Margaret Truman's Experiment in Murder (11 page)

Borger slowly counted down to one. When he reached it, he snapped his fingers and said, “How do you feel, Iskander?”

Itani appeared to be startled. He looked around the room as though wondering where he was and why he was there.

“It will rain tomorrow,” Borger said.

Itani slowly got up and went directly to the window. He opened the blinds and peered into the darkness. His hands went to his head. “My head is cold,” he said.

“The forecast was wrong,” Borger said.

Itani dropped his hands to his sides. “It was supposed to rain,” he said.

“Yes, it was,” said Borger. “How do you feel?”

“I feel good.”

“No headache?”

“No, no headache.”

“Do you remember what has just happened here in my office?”

Itani looked puzzled. “No,” he said. “We … we talked.”

“Yes, we talked. Do you remember what we talked about?”

Itani shook his head.

“We talked about good things, worthwhile things. I hypnotized you.”

Anger returned to Itani's face. “No. No you did not.”

Borger had him take his seat again and handed him the notepad. “Do you recognize this?” he asked.

Itani squinted in the dim light as he looked at the page with his writings. “No,” he said.

“You wrote that,” Borger said.

“No, I did not,” Itani said angrily.

Borger smiled and patted his knee, pleased that his subject now exhibited total amnesia of what had transpired. “The important thing, Iskander, is that you feel good and that your headaches are gone,” he said. “But we must have more sessions together to be sure that your headaches will never return. Will you do that?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Good. How about we go back to see Elena? The two of you will be my overnight guests, and I'm sure you have much to discuss.”

Elena was waiting with Puhlman in the living room, which the caterer had cleaned up after the party and departed.

“Have a drink,” Borger told Elena and Itani. “Relax. The night isn't over yet.”

 

CHAPTER

15

Iskander Itani looked over at the naked Elena Jones, who slept peacefully, her mane of dark hair swirling about her pretty face. He looked down and realized that he, too, was still naked after their awkward lovemaking. He pulled the sheet up over him and thought back to what had led them there.

They'd had drinks together—one drink too many for him—and his memory of what had transpired was fuzzy. He knew it had happened, but it was as though it had involved someone else. The stripping off of clothes and tumbling into bed seemed to have occurred within seconds—the entire episode was compressed.

There was a slight, albeit constant, throbbing above and behind his eyes. Too many Tom Collinses? He remembered what Dr. Borger had said and the exercise he'd taught. Itani rolled his eyes up as far as he could, slowly lowered his eyelids, and drew deep breaths. He allowed one arm to slowly levitate and continued the rhythm of his breathing until he imagined that an ice-cold helmet had been slipped over his head. A smile came to his face. The pain in his head was gone. He remained that way for a few more minutes before opening his eyes and glancing over again at Elena. A recollection of last night's sweaty tryst now became evident to him as though barriers to memory had lifted along with his imaginary helmet. He rolled onto his side, the motion waking her.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning,” she replied huskily, pushing her hair from her face. She sat up. Itani reached for a breast, but she pushed away his hand. “You're too strong for me,” she said sweetly. “You tired me out last night.”

“I am sorry.”

“No, no, no, no need to be sorry. I loved it. Did you?”

“Yes, very much.”

She bounded out of bed, grabbed her clothing from the chair on which she'd tossed it, and disappeared into the bathroom. Itani got up, stretched, and slipped on a pale blue terry cloth robe that was provided for guests. He went to the window and opened the drapes. It was sunny, with puffy blue clouds racing by. Two Hispanic men tended to flowers that bordered a flagstone patio.

He plopped in a chair and tried to remember everything that had occurred. He remembered the party, of course, the conversation with the man named Jake who said he could help resurrect his boxing career, and other people to whom he'd been introduced. He recalled sitting with Borger in his study after everyone had left, and the doctor's instructions about the cold helmet whenever he felt a headache coming on. But after that it was a blank—until having a drink with Elena and ending up in bed with her.

All in all, he felt better than he had for weeks, months, even years. How fortunate to have met Peter Puhlman at the gym and to have been introduced to this amazing doctor who did in one session what other doctors had failed to do, and who did it with the caring gentleness of a father. Yes, that was it. Borger was like the father Iskander had never known, a good and decent man who knew so much, who knew everything.

Elena was dressed when she emerged from the bathroom.

“Have to run, love. I hope I see you again.”

Itani stood and stepped toward her.

“Go back to bed, honey,” she said. “Enjoy your stay. Bye.”

He sat back in the chair and rubbed his eyes. American young women were so different from those he knew back in Lebanon, so carefree and full of life. He'd never been comfortable around pretty young women, cautious and afraid of being rebuffed. He laughed. She was the aggressor, and it was he who could have done the rebuffing had he wanted to. But of course he didn't.

He showered and made use of male toiletries provided in a pouch. He wished he had a change of clothing; the pajamas provided hadn't been necessary last night or useful in the light of day. He dressed, left the room, and wandered down to the main house where Borger sat in the dining room having breakfast.

“Well, good morning, Iskander,” he said loudly. “Come, join me. What would you like, eggs, waffles? My cook whips up wonderful breakfasts.”

“I, ah … whatever you have,” Itani said.

Borger called for the cook and instructed her to prepare a hearty breakfast for his young guest. “He's a prizefighter,” he told her. “He needs his nourishment.”

Itani felt uncomfortable sitting alone with Borger and hoped that his host would not ask him about the night spent with Elena. To his relief, Borger immediately turned to the subject of boxing and further treatment of Itani's headaches.

“I have a proposal for you,” Borger said as he patted his lips with his napkin. “But first I want to ask about your headaches. Have you had any since our session last night?”

“Yes, sir,” Itani said. “This morning. But I put on the helmet and it was gone. Poof! Like that.” He grinned.

