Cookie's Case (3 page)

“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.

“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.”

“And this lawyer—this Chris Charles—knew Dr. McElroy before he sued him for malpractice?”

“Why, yes.”

Henry pauses. It's a staged hesitation and a highly effective one. He continues the cross. “Would you consider them friends?”

“Well, yes, in some regard.”

“And how do you know this surgeon?”

“Well, he rotated through my department when I was teaching medicine.”

“You're a doctor? I assumed you were in the army.”

“No, I'm a doctor. Don't let my name throw you off.” Henry gives him a look, and the guy has no idea why. I sense it coming.

“This is madness,” Henry says to himself but loudly enough to be heard.

“What's madness?” Major asks, appearing merely curious.

“I'll do the questioning here, my friend. Got that?”

Major glances quickly at Cookie.

Catching the look, Henry asks, “Do you care about this young lady?”

“Yes, of course I care about her. I love her.”

“We'll just see about that.” In an instant he's now completely in command. This Major guy came over to say hello to his gal and has found himself on the hot seat. Yet he seems clueless.

His ignorance is more than troubling; it makes no sense.