63
I WANNA BE FAMOUS!
A novella by
Kal Wagenheim
Copyright 2008
(about 20,000 words)
Late one Friday afternoon in August, a taxicab inched its way in rush hour traffic down Lexington Avenue. Inside the cab, the a.c. was roaring full blast, as was the CD player, with Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries. Sitting in the back of the cab were Sheila and Dave, late thirties, in spiffy corporate attire, ignoring each other, shouting into their tiny black cellphones. The cabbie, muscular, in a black T-shirt, his head bobbing to the Wagner music, wore a gold earring, and sported a red and black "Aryan Nation” tattoo on his right forearm. At each red light, the cabbie glanced down into his lap, at his free copy of New York Press, open to “Anything Goes” in the personal ads.
Sheila, an intense brunette with the legal instincts of a shark in bloody water, was an ardent devotee of Wallis Simpson’s comment that “one can never be too thin, or too rich.” She had already achieved the former and was in hot pursuit of the latter. On the cellphone, she was bawling out Scott, her male assistant, over a misplaced comma in an important brief.
Dave, her husband, with sandy hair and placid, hazel eyes, had followed in Sheila’s wake through law school, nine years of marriage and a partnership in an important Manhattan firm. He enjoyed the good life, and the company of people as shallow as he. On his cellphone, Dave was trying, on very short notice, to cajole a decent table at Cote Basque for dinner later that evening.
Leaning forward, Dave asked the cabbie: “Could you please lower that a tad?”
“A tad? A tad? Hey, man,” the cabbie responded in a half-shout, “dontcha dig Vogner? He's cool.”
The cab pulled up to the Chrysler Building, at the corner of Lexington and 42nd Street. Dave paid the cabbie, leaving a miserly tip --three nickels and six pennies--which provoked a loud, angry “fuck you!” and a raised grimy middle finger. Dave ignored him, but Sheila thrust her head into the driver’s window, glared right back, and responded with a middle finger jab of her own, shouting, “And fuck you!” As the dazed cabbie pulled away, Dave and Sheila, still on their phones, entered the building.
Moments later, a second cab pulled up. Alan, forties, emerged, wearing a rumpled navy blue sports jacket and khaki Dockers, dotted with reddish-brown food stains in the crotch area, drippings from a kosher hotdog he’d wolfed down at lunch hour in the corner deli. A Yankee baseball cap perched atop his reddish-brown hair, which was in need of a trim. He carried a battle-scarred brown leather briefcase, and a worn baseball fielder's glove. Alan’s client list included indigent members of minority groups, millionaire tax evaders, South American drug dealers, and crooked politicos. Once divorced, Alan had recently been dating a professor of political science at Columbia.
Sheila and Dave, now both off their phones, entered the elevator. The door closed, and blinking lights showed it climbing ... as Alan ambled into the lobby, and entered another elevator.
The imposing eighteenth floor conference room of a high-powered law firm. Visible through the tall, south-facing windows, the lower Manhattan skyline was bathed in the orange glow of late afternoon.
Bob, early fifties, handball trim, tanned, dark pinstripe suit by Ermenegildo Zegna, tie by Robert Talbott, stood by a gleaming mahogany conference table, leafing through papers. Bob strained to concentrate on the task at hand, despite the fact that he was in the middle of a messy second divorce. He rubbed a hand on his cheek, to feel the stubble. Bob always seemed to have five o’clock shadow, despite the fact that he ran an electric shaver up and down his face at least twice a day. By contrast, his black hair was thinning badly at the top, and he had spent more than one sleepless night, debating whether to go for a transplant.
Also standing by the table, studying papers, was Ralph, an African-American in his late thirties, tennis trim, strictly Brooks Brothers. Ralph, the son of Federal civil servants based in Washington DC, had been captain of the lacrosse and debating teams at Dartmouth, where he had studied on scholarship. He had worked as a consultant to several pollsters before joining Bob’s firm, and the past six years had been dating a young lady, also a pollster, who, despite his entreaties, was undecided about marrying a registered Republican.
Greta entered, carrying an armful of paper bags. In her late twenties, Greta was dressed in a black sweater and black slacks, with blue dyed hair and rings in her ears, all of which dismayed her parents, Korean immigrants who owned a nails salon in Queens. Greta rested the bags on the table, and began removing the food, opening containers, and spreading out plastic knives and forks, and paper plates. “The deli stuff's here,” Bob. “I paid him from petty cash.”
“Thanks Greta.”
Dave and Sheila entered through the double doors.
“Hi, Bob,” said Dave. “Great tan!”
“Bob!” said Sheila. “Gorgeous tan!” She came closer for "kiss-kiss" on the cheek.
Bob hugged her. “Sheila, darling, flattery will get you everywhere!
Dave admired the room and the view. “Fabuleux. Did you shut down LA?”
“Nah,” said Bob. “We expanded to Manhattan last month. We do tons of business out here.”
Alan entered with a dramatic flourish, raised both arms wide, and burst out with his version of the Bizet aria. “To-REE-a-DOR! Don't spit on the FLOOR! Use the cuspid-DOR! That is what it's FOR!”
“Alan!” said Bob. “Glad you could make it.”
“Bob!” yelled Alan, holding the operatic pose. “Terrific tan!”
Bob made the introductions. “You know Sheila, right? And Dave?” Alan nodded, and waved at them. Bob wrapped his arm around Ralph. “Ralph's our polling and media maven in Washington.”
“DC?” Alan asked. “D'you know Dick Cheney?”
“Sure, I know Dick,” said Ralph. “Not in the biblical sense, of course.”
“Ha! I like him already,” Alan said. “Gimme five, bro!” Alan tried to "high five" Ralph, who was puzzled and bemused, and offered his hand. Alan glanced at his watch. “I gotta be in East Hampton tonight. Tomorrow morning, I'm playing second base in a big charity softball game.”
“Relax,” said Bob. “I reserved a copter at 30th Street. Charity? What charity?”
Alan shrugged. “Something to do with children. Abused children. Dyslexic children. Children with AIDS. Channel Seven's covering it.”
“Channel Seven!” said Dave, admiringly.
“It's a snap when your starting pitcher's Peter Jennings,” said Alan. “Henry Kissinger's umpiring.” He mimicked Kissinger's bass voice. ‘Ball vun! Strike vun!’”
Bob pointed to the food on the table. “Alan, I got your special goodies from Wolf's Deli. Corned beef, turkey, garden salad. Potato knishes they didn't have.”
“Wolf's doesn't have potato knishes?” said Alan. “This town's going to the dogs!”
“Relax,” Bob said. “Greta called Ben Asch's on Seventh Avenue for the knishes. They're on the way. To drink, we've got Perrier, Coke, cream soda, Snapple...”
Greta entered with a few more bags, and began to arrange the food on the table. “Boy, there's enough here to feed an army!”
