Prizes

  “Decent? Since when did the law have anything to do with decency? You’re just laying yourself wide open to be raped and pillaged.”

  “Listen,” Adam answered emphatically, “I’m completely in the wrong. If you must know the truth, I’d feel relieved if Toni did take me to the cleaners.”

  “Maybe,” Peter commented. “But Boston winters can be awfully cold if you haven’t got a shirt on.”

  His attorney proved to have a keen insight into the implacable anger of the injured. For not only did Toni petition the court for complete custody of their daughter, ownership of the house, and massive child support, she even sued for loss of earnings.

  Two senior partners from the law firm in Washington that represented the Boss testified that had she stayed in the nation’s capital, her income would have been more than twice what it was in Boston.

  Peter objected. He protested. He argued himself dizzy. But the court upheld the relevance of the testimony, and ultimately, its validity.

  But the most egregious injustice was when the magistrate openly asked Heather which parent she would prefer to live with, and after she explicitly responded, “Dad and Anya,” granted full custody to Toni, on the grounds, however antiquated, that an adolescent girl was far better off with her mother.

  Battered and bruised, Adam was granted merely one weekend a month with Heather and only four weeks during the summer vacation. No Christmas. No Thanksgiving. No Easter.

  Hearing the verdict, Adam gasped audibly. “Jesus, I bet an axe murderer would have done better.”

  “We could appeal,” Peter offered tentatively.

  Adam grimaced. “No. All I’ve got left is my balls, and I’d probably lose those in a rematch.”

  Heather was devastated. “I don’t understand it, Dad,” she sobbed. “You’re a much better parent.”

  “Yeah,” Adam replied, smoldering. “But your mother’s a much better lawyer.”

  Adam’s suffering was far from over.

  The night their divorce decree was granted, he received a savage telephone call. It was from Thomas Hartnell.

  Adam had long dreaded this moment. In fact, he sensed that it was part of his former father-in-law’s strategy to wait until the last possible moment to add his boot to the others that had already kicked him.

  The Boss spoke with an icy calm. “Dr. Coopersmith, you have lived up to my worst expectations. You have caused irreparable harm to the two things I love best in the world—my daughter and granddaughter. I intend to make absolutely sure that you regret your actions. Now, I have not as yet decided how, but I assure you that from this time forward, I will be concentrating my life on finding a suitable vengeance. Do you read me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Remember this, you heartless bastard. Even if you don’t hear from me for a long while, never draw breath and imagine I’ve forgotten that we have unfinished business. Now you go back to that Russian gal, and I hope she gives you all you deserve.”

  37

  SANDY

  Science has known many multifaceted geniuses. Leonardo da Vinci made his mark in art, anatomy, and aerodynamics. Isaac Newton excelled in optics, astronomy, physics, and mathematics; Albert Einstein in physics, cosmology, and music.

  By the late twentieth century, Harvard’s Walter Gilbert—a molecular biologist who, in a spectacular display of versatility, won the Nobel Prize for chemistry after having trained as a physicist—was more the norm than the exception.

  Gilbert even followed Sir Isaac Newton in another domain. Whereas the good Sir Isaac ended his polymorphous career in the lucrative position of Master of the Royal Mint, the Harvard professor also made a mint as Chief Executive Officer and a major stockholder in Biogen Incorporated.

  Yet throughout history, the combination found least often in a scientific thinker was that of devotion to his family as much as to his work.

  Most “civilians” balk at working more than forty hours a week, and their union leaders militate for reductions. Yet serious scientific investigators of their own free will think nothing of working night and day, including weekends. This is wonderful for the progress of mankind, but not salubrious for marriage and raising children.

  Even Sandy Raven, who had exchanged vows of matrimony with the deepest of passion and the loftiest of intentions, became increasingly involved in the race against time, and against other laboratories, to find a cure for hepatic carcinoma.

  Admittedly, Sandy had no role models for parenthood. And he was so dedicated to his work that he had no time to read up on the phenomenon. Still, being a scientist’s daughter, Judy fell easily into the pattern of being a scientist’s wife.

