by Robert Bloch
Kessel watched his guests trampling each other and laughed. He pulled Catherine to him and kissed her deeply.
The guests crowded around to express their gratitude. The actress, able to see now but still half-naked, giggled thanks for her watch. The mirthful fat man held up his dust-filled baggie and winked. While other guests patted him on the back and chattered about the lovely surprise, Kessel reveled in their pleasure. The party was a success.
“Mr. Kessel, I really must talk to you.”
Kessel sighed, knowing it useless to resist. Michael Wheaton would not go away.
Excusing himself from the party, Kessel draped an arm around the kid’s thin shoulders and steered him into the den, shutting the door behind them. “Okay, Michael,” he said, “what is so important that it can’t wait, that I have to hear about it on my birthday?”
Wheaton slumped onto the sofa, a tall, sandy-haired farm boy with bad posture and big feet. He looked as if he belonged on the third string of a second-rate Minnesota basketball team. Instead, he was a Ph.D. candidate in chemistry at one of the nation’s most prestigious universities.
Pulling at the cuffs of a sport jacket too small for him, Wheaton said, without looking at Kessel, “I’m having problems with analog D-9.”
Kessel poured himself another drink, offering nothing to Wheaton. “What sort of problems?”
“It’s very unpredictable. It may not produce the effects we want.”
“We still have time before Christmas.”
Wheaton seemed to consult a mental calendar, then shook his head. “It probably won’t be ready.”
“That will disappoint a lot of people, Michael. Myself included.”
Analog D-9 was to be a new designer drug, something different for Kessel’s clients. It would be chemically similar to the compound in the little bindles from the pinata, D-8, or Lazer, as it was commonly known. The energy and euphoria it produced, however, would theoretically last ten times as long as the momentary rush induced by Lazer. Even though Wheaton had not yet found the formula, D-9 was already in demand.
Wheaton brushed an unruly hank of hair from his blue eyes. “I’m sorry, Mr. Kessel. But these analogs are tricky.”
Kessel, whose knowledge of chemistry was limited to mixing a passable martini, said, “I thought all it took was a few extra molecules here, a couple there. No big deal.”
Wheaton grimaced at this oversimplification. “Analogs of a given compound are simple to create. But it’s impossible to predict the exact effect a new analog will have on the human body. D-9 may produce undesirable effects.”
Laughter and music from the party filtered through the closed den door. Kessel wanted to get back to his guests, back to Catherine. “Look, you’re a genius, right, Michael? You’ll come up with something. I’ve got plenty of faith in you.”
“I appreciate your confidence in me, Mr. Kessel, but I can’t promise anything by Christmas. There’s another problem, as well.”
“And what’s that?”
Wheaton swallowed nervously, setting his lumpy Adam’s apple abob. “I’m getting married in three months.”
Kessel laughed. “Kid, that’s great! That’s not a problem.”
“She works for the district attorney’s office.”
Kessel shrugged. “So what? You’re not doing anything illegal. That stuff you whip up in your lab has never existed before, so there are no laws against it. You’re perfectly clean.”
“Excuse me for saying this, Mr. Kessel, but I can’t associate with you once I’m married. It could ruin Angie’s career.”
Kessel kept his temper in check. “Michael, you can’t let a woman run your life like that. Now, if she wants to play Mrs. Perry Mason, that’s all right. But you can’t give up a very lucrative venture, like these analogs, because of her.”
“Mr. Kessel, you don’t understand—”
Kessel grabbed the kid by one bony shoulder and squeezed. Very quietly, he said, “Yes I do, Michael. I understand that I’m not going to let a fortune slip through my hands because my main chemist is pussy-whipped.”
The kid had nothing to say to that. After a moment, Kessel said, “So, does she know anything now about our business dealings?”
“I haven’t said anything. I was afraid—”
“Good. So all you have to do is keep your mouth shut. That should be easy enough.”
Wheaton stood, his skinny body trembling and his face red. “Mr. Kessel, please! Don’t make me do this anymore. I’ve almost paid off my debt to you. The D-series analogs have made you millions. Please, let me just get on with my life.”