“Thanks, Greta,” said Bob. He took Sheila by the hand, and danced a slow fox-trot. “Pizza margherita from Trattoria del Arte. Your favorite, right? They usually don't deliver, but I schmeered ‘em. I also got a special bottle of cabernet.”
Dave, pretending to pout, tapped Bob on the shoulder, and broke in, to make it a threesome. “Hey, what about me?”
“Got you and Ralph some Reubens,” said Bob. “Is that okay?”
“I'll wait for the knishes,” said Ralph. “I very much enjoy ... ethnic food.” Glancing at Dave, he said, “Caught you on Court TV last week.”
“Really?” said Dave, flattered, as the three dancers separated.
“The left profile's your best. This side makes you look puffy, older.”
“Uh-huh,” said Dave, a bit deflated. He drifted over to one wall, where there was a mirror, and gazed in, tilting his head left, then right.
The phone rang. Greta grabbed it and answered cheerily. "Saper-steen, La-veen and O'Hara!...Mister O'Hara is in Zurich...Mister Saper-steen is in Tokyo... Mister La-veen?" She looked to Bob, who shook his head in the negative. "Mister La-veen is gone for the day. I'll have him call you Monday."
Greta hung up, and Bob, frustrated, said: "Greta, I keep telling you, it's La-VINE. Not La-VEEN."
"But Bob, Mister S. spells it just like you. I-N-E. And his is EEN!"
"Greta, what can I tell ya? That's the way it is. I'm La-VINE. He's Saper-STEEN. Okay?"
Alan broke into song. "You say to-MATE-o, and I say to-MAH-to...La-VEE-en, La-VIE-en, let's call the whole thing off!"
Greta shrugged and headed for the exit. As she did, her cellphone, hanging from her waist, rang. She grabbed it, listened, and replied in a whisper: “Not yet. I’ll call you!”
As Bob poured Sheila's wine, he explained: "Greta's new. Just breakin' her in."
Sheila took a sip. “Mmmmm. This wine's delish!”
“It's from a tiny Rothschild estate at the foot of the Chilean Andes. I picked up ten cases at auction last year. They're already up thirty percent.”
“In my house the choice was Mogen David or Manischewitz,” Alan said.
“Talking about up,” Dave said, “howdya like the Dow?”
As the lawyers picked at their food and made small talk, Alan cracked a joke: “Did you hear about the new sushi bar that caters just to lawyers? It's called ‘sosumi!’” Sheila cackled. The others smiled.
Bob clinked two glasses together to get their attention.
Smiling, he said, “So! How are you?” He looked around. They smiled back.
“Fine!” said Alan.
“Fabulous!” said Dave.
“Super!” said Sheila.
“I mean,” Bob responded, “how are you ... really?”
They looked at him, puzzled.
“Dave, Sheila, what ‘big case’ are you working on at the moment?”
“We’ve got this copyright thing,” said Sheila.
“DVD pirates in Panama,” said Dave. “Selling copies of new movies.”
“Uh-huh,” Bob said. He looked at Alan.
“City councilman from Buffalo. Got caught with one hand in the till, and the other on his secretary’s tukkus.”
Near tears, Bob said: “You know what I’m working on? I’m representing this humungous oil company – which shall remain nameless—we’re suing gas stations in Oklahoma. Gas stations!”
“So?” said Dave. “They must pay plenty.”
“It’s just money!” wailed Bob.
Sheila came close and hugged Bob. “What’s the matter, sweetie? Is it the divorce?”
“I want more!” Bob whimpered. “More than money!”
“What’s more than money?” Dave asked.
“I want it all!” Bob said. “I wanna be rich ... and famous!”
“Wait a minute!” Alan said. “Didn’t I see you on Larry King not long ago?”
“For three minutes!” Bob said. “The next few days, wherever I went, do you know how many people came up to me and said hello? One lady, on Lexington Avenue, even asked for my autograph. It was. . . intoxicating!”
“I was on Court TV once,” said Dave. “Nobody asked for my autograph.”
“Boooooooooooooooring!” said Sheila.
“I was boring?” Dave asked.
“The whole show! A ditzy Park Avenue broad goes on vacation, leaves her poodle in a kennel. The dog gets knocked up. She sues the owner of a cocker spaniel. They get involved in—get this!—a paternity suit!”
“I think it was interesting!” said Dave.
“What about you guys?” Bob asked. Don’t you wanna go down in the history books? Don’t you wanna be remembered?”
Alan shrugged. “Whenever I go into Wolf’s deli, Sol, the manager, says ‘Hello Mister Lipowitz’, shows me to my favorite table by the window. What more can a guy ask for?”
Bob, again, was near tears. Alan came over and hugged him. “What’s the matter, bubulluh?”
“A case has fallen into my lap,” said Bob. “The chance of a lifetime! A chance for immortality! I want to share it with you guys, because you’re the best in the business—a real ‘dream team’.”
“Uh-oh,” said Alan. “Hold on to your wallets, folks!”
Bob gazed out the window for a moment, to gather his thoughts, then turned to face them. “Let's suppose a man, accused of the most heinous crimes, is caught after many years on the run...”
“Heinous?” asked Alan. “What'd he do? Order a pastrami with mayo?” This provoked another delighted cackle from Sheila.
“Wanna hear heinous heinous?” said Dave. “Last week I invite a client to lunch at Cote Basque. He orders sole almondine, then he asks for a bottle of merlot! The poor waiter ran, weeping, into the kitchen. Jean-Jacques came out and dropped by our table. He was tres charmant as always, but I could tell he was dying inside.”
“I can't believe it,” said Sheila. “In grad school Dave gobbled Franco-American Spaghetti right out of the can! With a plastic spoon! Cold!
“Helloooo?” said Bob. “How do we defend him?”
“Defend who?” asked Alan.
“Name me a high-profile case!” said Bob.
Sheila jumped up, as though she were in a parlor game. “O.J. Simpson!”
“Minor league,” said Bob.
“The Menendez Brothers!” Dave shouted. “Leopold and Loeb!”
“Compared to this client, they’re like The Bobbsy Twins,” Bob said.
“Lorena Bobbitt?” asked Alan.
“About as thrilling as my cousin Morty's bris,” said Bob. After a pause, “Let's suppose our client were...Hitler.
“Hitler!” said Dave, smiling. “What's that, some new rock group?”
“I mean the real Hitler,” Bob said. “Adolph Hitler.”
“He's dead,” said Sheila. “I saw it on A&E.”
“Hitler supposedly shot himself as the Allied troops were closing in on his bunker in Berlin,” Bob said. “But what if he slips away, and escapes to Argentina. From there he makes his way to New York. He poses as Abe Heller, a survivor of the Holocaust, and opens a small business.”
The New Jersey boardwalk. Ocean waves crash against the beach. Vacationers stroll on the boardwalk. Elderly retirees sit in rocking chairs on the verandah of a Victorian-style house facing the sea.
