Divide By Two: Humor and Wisdom In 48 Short Stories

By Steven Edmund Novick

DIVIDE BY TWO
A lot of people ask me if the stories in this book are true. To answer that question, I will tell you about what Herbie said. One day my buddy Ralph and I had lunch with a business associate of mine, Herbie. During the lunch, Herbie says to Ralph, “Steve here is a really outstanding fellow. However, be advised that he is a Number Four Guy.” Ralph thinks about this for a minute and then says, “What do you mean a Number Four Guy” Herbie answers, “What I mean by a Number Four Guy is that anything he tells you, divide by four to get the truth.” Well I don’t agree with Herbie. I am definitely a Divide by Two Guy.

CAT ON THE COVER?
Why the cat picture on the cover of this book? The answer to the question is in the book. Read it.

“YOU WILL GET SUED”
It’s not likely that I’ll get sued for what I have written in this book. Here are the reasons: I’ve changed names and places to protect the guilty. Assume I have accused someone of committing a crime, which I have. Further assume that the accused thinks that even though I have changed his name, some people will figure out who he is. Does he really want to come out publicly, via a lawsuit, and say, “The author is writing about me and everyone knows it?” If he does so, he is confirming what were only suspicions and admitting that he is the person accused. Now he has to prove, in the court of public opinion, that what I have written is false. How easy is it to prove a negative? Finally, why sue me? I have no money and probably never will have any.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781483556284

Book preview

JESSI

THE NOTORIOUS OSWALD LE WINTER

As incredulous as it will sound, all of what you will now read about the notorious Oswald Le Winter is absolutely, one hundred percent true, so help me God. Google him on the Internet, if you don’t believe me. In the year 1973 I was employed at Peace Meyer & Grey, 31 E 42nd Street, Manhattan. Peace Meyer was one of the big three national commercial mortgage brokers. I was a twenty eight year old novice, trying to become a seasoned, high-earning mortgage pro.

One day, as I was sitting at my desk, making cold calls to potential real estate developer borrowers, the boss, Harry Peace, escorts a stranger to the empty desk next to mine and informs both the bearded stranger and me, that this vacant desk is now the Beard’s desk. Then Peace walks away without as much as one word of introduction or explanation. The Beard, who is well into his late thirties, turns to me and says, I’m Oswald Le Winter and I don’t know one thing about commercial mortgages. I was given this job as a political favor.

What do you mean, as a ‘political favor’, Oswald?

Well, I was Vice President Hubert Humphrey’s bag man and things got too hot for me in Washington so the Democratic Party arranged for me to move to New York and get this job.

I was stunned. What the hell was Oswald talking about? What do you mean by Hubert Humphrey’s bag man?"

I was Humphrey’s highly trusted personal assistant. I was the guy who took the bags of political payoff money to Humphrey’s safety deposit box, in a bank in Switzerland.

That doesn’t sound believable, Oswald. After all, Humphrey was one of the most principled, do-gooder, lefties in the government, wasn’t he?

He was, until near the end of his career, when he became terminally ill, and then he wasn’t. He became a bitter, cynical man who took every bribe that he was offered. Eventually, the word got out about Humphrey’s illegal activities and the Democratic party-hacks had to get me out of Washington, since I knew too much and they didn’t want to see me being questioned under oath or talking to the Washington Post. Thus, here I am, in some sort of makeshift witness protection program. So what is a mortgage broker supposed to do, anyway?

Well, Oswald, it’s pretty simple. We find commercial real estate owners and developers who need to get big mortgage loans and we convince them that we can get them more money, at lower interest rates, than they can get by themselves. We charge them one percent for this service. So for example, if we get them a $40,000,000 loan, we get a fee of $400,000.

Sounds great. Is there any problem with this business?

The problem, Oswald, is convincing the big developers that we can do better than they can.

So who are you trying to convince now?

Some old guy named Irving Mailman. He owns a ton of real estate and his office is in an old, broken-down building that he owns in Times Square.

No problem. I know Irving. He’s a pal of mine.

Come on Oswald, you just came to town and you don’t know a thing about real estate.

Right you are, but it just so happens that Irv and I are both Knights of Yalta.

What and who are the Knights of Yalta, Oswald?

The Knights of Yalta are one of many secret societies of the Vatican.

Oswald, Irving Mailman is a Jew and something tells me you are one too.

You’re right, we are both Jewish. But you don’t have to be catholic to become a Knight of Yalta. You just need to know the right people and pay a fairly substantial initiation fee, which today is about one hundred thousand dollars.

You know, Oswald, we just met and it would be extremely impolite for me to say that you are full of shit, but I’m saying it.

OK. Let’s go over to his office right now, and you’ll see for yourself.

Sure, but first tell me how you know that Irving is a Knight of Yalta.

"I know because I sold him his membership in the Knights. The story is that about ten years ago, Irving was driving home from a party in the city to his house in Westchester. He was drunk and it was a dark and stormy night. He was on the Saw Mill River Parkway, cruising along at about seventy miles per hour, feeling no pain. And then out of nowhere, I guy appears on the road and Irving smashes into him. Irving panics and does not stop his car until he pulls into the driveway of his home, about twenty minutes later. Somehow the cops tracked him down, and Irving is arrested. Drunk driving, well over the speed limit, and a hit and run were grounds for a charge of manslaughter, which is how he was charged. Irving became a desperate man.

