Cookie's Case (22 page)

Chapter Twenty

I
'd estimate it's been about twenty minutes since Major left. And no escape is foreseeable despite my hearing the door squeak open from the rebound of his slam. What a tease. I feel the needle in my back, reminding me of Cookie's tap and also of my wife's epidurals at the births of our children. Not exactly a matched set of memories.

By the sounds outside, I know I'm near the East River. I can't hear the water, but rather the faint hum of motorboats in the distance. Not little ones, but barges and tugs. I'm near downtown Brooklyn. I'm certain, because I also hear the familiar chime of church bells I listened to while attending Brooklyn Law. They're way in the distance, though, coming from the industrial area of Greenpoint.

The bells somehow remind me of the evening when this all started—because they make me think of the leaflet lady who warned me that the end was near as I walked into Jingles Dance Bonanza. Maybe she'll turn out to be right, but I'm hoping for Betty's take on things. Anyway, I'm pretty sure I'm in a deserted part of town, because there's no street noise.

I hear the hinge of the door squeak again. Crap. Major's back. I hope he didn't rush because of me. And I was having such a nice time without him. I hear him approaching. He must be carrying something heavy, because the pitch of his step and the creak of the floor sound different—deeper or heavier. The tone of his walk is different too, like he's struggling with one leg. Maybe he stubbed his toe on his crazy way out.

He stops in front of me, breathing heavily like Taz, the Looney Tunes character. He starts at the corner of the tape, lifting it off my cheek.

Good. I can't wait to curse him. He rips it away.

“Ouch! Take it fucking easy!” He grabs hold of the blindfold, from the front this time, and harshly pulls it up over my forehead.

Robert Killroy! Bike helmet and all.

“Mr. Wyler, Granny says it's not nice to curse. It's offenseful.”

“She's absolutely right. Now what are you doing here?”

“Serving you with process.”

“Okay, great, we'll talk about that later. Hurry up and untie me.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Robert, please, untie me. We've got to get out of here!”

“Nuh-uh. You got a dart in your back, Mr. Wyler. But I don't see no dartboard up around here. I like playing darts.”

“That's not a dart. That's a spinal needle. Now, please, untie me.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Why not?”

“Because you tricked me.”

“I didn't trick you! Now untie me this instant!”

“Nuh-uh. You told me I couldn't serve you because I didn't have my license in my pocket. I knowed what I read on page five, paragraph two.”

“Okay, so I may have been wrong. Not a big deal. Just untie me!”

“Nuh-uh.”

I can see if I want to get out of here, I just better do what he says. Don't resist what is. I'll give it one more try, nicely. “Robert, please untie me.”

“Nuh-uh. I got to serve you first. I don't want to chase you again, dodging service.”

“When did you have to chase after me?”

“Before.”

“Before when?”

“When I finished my reading after you came back down. You turned the corner and I was gonna come after ya, but my chain fell off. Got stuck. Had to take the back wheel off to get it on. I raced around the corner, looking all over, and when I found you two blocks away, you were passed out on the street. Page four, paragraph three says you can't serve nobody if they not, con … con …”

“Conscious?”

“Yeah, conscious. So I waited there 'til you came to, but you never did. Some nice man picked you up. That's when I had to chase ya. On my bike. Broke my speed record following that Town Car ambulance. Never seen an ambulance like that, black with no lights. Hit thirty-three. I can prove it. Got it in my digital speedometer. Would've lost ya, but for bridge traffic. Followed you here and waited 'til your friend that helped you left. I came up 'cause I didn't want to chase ya again, even though Granny says not to trespass. So it'd be good if you didn't tell her.”

He looks around the place. “This ain't no hospital.”

“No, it's not, but don't worry. You won't have to chase me again. Just untie me, so we can get out of here.”

“Nuh-uh. I got to serve you first.”

“Okay. Then serve me.”

“Something ain't right. Service is where you hand the papers to the guy, but you all tied up. Let me check that.”

“Robert, please …”

“One moment,” he tells me. He takes the manual out of his bag.

“Robert!” He looks up. “Just untie me, and I'll accept personal service. That solves the problem.”

“How do I know you ain't gonna trick me or run again?”

“I promise, I'm not going to do that. My legs are tied to the chair. I can't run.” He looks.

“Cross your heart and hope to die?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“Stick a needle in your eye?”

“Yes, Robert, stick a needle in my eye.”

“Okay, then, seeing as you crossed your heart …” Just then someone appears at the open door.

Robert looks over. “Uh-oh,” he says. Out of the corner of my eye I see it's Major.

Then, stepping in around him is Minnow. Now it all makes sense. “Hey, you, step away from that guy. Unless you want trouble, seeeee. You don't want no trouble now, do you, sonny boy?”

“No. I don't want no trouble, mister. Granny always says to stay out of trouble. But I got to get my serve in. He owes Mr. Wang fourteen dollars and seventy-nine cents.”

Minnow chortles. “Just step aside, and there'll be no trouble.”

“I don't want no trouble. But I got to untie him, so I can get my serve in.”

“Nobody's untying anybody, seeeee.” Minnow begins to walk toward us, drawing a gun from his belt as he approaches. “Move away, sonny boy. And there'll be no trouble.” He stops about ten feet from Robert.

I have a front row seat. Major is still at the door. It's pretty clear that glimpsing the gun froze him in his tracks.

“Move it, seeeee.”

“I can't do that. I got to do my job. I got to serve process. I like your gun. It's a Glock. I know all about guns from my magazines, but I can't have one Granny says.”

“Move it, kid! That is, if you ever want to see your granny again.”

“Nuh-uh.”

