“So, who did your plumbing last year for your basement bathroom,” Ron Patin asked me.
Ron and Linda looked the happiest I had seen them in a long time, and I didn't even need
Susan to point that out for me. Susan and I built out a bedroom and ¾ bathroom last winter,
mainly because Stanley spent the night with us every few months. This way, he had his own
bathroom. We thought it had been good for him. Tom's friends had told me how they
appreciated the bathroom as well, which I thought was nice until Charlie asked me when the
kegerator was going to be installed.
“Dan O'Brien – good man. But you know, Ron, the electrical piece of that job took the
most time.”
Linda came up to us. “Nick, can I steal Ron from you?”
“Of course, can I get you two anything?” I asked.
Linda grabbed my arm. “Tell Susan her artichoke dip is fantastic! I must get that recipe.”
We were standing in the living room. As usual, most of the party was in the kitchen and,
last year, I didn't think people ever left the kitchen. This year, I was determined to draw people
into the living and family rooms. It was not working all that well.
Our party ran from 5:30-7:00 and people spent 20-25 minutes at the party on average. We
knew of four other parties happening at the same time, so we were impressed each year that a
good 60-70 people rotated through over ninety minutes. Most people didn't want to talk with me
for more than three minutes anyway.
Stanley was here as was Joan, both of whom would be spending the night. Mom was still
visiting her sister in Florida, but she was returning the following week. We weren't sure if Joan
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was going to make it to the party tonight – she acted all week like she had other plans. That
passive aggressive crap that Joan and Susan played drove me up the wall at times because it was
almost like a sport for them.
Last year, we didn't serve any meat and I thought our party suffered because of that. We
had always served a carved ham. I didn't know what changed last year, but the ham was back for
this year's party. Judging by Ron's plate full, it was more than welcome. I pushed for a roasted
Turkey ball in addition to the ham, yet Susan thought that we were too close to Thanksgiving.
Tom wondered if we were serving dinner roles for mini ham sandwiches. Susan explained to him
that this party wasn't a football tailgating event.
******
We'd only been having Thanksgiving dinner at our house for three years now, after
Susan's father passed away. For the first seven years of our marriage, we alternated Thanksgiving
and Christmas between our parents' homes. Yet, that plan proved outdated once Tom was three
and could grasp with full throttle the bliss of Christmas morning. To this day, I admired the stand
Susan ended up taking before Tom's three year birthday in January: Christmas morning was to be
at our house. Whoever wanted to be present for the wee hour mayhem was welcome to spend the
night in our house or drive over that morning.
Not a single year did we have anybody but Stanley stay over at our house. I guessed both
sets of parents found it nicer to sleep in their own beds and arise in time to see little Tommy dive into the pile of gifts. Amazingly, no one was ever late, though Susan's father, Dave, broke his
arm one Christmas eve, yet not even that could delay things the next morning.
Thanksgiving this year was the typical emotional volleyball at the Johnson house. That
morning, Susan and I agreed that I would pick Stanley up at 10am. However, that was before
Joan arrived. Joan walked into our house about twenty minutes before Mom, announcing that she
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would pick Stanley up. This sent Susan into a seething state for the rest of the day, despite me
trying my best to overrule my mother-in-law which I found to be quite the out of body experience
I always told myself to avoid. Susan appreciated the effort though – even in her seething state.
“Joan, I need your help with the apple pie,” Susan pleaded.
“Nonsense…have Tom and Nick grade the apples and I'll be back to put it all together.”
Susan knew that Joan could not simply pick Stanley up, because she had to super clean
his kitchen, start a load of laundry and wash whatever else was in need of a mother's touch.
Tom and I graded the apples like Susan instructed us, but, when Joan returned, she
clearly was not happy with our work.
“You know Joan, this whole thing could have been avoided if I had picked Stanley up as
originally planned,” I told Joan as patiently as I possibly could.
“My arthritis is acting up,” she snorted back while starting to assemble the pies with
poorly cut apple slices.
I retreated to the family room to watch the remainder of the Macy's parade, where Tom
was busy describing the balloons to Stanley. He loved to help Stanley out and those two had
really developed a solid bond. They had absolutely nothing in common, yet that didn't stop the
effortless talking between them.
We didn't sit down until 2:30pm, thirty minutes later than we were shooting for. Apart
from Stanley, no one said much during the meal. There's nothing like a Thanksgiving dinner with
anger swirling around the table, waiting to devour the next happy holiday thought.