His trial, before a judge, was to take place within the next sixty days. Irving cast around for a solution to his problem. And then, one of his acquaintances tipped him off. The judge was a Knight of Yalta and if Irving joined up, the judge would surely show Irving mercy. That’s one of the main ideas of the society, for fellow Knights to help each other. Irving’s friend introduced him to me and I sold Irving his Knighthood. When Irving eventually went before the judge, in court, the judge dismissed the case for some technical, legal reason. Irving was a free man."

And pray tell, Oswald, how did Irving’s friend know that the judge was a Knight of Yalta and that you were one too?

Simple, there is a secret membership book, and somehow, Irving’s friend had access to it and he knew about fellow Knights’ obligation to assist each other."

Oswald, this story is bizarre to the extreme. Let’s go see Irving. I am now dying to find out if you are an amazing bull-shitter or if you have just let me in on a secret of staggering magnitude.

So Oswald and I walked over to Times Square, and up the stairs to the third floor of Irving’s ratty old building. And there behind a large, well-worn desk, covered with a blizzard of seemingly randomly stacked papers, sits little pudgy Irving, who I judged to be about seventy years old. Oswald bellows out, How the hell are you Irv? Irving doesn’t move an inch or change the blank expression on his face. Ha. He doesn’t know Oswald from a hole in the wall. Then Irving picks up a pair of thick glasses from his desk, puts them on and stares intently at Oswald’s bearded face. And then he exclaims,

Oswald Le Winter, you son of a bitch, my savior. Irving rises out of his wooden captain’s chair, comes right up to us and embraces Oswald. I am now in shock. Where have you been for the past ten years, Oswald?

I’ve been down in Washington, whoring around with the politicians. Did you miss me?

Oswald, you are the most important person in the world, to me. You saved my life. The catching up conversation is warm and lengthy. Finally Oswald tells Irving that we are the best mortgage brokers in the world and we want to get him a nice, big, fat mortgage loan. So Irving happily gave us a mortgage loan to get for him, which we did, and within thirty days, we had a commission check for a sizable amount of money, in our hot little hands.

You know what they say: lightening can strike once, just about anywhere and rarely if ever strikes the same spot twice. I intended to find out if this Irving Mailman thing was a fluke. So I started throwing out names of big real estate owners and developers and Oswald never heard of any of them, that is, until I mentioned the name Saul Birdbaum, a major national developer of regional shopping malls.

Saul Birdbaum, that old fat fuck. He wants to kill me.

Was this just Oswald bullshit? Why does Saul Birdbaum want to kill you, Oswald?

Because I stole Julie Newmar from him.

Julie Newmar. The name sounds familiar but I can’t place it.

Julie Newmar was a thirty five year old, five foot eleven, total babe. She was Cat Woman, in tights and cat ears, in the 1960’s Batman TV weekly show. She was universally considered the sexiest woman alive.

And you stole her from Saul Birdbaum, the fat fuck? What was she doing with the old fat fuck, Saul Birdbaum, and how did you steal her?

Julie was living with Saul at the time. Old fat fuck he was, but he was also richer than Croesus and diamonds are a girl’s best friend. At the time, I was working as a professor of English literature, Shakespeare in particular, at Columbia University. One evening, I went to a party at a fabulous townhouse on the Upper East Side. And there was Julie Newmar on the arm of Saul Birdbaum. I stalked the two of them and when Saul went to visit the men’s room, I made my move. I got right up in Julie’s face and charmed her panties off. We left the party, before Saul re-appeared, grabbed a cab and went to my humble apartment where she lived with me for three fantastic months. She never did go back to Saul. I hear that ever since then, he swears he is going to kill me.

Oswald, Irving Mailman is one thing but Julie Newmar and you? Have you ever looked in the mirror? You are the exact opposite of a dashing young fellow. You look more like a walking sack of shit with a beard.

Oh yea of little faith, shall we pay Saul a visit?

By all means. His office is on East 57th Street. I’ve called on him there, to no avail. So let us be off, stout fellow, my very own Shakespearian bard.

We took the elevator down to the lobby and grabbed a cab which took us from 42nd to 58th in what seemed like forever, because as one might imagine, I was extremely eager to find out if any of Oswald’s story had even a morsel of truth to it. When we arrived at Saul’s office, the secretary at the front desk did her duty and asked who we were and what we wanted. Oswald answered, Tell Saul that Oswald Le Winter is here to see him. The secretary left her desk and went through the door to Saul’s inner office. And no one came out – for at least a minute – and then Saul’s inner office door swung open and out charged Saul, his fat face totally flushed and his eyes close to popping out of his head.

He was lunging towards Oswald, his hands raised and prepared to strangle Oswald. Saul was screeching, Le Winter, I am going to kill you! Oswald and I bolted out of Saul’s office and ran twenty flights down the fire stairs, laughing raucously all the way.

So it turned out that Oswald was not a total bull-shitter. But I kept limits on what I would believe. I had to, in order to maintain a grip on so called reality because Oswald’s relentless barrage of revelations were so extraordinary that I was beginning to fear that the world was not the place I had always thought it to be but rather a place where I had no clue as to what was what. A case in point was the day Oswald casually said to me,

I am going over to the Oyster Bar at the Plaza Hotel, to meet a very senior Cardinal from the Vatican. In fact, he is the Pope’s first cousin. He is in charge of the Vatican’s arms dealing business. Would you like to join me and meet the Cardinal?

