Death Benefits (14 page)

Chapter Thirteen

Weaving my hand through the tubes and monitor wires, I pressed a cool washcloth against Dottie's forehead. The resident had been checking the monitors and making notes when I had arrived. He said her chances of survival were fifty-fifty.

I leaned close to her ear. “Dottie,” I whispered, “this is Rachel Gold. The doctors say you're doing super. I know you're going to make it.”

I thought her eyelids flickered in response, but as I watched for a few moments they flickered again. Her arms were outside the bedcovers. I held one of her hands and looked down at her.

She was all alone now—her son dead, her daughter lost, her marriage long empty, her husband a suicide. If she survived this brutal attack, life held little promise for her remaining years. I tried to conjure up the little girl again—little Dottie in pigtails chasing the milk truck, shouting and laughing, laughing and shouting.

I wiped a tear from my cheek.

And what about the insurance money I was supposed to get for her? Although I still had people to talk to (including Anderson's doctor, I reminded myself) and evidence to locate, what I had seen so far suggested that Stoddard Anderson had been sane when he killed himself. Depressed? Probably. Distracted? Definitely. But the standard of proof for establishing insanity required far more than that. It was an evidentiary hurdle that now seemed higher than the Gateway Arch. The best I could realistically hope for was one or two pieces of evidence that would at least
suggest
the
possibility
of significant mental instability—evidence I could use as bargaining leverage with the claims adjuster. I might never be able to prove insanity, but I might find enough evidence to shake a couple hundred thousand dollars of settlement money out of the insurance tree.

Unless. Always unless. What had caused him to take out all that insurance just four months before he died? Although the answer might be Montezuma's Executor, it was an answer that could cause insurance problems. Did he believe he was going to die back then? Perhaps. Did he plan to kill himself back then? Let's hope not, Rachel.

I gently squeezed Dottie's hand.

Nothing felt quite right about Anderson's involvement with Panzer and the Executor. There were many things one might expect to find Stoddard Anderson doing last winter: pressing the flesh at a Republican Party black-tie fundraiser, reviewing quarterly financials at a board of directors meeting, editing one of his anti-abortion or anti-gay-rights pieces, perhaps even sipping room-service champagne in a hotel room with a mistress. But not helping smuggle an Aztec treasure—a golden erection, for goodness sakes—across the border, possibly in violation of the law. It just didn't compute.

As I looked down at Dottie, I thought again of Panzer's proposal. If Anderson had really undergone the personal and professional risks of bringing that incredible object into the country, then he truly had earned his $250,000 fee. If the Executor was already in St. Louis, and if I did find it, maybe Panzer was right. What was so terrible about turning it over to him and collecting the fee? At least I would have obtained something of value for Dottie.

And what an experience to actually see that thing, to touch it, to hold it. According to Remy Panzer, no one in the United States—with the possible exception of Stoddard Anderson—had ever seen it. In fact, there had been no confirmed sightings of it for more than 150 years. You'd have to be cold on a slab not to respond to the chance to find Montezuma's Executor.

Removing the washcloth, I leaned over Dottie and kissed her on the forehead. “I'm coming back tomorrow, Dottie,” I told her softly. “I expect to see you up and around by then. I have some exciting things to tell you about. We've got a real adventure ahead of us.”

I called Benny Goldberg from a hospital pay phone. I told him about Dottie, and I told him vaguely about Remy Panzer's proposition.

“I'm coming down.”

“Benny.”

“Hey, I'm not all that busy. You can take me up that ridiculous golden arch.”

“It's silver. And I'm okay down here.”

“Rachel, I need a couple days' vacation. I was thinking of Monaco, but what the hell, they don't call St. Louie the Monaco of the Mississippi for nothing. We'll take your niece and nephew to a baseball game. Just like last time. I'll finally take a tour of that fucking brewery. Maybe have me a couple orders of barbecued snouts at Roscoe's. And if we run out of things to do, hell, it's August in St. Louis. We can always work up a sweat and go to the Galleria. Think your sister is willing to put me up again?”

