assuring us all, “I’m here for you.” Yanking off her breakaway top, she reveals an extraordinary pair of breasts. They are popping out from the openings in the device’s anchoring vest. When she tears away her pants, the room roars in honor and admiration as she twirls them lasso-style.
Suddenly, the fabric catches on the right front prong of her halo, and her pants wind up hanging over her face. We’re close enough to hear her. “Oops!” she says. Laughing at herself, she tosses them aside turning an awkward moment into sublime entertainment.
Gracefully, she rises and continues to dance seductively up and down the catwalk with her head fixed in position the entire time. The visual is totally unnatural but, at the same time, sexy as hell. Now, in addition to the bumps and grinds, with every wisecrack she makes, the house goes nuts.
A guy across from us takes out a cigarette, which Cookie instantly whip-snaps out of his mouth. “There’s no smoking in here, buddy,” she reminds him. He grins, and the crowd erupts further. She totally owns them and they’re adoring every minute of it.
“Mendel, what did I tell you?” she reprimands a scrawny accountant type with his mouth hanging open. “Didn’t I say you look better without that hedgehog on your keppie?” With a gentle flick of the whip, she relieves him of his hairpiece.
All this, and she speaks Yiddish, too.
The song plays out just as Cookie returns to her starting pose. As she takes a stiff bow, the applause is explosive.
“It’s good to be back, y’all. I love you guys.” She throws kisses, and once more tears fill her eyes. It’s an emotional homecoming, and she deserves every bit of
the homage she’s receiving. Waving good-bye, she disappears backstage.
I turn to Mick, shaking my head in wonder. “What the hell was that all about?”
“Like I said, she’s got a big following.”
“Yeah, she is amazing, and so are her fans.”
“When she did that move,” Henry says, incredulously—which isn’t his usual mode, “I thought she was going to kill herself.”
“I gotta tell ya,” Mick answers, “like I said, just about any form of activity is contraindicated in her situation. But Cookie, she’s definitely one of a kind.”
Just as things settle down, we’re distracted by a fresh round of applause. We turn and see her. She’s making her rounds on the floor, offering careful hugs and cheek kisses. I also notice Cookie’s refusal to take any of the money being pressed upon her. She’s one of a kind, all right.
When she gets to the fellow with the toupee, they embrace extra warmly, as if too much time’s gone by.
“Ruth sends her love,” I’m close enough to hear him say. “She wants to know if you and Major are ever going to come over for a nice home-cooked dinner.”
“You tell her it’ll be one night soon. I got a few screws stuck in my head right about now. Did she like my turkey meatloaf recipe?”
“We both did.” She gently caresses his face as she moves past him. I wonder how my wife would react if I brought home Cookie and this Major guy. Okay, she likes learning new recipes. But still, I’m not sure it would be enough.
Cookie makes her way to us, as Henry stands up to offer a personal round of applause. Some people merely clap, but Henry has such a commanding presence that when he puts his hands together, he does it with the kind of confidence that lends it a greater importance.
“Young lady,” he says, “that was quite an astounding performance.” He puts out his hand for a shake, then slides a folded bill into her unsuspecting palm. She looks. It’s a hundred.
“That’s extremely generous of you, but completely unnecessary.” She hands him back the bill.
“Are you sure?” he asks. “That was a death-defying act.”
“I’m positive. Please, I don’t want it. Besides, I don’t even know you, sir.”
“Please, call me Henry. ‘Sir’ makes me feel like an old man.”
She smiles. “Well, Major’s older than you, I bet. But you’re both handsome and distinguished, and I’m not just saying that.”
Unless I’m mistaken, Henry blushes. In my book, it’s a first.
As the two of them are talking, I take the opportunity to inspect the halo. Being a personal injury attorney, I can’t help myself. I’ve had a number of cases involving broken necks, with about a dozen halo wearers. Of course, the million-dollar question, and I mean it literally, is: Does she have an injury claim? I have every confidence that, at just the right moment, I’ll find the opening to head us down that road.
That is, if Henry doesn’t beat me to it. He’s one of my referring attorneys. Meaning, he sends me injury cases, and it works out for both of us. That is, I do the work and he gets half the legal fee. But here, I have a chance to make the first move.
THIS IS MADNESS
Sensing she’s ready to continue her rounds, Henry, with his usual perfect timing, says, “Well, Cookie, I enjoyed meeting you. I can see why you have so many loyal fans around here, and it’s clear many of them are still waiting to greet you.” She rewards him with a radiant smile.
Wait a minute here. Isn’t Henry going to say something? Could he really be dropping the ball? If so, Cookie really casts some spell. Mick, a casual observer up to this point, now steps in.
“Say Cookie, how’d you end up in a halo, anyway?”
Thanks, Mick. I look at Henry, who’s realized a second too late that the opening’s mine.
She pauses and takes a deep breath, like the last thing she wants is to tell the story again. By the look on her face, I know it’s a tale of trauma. How could it not be?
“Well,” she begins, “hard as it may be to believe, it all started when I slipped on a banana peel. At the end of a dance number. It was entirely my fault. I never should’ve used it as a prop, but the guys love it when I do. At first I thought it was no big deal, but I wound up having an operation. Now, I’m three surgeries in. Two of them to fix what the first guy did—and that’s about it.”
