Shoofly Pie & Chop Shop (81 page)

“Your Web site photo is misleading,” Nick said. “Photoshop does wonders.”

“We all need a little touching up from time to time, don’t we? So now we know how you recognized me; how did you know to find me here?”

“I followed you from your office. You don’t strike me as the sort of man who packs his own lunch.”

A waiter approached the table now. “Will you be joining us today, sir? Can I get you any—”

“Go away,” Nick said without taking his eyes off Zohar.

“Perhaps just a glass of—”

“Now.”

The waiter glanced at Zohar, who smiled and nodded reassuringly. He turned and waded back through the sea of bustling lunchtime tables.

“Dr. Polchak, I hope you’re not planning to do anything embarrassing or physically violent—I abhor violence.”

“Somehow I thought you would. That’s why I figured it might be safe to drop in on you like this.”

“I’m glad you did. We’re overdue for a visit.”

Nick glanced around the restaurant. “I don’t suppose any of your henchmen are joining you here.”

“Henchmen?
I’m not a Mafioso, Dr. Polchak—I’m simply the proprietor of a small business enterprise.”

“Have you joined the Chamber of Commerce yet?”

Zohar smiled. “As long as we’re airing our suspicions, I don’t suppose you’re wearing a …” He gestured to Nick’s shirt.

Nick unbuttoned his shirt partway and pulled it open. “No wires, no tape recorders—just me and you. What’s the matter, Dr. Zohar, don’t you trust me?”

“Forgive me. I sense that we’re both a bit …
tentative.
But there can be no relationship without trust, now, can there? So why don’t we both throw our cautions to the wind and dive right in?” Zohar cocked his head to one side and studied Nick. “Another man might come here today with a demand or an offer or a plea—but you, Dr. Polchak, you’re not like other men, are you? I believe you came here with some
questions.
”

“How many people are involved in this ‘business’ of yours? How far does it go?”

Zohar grinned. “It involves every policeman, every federal agent, every person in any position of power or influence—that’s what you need to believe right now. That’s what keeps you from going to the authorities, isn’t it?”

“Is this all about money? Is that it?”

“For some of our members, yes—it’s all about money. Take our crime-scene investigators, for example. Do you know what a CSI makes in our city? Twenty thousand dollars a year. Can you believe that? The men and women who are responsible for collecting forensic evidence at a crime scene, the ones who may decide whether a killer is convicted or goes free.”

“Welcome to capitalism,” Nick said. “I thought you were a businessman.”

“I despise a purely capitalistic system. It caters to the worst in all of us. It fulfills our every whim, but ignores our greatest needs. Think of it: an economic system where a man who can do
nothing more than throw a little ball through a hoop is rewarded with millions, while someone like yourself—a college professor, a holder of a graduate degree—survives on a relative pittance.”

“And you’re planning to correct this system?”

“I’m planning to
use
it, simply by applying the law of supply and demand.”

“What about the rest of your people—is it all about money for them too?”

“Motives are mysterious things, Dr. Polchak. Who can really say why a man does what he does? For Dr. Lassiter, yes, I suppose it’s all about money. His cupidity never ceases to astound me. For others in our little group, it has more to do with excitement and danger—they simply enjoy living on the adrenaline edge. For Mr. Santangelo, I think it’s largely about money—but then, Mr. Santangelo is by nature something of a predator. I suspect he would work for far less. As for the rest of us—well, there are
personal
motives involved.”

“But it’s not about money for you, is it?”

“Thank you for recognizing that—I was afraid you were about to insult me. No, Dr. Polchak, it’s not about money for me. You might be interested to know that I do not benefit financially from our endeavors in any way.”

“How noble of you.”

“Not at all; I have nothing against making money. I simply have other motives.”

“Such as?”

“Justice.”

Nick slumped back against the booth. “Routine salvaging,” he said. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?”

“Very good, Dr. Polchak. That’s one of the things I admire about you—you have the most remarkable facility for making
connections.
”

Nick leaned closer again. “As I understand it, routine salvaging has to do with dead people. These people you’re stealing organs from—they’re still alive. I find it slightly ironic that you call yourself an
ethicist.
”

“Really? Why?”

