Cookie's Case Read online

  Now she’s heading toward the dining room, falling off her pretend beam three times as she does so. The medical term is disequilibrium. Once she’s reached the heavy wooden table, she readies herself for the procedure. As she begins to unbutton her shirt, she’s a little clumsy. The pressure inside her head is compromising her fine motor skills, and she knows it.

  Her breasts, once she’s removed the shirt, jut out from the openings in the custom-fitted plastic medical vest she has to wear. It serves as an anchor for the contraption affixed to her head. She stops for a moment, then pulls out one of the hand-carved high-backed chairs and turns it around. Sitting down backward on the red velvet cushion, she straddles it with her long, shapely legs. Then she leans forward and hugs the back of the chair.

  “All set!” she calls out. At this point, anguish can be heard in her voice. Her statement of readiness more resembles a plea for help. She’s in pain, real pain. Once the pressure inside her skull begins, it will soon turn overwhelming. Without immediate medical attention, inevitably it will result in a seizure that will send her into a coma. Within a matter of minutes, she’ll die from brain stem compression, brain herniation, or both.

  Major has played the role of spectator up to this point, watching from his Eames lounge chair like a pervert at a peep show of the surgically disabled. And who could blame him? She’s beautiful, even in all her pain. He stands and, in his movements, reveals himself as old.

  Once upright, though, his pace quickens. He’s heading for the surgical pouch kept on the kitchen’s center island. As he reaches it, Cookie says, “Oh, I forgot.”

  Major looks over.

  She sits up and takes a red hair scrunchie off of her wrist. She reaches behind her head and, despite the obstacle presented by the bars of the obtrusive metal device, executes a ponytail. Then she reassumes the position, with her lower back angled at forty-five degrees so Major won’t have to bend too much.

  He walks over carrying the already prepared pouch and places it on the table. Once it’s opened, he returns to the kitchen where, at the sink, he carefully performs a hand scrub. After rinsing, he uses the inside of his left elbow to push the hot water control into the off position, all the while keeping his hands face up to ensure their continued sterility. He’d changed the faucet himself, for just this purpose. Major does all the maintenance in his luxury apartment, with its spectacular East River views, himself. He’s very private.

  Peering inside the pouch, he looks up and says, “More gauze is needed.” Cookie winces. She knows the journey to get it from the other room will take approximately thirty seconds for the round trip.

  “Um, just use a paper towel if you need to. The pressure is getting bad. Hurry, please.” Her resistance to making any complaints is breaking down.

  “Will do,” he responds. He moves behind her using the upper aspect of her sacrum as his anatomical landmark. Counting the notches between her individual vertebrae he makes his way up. “L5, L4, L3 … perfect. Right here.”

  “Hurry. Please,” she says again.

  “Soon, my dear, soon.” Major hadn’t needed to identify his entry point, knowing it to be the intervertebral space just above a birthmark shaped like the isle of Ios. But he counts each time anyway, as a matter of medical procedure and precaution.

  Now wearing disposable latex gloves, he first wipes her back with an antiseptic pad, then puts iodine onto the last piece of gauze, making sure not to spill any on the antique Persian rug.

  “Hurry!” she reiterates.

  From the pouch, he now removes a small plastic syringe. It’s for the local anesthetic. He addresses her lower back at the predetermined mark. “A little sting,” he says, just as he always does.

  “Sting, sting … sting, sting,” she responds. His jabs are fast and skillful, but it helps Cookie to comment like this. It is, after all, happening to her.

  Next he prepares a different sort of syringe—a bigger, metal one. It has a built-in spinal-fluid pressure gauge and a glass collection tube running through its center. A large spinal needle is attached to one end, with three circular finger rings on the other. Clearly, it’s designed for the withdrawal of fluid. He sterilizes the needle, at last ready to get down to business.

  “Just a pinch,” he tells her. “That’s all.” Nonetheless, Cookie squeezes the back of the chair. She’s well aware what’s next.

  Major inserts the hollowed needle point into her spine, where it meets with resistance. “Slow, slow, slow,” Cookie says as he pushes forward steadily.

  “Easy, Cookie. Easy, girl,” he soothes her. He applies a little more force. Suddenly, the resistance lets up.

  “We’re in.” Cookie sighs with relief. Major looks at the gauge. “Hmm, I’ve never seen your fluid pressure so high. And you weren’t due for a tap today—that’s why you chose tonight to go to the club in the first place. You just can’t accurately predict this, as we’ve learned.”

  He now inserts his three middle fingers through the rings, curling them, then slowly pulls on the plunger, filling the barrel of the collecting tube with Cookie’s cerebral spinal fluid.

  “Yeah, that’s it, baby,” she says, exhaling. “I can feel the relief already. Keep going. That’s it. That’s how I like it.”

  Major smiles. He relishes the foreplay surrounding the tap, even as he’s aware of its peculiarity. “We’re done. And your fluid’s nice and clear. Hold still now.” He withdraws the spinal needle and immediately applies direct pressure over the access site with the iodine-soaked gauze.

  After a minute more of compression, he inspects the area. “You’re good to go.”

  “Hey, I feel great! Ready to dance, dance, dance. Gee, I hope this thing on my head doesn’t get in the way too much.” She rolls her eyes drolly at the thought. “I need a tall glass of cranberry and Red Bull. The usual.” He follows her into their kitchen, where he puts away his medical supplies. Peeling off the gloves, he discards them along with the rest of the medical refuse into a special container. Major then puts away his treasured spinal syringe, knowing it’ll be needed again.

  “Go sit in your chair,” she instructs him. “I’ll tend to you in a minute.”

  Obeying her command, he stares at Cookie, thinking how sexy she looks. He whispers under his breath, “She’s mine, all mine.”

  Then he waits.

  Cookie finishes her drink and heads over. Major feels his excitement build as she approaches. Stopping in front of him, she places the tip of her finger on her bottom lip, then slowly inserts it into her mouth, giving it a sensual suck.

  He sighs in pleasure.

  “You like that, you dirty old man?” she teases. Then she asks, “Are you a good doctor or an evil doctor?” Her naughty-girl voice is adorable.

  “I’m a good doctor and an evil doctor.”

  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 expla
ined.

  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.