The Garden Of Eden And Other Criminal Delights

H oly Water

“Holy Water” brings together two of my favorite writing elements-humor and religion. When I first heard that the closely guarded secret recipe for Coca-Cola had to be divulged to rabbinic authorities in order to get kosher certification, I knew I had a story that would cross the fine line between the sinister and the absurd.

Until he felt the gun in his back, rabbi Feinermann thought it was a joke: somebody’s idea of a silly pre-Purim schtick. After all, the men who flanked him wore costume masks. The Marx fellows-Groucho and Karl. Two old Jewish troublemakers, but at least one of them had been funny. The revelers spoke in such trite dialogue it had to be a hoax.

“Don’t move, old man, and you won’t get hurt.”

Although he was fasting, Feinermann was always one to join in the festivities, though this prank was on the early side. So he played along, adjusting his hat, then holding up his hands.

“Don’t shoot,” Feinermann said. “I’ll give you my hamantash. I’ll even give you a shot of schnapps. But first, my two Marxes, we must wait until we’ve heard the reading of the Megilla-the scroll of Esther. Then we may break our fasts.”

Then, as he tried to turn around, Groucho held him tightly, kept him facing forward, pressing his arm uncomfortably into his back. At that moment Feinermann felt the gun. Had he seen it when the two masked men made their initial approach? Maybe. But to Feinermann’s naive eyes, the pistol seemed like a toy.

“We’re not fooling around here, Rabbi,” Karl said.

Feinermann looked around the synagogue’s parking lot. It was located in the back alley on a little-used dead-end side street. He was alone with these hoodlums, but he had grown up in New York. Hoodlums were nothing new. Although the masks were a little different. In his day, a stocking over the face was sufficient-a ski mask if you wanted to get fancy.

But times change.

The old man had grown up in neighborhoods where ethnic groups competed for turf-the Irish, the Italians, then, later on, the Puerto Ricans. Each nationality fighting to prove which was the mightiest. Of course, they all tormented the Jews. Pious old men and women had been no match for angry energy and youthful indignation.

No, hoodlums were nothing new. But the gun in the back was a sad concession to modern times. Had mankind really progressed? the rabbi mused.

“Come on, Rabbi,” Karl said. “Don’t make this difficult on us or on yourself. I want you to walk slowly to the gray car straight ahead.”

“Which car do you mean, Mr. Marx?” Feinermann asked. “The eighty-four Electra?”

“The ninety Seville,” Groucho answered.

“Oooo, a Cadillac,” Feinermann said. “A good car for abduction. May I ask what this is all about?”

“Just shut up and get going,” Karl said.

“No need for a sharp tongue, Mr. Marx,” the rabbi answered.

Karl said, “Why do you keep calling me Marx?” He pointed to Groucho. “He’s the Marx guy.”

“Your mask is Karl Marx,” Feinermann said.

“No, it’s not,” Karl protested. “I’m Albert Einstein.”

“I hate to say this, young man, but you’re no Einstein.”

“Will both of you just shut up?” Groucho snarled.

“Then who am I?” Karl plowed on.

“Karl Marx,” Feinermann declared. “The founder of communism… which isn’t doing too well these days.”

“You mean I’m a pinko instead of a genius?” Karl was aghast.

“Just shut up!” Groucho yelled. To Feinermann, he said, “You can scream, Rabbi, but no one will hear you. We’re all alone.”

“Besides,” Karl added, “you do want to see your wife again, don’t you?”

Feinermann paused. “I’m not so sure. Nevertheless, I will cooperate. You haven’t shot me yet. You haven’t robbed me. I assume what you want from me is more complex than a wallet or a watch.”

Groucho pushed the gun deeper into Feinermann’s spine. “Get a move on, Rabbi.”

Feinermann said, “Watch my backbone, Mr. Jeffrey T. Spaulding. I had disk surgery not more than a year ago. Why cause an old man needless pain?”

Instantly, the rabbi felt relief as the pressure eased off his back. “So you’re not without compassion.”

“Just keep walking, Rabbi,” Groucho said.

“Who’s Jeffrey T. Spaulding?” Karl asked.

“Shut up!” Groucho said. “Just cooperate, Rabbi, and no one will get hurt.”

“Mr. Hugo Z. Hackenbush, I have no doubt that you will not get hurt,” Feinermann said. “It’s me I’m concerned about.”

“Hugo Hack…” Karl scratched his face under his mask. “Who are all these dorks?”

“C’mon!” Groucho pushed the rabbi forward. “Step on it.”

As the Marxes sequestered him in the backseat of the Seville, Feinermann tried to figure out why he was being kidnapped. He wasn’t a wealthy man, not in possession of any items of great value. His estate-a small two-bedroom house in the Fairfax district of Los Angeles-would be left to Sarah upon his demise. He and his wife had had their differences, but he couldn’t imagine her hiring people to kill him for his paltry insurance policy. Sarah was a kvetch and a yente, but basically, a good, pious woman. And a practical woman as well. The cost of the hit would greatly exceed any monetary gain she’d receive from the policy.

Karl kept him company in the backseat as Groucho gunned the motor. Then they were off. The men were good-size, capable of doing major physical damage. And they seemed very nervous.

Perhaps this was their first kidnapping, Feinermann thought. It was always difficult to do something for the first time. It was then and there that Feinermann decided to make his abductors feel welcome.

“A nice shirt you have on, Karl Marx,” he said. “Is it silk?”