“That's wonderful,” said Borger. “But it's important that we continue working on the problem. I've found over the years that while a single session can be effective, it doesn't necessarily last long term. I want to continue working with you until we're assured that those headaches will be a permanent thing of the past.”

“Yes, that's good,” Itani said. He desperately wanted to please this man who'd entered his life so unexpectedly and who had his best interests at heart. “I would like that,” he added.

“Good. I also want to follow up on resurrecting your boxing career. I've spoken with Jake Gibbons this morning, and he has agreed to consider managing you. He wants to see you work out.”

“All right. I can go to the gym and—”

“No, not the gym, Iskander. He can come and watch you right here. I have a fully equipped gym of my own right here in the house, in the basement. If you agree, you can train here, live here. That will enable us to continue treating your headaches while at the same time you get in shape to resume your career. I realize that this is all new to you but, to be truthful, I've taken a sincere liking to you.”

Itani squirmed in his chair and fumbled for an answer.

“There's no need to respond right now, Iskander. I'm not suggesting that you come and live here forever. I'm sure your family wouldn't take kindly to that. What I am suggesting is that you plan to spend two or three weeks here. That will give me the opportunity to rid you of those headaches forever while you put other aspects of your life together. I admit that I have a selfish motive behind my offer, Iskander. You see, it's important to me that my success in curing headaches be documented in a scientific way. I've done this with others. When I'm successful with a patient, it's necessary that I share with other physicians the techniques that I've developed over the years. I believe that you are one of those patients who will truly benefit from my treatments. In other words, you would be doing
me
a favor by accepting my offer to live here for a few weeks and to continue treatment.”

He observed Itani for a reaction. The young man had suddenly drifted to another place known only to him. Borger waited patiently until Itani blinked his eyes and seemed almost startled that he was there at the table. He looked up as the cook delivered his breakfast—scrambled eggs, two pancakes, strips of bacon, and hash fries. Borger poured him orange juice from a cut-glass pitcher and coffee from a stainless-steel thermos. “Eat up, my boy,” he said. “I'll be back in a few minutes.”

When Borger returned, he patted Itani on the shoulder. “Looks like you were hungry,” he said, motioning at the empty plate. “Come with me. I have something to show you.”

He led Itani down to the basement gym that was equipped with the latest exercise equipment.

“It is so nice,” Itani said. “So big and clean.”

“And it will be even nicer this afternoon when they deliver the punching bags and the portable ring I've ordered.”

Itani looked as though he might cry. Borger put his arm around his shoulders and said, “It's my pleasure to do this for a deserving young man.”

“I don't think—”

“A problem?”

“I could never repay you, Dr. Borger. And my family. I don't know how they will be if I leave them.”

“Don't be silly,” Borger said. “You won't be leaving them. As I said it's only for a few weeks while we get rid of your headaches forever. I'll tell you what. I'll have Peter Puhlman drive you home, where you can explain to your family what you're doing. I'm told that your mother is ill. I can refer her to some of the top doctors in the area. She'll be delighted to see her son given this wonderful opportunity.”

Itani started to say something, but Borger's raised hand stopped the words. “And let's not hear ever again of having to repay me. As you've probably noticed, life has been good, very good indeed, for me. But what good is money if you don't share it with others? I'll be happy to help you and your family during this difficult period. Neither you nor your family will have to worry about money while we work together. This country truly is the land of opportunity, Iskander, and it can be for you. Frankly, that's why I'm very concerned with the presidential election that's coming up. Men like George Mortinson don't understand what makes this country great. If they have their way, they'll destroy it for everyone, you and me included.”

Anger crossed Itani's swarthy, handsome face.

“In addition to my medical practice, I'm involved with influential men in our nation who share my views about Mortinson and enemies like him.”

Mention of presidential candidate Mortinson sent Itani into an involuntary trance. Borger snapped him out of it and said, “Let's spend an hour together to reinforce ways to control your headaches. Then Peter will drive you home, where you can collect some clothing and tell your family that you'll be away for a few weeks. The new gym equipment will be here when you return, and you can start training again, free of headaches and with the whole world in front of you.”

*   *   *

And so Iskander Itani moved into Dr. Sheldon Borger's palatial home on San Francisco's Nob Hill. Naturally he faced questions about it when he went directly to the room he shared with one of his brothers and started shoving clothing into a battered backpack covered with faded, ripped boxing stickers and Lebanese flag decals.

“I have met a wonderful man,” Iskander told his younger brother, “a medical doctor. He is an expert in managing pain like my headaches and has already helped me. He is
al-Mahdi,
truly a savior. He has many rich friends who want to help me with my boxing career. I will live with him for two weeks while he cures my headaches,
And
he has his own gymnasium in his own house and will have heavy and light bags and a ring set up for me.”

His brother laughed along with Iskander. “What is he,” the brother asked playfully, “a
shaz
?”

Iskander punched his brother in the chest. No, you idiot, he is not a queer.” Iskander lowered his voice. “Listen. Last night I slept with one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen. Her name is Elena. She was at a party the doctor had, and she lured me into bed.” He extended his fingers and moved them to indicate how she'd enticed him.

“I don't believe you.”

“Don't believe me, then. It is true. Why would I lie to my brother? Look, the man who dropped me off—his name is Puhlman, a fat man—he will be back soon to take me to the doctor's house, and what a house it is, the biggest house in San Francisco.”

His brother turned serious as he sat on the bed.

“Hey,” Iskander said, “what's the matter?”

“I want to go with you.”

“No. I mean the doctor would be mad if I bring someone else. I can't do that.” He slapped his brother on the top of his head. “I'll be back in two weeks. This doctor he will make us rich. I know it. My headaches are gone. Good, huh? Listen, do not tell Mother where I've gone.”