“Later, Mister Heller retires, and moves to a senior citizen's complex in Bradley Beach, New Jersey...”
“Bradley Beach, New Jersey!” exclaimed Alan.
A woman’s hand, holding a key, opens a door. The woman enters the darkened room, approaches a bed, where a figure is covered with a blanket. The hand gently shakes the shoulder of the figure in bed. No response. The hand shakes harder. Nothing.
“Mister Heller becomes ill...”
The hand picks up a telephone and punches in a number. The hand hangs up the phone, opens the drawer of a lamp table besides the bed, and searches inside.
“They search among Mister Heller's stuff, for next of kin. They find a safety deposit key...”
A car pulls up to The White House.
“This key leads to documents indicating that the man known as Abe Heller is -- or may be --Adolph Hitler.”
An FBI agent flashes his ID to the GUARD at the White House gate, and is waved in.
“The police are called. The police call the FBI. The FBI notifies the White House. The Feds arrest Abe Heller.”
Alan shook his head in disbelief. “For this he makes me schlep across town on a Friday afternoon? A twelve-buck fare!”
“Is this for that lawyers' show on TV with Greta Van
Whatserface?” said Sheila. “Can I be on the panel?”
“This is for real,” said Bob. “We're on billable time here.”
“You mean defend the real Hitler?” said Sheila, recoiling with horror.
“No way!” said Alan.
“He was a beast!” said Sheila.
“He's the most hated man on earth!” said Dave.
After a moment’s silence, they looked at each other. “There could be a downside,” said Sheila. “Would any of our A-list clients be pissed if we take on this case?”
“Ralph and I had lunch yesterday with Michael Stern,” said Bob.
“Who?” Alan asked.
“Mike Stern,” said Ralph. “Senior partner of Logan, Holden and Stern.”
“Oh, yeah.”
Bob smiled. “Mike must have a mole in the Treasury Department. He knew all about our new client, and he was drooling into his martini!”
“You're talking humungous fees...” said Dave.
“Expert witnesses, spin-meisters...” said Sheila.
“It could be...the trial of the century!” said Ralph.
Bob raised his right thumb and forefinger, holding them close together. “I missed the OJ account by this much; that shmendrik Shapiro beat me to it. I made a pitch for Michael, Martha, Kobe, Monica, Condit ... even Joey Buttafuco and Tanya Harding! But they all had lawyers lined up. Now this thing practically falls in our lap. Hitler is bigger than all the others put together. It could be a career maker for all of us!"
"Yeah," said Alan. "When I die, I can just see my obit in The Times. 'He defended Hitler!' My mother’ll be turning over in her grave!"
“What about the client's assets?” Dave asked.
“There are rumors of secret Swiss accounts,” Bob replied. “Old masters stashed away in warehouses.”
Dave smiled at Sheila. “A Degas would look marv in our conference room.”
“I was middle class once,” said Sheila. “Some of it was fun...”
Dave, in an upbeat mood, said “Any of you catch Trial by Jury at Symphony Space last weekend?”
“Gilbert & Sullivan,” said Ralph.
“Ever seen it?” Dave asked.
“Seen it? During my senior year at Dartmouth, we did it!”
Gesturing dramatically, Dave sang out: "All thieves who could my fees afford, Relied on my orations..." Ralph joined in. "And many a burglar I've restored, To his friends and his relations!" Dave and Ralph laughed. They were bonded.
“The Feds will be announcing Mister Heller's indictment next week. We've gotta be ready with our own spin.” Bob nodded to Ralph.
Ralph picked up several folders and a videocassette from the table. “We did some focus groups. Our client has very high name recognition. High negatives, too. But most folks, when we probed deeper, know very little about him.”
“So,” Sheila asked, “it's still possible to impact on public opinion ... and the jury pool?”
“Definitely. We've prepared a media kit, plus a video for the networks.” Ralph handed out the media kits. “These materials highlight traumatic moments in our client's life: child abuse, the loss of his mother, the horror of trench warfare...”
“The American public is forgiving,” said Bob. “It believes in redemption.” Dave turned to Ralph. “How about media reaction?”
“Predictable!” Ralph said. “The networks will run the usual footage from the camps. The press will quote from his hate speeches ...”
Bob interrupted. “‘He killed millions!’ they'll say. ‘How can you defend the s.o.b.?’"
“The media kit has Q and A on all that,” said Ralph.
“Our position is: We must respect the process,” said Bob. “It is our duty to defend all accused persons ...”
“Drug dealers, said Ralph. “Serial killers ...”
“Terrorist bombers,” said Dave. “Pedophiles ... pornographers ...”
“Even junk bond dealers,” said Sheila.
“The presumption of innocence,” said Bob solemnly, “is the cornerstone of our legal system.”
“Let's cut the bullshit,” said Alan. “If we don't defend the cocksucker, there'll be a hundred--a thousand!--shysters lining up outside his door. So, we hold our noses and do it!”
“Right! Before OJ, who knew Cochran and Shapiro, and Dershowitz? Now look at them!”
Dave opened his laptop began typing furiously.
“Whatcha doin’?” Bob asked.
“Googling Hitler,” Dave replied. As he continued typing, he asked, “What's he like, Bob?”
“We met for the first time last week, just for a couple of hours.”
“So? What's he like?”
Glancing at his watch, Bob said: “You'll see soon enough. He's due here any minute.”
Looking to Ralph, Dave asked, “Have you met him?”
“Not yet. But I've done so much research, I feel as though I know the guy.”
“Is there a physical resemblance?” asked Sheila.
“He's very old, sweetheart,” said Bob. “He doesn't have a funny black moustache, and his hair down to here, if that's what you mean...”
“Are you sure it's him?” asked Sheila.
“Pretty sure...”
“Pretty sure?” said Alan. “What the fuck's that supposed to mean?”
“There's piles of evidence...a big a paper trail...”
“What does he say?” Alan asked.
“Who?”
“Who! The old man! What does he say?”
“He plays it kinda coy...”
“Coy? You got an alta cocker - excuse me, a coy alta cocker -- who may be Hitler?”
“The Feds have indicted him, for God's sake!”
“The Feds! What the fuck do they know? Remember when they invaded Grenada? To stop Communism? Grenada!”
Bob threw up his hands. “What does it matter? So long as there's a trial! The media buzz will be...beyond anything we've ever seen!”
“From day one,” said Ralph. “We estimate the TV audience will outdo the final episode of ‘Mash’. More than eighty-three million.”
“After the trial,” said Bob, “whatever the outcome, I'm thinking high seven-figure -- maybe eight figure! -- book and films rights. I'm thinking putting Grisham and Spielberg together...”
