“Okay,” he went on, “show and tell. No touching, understood? Nobody touches my notebook.” He pointed to a page full of diagrams that utterly fascinated Max. The diagrams were made up of hexagons, each individual one as perfect as a lily, some of them grouped into symmetrical bunches as in a sumptuous bouquet, other sections sparse and branching with an austerity that was almost Japanese. “These first few pages are just stuff I was pissing around with at the start. Just to get a feel for the materials, get used to being in a lab again. Flavorings for rum. Nutmeg. Ginger. Clove. Allspice. Components were all right there in the juice, just waiting to be put together. Way better than anything else that’s out there. And easy to make.” The condescending little smile crawled across his lips again. “Easy for me, that is. So easy that I just whipped up some samples and then didn’t even bother.”
He flipped to the next tab. More diagrams. More hexagons. More complicated. These seemed to revolve around a dense middle like planets in a solar system.
“As for the drugs,” he went on, “this is the concept I started with. A pretty straightforward recreational relaxant with mild psychotropic action.”
“Mild,” Costanza put in. “Like we agreed.”
“As you…suggested. This one would have come pretty close to mimicking cannabis. A little longer-lasting, maybe, but with a similar, gentle high.”
“Right. Perfect. So when can we start producing?”
Shintar tried but failed to wipe off the condescending smile. With his eighth-grade-style notebook on display, he just couldn’t help himself from showing off. “This one? This one, Carlo, I could’ve done three months ago.”
“You son of a bitch!”
“But what would have been the point?” the chemist countered. “Pot’s getting legal in more and more places. It’s common as dirt. It’s cheap. Where’s the glory in cobbling together a slightly different version of it?”
“We ain’t supposed to be in this for the glory, Mikel. We’re in it to make some money and keep this crazy rum thing on its legs.”
“Well, it so happens that the glory and the money go together. Think about it, Carlo. People start and stop using weed every day. They can take it or leave it. It’s a phase. Where’s the guarantee of repeat business? Plus, it’s a very crowded marketplace, more crowded every day. How do you build brand loyalty in a marketplace like that? Only by offering what no one else has.”
Before Costanza could argue, Shintar flipped to the next tab, where a yet more convoluted diagram sprawled across a double spread and onto the reverse side of the paper. Max squinted to take it in. To him, part of the drawing seemed to bulge and billow like an extravagant hydrangea; other parts looked like meandering stems with spiraling buds of the most delicate pussy willow. “This,” the chemist said grandly, “is what no one else has.”
“Fuck is it?” said the boss. “Looks like a twisted dragon.”
Shintar pinched his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Congratulations, Carlo. I think you just gave our drug its name.”
“What’s it do, this drug?”
“Everything that people crave. Blocks pain. Brings confidence. Turns Clark Kent into Superman.”
“Addicting?”
“Not if used very occasionally and with discipline.”
“Answer the fucking question, Mikel. Is it addicting?”
“Well, to certain weak and desperate people, maybe, yes, it’s potentially addicting. But so is beer. So is jogging. So are milk and cookies. Some people are just addictive.”
“Change it.”
Shintar could not hold back a quick honk of a laugh at that. “Change it?”
“Change it. You’re such a fucking genius, take out the addictive part.”
“Carlo, that isn’t how it works. You can’t separate—”
“Then don’t make the stuff. Start over.”
“Start over?”
“I don’t want to make a killer drug, Mikel. I’m not out to wreck lives. That’s not what we agreed to.”
“Agreed?” The chemist finally seemed to rile. His incongruously naked legs twitched as if he were about to start pacing, but Rocco was on one side of him and Max was on the other and he really had nowhere to go. Instead, he braced his hands on the steel table and bent forward toward Costanza. “You keep saying we agreed. Unfortunately, our recollections don’t quite match. What I remember, Carlo, is that you had this dream of setting up your boyfriend Anthony—”
“Watch yourself, Mikel.”
“Okay, excuse me. Your family friend, your protege. You dreamed of setting him up as a distiller and you had no idea how to make it pay. I’m the one who told you how to make it pay. And you were all over the idea, your mouth was watering. You saw everything you wanted. Dream job for him, big dollars for you. Admit it, Carlo.”
“Yeah, I did, but—”
“And now that it’s close to becoming real, you’re trying to put conditions on it. This drug but not that drug. Irresistible but not addicting. Plus it still has to bankroll Wreckers and pay everybody’s salary on top of making you rich again. Well, guess what? You can’t have it all ways, Carlo.”