Of course, the whole story was preposterous, but I just had to go. This time, for sure, Oswald would be revealed as a gigantic bull-shitter and that would make me deliriously happy because it would help me to maintain my sanity. We cabbed it over to the front entrance of the Plaza at the corner of 5th and 59th. We stood atop the Plaza’s front steps and awaited the arrival of the Cardinal. He was to meet Oswald at three PM. The appointed time came and went. At twenty minutes past three, I suggested, Oswald, your imaginary Cardinal isn’t going to show. Let’s give it up and return to the office.

Don’t be so impatient. He’ll be along any minute now. And so we waited and waited and waited. Now it was 3:45 and no Cardinal.

Come on Oswald. The Cardinal is not coming. We should go back to the office. I will not hold this against you. I’ll never mention it.

Patience is a virtue. We will wait.

Now it was four PM and I was becoming angry. I had better things to do than spend forever on the front steps of the Plaza, awaiting the arrival of Oswald’s fantasy Cardinal. And then a large black limo pulled up in front of us.

The driver jumps out of the limo and races to open its rear right door. A distinguished looking elderly man, attired in red and black robe and red skull cap, with a large silver cross hanging from a chain around his neck, emerges from the limo. Oswald races down the Plaza steps and kneels before the Cardinal who extends his left hand. Oswald respectfully kisses the Cardinal’s ring. I am once again, in a state of total shock and disbelief. I swear to myself that I will never again doubt the word of Oswald Le Winter. Oswald then arises and introduces me, for I am now by his side, to the Cardinal. The Cardinal graciously acknowledges my presence with a slight nod and a beneficent half smile. Oswald and the Cardinal, now arm in arm, promenade up the Plaza steps, through its halls, back to the Oyster bar, with me trailing closely behind.

During the short walk from the limo to the Oyster Bar, close to one hundred, wide-eyed citizens, of all stripes, smiled, waved and even bowed as the Cardinal passed them by.

Oswald and the Cardinal ensconced themselves in a dark back corner of the Oyster Bar. I sat at Oswald’s side. If you have never been to the Oyster Bar, it’s quite amazing and unique - soft lighting, lots of dark wood-paneled walls and frosted glass windows adorned with delicate etchings that exude an ultra-chic, romantic and timeless atmosphere.

Oswald and the Cardinal begin to chat in a most comradely fashion, alternating languages as the carried on. They spoke in English, Polish, French, German and of course, Italian. Admittedly, I was in seventh heaven, to be present at this tour de force. They spoke at length of Vatican politics, the health of the Pope and of the Cardinal’s current arms-dealing activities, which were lucrative to the extreme. From what I could gather from the conversation, the Vatican had numerous shell companies that were domiciled in Italy, France and Switzerland. These shell companies purchased the latest and most effective weapons and high tech electronic equipment from US manufacturers. The manufacturers were prohibited from selling these items to the Soviet Union and other evil-doing countries. The shell companies’ chartered ships, posted their destinations as benign countries and then delivered the restricted items to the bad boys.

Our meeting with the Cardinal lasted for about one hour. At the conclusion of the meeting, I paid the bill for the drinks and oysters the three of us had enjoyed, and the Cardinal, in his flowing robes, took his most gracious leave.

Did I mention that Oswald has spent more than one third of his life in one kind of jail or another? As a small child, in the early 1940s, he and his grandmother were interned in Auschwitz. At the time, the Nazis would release from Auschwitz, Jewish children, for a payment of twenty thousand dollars per head. Jews in America and Canada raised money to purchase the release of as many children as circumstances allowed, and brought them to North America. Oswald was one of those children whose release was purchased. As for Oswald’s grandmother, Oswald says She remained in Auschwitz until the Nazis turned her into soap and lampshades.

The next know incarceration of Oswald was in China. Oswald was a soldier in the Korean War and was captured by the North Koreans. Oswald had sustained, in battle, a serious head wound, and at the conclusion of some sort of slap-dash operation, the North Koreans had implanted a metal plate in his skull, to seal the holed they’d made to operate. Oswald has the plate in his head to this day. The North Koreans transferred Oswald, and many of the other captured Americans, to Red China where he was kept in holes dug in the ground, never seeing the light of day. Eventually he was released and returned to America. At least, this is the story Oswald tells.

I mention Oswald’s tendency to wind up in prison as a prelude to the next Oswald episode. You see, after several years of working with me as a mortgage broker, in NYC, Oswald disappeared from the scene. As far as I knew, he was living back in Germany, the land of his birth. It seems that the Germans were very generous to returning Jews, providing them with living stipends, free tuition at universities and so on. I got word somehow, that Oswald was a professor of psychology at a German university. He had also spread the word to his German neighbors that he was a general in the CIA. At University, they addressed Oswald as Doctor Le Winter. At home, his German neighbors called him The General. The facts were never clear, but I was conditioned to believe almost anything Oswald said.

Then one day, I get a call on my office phone.

This is Oswald. I am living at a halfway house, for released felons, on West 43rd. You have to come here, as soon as possible. And of course I dropped everything and flew to his side.

The halfway house was a filthy, disgusting, run-down, six story building. As soon as I walked into the place, I was assaulted by a pervasive noxious odor of unknown origin. There was what appeared to be a bulletproof glass window in the lobby, behind which sat a disinterested looking middle-aged man. I stepped up to the window and spoke through a small metal grate.

I’m here to see Oswald Le Winter.

Just wait there, I’ll send for him. A few minutes later, Oswald entered the lobby. Even for Oswald, he looked like shit.

This place is a half-way house for people being released from Federal penitentiaries. I’ve been here two weeks now and it is a living hell. You’ve got to get me out of here.