“Probably.” I was smiling. “We Gold girls have an inexplicable soft spot in our hearts for you.”

“Anyway,” he said, “I got a phone call this morning from the dean of the law school down there.”

“Washington U?”

“Yep.”

“Wow. Are they serious?” Last winter Benny had published a law review article proposing a radical new approach to resale price maintenance agreements under the federal antitrust laws. It was a brilliant piece (which I would say even if Benny hadn't thanked me, in the very first footnote, for my editorial suggestions). During the months since its publication Benny had received inquiries from several law schools around the country.

“Don't know. The dean invited me to come down for a morning of interviews with some of the professors. I thought maybe I could schedule that for Saturday or Monday.”

“That's wonderful. You should definitely do it.”

“I just might. So tell me again how to get to your sister's house. I can't remember.”

I told him.

“I've got a meeting tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “I won't hit the road until around five o'clock. So don't expect me until ten or eleven.”

“Thanks, Benny.”

“Hey, what are friends for?”

***

The prospect of Benny Goldberg's coming to St. Louis had blown away the blue fog that had descended on me with news of Dottie's assault. I was feeling good as I took the elevator down to level four of the underground parking garage. I was feeling good as I stepped out of the elevator on level four. I was still feeling good as I spotted my car and started toward it. That's because my mind was operating on tape delay. Nothing clicked until I actually reached the car.

“Oh, no,” I gasped.

Someone had bashed in the back window and the window on the passenger side in front. There were thousands of pieces of shattered glass everywhere—on the ground, inside the car, on the seats, on the floor of the car.

I peered in the window on the driver's side. Last week's
New York Times Magazine
was still on the back seat, although now covered by a sprinkling of broken glass that for some reason made me think of the coarse rock salt that road crews spread during snowfalls. The documents I had received from the St. Louis Club—the three quarterly statements of account—were still on the front seat.

I walked around to the back of the car. Feeling a little woozy, I put my hand on the trunk for balance. The trunk moved, and I jumped back. I tried to breathe slowly as I stared at the trunk. Someone had pried it open, breaking the lock in the process.

I stepped forward and lifted the trunk lid, my heart racing. There had been nothing in it other than my trial bag, which had been stuffed with my notes and documents related to Stoddard Anderson. The trial bag was still there. It had been closed when I put it in the car this afternoon. It was still closed, but now all of my notes and documents were strewn throughout the trunk.

I stared at the trial bag. Someone had smashed in the car windows, broken into the trunk, rifled through the contents of my trial bag, and then…closed it back up? My fingers twitched as I reached into the trunk for it. From the weight alone I knew the trial bag was empty. Balancing it on the rear fender, I opened it. There was nothing inside but a single, folded sheet of white paper.

I pulled out the note and unfolded it. The three-word message was printed in big block letters:

GO HOME BITCH

As I slowly lowered the trunk lid, I became aware of how isolated my car was. The garage had been crowded when I pulled in. I had been forced to drive down four levels before I could find a space. Rush hour had come and gone while I was inside the hospital, and now most of the spaces on level four were empty.

I looked around quickly. It was quiet and it was dark. There was no sound other than the hollow drip-drip-drip of liquid from somewhere on the other side of the garage. I got in the car, pulled the door closed, and locked it. Inserting the key into the ignition, I prayed it would start. It did.

By the time I reached the cashier on level one, I was feeling a little better. By the time the police got there (I had the cashier call them), I felt even better. And when the crossbar lifted and I finally pulled into traffic forty minutes later (after telling the police very little beyond the outlines of my relationship to Dottie Anderson), I could almost shake my head sheepishly. How come Philip Marlowe was never spooked? Or Spenser? Being a man might have something to do with it. Nah. Being a fictional character had everything to do with it.

