Red Meat Cures Cancer (23 page)

33

Lying Low

The next morning I found King at the breakfast table with a strange assortment of food laid out in front of him.

“Good morning. (Pause) What’s all that?”

“That, for your information, is day one of the Ornish Plan.”

“What happened to your soy?”

“I haven’t abandoned it. I just thought I’d try something different for a while.”

“What the hell’s the Ornish Plan?”

“It’s a diet where the only animal products you’re allowed to eat are nonfat milk, yogurt and egg whites.”

“Sounds disgusting,” I said, reaching to the back of the pantry for my secret stash of Frosted Flakes.

“It fights heart disease.”

“You don’t have heart disease.”

“I know. I want to keep it that way.”

“So now you have to subsist on egg whites and yogurt?”

“No. Lunch includes hummus, tabbouleh and pita bread. And for dinner, you get to eat black-bean burritos and orange-jicama salad with pickled onions.”

“Jesus, you need to get laid.”

“If that happy contingency occurs, this diet will give me the proper energy to perform at my peak.”

“Let me ask you something. All this focusing on your diet and your chee—is that making you happy?”

King paused for a moment before answering.

“To be honest, not really.”

“So why not try something else?”

“Like what?”

“How about a job and a girlfriend? Those might be better places to put your energy.”

“Sky, you know I’ve never sought that kind of outside validation.”

“Well, maybe you should! You might like it. You might learn something about yourself that all the books, diets and programs in the world combined couldn’t teach you in a million years.”

“Fortunately for you, I’m onto something that helps me deal with unpleasant exchanges such as this.”

“What’s that?”

“
The Four Agreements: A Practical Guide to Personal Freedom
by Don Miguel Ruiz. It’s based on ancient Mexican Toltec wisdom. I’m just reading about the second agreement: Don’t take anything personally, something that is proving difficult at this very moment.”

For years, I had condemned King for his searching ways—his rampant job- and philosophy-hopping, his inability to settle down and take on responsibility. But now, the anger I directed at him was as much aimed at myself for my own futile search. The frustrations that boiled over were uncalled for, and I took solace only in the fact I recognized it.

“King, I’m sorry. I’m just a little edgy right now about the upcoming trial and everything. Please understand.”

“You’ve got to read Don Miguel’s book. I think the four agreements could really help you out. Toltec wisdom is a powerful thing.”

“I promise I’ll pick up a copy.”

I wasn’t sure what had happened to King’s commitment to the Falun Gong and the practice of Qigong, but I didn’t ask. Despite my outburst, it was getting easier for me to accept my brother for who he was and the way he chose to live his life. I saw this ability to accept as a good thing—an important step away from my inclination to judge others, particularly those closest to me. In hindsight, chiding King for lack of direction, including his lack of a girlfriend and job, was laughable, given my own current predicament. Marx. Gibb. Ringling. Wright. Righteous. Everly. Osmond. Smothers. Carradine. Kennedy. Blues. Karamozov. Among great brothers, we were taking our place.

True to her word, Annette resigned from the Tailburger board of directors. Unfortunately, I had to read about it in the paper, having lost all contact with her. She was yet another person who wouldn’t return my calls. She also didn’t respond to my Hallmark cards or acknowledge the flowers I sent each week. I needed a legitimate reason to approach her at City Hall, and the Fanoflincoln brothers’ candidacies at Crooked Creek seemed as good as any. Annette, as mayor, was an honorary member of the club and the only person I could think of who would be a powerful enough sponsor to make the previously inconceivable possible. Ned, Ted and Fred weren’t particularly well-liked in the community, given the fact the equipment from their three Who’s Nailing Your Wife? spy shops had broken up more marriages than Anne Heche and Billy Bob Thorn-ton combined. Annette was also the only person who would protect the identity of the true sponsor, namely me, who couldn’t show his face at the club (other than from 2:00 to 3:00 A.M.).

