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CH062

T
he desk
officer at the Rockville Police Station was an attractive, smooth-skinned black woman of twenty-five. The desk plate read
OFFICER J. LOWRY
. Her uniform was crisp.

Georgia Bellarmino pushed her daughter close to the other side of the desk. She set the paper bag of syringes in front of the policewoman and said, “Officer Lowry, I want to know why my daughter has these things, but she refuses to tell me.”

Her daughter glared at her. “I hate you, Mom.”

Officer Lowry showed no surprise. She glanced at the syringes. She turned to Georgia’s daughter. “Were these prescribed to you by a physician?”

“Yes.”

“Do they involve matters of reproduction?”

“Yes.”

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“Can I see some ID?”

“She’s sixteen, all right,” Georgia Bellarmino said, leaning forward. “And I want to know—”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the policewoman said. “If she is sixteen, and these drugs involve reproductive issues, you have no right to be informed.”

“What do you mean I have no right to be informed? She’s my
daughter.
She’s
sixteen.
”

“That’s the law, ma’am.”

“But that law is for abortions. She isn’t having an abortion. I don’t know what the hell she is doing. These are fertility drugs. She’s
shooting up fertility drugs.
”

“I’m sorry, I can’t help you on this.”

“You mean my daughter is allowed to inject drugs into her body, and I am not allowed to know what is going on?”

“Not if she won’t tell you, no.”

“And what about her doctor?”

Officer Lowry shook her head. “He can’t tell you, either. Doctor-patient privilege.”

Georgia Bellarmino collected the syringes and threw them back in the bag. “This is ridiculous.”

“I don’t make the laws,” the policewoman said. “I just enforce them.”

They were driving
home. “Honey,” Georgia said. “Are you trying to get pregnant?”

“No.” Sitting there with her arms folded. Furious.

“I mean, you’re sixteen, that shouldn’t be a problem…So what
are
you doing?”

“You made me feel like an
idiot.
”

“Honey, I’m just concerned.”

“No you’re not. You’re a nosy, evil bitch. I hate you, and I hate this car.”

It went on like this for a while, until finally Georgia drove her daughter back to school. Jennifer got out of the car, slamming the door. “
And
you made me late for French!”

It was an
exhausting morning, and she had canceled two appointments. Now she had to try and reschedule the clients. Georgia went into the office, set the bag of needles on the floor, and started dialing.

The office manager, Florence, walked by and saw the bag. “Wow,” she said. “Aren’t you a little old for this?”

“It’s not me,” Georgia said irritably.

“Then…not your daughter?”

Georgia nodded. “Yeah.”

“It’s that Dr. Vandickien,” Florence said.

“Who?”

“Down in Miami. These teenage girls take hormones, pump up their ovaries, sell their eggs to him, and pocket the money.”

“And do what?” Georgia said.

“Buy breast implants.”

Georgia sighed. “Great,” she said. “Just great.”

She wanted her husband to talk to Jennifer, but unfortunately, Rob was on a flight to Ohio, where they were making a TV segment about him. That discussion—which was sure to be fiery—would have to wait.

CH063

R
iding the
underground tram from the Senate Office Building to the Senate Dining Room, Senator Robert Wilson (D-Vermont) turned to Senator Elizabeth Spencer (D-Maryland) and said, “I think we ought to be more proactive on this genetic thing. For example, we should consider a law that would prevent young women from selling their eggs for profit.”

“Young girls are already doing that, Bob,” Spencer said. “They sell their eggs now.”

“Why, to pay for college?”

“Maybe a few. Mostly, they do it to buy a new car for their boyfriend, or plastic surgery for themselves.”

Senator Wilson looked puzzled. “How long has
that
been going on?” he said.

“A couple of years now,” she said.

“Maybe in California…”

“Everywhere, Bob. A teenager in New Hampshire did it to make bail for her boyfriend.”

“And this doesn’t trouble you?”

“I don’t like it,” Elizabeth Spencer said. “I think it’s ill-advised. I think medically the procedure has dangers. I think these girls may be risking their reproductive futures. But what would be the basis for banning it? Their bodies, their eggs.” Spencer shrugged. “Anyway, the boat’s sailed, Bob. Quite a while ago.”

CH064

N
ot again!