***

Dinner with Ann and the family was a delicious break from the day's events. You can't imagine how good it felt to be called Aunt Rachel again. I was determined to have a wonderful evening.

After dinner, while Ann cleaned up and Richie plopped down in front of the tube to watch the ballgame, I took my niece and nephew upstairs to get them ready for bed. I had brought each a present: a new book.
Tales of Amanda Pig
for Jennifer and
Owl Moon
for Cory. I read them the books, sang them several songs, and tucked them in.

Richie was watching baseball highlights when I came downstairs. I joined Ann in the kitchen, where she was making brownies. Tomorrow was Cory's treat day at baseball practice, she explained. I greased the baking pans as we caught up on our lives and Ann filled me in on our parents. As I listened to her tell me about Mom's latest craze, I noticed something about Ann that I hadn't seen at lunch.

“Have you been lifting weights?” I asked.

“Weights?” Ann responded. “Me? Are you serious? You were the jock in the family.”

“Well, it's just that you look more, uh, developed.”

Ann laughed. “These?” she said, cupping her breasts. “I had my boobs done in March.”

“Done?”

You know, enlarged.”

“You mean by a plastic surgeon?”

“Of course, silly. Who else would do them?”

“Why?”

“Why do you think? To make them bigger.”

“Did Richie make you do that?”

“No. Although”—she let the word hang out there a moment—“I haven't heard any complaints. He loves them like this.”

I absorbed the information in silence. “He shouldn't have made you do that to yourself,” I finally said.

“I didn't do it for him, Rachel. I did it for me. You can't imagine how much better it makes me feel. You should see me in that black cocktail dress.” She winked and made an ooh-la-la gesture with her hands.

“I thought your boobs were nice before.”

“And now they're even nicer. Jesus, Rachel. Sometimes you are such a prude.”

***

Forty-five minutes later, I closed my Jane Austen novel (
Emma
—again) and pulled up the covers. I thought back to when Ann and I were in elementary school. I had felt closer to her back then than I have ever felt to anyone. We slept in the same bed, bathed in the same bath, walked to and from school together, invented our own language, protected each other from our parents. I can close my eyes and still recall her little-girl scent or the smell of her breath in the morning. When I was eight and Ann was six we formed the TWA club, our secret and extremely exclusive club (only two members). I smiled as I remembered our vow to never reveal that the initials stood for Tushy Wipers Association. Were we ever really that young? Or that close? And what had happened over the intervening years? How was it that my idea of a great concert moment was James Taylor at Ravinia singing “Sweet Baby James” while Ann's was Barry Manilow at the Dunes singing “I Write the Songs”? How was it that the junior member of the TWA club now had bleached hair, silicon boobs, and sculptured fingernails?

As I reached up to click off the reading lamp there was a knock at my door. It was Ann.

“You have a call, Rachel,” she said as she handed me the portable phone.

As she turned to go, I touched her shoulder. “I love you, Ann.”

She smiled. “I love you, too.”

I padded back to bed, sat down, and said hello into the phone.

No one answered.

“Hello?”

No answer.

“Hello?”

And then a male voice came on. “Today was a warning,” he said slowly. His voice was deep, fuzzy, far away.

“Who is this?”

No answer.

“Who is this?” I repeated.

“Go home, bitch.”

And then there was a click. And then there was a dial tone.

Chapter Fourteen

Ann shook me awake at four-fifteen in the morning.

“Rachel, there's a man on the phone. He needs to talk to you. He says it's important.”

I was immediately alert, buzzing on that jolted-awake sensation unique to the middle of the night.

As I reached for the telephone, I suddenly recalled my last phone call—the one that had left me staring into the darkness for close to an hour after it ended.

“Hello?” I said, guardedly.

“Ah, Miss Gold. It would appear that I am in need of legal counsel.”

“Melvin? Is this Melvin Needlebaum?”

“It is indeed.”

“What's wrong?”