  She knew from her own childhood that if she wanted her daughter Olivia to see anything of Sandy, she would have to bring her to the lab. Which she did. At all hours of the day and night—even breast-feeding the baby in her father’s office.

  Greg was especially delighted to see his grandchild, and proposed setting up a playpen in the coffee area. This gave Judy a further idea.

  A few weeks later when Sandy returned home for dinner, he found their living room completely redecorated.

  “My God,” he exclaimed, “it looks like a great big kindergarten.”

  “That’s exactly what it is, pal,” Judy chirped. “A couple of the lab widows and I have decided to set up a play group. I’ll be the music teacher, of course.”

  “What a great idea,” Sandy marveled. “It kills two birds with one stone.”

  “What birds were you thinking of?”

  “You and Olivia,” he said, hugging them both. “I mean, you know life has got to be this way till we finish the job. But at least I won’t feel so guilty about leaving you guys for so long at a stretch.”

  Every Sunday night, the family came up for air. They chose some ethnic eatery, most often Joyce Chen on Fresh Pond Parkway, and tried to talk about something other than science.

  One weekend they were joined by Sidney Raven, who had come East for the major city premieres of his latest blockbuster, a seasonal offering called Godzilla Meets Santa. After all, as he declared, why mess with a winner?

  If she could have talked, Olivia would have told her other relatives that Grandpa Sidney was the only one who knew how to communicate with children. He dandled her on his knee and told her story after story.

  “This is a cutie,” he pronounced. “This is a real superstar.”

  By sheer coincidence, Sandy caught a glimpse of Judy’s face out of the corner of his eye. For some un-fathomable reason it registered disapproval.

  “What’s the news from Hollywood, Dad?” Sandy inquired, anxious to give his beloved father the floor.

  “I think you can cover that by asking what’s new with Kim Tower,” Judy said, revealing to Sidney that she knew of her husband’s obsession.

  “Well,” Sidney obliged, “the news on the Rochelle front is that Elliot Victor is on his way out of Paragon. And rightly too, I might add. His brief reign produced so many dogs that the boys in the trade refer to him as ‘One Hundred and One Dalmatians.’ ”

  “Gosh, that’s too bad,” Sandy offered.

  “Yeah, there’s a twisteroo in this plot, sonny boy. It’s a last-reel shaker. Guess who’s succeeding him?”

  Sandy looked at his father wide-eyed, “No, Dad. You don’t mean it? Rochelle is going to be the head of the studio?”

  “Yep. And she deserves it. The three pictures she produced personally made more money than the ninety-nine losers that Victor supervised.”

  “That’s fan-tas-tic! But won’t it be a bit of a strain on their marriage?”

  “Not at all,” Sidney replied. “It goes without saying they’ll get a divorce. I mean, it’s a hell of a lot easier to get a husband than a studio.”

  Early the next evening, Sandy was alone in the lab. Taking an unprecedented liberty, he barricaded himself in Greg Morgenstern’s office and breathlessly dialed Paragon Studios.

  After talking his way past three assistants i
n ascending order of importance, he was granted the honor of being put on hold and, while waiting his turn, being entertained by several of Paragon Records’ latest chart busters.

  Finally, the senior assistant came on again and said, “Are you still there, Mr. Raven?”

  I’m really Professor Raven, he thought, but what the hell. The important thing is, Rochelle will speak to me. “Yes,” he said. “I’m here.”

  A few seconds later her voice—ever mellifluous, now more turbocharged—uttered a colorful salutation.

  “Raven, you old fart. I thought you’d croaked with the dinosaurs. To what do I owe the honor of this call?”

  Sandy was thrown completely.

  “Rochelle,” he managed to reply. “It’s me, Sandy.”

  She burst into gales of laughter and remarked, “My God, Sandy, it’s you. My scatterbrained assistants must have thought it was your dad. How the hell are you?”

  In the fleeting instant before he replied, Sandy wondered if Rochelle had been joking. Would she have genuinely addressed a man of his father’s age and reputation in so condescending—not to say cruel—a manner?

