Not so bad for a dungeon, Feinermann thought.

They placed him in the center row and shackled his feet and hands to the chair. He watched fearfully as Karl took out some masking tape. But all Marx did was tape the old man's eyes open. Not tight enough to prevent him from clearing his eyes of debris, but firmly enough to prevent him from pressing his lids together.

"Scream when you can't take it anymore." Karl stood up. "Nothing personal, Rabbi. I'd like to help you, but I can't." He moved closer to the old man's ear and whispered, "I'm into Elvis for a lot of bread."

"Elvis?" Feinermann said.

Karl swore and hit his face mask, whispering, "That's Groucho's real name. Don't say nothing or we'll both be in deep water. Let's just get this over with."

As Groucho dimmed the lights, Feinermann waited solemnly, wondering why Elvis didn't hide under an Elvis Presley mask. It would have seemed like a natural disguise.

Soon the old man was sitting in total darkness. All he could hear and feel were the sensations his own body provided-the whooshing of blood coursing through his head, his heartbeat, the quick steps of his nervous breathing.

Then the first outside stimulus. A motor running. The room slowly beginning to brighten as shadowy shapes illuminated the movie screen. Sound . . . music . . . bad music. Not only was it sappy but it was old and distorted. It sounded as if it had come from an ancient, irrelevant doc.u.mentary-the kind they show frequently on PBS.

On-screen was a fuzzy sienna image of a young man digging up potatoes. A voice-over with a reedy mid-Atlantic accent explained that this man was Patrick Benton, Sr., the potato farmer. The shack in the background was Benton's house in County Cork. The film went on to explain the hardships of Irish potato farming, including the great famine of the eighteen hundreds.

A little history lesson never hurt anyone, the rabbi thought. Still, he wished he could blink in earnest. Next on the screen was a boat stuffed with Irish immigrants approaching Ellis Island. He wondered if Tommy Hoolihan's parents were aboard.

Then a cut to a tenement house, not far from where Feinermann grew up. He recognized old buildings that had been razed decades ago. The old clothing, the pushcarts, faces of men and women who still believed in the American Dream. Nostalgia gripped his chest. The film switched to an indoor shot-a frame of a woman with a plump face holding a baby in her arms. She looked like Feinermann's mother. In fact, she could have been any one of a thousand immigrant mothers.

His eyes were watering, and he knew it wasn't because he couldn't blink. The moisture in his...o...b.. represented something deeper.

The baby had been christened Patrick Jr. Feinermann didn't know Mr. Benton's forename, but he was pretty certain he was looking at the great philanthropist himself. As the film progressed, it was clear to the old man that what he was watching was Patrick Jr.'s rags-to-riches story. From the son of a potato farmer to the CEO of one of the biggest corporations in the world.

Only in America.

The old man watched with rapt attention.

Philip said to Groucho, "How long has he been in there now?"

"Close to six hours, sir."

"Incredible." Philip paced. "Simply incredible. Most ordinary men would have cracked hours ago. Seeing that same story over and over. Are you sure he didn't puke? Puking is usually the first sign that they're coming around."

"No sign of puke anywhere," Karl said. "It's really amazing. That thing is so corny, I almost puked. And I only had to sit through it once."

"Maybe it's because he hasn't eaten," Groucho suggested.

Philip thought about that for a moment. "Did he retch at all?"

"Not even a single gag," Karl said.

"I just don't understand." Philip pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his face. "If psychological torture isn't bringing him around, we'll have to take sterner measures."

Groucho said, "Surely you're not suggestin' physical torture?"

"Our market share in the industry is plummeting." Philip wrung his hands. "CeeGee's new formula is wiping us off the map. I've got a five-figure monthly mortgage and a Range Rover owned by the bank. I'm gonna crack that old geezer somehow!"

Over the intercom came Feinermann's voice. "Marxes, can you hear me?"

"Rabbi, it's Philip. We can hear you. What do you want?"

"I think we should talk."

"Are you going to help us, Rabbi?" Philip inquired.

"I will help you, I will help you," Feinermann said.

Philip broke into a wide smile and whispered to his henchmen, "I knew it, I knew it. No one can sit through that much hokey drivel and come out sane." Into the intercom, he said, "I have your word that you will help me, Rabbi?"

"Absolutely, but first I must have your help."

"What do you require from me?"