Asking for help is supposed to be a step forward in life. This time, however, it felt like a step backward. What a weak, down-on-my-knees position to show myself in—so desperate for my pension that I’d grease the admission process at a local golf club for three goons. She’d think I was pathetic and sad at best, odious and unlovable at worst. And then there was the video, the part of the bargain I wouldn’t be able to tell her about out of shame and fear of permanently damaging my chances to be with her. I thought about the scenario unfolding in front of me for a minute and decided not to move in the wrong direction. This was the dawning of a new Sky. Focused. Honorable. Clear of mind. Determined. A cowardly ascent up the marble steps at City Hall was the only kind I could make if I wasn’t prepared to tell Annette the whole truth.

Past the metal detector lay the elevator bank and my fate. Somewhere on the third floor, Annette was making decisions about important things: budgets and bus passes, stadiums and sales taxes. I wasn’t even on her agenda. Doubt flooded my mind. This was a bad idea. She might refuse to see me. I’d be lucky to get past reception. So many thoughts rendered pointless the moment I stepped off the elevator and nearly ran over the mayor.

“Oh my gosh, Annette. I’m sorry. You’re not hurt, are you?”

“Sky, what are you doing here?”

I’d been getting that question a lot lately.

“I wanted to talk to you. You won’t return my phone calls.”

“Maybe you should take the hint.”

“Can I just talk to you for a minute? It won’t take long, I promise.”

Annette ushered me through the labyrinth of office space that led to her corner suite with its view of the Genesee River and Kodak’s headquarters. She closed the door and offered me a seat on her floral-patterned couch.

“I really wish you hadn’t shown up here, Sky. I’m insanely busy, and I thought I made it clear I didn’t want to see you.”

“Annette, please don’t make this more awkward for me than it already is. I need to ask you a favor.”

“You want a favor from me? Are you joking?”

Suddenly it was here—my opportunity to tell Annette the entire truth about the pension and the video and my desire for financial freedom and my search for insular Tahiti. This was my chance to tell her how I truly felt about her and our relationship and the importance of honesty between two mature adults.

“Annette, I’m dying.”

“What?”

“Doctor says I don’t have long.”

“Sky, that’s terrible. What’s wrong with you?”

I figured I’d better go with something serious.

“Rectal cancer.”

Annette moved from behind her desk to a spot on the couch next to me and put her arms around my shoulders.

“My God. I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t need to say anything. Early death runs in my family. My Uncle Blakelock died at forty-three.”

“That’s so young.”

“I know, I know. But hey, take away the unemployment, bedsores and heavy gambling losses, and his was a pretty sweet ride. I can’t complain either.”

“You’re too young, Sky.”

“It’s just my time.”

My intentions on the way into this meeting were good. You have to believe me. I wanted to do the right thing, but women will only forgive so much, and the video was not going to go over well. Call it male intuition.

“You said you needed a favor. Just name it.”

“You’re too kind. You see . . . well, this will seem like a strange request, but the Link is hooked up to a respirator and I feel a bit guilty about it.”

“Sky, you have nothing to feel guilty about.”

“Perhaps not. It’s just . . . I guess we all feel a need to set things right before we go, and I’d like to do something nice for him.”

“After he fired you?”

“I’m a Christian, Annette. I suppose you never really saw that side of me, but that’s who I am at heart.”

“You’re remarkable, Sky. How can I help?”

“Well, as you may know, the Link’s fondest wish was to become a member out at Crooked Creek.”

“I heard him mention it at the Tailburger board meetings a few times.”

“Yes, well, it appears it’s too late for him, but it’s not too late for his sons. I want you to sponsor them.”

“Ned, Ted and Fred? I don’t know, Sky. They’re pretty awful people.”

“Annette, consider this the request of two dying men. I’d sponsor them myself but I’m persona non grata at Crooked Creek. They all think I’m some kind of smut baron.”

“All right, Sky. I’ll do it. They keep these things confidential, don’t they?”

“Strictly. Nobody other than the members of the admissions committee will know you’re the sponsor.”

“Okay.”

“Thank you, Annette.”

“I’m glad to help under the circumstances.”

“May I ask you for one more thing?”

“Name it.”

“I’d like to spend whatever time I have left with you.”

“I don’t know how I can say no to that request, Sky. This must be a very frightening time for you.”