Slow down, Oswald. First of all, what were you doing in a Federal penitentiary?

I was buying certain precursor chemicals, in Germany, that can be used for the manufacture of illegal hard drugs. Then I was selling and shipping the chemicals to the US, thereby making a lot of money. I thought since the chemicals were not the drugs, what I was doing was legal. I was arrested and transferred from Germany to a holding tank in Newark, New Jersey. Ronald Frump’s sister is a federal criminal court judge in Newark. My case went to her and her decision was that I was guilty. I was sentenced to three years hard time in a Federal prison in Ohio.

Holy shit. And tell me, why does your nose look so fucked up?

Oh that. I was working in the prison kitchen and a guy called me a dirty Jew, so I punched him and he chopped off my nose with a meat cleaver. They sewed it back on and it took. Does it look bad?

Nah, not too bad, I lied.

You’ve got to get me out of here. I’m supposed to stay in this halfway house for another four weeks. If I stay, I’ll be killed. This building is full of vicious criminals and they don’t like me.

How the hell can I get you out?

If you give me a job at your company, I can go to work at your office and just have to come back at night, to sleep here. If you don’t do this for me, I am a dead man.

What could I say? OK, OK. You’re hired. Let’s go fill out the forms in the office and you can start work tomorrow. Boy am I a soft touch or what?

The next morning, when I get into the office, there is Oswald, waiting in the reception area. He asks me, Where is my desk? I show him to an empty desk and leave him there so that I can go to my office and begin the day’s work.

Lunchtime comes and Oswald pops into my office. So where do we go to eat lunch? No good deed goes unpunished, right?

Where do you want to go, Oswald?

Sammy’s Romanian Steak House. I’ve been dreaming about eating there for the past three years. What could I say? So, off to Sammy’s.

We are dining on Sammy’s chicken livers and onions, smothered in chicken fat, with sour pickles and seltzer as chasers and Oswald is deliriously happy. In between mouthfuls, he asks, So what does your company do, anyway?

Same old shit, Oswald. We get mortgage loans for commercial real estate owners and developers and get paid commissions for doing so.

And how is business?

lt stinks. None of the banks have any money to lend.

Really says Oswald. He thinks about this. Then he says, Well the German banks have plenty of money and the big German banks all have offices in Manhattan.

This conversation is going nowhere. I don’t know any German banks. Even if I did, I wouldn’t know who to talk to or what to say. I probably couldn’t even get through the front door. They don’t know me and I doubt that they take kindly to strangers.

Well I know how to deal with Germans and get whatever I want from them. So let’s go visit the biggest German bank with offices in Manhattan.

Sure, Oswald, whatever you say. Now finish your chicken livers and let’s get back to the office. It’s already two thirty.

An hour later, I’m back in my office, doing what I don’t know what, because the banks don’t have money to lend. Then in pops Oswald and he says, We have an appointment with the president of the US lending operations at Bresdner Bank, at ten AM sharp, tomorrow. Who am I to question the best buddy of the most powerful Cardinal in the Vatican and a Knight of Yalta?

Next morning, ten AM, Oswald and I are sitting in the reception area of Bresdner Bank’s US Headquarters on Park Avenue. While we are waiting to be shown in to the president’s office, Oswald is giving me a lecture on how to deal with Germans.

German people are all like German Shepard dogs. You have to shout at them, cower them, insult them, intimidate them – in short, show them that you are the alpha dog and they will fall right in line and obediently follow your commands. Always commands, never requests. And if you tell them your title is Doctor, and that doesn’t mean medical doctor, it means PhD doctor, then so much the better. There is no other way to deal with Germans. You can’t ‘make nice’ with them.

OK, Oswald, you show me the way. I can’t believe any of this is happening, but after all, it is Oswald Le Winter, the man of a thousand astounding surprises.

Oswald has no patience for waiting. He gets out of his chair and walks over to the receptionist who, by the way, is a very proper German woman of about thirty. The game begins.

How dare you keep us waiting? he barks loudly at her. We have other appointments following this one and we will not be late for them. You tell the president that Doctor Le Winter is extremely insulted and disappointed by his rude behavior, keeping us waiting. You tell him he must see us immediately.

I’m not saying anything. Oswald is in the zone and I best let him be.

Thirty seconds later, after a word from the receptionist, the president rushes out of his office to greet us. He is visibly agitated and highly flushed.

I am so sorry to have kept you waiting, Doctor Le Winter. There were pressing matters to deal with but there is no excuse for my behavior. Will you please accept my apology?

Oswald comes back at him in German, viciously barking at the president. It looks like the president is going to stroke out. He shows us into his office and Oswald keeps viciously barking at him. The only thing that comes out of the president’s mouth is a subservient jawohl as he vigorously nods his head up and down. After ten straight minutes, during which Oswald is excoriating the poor guy, Oswald finishes up by slamming his first down on the president’s desk, which causes the president to nearly jump out of his skin. Then Oswald jerks his thumb at the door and out we stomp – well Oswald stomps. When we got out onto Park Avenue, I asked Oswald, What happened?

What happened is that asshole promised to make us all the loans we bring to him, that’s what, fucking Germans. And so he did. We hit the jackpot, since we were one of the only brokers who had access to mortgage loans for clients. The evening of that first meeting at Bresdner Bank, Oswald had to hurry back to the halfway house. Curfew for him and all the other felons was 6:30 PM.