Minnow begins to take a few cautious steps toward Robert, who's just standing there, innocently, process manual still in hand. He watches as Minnow approaches, moving his lips as if mumbling to himself. This is not going to be good. Then, all of the sudden, like an explosion, Robert charges, head down, rhino-style. A shot goes off as he helmet-rams Minnow square in the gut, bulldozing him backward. But Robert keeps going lifting him off the floor until he finds himself slammed into the wall near where Major is standing. He falls to the ground, limp.

Robert takes a step back and looks down at him. Minnow's out cold.

Just like that.

“Sorry, mister,” he says to the unconscious Minotero. “But I told you I got to get my serve in. I got to get my financial independence so Granny can stop her worrying.”

“Robert!” I yell. “Quick! Pick up the gun!” He looks at the piece on the floor. It's resting next to Major's foot.

“I'm not allowed to play with no guns. Granny said.” He looks at Major, several feet away, who has blood discoloring the left shoulder of his blue button-down oxford. He must've been grazed. There's a bullet hole in the wall slightly above his shoulder. He's looking downward.

“Mister,” he says, “you got something dark staining up your shirt. I know a good dry cleaner. His name is Mr. Wang. He's a really nice man.”

But Major's focused on the gun. Robert follows his line of sight, then looks back up.

“Mister, I got to hand these papers to my lawyer over there, so I have to untie him. That's the rules. But if you go for that gun, I think something bad is gonna happen to you. Real bad.”

Process served.

Chapter Twenty-one

“W
here are you?” Lily asks.

“On the street in front of the building. I just came up from the subway.”

“Well, you've got a reception full of people. And your wife just dropped your daughter off. She's pissed you weren't here.”

“Oh, crap, I forgot. Her GYN appointment.” I'm supposed to take my daughter to her dance audition around the corner while Tyler gets her annual. Worse yet, she gave me a stern warning not to forget. In writing.

“Well, you better have a good excuse why you didn't pick up when she tried to contact you every which way a few minutes ago,” Lily admonishes. I look at my watch: 9:32.

“I do. I was underground, having stopped off in the Bronx to get a plate of pastrami and eggs. You never know when the end is near—we could be living in the final days.”

“Can I watch when you tell her that?”

I look at my phone. It shows that at nine-thirty there were ten missed calls, six voice messages, three e-mails, and three texts all ending with exclamation points. She's going to rain on my day of joy. No, not
that
day—today is Wednesday. The day I distribute client monies. I've got Robert and Cookie at my office to pick up their checks. I have to deal with Robert on an unrelated matter, as well.

Giving clients their compensation for the pain and suffering they've endured is the highlight of my professional existence. It doesn't return them to the physical condition they enjoyed prior to the traumatic event that landed them in my office, but it helps give them a sense of closure. And, in Cookie's case, the outcome also put her existence back on track. I enter my building, step into a waiting elevator, assess, and reflect.

Cookie, she was set free from her bondage. Enough said. Chris Charles, as it turned out, was clueless, simply a pawn for Major. He immediately turned the file back over to me, offering to waive his fee, but I insisted he take ten percent, over Henry's objection. In fact, it was really hush money. If First Medical Liability ever found out that Cookie's biggest element of damage—the repeated spinal taps—was unrelated to McElroy's malpractice, being chemically induced and reversible, they'd never have paid out two million. It would've been more like the two fifty, based on McElroy's misplacement of that screw.

And Major—well, Cookie just wanted to forget the whole thing and move forward.

“Really?” I said in disbelief.

She countered, “Despite his despicable crime against me, the truth is I wouldn't be getting all this money if it weren't for him.” I couldn't disagree, but still …

Both of us couldn't stop laughing when she said, “I once told Major that he didn't have an evil bone in his body. Boy, was I wrong about that bone.” Yet it wasn't the last laugh.

I had that one with Major.

You see, I couldn't just let him walk away from this without consequence, despite Cookie's wishes. And she refused to let me report him to the District Attorney for his crimes against her, and also against me. So we resolved it civilly.

I said to him, “Hey, Major, ‘time for tap' is over. Can you guess what it's time for now?” He didn't answer, so I told him. “Time for transfer.” I had him sign over the title of his apartment to Cookie in exchange for his freedom.

Minnow, it turns out, had been Major's phlebotomist for a brief period when he had his private practice. He became a tough guy after doing a short stint in jail for second-degree sexual misconduct. He'd had a young girl disrobe for a blood draw he performed from her mammary vein. Why am I not surprised at such craziness?

When I walk into my office, Cookie's sitting on the couch. No halo. She looks splendid, positively glowing with health. And there on the floor, helmet on, playing jacks with my daughter, is Robert Killroy. He may not have killed no Roy or nobody, but he sure did ram Minnow into unconsciousness.

Born with fetal alcohol syndrome, Robert greets each day with an excess of determination and extraordinary acceptance. Granny said chances were slim that I'd ever get anything back from Robert for working his case for free, yet this iron-willed kid saved my life. I'd call that reciprocating karma. I'm happy to have made his and Granny's own lives easier, but there's no doubt in my mind Robert was already well on his way to achieving his own financial independence.

As for Ethel, her prognosis is looking good. I made a call to my mother's oncologist, who was able to switch her course of treatment to a different cocktail, and she seems to be headed in the direction of remission. She tells me her new group of doctors is “bona fide.”

“Hi, everybody, I see you all met my daughter, Summer.” They look at one another, confused.

“No, Dad,” my special girl says, “it's Penelope.” She returns her attention to the jacks on the floor in front of her. I look over at Robert, who finally looks up at me.

“You got Mr. Wang's fourteen dollars and seventy-nine cents?”

“Yes, Robert, I do. I hear he's a really nice man.”

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 by Andy Siegel

Cover design by Andrea Worthington

978-1-4976-6268-1

Published in 2015 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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