Cookie's Case (2 page)

Cookie laughs. “You don't have an evil bone in your body. Even the one growing between your legs has good intentions.”

Kneeling now, she gently maneuvers down his pants, sliding one leg out, exactly as she has so many times before. “You just sit back and relax. I'm not a doctor, and I don't have a fancy medical pouch,” she says with a giggle, “but I have just the right treatment plan to release
your
mounting pressure.”

He smiles. Cookie is beautiful, funny, smart, caring, and attentive. What she's doing is no easy job given the device she's wearing. But she's determined. Several minutes of hard work produce a few satisfying grunts.

Major says, “That was nice. Thank you, dear.”

“No. Thank you for being there for me every time. For giving me the help that only you can give.” The truth in her statement gratifies him. “Now, though, I need a few moments to myself,” she adds.

She gets up and walks to her room, closing the door. Major had insisted on separate quarters when he convinced her to move in. “It will help you maintain your independence,” he'd explained.

As she passes the exotic plants he bought for her, she takes in the scent of a rare desert flower and admires the antique iron plant stand—another gift from him—on which they're displayed. She fingers the dusty soil of a few, checking their moisture level. She takes great care maintaining them, the same way she intuitively takes care of those around her.

Entering her bathroom, Cookie studies her reflection. She rests her hands flush on the black marble to give support to her upper body. Having to wear the device takes its toll, interfering, as it does, with her sleep, and more.

She continues to stare at herself for the next several minutes, deep in thought. Suddenly, tears erupt uncontrollably. Their ritual has been unchanging for the last two and a half years. The only difference now is the addition of her headgear.

Cookie looks intently, thinking about her loss of freedom and her relationship with Major. Before this happened, life was limitless. Now she's condemned to an existence of bondage and quiet suffering, despite his good nature and her gratitude to him.

She takes a deep breath and lets it out. She doesn't want to worry him. “A banana peel,” she says aloud. “Who would've thought?” She takes a second deep breath. On the exhale, she whispers to her reflection.

“Mirror, mirror on the wall, why did I have to slip and fall?”

Chapter Two

I
'm meeting Dr. Mickey Mack at his place, which happens to be a strip club. As I cruise down Broadway through the theatre district, I take in the city through the cab windows. It's alive with flickering lights and trendy scenesters on the go. And taxi drivers on the hustle just like mine is. After he slams to a halt at a light, I automatically straighten my tie, the way one does after being tossed a bit.

Then, as if summoned, I jerk my head to the right. Booyah! What a babe! She's standing at the curb, innocently still as everyone swirls around her. I lower my window a tad more and offer a flirty smile.

So now the jury's out, as they say in my profession. I'm either a creepy older dude in a suit, clinging to his forties, in end-stage pattern baldness, taking a long shot by hitting on her or I'm a distinguished-looking man of interest who fashionably buzz-cuts what's left of his thinning hair and is now making a reasonable play for a young woman not averse to greater exposure to education and culture.

Here comes the verdict.

She smiles. Then gives me the finger. A high, hard one. Man, I love this city. Why would anyone want to live anywhere else? The light turns green, I give her a nod good-bye, and she yells, “Loser!” Onward we go. I think I have a crush on her.

When we pull up in front of my destination, I hand over a stack of singles. After getting a shine in Grand Central this morning, I took back a wad of twenty-five ones from a fifty. The shine-guy got a healthy tip and nine of the local homeless found themselves a dollar richer before I left the terminal. A buck dispensed here and there on the streets of New York is a gesture I learned from my mother. But since I had to be able to fold my wallet to get it in my pocket comfortably, this time my handouts were more about necessity than generosity.

At least I admit it.

I'm pretty sure a fat wallet won't be my problem by the time I head home later. Coming up with a good explanation for my wife as to why I was spending time at Jingles will be my quandary. I shall admit and qualify. That's what I do most of the day, anyway. That is, when I can't throw out an honest, sweet-tasting denial.

As I exit the cab, my phone vibrates. It's not the first time. I pull it out. It says
Private Caller
. I hit the ignore button, then scroll down my call log and count. Eleven incoming attempts to reach me by this “Private Caller” since I left my office twenty-three minutes ago. Whoever it is wants to speak to me badly. Wouldn't you think, wanting to chat so persistently, he'd leave a message?

I don't pick up private callers anymore. If you want to speak to me, identify yourself. That's how it works. Let
me
decide. Answering a phone while wondering who's on the other end is a thing of the past. Then again, it depends on my mood.

On the sidewalk outside Jingles, I see a trio of women holding
The Watchtower
. “Good evening,” I say as I pass them.

“The end is near,” the middle one says. I stop, push my cuff up, and look at my watch.

“You wouldn't happen to know how near? Like an hour? Two hours? I have to meet a couple of friends inside.” I nod toward the door. “Then I gotta travel back to Westchester. Am I good?”