Ellis Levine found his mother on the second floor of the Polo Ralph Lauren store on Madison and Seventy-second. She was standing in front of the mirror, wearing a cream-colored linen suit with a green scarf. She was turning this way and that.

“Hello, dear,” she said, when she saw him. “Are you going to make another scene?”

“Mom,” he said. “What are you doing?”

“Buying a few things for summer, dear.”

“We talked about that,” Ellis said.

“Just a few things,” his mother said. “For summer. Do you like the cuffs on these pants?”

“Mom, we’ve been here before.”

She frowned, and fluffed her white hair absently. “Do you like the scarf?” she said. “I think it’s a bit much.”

“We have to talk,” Ellis said.

“Are we having lunch?”

“The spray didn’t work,” he said.

“Oh, I don’t know.” She brushed her cheek. “I felt a little moisturization. For about a week afterward. But not a great deal, no.”

“And you kept shopping.”

“I hardly shop at all anymore.”

“Three thousand dollars last week.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I took a lot of those things back.” She tugged at the scarf. “I think, that green does a funny thing to my complexion. Makes me look sick. But a pink scarf might be nice. I wonder if they have this in pink.”

Ellis was watching her intently, with a growing sense of foreboding. Something was wrong with his mother, he decided. She was standing at the mirror, in exactly the same place she had been weeks before, when she showed a total indifference to him, to his message, to her family situation, to her financial situation. Her attitude was completely inappropriate.

As an accountant, Ellis had a horror of people who were inappropriate about money. Money was real, it was tangible, it was hard facts and spreadsheet figures. Those facts and figures were not a matter of opinion. It didn’t depend on how you looked at it. His mother was not recognizing the cold reality of her financial situation.

He watched her smile, asking the salesgirl if the scarf came in pink. No, the salesgirl said, he didn’t make pink this year. They only had green, or white. His mother asked to try the white. The salesgirl walked away. His mother smiled at him.

Very inappropriate. Almost as if…

It might be early dementia,
he thought.
It might be the first sign.

“Why are you looking at me that way?”

“What way, Mom?”

“I’m not crazy. You’re not putting me in a home.”

“Why would you even say that?”

“I know you boys want the money. That’s why you’re selling the condos in Vail and the Virgin Islands. For the money. You’re greedy, the bunch of you. You are like vultures waiting for your parents to die. And if we won’t die, you’ll hurry it up. Put us in a home. Get us out of the way. Get us declared insane. That’s your plan, isn’t it?”

The salesgirl came back with a white scarf. His mother draped it around her neck, flung it over her shoulder with a flamboyant gesture. “Well, Mr. Smartypants, you’re not putting me in any home. You get that through your head right now.” She turned to the salesgirl. “I’ll take it,” she said. Still smiling.

The brothers met
that evening. Jeff, who was handsome, and had connections in every restaurant in town, got them a table near the waterfall at Sushi Hana. Even early, the place was packed with models and actresses, and Jeff was making plenty of eye contact. Annoyed, Ellis said, “How’re things at home?”

Jeff shrugged. “Fine. Sometimes I have to work late. You know.”

“No, I don’t. Because I’m not a big investment banker and the girls don’t wink at me like they wink at you.”

Aaron, the youngest brother, the lawyer, was talking on his cell phone. He finished, flipped it shut. “Knock it off, you two. It’s the same conversation you’ve been having since high school. What about Mom?”

Ellis said, “It’s what I told you on the phone. It’s spooky. She’s smiling and happy. She doesn’t care.”

“Three grand last week.”

“She doesn’t care. She’s buying more than ever.”

“So much for that gene spray,” Aaron said. “Where’d you get that, anyway?”

“Some guy works at some company in California. BioGen.”

Jeff had been looking over his shoulder. Now he turned back to the table. “Hey, I heard something about BioGen. They’ve got some problems.”

“What do you mean, problems?” Aaron said.

“Some product of theirs is contaminated, earnings are down. Did something sloppy, made a mistake. I can’t remember. They got an IPO coming up, but it’ll tank for sure.”

Aaron turned to Ellis. “You think that spray you got is affecting Mom?”

“No, I don’t think so. I think the damn stuff just didn’t work.”

“But if they had contamination…” Aaron said.

“Stop being a lawyer. Some cousin of Mom’s, her son sent it as a favor to us.”