“It’s more terrifying than you can imagine.”

“We’ll have to be discreet.”

“Of course.”

Somewhere over the course of my visit with Annette, I acquired a limp (after all, I was suffering from rectal cancer), which I displayed fully on my way out of her office.

“Do you need any help?”

“No, I’ll be all right. The chemo’s got me weak.”

“You’re so brave, Sky. I’ll call you tonight.”

Cal would be proud I’d wooed back my lady love without a single trinket. Lies were wonderful devices that way. Like hidden land mines, however, they forever threatened to blow you up if you weren’t careful. Why hadn’t I simply told her the truth? Liar’s remorse hit me the moment I left City Hall.

34

Bribery

Burton Roxby’s statutory rape trial, now under way and being televised on
Courting Rochester,
a local version of
Court TV,
dominated the local news, temporarily taking the heat off Cal and me. Most of the Kennedy clan came to Roxby’s defense, publicly citing the evil, yet understandable, temptations of baby-sitters everywhere with their Catholic schoolgirl uniforms and damn Christina Aguilera albums. Roxby, looking anxious and afraid, silently sat next to M.C. Shufelbarger at counsel’s table, nervously rubbing his hands together.

Shufelbarger’s primary strategy was to prove that vaginal penetration never occurred. Up against irrefutable DNA evidence and ripped underwear, however, Shufelbarger offered the girl’s use of a Miracle Bra and unchecked consumption of Zima as proof positive she “wanted it.” In his words, “This was a brazen hussy who lured Congressman Roxby up to her tree fort on the false premise of a school science project.” He admitted the fact that she was twelve, looked eleven and was wearing Garanimals at the time of the attack, cut against his client’s case, ultimately conceding that the girl’s intent was irrelevant under a statutory law prohibiting sex with minors.

After putting on a string of character witnesses, mostly senile elementary school teachers whose chalkboards he used to wash, Roxby threw himself on the mercy of the court, citing his honorary degree from Princeton, his willingness to withhold taxes for domestic help and his refusal to rent out his Congressional parking place despite the prevalence of this practice by his fellow representatives at the end of each session. All of this was to no avail, as Judge Stander, known in sexual crime circles as the banging judge, sentenced Roxby to fifteen years in the state penitentiary. The freshly convicted felon wailed as marshals walked him from the courtroom in leg shackles.

I would’ve enjoyed the spectacle more if I wasn’t facing a similar, though slightly less dire, legal test myself. As I made my way over to Woodcliff for my nightly brainstorming session with Cal, I wondered if I’d be able to avoid such abject humiliation. We were officially charged with contributing to the delinquency of minors and violating some new federal statutes related to the Internet, none of which seemed jail-worthy to me. The prosecutor, a local Indian named Hiawatha “Humpy” Wheeler, had other ideas. Hunchbacked since birth, Humpy was determined to straighten us out, and if he had his way, we’d fry like the genetically engineered potatoes now listed on the Tailburger menu. The prospect of it all made me ill as I knocked on Cal’s hotel room door.

“C’mon in. We’re celebrating!”

Cal stood at the doorway with an enormous smile and a bottle of champagne.

“Why? What the hell happened?”

“Guess who won the Nail Some Tail Sweepstakes? Guess.”

“I don’t know. Andy Rooney?”

“No.”

“Morley Safer?”

“No. Close, but no. Give up?”

“Yes, I give up. No wait . . . Leslie Stahl?”

“Nope. Plot Thickens.”

“Get out of here.”

“I mean it. My Web master told me an hour ago. I tried to call you.”

“We’re talking about Attorney General Plot Thickens?”

“Is there another? Biggest perv in public service. You said it yourself.”

“That hypocrite. That total hypocrite.”

“According to our computer records, he entered the contest a hundred and eighty-three times.”

“So much for his crusade against porn. I can’t believe it. How stupid can you get?”

“Hey, don’t forget it can happen to anyone.” Cal smiled at me.

“All right. We made our share of mistakes, but now our luck has changed. I can’t wait to see Thickens’s face when we threaten to expose him.”