Greta peeked in from the reception area. “There's a guy here from Ben Asch, with potato knishes.” Carrying a paper bag, in walked Rudy -- Hispanic, early twenties, handsome, café au lait complexion, wearing a Yankees baseball cap backward and a tee-shirt saying “Puerto Rico Me Encanta.”
As Rudy laid the bag on the table, Bob gave him a dollar tip. “Aqui. Thanks. Muchas gracias.”
Rudy looked admiringly at Bob, and spoke with a strong Spanish accent. “Tanks. Wow, great tan! Where ju bean, Pwerto Rico?
Bob smiled, but did not respond, as Alan dug into the bag and pulled out a knish.
Dave, leafing through the media kit, asked “What did Hitler have against the Jews, anyway?”
“’Scu me?” said Rudy.
“Yes?” Bob replied.
“Ju talkin' about 'Eetler?”
“Por favor, this is a private meeting.”
“He was de boss of de Nazis, no?”
Impatient, but polite, Bob responded, “yes.”
De oder night, on teevee, I see dis movie, ‘Somebody's Leest.’"
"Schindler's List."
“Jeah! Mi madre, dose Nazis, dey was mean!”
“Yes, thank you very much,” Bob said.
“I mean dey was mean! Ah-nee-MAHL-ays!”
“Yes...”
“No maircy!” said Rudy, making the sign of The Cross.
“Yes. Please...”
“Like burnin' up dose people in ovens! Ave Maria!” said Rudy, crossing himself again, then kissing his fingers.
Bob gently guided Rudy by the elbow towards the door. “You'll have to excuse us. Really. This is an importante meeting. Gracias.” Rudy shrugged, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and escorted Rudy to the door. As he left, Greta’s cellphone rang again. She grabbed it and, again in a whisper, “No! He’s not here yet! I said I’ll call you!” She shut off her phone and entered the receptionist area.
Alan bit into a knish, and made a face. “Got any salt? These knishes must be for the cardiac ward at Beth Israel.”
Sheila leafed through the media kit. “Did Hitler's name appear on documents linking him to war crimes?”
Bob buzzed the intercom. “Greta, got any salt?” Greta entered with a salt shaker. She gave it to Bob, who gave it to Alan, who began salting his knish.
“What about jury selection?” asked Dave.
“No Jews, of course,” said Sheila.
“No gays, or gypsies, either,” said Dave, as he kept on Googling.
“Right!” said Sheila in a mocking tone. “Keep those gypsies off the jury. Clever!”
“How long’ve you two been married?” Ralph asked.
“Nine long years,” said Sheila with a sigh. “Right after UV law school.”
“You guys went to UV?” Ralph asked.
“Yeah,” said Dave. “Before that, I got a BA in communications down in Miami, and then an MBA at Wharton...”
Sheila interrupted. “He’s got more degrees than a rectal thermometer!”
“How about blacks on the jury?” said Alan.
They all looked to Ralph. “Problematic. Jesse Owens ... the 1936 Olympics ... the Master Race stuff.”
“In Simpson,” said Sheila, “the defense showed that the detective who found the bloody glove at O.J.'s house was a racist. Who opened the safety deposit box? Could evidence have been planted?”
“Hey,” said Dave, staring at the computer screen. “It says here that Hitler fought with the Bavarian Army in World War One. He was a decorated hero, the Iron Cross. He was also gassed?”
“Gassed in the war!” said Sheila.
“Then he sends people to the gas chambers...” said Dave.
“Remember whatsisname?” said Alan. “The guy who shot up all the commuters on the LI Railroad?”
“Colin Ferguson,” said Ralph.
“Yeah. Kunstler said Ferguson struck back at whites to get even for racial oppression. Kunstler called it ‘Black Rage’."
“So,” said Dave, “couldn't Hitler's actions be due to ... Nazi Rage!”
“That’s brilliant, sweetheart,” said Sheila mockingly.
Ralph shook his head and frowned. “That won’t rate very high on the jury sympathy meter ...”
“He comes from Bavaria,” said Dave, groping for an idea. A light bulb seemed to glow on above his head. “So how about... Bavarian Rage!”
They all looked to Ralph again. “Kind of exotic ... but non-threatening...”
Sheila closed her eyes. “Bavarian Rage ... mmm ... sounds like a Ben 'n Jerry flavor.” She patted Dave on the shoulder.
Bob looked to Ralph. “Media reaction?”
“Predictable! Some columnists will say: If we pursue this ‘rage’ approach, anyone can be excused for any crime! But all we need is one juror.”
“I had this client,” said Dave. “He was looking at ten to twelve. He was bipolar, taking drugs prescribed by three different doctors. We convinced a jury that the drugs caused him to engage in aberrational conduct.”
“Diminished capacity,” said Alan.
“Misdemeanor. Fifteen months. Then we got him a book contract – high six figures -- to tell all about his fight against mental illness and drug addiction!”
“Nice,” said Alan. “Nice!”
“That's real hutz-pah!” said Ralph, admiringly.
“Chutzpah,” said Alan, trying to help. “You've got to say it from the back of the throat, like you're gargling. Chuh ... chuh ... chuh ... “
Greta peeked in, then knocked on the door. “They're here.”
“It's time to meet our client,” said Bob. “Mister Heller.”
Two men entered, one black, one white. They were in their forties, dark sunglasses, well groomed, muscles rippling beneath their conservative gray business suits. A telltale bulge in their suit jackets hinted at concealed weapons. Each wore a tiny earphone.
The white man gripped a bullet-proof vest in his right hand. His partner approached, holding up his ID. “Good afternoon, sir. I'm special agent Somers. FBI. This is special agent Visotski.” Agent Visotski nodded, and scanned the room.
Bob, a bit puzzled, asked, “And where is ...?”
“In your reception area,” said Agent Somers. “He'll be right in. We'd just like to look around first. Security precaution.”
“Of course ...”
Agents Somers and Visotski sauntered around the room, nodding politely to the others. Alan pointed to the food on the table. “Either of you like a knish?”
“No thanks, sir,” said Agent Visotkski.
Standing by the tall windows, Agent Somers looked out at Manhattan. “Great view. Where do you plan for him to sit?”
Bob pointed to a chair near the table. “Over here, I think.”
“Fine. Try to keep him away from the window.” Somers turned to Visotski. “I don't think we need the jacket in here.” Then he turned to Bob. “Can't be too careful. All kinds of nuts out there.”
“Nah,” said Alan. “Who'd wanna whack Hitler?”
The agents looked at Alan, deadpan, not sure if he was joking. They walked towards the door. “We'll be waiting out there,” said Somers.
Gesturing to the food on the table, Bob asked, “Sure I can’t offer you some of our feast?”
“No thank you, sir,” Somers replied. “We have some coffee and Danish outside. We'll be fine.” They opened the door, and exited, leaving the door open.
