At the age of - well, Dr. Louise Bradley wouldn’t say - she woke up in the back of a hideous Hummer limo, the kind used for pornos, proms, weddings, and bar mitzvahs. She had lost her temporary veneers and drooled on her Dolce and Gabbana turquoise silk blouse. She had no idea where the limo was taking her. Was that her mother in the front seat? Dr. Bradley could not remember how she got there. Yes, she drank, took drugs, had sex with many men, and shopped incessantly, but she knew that she wasn’t an addict. This is her account of her almost a week - maybe less - in a private rehab facility for the rich in Manhattan. Dr. Bradley’s book combines her intimate memoir with adequate psychology, since she prefers the medication prescribed by her psychiatrist as opposed to any long-term therapy. Dr. Bradley tries to understand the difference between falling in love and just becoming addicted to sex. She speaks freely about her obsession and how her Mommy betrayed her. Rather than explore the causes of multiple addictions, Dr. Bradley shows us how to avoid overtreatment and instead moving on with our lives, while exposing the mental health scams along the way. She hits on the importance of knowing when things are transient, and tells a powerful story in the process. Dr. Bradley remembers - as much as she can with sharp dialogue - of the stories she has to endure. While fact-checking proved to be an inconvenience, she strives to get to the truth, at least allowing herself a chance to remember. One Big Chunk is a fast-moving, wild, sexy, and fiercely powerful parody of what passes for a memoir - a hilarious satire that will simultaneously shock while offering a poignant exposé of our mental healthcare system, with a running commentary on the world of fashion.
In three different loosely-related vignettes, Bradley Lewis uses a fictional narrative to present a glaring view of lives gone sour. Dissolution takes you to the darkest place in the lives of three different couples; two are married, and one young couple struggling with the idea of permanency. This tour de force will grab you from the first page and lead you down a path of circumstances that have gone horribly wrong. These addicting stories will send chills down the spine of anyone who has ever been married or in a relationship. What happens when your spouse becomes controlling and dangerous? Is abduction a reasonable out? What do you do when you suspect that your friend is sleeping with your wife? Does violence solve anything? What if your girlfriend has lied to you, not just about her motivations, but about everything? But hasn't deception always been part of the game? Wealthy Lauren and Louie live in Beverly Hills, where life on the rocks is a familiar, sad story, but never quite like this. Karen and Nicky end up prospering in SoHo with their popular coffee shop, only to find that the Rockwellian existence they dreamed of could be destroyed by an interloper from Hollywood. Young Sherry and Ben struggle in the world of modern love, where logic and lessons from history are easily misplaced and replaced. Dissolution is an insider's fictional presentation, based on years of real oral history; the stark realism will leave you breathless. Despite its dark view of relationships, the crisp dialogue and offbeat characters guarantee that you will enjoy the ride.
A fascinating True Crime story of the years when Mickey Cohen was tailed daily by the Gangster Squad, LAPD, and the FBI. Both his personal and mob life are covered in detail.
Excerpt-The Bloomingdale Code
Brad Lewis is a writer whose focus has ranged from the bizarre world of celebrity doctors to detailed histories of Jewish-American development, with particular interest to the entertainment industry. He co-wrote the bestselling biography of Milton Berle, My Father, Uncle Miltie, with the fabled comedian's son, a candid look at the irreplaceable American television icon. His Hollywood’s Celebrity Gangster, The Incredible Life and Times of Mickey Cohen is the only biography of the charismatic and dangerous mobster whose life was a paradigm for the intermingling of Washington, Las Vegas, the entertainment business and the mob. Lewis' novel Great White Doctor is a scalpel thriller centered on the sordid lives and weird sexual habits of "celebrity doctors", exposing the seamy side of high profile specialists who perform unnecessary surgery on their female patients. Lewis has written often about the Hollywood scene, and is no stranger to celebrities and celebrity doctors. Anonymous underworld "businessmen," often sent their lady friends for treatment in his offices. That experience with known mobsters contributed to Lewis' interest in how gangsters, Hollywood, and Washington somehow connect in the American landscape. As an actor, Lewis appeared on TV in As the World Turns, Love of Life, The Guiding Light, and trained at the prestigious H. B. Studios in Manhattan, with its founder Herbert Berghof and fabled acting teacher William Hickey. He appeared in many off and off-off Broadway productions. Lewis has advanced degrees from CUNY (Psychology) and New York University; a fellowship at Columbia University, College of Physicians and Surgeons, and St. Luke's-Roosevelt Hospital. He is retired from clinical practice and has fought for the elimination of formaldehyde from pediatric medicaments. His research has been quoted in hundreds of professional journals. A popular talk show guest, he has appeared on numerous radio and television programs. Lewis is a native New Yorker.
