Right To Die

Andrus spoke very evenly. "Our country was founded on the principles of 'life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness? The right to liberty must include a right to die. Otherwise, 'life' and 'the pursuit of happiness' would become inconsistent concepts now that medical technology can, as I said earlier, prolong a painful, hopeless 'life' without any possibility of 'pursuing happiness'. "

"How imaginative of the Founding Fathers to include all that."

Over the laughter his sarcasm triggered, Strock said, "And my second question is for Dr. Eisenberg. In your remarks, Doctor, you voiced concern over the situation in which you are asked to terminate a patient who has become a burden on his family?"

"Yes?"

"I wonder, are you more concerned about terminating a patient whose timely death might benefit his family?"

Alec Bacall said, "The pompous little shit."

Eisenberg sensed something, but I'm not sure he got Strock's innuendo, because he just said, "Why, yes, of course."

Strock closed with a flourish and a smile. "Thank you, Doctor. That's all I have."

As Olivia Jurick looked over the crowd, Gun got to his feet.

"Hey, I got a question."

Jurick said, "If you could wait – "

"My question is how come you don't have somebody who can talk for real Americans on this panel?"

Jurick said, "Sir, if you – "

The other skinheads prepared for protection as the cops moved toward them.

Gun cranked it up. "How come we got to listen to a shine, a kike, and probably a dyke did her own husband? How come nobody talks about the race criminals in this country trying to strangle it and strangle the people who built it. huh?"

The cops were trying to get to Gun, the rest of the audience trying to retreat, but Rick and the other skinheads had moved toward the aisle to act as a barrier. No weapons I could see.

Jurick said over the microphone, "Officers, if you would please – "

"Fuck all, bitch, you got your goddamn nigger cops and your goddamn kike judges, but you can't silence the real Americans, and we're going to take back what we never should have lost in the first place."

Two skinheads began scuffling with each cop but not throwing any punches. The crowd got really nervous now and started scrambling out of the confining rows and into the surging aisles.

I said to Bacall, "Save my seat, will you?"

Going over the tops of chairs, I grabbed Gun's right ear, my fingers wrapping around the cartilage like a pistol grip. I squeezed until he bent forward at the waist and started squeaking.

I yelled, "Enough."

There was a momentary pause in everything, a video frame of uniforms and skinheads.

"Gun, tell your friends to let go of the cops."

Rick the skinhead said, "Shit, Gun, knock his hand away."

I said, "He knocks my hand away, his ear comes with it."

Gun squeaked some more. "Do it, Rick… Let them go."

Rick released the white cop and said "Shit" again just as he got whirled onto the floor.

Security guards from the library upstairs appeared, and I maneuvered Gun over to the black cop. As I walked back to my seat, Jurick was saying, "… and I want to thank our speakers and all of you once more and remind you of the book signing that will…"

Alec Bacall said, "And how did you enjoy the debate, John?"

"It was all right. Kind of a cold crowd, though."

Del Wonsley said, "Oh, I don't know. I thought that many were appalled, but few were frozen."

Bacall grinned. "That's why I love him so."

10

PLATO'S BOOKSHOP OCCUPIED A DOUBLE-WIDE RETAIL SPACE ON Newbury Street, three blocks from the lecture hall. I was delayed at the Rabb, giving the cops and the units that responded to their call the details as I saw them. By the time I got to the store, the signing was in full progress.

The window next to the door held a poster with information about the debate and the signing to follow. Under the poster and inside the shop was a display table. Around an eight-by-ten black and white glossy portrait of Maisy Andrus were maybe a hundred copies of her book. Some lay on their sides in irregular piles while others stood up in little wire holders. A dozen copies of Paul Eisenberg's book were shunted to one corner. There was no photo of Eisenberg and nothing at all about the Reverend Givens.

Two lines of people trailed back from signing tables in the rear of the shop. Eisenberg's line was a lot shorter than the one in front of Andrus, and many of the Eisenberg hopefuls also carried a copy of her book under their arms. I saw Olivia Jurick smiling and shaking hands in a regular-customer way as she moved down the aisle created by the two lines. On side counters were wine and punch, cheese and crackers, grapes and pretzels. I could see Inés Roja standing beside the sitting Andrus, opening the next copy of the book to a given page for the professor to sign. Manolo stood a step behind Andrus, glowering at each fan.

Alec Bacall and Del Wonsley were holding wineglasses and watching Tucker Hebert entertain several fashionable women with what appeared to be hilarious stories. I spotted the blonde I took to be Kimberly and then, when she turned, Walter Strock, which surprised me. He wasn't carrying a copy of Andrus's book, which didn't surprise me. I didn't see the Reverend Givens nor, if skin color was a gauge, many of her flock.

Bacall saw me and beckoned to cut through the Andrus line.

Eisenberg was shaking the hand of his last fan and looking around, rather awkwardly, presumably for Olivia Jurick to tell him what to do next. In front of Andrus, a matronly woman had just handed her copy of Our Right to Die to Inés for prepping. Roja opened it, turned a page, and then dropped the book like a picnic plate with a bee on it. I pushed through the line as politely as possible. Andrus had picked up the book and was apologizing to the matron when Andrus saw Roja's facial expression. Manolo saw it, too, and edged forward, eyes mainly on the matron.

I said, "What's the matter?"

Andrus replied, "I don't know."

Inés had one hand to her mouth and the other pointing to the book Andrus was setting on the table. The matron started to say something about the jacket being damaged and wanting another when I said, "Please?"

Taking out a pen, I prodded the book to a centered position in front of me. Using the pen as a friction finger, I opened the book and turned the leaves until I got to the title page.

There, under "by Maisy Andrus," was a stickum mailing label with the cut-out words: "THIS CLOSE WHORE."

***

"I just couldn't tell you, Mr. Cuddy."

Olivia Jurick was behind her cash register, wagging her head as Maisy Andrus gamely signed the last few books for the faithful who had stayed on line. The offending copy was between Jurick and me in a plastic Plato's Bookshop bag.

I said, "Any way to determine who had access to the books?"

"Not really," said Jurick. "We put the poster up last Monday.

Seven days of promotion is about the most our customers can tolerate. But copies of her book have been in the store for at least a month before that. I could check our invoices if you'd like?"

"I don't think that'll make a difference. The woman who brought the book to Inés Roja – "

"Mrs. Thomason."

"Mrs. Thomason said she got the book from the display table."

"Yes, well, I'm fairly certain that all of the books on the table came from the special shipment I ordered for the signing."

"And how long have they been here?"

"On the table, you mean?"

"In the store at all."

"Well, the boxes would have arrived about a week before the poster went up, meaning about two weeks ago."

"And on the display table?"

"We wouldn't have opened the boxes and set up publicly, you know, until the poster notice, so I would say early last week."