Kessel opened the den door. Party noise roared into the room. Kessel said, “I’m telling you, Michael, it’s in your best interest to keep working on D-9. Trust me.” Without looking back, he returned to the birthday festivities.
Kessel opened the oversized envelope Michael Wheaton had handed him. It contained one hundred hundred-dollar bills.
It was a month after the birthday party. Kessel had been home, waiting for a phone call from Catherine. Then Wheaton showed up with the stack of cash.
Kessel smirked. “Very nice. Where’d you get it?”
Wheaton wouldn’t look him in the eye. “What does it matter? It’s what I owe you, isn’t it?”
“It matters if you’re holding out on me, Michael. It matters if you’re peddling the new analog to my competitors.”
The kid looked up, and Kessel read the bright fear in his eyes. Wheaton shook his head vigorously. “Oh, no. No, Mr. Kessel. I wouldn’t do that. I got the money from a relative.”
“A relative?”
“My grandfather.”
“I see.”
The telephone rang, and Kessel snatched it up. “Hello?”
“Hi, lover,” said Catherine, and the sound of her honey-toned voice sent an exquisite jolt through Kessel’s groin. Thousands of miles away, she could still do it to him.
“Catherine! I’ve been waiting for you to call. How’s the shoot going?”
“It’s okay, even though Trinidad is something of a bore. I’ll be glad to get home tomorrow.”
Kessel said, “Any word about New York in December?”
“Uh-huh. Gregor wants to do the Vogue cover at his studio the Friday before Christmas.”
“Damn. That’s the day before our party.”
“I’ll catch a noon flight on Saturday and be home by four or five. Please, Dennis. That assignment means a lot.”
“Okay. As long as you’re home in time.”
“I will be, I promise.” She paused, and Kessel could almost hear her licking her gorgeous lips. “Dennis,” she said, “do you miss me?”
What he wanted to do was launch into an explicit discussion of how much he missed her and what he would do with her when she returned. But Michael Wheaton was fidgeting in the chair across the room, staring at him with a big, dopey farm-boy expression, so Kessel said merely, “Yes. Yes, I do.”
“See you tomorrow,” said Catherine. “I love you.”
“Love you too.”
They hung up. Kessel said to Wheaton, “So, your grandfather gave you ten grand.”
Wheaton started, as if not expecting to be spoken to so soon. “Uh, yes.”
“How come he didn’t help you out before?”
“He spends a lot of time out of the country. He just got back a couple weeks ago.”
Kessel stood up and walked to the wall safe. His back to the kid, he dialed the combination, opened the door, deposited the money-filled envelope and shut the door.
“Okay, Michael,” he said as he turned around. “You’ve paid off the principal. But there’s still some interest to be reckoned with.”
The chemist sighed. “How much more?”
“Not much. Deliver D-9 by the first of the week, and we’ll call everything square.”
Wheaton swallowed and chewed his lip. “I—I don’t know, Mr. Kessel. D-9 is proving to be the trickiest analog of them all. There are some very serious sid
e effects. I don’t want to rush it.”
“Suit yourself,” said Kessel. “But remember, Michael, I own you until you deliver.” He punched the intercom button. “Brian, would you please show Michael out?”
Kessel looked at the bedewed bottle of Dom Perignon and said to the waiter, “I’m sorry, André, but I didn’t order that.”
With a flourish, André uncorked the champagne, saying, “It is a gift from the gentleman at table eleven, Mr. Kessel.”
Kessel looked across the restaurant and located his benefactor, a bald man in a wheelchair, dining with two blond gentlemen in European suits.
Catherine, following his gaze, held out her glass in a silent toast. The old man nodded. His companions did not move a muscle.
“Do you know him?” whispered Catherine.
“Not yet,” said Kessel.
After a suitable interval, the old man wheeled himself over to their table, leaving his dinner guests behind.