Lewis' latest thriller, The Bloomingdale Code, is a well- researched page-turner about secret religious tenets, ancient medical ritual, conspiracies, and modern-day international politics. The action kicks off in serene Beverly Hills where Dr. Mike Nejad reviews a cryptic letter from his stubborn Iranian father, an internationally respected medical researcher. Early one morning, colorful FBI agent Marco Wexler unexpectedly appears at Mike’s house. Mike is suspicious because of Marco’s age and flashes back on his father’s letter. Maybe it was a warning. From Washington, D.C. and a conspiracy within our own government to The Center for Disease Control to a synagogue in Tehran, with an authentic woven history dating back to Hippocrates, Lewis comes up with a thoroughly original monster of a plot that will please even the most faithful conspiracy addicts. BradleyLewis.org BradleyLewis.com
New York Los Angeles
All rights reserved by Bradley B. Lewis
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, mechanical, or including photocopying, recording or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.
Late again. This early morning was no exception. Mike Nejad wanted to finish a letter he had postponed reading. He grabbed it from the black and white checked Formica breakfast table, left a FedEx mailer that he wanted to open later next to his laptop, and while on the run read the correspondence written in Farsi:
Our problems are but a grain of sand in a beach of larger prejudice. You have chosen to make your life in a country that has tried to no avail to correct its two-hundred-year old ethnic problems. My responsibility is to protect our three-thousand-year-old heritage. This goes beyond what happens in your country, and even in Iran. Recent focus on Iran by the world community is threatening the future of issues more important than any single person, religion, or country.
Oh, god! More platitudes. Mike hit his fist hard on the hall wall, nearly knocking a Leroy Nieman boxing portrait of Muhammad Ali off its supports. Owwuch! Mike had not seen his father for nearly twenty years; not even when he had been permitted entry into the United States for world meetings on bioterrorism. The periodic notes did little to comfort the relationship; Mike paid little attention to what he now saw as merely his father’s irritating political and religious grandstanding.
Mike dropped his sports clothing on an antique oak chair in the hallway. He heard shouting from the street as he walked in his purple-striped boxer shorts to the small window that overlooked his dried-out green front lawn. He could see his walking buddies gathered in the middle of the road, an eclectic assemblage from the pot-bellied to the washboard six-pack, the latter preferring a bright colorful spandex while the former favored a baggy college sweatshirt that no longer reached the waist. Over the last two years the group had grown to ten.
Bastard Mexican gardeners! Racism rolled downhill in Beverly Hills, as did the sloping manicured lawns. Mike had asked Faustino too many times about resetting the sprinklers. Mike would have to do the job himself, but he was running late every time he thought of it.
Mike moved to his left over the thick Iranian carpet that covered his hardwood floor in a dark kaleidoscope of ancient patterns. He opened his massive dark wooden front door with both hands and shouted, “I’m coming. I’ll catch up.”
A few cat whistles were followed by the roaring deep voice of a closely-trimmed bearded man in dull gray warm-ups, “You do the same thing to your patients. You even made my mother wait an hour to see you.” He shook his fist at Mike, and stuck one arm through the towering, white castle-like gate that surrounded the property.
Mike laughed at Tony, whose smile was as bright as a neon diner sign, and the tone of his voice evoked party time, even when he said hello.
Mike shouted, “She was not your mother. How many mothers do you have, Tony? Everyone you send to my office is your mother. Don’t you have any aunts?”
The other men laughed. One playfully pushed Tony in the shoulder and said, “He was ashamed to tell you he is fucking the old women!”