A tall handsome blond man, in his early thirties, with piercing blue eyes, wearing a white uniform, entered hesitatingly. He stood arm in arm with a bent elderly man of medium height, who leaned against a cane. The old man looked like a typical Florida retiree; tanned, sunglasses, windbreaker, Yankee baseball cap, white tennis shoes.
“Good shabbos,” said the old man. He sat down with the help of the young man, who placed a blue wool shawl around his shoulders.
Bob stood there, beaming. The other lawyers warily approached, and inspected the old man. “Nice tan,” said Dave.
As Sheila came closer, the old man struggled to his feet, and removed his cap. In a Yiddish accent, he said: “Abe Heller. Pleased to meet you.” He took her hand, kissed it, and sat back down.
“Mister ... Heller...” she said. “How is it you came to obtain Bob's services?”
“I saw him on Larry King,” the old man said. “He looked like a nice young fella.”
Alan came face to face with the old man, and waved his knish for emphasis. “You mean a smart Jew-boy, right? You kill six million Jews, and now you run to the Jews to save your skin!”
The old man rolled up the sleeve on his right forearm, and revealed tattooed numbers. “Young man, for your information, I myself was in a concentration camp ... ”
“Where'd you have that done? Canal Street?” asked Alan. “Don't worry, Adolf. You'll get the best defense money can buy.”
“Every year, I've donated to the United Jewish Appeal...”
“Yeah, yeah...”
The old man watched enviously as Alan ate his knish.
“How’s the knish?” he asked.
Bob asked, “Would you like a knish, Mister Heller?”
The old man smiled, shrugged. “Maybe a little bite wouldn’t hurt!”
“Greta,” said Bob. “Please give Mister Heller a knish.” Greta put a knish on a paper plate and handed it to the old man.
“Thank you, young lady.”
As the old man chewed happily on his knish, Greta’s cellphone rang. She backed away from the group, and whispered into it: “He’s here! Yes! I’ll get back to you later!”
Dave gushed, “Mister Heller? I have great contacts at Hard Copy. Court TV, too! The networks will have to cover it, gavel to gavel!“
The young blond man extended his hand to Dave. “Hi, I'm Teddy.” They shook hands.
Teddy stared at Dave for a moment. “Wait! Didn’t I see you on, on, Court TV?”
“Yes!” said Dave.
“The show about the pregnant poodle?”
“Yes!”
“Loved it!” said Teddy! “She was so cute!”
“Have you been with Mister Heller long, Teddy?”
“About six months.”
“Fascinating! What's it like caring for him?”
“He's such a sweetheart. And what an appetite! For breakfast, toast with great big gobs of orange marmalade.”
“Orange marmalade? Fascinating.”
“For lunch, mashed potatoes and tomato salad.”
“Mashed potatoes. Wow.”
“For dinner,” Teddy continued, “spaghetti.”
“Spaghetti?”
“He adores spaghetti, with just a splash of marinara. I put a bib on him, and he goes right at it.”
“I think I can get you on Hard Copy, too!” said Dave.
In the meantime, the old man, half eaten knish in one hand, his chin on his chest, had dozed off. “Is he okay?” said Bob, concerned.
“Mister Heller likes to take his nap every afternoon, right after Montel Williams,” said Teddy.
“Who?”
“You know, Montel Williams? Channel Nine? Where've you been? He adores Montel. Rosie. Oprah. Geraldo. Sally.”
“What a fabulous story!” exclaimed Dave.
“Oh,” Teddy continued, “and those animal shows on The Discovery Channel? He adores them. Except ...”
“Except ... what?” said Bob.
“Once, it showed some hunters ... there was a wounded deer lying on the ground. He covered up his eyes with his hands, and pleaded with me to turn off the set. He said the hunters should be shot, and he burst into tears. He is so sensitive.”
Ralph pulled out a small recorder and dictated a note. “Get pet owners on the jury.”
The old man’s head lolled back, and he commenced to snore, quite loudly. He continued snoring, as the others looked at him, then each other. The snoring stopped. There was the sound of a long, loud fart. The lawyers looked at Teddy.
“It's all those veggies he eats.”
Dave pulled a black comb from his pocket. He covered part of the comb with his hand, and placed the exposed part below the old man's nose, as though it were a moustache. “There's some resemblance, don't you think?”
“I saw a film once,” said Sheila. “Jewish men trying to escape, pretending they were Christians. The Nazis would check their penis, to see if they were circumsized. If Mister Heller is Jewish, wouldn't he be ...?”
“Great!” said Alan. “Let's give old Adolph a pecker check!”
Dave reached down, tentatively, towards the zipper of the old man’s trousers.
“Go ahead, Dave,” said Sheila. “You won't touch me, but you'll touch this old man!” Dave pulled his hand back.
“What if the prosecution demands to see it?” said Sheila. “There's a privacy issue there, don't you think, Bob?”
In a low voice, David said, “We can keep appealing. How long can he live?”
Alan, impatient, said, “I'm not gonna sit here while this old Nazi fart sleeps.” He leaned close to the slumbering old man. “Yoo-hoo, Adolf? ACHTUNG!” The old man was jarred awake.
“That wasn't very nice, sir, ” said Teddy.
“Nice, shmice!” said Alan, pointing to his watch. “I've gotta be somewhere tonight!”
The old man motioned to Teddy, who leaned down. He whispered in his ear. Looking to Bob, Teddy explained, “He wants to know if we could tune in to the services from Temple Emanu-El on the radio. They're on WQXR every Friday from five-thirty to six.”
Glancing at his watch, Bob replied, “It's after six already. Sorry.”
“That could be a nice touch if this goes to trial,” said Ralph, “him listening to the services.
“Maybe,” said Dave, “he could even wear one of those ... uh ... beanies.
“They're called yarmulkes,” Ralph explained. Dave looked at him, impressed. “My roommate at Dartmouth was an Orthodox Jew,” Ralph said.
“Along those same lines, Mister Heller,” Bob said, “Ralph's people in DC have been dreaming up ideas to...’soften’ your image ... ”
“Soften?”
“Yes. Ralph?”
“We were thinking,” said Ralph, “maybe an appearance on Larry King might ...”
“Larry King! I love that man! I watch him all the time!”
“The American public,” Bob continued, “could get to know you ... as a real person ...”
“Yes ... yes ...”
“Baseball’s the American pasttime. Maybe some night you could show up at a Mets game ...”
The old man pointed to his cap. “I'm a Yankee fan.”
“A Yankees game then! You could order a hot dog ...”
“I'm a vegetarian ...”
“Popcorn then! Whatever!” Bob snapped, impatiently.
“We were also thinking,” said Ralph, “that to make an impact on the under thirty d.g.”
“D.g.?”
“Demographic group. People under thirty who might also be in the jury pool ...”
“Ah, yes. Of course ...”
“We could set up, for a very nominal cost, a website ...”
“A what?”
“... on the Internet.”
