Rafael Yglesias - Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

I called Levin & Levin’s corporate headquarters in Manhattan. It took quite a few transfers to reach Edgar’s secretary. Her tone in reaction to my request to speak to him implied I was irrational. “He’s not available,” she said. “What’s this in reference to?” she asked with a remarkably undisguised note of contempt.

“It’s a personal call. I knew him as a teenager.”

“I see,” she said with amusement, as if identifying me as a harmless lunatic. “I’ll tell Mr. Levin you called.”

“Don’t you want my number?”

“Sure,” she said breezily and I knew she didn’t believe there would be a return call. She might not bother to relay my message.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

She didn’t skip a beat at my non sequitur. “Ms. Dean.”

“All right, Ms. Dean. I have an urgent favor to ask of Edgar. It’s merely that he introduce me to someone. I think he’ll be angry if he finds out you were slow to let him know I phoned. My name is Dr. Rafael Neruda. I need to talk to him today. Will you be speaking to him within the hour?”

Her tone changed, but she wasn’t rattled. “I can’t give out any information about Mr. Levin’s schedule. Those are his instructions. If you leave a number where you can be reached, he’ll call you back.”

“I can’t.” I was at Susan’s, but I didn’t want to wait around. “I’ll call back in an hour. Please give him the message as soon as possible.” I hung up without the courtesy of a goodbye. Had my uncle behaved like these modern millionaires, erecting so many barriers to talking with them? Had they truly become the Marxist nightmare: unapproachable royalty?

An hour later, Ms. Dean’s tone changed. “Oh, yes, Dr. Neruda. Please hold on. He’s in his car. I’ll transfer you.”

There were two rapid beeps. “Rafe?” Edgar called to me from the distant end of a windy tunnel.

“Hello, Eddie. Are you really in a car?”

“Ridiculous, isn’t it? They haven’t perfected them—” his voice disappeared completely for a few words “—a time saver. How are you? Are you in New York? I’m busy today and tonight, but are you free tomorrow for a gala dinner? I’m hosting a benefit for the ballet.”

“I don’t think so, Eddie.”

“Edgar. People call me Edgar now.” I think he laughed, but he was drowned for a moment by a whoosh. “Hello?” he called, surfacing.

“Edgar, I’m calling to ask a favor. I need an introduction to Theodore Copley.”

“Stick Copley? What sort of introduction?”

“An employee of his, or an ex-employee, was a patient. He committed suicide four weeks ago.”

“Hold on, Rafe. Don’t go away.” The two rapid beeps were repeated. Ms. Dean’s distinct voice returned to the line. “Dr. Neruda? Mr. Levin asked if you could call back in five minutes. Although what would be best is if he could call you back.”

“I’m at a public phone.”

“I see. Could you possibly call Mr. Levin from a residence or an office? We’re having some trouble with the connection and that would work better. Sorry.” I was two blocks from Susan’s and I still had her key. I agreed.

At the loft, I called Ms. Dean again. This time, when she transferred me, there was no preliminary beep. Also, Edgar had come out of the wind. “Hello, Rafe. That’s better, isn’t it?”

“Where are you now?”

“In my office. I don’t know why the cells were so bad today. Maybe because you were calling from a public phone. How come, Rafe? What were you doing out on the street?”

I paused to think it through.

“Are you there, Rafe?” Edgar prompted me out of my reverie.

“Why didn’t you want to continue the conversation from your car? I’m ignorant about modern technology.”

Edgar chuckled.

“Okay, Rafe. I should’ve known you’d see through me. Car phones are really radio signals. Anyone with a scanner can listen in. And public phones are easy to pick up too, although I don’t suppose someone’s following you with a telescope mike. I know it sounds silly, but there are people so eager to make a killing on Wall Street they eavesdrop for info on a tender offer, the next quarterly report …” He made a noise. “Anything. Anything they could make a dollar on.”

“And your wanting to make this a private conversation had something to do with my mentioning Stick Copley’s name?”

Edgar chuckled again, although this was more of a grunt. “Yes, wise guy, of course. I’m in business with Stick. I’m what my Pop used to call a silent partner in Minotaur, and you said something about an employee committing suicide. You know Gore Vidal’s definition of a paranoid?”

“No,” I said.

“Someone who is in possession of all the facts.”

“Let me relieve your anxiety. My patient’s suicide doesn’t have any bearing on Minotaur’s business. At least that’s not why I want to talk with Copley. I’m curious about what my patient was like during the past year. We were out of touch.”

“Tell me something, Rafe. You wouldn’t, by any chance, happen to be writing a book?”

I hesitated.

Edgar continued in a relaxed tone that managed somehow to communicate ominousness. “You see, I’m ignorant about modern psychiatry. Haven’t been to a shrink in ten years. I don’t know if you fellows are in the habit of washing your dirty linen in public.”

“Are you being combative out of habit, Eddie, or do you really not want to help me?”

He grunted. “You know, I think I like being called Eddie. But I can’t indulge it. Eddie Levin sounds like a counterman at the Second Avenue Deli.”

“I’m sorry. Do you really not want to help me, Edgar?”

“I just don’t want to piss off my partner. You say this guy worked for Stick and he committed suicide? Doesn’t sound like a model employee. What was his story?”

“Edgar, everything I know about my patient is confidential. I’m not a gossip.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear.” Edgar’s smooth tone shifted. He was ready to help, so he immediately sounded less friendly. “Okay. How do you want this done?”

In fact, there was a Minotaur board meeting scheduled to begin at eleven and run through lunch at a private room in the St. Regis Hotel. It was arranged I would meet Copley there after they adjourned. (All this was a fortuitous consequence of my knowing Edgar; as a major investor in Minotaur, he was of course on the board.) Following Ms. Dean’s instructions, I arrived at the St. Regis by two-thirty and identified myself at the desk. I was passed on to the concierge, who summoned a bellhop, and said he would take me to Mr. Copley. We went up to the sixteenth floor, passed a hallway with two rows of serving carts littered by empty trays, into a large ballroom naked except for a piano covered by a sheet, and then through a door the bellhop unlocked.

I passed into a medium-sized room that appeared to be a 19th century library. The bellhop held the door for me and left, shutting it behind him. Every inch of wall space was covered by built-in mahogany shelves filled with green or red leather-bound books. In a leather wing chair at the far end of the room sat Theodore Copley. Beside him, on a low wood coffee table with brass fittings, was a silver tray with a black Wedgwood coffee pot and two matching cups and saucers. He stood to greet me. His appearance, having seen his daughter, was a surprise. His hair was much lighter than hers, almost blond, moussed straight back off a small forehead. And he was big, nearly six feet and broad-shouldered. His cheeks had the haggard look of a dedicated exerciser. His skin was fair. Deep lines ran across his forehead, radiated from the corners of his eyes and trailed down his starved profile. Only his eyes were dark, like his daughter’s, sharing her solemnity and brilliance. His double-breasted suit had the natural fit of hand-tailoring and the dense look of fine cloth.