“Look it. Then she is your mother,” blurted Tony to the man who had nudged him, wildly waved his arms, and then stopped them abruptly. He looked around like a brawler checking for more takers.
The walkers continued up the street, the mini-mob blocked the width of deserted North Roxbury Drive, and kicked brownish palm fronds, stalks, and sheaths, without breaking stride as they rambled on.
Mike pulled on his red Adidas running pants, and an almost matching red Polo t-shirt, with a little blue polo player logo. He wrestled into his shiny La Mode golf jacket. He liked it because it had an inside pocket, into which he safely deposited his father’s letter. Maybe after the walk he would feel differently about its contents. He pushed his feet into his khaki New Balance walking shoes, and trampled down the soft fabric backs as he forced his heel beneath the flexible material. Mike stopped to check himself in a hall mirror. You should do commercials, he thought as he donned his U.S. Open golf hat. He shook his head, laughed, and observed the premature white stubble that was beginning to creep into his otherwise darker unshaven face. The walking advertisement continued to the kitchen, gulped some orange-colored V8 Fusion from its container, headed out the back door, and down a long slate driveway. He stopped to punch in a code on a sentry device, and waited for his rolling white steel gate to slide to one side.
Mike knew how the locals made fun of his house, and many others constructed by his fellow countrymen – over thirty-five thousand expatriate Iranians lived in Los Angeles. Some said the Iranians would eventually bring down the real estate market in Beverly Hills and neighboring communities, because of their overdone eclectic Middle Eastern designs combined with threatening medieval columns and gates. This is America, he thought. This is why we came here, to avoid persecution. This kind of persecution I can stand. You don’t like my house and gates, don’t look. Mike knew that he hadn’t tried very hard to assimilate socially, despite adopting the trappings of popular culture. Most of his friends were Iranian, he still ate in Iranian restaurants, long after most residents had turned in for the night, and his internal medicine practice at Cedars-Sinai Hospital was more than fifty percent Iranian. Yet he felt very much Americanized, at least compared to his memories of Tehran.
When Mike caught up to the group who had turned onto Elevado Avenue, an old Buick station wagon had slowed down before the semi-athletic entourage. Only when the horn honked did a few of the group begrudgingly peel off toward the side of the road, leaving barely enough room for the Buick to pass.
“Why do you blow the horn every week?” screamed Tony, and shook his arms in a new semaphore flail.
The driver’s window was open and he shouted gruffly, “Where do you think you are, outside Tehran?”
“It’s that asshole Lewis,” said Tony. “He thinks he knows everything because he writes books.”
The vehicle sped off amidst a series of jeers.
The early morning athletes passed a no frills Crown Victoria parked on an empty Carmelita Avenue; no overnight parking allowed in the flats of Beverly Hills. From inside the old Ford, a man in a light blue fishing hat pulled down over his ears peered to his right as the walkers passed. Mike glanced at the drab, no chrome vehicle, with several outside antennas. A Beverly Hills detective, thought Mike.
The man adjusted his Blue Tooth earpiece, and listened, “This is the Resident. Go ahead Hollywood One,” the familiar voice deadpanned in his ear.
The man spoke, “I have the target. He’s on foot.”
“Okay. Please proceed as planned. Remember, this is not a grab. I’m waiting for the go ahead from The Good Doctor.”
The man sipped coffee from a styrofoam cup. Damn. Too hot. He grabbed a small bottle of Advil from the passenger seat, and downed two capsules without any liquid. That damned bicuspid. Everything hurts it. Hot. Cold. He had no time for a dentist. He would have to get by on Advil. He swept his tongue over the side of the offending tooth; that seemed to do the job for the moment. Marco, you’re still afraid of the white jacket and drill.
Marco flashed on himself as a child, dwarfed by the oversized uncomfortable dental chair, ready for his first silver filling.
“This will only hurt for a second,” said the ancient Dr. Kavala, who held a trembling syringe poised for the oral harpooning.
Little Marco yelped as his mother held his left arm.
Dr. Kavala’s wife and nurse said, “Oh, that’s only the doctor’s nail.”
Bullshit! Even then Marco despised adults who patronized children. The drilling, interspersed with jabs of electric pain, took forever.