******
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I had been in a crappy mood all week because there had been no sign of Oleg and his
thug partner. Having crafted my story and gotten it down pat, it was time to sell it to the criminal network. My success in convincing them that there was a competitor out there would play a big
role on how I could move forward. If they were only partly convinced, or worse, didn't believe
me at all, that could prove to be disastrous.
William called me at work last week and he basically affirmed my decisions to date.
“You know, the more I think about, there is no way to move six people in four different
homes in the middle of the night,” William told me.
The logistics alone would be crazy hard to figure out but, more importantly, I knew the
group couldn't keep it quiet. Oleg was able to find me to start this whole thing, so I had to assume he had eyes and ears everywhere. And if he was watching our house the night we left, that could
turn ugly in a hurry.
I knew it was not helpful to my plan going forward, yet it was just killing me that I didn't
have a clue how Oleg found me. I had lunch with Dave Clark last week and got a zero read on the
conspiracy theory. Frankly, I didn't see how anybody on the committee would benefit any more
by setting me up than they could benefit on their own. They all had inside information. If they
wanted to set up some financial game to benefit from that, they could just as well do that without
involving me.
Oleg probably had other doctor targets - it made sense. Distal alone had four other
clinical drug trials going on right then so there must have been 40 or so trials happening across
the nation. Oleg and his thug buddy were likely putting their murderous squeeze on a few doctors
in the NY metro area. Why stop with me, after all?
Everyone was still in the kitchen. I sauntered in and saw Melanie, my nurse, talking with
Susan. Melanie's husband, Tim, was here. Tim was always good for a few stock picks. He never
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told me if his hedge fund bosses were doing the same thing, but he might as well have winked at
me. That was cool.
“Hey, bud, nice party…you two pull out the stops every year.”
I spun to see Dave Clark. I didn't let the Clarks in but they could have slipped by while I
was in the living room. The Clarks came every year.
“I thought you were going down to Miami Beach for the weekend?”
“Nah, Toni has been raising a real stink about that purchase lately, so I have it rented
from Thanksgiving through the New Year.”
The life of the rich and famous I would never understand. We were sending Tom on a ski
trip with a group of his buddies and two sets of parents the week between Christmas and the New
Year, so he can represent the Johnsons to the rich and famous at the ski slopes this year.
“That's too bad, you've told me how sweet it is,” I said.
Dave snorted. “I don't know…we got a steal on that condo. Maybe it's the bikini babes
on the beach she doesn't like.”
“So, I guess the beachside Villa in the south of France is out,” I remarked. We both
smirked at the thought of that location.
“Hey, Andy wanted to know if Tom made all-state,” Dave asked.
I guessed his son didn't read the sports pages, but I acted like it was a reasonable
question.
“Well, we were hoping that Tom would get third team all state, but we had to settle for
honorable mention.”
Morristown lost 2-1 to Westfield High in the first round game of the state tournament,
during which Tom got elbowed in the head on a corner kick and lost track of the ball which was
headed in for the go ahead goal. Tom needed 4 stitches in the top of his scalp. He swore that it
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was a dirty move because the guy threw his elbow just as his teammate was striking the ball from
the corner of the field. I thought it looked clean, yet I didn't dare tell my son that.
We had to tell Tom on several occasions that fall to cool the anger after the games. It was
hard enough to have a teenager in the house, but a teenager storming around seemed like a rotten
gift that just kept on giving.
I thought that if Morristown had won that game and moved on another round, Tom would
have secured the third team slot. Instead, that slot went to the goalie from Redbank High, which
got to the quarter-finals due to its goalie playing lights out during the tournament. It also didn't help Tom that he was just a sophomore. Also, Morristown came out of nowhere that year to
surprise people.
Andy and Tom played together as kids every now and then. However, the Clarks lived
across town so it became too hard to arrange things once the boys were in school. Play dates
became awkward once Tom was beyond second grade. At least that was what Susan kept telling
me. Dave never brought up his family when we had lunch, while Susan and Tom dominated my
thoughts and words whenever I was talking with friends, so I found this odd. But would I ever ask
him about this? In the end, I didn't know him that well.
“Honey, can you get some more white wine?” Susan yelled through the conversation
cloud hovering in our kitchen. “Tom must have run off somewhere!”
Tom was in charge of keeping our two ice buckets full as well as the white wine and beer
trays stocked with bottles. We were keeping the alcohol and ice on the back porch given the 27
degree temperature outside. I looked around I didn't see any sign of our son, either.
I was also serving vodka and scotch but no one seemed to have touched it. The bottles
and glasses were sitting on another table, so maybe people thought it was not part of the offering.
I slid the table next to the counter where the beer and white wine sat with the ice buckets.