"I want a few things. First you must call my wife and tell her I will be delayed. She should go hear the Megilla without me, and she shouldn't worry. I'll be home in time to deliver our shalach manot-our gift baskets-and our charity to the poor."

"What do I say if she asks questions?"

"Sarah's a practical woman. As long as I can make deliveries tomorrow, she won't care. Next you must get me a Megillas Esther. It's nighttime, and I need to read it before I can eat."

Philip said, "I'll find you this . . . Megilla."

"Be sure it's a Megillas Esther. There are five megillos."

"Rabbi, I a.s.sure you you'll get the whole Megilla," Philip said. "Anything else?"

"I'd like to eat after I read. A kosher meal."

"Done."

"Not so fast, Philip. It is not enough to have a kosher meal. I must have a seudah-a feast. Not a feast in terms of food. I must have a feast in terms of a party, a gathering." The rabbi thought a moment. "I want to have a feast, and I want it to be in your honor, Philip. You have shown me the light."

"Why, Rabbi, I'm so honored."

"The Marxes can come, too. That will make it quite a deal. And also, you must invite your Mr. Benton as the guest of honor."

Philip didn't like that idea at all. "I don't know if I can do that, Rabbi."

"You want the help?" Feinermann asked.

Philip thought of his five-figure monthly mortgage. "He'll be there. But you mustn't tell him you were-"

"'Kidnapped' is the word, Philip. But I'm willing to let bygones be bygones. I'm not even angry about it. I think it was the Almighty's way of telling me something."

"You are a remarkable man, Rabbi," Philip said.

"So you will call up your Mr. Benton?"

"Yes," Philip said. "And we will have a feast-to celebrate our new partnership, shall we say?"

"I don't know if 'partnership' is the right word, but if you meet my conditions, I will help you. That's all for now."

Feinermann stopped talking, wondering if his idea would work out. The part about the banquet he'd cribbed straight out of the Megilla. But he didn't feel too guilty about it. If it worked once, maybe it would work again.

Left alone in the library, Feinermann read the Megilla aloud, intoning each word with precision, stomping his foot loudly whenever he came to the name of the evil Haman. According to Jewish law, Haman was so wicked that one's ears were not even supposed to hear his name. Also according to Jewish law, one was required to hear every word of the Megilla, including the name of Haman. A difficult dilemma, Feinermann thought.

When he was done, he closed the Hebrew text, imbued with a sense of purpose. He buzzed Philip, and the bald man came in, a grin slapped upon his face.

"We have prepared a most sumptuous kosher meal for you, Rabbi Feinermann. I've phoned Mr. Benton, and he can't wait to meet the man who will bring KingCola back to its rightful number one position."

The bald man rubbed his hands together.

"Now, don't worry if it takes a little time to recall the formula in its entirety. We have an excellent staff who'll be at your beck and call . . . Tell me the truth, Rabbi. Did they indeed use trichlorobenzoate? I'm not a taste expert, but I swear I detect a little trichlor in their new formula."

"I don't remember, Philip. And even if I did, I couldn't tell you."

"B-b-b . . . but you swore," Philip stammered.

"I swore I wouldn't tell Mr. Benton that you abducted me-a big concession on my part. And I swore to help you. I will help you. But I will not give you Cola Gold's formula!"

A buzz came over the intercom. The secretary said, "Mr. Benton's limo has just pulled up, Mr. P."

The bald man began to sweat. Out came the handkerchief. Feinermann noticed it was a new one-white linen, starched and ironed. Philip said, "So help me G.o.d, if I hadn't asked Mr. Benton to come personally, I'd tear you limb from limb."

"Not a smart idea, Philip. And against religious law as well."

"Banquet in my honor! This was just a ruse, wasn't it?"

"It worked for Queen Esther-"

"Shut up!"

"Are you going to let me help you, or are you going to sit there like a sodden lump?"

Philip glared at him. For the first time he realized he was working against a formidable opponent. "Just what do I tell Mr. Benton?"

Feinermann held up his hand. "You let me handle your Mr. Benton." He stood. "First we will eat."

The meal started with cabbage soup. The main course was boiled chicken with vegetables, kasha and farfel stuffing, and a salad of chopped onions, tomatoes, and cuc.u.mbers. Dessert consisted of apple strudel, tea, and coffee.