“You can’t feel that,” repeated the dentist each time Marco raised his hand to stop, as per their false agreement.
The diminutive patient focused on the snaps of his attacker’s barber-like tunic that pressed tightly on his neck. The moment would never leave Marco.
Marco started the engine, and watched the walkers proceed toward Roxbury Drive.
The scene reminded him of the provincial tree lined streets near his father’s general store in Kansas City. As dusk approached, Marco had returned from making deliveries to find no one tending the counter. His Sicilian mother Donna - she had insisted on naming him Marco - must have gone home to cook dinner. He had always worried about his father, one of the few Jewish merchants in a region whose citizens were unaware of their anti-Semitic values; from the simple, “Oh, you know he’s a Jewish fellow”, to the local children taunting Marco with “kike” and “yid.” He could hear his father’s voice, “Never mind Marco. You concentrate on your studies.”
When Marco entered the back room, he saw two men hovering over his father’s body. When they turned and saw Marco, they darted out through the back of the store, leaving the faded gray door to swing carelessly on its rusted hinges. Marco froze, and then slowly approached his father. Blood trickled down the side of his father’s head. Marco pulled out his shirttail and wiped away the red ooze.
“Why did they do this to you?” Marco cried.
His father coughed, and spoke in a horse whisper, “They wanted the money.”
“Why didn’t you give it to them?”
“I did, but they said it wasn’t enough.” He coughed again, and opened his eyes wide, “You go see Nick Civella.” Marco felt his father’s cold hand on his.
Marco’s father forced out the barely indiscernible words, “Sh'ma Yisrael Adonai Elohaynu Adonai Echad.”
His father’s eyes closed, and Marco bolted into the street screaming. By the time the police and ambulance arrived, it was too late.
After the funeral, Marco’s mother Donna took him to see Nick Civella, a Democratic local leader with mob connections. Early in his career, Civella worked for one of the notorious Five Iron Men in Kansas City, the focus of decades of investigations, particularly the Kefauver Hearings. A protégé of Anthony Goizzo, Civella’s gambling operations stretched to Las Vegas.
Civella told Marco, “It was none of our boys. Your father always paid for protection. There also ain’t no way the Jews would have done this either. It had to be some drifters.” Civella arranged for Marco to work at the local Seagram’s franchise, the parent company run by the Bronfman family; where some of the black market blended whiskey remained decades after prohibition was lifted. The Bronfmans brought so much bootleg whiskey into the United States via Lake Erie that it was nicknamed “The Jewish Lake”. Through Donna’s connections on both sides of the ethnic mob divide, she saw to it that Marco finished his B.A. at the University of Kansas, and received a law degree from the University of Kansas City. To help make ends meet, Marco worked for both the Italians and the Jews, usually friendly debt collections, but sometimes threats included violence in the form of a beating.
Marco drove slowly, and kept a block from the group. He thought of the time he stood before former FBI Director Hoover, who awarded him the Outstanding Special Agent of the Year Award. Marco had helped find Marie Dean Arrington, on the most wanted list for two years, sought for a brutal murder; she had escaped while waiting for her execution. Marco flashed on Richard Nixon. What a colossal jerk! With all his mob connections, how did he end up in such deep shit? Marco smiled; he knew about Nixon’s gangster friends. Marco and some of his cronies moonlighted for the political boys, did special jobs, and eliminated certain aggravating parties. Nixon knew that. If he had hired me, he never would have gotten into trouble. Marco enjoyed being part of the Watergate investigation. A lot of mob people on both sides of the ethnic divide hated Nixon. Marco’s allegiance to the Bronfman family led to a relationship with labor legal czar Sidney Korshak, who represented Seagram’s. One phone call to Korshak and Marco could get an anonymous room in Las Vegas or quiet a labor union from rustling corporate feathers. For the latter, Marco preferred diplomacy over a bullet, an option always on the table.