“You enjoyed the champagne, I trust, Mr. Kessel?” he said, with just a trace of a German accent.
“Very much. And I thank you,” said Kessel. “But I don’t believe we’ve ever met, sir.”
“We have not. My name is Konrad Fleischer. I am Michael’s grandfather.”
“Michael Wheaton?”
“Exactly.”
Catherine said, “Do his genius genes come from your side of the family, Mr. Fleischer?”
The old man smiled proudly, displaying strong, white teeth. “I do not know, Miss Weathers. The mysteries of genetics are beyond me.”
Kessel caught André’s eye and signaled that it was time for the check. He said to Fleischer, “You gave him the ten grand, didn’t you?”
Fleischer dropped his smile. “Yes. I had hoped that it would end his indebtedness to you.”
“I am afraid not. Michael still owes me something money can’t buy.”
“He has told me.” The old man rolled his wheelchair closer to the table. “Mr. Kessel, I am asking you, as a gentleman, to please end your relationship with Michael. He is the only son of my only daughter, and he means a great deal to me. I do not wish to see him hurt.”
“And neither do I, Mr. Fleischer. But we have a business deal, and Michael has not yet lived up to his part of the bargain.”
Fleischer waggled a thin finger at him. “That is not true, Mr. Kessel. The simple fact is that you are a greedy pig.”
Catherine gasped, but Kessel merely laughed. “Am I? Well, your little Mikey is no saint himself, Fleischer. His greed got the better of him when he thought he could write a computer program that would beat the roulette wheel. That’s what got him into this whole mess.”
“Young people can be so foolish. But his real mistake was in borrowing from you. He could have asked me to advance him the money. It would have been no problem at all.”
“Then why didn’t he?”
Fleischer shrugged. “I am hard to track down sometimes. But also, I think Michael is just a little bit ashamed of his grampa Fleischer.”
Catherine, sipping her glass of champagne, obviously intrigued by this conversation, said, “What business are you in, Mr. Fleischer?”
“Cutlery,” said the old man. “My company makes some of the finest knives in the world. No doubt the prime rib you had this evening was carved with one of my blades.”
Taking Catherine’s arm, Kessel stood. “This has all been very interesting, Mr. Fleischer, but nothing you say will change anything. Thanks again for the champagne.”
As they made their way out of the restaurant, old, crippled Fleischer called after them, unmindful of the other patrons, “Do not hurt him, Kessel! Hurt him, and you will regret it for the rest of your life!”
Kessel lay on his back, basking in the afterglow. He patted Catherine on the rear and sighed contentedly.
The bedside phone rang. Kessel answered it.
“You bastard!” screamed a voice.
“Who is this?”
“You idiot! Didn’t you know what might happen?”
“Michael? Is that you?”
“You couldn’t wait, could you?”
Kessel figured out what the kid was raving about. “How the hell did you get this number?”
“I’m not a complete moron, Kessel! I know more about you than you think I do.”
Kessel took a deep breath and expelled it. “Okay, calm down, Michael. What happened?”
“Don’t you watch the news? Eight junkies dead in an abandoned building downtown!”
“So?”
“You took some D-9, didn’t you? Stole my samples before they were ready! Sold them to human guinea pigs!”
Kessel tried to sound reasonable. “How do you know I had anything to do with it?”
“Don’t give me that! I checked the lab, and I’m missing twenty grams. Witnesses said six people died in convulsions. The other two turned psychotic and were shot to death by the police. Christ, I hadn’t even tested the new batch on rats!”
Kessel said, “Michael, I am going back to bed right now, and I am going to forget all about this. You should do the same.”
“Oh, no, you asshole! You’re not getting away with this!”
Kessel hung up.
On the other end of the line, calling from his car phone, Brian Levesque said, “They’re in the lab.”
“Both?” said Kessel.
“Uh-huh. He’s spilling his guts to her. Wonder if she’s having second thoughts about marrying him now.”
“She might not have long to worry about it. Did you get all his notebooks?”
“Yes.”
“And his library of floppy disks?”