“We're living in the final days,” she tells me.

“Oh,
days
. Thanks, I appreciate the info. I just wanted to make sure I had enough time to see my family again before this all went down. I wouldn't mind shoveling in one last plate of pastrami and eggs up in the Bronx either. I reserve that treat for when I do good for a client, but I think living in the final days would also qualify. You agree?”

I could have sworn she gave me a judgmental look. But I know better. Having selected juries in Brooklyn, where many of these people live, I know they're not supposed to sit in judgment.

And anyway, if she were passing judgment, she'd be wrong. I don't, in fact, make a habit of going to gentlemen's clubs. The thing is, I've been dodging Mick for a while now, so I need to make up for it. However, just because I don't make a habit of it, doesn't mean I don't enjoy a well-choreographed dance. Yes, the choreography, that's what I'm here for. “Honey,” I'll reason, “it was the choreography, I tell you. I was looking for a talented danseuse to choreograph Penelope's next solo.” (Penelope is my dancing seven-year-old daughter. My life project: keeping her off the pole. Not that there's anything wrong with it.)

I approach one of the giants manning Jingles' door. He's a large black dude whose black turtleneck is tucked in at his forty-six-inch waist, over which he's sporting a full-length black leather duster. It's seventy-five degrees out.

His function is to screen patrons. Keeping the riffraff outside keeps the peace inside. Your basic doorman tenet. The fellows to his left and right are the interventional muscle, while the one behind them opens and closes the door for those passing muster. He also provides back-up support as needed.

Doormen in New York make up a distinct subculture, one that's in continuous touch with the beating heart of the city and its inhabitants. Whenever you want to know the truth about something or someone, ask a doorman. They're also a great source of cases for me, seeing as I'm an injury lawyer.

“I'm Mick's friend,” I say, looking up at Mr. Duster.

“You Benson?”

“No. I'm the other guy. Wyler. Tug Wyler.”

“Go on in. He's at six o'clock.”

“Thanks.” I start through the door, then pause and turn back to him. “I worked my way through law school as a bouncer.”

“That ain't funny, man.”

“No, really.” He gives me an unflattering up-and-down. I turn to the side so he can see where I got part of my ear shot off. I puff out my chest, standing 6'1”, mid-two-thirties. The problem is that I definitely present that nebbish attorney look, more paper pusher than badass. The fact that I'm in a suit with a briefcase in my hand may also have something to do with it.

“You know karate or something?”

“Second-degree black belt. ‘Hava Nagila'–style. My sensei was Ari Goldberg, Temple Beth El, third grade.”

He rolls his eyes. I don't blame him. “Mick's at six o'clock. Like I said.”

Ten feet in, I'm standing in front of what looks like a ticket window at the train station. “I'm Mick's friend,” I say to the gorgeous girl behind the glass.

“Oh, okay. That'll be forty dollars, please.”

“Um, I was supposed to be comped.”

“Let me look at the list. What's your name?”

“Tug Wyler.”

She extracts a compact from a small leopard print hand pouch and flips open the mirror. She looks at herself, then takes out lipstick. Making a pucker in the mirror, she freshens her color and then deigns to remember I'm there waiting.

“Nope, sorry, you're not on the list. Forty, please.”

“But you didn't look at—”

“We don't have a list. Forty.”

After paying, I enter the main area.

There's an eight-foot-wide catwalk jutting way out from the main stage extending into a large circular dance floor. Sitting front and center is my friend Mick, just where Mr. Duster told me.

He's dressed as he always is: in ripped jeans, basic white T, black belt, and biker boots. Mick's my age—midforties—and, despite being the best neurologist I've ever met, he was forced into retirement by his peers on a medical ethics board with whom he didn't see eye to eye. His involuntary surrendering of his license didn't affect him financially though, because he was already rolling in dough. He'd invented and patented an ouch-less tape that was sold to a major medical manufacturer and used in hospitals around the world.

He stands and gives me a big hug. “Man, this is way overdue. Like you asked, I left the name of your friend Benson at the door.”

“Yeah, I'm surprised he didn't beat me here.”

Just then a familiar voice addresses us. “Gentlemen. Good evening.” It's Benson.

I turn around. “Good to see you, Henry. This is Dr. Mickey Mack, the guy I told you has been helping out on some of your cases.”

“Glad to finally meet you. I expected someone a little older, don't ask me why. But thanks for your input. It's been invaluable. When Tug told me he was seeing you here tonight I insisted on coming to personally thank you.”

Henry smiles at me. What he came for was the hot ass. And, for the record—lawyers love that phrase to highlight a point of distinction—
hot ass
is his descriptive term, not mine.

“No problem,” returns Mick. Before he sits down, Henry swivels his head, radar-style, scoping out the place.

“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.