Karl looked at his buttercup chemise. “Yeah. You really like it?”

The old man fingered the fabric. “Very good quality. I grew up in New York, had many a friend in the shmatah business. This is an impressive shirt.”

“Quiet back there,” Groucho said.

The old man pressed his lips together. At least his discussion with Karl had produced the desired effect. Feinermann could see the man in the buttercup shirt visibly relax, his shoulders un-bunching, his feet burying deep into the Caddy’s plush carpeting. The Seville, with its cushy gray leather upholstery and its black-tinted windows, had lots of leg room. It was good that Karl felt at home. He shouldn’t be nervous holding a gun.

Groucho, on the other hand, was a different story. His body language was hidden from Feinermann’s view. The only thing the rabbi could make out was a pair of dark eyes peeking through the mask with the bushy eyebrows-a reflection in the rearview mirror. The eyes gave Feinermann no hint as to who was the man behind them.

Feinermann sat stiffly and hunched forward, his elbows resting on his knees. Karl reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief.

“Sorry to have to do this to you, old man.”

“Do what?” Feinermann felt his heart skip a beat. “You are going to tie me up?”

“Nah, you’re not much of a threat,” Karl said. “I’m gonna have to blindfold you. Don’t want you to see where we’re taking you. Be a good man and hold still.”

“I always cooperate with people carrying revolvers.”

“Good thinking.”

Feinermann closed his eyes as they were covered with a soft cloth, the ends of the kerchief secured tightly around his head. Quality silk-very soft and smooth. His abductors had spared him no expense. It made the old man feel important.

“May I now ask what this is all about?”

“Soon enough,” Karl answered. “Don’t worry. No one wants to hurt you. They just want a little information from you.”

“Information?”

Groucho barked, “Keep your trap shut, for Chrissakes!”

“Are you talking to me, Mr. Rufus T. Firefly?” Feinermann asked.

“No, not you, Rabbi. I would never talk to a man of the cloth like that.” Groucho paused. “Well, maybe I did tell you to shut up. Sorry about that. I was nervous.”

“First time as a kidnapper?”

“You can tell, huh?”

“You don’t seem like the hardened criminal type.”

“I owed someone a favor.”

“It must have been a pretty big favor.”

“Ain’t they all. Just relax, old man. We’re gonna be in the car for a while.”

“Then maybe I’ll take a little rest.” Feinermann took off his hat, exposing the black skullcap underneath, and unbuttoned his jacket. “Is this your first kidnapping as well, Karl?”

“Yep.” Karl lowered his voice. “I owed him a favor.”

Feinermann took the “him” to be Groucho and pondered, “Groucho owed someone a favor, you owed Groucho a favor.”

“Yeah,” Karl said. “It’s kinda like a bad chain letter.”

A Hebrew proverb came to Feinermann’s mind: From righteous deeds come righteous deeds. From sin comes sin.

The car ride lasted over an hour. Afterward, the Marx boys brought Feinermann indoors, eased him into a baby-smooth leather chair, and propped his feet up on an ottoman. Such service, the rabbi thought. After the boys had made him comfortable, they removed the blindfold, then left.

The old man found himself in a magnificent library. The room was about the size of the shul’s dining hall but much fancier. The paneling and bookcases were fashioned from rich, deep mahogany, so smooth and shiny the wood seemed to be plastic. The brass pulls on the cases gleamed-not a scratch dared mar the mirror polish. The furniture consisted of burnt-almond leather sofas and chairs, with a couple of tapestry wing-backs thrown in for color. The parquet floor was covered in several places by what looked to be genuine Persian rugs.

Directly in front of Feinermann was a U-shaped desk made out of rosewood with ebony trim. The man behind the desk appeared to be around thirty-five, of slight frame and bald except for a well-trimmed cocoa-colored fringe outlining his nude crown. Over his eyes sat an updated version of old-fashioned wire-rimmed round spectacles. Except these weren’t the heavy kind that left a red mark on the bridge of the nose. Mr. Baldy was attired in a black suit, his pocket handkerchief matching the mandarin ascot draped around his neck. He held a crystal highball glass filled with ice, a carbonated beverage, and two swizzle sticks.

“May I offer you something to drink, Rabbi?” The bald man stirred his drink. His voice was surprisingly deep. “I’m drinking KingCola-the only beverage considered worthy of Benton ’s finest imported Bavarian crystal. But we have a full bar-Chivas aged some twenty-five years-if you’re so inclined.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Feinermann, “but I shall be obliged to pass. Today is a fast day in my religion-the fast of Esther. Eating and drinking are prohibited until tonight’s holiday.”

The bald man stirred his KingCola. “Interesting. And what holiday is tonight, if I may ask?”

“You may ask, and I’ll tell you. Tonight is Purim-the Festival of Lots-when one righteous woman foiled the plans to annihilate the Jews of Persia.”

“And you fast on such a day?”

“First comes the fasting and praying, then comes the celebration. Makes more sense to feast when you’re really hungry. Not to mention it’s good for weight control.” Feinermann adjusted his hat. “Are you this Benton of the famous Benton ’s crystal?”

The bald man looked up and chuckled. “No, Rabbi, I am not Mr. Benton.”

The old man stroked his beard. “I am trying to figure out why his name rings a bell.”

The bald man said, “Perhaps you’d recognize the name in a different form. Benton Hall at the university. Or perhaps you’ve been to the Benton Civic Light Opera Company. Or read about the new Benton Library downtown.”