“Has it ever occurred to you that what you’re doing is …
wrong
?”

Zohar let out a sigh. “Let’s talk about right and wrong, shall we? Suppose a man puts a gun to his head—a man with an otherwise healthy body. That one man’s organs, tissues, and corneas could benefit more than
two hundred
people—and yet that man is allowed to take his life-saving tissues to the grave, simply out of selfishness or neglect. He’s allowed to kill himself
and
someone else.”

“That’s his right.”

“Two wrongs don’t make a right, Dr. Polchak. Let me describe the scenario another way: A wealthy man lies dying; he calls his three closest friends to his bedside. He tells them, ‘I’m going to take it with me.’ He hands each of them an envelope containing a million dollars in cash. He says, ‘At the graveside, as they’re shoveling in the dirt, I want each of you to throw in his envelope.’ At the funeral, each of them does as the man requested—he dutifully tosses his envelope in with the casket. Later, the three men meet to confer. The first one says, ‘I have a confession to make: I kept fifty thousand dollars for myself.’ The second says, ‘I kept a hundred thousand.’ The third man says, ‘I’m surprised at both of you—I threw in a check for the full amount.’”

Nick said nothing.

“I’m disappointed. I thought you would have more of a sense of humor.”

“I guess I’m not in the mood for jokes right now.”

“It wasn’t a joke, Dr. Polchak, it was a parable. The question behind the parable is: would
you
have thrown in the envelope? Because people do it every day—and I consider it a crime.”

“More of a crime than what
you’re
doing? Taking the lives of innocent people?”

“Innocent people? Look a little closer. The donor who lost his life in an apparent drive-by shooting—he was a family man, yes? A husband and a father. Did you also know that he was compulsively violent? That his loving wife refused to leave him, even though she had to undergo plastic surgery twice to repair the damage to her face? In time, he might have taken her life; instead, he saved one.

“And the donor who suffered the apparent heart attack, the one who was discovered lying facedown in a gutter—did you know he spent most of his adult life in a gutter? That’s right, he was a hopeless alcoholic. His liver was almost certainly cirrhotic; fortunately, we’re only in the kidney business—for now, that is.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Do you know what I do for a living, Dr. Polchak? Do you know what I’ve done for the last forty years? I collect information about people—and I make connections, just as you do. And just like you, I’m very good at it.”

“And that’s how you justify all this? As some kind of social cleanup campaign?”

“Not at all. I’m simply saying that our selection process involves far more than financial considerations; there are ethical concerns as well. Yes, Dr. Polchak,
ethical
concerns. You may find it hard to believe, but I have an ethics board of my own, and we meet before every donor selection. I’m not a barbarian, you know. I simply draw a moral distinction between
worthwhile
lives and
useless
lives—between givers and takers. My goal is to save worthwhile lives—ideally, by taking the most worthless life I can find in trade. And with three hundred thousand people to draw from, I’m finding quite a few.”

“How can you decide whose life is useless and whose is worthwhile? What gives you the right?”

“I have no
right,
as you call it; what I have is what Nietzsche called ‘the will to power.’ We live in a society that lacks the will to do what’s best for its citizens—so I’m doing it
for
them. Try to see the larger picture here; try to understand what I’m after. This is about infinitely more than whether rich Mr. Vandenborre gets his kidney or not. Remember Prohibition? The Volstead Act declared the consumption of any alcoholic beverage to be illegal. If you think about it, it was a perfectly good law. Think of the reduction in alcohol-related crimes, automobile accidents—even domestic violence. The problem was with
demand;
the sheer demand for alcohol eventually led to the repeal of Prohibition through the Twenty-First Amendment.

“That’s how it works, Dr. Polchak—demand creates law. I’ve shown a handful of the very wealthy that they can do more than wait around to die like dumb livestock; their demand can create a supply. I am, if you will, a kind of biological bootlegger. And as I extend this offer to more and more of the six thousand people who die on the waiting list each year, the victims of an antiquated ethical system, the demand will grow—and when it does, the laws will change. That’s what I’m after, Dr. Polchak. I want to save six
thousand lives a year—and if I have to do it at the expense of a handful of miscreants and reprobates, then so be it. You may call that unethical; I call it a greater good.”