“Wrong? Shall I begin with the Justice Department's totally inadequate enforcement of the Clayton Act
and
the Hart-Scott-Rodino Act in the context of airline mergers? Or should I open with the Reagan administration's ill-informed, ill-conceived, and ill-advised decision to deregulate the airline industry?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Miss Gold, I am a victim of airline piracy, a prisoner of political pandering, a sacrificial lamb to supply-side economics.”

“Melvin, are you on drugs?”

“Don't be absurd, Miss Gold. My consciousness has not been chemically altered, and I am certainly not high. I am in jail. I need an attorney.”

“You're in jail?”

“Precisely what I just said, Miss Gold. Is there something wrong with this connection?”

“No. Go ahead.”

“This conversation we are having constitutes my one telephone call.”

“What jail?”

“I am presently incarcerated in what is known as the hold-over facility at police headquarters.”

“You mean here?”

“I do indeed.”

“In St. Louis?”

“But of course. As you may know, Miss Gold, the due process clause of the Fourteenth Amendment prohibits this Missouri Gestapo from holding me without issuance of a proper judicial warrant for a period longer than twenty hours. Ordinarily, I would be content to allow the full twenty hours to expire, if for no other reason than to increase my consequential and incidental damages at the trial of my civil rights suit against this hillbilly junta. However, my twenty hours will not expire until ten forty-one this evening. I am scheduled to commence a deposition of an Anheuser-Busch VP at precisely nine a.m. in the offices of Thompson and Mitchell in downtown St. Louis. It is a Bottles and Cans deposition, Miss Gold, and it is imperative that I be there on time.”

“Okay, Melvin. I'll come downtown and see if I can spring you.”

“Excellent, Miss Gold. I knew I could depend upon you. I can assure you that Abbott and Windsor will compensate you handsomely for your emergency services.”

“Let me ask you something, Melvin.”

“Certainly. Fire away, Miss Gold.”

“Why exactly are you in jail?”

“As I stated earlier, I am a victim of airline piracy, a prisoner of political—”

“Come on, Melvin. It's almost four-thirty in the morning. What are you charged with?”

“Disorderly conduct. Assault third degree. And some species of theft. It is nothing short of a total perversion of the system of justice, Miss Gold. Worse yet, I have been physically assaulted by a fellow prisoner.”

“Sit tight. I'll be right down, Melvin. Don't talk to anyone until I get there.”

“Excellent, Miss Gold. You have my gratitude. Indeed, I would be pleased to afford you the right of first refusal on both my civil rights suit against these SS troops and my RICO suit against the airline.”

In the background I could hear someone—a police officer, I assumed—say to Melvin, “Okay, pal, time's up.”

“I AM NOT YOUR PAL!” Melvin shouted in outrage.

“C'mon, pal,” the officer said, his voice closer to the phone. “Time to go back upstairs.”

“Can you believe this shocking misconduct?” Melvin said to me. “Officer, I must remind you that I am a member of the bar and an officer of the court. I insist upon my rights! I insist—”

There was a click, and then a dial tone.

***

Two and a half hours later I was seated in the small living room of the south St. Louis home of Circuit Judge Robert Schmeizing. To my right sat Jim Wortz, the chain-smoking bail bondsman who'd met me at police headquarters. When we had arrived at the judge's home, the acting bailiff (aka Mrs. Schmeizing) answered the door. She said the judge would be out in a few moments. I leaned back in the chair and tried to sort through what I had learned since Melvin's call.

I had driven downtown in the dark. The plastic taped over the rear and side windows of my car flapped violently on the highway. I reached the police headquarters near Tucker Boulevard at 5:10 a.m. I learned that court would not open until nine—almost four hours from then. The only way to get Melvin out in time for his deposition would be to contact the duty judge (the judge on call that night), see if he would hear me, and then try to convince him to issue an appearance bond. A call to a bail bondsman yielded the identity of the duty judge: the Honorable Robert Schmeizing. I called Judge Schmeizing, clearly waking him from a dead sleep. He groggily agreed to hear me in his living room at 7:00 a.m.