The walkers slowed a few blocks from Roxbury Drive when a black Rottweiler with rust markings leapt around the corner, ahead of its owner. It strained its long leash to reach the men, barking loudly. Mike pushed his way to the perimeter of the group, and took a position furthest from the dog. When the owner, a young dark-haired woman clad in jeans and a tight tee, saw that the pony-sized dog was itching to advance, she yanked on the leash and ordered, “No-no, Siegfried.” She offered the weekend warriors a pursed-lip smile, and retracted the leash back into its mechanical plastic holder. “Don’t worry. He’s friendly.”
Tony smiled back, “You have a nice day.” Then he looked over at Mike and added with a giggle, “She said he was friendly.”
Mike could feel his pulse throb in his neck. He wiped away a few beads of perspiration from his forehead.
The walkers had reached the corner of Roxbury Drive. Mike and Tony peeled off, and the others marched on.
Marco inched his vehicle forward, never reaching more than a few miles per hour. He knew there was no rush. He had observed the routine before. Yesterday, he had checked Mike’s mail, moments after the postman had deposited the envelopes and magazines into the brushed chrome and black box, large enough to store months of mail. Most of the residents had no locks on the boxes, and Mike was among the majority.
Marco parked his car across the street from Mike’s little castle, in front of one of the few classic homes in the neighborhood; an old white colonial, with no gate, no hedges, and only green grass between the smallish oak front door and the mottled concrete sidewalk. He removed his fishing hat and placed it on the passenger seat of his vehicle, then swept his still brownish hair to one side.
As he crossed the street, Marco reached into his dark suit jacket and removed his black leather identification case.
“Good morning, I’m Agent Wexler, Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’d like to talk to Dr. Mordecai Nathan Nejad.” Marco flashed his credentials, held them squarely in front of Mike for a few seconds.
Mike stepped forward after glancing at the authentic-looking credentials, and said, “I’m Mike.” He noticed a small FBI pin in Marco’s lapel and strained to see his eyes through his classic Forster Grants. Do all these guys buy their sunglasses together?
“We’d like your help,” said Marco, reaching back inside his jacket pocket to replace the leather holder.
Tony spoke rapidly, “Doroogh. Pir mardeh.” He smiled at Marco and said, “It sure is a nice day.”
Mike thought the same thing; this guy is too old to be working for the FBI. “How can I help you?” he asked, and took a step back toward the pedestrian gate. Mike instantly thought the worst. He had always known that this might happen. His first thought was that this might be part of rounding up some of the locals who had relatives in Iran. Mike thought of George Bush, and how hard he had fought to allow aggressive investigations, internment, and even torture. His mind flashed on the Canadian engineer who had been sent to Syria and tortured, only to find out later it all had been a big mistake. Outsourcing torture. Then his thoughts hit closer to home. My father. What if his last letter wasn’t the usual platitudes? He silently repeated a phrase from his father’s letter, “…more important than any single person, religion, or country.”
Last week Billy Ray Sullivan, the senior Senator from Alabama, during his cable news rounds suggested that the United States consider an attack against Iran; bypassing any plan for further sanctions or political isolation. Up until then the usual threats had been centered on the growing uranium stockpiles in Iran. The nuclear proliferation scare had always carried enough weight to fuel the hate-mongers and war hawks, who according to many pundits really only wanted to control the oil in the Middle East.
A third ricin scare after two hoaxes had turned out to be real. Diners at the tony Capital Grille had spontaneously become gravely ill; an Iranian-American sous chef was arrested. The water served at the restaurant that night contained nearly lethal doses of ricin. Ricin was also found in all the linen napkins, thereby ensuring that those who didn’t ingest the possibly deadly poison inhaled it. No deaths had been reported, but a junior representative from California and an under secretary of transportation were hospitalized.
The head of the Center for Disease Control, Carol Shuster Mendelssohn, had spoken with Chris Matthews on MSNBC’s Hardball while the Senator sat smiling in an adjoining talking head box.
Matthews asked directly, “How serious is this? We’ve been worried about SARS and avian flu, but is this the big one? Is this the next global epidemic? Can the terrorists start an epidemic by simply getting enough of this stuff into our water supply and knocking off part of a city?”
The conservatively dressed, petite woman measured her words as she spoke, “No. This is not an epidemic. Hypothetically, only five hundred micrograms can kill a person.”