“Ah…”

“Mr. Patrick W. Benton is quite the philanthropist.”

“So why does a rich philanthropist need a rabbi with a herniated disk?”

“You are not just a rabbi, you are the rabbi.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I realize that. But before we begin, I want you to know that bringing you here was my idea, not Mr. Benton’s. I work for Mr. Benton, formulating his… covert operations.”

“Sounds mysterious. Perhaps you’re a student of the Zohar- our book of mystics?”

“What?”

“Not important. Nu, so do you have a name, Mr. Sharp Dresser?”

“Sharp dress… you’ve noticed my couture?”

“I like the touch of orange with the black suit.” Actually, Feinermann thought the man looked like a jack-o’-lantern. But hurling insults was not the old man’s style. And now was not the time for insults anyway.

The bald man nodded in approval. “Well, I thought it made rather a bold statement.”

The rabbi said nothing. To him, a bold statement was splitting the Red Sea. “So, Mr…”

“You may call me Philip.”

“Philip it is. Exactly what does your Mr. Benton want from me?”

“It is I who want something from you, Rabbi Feinermann. I want something not for myself but for Mr. Benton-for his good deeds. And you, Rabbi Feinermann, are the only one who can help Mr. Benton continue his course of philanthropy. Let me explain.”

The old man stroked his beard again. “I knew this wasn’t going to be simple. Kidnappings are never simple affairs.”

Again Philip let go with his pesky chuckle. “Come, come, Rabbi. Surely you don’t think we intend any harm to befall you.”

“ To tell you the truth, with a gun in my back, I wasn’t so sure, Philip. But proceed. Explain away.”

“Rabbi Feinermann, you may wonder why a man like me would go to such extreme… measures to help out Mr. Benton. It’s because I truly believe in his work.”

“And what does he do besides erect buildings with his name on them?”

“He cares, Rabbi. He has built his empire on caring. His multibillion-dollar corporation was one of the first to include the human side of business. One of the first to offer complete major medical and dental care. And if that was not enough, he included in his medical package-free of charge-optometry, orthodontia, and podiatry services. Do you know how many of his employees have availed themselves of braces, eyeglasses, and bunion removal at Mr. Benton’s expense?”

“I have no idea.”

“Thousands.”

“A lot of bunions, Philip.”

“Corns are no laughing matter, Rabbi.”

“Not at all, Philip.”

“It’s not just in medical services where Mr. Benton has taken the social lead. His was one of the first major corporations to provide on-site day care, flexible shifts for working mothers, and free turkeys on Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter.” Philip paused. “And kosher turkeys for our kosher-keeping workers, I might add.”

“Sounds like a thoughtful man, your Mr. Benton.”

“That he is, Rabbi.” Philip tensed his body and shook with gravity. “That’s why desperate times call for desperate measures. You being here… it was a desperate measure that I took. But one that I hope you will truly understand.”

“I’m all ears, Philip.”

“Do you know how Mr. Benton made his money, Rabbi?”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“I’m not surprised. He is not a grandstander, like your ordinary billionaire.”

“I’m not a maven on billionaires, Philip. I wouldn’t know an ordinary one from an unusual one.”

“Well, let me assure you that Mr. Benton is extraordinary.”

“I’m assured.”

“He made his money right here.” Philip held his highball tumbler aloft. “Right in the palm of my hand.”

“In Bavarian crystal?”

Philip frowned. “No. In the soft-drink industry. KingCola. A King, as it is affectionately known. ‘I’ll have a hamburger, french fries, and a King.’ How many times have you heard that, Rabbi?”

“Not too many. But don’t go by me. I don’t patronize fast-food places, because I keep kosher.”

“But even you, as insulated as you are from pop culture, have heard of KingCola.”

“Certainly.”

“But there’s so much more to Mr. Benton than KingCola.”

Feinermann noticed that Philip was shaking again. “We’ve been over the wonders of Mr. Benton. May I ask what does any of this have to do with me?”

“I can sum that up in two words. Cola Gold.”

“Cola Gold? Your chief competitor?”

“Our enemy, Rabbi!” Philip started foaming at the mouth. “Not just our enemy in the War of the Soft Drinks, oh no, Rabbi. It’s deeper than that. Much, much deeper. If it was only money, do you think Mr. Benton would waste his time on them?”

Feinermann thought maybe Mr. Benton would bother wasting his time. From his scant knowledge of billionaires, the old man was under the impression that billionaires-and maybe millionaires as well-spent a great deal of time on the subject of money. But he was silent.

Philip went on, “It’s the whole CeeGee mentality, Rabbi. CeeGee-that’s our code word for Cola Gold.”

Feinermann nodded.

“CeeGee’s attitude is Machiavellian-only the product counts, not the people behind the product. Do you know that last year alone, CeeGee laid off over two hundred people? And what replaced these people?”

“What, Philip?”

“Machines!” Philip spat out. “Machines took over jobs that had once put bread on the tables of families. How would you feel if a machine took over your job, Rabbi?”

“Not too good.”

“Exactly!” Philip pulled the orange handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face and forehead. “We’re not talking about ordinary business competition, Rabbi. We’re not just talking about sugar, flavoring, and water. We are talking sugar, flavoring, and holy water, Rabbi. What KingCola and Cola Gold have going is an all-out holy war.”

“I see your point, Philip.”

“So you will help, won’t you, Rabbi?”