The old man nodded, pretending to understand. “Ah, yes.”
“That way, we could develop a chat room ...”
“A cat room? Dogs I like. Cats I hate!”
“No,” Bob interrupted. “Not a cat room. A chat room!”
“Oh ... What's that?”
“Where you could inter-act with every p.c. owner in cyberspace!” Ralph added, eagerly.
Confused, the old man looked to Bob. “Outer space? What the hell's he talking about?”
“Email is wonderful!” Teddy exulted. “I have fabulous pen pals ... Jimmy in Tulsa ... Eric in London ... Ramon in Tegucigalpa.” He hugged himself, glancing downward to his shoulders, at an invisible mink coat. “With Ramon I pretend I'm an heiress, living on Fifth Avenue.”
“It's a way to get your views across,” said Bob. “Build sympathy.”
“That's a brilliant idea!” said Dave, as the old man looked around, bewildered.
“Don't worry,” Bob assured him. “We'll explain it to you when the time comes.”
“Mister Heller,” said Dave. “It would help if you could confirm your identity for us.”
“My what?”
“Your identity. Tell us who you really are.”
The old man looked around at all of them. “Who I am?”
“Yes, sir,” said Bob.
Gesturing dramatically with upraised arms, the old man asked “Who am I?” Pointing to Bob, he continued, “Who are you?” Pointing to Sheila, “Or you?” Then, throwing up his hands, “Or, for that matter, who is anyone? I mean, really!”
Grabbing his briefcase, Alan rose, disgusted. “That's it! I've had enough of this bullshit!
Trying to restrain Alan, Bob appealed to the old man. “Sir, as you can ...
“I already told you! I'm Abe Heller!”
“But, sir ...” said Ralph.
The old man rolled up his sleeve, showing the faded blue tattoo. “Isn't this enough? Haven't I been through plenty, and now I have to put up with more torture?”
“Sir, it's not us,” said Dave. “We trust you! But in a trial ...”
“Yes,” said Sheila. “In a trial, the other side ...”
“The other side, always the other side! All right! What do you want to know?”
Bob picked up a thick folder, bulging with papers. “Sir, the prosecution is going to trot out all kinds of evidence ...”
“Evidence? What evidence?”
Bob pointed to the dossier. “For example, in your safety deposit box they found several letters from Goebbels and Goering and other Nazi leaders, addressed to Adolph Hitler.”
“So?”
“So?” said Alan.
“So?” the old man responded.
“How the hell do you explain that?” Alan asked.
“Simple.”
After a pause, Alan said, “We're waiting.”
“I'm a collector.”
“A collector,” said Ralph.
“Yes, I collect things.”
“Things,” said Dave.
“Things about Hitler!”
“Ah,” said Bob, relieved. “So that explains it!” He looked at the others, with a weak smile. “He collects things about Hitler!”
Obviously disappointed, Dave whined, “So you're not really Hitler?”
“Why? Do you want me to be him?”
“No, goddamit!” said Alan. “We want the fuckin' truth!”
“Now, now,” snapped Teddy, “there's no reason to have a hissy fit!” Teddy looked to the old man, and spoke gently. “Why don't you explain it to them?”
The old man nodded. “For years, after the war, I had a tiny shop on Fourth Avenue, down below Fourteenth Street. Antiques, old books, all kinds of ha-za-RYE.”
Dave looked puzzled. “Ha-za-RYE,” said Ralph. “That's Yiddish for junk.”
“Right,” he said. “People would come in to buy, people would come in to sell. Sometimes they brought me things from the war. Since I survived the war, I became attracted to certain things, and I kept them.”
“But why would you keep things about the Nazis?” asked Sheila.
“Not the Nazis. Just Hitler.”
“So why just Hitler?” she persisted.
The old man struggled to find the right words. “Because, I tried to understand how a man, just a man, could ... do what he did. It kept me awake, days and nights. For years I collected Hitler things. And I read about him. I got to know him very well. Maybe better than he knew himself!”
Still disappointed, Dave said, “So you're not really Hitler?” He turned to Bob. “What kind of big deal trial will this be, if he's not Hitler?”
Looking at the dossier, Sheila said, “So the photo of Eva Braun, found among your things, inscribed ‘to my Darling Adi.’ That's just something you collected?”
“Right.”
“And the blank sheets of Hitler's personal stationery, with the little swastikas on top?” asked Ralph.
“Right.”
“And the little notebook with pencil notations that seem to be the numbers of Swiss bank accounts?” asked Dave.
“That, too.”
“And the little plastic envelope, containing dark hairs, apparently clipped from a moustache?” asked Sheila.
“Yes.”
Looking at the dossier, Alan asked, “What about the passport?”
“Which passport?”
“Item number twenty-two in the Government's evidence file. They found a passport, stamped with entry to Paraguay, just three weeks after Hitler was supposed to have died.”
“So?”
“It's not in the name of Abe Heller. It's in the name of Gunter Stein. And, according to the Government, Paraguay was a haven for Nazis.”
“I told you, I'm a collector! I collected that, too.”
Didn’t you just say you only collected things about Hitler? What the hell does Gunter Stein's passport have to do with Hitler?”
“How should I know?”
“Jesus Christ!” exclaimed Alan. He continued to flip through the dossier. “And what about the testimony of a witness?”
“A witness? What witness?”
Alan pointed to the dossier. “A Mister David Schwartz. Your next-door neighbor at Bradley Beach.”
“What could that schlemiel possibly say?” said the old man, angrily.
“He told the FBI that you sometimes made anti-Semitic remarks.”
“Once! I knocked on his door and asked to borrow his TV Guide. When he refused, I called him a cheap kike!” After a pause. “So what happens if the jury decides I'm Hitler?”
“It's much too early to worry about that,” said Bob. “We can mount a very strong defense...”
“But what if?”
“There would be a presentencing hearing,” said Sheila.
“The judge would have to evaluate all the circumstances,” said Ralph.
The old man looked glum. “But if they decide I'm Hitler ... they execute war criminals, don't they?” Teddy reached over and patted his hand, to comfort him.
“Mister Heller,” said Bob, “sometimes the best way to persuade a jury is to do something dramatic.” Bob picked up a CD, and placed it in the CD player on the side table. “During World War II, a group called Spike Jones and his City Slickers came out with a song that was a tremendous hit.”
“I wouldn’t know. I was in the camps then ...”
“It made fun of Adolf Hitler. It was highly insulting”
“Uh-huh ...”
“Every loyal American loved it, thought it was hilarious.”
“Right.”
“So, during the trial, while you are on the witness stand, if I played that song and you laughed, and clearly enjoyed it, I think that would prove something to the jury, wouldn't it?”
“I ...guess so ...”
“Can we try it out now, just to see?”