“Well, now wait a minute.”

Cal put his champagne down on the mahogany nightstand.

“Do you think threatening the attorney general is a good idea?”

“Of course it is. What else did you have in mind? I want to see this guy squirm.”

“I don’t know. I figured we could gently encourage Thickens to intervene on our behalf with Humpy Wheeler and Judge Stander, but I didn’t really want to
threaten
him.”

“Cal, you can call it a threat or gentle encouragement or whatever you want, but at the end of the day, it’s a bribe.”

“No, that’s no good. I don’t like the word ‘bribe.’ It’s sounds so negative.”

“Then don’t think of it as a bribe. Think of it as a tip.”

“I like that. ‘Tip’ has a good wholesome tone to it.”

For a guy whose whole career had been in adult entertainment, Cal sure cared a lot about wholesomeness.

“You know another thing, Sky. Thickens might try to double-cross us.”

“He might, but I think you’ve seen too many movies.”

“No, no, no. Remember
Wall Street,
when Charlie Sheen and Michael Douglas met out in Central Park? And Sheen was wired?”

“I remember.”

“So what’s our protection from something like that? If Thickens gets us on tape trying to bribe, er . . . I mean tip him, we’re screwed.”

“Just let me handle it, okay? I’ll set up the meeting with Thickens and your name won’t even be mentioned.”

“You’d do that?”

After everything I’d put Cal through over the last few weeks with Kyle, I figured I owed him the favor of brokering this deal. With one phone call, Thickens could get us one-year probation terms for our alleged crimes against the young and curious. He could also get Tailburger dropped from the SERMON suit being brought by his office and Muffet Meaney. This would give me the necessary leverage with Ned, Ted and Fred to get my pension back without having to share the videotape.

“Of course I’d do that. It’ll give me a chance to talk to him about our little legal entanglement as well as the SERMON suit.”

“What do you mean?”

“The SERMON suit. The lawsuit being brought against Tailburger by Thickens’s office and Muffet Meaney?”

“What does that have to do with this?”

“I want to use this piece of information about the sweepstakes to get the suit dropped and get my pension back.”

“Sky, we’ve got to use this information to stay out of prison, remember?”

“Of course. That’s what I’m going to do. But if I can get Thickens to drop Tailburger from the state’s class action, I can get my pension reinstated by the Fanoflincoln brothers.”

“I don’t want you to use it for that.”

“Why not? What’s the difference?”

“Because this is more important. We’ve got our families to think about. My marriage is on the line here. Now is not the time to be worrying about money.”

“Maybe not for someone who has plenty of it. But I’m worrying like crazy. If you didn’t know it, Cal, I’m going broke.”

“What about your stock in Ethan’s company?”

“I can’t sell that yet.”

With our argument growing more heated, I decided to lay off. I had been fortunate to earn Cal’s friendship back, and I couldn’t afford to lose it again. After agreeing not to broach the subject of the SERMON suit with Thickens, I reluctantly told Cal about the videotape of Muffet and my standing offer to Ned, Ted and Fred of its contents in exchange for my pension. After laughing his ass off, Cal agreed to take the videotape to work and have my voice edited out and my appearance obscured. And so it was agreed. Plot wouldn’t pull Tailburger out of its pending lawsuit. Muffet would.

I left Woodcliff and drove home, my head full of pleasant possibilities. Things were starting to roll my way. My best friend was back. My girl was back (albeit under the false pretenses of rectal cancer). Tweeter was gone (along with his van).
Macrocock.com
was showing me love (I picked that phrase up from Ethan). And soon I’d have my pension without any of the embarrassment that often attends a nude video of yourself. Even Trip’s lawyer, Herv Alverson, had been quiet lately (despite the fact I never called him after being threatened).

I drove past Eastview Mall on Route 96 and saw a sign for its upcoming boat show, Toys for Titans
,
a title certain to improve attendance from the prior year’s Cruisers for Boozers
.