Feinermann stroked his beard, then held his finger up in the air. “Yes, I shall help. Call up Cola Gold and ask for the list of those who’ve been laid off. I could use an extra man to clean up the shul after Friday-night kiddush.”

Philip bristled. “That’s not what I had in mind!”

“So if you have an alternative plan, tell me.”

Philip pointed a finger at the old man. “It rests entirely in your hands.”

Feinermann looked at his hands. All he saw was air.

Philip said, “It has to do with CeeGee’s new formula. The one they use to appeal to the youth?”

“Ah, yes,” the old man said. “I’m aware of it. What is the slogan? ‘The new cola for the now generation-’ ”

“Don’t utter those words!” Philip covered his ears and began to pant.

Feinermann stood and quickly handed Philip his glass of King-Cola. By now the ice had melted and the drink looked watered down. But it looked pretty good nonetheless, because the rabbi’s mouth was dry from fasting. “Philip, calm down and drink.”

Philip slurped up the remains of his soft drink.

“I beg your pardon,” the rabbi said. “I didn’t realize it would cause such a reaction. I won’t say another word.”

Philip took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It’s not your fault, Rabbi. You couldn’t have known.”

Feinermann said, “I take it by your reaction that the new… youthful formula has been successful.”

“Youth!” Philip despaired. “What do they know of Mr. Ben-ton’s greatness and humanism?”

“Why don’t you tell them?”

“As if they’d listen. As if this generation cares about humanism. Did you know that soft drinks are a forty-eight-billion-dollar industry? Did you know that colas-both caffeinated and decaffeinated-comprise a forty-percent market share? And who do you think drinks cola?”

“Who?”

“Youth!” Philip exclaimed. “Youth, youth, youth! Those rats at CeeGee have not only exploited the workers, they’ve exploited our youth! Did you know that they’ve signed DeJon Jonson to a twenty-million-dollar ad contract?”

“He’s the fellow with the lamé glove?”

“He’s the hottest thing in the recording industry, Rabbi. And CeeGee’s got him under contract.”

“Twenty million is a lot to pay for a fellow with just one glove. Surely you can find a chap with two gloves for a cheaper price.”

Philip glared at him.

“What do you want from me, Philip?” Feinermann asked.

“I’ve tried everything, Rabbi. This is my last desperate attempt to gain a victory for our side-the side of truth and justice. The key is in your hands because…” Philip paused for dramatic effect. “Because you are one of the handful of people who know Cola Gold’s secret formula.”

The rabbi’s eyes widened. “Me?”

“There’s no use in denying it, Rabbi,” Philip stated. “Yo u are one of the privileged who know every single ingredient, additive, and flavoring, artificial or otherwise, that give CeeGee’s new formula its unique taste.”

“Philip-”

“You, Rabbi, have personally checked the formula in an official capacity in order to give sanction to the kosher-keeping world that the new formula is as kosher as their original formula. Don’t deny it, Rabbi, don’t deny it.”

“A minute, Philip. Give an old man a minute. Two would even be preferable.”

Feinermann needed to collect his thoughts.

He had to think back, because the job had not been part of his regular duties. The assignment had been given to him because Rav Gottlieb, the mashgiach for Cola Gold, had come down with a flu named after one of the continents-Asian or African. Feinermann hadn’t thought much about it at the time.

Gottlieb had been certifying all Cola Gold Inc. beverages as kosher for over twenty years. Still, the corporate wheels hadn’t wanted to wait for an old man’s recuperation. Gottlieb had suggested Rav Morris Feinermann as a substitute.

As Feinermann recalled it, the CeeGee people hadn’t been happy to deal with him. Only reluctantly had they parted with the formula, and then they’d sworn him to secrecy. At the time Feinermann had thought the management overly dramatic.

He stroked his beard. A mistake on his part to underestimate the competition.

Philip couldn’t contain himself. “I want that formula, and you will give it to me. You will give it to me because you, like Mr. Ben-ton, are a humanitarian and have the best interest of people upmost in your mind! If we lose our market share, Rabbi, our sales will go down. If our sales decrease, it will be necessary to lay people off from work. And why? Because a cold, heartless manufacturer prefers to use robots rather than people. You’re a humanist, Rabbi. You will help.”

“But I can’t give you the formula, Philip. It would be unethical. And there’s also a very practical reason. I don’t remember it. All the Latin-sounding chemical names they use for flavoring. Very confusing. Perhaps if you had kidnapped me earlier…”

“Had we known about the precipitous rise in their market share, believe me, Rabbi, we wouldn’t have waited so long. Still, it’s never too late.” Philip pounded the table. “I’ll help you, Rabbi. I have lists and lists of chemicals, the finest hypnotists to help you with memory recall. We will work day and night if we have to. I will do anything within my power, sacrifice myself, because I believe in Mr. Benton.”

“I was never a big student of sacrifices, Philip. The bottom line, my young friend, is I will not divulge anything that was given to me in confidence.”

Philip’s face went crimson, and his eyes became steely and cold. Then his lips turned up in a mean smile. “I can see you’ll need a bit of convincing.” He rang a bell. In walked the Marxes. Red-faced Philip turned to them and, with his irritating chuckle, said, “Take Rabbi Feinermann to the dungeon!”

The Marxes gasped.

“Not the dungeon,” Karl exclaimed. “Not the dungeon, Mr. P. Not for a rabbi!”

“ To the dungeon!” Philip ordered. “And no food and water for him.”