From what I had been able to piece together at police headquarters, Melvin Needlebaum had outdone himself this time. Although urban police officers, particularly desk sergeants, have perfected the art of stonewalling lawyers attempting to see clients in the middle of the night—the favorite tactic being the “shift change in progress,” a changing of the guard which purportedly renders the entire police force incommunicado for hours—Melvin's activities over the past twenty-four hours had already become the stuff of legend down at police headquarters. There were plenty of officers eager to fill me in.

According to the police, Melvin had been in Philadelphia reviewing documents in a warehouse yesterday. He caught a flight for St. Louis last night. Engine problems forced the plane to land in Indianapolis. The next flight to St. Louis was the following morning.

At that point, a normal human being would have rescheduled or delayed the deposition. Not so with Melvin. He jawboned an airline official for fifteen minutes, and then—apparently acting in accordance with what he believed to be official authorization—leaped into a taxi outside the Indianapolis airport and instructed the cabby to take him to the Hyatt Hotel…in St. Louis.

The taxi pulled up to the Hyatt at Union Station at approximately 2:00 a.m. The fare was $456.60. Melvin told the driver to collect it from the airline. The driver explained that he hadn't just hauled an airline across two state lines. He told Melvin that if he thought the damn airline was responsible for the damn fare, he could go talk to the damn airline—after he paid the damn fare.

Enraged, Melvin quoted (from memory, of course) various federal aviation regulations regarding the obligations of an airline in the event of an inability to complete a flight to the original destination. The driver was not persuaded. Extremely not persuaded. When the police arrived, Melvin was pinned beneath the driver on the sidewalk outside the entrance to the Hyatt.

He was neither contrite nor polite with the police officer on the scene, who, accordingly, became the arresting officer. Back at police headquarters, they tossed Melvin into the holding cage, where he got to spend some quality time with several winos, a one-armed pimp named Maurice, an elderly child molester who claimed he was Captain Kangaroo, and a bug-eyed white man named Earl who had fired a bullet through the erect penis of a homosexual named Gene, who had had the extraordinary bad luck of inserting his erection through a glory hole cut into the only toilet stall in all of Tower Grove park that was occupied that evening by an armed, high-strung, violently heterosexual Vietnam veteran suffering from profound constipation.

At some point during his first hour in the cage, Melvin jumped to his feet, raised his fist, and started chanting “Attica! Attica! Attica!” as he paced the cage. Maurice, the one-armed pimp, told him to shut the fuck up or he'd slap him upside the head. Melvin ignored Maurice, who eventually did slap him upside the head. One of the winos, while bending over to see if Melvin was okay, vomited all over Melvin's shoes and slacks.

***

The constitutional guarantees can get kind of rarefied by the time they reach the lofty environs of the Supreme Court. There was nothing rarefied down here in Judge Schmeizing's living room. No elegantly attired bailiff opening court with the solemn chant of Oyez-Oyez-Oyez. His Honor wore a red plaid bathrobe and needed a shave. He was chewing on an unlit, half-smoked cigar. He glanced over at the bail bondsman and said, “How's it hanging, Jimbo?” Then he fired up his cigar and studied me through the blue haze. At 7:15 a.m., night court came to order. Although it was a far cry from an appearance before the Supremes, this court was in session and ready to hear my plea—which was a lot more than you could say for the Supreme Court at this hour of the morning.

Judge Schmeizing heard my plea and set Melvin's appearance bond at five hundred dollars. He signed the necessary papers, stood up, scratched his behind, and shuffled down the hall out of sight. Melvin Needlebaum had just received some due process, compliments of the U.S. Constitution.

***

He had also received some white adhesive tape, compliments of the St. Louis Police Department. During his scuffle with the taxi driver his glasses had broken in half at the nose bridge. He repaired them with a glob of white tape. As a result, his glasses hung off-kilter. It was just one of several remarkable features about the Melvin Needlebaum that emerged from police headquarters at 8:35 a.m. that morning.