Feinermann wiped his mouth with satisfaction while studying the faces of the men who had abducted him, introduced to Benton as chauffeurs. Elvis and Donnie were in their thirties; both had bad skin and little ponytails. Without the masks and the guns, they were not impressive as thugs. But Philip had gotten them for free. You buy cheap, you get cheap. The old man noticed the food was not to their liking. He expected that. But Benton had cleaned his plate.

Everything was going according to plan.

The rabbi asked for a moment to say grace after the meal. While he gave benedictions to the Almighty, he sneaked sidelong glances at the great industrialist/philanthropist.

Patrick Benton had been a tall man in his youth. From the film, Feinermann remembered a strapping man of thirty whose frame easily topped those around him. But now, with the hunched shoulders and the curved spine, Benton didn't seem so tall. His eyes were watery blue, his skin as translucent as tracing paper. What was left of his hair was white. The rabbi noted with pride that most of his own hair was still brown.

Finishing up the last of his prayers, Feinermann sat with his hands folded and smiled at Benton. KingCola's CEO smiled back.

"I don't know when I've eaten such tasty . . . nostalgic food. All these exclusive restaurants I go to, where everyone knows my name and kisses my keister." Benton waved his hand in the air. "Food that doesn't look like food, and the portions aren't big enough to feed a flea. d.a.m.n fine grub, Feinermann." He turned to his a.s.sistant. "Philip, make a note of where the chow came from. This is the kind of cooking I like."

The bald man quickly pulled out a notepad and began to scribble.

"So." Benton harrumphed. "I understand you have a way to help out KingCola. Philip was sketchy with the details. Give me your ideas, Rabbi."

"Mr. Benton, first I want to say what an honor it is to meet you, even though this was not my idea."

Philip turned pale.

"Not your idea?" Benton questioned.

"Not at all," the rabbi said. "I'll be honest. I didn't know you from any of the other philanthropists with names on buildings until Philip here convinced me to come and meet you. Even so, I wasn't crazy about the prospect. His idea of help and my idea of help weren't exactly the same thing."

Benton looked intrigued. "How so?"

"You see, Mr. Benton, I worked with Cola Gold in a very tangential way. It was necessary for me to learn the formula of their new line of cola-"

"Good G.o.d, Rabbi! You know the formula? That would be worth millions to me!"

"I take it you'd pa.s.s a few million to me in the process. But that's not the point. I can't give you the formula. That would be unethical."

Benton sat back in his seat. "Yes, of course." He ran his hand through thin strands of white hair. "However, there's nothing . . . unethical . . . about you making . . . suggestions for additives in our competing brand of new-generation cola."

"The problem is, Mr. Benton, I don't know anything about new generations, period. I am from an old generation."

Benton turned to Philip. "So this is why you interrupted me at the clubhouse?"

"Hold on, Mr. Benton," Feinermann said. "Don't be so rude to Philip. The man is not my best friend, but he does have your interests at heart. I don't have any suggestions for your new-generation drinks. But I have a lot of suggestions for your old-generation drinks."

"What old-generation drinks?" Benton asked.

"That's the problem," the rabbi said. "There are none. Mr. Benton, I watched your life story many, many times. Not my doing, but be that as it may, I feel I know you quite well. We have a lot in common. We both had immigrant parents, grew up dirt-poor in New York, the first generation of Americans in our family. We were the dreams and hopes of our parents who sacrificed everything so we could have it a little better, nu? We lived through the Depression, fought in World War Two, gritted our teeth as our hippie children lived through the sixties. And now, in our waning years, we sit with a sense of pride in our lives and maybe bask a little in our grandchildren. Am I not correct?"

Benton stared at Feinermann. "Exactly! I see you as a man with vision! Philip, hire this man on as a consultant. Start him at-"

"Wait, wait," Feinermann interjected. "Thank you for the offer, but I already have a job. And I'm not so visionary. I know how you feel because we're from the same generation. I saw your mother, Mr. Benton. She looked like my mother. She probably knocked herself out chopping meat by hand and scrubbing floors with a sponge."

"Her hands were as rough as sandpaper, poor woman."

"And I bet she always had a pitcher of iced tea in the icebox when you came home from school. Maybe some shpritz from a bottle with the O2 pellets?"

Benton smiled. "You've got that one down."

"No cans of cola in her refrigerator."

"Just where is all this leading?" Philip asked.