“That’s horrible.” Mick shakes his head. “But I gotta tell you, I used to be a neurologist, and something doesn’t sound right.” He looks at me. “You should have this guy check it all out for you. Tug’s the best damn malpractice lawyer in the state. He’s even got trophies.”
“You have trophies?” she repeats in an awed tone.
“Please, Mick,” I correct him, “I don’t have trophies.”
“Well, you have plaques.”
“Yes, I have some plaques, but no trophies. Besides, I’m sure Cookie isn’t interested in a malpractice case.” She shoots me a look that implies I’m wrong. Dead wrong. Wow. What’s going on here?
“Actually, I already have a lawyer. The case has been going on for almost three years now.” Suddenly, her expression is hard to read.
“Well, who is he?” Mick wants to know. “Tug can tell you if you’re in the right pair of legal hands. He knows everybody. Malpractice cases are challenging, and most attorneys aren’t experienced enough to handle them properly. But my man Tug over here,” Mick says, putting his hand on my shoulder meaningfully, “is the top guy.”
Cookie shrugs. Maybe she doesn’t realize the importance of a seasoned courtroom attorney to the prosecution of a malpractice case.
She turns to me. “My lawyer’s Chris Charles. Do you know him?”
“I can’t say that I do. What firm is he with?”
“Um, he doesn’t have a firm. He works out of his basement. In Brooklyn.”
Huh? That doesn’t sound good. But I don’t want to worry her.
“Well,” I say in a comforting tone, “that’s okay. As long as he’s experienced, it doesn’t really matter where he works from.” I kind of believe my last statement. But not really.
“Oh, he’s experienced. I made sure of that. I’m his fifth case.”
“Fifth neck case?” I ask, concerned with the answer I think I’m about to hear.
“I don’t know. He just said I was his fifth case. Five is pretty good.”
“I see.” I’m trying to stay neutral here, but it’s hard. There’s nothing worse for an injury victim than an inexperienced malpractice lawyer. Frankly, they should be outlawed, especially the ones working from basements. At the same time, I don’t approve of snaking clients from colleagues. The only time I’ll take such a case is when there’s a high probability the injured party’s rights will be compromised by the attorney representing him. I can’t allow that to happen. We have a bad enough name already.
“I’m curious,” I say. “Who referred you to this attorney?”
“The same person who referred me to the doctor I sued. My boyfriend, Major.”
That doesn’t sound right either. I look over at Henry. He shakes his head. Although naive, she’s smart enough to pick up on our unspoken doubts, and so she rushes on, trying to make it better. It doesn’t work.
“Well, he wasn’t my boyfriend at the time he referred me to Dr. McElroy, or when he suggested I retain Chris Charles. But he’s my boyfriend now. Anyhow, it doesn’t really matter. Chris said they’ve offered me two hundred fifty thousand dollars to settle the case. He says it’s a good number. So he’s sending me the papers to sign, and then I can get my lawsuit money.”
“Did I hear you correctly, Cookie?” Henry interjects. “Are you saying your boyfriend referred you to the doctor whom you’re suing for malpractice, and also to your lawyer?”
“That’s right.” A look of confusion brought on by Henry’s tone crosses her face.
&
nbsp; “By any chance,” Henry asks, “this Dr. McElroy and this Chris Charles—did they happen to know each other before the lawsuit?”
“Why, yes. They did. How’d you know?”
“Just an assumption. Based on your boyfriend, this Major, sending you to both these individuals. He was acquainted with each, so a reasonable inference is that they also knew each other.”
“Oh, you mean like that Kevin Bacon thing, how everybody knows somebody who knows him, kinda.”
“Yes, like that, I imagine. Nonetheless, what you’re saying is that after three surgeries, while still in that halo, and uncertain as to the permanency of your medical condition, you’re being offered two hundred fifty thousand dollars to settle the case?” His tone drips horrified disapproval.
Cookie now looks bewildered. Worry that hadn’t been there before crosses her face.
Just then, a man taps Cookie on the shoulder. His presence is dignified, his manner refined. She slowly turns, from the hips. The halo on her head gives her no choice.
“Major!” The embrace she gives him is warm in a different way from the others she’s been offering. “I wanted you here for my comeback show. I looked for you.” She’s pouting.
“I caught the tail end of it, my dear. I’m sorry. I’d fallen asleep in my chair.” She nods understandingly, unsurprised. His next utterance startles me. “Please tell me you didn’t open with the cartwheels. You promised.” She smiles at his concern.
“No worries. I’m doing just fine.” She turns back to us. “Major, these are my new friends. This is Mick, this is Henry, and this is Tug.”
Henry, one of New York’s most famous and talented criminal attorneys, is about to erupt. I can see it. Cross-examining a witness is one of his specialties. In a stern and commanding voice, he now begins his inquisition.
“You are the boyfriend who referred Cookie to the surgeon, McElroy, I understand.”
“Why, yes, that’s correct.”
“And that would also make you the same boyfriend who sent her to the lawyer in her malpractice action.”
“That’s right.”