The old man shrugged, as if to say “why not?” Bob turned on the CD. And the raucous song began. Alan, invisible baton in hand, stood up, to conduct. “When zee Fuehrer says, 'vee is dee master race,' vee heil!” (the loud sound of a fart) “vee heil!” (loud sound of a fart) “right in der Fuehrer's face!”
As the song continued, the lawyers smiled, and watched for old man's reaction. He tried to smile, but was clearly uncomfortable. “Not to love der Fuehrer is a great disgrace! So vee Heil!” (fart!) “vee Heil! (fart) “right in der Fuehrer's face.” The old man -- his face contorted in a ridiculous grin -- looked around at the lawyers, and nodded.
“Yes! Yes!” he exclaimed. “Very comical! Excellent!”
“Mister Heller,” said Dave. “Can we get something straight? Once and for all? Are you, or aren't you ...Adolph Hitler?”
The old man looked around, warily. “You're all my lawyers?”
“Yes,” said Bob.
“What I tell you is in strictest confidence?”
“Absolutely. Client-attorney privilege.”
“It was so long ago. If I was ...him, if!, that was in nineteen forty-five. I lived a whole other life since then!”
“A whole other life?” said Dave.
“Each day, millions of cells in our body die, and new ones are born,” the old man explained. “That's each day. Imagine fifty years. I'm a whole different person today!”
“What a defense!” said Alan, throwing up his hands. “A born again Nazi!”
“I don't get it,” said Dave. “Are you him, or aren't you?”
The old man leaned back and smiled. “Would it make you happy if I was him? Okay, I'll be him!”
“Now, sir,” said Bob, “we don't want you misrepresenting ...”
He shrugged and gave a sly wink. “Who am I to argue with the FBI?”
“But, sir ...”
The old man raised his hand, to reassure Bob. “Don't worry! Everything will be fine!”
Bob approached the old man with several papers and a pen. “Before we get started, sir, we need your signature.”
The old man peered at the papers. He reached into his pocket, put on his sunglasses.
“Just to formalize our agreement,” Bob said. “That we represent you in all legal matters.”
“Of course,” the old man replied.
“Including the pending litigation.”
“Yes.”
“And any negotiations.” The old man gave him a questioning look. “For film and book rights. For your life story.”
“Of course.”
“Public appearances.”
“Yes.”
“Hey,” Alan interrupted. “He could have his own reality show on TV. Instead of ‘You’re Fired’ it could be ‘You’re Dead’!”
“Alan ...” Bob said.
“Or,” Alan continued, glaring at the old man. “How about product endorsements? I hear GE just came out with a new self-cleaning oven.”
Bob shot Alan a nasty look. The old man signed the paper. Bob handed the papers to Greta, just as the phone rang.
"Saper-STINE, La-VINE and O'Hara!" she said cheerily. Turning to Bob she smiled. “Mr. King from CNN on the line.”
Bob pressed the speaker phone button. “Larry? Hi!”
“Hi, buddy,” said the disembodied voice.
“Enjoyed our lunch.”
“Yeah, it was super.”
“Remember, we talked about Mister, uh...A.H.?”
“Yup.”
“We're all set...What's your lineup next week, Larry?”
“Jackie Mason and Arafat on Monday...”
Bob raised an eyebrow. “Okay...”
“Oliver Stone on Tuesday. He's gonna reveal How the CIA killed Princess Di.”
“Wow,” said Bob. “Gutsy guy.”
“Wednesday, Madonna and Whoopi Goldberg. They're doing a remake of ‘The Defiant Ones’"
“Fabulous.”
“Thursday, Michael Jordan, Michael Jackson and Michael Eisner...the Three Michaels.”
“What a concept!” said Bob.
“Friday we've got the Vice President. On health care and education.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I think we can bump the VeePee to the following Friday.”
“Great, Larry. Would you like to say hello to Mr. A.H.?”
“Delighted.”
“He's right here.” Bob handed the receiver to the old man, who held it in a shaky hand.
Hard of hearing, he spoke in a near shout: “Mister King?” There was silence on the line. The old man tried again, “Mister King?”
“Forgive me,” said the voice at the other end. “I’ve interviewed so many celebrities, world leaders. But this is really something. I can’t believe I’m really talking to...you. It is you, isn’t it?”
“It’s me, alright, Mister King.”
“Everybody calls me Larry...”
“All right, Larry. A pleasure. I'm a long-time listener.”
“Is that so?”
“I used to hear you on the radio in Miami when I spent winters down there.”
“Thank you.” After an awkward pause. “You know, sir, I have to say, a lot of people are very upset with you ...”
“Yes, I know a lot of people are upset with me, Larry.”
“Very upset ...”
“Yes, I understand.”
“So I hope you don't mind, Abe ...should I call you Abe, or Adolph?”
“You’re choice, Larry ...”
“Right. Anyway, during our interview I'm gonna have to ask certain questions ...unpleasant questions...”
“I understand ...”
“I hate doing that, but ...”
“You're just doing your job, Larry ...I'll look forward to seeing you next Friday.”
The old man handed back the phone receiver to Bob, with a big smile. “Such a nice young man.”
Bob spoke into the phone. “See you soon, Larry. Adios, amigo!”
“Okay, buddy.”
As Bob hung up the phone, the old man asked him, “So, how did I do?”
Before Bob could reply, Greta peeked in, excitedly waving several phone message slips. “Charlie Rose ...Barbara Walters ... Prime Time ...The Disney Channel ...Richard Simmons ...” Staring at the last slip, she did a double take. “Richard Simmons?”
“Tell 'em I'm gone for the weekend,” Bob said. As Greta turned to leave, he added, "Greta? When Larry King called, you got me right, but you referred to Mr. S as Saper-STINE. He's EEN, and I'm INE."
Shaking her head, Greta walked out, mumbling "EEN ... INE ... EEN ...INE." Her cellphone rang again. She grabbed it, listened, and replied in a whisper, “I haven’t had a chance to talk to him yet. Don’t worry. I will!”
Dave stared intently at the old man. “Bob, before he goes on the teevee, maybe we could have a makeover specialist take a look at him.”
“Uh-huh.”
Dave pointed at the old man’s dark sunglasses. “Viewers might get turned off by these. They come across as sort of menacing, dontcha think?”
Bob looked for help to Ralph, who gently removed the sunglasses. “Maybe he could have clear lenses, or contacts. So people can look into his eyes, if he wants to express remorse, or ...”
“Hey!” Alan interrupted, adopting a sardonic tone. “Just before he goes on, we could spray onion juice in his peepers!”
Ignoring Alan, Bob jotted down a note in his appointment book. “Gal I know in LA. Does make-up for all the major studios. She also helped out in a few congressional races. I'll give her a shout.” He rubbed his hands together, and smiled at Heller. “Now! We’re going to ask you a number of questions. To anticipate the kind of questions that might come up during the trial. Like a dress rehearsal. Okay?”
“Okay,” the old man replied.