  “I’m fine,” Sandy replied, suddenly tongue-tied. “I’m a professor at MIT, actually.”

  “That’s great,” she remarked. “God, if I only had your brain, I’d be …”

  Her voice trailed off. In fact she was so quick to invoke hyperbole that she had no idea how Sandy’s, or anyone’s, brain could make her any better than she already was.

  He tried to concentrate on the remarks he had prepared. “Rochelle, I’ve just heard about your promotion. I was so happy for you, I just had to call and say congratulations.”

  “Sandy,” she said with fervor, “you’re a truly beautiful person. Would you believe me if I told you that I miss you more than ever? I mean, there’s nobody like you out here.”

  Even when distilled from the exaggerated idiom of Hollywood, he thought, the essence of her message remained an expression of, at the very least, amicable feelings toward him.

  “How does it feel to be on the top of the mountain?”

  “Ineffably inexpressible, Sandy. I actually wonder why I ever dreamed of being a movie star when making movies includes holding the fate of practically every actor in the business in the palm of my hand.” Then, a sudden shift. “Are you married, Sandy?” she asked.

  My God, he thought to himself, this can’t be possible. The woman is about to be single again, and she asks me point-blank about my … eligibility. Why did she wait so long?

  “Yes,” he replied. “And I’ve got the most wonderful daughter.”

  “Oh, how I envy you.” She sighed theatrically. “I’d give up the keys to the kingdom—even the keys to the studio—to have a darling little girl like yours.”

  “Well,” Sandy responded, as he reveled in the attention she was paying him, “it won’t be easy, but you’re bound to find somebody worthy of you. You must be under a lot of stress at the moment,” he offered.

  “How extremely sensitive and considerate of you to say that, Sandy. You’re right. I’m in a great deal of mental anguish. It’s wonderful to be able to talk to someone who goes as far back as you do. I mean, there are no real friendships here in Hollywood. Only alliances of expediency.”

  Gosh, she has a lovely turn of phrase, Sandy thought to himself, not realizing that her words were apt as a description of her own behavior.

  There was an abrupt silence. Then Sandy heard some voices in the background.

  She returned apologetically to their conversation. “Sandy, listen. Redford’s just burst in demanding to see me about script changes. I’ve got to cut this marvelous conversation short. Why don’t we talk again?”

  “Sure, sure, any time,” Sandy responded, the only lapdog with tenure in physics at a major university.

  “I’ll put you on to my assistant, Michael, who’ll take your numbers. Thanks again for calling—and loads of love to your wife and lovely daughter.”

  Sandy thought it best not to give Michael his home phone number, but indicated that, especially as he spent most of his life in the lab, he could be reached there.

  “Gee, Mr. Raven,” Michael remarked deferentially, “how does it feel to be saving mankind the way you are?”

  The question had never been put to Sandy in quite that way, but he owed this respectful humanitarian a confirmation of his commitment to science. “It’s rough, Michael, but the job’s got to be done.”

  “Amen, Mr. Raven. Oh, by the way, I’m terribly sorry I confused you with that clown of a producer.”

  Sandy could take it from Rochelle, but he saw no reason not to inform this underling with quiet irony, “That’s okay. He’s only my father.”

  Sandy was so upset afterward that, defying the dictates of the Cambridge police, not to mention ordinary common sense—he went out and walked on the moonlit banks of the Charles River.

  What had begun as a spontaneous gesture of greetings for old times’ sake had concluded with an enormous emotional upheaval.

  Though he felt he had put Michael in his place, he was still terribly hurt by the way the arrogant young creep had spoken about Sidney.

  And though Rochelle had acted enormously affectionate during their phone conversation, he had no illusions that their relationship was anything more than platonic. Still, it was obviously not something he could discuss with Judy. For then he would have to admit that just hearing Rochelle’s voice could still evoke in him pangs of regret.

  38

  ISABEL

  “Excuse me, Professor.”

  Karl Pracht peeked over a copy of Science, removed his feet from the desk and acknowledged his unexpected visitor.