The second week that Oswald was working for me, he came into my office and said,

I need your help. I’m thinking, now what? I have this German girlfriend, Ingrid, who is madly in love with me. She is 26 years old, five foot eleven, great shape, face like an angel and spun gold blond hair. She is brilliant, has a PhD in computer science and software engineering and is a world-class downhill skier. She’s coming to NYC next week and wants to live with me and get married. I need a nice apartment that you will have to rent for me. I have found a terrific one bedroom on the second floor of a charming townhouse on E 92nd street, between 5th and Madison. Let’s go see it.

Hold on a second, Oswald. Of all your stories, this one takes the cake. You just described the perfect girl of every man’s dreams. And look at you: in your forties and looking like sixty, huge bulging gut, pock-marked skin on your face, raggedy beard, balding, big scar where your nose was reattached, shitty teeth, metal plate in your head to hold in your brains, just released from Federal prison for drug dealing and living in a crime-infested, sleazy half-way house for felons, of which you are one. What’s wrong with this picture?

Look, none of that matters. She is madly in love with me. I need that apartment to romance and house her for the next month. Let’s go look at it and sign the lease.

What could I say? We cabbed it to East 92nd Street, a quiet tree line block with nifty brownstone townhomes from one end of the street to the other. Beautiful. And the apartment was very charming. So I signed the lease and gave Oswald the key, on one condition:

The day Ingrid arrives in Manhattan, I want to come over to your new apartment and see her with my own eyes.

And I’ll be damned. Within a few days, Oswald called me from his new apartment. Come on over. Ingrid is here and she’s dying to meet you. I cabbed it up to 92nd and entered the apartment. My boy, Oswald, was standing there alone. No Ingrid. I was ready for the big bullshit story.

So where is the wonder girl, Ingrid? Did she dissolve from joy when she saw you at last?

Oswald didn’t have to answer, because just then Ingrid came out of the bathroom. And she was everything Oswald had said, and more. She clung to Oswald, showering him with love and devotion. Again Oswald proved to me that my ideas about reality were woefully distorted. Things were possible that I never in my wildest dreams could believe or even conceive. We sat around the cozy living room of the apartment, that came furnished, and discussed their plans.

Ingrid gushes, I am in heaven, being here with my Oswald. And we are going to fly to Hawaii next week and get married in the crater of a dormant volcano. Which is exactly what they did.

Some years later, I took my ten-year-old daughter, Sarah, for a two-week, summertime trip to Europe. We spent most of the first week in London, staying with friends. Then we flew to Amsterdam and stayed at a grand old hotel, in the center of the city, for several days. At the time, Oswald and Ingrid were living in Essen, Germany, home to Krupp, the large WWII Nazi cannon and munitions manufacturer. Essen was not far from Holland. I called Oswald and he came in his car and drove us from Amsterdam to his home in Essen. He told us that the house he was living in had originally served as a barracks for a Nazi youth summer camp. And there was Oswald’s loving wife, Ingrid, somewhat worse for wear, and their baby daughter, Sofia.

At dinner and for a few hours later, Oswald caught us up on his latest escapades. Oswald claimed that he had been employed for several years by the CIA, which was, in a crazy way, somewhat believable. After all, he spoke seven languages fluently, had a photographic memory and could bullshit his way into and out of just about everything and anything. And the fact that he was a huge risk taker, who never concerned himself with what the downsides of any venture might be, was probably a useful trait for a spy.

During his years as a CIA agent, according to Oswald, he had made contact with many senior US military officers stationed in Europe – Germany in particular. During a visit with one of the top US military officers in Germany he had been informed of, shall we say, a situation. The US had stashed tons of military vehicles, equipment, weapons and ammunition in Germany. The thinking was that if the Soviets were to invade Europe, they would come through Germany in tanks and the US had everything they needed, in place, to fight and repel the Soviets. However, the US Army had recently shipped all of its stash to Israel, which needed it for their most recent war with their Arab neighbors. The cupboard was bare and the only thing left to use against the Russians were the nukes, which, of course, were not shipped to Israel. Oswald pointed out that if the US used its nukes against the Soviets, the Soviets would respond in kind and that would be the end of the world. God knows why, Oswald gave this highly classified information to Der Spiegel magazine. Der Spiegel published it, naming Doctor/General Le Winter as the source of the information. A great number of very dangerous people were seriously pissed off and Oswald was constantly getting death threats.

Hell of a story, right? Later that night, when Sarah and I retired to our rather large bedroom (sleeps 20 Nazi youths) I said, OK, we have to take precautions. First of all, no lights. We keep the room dark – in case of snipers. Next, the snipers might have night vision scopes, so we don’t stand up. We crawl around on the floor, on hands and knees, keeping lower than the window sills.

My daughter was terrified. But I assured her if we took the aforesaid precautions, we’d make it through the night. The next morning we told Oswald that we had to immediately get down to Frankfurt, where we were catching our flight back to NYC. He said he’d be glad to give us a ride to Frankfort. We all went outside: me, Sarah, Oswald, Ingrid and Sofia. We kissed the girls goodbye. Oswald told us to get in the car.

We said Nothing doing. You get in, start it up and drive around the block at least twice. Then we get in. He did so.

I said to my daughter, You know why I told Oswald to start the car and drive around the block?

She knew. Just in case it was sabotaged and was going to blow up, she said. Smart girl. Of course I was only half-serious about all the precautions we were taking. But you never know. We drove along the Rhine until we got to Frankfort and said our goodbyes to Oswald.

The next time I heard from Oswald was when I was living in San Diego. The phone rang. Hi, this is Oswald. Ingrid, Sofia and I are living in Palm Springs, in a mansion with a swimming pool. Dive over for a visit. What could I say?