“Hold on,” interrupted Matthews. “I don’t think our viewers know what that means. I mean, how much is that?”
Dr. Mendelssohn cleared her throat and said, “Five hundred micrograms is about the size of the head of pin.”
“Yeah,” said Matthews. “I remember that Bulgaria writer Georgi Markov who died after they stabbed him James Bond style with the tip of an umbrella. But these guys who have the stuff aren’t buying a lot of umbrellas; they’re trying to knock off a bunch of GOP bigwigs having their martini and steak dinners.”
The doctor continued, “Whoever did this knew how to dissolve ricin in liquid and prepare it as a mist, something absorbable into fabric.”
“This is gruesome stuff. Let’s get the honorable Senator from Alabama in here. Senator Sullivan, what’s your take on all this?”
The round, red-faced Senator roared, “The Iranians have been making ricin since the eighties. They used it in the war against Iraq. A few years ago they found six Arabs seeking asylum in London. Those yahoos were makin’ ricin in their spare time in their flat. Scotland Yard found the castor beans with the equipment.”
“This stuff is simple to make. It’s how they’ve been making castor oil all over the world,” added Matthews.
Senator Sullivan continued, “We have evidence that the Iranians have stockpiles of this stuff and are lending their science and medical expertise, plus shipping their unused stocks to Islamic extremist groups like Al-Qaeda all over the world. This is an epidemic. It’s just not us. They could hit Paris, London, Rome. You name it.”
“And you just did,” said Matthews. “Dr. Mendelssohn, is there hope of a vaccine?”
“Yes. Our work continues based on the original work of Paul Ehrlich, the father of modern immunology. We have a new drug, IND, which has shown positive results in studies. Dr. Phillip Rothko at Columbia, who is also a senior fellow at the Cato Institute, has a preparedness team ready to respond to ricin threats. However, in an article published in the Journal of Emerging Infectious Diseases he clearly states that the role of Iran in ricin stockpiling has been greatly exaggerated. Only a few months ago, at a meeting of the Chemical Weapons Convention held in Washington, a Dr. Ebrahim Nejad spoke about the Middle East’s perspective. He –
Senator Sullivan cut in, “That’s a lot of hooey. He’s one of their chief scientists. He’s at the medical school in Tehran, and he and bunch of others are the ones that have perfected the ricin for years. And she got into a huge fight with him.”
“Is that true, did you fight with the doctor?” asked Matthews.
Dr. Mendelssohn cleared her throat, “Dr. Nejad is a respected member at the Tehran University of Medical Sciences, and he is also the head of the Department of Immunology.”
“Okay, but what happened?”
The Senator spoke, “He was yelling at her. We got it on tape. At least FOX had the decency to run it on the news.”
“Let her say what happened,” said Matthews.
“Dr. Nejad and I disagreed about the amount of ricin being produced in Iran. He claimed that the United States was not doing enough research into counter-bioterrorism. He shouted that the United States should stop pointing a finger at the Middle East, as if everyone there was a terrorist, and spend more time researching proper antidotes and defense measures similar to his country. Then he said that the CDC was wasting money and time and I should resign.”
Matthews said, “Well, you can’t blame the guy for defending his turf. Hey, I heard about that. It was said in the heat of battle. Let’s shift back to what’s important right now; if we had an antidote, could we have saved any victims from a worse incident than the Capital Grille?”
Dr. Mendelssohn explained, “Yes, if the person who ingested or inhaled the ricin is reached within twelve to thirty-six hours. It also depends on the dose. But there is no antidote; it’s only experimental.”
“How does someone know they don’t just have the flu?” asked Matthews.
The doctor answered, “Well, technically they wouldn’t. It depends on the severity. It can be as little as a cough, nausea, and tightness in the chest. In more severe cases there would be respiratory distress; the skin might turn blue.”
“Lovely,” said Matthews.
“If enough was swallowed, vomiting and diarrhea would result, with the possibility of hallucinations and seizures.”
“So what’s done to help right now?”
“Immediately contact a poison control center or the Center for Disease Control and Prevention. Get the person to fresh air. Remove any clothing with ricin on it. Remove contact lenses. Wash any contaminated areas. Once medical help has arrived, I.V. fluids will start and possibly flushing the stomach, depending on the circumstances.”