“But gene therapy is dangerous,” Aaron said. “There have been deaths from gene therapy. Lots of them.”

Ellis sighed. “Aaron,” he said, “we’re not suing anybody. I think we’re looking at the start of, you know, mental deterioration. Alzheimer’s or something.”

“She’s only sixty-two.”

“It can start that early.”

Aaron shook his head. “Come on, Ellie. She was in perfect health. She was sharp. Now you’re telling me she’s losing it. It could be the spray.”

“Contamination,” Jeff reminded them. He was smiling at a girl.

“Jeff, will you fucking pay attention?”

“I am. Look at the rack on her.”

“They’re fake.”

“You just like to ruin everything.”

“And she has a nose job.”

“She’s beautiful.”

“She’s paranoid,” Ellis said.

“You don’t know that.”

“I’m talking about Mom,” Ellis said. “She thinks we’re going to put her in a home.”

“And we may have to,” Aaron said. “Which will be very expensive. But if we do, it’s because of that genetics company. You know the public has no sympathy for these biotech companies. Public opinion polls run ninety-two percent against them. They’re perceived as unscrupulous scumbags indifferent to human life. GM crops, trashing the environment. Patenting genes, grabbing up our common heritage while no one is looking. Charging thousands of dollars for drugs that cost pennies. Pretending they do research when they really don’t; they just buy other people’s work. Pretending they have high research costs when they spend most of their money on advertising. And then lying in the advertising. Sneaky, scummy, sloppy, money-grabbing schmucks. It’d be a slam-dunk case.”

“We’re not talking about a lawsuit,” Ellis said. “We’re talking about Mom.”

Jeff said, “Dad’s fine. Let him deal with her.” He got up and left the table, going over to sit with three long-legged girls in short skirts.

“They can’t be more than fifteen,” Ellis said, wrinkling his nose.

“They’ve got drinks on the table,” Aaron said.

“He has two kids in school.”

“How’re things at home?” Aaron said.

“Fuck you.”

“Let’s stay on the topic,” Aaron said. “Maybe Mom’s losing it and maybe she’s not. But we’re going to need a lot of money if she goes into a home. I’m not sure we can afford it.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I want to know more about BioGen and that gene spray they sent us. A lot more.”

“You sound like you’re already planning the lawsuit.”

“Just thinking ahead,” Aaron said.

CH065

T
his is
on
, man!

Riding his skateboard, Billy Cleever, angry sixth-grader, came ripping off the playground with an old-school aerial, came down into a backside three-sixty with a tail grab, then heel-flipped onto the sidewalk. He did it flawlessly, which was good, because he was feeling he’d lost some of his cool today. The four kids following behind were quiet, instead of yelling like usual. And this was the big downhill run to Market Street in San Diego. But they were quiet. Like they had lost confidence in him.

Billy Cleever had been humiliated today. His hand hurt like a mother. He told the stupid nurse just to put a Band-Aid on it, but she insisted on a big white thing. He ripped it off the minute school was out, but still. Looked like crap. He looked like an invalid. Something sick.

Humiliated. At age eleven, Billy Cleever was five-nine and 120 pounds, solid muscle for a kid his age, and a good foot taller than anybody else in the school. He was bigger than most of the teachers, even. Nobody messed with him.

That little skin-shit Jamie, that nimrod doof with buck teeth, he should have stayed out of Billy’s way. Markie Lester the Pester was throwing him a football, and when he went back to receive it he tripped over Bucky Beaver and fell, taking Bucky with him. Billy was pissed and embarrassed, sprawling like that in front of everybody, with Sarah Hardy and the others giggling. The kid was still lying on the ground, so Billy gave him a couple of kicks with his Vans—nothing
really, just a warning—and when the kid got up he smacked him a little. No biggie.

And the next thing he knows, he’s got Monkeyboy jumping on his back, yanking his hair and growling in his ear like a fucking ape, and Billy reached back and grabbed for him and Monkeyboy took a bite like—whoa! Pissing pain! Seeing stars.

Of course the monitor, Mr. Snotty NoseDrip, does nothing, whining, “Break it up, boys. Break it up, boys.” They put Monkeyboy in detention, and called his mother to come and pick him up, but his mother obviously didn’t take him home, which was too bad for him. Because there they were now, walking along at the bottom of the hill, starting to cross the baseball field.