I made the drive and, by God, sure enough, they were living in a mansion with a swimming pool. Sofia was now six years old and quite beautiful, with dark eyes and dark hair. A good thing she didn’t resemble her father, who now looked like an overstuffed Billy goat on his last legs.

Where did the money come from for all of this, Oswald?

We have two sources of money. One is the huge amount of money Ingrid makes as a high-end, software consultant to large banks. The other source is money my pals in the CIA send me. You see on every operation where the CIA pays off foreign dictators and such, the CIA agents keep a ‘tail’, which means they clip off 10 or 15% of the money and keep it for themselves, in Swiss banks. They have gobs of money. That old Oswald sure knows how to roll. At the end of the day, I said my goodbyes and hoped that this was the last time I would ever see Oswald. No such luck.

Six months later, Oswald shows up at my apartment in San Diego, in his brand new Jaguar.

I have a money making proposition for you, he says. You know Princess Diana and her Arab boyfriend Dodi were killed in a car accident in Paris, right? Well it was no accident. My pals in the CIA tell me that the Queen had Diana kill by British Special Forces because she was pregnant with Dodi’s baby. They copied the CIA file on it, with all of the proof. And I have the file copy. I am going to fly over to Europe and sell the file to Dodi’s father for one million dollars. I want you to come with me and be my bodyguard. I’ll pay you one hundred thousand dollars for three days work.

Oswald, I am flattered that you thought of me and your offer is most generous. But I lost my gun and even if I hadn’t, my trigger finger is rusty. Have a nice drive back to Palm Springs.

After Oswald left, I was certain that he was absolutely crazy and I hoped I would never see or hear from him again. No such luck. A month later, I’m waiting on the checkout line at a Ralph’s supermarket and I pick up a copy of the Enquirer to entertain myself while I wait. I open the tabloid and there he is, a two-page spread, in color. Oswald is in handcuffs, not looking too happy, with cops on either side of him. The article says Oswald was arrested, in Austria, for trying to extort a million dollars from Dodi’s father. There, but for the grace of god, go I. So once again, true to form, Oswald is back in prison. A few days later, I get a phone call from Ingrid.

I can’t take it anymore. I’m having nervous breakdowns. I am taking Sofia and disappearing. I never want Oswald to find me, every again.

What could I say but I don’t blame you. Good luck.

So you might think that was the end of my encounters with Oswald. Wrong. Two years later I get a long distance phone call from Portugal.

Hey, this is Oswald. I’m living in a beautiful house on the beach in Portugal. My buddies from the CIA gave me the money to buy the house. They told me to enjoy the rest of my life here but if I ever come back to the US, they will kill me. Why don’t you come live with me? It won’t cost you a dime and life is wonderful here.

Oswald, I hate the beach. But have a great life and do me one favor.

What’s that?

Lose my phone number.

PS: I recently read on the Internet that the Notorious Oswald le Winter is dead. RIP.

STAR PHARMA

Let’s get one thing straight, right off the bat. The story I am about to share with you is 100% absolutely untrue. That’s right. I made it all up – the people, the companies, the events are all fiction and have no basis in reality. So no one has to get bent out of shape about anything.

It was the year 1976. I was living with my wife, Susan and my baby son, Sam, on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. I was in the real estate business and not doing all that well. Perhaps a career change would be just the ticket, I thought. The New School, down in the West Village, was offering an intensive, one semester course in feature film production. I signed up.

No doubt, the course was a good one. There were about thirty young men and women in the class. I was thirty-one. Interestingly, they came from all over the world – England, France, Hungary, Japan, Australia, South Africa, Germany and Italy. By and large, they were an interesting crew.

I hit it off best with a girl from London. Her name was Violet. Violet was a red head, about five seven, slim, with a pony tail, a care-free hippie affect, five years my junior, who was bright, polite and had a good sense of humor. Sometimes, when the class was out in the field, on a shoot, things could get dull and repetitive. On such occasions Violet and I would sneak off and find ways to entertain ourselves.

We were becoming pretty close friends. I brought Violet to my apartment to meet Susan and Sam. We all got along just fine. Violet didn’t know a damn thing about stocks, bonds, real estate or business. When she found out that I knew a thing or two about these subjects, she peppered me with a lot of questions. I sincerely tried to educate this jolly hippie.

After the semester ended, Violet left New York. It wasn’t clear where she went off to – perhaps to another US city for adventure or back home to London. Several years later, she showed up in my real estate office, by surprise, and told me a strange story. What she had been doing was launching patent challenges against international drug companies, in regards to certain blockbuster prescription drugs.

She claimed that their drug patents were, in each case, invalid for reasons that I could not comprehend. Violet told me she’d been to court six times in the past few years and had won every one of her challenges. As a result of these victories, she was making a great deal of money by getting exclusives on the generic version of the drugs, as a legal reward from the government for proving the patents were invalid.

Violet’s stories were bizarre and incomprehensible. Nonetheless I took her word for it all and congratulated her. Violet asked if I would like to join her in this lucrative business. I declined. Honestly Violet, I don’t have a clue about what you are telling me and anyway, my real estate business is doing just fine. So Violet went on her way.

Several more years passed and once again, my real estate business was doing very poorly. Real estate has traditionally been cyclical – boom and bust. Then Violet shows up at my New York office.

My business is growing by leaps and bounds. I have generic prescription drug manufacturing facilities in the UK, Australia and Canada. I’ve won ten more patent challenges against the biggest international pharma companies.