Matthews said, “Boy, I feel bad for the Capital Grille. They probably almost wish it was the food. They’re good guys over there. Senator Sullivan, thanks for keeping quiet, and I know that’s not easy for you!”
“You know me all too well. Chris, this thing is the last straw. We have to go in there and get rid of the ricin. It’s not just ricin. This time there really are weapons of mass destruction, and we know that they have nuclear capabilities. I don’t see how we can avoid a war with Iran. This is the time to make up our minds if we don’t want to spend the twenty-first century as slaves to Islamic terrorism. I will call on my colleagues on both sides of the aisle. This is no longer political; it’s a matter of our survival.”
A grim-faced Matthews replied, “On that happy note, we’ll be right back. Thanks for your time Doctor, Senator.”
Marco removed a folded sheet of paper from his other breast pocket and held it up, “Have you ever seen this before?”
Mike took it, glanced at it, and said, “I have no idea what that is. What’s this all about?” He offered it back to Marco.
“No, you keep it.” Marco reached into his lower right jacket pocket and removed a photograph. He held it inches from Mike’s nose.
Mike grimaced, turned his head away, and asked, “Why are you showing this to me?”
“That design or emblem or whatever you have there. She was clutching it in her hand.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Take another look at it. She wrote over it.”
Mike had seen something like this before, but it was a long time ago. And why had someone added a five-pointed star over the archaic coat of arms? And why was an FBI agent asking him?
“It’s some kind of medical thing, isn’t it?” pressed Marco.
Tony said, “You’re upsetting him. He’s all red-faced and you’re making his eyes twitch.”
Mike said, “It could be. I don’t know.”
“Isn’t your father an expert on this sort of thing?”
“I haven’t seen my father in years. He’s an immunologist. What does this have to do with medicine?”
“Doesn’t he belong to organizations that use these kinds of logos?”
Mike forced a laugh. “It sounds to me like you’ve read the Da Vinci Code too many times.”
Marco’s laugh sounded like a shout to Mike. Marco replied, “I saw the movie. A little boring. Could you believe the part when they escaped because some birds flew overhead? Imagine that, a guy with a gun takes a look at the birds and lets his mark get away.”
Tony patted Marco on the back, “I liked the book. That’s my kind of reading, where I don’t have to look up too many words. So, this is all a big mistake. You want his father. He’s in Iran. Good luck, and have a nice day!”
Marco demanded, “I want to see the FedEx your father sent you.”
Mike’s lips moved, but no sound emitted.
Tony stepped between them. “I’m Tony Davachi Malek. I’m on the City Council. You can’t do this.”
Marco nudged Tony aside saying, “Please step away.”
Mike put up his hand. “Let me get the FedEx. It’s in the kitchen.” As he passed by Tony he said, “Koocheh keh begzari.”
Tony turned to Marco, smiled, and said, “You have a nice day, too.” He walked away slowly, and waved without looking back.
Marco said, “I’d better come inside.”
Mike answered, “I don’t advise that. I have a nasty Pit Bull.”
Marco knew it was bullshit. He had cased the house several times. “Sure, I’ll wait.” He wanted to see how Mike would play it out. Perhaps he would cooperate, and that would eliminate any further need to pursue him.
Marco waited outside the gate as Mike walked to the front door.
Once Mike was in the house, he darted through the living room, conscious that he didn’t stop to wipe his feet as he left little mud tracks on the reddish Iranian runner that led him to the kitchen. Once inside, he opened the refrigerator, grabbed a bottle of blue PowerAde, got his laptop, scooped up the FedEx envelope, and darted into the laundry room. His housekeeper was always behind in hanging up his things; he grabbed two shirts and a pair of Everlast sweatpants. He was out the back door of his residence in seconds, galloped across the lawn, jumped over the open Jacuzzi, and unlocked the back gate. As soon as he was in the alley, he turned to see a white Bentley Continental GT rolling toward him.
Tony screeched to a halt. When Mike opened the door Tony announced with a grin, “You are in some deep shit.”