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“Do you want any help with that?” Dave asked.
“No thanks. I just need to step out to the back porch.”
Dave walked over to Toni and whispered something in her right ear, probably telling her
that it was time to go. The Clarks didn't really know any of our friends, so I was glad they came.
I looked over at the two ice buckets. One of them was empty. Tom must have been in the
bathroom, on the phone, or both.
Jill and Dick Tesser were talking inside our back entry way with a couple that I didn't
know. I gave Dick a gentle pat on the back. Susan had heard they were trying to work things out -
they seemed to be having a good time. I slid between them to get to the back porch. The pile of
ice bags looked kind of trashy but no one was coming or going through this door.
“Hello, Dr. Johnson,” the voice said as I bent down to pick up one of the ice bags.
I knew that voice - it made me swallow so hard it hurt. It was Oleg; I slowly turned
around. Oleg came out of the dark and walked up to me, seemingly alone, although I could only
see about ten feet in front of me.
I had been rehearsing what to say to Oleg when we met next, and, since I didn't know
when he would pop out at me, I practiced my delivery every day, thinking that could be the day.
So be ready.
“What are you doing? You stopped by here last night and talked to my wife,” I said
accusingly, waving my finger at Oleg.
Except I didn't mean to say it like that – I meant to say that I talked with some guy who
threatened me like Oleg did; that I saw this person, not Susan. Damnit! I waited to see what Oleg
said next before saying anything else.
“Now, calm down, Dr. Johnson,” he said firmly.
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Oleg certainly had a puzzled look on his face but that didn't stop him from reaching into
his coat like he was going to pull a weapon of his liking.
This was the second good look I had gotten of this jerk. Oleg had dark, slicked back hair
and stood about my height. He looked to be in his mid 30' with an angular face that culminated
with a pointy chin. There was nothing distinctive about his eyes – it was too dark to see their
color. His black pants struggled to stand out from his dark polo type jacket.
“I didn't stop by here last night,” he replied. “And if you do as we have told you, I will
never talk with your wife.” His hand pulled out from his coat with nothing in it.
Oleg had a noticeable gap between his top front teeth.
I thought for a second. I just told him that Susan talked with this person and not me, so I
needed to get Oleg thinking that this person was planning to lay the same threat on me as Oleg
was.
“Well, somebody with a European accent came here last night asking for me,” I told him.
“But I promise that I will turn everything I know about the Zyptorin trial over to you guys.”
Oleg took a step closer. “Is that all they said?”
“No, he told my wife that it concerned the Zyptorin trial, and I just assumed it was you.”
Turning around, Oleg yelled into the dark and, suddenly, his thug partner with the pony
tail emerged. Oleg asked this guy a question in Czech, which produced an argument. They argued
for maybe twenty seconds during which his partner raised his arms in frustration as they yelled.
The partner outweighed Oleg by fifty pounds but gave up four or five inches in height.
He was wearing a white turtleneck and blue jeans. Oleg was clearly the one in charge, though a
physical bout between these two men would appear to present quite a challenge for the leader of
these dangerous men.
“Dr. Johnson, we know who these guys are and we will take care of it.”
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I walked up to the two of them and asked the most important question: “Are these guys in
competition with you?”
Oleg laughed awkwardly. “When they talk to you, just tell them you will do as they say.”
He turned back to his thug partner - they started arguing again.
I needed to sell this and, despite my verbal screw up, it sure seemed that I had done just
that. Oleg could have assumed that this unknown European guy was no threat to his plans, that
maybe he was simply a Zyptorin committee member like me. If Oleg thought that, then he
wouldn't believe the crime scene that I intended to create. He would think I faked it.
I got lucky and I knew it. If I had said, liked I had rehearsed, that this European guy
talked with me and not Susan, then I could say that this guy threatened me. Yet, since I slipped by
saying that he talked with Susan, there could be no mention of a threat so Oleg might have
thought nothing of it.
But, amazingly, I had touched a nerve here like I had hoped, as Oleg now thought that
somebody was trying to move in on his turf. Even better, he had a good idea who that somebody
was.
“Hey, I need to get back to the party,” I said firmly to them with a sudden burst of
confidence.
Oleg looked at me. “Go back inside, Dr. Johnson. We'll be in touch soon.”
It occurred to me, as I picked up an ice bag and some wine, that someone at the party
could have heard us talking, especially since Oleg was arguing pretty loudly with his thug
partner. I walked into the house and looked at the crowd to see if anybody was staring at me.