Violet, that’s amazing. I’m very happy for you. At least one of us is doing well.

How is your real estate business?

Violet, if it got a lot better it would be terrible.

So join up with me. You can be president of my company’s North American division, which is located in Montreal.

Violet, that’s real sporting of you but the idea is preposterous for so many reasons. First of all, I have a business, an apartment and two little kids to take care of. You heard Susan and I got divorced and we share custody. Second of all, I don’t know the first thing about manufacturing pharmaceuticals or challenging patents.

Then I don’t see any insurmountable problems. You can use the condo I have in Montreal when you are there running Star Pharma and fly back to NYC every weekend to have your kids with you. Your real estate business is dying, so just kill it off. As for not knowing anything about manufacturing pharmaceutical, well that will be your greatest advantage and why you will make an excellent president of the North American division. You see, I have plenty of PhDs in chemistry, pharmacology and so on, employed in Montreal. But none of them will make big decisions because they fear making a big mistake and ruining their pharma careers. You can make the big decisions because you have no investment in or a career in pharmaceuticals. You will have nothing to lose.

"Violet was right, in every respect. So I put my dying real estate business out of its misery, agreed with Susan that she would have the kids during the week and I would have them on the weekends. Within a couple of weeks I was on an Air Canada flight from LaGuardia to Montreal. In those days there was no airport security to clear and no need for Americans to even have passports. You could show up five minutes before the flight, get right on the plane, take the 90 minute flight and have no security or serious customs to clear at the other end. The commute, in first class by the way, was a piece of cake.

I took a cab from the airport to the Star Pharma factory, which was located in an aging industrial park, a mere fifteen minute drive from the airport. Violet was already there, awaiting my arrival. We went into the president’s office. Rather unceremoniously, Violet introduced me to Don, the division president, and said, Don, this guy is the new president of Star Pharma North America and you are now vice president, with no decrease in your salary. And then Violet left and I assumed, flew off to London.

Don just sat there staring at me. This was a bit of an awkward situation. I figured a lot was riding on what I would say. Sometimes it’s best to just tell the truth. Don, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I very much want to be buddies with you and I’m going to lay my cards on the table. I am Violet’s good old friend. I have never studied or worked in pharmaceuticals and I don’t even know the difference between a tablet and a capsule. The reason Violet made me president is because I can make all the tough decisions that you and every other professional here might not want to make, because you fear making a big mistake and ruining your careers in this business. I have no career in pharmaceuticals to lose. Don, think of me as the fall guy. You keep running the company and you and the other pros around here can tell me how I should make the big calls and I’ll make them. If things go bad because it was the wrong decision, well you all just have to point your fingers at me and say that I made the decision, not one of you. Any problems with this strategy or with me?

Just one, says Don, with a very serious if not outright mean look on his face. You’re a fucking American. He continues to give me this nasty look for about ten more seconds and then breaks into a huge grin and starts laughing and says, I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship. I breathed a sigh of relief.

As Don and I sat together in his office, getting acquainted with each other, the phone on Don’s desk rang. Don picks up the receiver and listens. On the other end of the line, some girl is crying hysterically and so loud I have no trouble hearing her sobs.

Her crying doesn’t stop. Don, what the hell is going on?

It’s the QA (quality assurance) girl at our satellite Cefaclor liquid bottling facility. The manager of the plant is not paying attention to what she is telling him.

Really. So Don, why don’t you tell her to drive over here and we’ll talk with her?

Margareta, calm down. Drive over here and talk to me, Don instructs. Then he hangs up the phone.

Why is she so upset, Don

I have no idea but I guess we’ll find out soon enough.

Thirty minutes later, Margareta enters Don’s office, still sobbing and actually shaking. We sit her down and wait patiently for her to collect herself enough so that she can speak coherently.

We are filling medicine bottles with Cefaclor in liquid form, to be taken orally by patients.

I pull Don aside and whisper, What is Cefaclor?

Don whispers back into my ear, It’s an antibiotic used for strep throat and other infections.

Go on, says Don, gently and encouragingly.

Well the bottle filling machine is chipping the bottles as they are being filled and the glass chips are falling into the Cefaclor in the bottles. I told the manager to stop the fill run. He told me Piss off. We have a big contract with the Australian government and if we don’t ship today, they will buy in the Cefaclor from another supplier at a higher price than ours and we will have to make up the difference which could be as much as $500,000."

Don turned to me and said, Well, Mr. President, what will you decide to do? Don had a big mischievous smile on his face.

Call up the Cefaclor plant manager and tell him to shut down the fill line and drive over here, right now, is what I said without any hesitation.

Half an hour later, Randy, the Cefaclor plant manager, enters Don’s office. Don doesn’t say anything. He just stares at me with that devilish smile of his. Randy, I say, You are our Cefaclor plant manager, right?

Yes.

"And the fill machine is chipping the bottles and glass slivers are falling into the Cefaclor liquid, right?

"And Margareta, your QA person told you to stop the fill, right?

And you told her to piss off and kept the fill running, right?"

Yes.

Why?

Because there’s not that much glass going into the liquid and we have to ship the bottles by the end of today or else the Australian government will fill the order with product from another pharma company at a higher price than we contracted and it will cost Star Pharma hundreds of thousands of dollars to make up the difference. And Star Pharma always ships. Violet doesn’t want to hear bad news. She has never failed to ship an order and lose money. She won’t allow such a thing to happen.