That part was acceptable, Feinermann thought. He was fasting anyway.

The old man told them to walk slowly. His back was sore from the car ride, and he was a little light in the head from not having eaten. Then he said, “And just what is this dungeon?”

“Corporate torture, Rabbi,” Groucho responded solemnly. “It’s better if you don’t know.”

The rabbi sighed. “I’ll survive. Our people have experienced all sorts of adversity.”

“Yeah, you guys have sure had some hard knocks,” Karl added.

“If you got any personal role models, Rabbi,” Groucho said, “you know, people you admire ’cause they’re strong-maybe now’s the time to start thinkin’ about them.”

“There is no shortage of Jewish martyrs,” Feinermann said. “Take, for example, Channah and her ten sons. A bit of a zealot, Channah was, but righteous nonetheless. She instructed her ten sons to die rather than give themselves over to the Hellenic ways.”

“Did they listen to her?” Karl asked.

“Yes, indeed, they did. The youngest was only six, yet he accepted death rather than bow down to the Greek gods and goddesses.”

“That’s terrible,” Groucho said. “A six-year-old kid, what does he know?”

“They were probably more mature in those days,” Karl said. “After all, didn’t most people kick the bucket around thirty?”

“Still, the kid was only six,” Groucho said.

“Surely your corporate torture could not be as terrible as that,” Feinermann piped in.

Karl said, “If thinking of this broad helps you along, Rabbi, then more power to you.”

“Then I shall think about Channah. And I shall also think about the Ten Martyrs our people read about on Yom Kippur. Our holiest rabbis were tortured to death by the Romans because of their beliefs. One was decapitated, one was burned, one was flayed, and one of the most famous of our sages, Rabbi Akiva, had his flesh raked with hot combs.”

“Those Romans were surely uncivilized people!” Groucho exclaimed. “Gladiators, lion pits, and torturing men of the cloth. Even Mr. P. wouldn’t do that.”

“Comforting,” Feinermann said.

“Yeah, Rabbi, that’s the spirit!” Karl cheered on.

Feinermann thought: So maybe this was his chance to show his faith, like the Ten Martyrs. Always the little Jew against someone of might-the Persians, the Romans, the Spanish of the Inquisition, the Cossacks, and, most deadly, the Nazis. Not to mention Tommy Hoolihan, who beat Feinermann up every day for two years as the small boy of ten with the big black kippah walked home from heder. His mother thought that the bruises he’d sustained were from falls. She must have thought he was the clumsiest kid in New York.

Twenty-five hundred years of persecution.

Yet the Jews as a nation refused to die. Could he, like Rabbi Akiva, die with the words Sh’ma Yisroel on his lips and mean them?

Feinermann thought about that as the two masked men led him to his destiny.

Perhaps he could die a true martyr, perhaps not. But if he couldn’t, he wouldn’t worry about it too much. After all, how many Rabbi Akivas were there in a lifetime?

He had expected darkness and filth, chains and nooses hanging from the ceiling. And some red-eyed, emaciated rats ready to eat his kishkas out. Instead Feinermann was brought into a semicircular projection room. The auditorium consisted of a wide-angled screen and a half-dozen rows of plush chairs, maybe seating for fifty in all.

Not so bad for a dungeon, Feinermann thought.

They placed him in the center row and shackled his feet and hands to the chair. He watched fearfully as Karl took out some masking tape. But all Marx did was tape the old man’s eyes open. Not tight enough to prevent him from clearing his eyes of debris, but firmly enough to prevent him from pressing his lids together.

“Scream when you can’t take it anymore.” Karl stood up. “Nothing personal, Rabbi. I’d like to help you, but I can’t.” He moved closer to the old man’s ear and whispered, “I’m into Elvis for a lot of bread.”

“Elvis?” Feinermann said.

Karl swore and hit his face mask, whispering, “That’s Groucho’s real name. Don’t say nothing or we’ll both be in deep water. Let’s just get this over with.”

As Groucho dimmed the lights, Feinermann waited solemnly, wondering why Elvis didn’t hide under an Elvis Presley mask. It would have seemed like a natural disguise.

Soon the old man was sitting in total darkness. All he could hear and feel were the sensations his own body provided-the whooshing of blood coursing through his head, his heartbeat, the quick steps of his nervous breathing.

Then the first outside stimulus. A motor running. The room slowly beginning to brighten as shadowy shapes illuminated the movie screen. Sound… music… bad music. Not only was it sappy but it was old and distorted. It sounded as if it had come from an ancient, irrelevant documentary-the kind they show frequently on PBS.

On-screen was a fuzzy sienna image of a young man digging up potatoes. A voice-over with a reedy mid-Atlantic accent explained that this man was Patrick Benton, Sr., the potato farmer. The shack in the background was Benton ’s house in County Cork. The film went on to explain the hardships of Irish potato farming, including the great famine of the eighteen hundreds.

A little history lesson never hurt anyone, the rabbi thought. Still, he wished he could blink in earnest. Next on the screen was a boat stuffed with Irish immigrants approaching Ellis Island. He wondered if Tommy Hoolihan’s parents were aboard.

Then a cut to a tenement house, not far from where Feinermann grew up. He recognized old buildings that had been razed decades ago. The old clothing, the pushcarts, faces of men and women who still believed in the American Dream. Nostalgia gripped his chest. The film switched to an indoor shot-a frame of a woman with a plump face holding a baby in her arms. She looked like Feinermann’s mother. In fact, she could have been any one of a thousand immigrant mothers.