His hair was mussed and his tie was askew. The breast pocket of his suit jacket was ripped, and the torn flap hung down. There were smudges of dirt and grime on the front of his white shirt, which was missing two buttons in the middle and was untucked in back so that the tail of the shirt hung below the bottom of his suit jacket. Although the police had returned his belt, Melvin had stuffed it into his briefcase. As a result, his baggy pants hung low, and the back of the cuffs curled under the heels of his shoes. From the knees on down the pants were splattered with brown and gray splotches that gave off the sour odor of dried vomit.

Help was not on the way. He had forgotten his suitcase in the overhead compartment of the grounded plane in Indianapolis. No clothing store would open until after the scheduled starting time of his deposition. Not that it mattered. Melvin was completely oblivious to his appearance. A change of clothes was out of the question. His only concern was for me to get him to the deposition on time.

As we walked to my car, Melvin launched into a diatribe about his mistreatment at the hands of the police. He gesticulated madly—his arms jabbing in all directions. People stepped out of our way as we moved down the sidewalk.

“Melvin, why not postpone the deposition for an hour?” I said as I pulled the car into traffic. “You can bathe, get some clean clothes, have some breakfast and coffee, relax, get your thoughts organized.”

“Out of the question.” He shook his head rapidly. “My thoughts are tightly ordered. Adrenaline is raging through my veins. Miss Gold, I can assure you that this will be an unforgettable deposition. By ten a.m. I plan to be charging through the rice paddies and taking no prisoners.”

Triumphantly, he yanked open his briefcase. Pulling out a sheaf of papers and a yellow marker, he hunched forward.

At the stoplight, a bleep of a horn drew my attention to the car on my left. I turned. A cherry red Porsche. Two guys in the front seat. Big, beefy guys. Both wearing muscle shirts and both flashing toothy grins.

The driver signaled for me to roll down my window. I did. He leaned forward, flashing his white teeth. “Hey, honey, what's happening?”

“Oh, brother,” I mumbled to myself.

“What are you doing with the dork?” the driver's companion said, gesturing toward Melvin, who was rapidly paging through his papers and muttering under his breath.

“Hey, babe, how ‘bout dumping the dork and coming with us? We're going over to the track.”

I stared at them for a long moment. What a pair of creeps. “Is your Porsche new?” I finally asked.

The driver nodded proudly. “Three weeks old, baby.”

“You should try out his stickshift,” his witty companion added, winking to make sure I caught the clever double entendre.

I studied the Porsche. “How much did it cost?”

The driver grinned. “Fifty-two thousand dollars.”

“Fifty-two?” I said, feigning astonishment.

“You better believe it. Tell her, Joe.”

“Fifty-two grand, mama,” said Joe with a leer.

The light turned green. I took my foot off the brake pedal and leveled my gaze. “Wouldn't it have been a lot cheaper for you guys to have your dicks lengthened?”

As I pulled away, Melvin's head snapped up. “Did you say something, Miss Gold?”

“No, Melvin. And please, call me Rachel.” Glancing in my rear view mirror, I could see that the Porsche still hadn't moved from the stoplight.

I pulled up in front of the Mercantile Tower at five minutes to nine. Melvin started to reach for the door handle, paused, and turned to me.

“I can't tell you how grateful I am, Miss—Rachel.”

“You're welcome, Melvin. I'm glad I was able to help.”

“I would like to demonstrate my gratitude.”

“Don't worry, Melvin. It's what I do for a living. Same as you. I'll bill the firm.”

“But this was above and beyond the call of duty. I insist, uh, Rachel. I would be most appreciative if you would allow me to, uh, purchase dinner for you this evening.”

“Don't be silly, Melvin.” I was going to say more, but I saw that he was blushing.

“Please allow me to purchase dinner for you tonight,” he repeated, eyes averted.