Mike slammed the door and yelled, “Just drive.” He threw his clothes in the miniscule back seat.
“Take Santa Monica to Overland. Get on the 405 South.”
“Look it. Then what? I’m married. What should I tell my wife?”
“What do you usually tell her when you are up to no good?”
Tony turned to face Mike, began to speak, shook his head, and laughed. “Do you think this has to do with the FBI hunting down Iranian immigrants in San Francisco?”
“I’m a Persian Jewish doctor, not Al-Qaeda.”
“Look it. All I’m sayin’ is it doesn’t appear that the FBI knows the difference. Shouldn’t we drive to an attorney?”
Mike grimaced, inhaled, tore the FedEx seal, slowly peeled open the smaller envelope inside, stared for a moment and mumbled, “What the - ?
Great White Doctor is an extraordinarily realistic account of celebrity doctors and their aberrant social lives. The extremely well-researched book is a fascinating peek into the strange world of upper echelon medical practice. Bradley Lewis worked in a New York City hospital for six years and writes from an insider’s perspective. Great White Doctor is a novel grounded in reality. It is a work of fiction missing from the literature of our modern era. The darkly realistic detail and medical panorama make Great White Doctor a powerful and compulsively readable novel. The book speaks to the heart of what is wrong with our health care system and the national broken paradigm by which it is administered. Anyone interested in his health care should read this book, especially women.
Based on actual medical practice and experience, Bradley Lewis' Great White Doctor, a startling realistic scalpel thriller, takes the reader behind the secret closed doors of the elite medical world, revealing shocking truths about the lives of prominent physicians. He offers surprising insights into the human condition, all through the painful lives of celebrity doctors.
"I'm so glad to hear about Brad Lewis' book. He tells the truth and it’s an amazing story." - Mike Gallagher, syndicated MIKE GALLAGHER SHOW, KABC radio
A medical thriller that chronicles the road to Hell of a renowned OB-GYN whose sexual habits are bizarre. Readers will no doubt find it fascinating, if not terrifying. - bookviews.com
"Brad Lewis was a great guest to have on the show…I highly recommend Brad and his book to all entertainers out there." - Grant Stone, WPBR, "Talk Radio of the Palm Beaches"
Lewis' depiction of "celebrity doctors" is interwoven with infidelity, sexual deviancy, racism, and murder…thoroughly fascinating, totally compelling and contemporary novel." – INTERNET BOOK WATCH
Move over Michael Crichton and Robin Cook, here comes Brad Lewis. The readers’ goose bumps will have bumps until the twisted ending. - Write Time, Write Place, Nancy B. Leake
"Brad Lewis uses a fictional format to examine the sordid lives of esteemed physicians…Fascinating and compelling."—The Midwest Book Review
Bradley Lewis attended CUNY, NYU, and Columbia P&S/St. Luke's Roosevelt Hospital. Lewis is a biographer of legendary comedian Milton Berle and Hollywood Celebrity Gangster Mickey Cohen (now on Kindle).
Great White Doctor is a new edition of Dysplasia.
Mickey Cohen was under 5’5 but in the crime world he was considered a giant especially in LA, his chosen hunting ground. His contacts were spread all over the country and included an array of politicians, newsmen and columnists, movie moguls, movie stars and mobsters all of them ready to take his calls from coast to coast. His involvement in crime related matters reads like a history of those years from 1938 to the mid-1970s when he was on the prowl. Written by a tough and knowledgeable insider Brad Lewis tells the whole Mickey Cohen story with this biography. All the whispered anecdotes, the news items and the underside of the crime rackets where Mickey operated are in this book, open to scrutiny. From Bugsy Siegel to Lucky Luciano and Albert Anastasia to Meyer Lansky and Carlos Marcello, Mickey knew them well and worked closely with them for many years. He had dealings with an array of highly unsavory characters like Jack Ruby and was involved peripherally in the JFK assassination investigation because of his close connection to Carlos Marcello. Brad Lewis has researched this biography for a decade and the result is a book that tells the definitive story of one of the toughest gangsters America ever produced.
Milton Berle was the father of American television. His early years served as a template for future variety shows and sitcoms.