Jamie and Monkeyboy.

And this is
on
!

Billy hits them
side on, moving fast, and the two go flying like bowling pins, right next to the dugout by the side of the field. Jamie skids on his chin on the dirt, raising a cloud of brown dust, and Monkeyboy bangs into the chain-link backstop behind home plate. Off to one side, Billy’s buddies are yelling:
Blood! We want blood!

The little kid, Jamie, is moaning in the dust, so Billy goes right for Monkeyboy. He charges him with his deck, trucks out, swinging the skateboard hard, and catches the little black fucker back of the ear, thinking that’ll teach him a lesson. Monkeyboy’s legs go out, he flops on the ground like a rag doll, and Billy kicks him a good one, right under the chin, lifts his ass off the dirt a little, that one does. But Billy doesn’t want to get that monkey blood on his Vans, so he comes back swinging the deck again, figuring to whack the monkey square in the face, maybe break his nose and jaw, make him even uglier than he is.

But Monkeyboy springs to one side, the deck clangs the fence,
kawang-kawang-kwang
, and Monkeyboy sinks his teeth into Billy’s wrist and bites
fucking hard!
Billy screams and drops his deck, and Monkeyboy hangs on. Billy is feeling his hand get numb, there’s blood pouring down from the arm, down Monkeyboy’s chin, and he’s snarling like a
dog, and his eyes are popping out, staring at Billy. And it’s like his hair is raised or something, and Billy thinks in an instant of pure panic:
Shit, this black fuck’s gonna eat me
.

By then his skateneck buddies run up, all swinging their boards at the monkey, four boards whacking him downside the head, while Billy is yelling and the monkey is growling—it takes forever until Monkeyboy drops the hand, springs at Markie Lester, and hits him full in the chest, and the Pester goes down, and the others all chase after them as they roll in the dust, while Billy nurses his bleeding arm.

A few seconds later, when the pain is bearable and Billy looks up, he sees the monkey has scrambled up the chain-link backstop and is maybe fifteen feet in the air above them. Staring down at them. While his buds all stand below and yell and shake their decks at him. But nothing is happening. Billy staggers to his feet and says, “You look like a bunch of monkeys.”

“We want him to come down!”

“Well, he won’t,” Billy said. “He’s not stupid. He knows we’ll kick the shit out of him if he comes down. Least, I will.”

“So how we get him down?”

Billy is feeling mean now, blind mean, he wants to hurt something, so he goes right over to Jamie and starts kicking the kid, trying to hit him in his little nuts, but the kid is rolling and yelling for help, fucking baby that he is. Some of the buds don’t like it, “Hey, leave ’im alone, hey, he’s a little kid,” but Billy is thinking,
Fuck it. I want that monkey down here.
And this will do it, nimrod kid rolling in dust. Kick and kick…kick…the kid yelling for help…

And suddenly the buddies are screaming, “Aw,
shit!
”

“Shit! Shit!”

“
Shit!
”

And they’re running away, and then something hot and soft smacks Billy on the back of the neck, he gets the weird smell and he can’t believe it, he reaches back and…Jesus. He can’t believe it.

“Shit! He’s throwing shit!”

The Monkeyboy’s up there with his pants down, heaving crap down
at them. And never missing. Deadly, the kids are all covered in it, and then another one hits Billy right in the face. His mouth is half open.

“Ooo-uk!” He spits and spits, wipes his face, and spits again, trying to get that taste out of his mouth. Monkey shit! Fuck! Shit! Billy raises his fist. “You fucking animal!”

And gets another one right on the forehead.
Splaat!

He grabs his deck and runs away. Joins his buds. They’re spitting, too. It’s disgusting. It sticks to their clothes, faces. Shit. They all look to Billy, it’s on their faces:
Look what you got us into.
It’s the moment to step up. And Billy knows how.

“Guy’s an animal,” Billy said. “Only one thing to do with animals. My dad’s got a gun. I know where it is.”

“Big talk,” Markie says.

“You’re full of shit,” Hurley says.

“Yeah? Wait and see. Monkeyboy won’t make school tomorrow. Wait and see.”

Billy trudges home, carrying his board, and the others drag on after him. And he’s thinking,
Oh shit, what did I just promise to do?