  “Ah, the good Mr. da Costa. Nice to see you. Where’s Isabel?”

  “In the library,” Ray answered cautiously. “Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, just being cordial. I mean, the two of you are inseparable, so I assumed …”

  He’s putting me down, Raymond thought darkly. He’s one of those bozos who think all I am is an intellectual parasite.

  “Come in for God’s sake,” Pracht urged affably, motioning him toward a chair.

  “Actually, I’d prefer to stand, if you don’t mind.”

  Ray’s veiled hostility somewhat baffled Karl. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” he inquired.

  “You mean you have no idea?” Raymond asked sarcastically as he closed the door.

  “Frankly, no,” Pracht answered. “Unless you’re finally accepting my offer to be a development engineer in our department.”

  Ray’s suspicions were confirmed. The arrogant bastard was trying to buy him off.

  “I’ve always thought you were hiding your light under a bushel,” Karl went on, pleasantly. “From everything I’ve heard from my colleagues in San Diego, you really livened up the place.”

  “Thank you.” Ray brushed off the compliment like an unwanted thread from his shoulder. “But that’s not why I’m here. Can we talk man-to-man?”

  Pracht smiled. “Well, the Women’s Studies department would prefer we say ‘person-to-person.’ But we can chat in confidence. Is this about Isabel? I’ve noticed she’s been looking a little peaked and frazzled lately.”

  Ray stared at the professor, unblinking. “Just tell me one thing, Karl,” he said, deliberately savoring what he regarded as disrespectful use of the man’s first name. “Has Isabel kept you up-to-date on her research?”

  “Of course. I’m her adviser. Why—”

  “Then you know,” Raymond interrupted.

  Karl Pracht leaned across his desk with a look of be-musement on his face.

  “For God’s sake, da Costa, can you stop speaking in half-baked innuendos and tell me what you’re driving at?”

  “Well, we could begin with the four forces and Einstein’s theory of equivalence.”

  At this point he had expected Pracht to interject and mention the so-called Fifth Force—and his own contribution to the field. But the physicist w
as clearly playing cat and mouse. Perhaps to find out how much Raymond knew.

  “Fine,” he agreed, “let’s start there.”

  “According to your reputation,” Ray continued, “you’re of the school that believes in the existence of a Fifth Force.”

  “I’ve published a few papers on the subject,” Pracht conceded.

  “But never a fully blown exposition, never a complete soup-to-nuts discussion of the whole question …”

  It wasn’t what Raymond was saying, but the bizarrely intense manner in which he was saying it, that caused Pracht—a normally placid individual—to lose his temper.

  “You know, Ray,” he said, fast reaching the boiling point, “I’ve done my best to try to like you—and it hasn’t been easy. Because, frankly, I find you untrusting, unpleasant, and uptight.”

  Good, Ray thought, we’re going to get to the nitty-gritty. “You’re entitled to your exalted opinion,” he commented, for the first time ever addressing the scientist in an arrogant tone. “And while we exchange home truths, I’ve never been very fond of you either. Even less so of that hoodlum you call a son.”

  “You leave Jerry out of this,” Pracht snapped angrily. And then a thought struck him. “Or is he what this is all about?”

  “Well, I can’t say I was overjoyed by his interest in my daughter.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way,” the physicist answered. “I thought the two youngsters were well-suited to one another.”

  “I can’t agree with you. In fact, if you must know, I’ve forbidden Isabel to speak to him.”

  “I’ve inferred as much,” Pracht answered. “And now that I know you’re not here to discuss your daughter’s dowry, why don’t we get down to brass tacks. Just what is it you want of me, Mr. da Costa?”

  “I want you to publish my daughter’s paper,” Ray demanded.

  “I’m not the editor of a journal.” The physicist smiled ingenuously.

  “Stop playing the innocent,” Ray demanded. “If you were to recommend an essay of Isabel’s, it would be guaranteed publication anywhere. We both know that, Karl. And we both know you’d do everything in your power to suppress the masterful demolition job she’s done on your cockeyed theory.”