His eyes were watering, and he knew it wasn’t because he couldn’t blink. The moisture in his orbs represented something deeper.

The baby had been christened Patrick Jr. Feinermann didn’t know Mr. Benton’s forename, but he was pretty certain he was looking at the great philanthropist himself. As the film progressed, it was clear to the old man that what he was watching was Patrick Jr.’s rags-to-riches story. From the son of a potato farmer to the CEO of one of the biggest corporations in the world.

Only in America.

The old man watched with rapt attention.

Philip said to Groucho, “How long has he been in there now?”

“Close to six hours, sir.”

“Incredible.” Philip paced. “Simply incredible. Most ordinary men would have cracked hours ago. Seeing that same story over and over. Are you sure he didn’t puke? Puking is usually the first sign that they’re coming around.”

“No sign of puke anywhere,” Karl said. “It’s really amazing. That thing is so corny, I almost puked. And I only had to sit through it once.”

“Maybe it’s because he hasn’t eaten,” Groucho suggested.

Philip thought about that for a moment. “Did he retch at all?”

“Not even a single gag,” Karl said.

“I just don’t understand.” Philip pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his face. “If psychological torture isn’t bringing him around, we’ll have to take sterner measures.”

Groucho said, “Surely you’re not suggestin’ physical torture?”

“Our market share in the industry is plummeting.” Philip wrung his hands. “CeeGee’s new formula is wiping us off the map. I’ve got a five-figure monthly mortgage and a Range Rover owned by the bank. I’m gonna crack that old geezer somehow!”

Over the intercom came Feinermann’s voice. “Marxes, can you hear me?”

“Rabbi, it’s Philip. We can hear you. What do you want?”

“I think we should talk.”

“Are you going to help us, Rabbi?” Philip inquired.

“I will help you, I will help you,” Feinermann said.

Philip broke into a wide smile and whispered to his henchmen, “I knew it, I knew it. No one can sit through that much hokey drivel and come out sane.” Into the intercom, he said, “I have your word that you will help me, Rabbi?”

“Absolutely, but first I must have your help.”

“What do you require from me?”

“I want a few things. First you must call my wife and tell her I will be delayed. She should go hear the Megilla without me, and she shouldn’t worry. I’ll be home in time to deliver our shalach manot-our gift baskets-and our charity to the poor.”

“What do I say if she asks questions?”

“Sarah’s a practical woman. As long as I can make deliveries tomorrow, she won’t care. Next you must get me a Megillas Esther. It’s nighttime, and I need to read it before I can eat.”

Philip said, “I’ll find you this… Megilla.”

“Be sure it’s a Megillas Esther. There are five megillos.”

“Rabbi, I assure you you’ll get the whole Megilla,” Philip said. “Anything else?”

“I’d like to eat after I read. A kosher meal.”

“Done.”

“Not so fast, Philip. It is not enough to have a kosher meal. I must have a seudah-a feast. Not a feast in terms of food. I must have a feast in terms of a party, a gathering.” The rabbi thought a moment. “I want to have a feast, and I want it to be in your honor, Philip. You have shown me the light.”

“Why, Rabbi, I’m so honored.”

“The Marxes can come, too. That will make it quite a deal. And also, you must invite your Mr. Benton as the guest of honor.”

Philip didn’t like that idea at all. “I don’t know if I can do that, Rabbi.”

“You want the help?” Feinermann asked.

Philip thought of his five-figure monthly mortgage. “He’ll be there. But you mustn’t tell him you were-”

“ ‘Kidnapped’ is the word, Philip. But I’m willing to let bygones be bygones. I’m not even angry about it. I think it was the Almighty’s way of telling me something.”

“You are a remarkable man, Rabbi,” Philip said.

“So you will call up your Mr. Benton?”

“Yes,” Philip said. “And we will have a feast-to celebrate our new partnership, shall we say?”

“I don’t know if ‘partnership’ is the right word, but if you meet my conditions, I will help you. That’s all for now.”

Feinermann stopped talking, wondering if his idea would work out. The part about the banquet he’d cribbed straight out of the Megilla. But he didn’t feel too guilty about it. If it worked once, maybe it would work again.

Left alone in the library, Feinermann read the Megilla aloud, intoning each word with precision, stomping his foot loudly whenever he came to the name of the evil Haman. According to Jewish law, Haman was so wicked that one’s ears were not even supposed to hear his name. Also according to Jewish law, one was required to hear every word of the Megilla, including the name of Haman. A difficult dilemma, Feinermann thought.

When he was done, he closed the Hebrew text, imbued with a sense of purpose. He buzzed Philip, and the bald man came in, a grin slapped upon his face.

“We have prepared a most sumptuous kosher meal for you, Rabbi Feinermann. I’ve phoned Mr. Benton, and he can’t wait to meet the man who will bring KingCola back to its rightful number one position.”

The bald man rubbed his hands together.

“Now, don’t worry if it takes a little time to recall the formula in its entirety. We have an excellent staff who’ll be at your beck and call… Tell me the truth, Rabbi. Did they indeed use trichlorobenzoate? I’m not a taste expert, but I swear I detect a little trichlor in their new formula.”

“I don’t remember, Philip. And even if I did, I couldn’t tell you.”

“B-b-b… but you swore,” Philip stammered.