OK, Randy. Here’s the deal. I am the new president of Star Pharma North America. Today’s my first day on the job and my first big decision is – you are fired. Do not ever go back into the Cefaclor plant. If you do, I will have the Royal Canadian Mounted Police arrest you for trespass with malicious intent. Now piss off. Randy, in shock, left us, never to be seen again.

Nice one, Mr. President. Your first big decision, says Don.

I called Margareta back into the office. Randy has just been fired. You are now in charge of the Cefaclor plant. Drive back there and shut the place down and dispose of all the bottles that have been filled so far. Do not re-open the plant until all the fill machines are working perfectly. I don’t care how long it takes. Call Australia and tell them we are not shipping so they should buy in the order from another pharma company and send us a bill for the difference in price. An astonished but greatly relieved Margareta went off to carry out her assignment.

You will be getting a call from Violet, tomorrow morning, if not sooner. Good to have you aboard, Mr. President.

Don, why don’t you wipe that stupid grin off your face?

Sure enough, I got the call form Violet, first thing the next morning, day two of my new pharma career. Violet says, in a fairly soft and calm voice, I heard you stopped the Cefaclor shipment and closed down the plant. Why?

In an assertive but steady voice, I say, Violet, I would love to tell you but you never know who is listening in on phone calls. It’s better that I not say. I don’t want to have to visit you in jail.

I see, says Violet, matter-of-factly. Goodbye.

Now I’m wondering what Violet means by Goodbye. Am I fired? It turns out that I’m not fired and I never hear another word from Violet about the Cefaclor fiasco. My budding career in pharmaceuticals continues.

So on day two in Montreal, I call a meeting with the top five industrial pharmacists and chemists at Star Pharma. They are all men in their thirties. Since I am in my forties and I am their new president, I naturally fall into the father figure roll. I just started this job and I don’t know shit from shine about pharmaceuticals or about how things are going here. Why don’t you boys tell me what’s up?

At first, nobody spoke. By the way, most of these guys were handpicked and transplanted from their native UK to Montreal, by Violet. And don’t worry that what you tell me will get back to Violet because although Violet is obviously my friend, you are my troops and my first loyalty is and will always be to you. That’s a promise.

Finally, one good-looking chap named Richard began. Violet sold us all on coming to Montreal. She said we’d get shares in Star Pharma, which will be worth millions when the company is sold or goes public. So we moved here with our wives and young children. We haven’t got anything in writing about the shares and we are getting paid $75,000 a year. People working in other pharma companies in Montreal, in positions similar to ours, are making $150,000. We can’t really afford to move back to the UK, so we are kind of screwed.

The other four guys in the room nodded their heads in agreement with Richard. For a minute, no one, including me, said a word. Then I took the plunge. OK men. I tell you what. I want you all to be fired up and thrilled to be working at Star Pharma, North America and I want this company to rock and make the big-time. So as of today, your salaries are all doubled. Now get back to work and give it all you’ve got. We’ll have another chat soon.

Shock and awe. I shook up their world. Then I went over to report the event to Don. He was, as usual, sitting behind his desk, doing nothing but fielding the occasional phone call. Hey Don, I just met with our five top guys, aside, of course, from you. They told me that they are getting only half the pay guys in their positions are getting in other Montreal pharma companies. So I doubled their pay.

Don stared at me in total disbelief. Then he gets a big grin on and asks, And how about me, boss? So I gave him a hefty raise. What’s fair is fair. Violet never called me on the raises. This job was really becoming fun.

So, as I’ve explained, I made some big decisions my first week on the job. Week two brought more big decision making opportunities.

A good example was the Dr. Shiva problem. Dr. Shiva, from Mumbai, was a fifty-year-old PhD chemical engineer by training. He had been with Star Pharma in Montreal for the past five years. From the beginning, he had been in charge of quality assurance, quality control and product formulation and therefore was essentially the head technical man. Don explained to me what the problem was with Dr. Shiva.

Shiva is an asshole. He gets in everyone’s way, makes really stupid decisions, and drags his feet. Other than that, he’s a pretty good employee.

So, Don, why haven’t you fired him?

Now I’m going to tell you one of the dirty little secrets of our business. When I hinted around that he might be better off working at another pharma company, he told me that he was pals with some Indians at the FDA and the HPB (Canadian FDA) and he’d hate to have to tell them about how Star Pharma had faked various test results to get approvals for some of our products. So we seem to be stuck with Shiva and he is really fucking up the company.

OK, Don. Why don’t you lend me your office, since I don’t seem to have one, and send Dr. Shiva in to see me?

Sure thing, Mr. President.

And Don, would you please wipe that stupid grin off of your face?

What grin, boss? asks Don, with an even bigger grin.

The one you get every time you think I am going to make a decision that is going to get me shit-canned out of Star Pharma.

Ten minutes later, in walks a wary Dr. Shiva. I’m sitting behind Don’s desk but I jump up and come round the desk to give Dr. Shiva a hardy handshake. Dr. Shiva, I’ve heard so much about you. You are the man who has made Star Pharma what it is today. Let’s sit down and have a little chat.

I engage Dr. Shiva in some small talk for about fifteen minutes, to get a feel for the guy. Then I got down to business.

"Doctor, when you look at the big picture, Star Pharma is just a little pond in comparison to the big pharma sea. And you, Doctor, are a very big fish who rightfully should be swimming with other big fish in the vast pharma sea. It is only when you are freed from our little pond that you will be able to shine and show the whole world what you can really accomplish. You have been trapped at Star Pharma for way too long. I want to free you from our confining little pond. And as