I’d always wanted a boat. Not some dinky Sailfish or thirty-foot Catalina, but an ocean-bound cabin cruiser I could take around the world and live on like Chevy Chase in
Foul Play
(I know it was a houseboat, but you get the idea). It was a fantasy, of course, and until my financial condition stabilized, it would remain just that and nothing more. Reality, though, awaited me in my driveway, where I found the front door of my house wide open.

I saw no one on the property as I stepped out of my car and looked into the moonlit darkness. Cautiously, I crept along the slate path that led to the main entrance until I could peer into the foyer from behind a large evergreen bush. There on the floor, flat on his back, was King. I rushed to my brother’s aid.

“King, what happened?” I cried out, running toward him.

King had been beaten and was bleeding from the stomach. I tore off his Santana concert jersey and found a large stab wound just below his belly button.

“Oh my God, King. Who did this to you?”

I put pressure on the gash and took a momentary look around. The house was trashed, the contents of every closet, cabinet and drawer dumped haphazardly by the perpetrators. Little, however, appeared to be gone. King, for his part, was conscious but a bit dazed.

“King, are you all right?”

King groaned while writhing back and forth.

“King, are you all right?”

“I-I-I’m okay.”

“Who did this to you?”

“Two guys,” King replied weakly. “Two big guys.”

“What’d they do?”

“They barged in the door. They wanted some videotape.”

“What?”

“They kept asking me, ‘Where’s the videotape? Where’s the videotape?’ ”

“Oh, no.”

I jumped up from King’s side and raced to my bedroom. Sure enough, my camcorder and all of my videotapes, including the one of Muffet and me, were gone from my closet.

“That bitch! I can’t believe this. She stole the tape. She and her fucking goons stole my tape.”

I ran back downstairs and returned to King.

“King, you’ve got to tell me exactly what happened.”

King grimaced in apparent pain.

“Okay. I’ll try. Well, let’s see . . . I had just juiced some carrots and was getting ready to read
A Practical Guide to Personal Freedom
by Don Miguel Ruiz. Did I mention that book to you?”

“Yes,” I said in exasperation. “King, I need you to get to the point.”

“Take me to the hospital, Sky.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I take you to the hospital, the police will have to get involved, and I’m already in enough trouble with the police. I can’t run the risk they’ll find the guys who did this to you and confiscate the videotape. I’ll never get it back, and I need it.”

“But, Sky, I’ve been stabbed.” King forced the words out.

“I know that, and I’m going to take care of you. I’ve got some Neosporin upstairs.”

“I don’t need Neosporin. I need a doctor.”

“King, you’re going to be fine.”

“I’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“You’ve got plenty left. Now stop talking and save your strength.”

I called Cal and told him to come over as quickly as possible. He had been premed for a semester at SUNY Potsdam and could dress a wound like a son of a bitch.

“Holy shit. What happened to your house, Sky?” Cal asked as he came through the door.

“The goon squad from SERMON. They stole the videotape of Muffet.”

“That’s bullshit! That’s breaking and entering.”

“I know it is. But so what? I can’t go to the police about a missing porno tape.”

Cal knelt down next to King.

“Let me get a look here.”

“I got stabbed in the stomach, Cal.”

“So the bloody towel isn’t just for show?”

King shook his head as Cal examined the cut and went to work. “Sky, do you have any Neosporin?”

“It’s upstairs. I’ll get it.”

“I don’t need Neosporin. I need to go to the hospital,” King persisted.

“You’re going to be fine, King.”

I returned from upstairs with the miracle cure for all cuts while Cal tried to place the crime.

“Sky, this is attempted murder. The police will be interested in that.”

“No, it’s not. They didn’t want to kill King. They just wanted to scare him.”

“It worked,” King whimpered from the floor.

“Cal, with everything that’s going on right now, I don’t want to get the police involved.”

It was my fault that King had been stabbed. When you play a high-stakes game of bribery with someone as devious as Muffet Meaney, you put your loved ones at risk. The guilt alone should have driven me to take King to the hospital. For all I knew, he could be near death. He was bleeding like a motherfucker all over the carpet and moaning like a man passing a kidney stone. This was my only brother. My flesh and blood. But I didn’t take him to the hospital. And I didn’t call the police. I had to think.