“Let's assume, just for the moment,” Bob said, “that we enter a ‘nolo’ plea.”
The old man was puzzled. “Nolo?”
“’Nolo contendere,’ Bob explained patiently. "It means, if the government's case is so strong, if the evidence is so overwhelming, it might be better to accept it.”
“Accept what?” the old man asked.
“Accept guilt,” said Bob. “Plead extenuating circumstances. Diminished capacity.”
The old man displayed a flicker of alarm. “Accept guilt?”
Bob, smiling, reassured him. “We're just play-acting here...”
“Play-acting?”
“I'd like to explore that strategy,” said Bob. He put his hand on the old man’s shoulder, gazed into his eyes. “Just between us. Trust me. Allright?”
“Allright,” said the old man, still betraying a hint of concern.
As the lawyers began to flip through the pages of their media kits, Rudy, the Hispanic delivery man, peeked into the office.
“Scu' me?” said Rudy, as Greta entered, looking flustered, apologetic. “Bob, I'm sorry! He insists on delivering this personally!” Rudy, carrying a canvas bag, handed Bob a piece of paper. “Las' time I'm here, I forget to geev ju el recibo. Muy importante. For dee taxes, right?”
“Thank you,” said Bob, taking the paper, and resting it on the table. “But it's really not necessary...”
Rudy extended his hand to the old man, smiling. “Ah! Ju mus' be el Senor Eetler, no? My name ees Rodolfo Soto ... almost like ju, eh? Rodolofo, Adolfo! Rodolfo, Adolfo! My frens, day call me Rudy.”
The old man looked at him as though he were insane. Bob interrupted. “Please ...Rudy...we're in the middle of a muy importante meeting ...” Ralph pulled Bob aside, and whispered into his ear. “Bob, we're doing a mock trial, right?”
“Right.”
“This fellow's a perfect fit for the demographics of the jury pool in New York,” Ralph said. “Third World immigrant ... low level of education. Why not let him sit in and track his reaction?”
Bob put his arm on the young man’s shoulder. “Rudy, how much do they pay you per hour at the deli?”
“Seex dollar, plus teeps...”
“I need you for a couple of hours, right now. I can pay you ... how about ...one hundred dollars.”
“A hundred dollar! Ave Maria!”
Bob put his right forefinger to his lips. “But this is strictly confidencial, right? You can't discuss this with anybody!”
Rudy solemnly crossed himself. “I swear to ju!”
“Good! Now ju, I mean you, sit here,” Bob said, motioning to a chair by the conference table. “Eyes and ears open, mouth shut. Okay?”
Rudy gave Bob a military salute. “Okay, jefe!”
“Let's begin with the early years, and move right on through,” Bob said. “Sheila, can you start us off?”
Sheila, dossier in hand, rose and approached the old man, smiling. “Good evening, Mister ...” She looked to Bob. “... Hitler?”
“Just for this ‘nolo’ scenario, yes,” Bob said. “We may try other options later.”
The old man, looking to Bob, asked, “So now I'm Hitler, right?”
“Yes, just for now.”
“Excuse me, sir, I'm curious,” Dave said, flashing an ingratiating smile. “You look great for your age. How do you ...”
The old man brightened. “I'm glad you asked that! First of all I am a vegetarian ...”
“Yes, said Alan, recalling the fart, “we've heard ...”
“I do not smoke, or drink, except for a little wine with meals,” the old man continued. “I also take vitamins ...”
“Really?” Dave said. “What kind?”
“A multi, plus an extra vitamin C ...and zinc.”
“Zinc.”
“For the prostate” said the old man, pointing to his groin. “I sleep right through the night, without -- you should pardon the expression -- having to ...pee.”
“All night! You're blessed,” exclaimed Alan in a mocking tone. “What do you do about constipation, Adolph? My dad, down in Miami, has tried everything but dynamite!”
Irritated, Bob said, “Can we get back on track, please?”
“I'll start again,” said Sheila. “Good evening, Mister Hitler.”
“Good evening.”
“You were born on April 20, 1889.”
“Yes ...”
“In Braunau, a village in Austria...”
“Me? I was born on the Lower East Side! One-twenty Ridge Street.”
“Sir,” Bob said gently. “We're talking about you being Hitler. The ‘nolo’ charge. Remember?”
“Ah, yes! Braunau!” the old man said, as he seemed to drift into a trance. His voice sounded different, distant. “It was a three-story house, at Fifteen Salzburger Vorstadt. We lived in an apartment on the first floor...Then, when I was still a child, we moved across the river to Bavaria...”
Dave leafed through the background materials. “Sir?” The old man seemed to snap out of the trance, but now he appeared transformed, younger, more alert.
“Yes,” the old man responded.
“About your assets...”
“Dave!” Sheila said, in a tone of reprimand.
The old man was amused. “That's all right, young lady.” He turned to Dave. “You want to know if I can afford you?”
Pointing to a page in the dossier, Dave replied, “It says here you own art masterpieces worth millions.”
“I began collecting very early on ...”
“From France alone,” Dave continued, “the Reich shipped out four thousand cases of paintings, statues and jewels, collected for your museum which was to be built in Linz ...”
“What a showcase it would have been!” the old man exulted.
“There were even five thousand bells,” said Dave in a tone of wonder, “stolen from churches all over Europe.”
The old man’s eyes glinted with anger. “And what about the French looting of German art under Napoleon? Compared to Napoleon, we were pikers!”
“Boy, he sounds convincing!” said Dave.
“Sir,” Bob said to the old man. “When you were fourteen, your father died. Is that correct?”
“Yes ...” the old man responded, a bit cautiously.
“Your father abused you -- beat you -- didn't he?”
“Next question,” the old man replied, laconically.
“I'm merely trying to establish ...”
“Next question!” he snapped.
Bob raised a hand, to placate the old man, and pursued another avenue. “Four years after your father's death, your mother fell ill with breast cancer.” After a pause, “You adored your mother, didn't you?”
“Yes ...”
Doctor Bloch tends to Hitler's mother, who rests in bed, near death. Young Adolf, just eighteen, stands by, teary-eyed.
“She was attended by a Doctor Edward Bloch, a Jew. Wasn't he known as "the poor people's doctor?"
“He was an excellent doctor,” said the old man, his voice trailing off.
“He made more than forty visits to your home,” Bob continued. “But despite Doctor Bloch's best efforts, your mother was in agony.”
A misty December day. A polished wooden coffin is removed from a hearse, and lowered into the ground. Adolf, in a black overcoat, observes, weeping, along with his two sisters. A solemn Adolf and his two sisters are now in the office of Doctor Bloch. The doctor places a hand on Adolf's shoulder. “Death was a savior,” the doctor says. “It gave her relief from her pain.” Adolf grasps the doctor's hand, looks at him gravely. “I shall be grateful to you forever.”