“Everything.”
“Then do it,” said Kessel.
“Will do,” said Levesque.
Kessel hung up. He shook his head. Such a shame. With Wheaton’s notes, one of Kessel’s back-up chemists might be able to come up with the correct formula for D-9. But it looked as if there would be no wonderful surprises under this year’s Christmas tree.
At the beginning, he hadn’t wanted to have another piñata; didn’t want to play the same game twice. But the first had made such an impression on his friends and colleagues. “Gonna have another one at your Christmas bash?” they all asked, eager for a second chance at nabbing some choice goodies. Ultimately, Kessel couldn’t say no.
Still, he had one trick up his sleeve, something that would make this party especially memorable. Kessel opened the velvet box and stared at the ring inside. Its diamonds and gold glittered seductively, and Kessel knew that Catherine would not be able to refuse his gift. She would gladly become Mrs. Dennis Kessel.
He had spoken with her the night before, just as she was ordering a late, light snack from room service, ready to sleep in an empty bed three thousand miles away. The shoot had gone especially well, she said. Kessel would be proud when he saw the magazine cover.
Now Catherine was somewhere in the air, jetting home from New York. If all went well, Brian would pick her up at the airport at five, and she’d be ready for the party at eight.
Kessel couldn’t wait to see her, to touch her, to run his fingers through her golden hair.
The doorbell rang, and Kessel answered it himself. A de-liveryman stood on the stoop, an enormous ceramic Santa Claus beside him.
Kessel looked at the piñata and beamed. “It’s magnificent. My compliments to Señor Gutierrez.”
The deliveryman lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry to tell you, Mr. Kessel, but Señor Gutierrez died in his sleep last night. Your piñata was the last piece he completed.”
Kessel did not allow himself much sentimentality, but he genuinely felt bad about the passing of Señor Gutierrez. The old man had been a true artist, a true friend. Kessel muttered his thanks to the deliveryman and hauled the Santa piñata inside.
Señor Gutierrez had packed it with presents and sealed the bottom tight. Kessel grunted as he carried it out to the patio. He signaled one of the workmen setting up for the party and instructed him t
o hang the piñata securely from a pole by the swimming pool.
Around five-thirty, Brian Levesque called from the airport. Catherine’s plane had been delayed at O’Hare for five hours because of a snowstorm. She wouldn’t be getting in until around eleven.
Kessel cursed. He had been afraid something like that would happen. “Okay,” he said, “c’mon back to the house and pick her up later. I can use a hand getting ready for the party.”
“Be there in about an hour. Traffic’s kind of thick.”
“Fine.”
Guests began arriving at quarter to eight. Kessel greeted them with customary cordiality, steering them toward the bar and the sumptuous buffet. A number of people commented on the piñata, exclaiming over its craftsmanship.
Looking at Señor Gutierrez’s final gift, Kessel regretted that Michael Wheaton’s notes had proved worthless, that there was no D-9 tucked away inside the clay Santa. No one had been able to find the secret formula. If only Wheaton had kept his cool.
In the past two months, there had been surprisingly little fallout from the bombing of Wheaton’s lab. A couple of Homicide dicks had stopped by to see Kessel one day, but they hadn’t been able to prove anything at all. In fact, Kessel could tell they weren’t all that sure Michael Wheaton hadn’t blown up himself and his fiancée in an experiment gone awry.
Nor had Kessel heard from Herr Fleischer. After the encounter in the restaurant, Kessel made some discreet inquiries about the cutlery magnate and learned that Fleischer was well connected in Europe, although he reportedly had little influence within American circles. He also heard that there was more than just a hint of unsavoriness surrounding the old gentleman, perhaps lingering as far back as the Second World War.
A couple of things still bothered Kessel. Like, how had the old man known Kessel would be dining at that particular restaurant that night? And what had Michael Wheaton meant by, “I know more about you than you think I do” when he called Kessel’s unlisted number?
But as the weeks went by and nothing happened, Kessel decided that the Wheaton business was finished after all.