“I swore I wouldn’t tell Mr. Benton that you abducted me-a big concession on my part. And I swore to help you. I will help you. But I will not give you Cola Gold’s formula!”

A buzz came over the intercom. The secretary said, “Mr. Ben-ton’s limo has just pulled up, Mr. P. ”

The bald man began to sweat. Out came the handkerchief. Feinermann noticed it was a new one-white linen, starched and ironed. Philip said, “So help me God, if I hadn’t asked Mr. Ben-ton to come personally, I’d tear you limb from limb.”

“Not a smart idea, Philip. And against religious law as well.”

“Banquet in my honor! This was just a ruse, wasn’t it?”

“It worked for Queen Esther-”

“Shut up!”

“Are you going to let me help you, or are you going to sit there like a sodden lump?”

Philip glared at him. For the first time he realized he was working against a formidable opponent. “Just what do I tell Mr. Benton?”

Feinermann held up his hand. “You let me handle your Mr. Benton.” He stood. “First we will eat.”

The meal started with cabbage soup. The main course was boiled chicken with vegetables, kasha and farfel stuffing, and a salad of chopped onions, tomatoes, and cucumbers. Dessert consisted of apple strudel, tea, and coffee.

Feinermann wiped his mouth with satisfaction while studying the faces of the men who had abducted him, introduced to Benton as chauffeurs. Elvis and Donnie were in their thirties; both had bad skin and little ponytails. Without the masks and the guns, they were not impressive as thugs. But Philip had gotten them for free. You buy cheap, you get cheap. The old man noticed the food was not to their liking. He expected that. But Benton had cleaned his plate.

Everything was going according to plan.

The rabbi asked for a moment to say grace after the meal. While he gave benedictions to the Almighty, he sneaked sidelong glances at the great industrialist/philanthropist.

Patrick Benton had been a tall man in his youth. From the film, Feinermann remembered a strapping man of thirty whose frame easily topped those around him. But now, with the hunched shoulders and the curved spine, Benton didn’t seem so tall. His eyes were watery blue, his skin as translucent as tracing paper. What was left of his hair was white. The rabbi noted with pride that most of his own hair was still brown.

Finishing up the last of his prayers, Feinermann sat with his hands folded and smiled at Benton. KingCola’s CEO smiled back.

“I don’t know when I’ve eaten such tasty… nostalgic food. All these exclusive restaurants I go to, where everyone knows my name and kisses my keister.” Benton waved his hand in the air. “Food that doesn’t look like food, and the portions aren’t big enough to feed a flea. Damn fine grub, Feinermann.” He turned to his assistant. “Philip, make a note of where the chow came from. This is the kind of cooking I like.”

The bald man quickly pulled out a notepad and began to scribble.

“So.” Benton harrumphed. “I understand you have a way to help out KingCola. Philip was sketchy with the details. Give me your ideas, Rabbi.”

“Mr. Benton, first I want to say what an honor it is to meet you, even though this was not my idea.”

Philip turned pale.

“Not your idea?” Benton questioned.

“Not at all,” the rabbi said. “I’ll be honest. I didn’t know you from any of the other philanthropists with names on buildings until Philip here convinced me to come and meet you. Even so, I wasn’t crazy about the prospect. His idea of help and my idea of help weren’t exactly the same thing.”

Benton looked intrigued. “How so?”

“You see, Mr. Benton, I worked with Cola Gold in a very tangential way. It was necessary for me to learn the formula of their new line of cola-”

“Good God, Rabbi! You know the formula? That would be worth millions to me!”

“I take it you’d pass a few million to me in the process. But that’s not the point. I can’t give you the formula. That would be unethical.”

Benton sat back in his seat. “Yes, of course.” He ran his hand through thin strands of white hair. “However, there’s nothing… unethical… about you making… suggestions for additives in our competing brand of new-generation cola.”

“The problem is, Mr. Benton, I don’t know anything about new generations, period. I am from an old generation.”

Benton turned to Philip. “So this is why you interrupted me at the clubhouse?”

“Hold on, Mr. Benton,” Feinermann said. “Don’t be so rude to Philip. The man is not my best friend, but he does have your interests at heart. I don’t have any suggestions for your new-generation drinks. But I have a lot of suggestions for your old-generation drinks.”

“What old-generation drinks?” Benton asked.

“That’s the problem,” the rabbi said. “There are none. Mr. Benton, I watched your life story many, many times. Not my doing, but be that as it may, I feel I know you quite well. We have a lot in common. We both had immigrant parents, grew up dirt-poor in New York, the first generation of Americans in our family. We were the dreams and hopes of our parents who sacrificed everything so we could have it a little better, nu? We lived through the Depression, fought in World War Two, gritted our teeth as our hippie children lived through the sixties. And now, in our waning years, we sit with a sense of pride in our lives and maybe bask a little in our grandchildren. Am I not correct?”

Benton stared at Feinermann. “Exactly! I see you as a man with vision! Philip, hire this man on as a consultant. Start him at-”

“Wait, wait,” Feinermann interjected. “Thank you for the offer, but I already have a job. And I’m not so visionary. I know how you feel because we’re from the same generation. I saw your mother, Mr. Benton. She looked like my mother. She probably knocked herself out chopping meat by hand and scrubbing floors with a sponge.”

“Her hands were as rough as sandpaper, poor woman.”

“And I bet she always had a pitcher of iced tea in the icebox when you came home from school. Maybe some shpritz from a bottle with the O2 pellets?”