“What were you doing out there? Staring at the moon?” Susan asked. She rushed up to
me, taking the ice bag while I put the wine on the counter next to the beer. The beer supply
appeared to be okay.
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“Har har,” I responded, hoping to God that she didn't press any further because I couldn't
think of an excuse.
Thankfully, Sarah Robinson, the neighbor directly behind us, started to talk with Susan;
Sarah's husband, Henry, died six months ago - Susan had been a great friend to Sarah.
Tom emerged from the back staircase that led up to the bedrooms over our garage.
“Hey, bud, we have been looking for you,” I told my son.
Tom held out his hands to explain. “Sorry, Dad. I had to make one phone call – I've been
gone maybe five minutes,” he pleaded. “I'm back on duty for the rest of the night.”
Susan walked up to him, gave him a kiss, and handed Tom the ice bag. Tom emptied the
ice bag into the buckets while Susan started talking again to Sarah Robinson.
I was able to walk downstairs to the basement unnoticed. Collapsing into the leather sofa,
why had my much rehearsed talk with Oleg gotten so messed up? I leaned back, cocked my head
over the top of the sofa, and recalled the moment where Oleg made me spin around from the ice
bags with as much finger pointing fury as I could muster. At that moment, emotion took over. All
my insides wanted me to do was to yell at Oleg; my rehearsed talk was to say that I talked with a
new guy threatening me, but I couldn't yell at Oleg for that, so, instead, I accused him of talking
to my wife and it felt great to yell at this guy. For just a second, I had control - me, not that
murdering son of a bitch.
Of course, my new story made it less clear if this guy with whom Susan talked was
indeed another threat to me over this damn drug trial. This wasn't a smart move, but I didn't
account for the emotional angle. Oh, how my family lucked out on this one.
I sat up in the couch, tuning into the chatter upstairs. I had to get back up there and put on
a smile - I had missed 10-15 minutes of the party - though I needed to come downstairs to think
while the Oleg moment was still fresh. It was my first big mistake, but, oddly, it may have played
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in my favor. Bottom line: I needed to learn to be cold like Oleg going forward, no more room for
emotional outbursts.
What was Oleg doing there? I'd bet he wasn't planning on talking with me. How would
he know I would step out for the ice bag, especially since he must have noticed Tom taking care
of the ice and wine all night? Oleg and his thug partner must not have been watching our house
last night or they would know that my story was crap. I got way lucky on that account as well. It
sure would have been nice if those two guys operated on a consistent schedule, since their ad hoc
watching of my house put my ability to pull of my plan at risk.
I assumed that I was going to hear from Fred by the morning as Oleg seemed pretty
rattled and news of what I had told the Czechs was sure to travel up the ranks. Hopefully, I had
sent them all scrambling to find this „other guy' that talked to my wife. Maybe now I had some
leverage…I had to admit, it was starting to feel good. Really good.
I walked up the basement stairs and spotted a tuft of Zeke's fur in the carpet. I should
have asked Oleg about the not so mysterious death of our beloved dog. But he'd probably just tell
me that he did it and, if I didn't follow their instructions, I would end up with the same fate. Nice.
Sarah Robinson was at the top of the stairs talking with Laurie Arbor, our next door
neighbors to the west.
“Well, hello, you two,” I said as cheerfully as I could. “Mrs. Robinson, it is good to see
you enjoying your holiday season.”
That didn't come out quite right, given that this was the first holiday season without her
husband Dale. Sarah didn't seem to mind, though.
Dale Robinson was 12 years older than his wife, and this was Dale's second marriage, the
first with children. A year ago, Dale learned that he had Prostate cancer - he didn't last another
seven months. Dale was 76 years old.
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“I'm getting by,” Sarah said. “I have all three boys home for Christmas; three spouses
and seven grandkids.”
I clapped my hands together. “That is just wonderful to hear.”
Laurie Arbor gave Sarah a hug. “Oh you are going to have a busy household for a few
days, then, huh?”
Sarah laughed. “Right, two of the grandkids are twin four year old boys – a bit of a
handful.”
“You know you can send then over to our house if you need a break for awhile,” Laurie
offers. “Danny will love to play with them.”
I was not sure what was up with Bill Arbor's job hunt – I didn't even know if he was here
tonight.
“Laurie, is Bill here?”
“No, he's not feeling well,” Laurie replied. “He was up all last night hovering over the
toilet.”
Sarah put her hand over her mouth. “Oh, Dear!” she exclaimed.
“Ladies, if you will excuse me.” I walked into the kitchen.
Susan walked up to me. “Nick, dear, Father Michael just arrived…he was just asking for
you.”
I scanned t