“I’ve got a parable for you,” Nick said. “Three cowboys ride into town. The first cowboy ties his horse to the second horse, the second ties his horse to the third, and all three horses run off together. Why? Because none of the horses was tied to the hitching post.”

Zohar shook his head. “You’ve been talking with Dr. Paulos, haven’t you? I’m afraid he’s infected you with a rather old-fashioned ethical system.”

“I’ve always thought there was a difference between
old
and
old-fashioned.
Ian Paulos believes that all individuals have value—not because of their performance, but because they’re made in the image of God. I find something very timely about that; it seems to keep the horses in check.”

“Horses are born to run, Dr. Polchak.”

“Horses need riders, or there’s no telling where they’ll run. How many times in history has someone looked past the individual to see some
greater good
that later turned out to be a disaster? Sorry, Dr. Zohar, I don’t buy it.”

“So you’re adamantly opposed to what I’m doing? You think I’m misguided? Demented? Deceived?”

“I think you’re a murderer—nothing more.”

“Let’s put this philosophical commitment of yours to the test, shall we? After all, ‘virtue untested is not virtue at all.’”

“Don’t tell me—you’re going to offer me a position with your company.”

“I wouldn’t insult your intelligence. Tell me: how is Dr. McKay’s health?”

Nick stiffened.

“I only ask, of course, because of the seriousness of her situation. You’re aware, of course, that Riley McKay is dying.”

Nick almost stood up. He caught himself and did his best to regain the appearance of ease. “That’s a lie,” he said.

“I can show you the transplant list for the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center if you like—a list she’s been on for more than six years now.”

Nick paused.
Leo.

“Are you just learning this now? How very awkward. I have to
say I’m a little surprised, since I understand that your relationship with Dr. McKay has become … personal.”

Nick suddenly realized that he was slowly shaking his head. He stopped.

“End-stage renal disease is such a sad affair. The body begins to run down, the kidneys no longer able to purify the blood of all its pollutants. Like the rivers of Pittsburgh used to be—yes, that’s a very good analogy. Choked with pollution, poisoned by toxins, life slowly ceases. What a tragedy that would be, considering what an outstanding human being Dr. McKay has become—but I don’t have to tell you that, now, do I? I’m afraid she’s in quite a predicament; she has a very rare compatibility problem that will make it virtually impossible for her to obtain her transplant in time—by conventional means.”

“What are you asking me to do—trade someone else’s life for Riley’s?”

“I’m not asking you to do anything at all. All I’m saying is: Don’t underrate your influence. Never underestimate the power of love. And let’s not forget the influence that Riley McKay’s death would have on
you.
Why, you’ve just barely come out of your cocoon, haven’t you? Your new wings are barely dry. You’ve entrusted your heart to someone for the first time in—how long has it been, Dr. Polchak? And now she’s going to be taken away from you, and who knows what you’ll do then. You might very well crawl right back into that shell of yours and never come out again—and who could blame you?”

Nick stared at Zohar’s face, but his eyes wouldn’t focus. In his ears he heard an even, buzzing sound.

Zohar smiled. “That’s another skill of mine—I know people. When you walk into a hospital waiting room; when you interrupt a family freshly grieving over the loss of a loved one; when you have less than an hour to find a way to say to them, ‘I want your husband’s liver and pancreas—someone is waiting for them across town’; then you learn to read every facial expression, you learn every nuance of posture and voice. And when I look at you, Dr. Polchak, do you know what I see? I see
fear.
”

“Funny,” Nick said, “that’s what I was about to say to you.”

“Me? And why should I be afraid?”

“I’d say you have plenty of reason. My friend Leo—the man you had murdered—he always left his windows open. When I found his body on the floor, I noticed mosquitoes all over his walls. I collected those mosquitoes, and I extracted the blood from their guts—blood from the man who killed my friend. When your boy Santangelo followed us to Tarentum the other night, I broke into his car and took his water bottle. I have a sample of his DNA, Dr. Zohar, and when I match it against the blood from those mosquitoes, I’ll be able to prove that he was in the room the night my friend was murdered.”