Benton smiled. “You’ve got that one down.”

“No cans of cola in her refrigerator.”

“Just where is all this leading?” Philip asked.

“Shut up!” Benton replied. “We’re reminiscing.”

Again Feinermann wiped his mouth. “I’ll tell you where this is leading, Philip. Pay attention, because it has to do with business.”

The bald man wiped his forehead. “I’m listening.”

Feinermann said, “You have a multibillion-dollar business that provides beverages to America. And all of your products are aimed at the young or the ones who wish they were young. Not that I have anything against the new generation, but I can’t relate to them. And I don’t drink the same things they drink. I want my glass of tea with a lemon. I want my old-fashioned shpritz without essences of this flavor or that flavor. Whatever happened to tonic water and ginger ale, for goodness’ sake?”

“We have ginger ale,” Philip protested. “King Ginger.”

“Ach!” The rabbi gave him a disgusted look. “Relegated to the back of the cooler. The young people think it’s a drink for stomach maladies.”

“You have to realize that New Age drinks comprise a measly three hundred and twenty-seven million dollars of market sales,” Philip said. “Ginger ale’s a drink with no appeal.”

“It appeals to me,” Feinermann insisted.

“The rabbi’s got a point,” Benton said. “The New Age drinks do appeal to the older set. And let’s not forget the growth rate, Philip-fifteen percent as compared to two percent in the industry as a whole.”

“There you go,” Feinermann stated. “When are you companies going to wake up and realize there is a whole generation out there waiting for you to appeal to them?” He turned to Benton. “You gobbled up dinner tonight because it reminded you of your mother’s cooking.”

Benton bit his lip. “I see what you’re saying. But, Rabbi, you have to realize that carbonated beverages are still a youth-oriented market.”

“Because you choose to woo the youth. What about me?”

“The elderly market is tricky,” Benton said.

“Even if you convert them to your product, they’re just going to keel over anyway,” Philip said.

Benton glared at his assistant. “I beg your pardon.”

“No… I mean… not you, Mr. Benton-”

“Calm down, Philip,” Feinermann said with little patience. “Yes, we’re all going to die. Even your Mr. Benton here. But I see your point. So don’t market them as old-fashioned drinks. Make them family drinks. Seltzer, tonic water, ginger ale-promote them as new, lighter, less sugary drinks with a history of America . Show teenagers and grandpas drinking them at the family barbecues. What could be better?”

Philip said, “I’ve got the hook, sir-a New Age drink with a touch of nostalgia.”

“I like it, Philip,” Benton said.

“And what about iced teas?” Feinermann said.

Philip said, “Only a four-hundred-million-dollar share of the market.”

Feinermann said, “But combine it with your three-hundred-and-twenty-seven-million-dollar New Age share, Philip. That’s almost a billion dollars.”

“Man’s got a point, Philip.”

“Tensel’s has a lock on tea, sir,” Philip said. “Besides, I heard Heavenly Brew is coming out with a new line. Lots of teas for such a little market share.”

“Ah, Heavenly Brew. That’s not tea. Not tea the way Mr. Ben-ton and I remember it,” Feinermann said.

Benton nodded. “True. We had tea that rotted the gut. How about a new full-flavored tea drink, Philip? It just might work, especially if we get a decaf version.”

“Very good, Mr. Benton.”

Feinermann said, “We’re a lost generation, Mr. Benton, just waiting for someone to sing our tunes. Stop regurgitating old cola recipes and expand your horizons.”

Benton exclaimed, “Glad you brought all this to my attention, Rabbi! Philip, make a note to bring all this crap to the board’s attention this Thursday. And, Rabbi, you will join us at the meeting, won’t you?”

“Thursday I have a funeral to preside over. I’m afraid I must pass. Besides, I’ve stated my piece. Perhaps now your Philip will leave me in peace?”

“Absolutely! Philip, stop pestering the rabbi.”

Philip nodded like a Kewpie doll.

Feinermann stood. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to take my leave.”

“Certainly, Rabbi,” Benton responded. “And anytime you need anything, just ask.”

“Thank you, Mr. Benton.” The old man shook hands with the philanthropist and bade him goodbye. As he was accompanied back to the car, walking in the cool March air, he reflected on how much he missed his childhood. Not the part about being beaten up by Tommy Hoolihan… and he didn’t miss the cholera and polio, either. But he did miss his youth-a generation that grew up without T V. And a good glass of ginger ale… corporations do forget about the elderly-a reflection of society, he supposed.

Ah well, at least he’d sleep in his own bed tonight.

When they arrived at the Cadillac, Feinermann said to Philip, “You don’t have to come back with me. The Marxes know the way.”

“The Marxes?” Philip said.

“Private joke, Mr. P.,” Donnie/Karl said.

Philip shook hands with the rabbi. “I’m sorry if I inconvenienced you.”

“No problem,” Feinermann said. “I’ll integrate the experience into next week’s sermon.” He opened the door to the backseat. “By the way, Marxes, what did you do with the face masks?”

“They’re in the trunk,” Elvis/Groucho said. “Why?”

“Unless you’re planning another abduction, give them to me,” Feinermann said. “I’ll use them in the Purim festivities! Why let them go to waste?”

These last four stories and essays deal less with mystery and more with my favorite subject-family. My husband, Jonathan, and I have been married for thirty-four years, a union that has produced four children and a lot of material for my fiction. I thank them all-husband, parents, children, grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins-for my beautiful life.