The authority had started leaking out of Costanza’s gruff voice. There was almost a note of entreaty in it now. “Just make the other drug. The lighter one.”
The chemist slowly shook his head. “Won’t work. Too cheap. Too easy to say no to. We go with that drug, we keep right on bleeding cash. Eventually you go broke or this joint closes down or both. Is that really what you want, Carlo?”
Unanswered, the question seemed to bounce around among the hard surfaces of the lab’s walls and floor and brushed steel tables, not echoing, not chiming, just clanging with the dull but stubborn sound of a bell with a crack in it. Shintar closed his notebook and carefully put it back in the safe.
20
“Y ou might have told me, Blake,” said Rita, as she was putting away the last of the glassware at the end of her shift.
“Told you what?” He was sitting on the customer side of the tasting room bar, looking slightly disheveled and badly rested as always.
“That Anthony’s so tight with Costanza. From way before. Practically like family.”
“Guess it just never came up,” he said, and yawned. The night before, his graying stoner death-rock neighbors, who may have been the last people on earth who listened to Motley Crue, had been really blasting it. Then again, if that hadn’t kept him awake, he would have found something else to blame—the cats, the chickens, the scooter horns, the garbage truck at 4 am. The truth was that Blake just didn’t sleep well. His demons kept him awake, and the really embarrassing part was that they were such bland and undramatic demons. Some people’s demons were fiery red devils threatening Armageddon; Blake’s were annoying little munchkins who kept reminding him of mild insecurities, small disappointments, unimportant failures. His demons didn’t cackle or scream; they whispered no louder than the rustling of the pillow he could never seem to position quite right. It was pretty deflating to admit to himself that not even his demons were sexy.
He finished the yawn, shot Rita a sideways look, jealous but resigned, and went on. “Besides, you didn’t need me to fill you in on Anthony. You seem to be finding out plenty on your own.”
“Well, things just sort of pop out when you spend an hour or two together in a barrel.”
“You dating him yet?”
“None of your business. Well, okay, we’re having a drink next week.”
Incredulous, Blake said, “He asked you? Did he get your name right?”
“I asked him.”
“Guess you had to. Hell would’ve froze over before he asked you.”
“Frozen over,” she corrected.
“Look who’s the stickler now.”
“Please don’t be a bad sport, Blake.”
“Bad sport? My problem is, I’m way too good a sport. Guess because I’ve had so damn much practice at it.” He lightly drummed his fingers on the counter, press
ed his lips together as if to stifle speech, then went on anyway. “If I were a bad sport, I might, for instance, tell you some things I’ve heard people say about Anthony and Carlo.”
“Like what things?”
“Oh, just things.”
“Come on, Blake. Don’t be a jerk.”
“Well, okay, like how close they really are. Like, unnaturally close, maybe. Like maybe Anthony is Carlo’s bitch, not to put too fine a point on it.”
“That just seems ridiculous. You don’t really believe that, do you?”
He gave an elaborate shrug. “Don’t I? Do I? I don’t know. But what I do know is that there’s a couple sketchy things about the whole arrangement with those two. Chief distillers usually come up through the ranks. Anthony didn’t. He was the head guy from day one. And the company’s lost money from day one. People usually get fired when that happens. Not Anthony. Why?”
Rita said, “How about because of something really silly and old-fashioned, like simple loyalty to a friend?”
“That’s a nice way to look at it,” Blake conceded. “I hope that’s what it is. But listen, Rita, you’ve been here a while now. You’ve looked around, you’ve met the players. Doesn’t it all feel just a little…off? Like maybe it’s just not what it seems?”
She thought about that and decided not to answer, afraid her own doubts would get to feel more real if she heard herself admitting them aloud.
“Carlo’s got a history,” he went on. “Anthony’s his darling. Reasonable minds may differ on exactly what to make of that. Meanwhile, Wreckers, if you don’t look too closely, is a high-end operation, except it doesn’t sell much rum. Then you’ve got this crazy chemist, also an ex-con—”
“Flavorings,” said Rita.
“Excuse me?”
“Flavorings. He’s working on new flavorings. That’s his part of the business.”
“Flavorings,” Blake mulled. “Okay. But doesn’t it strike you as just a little bit improbable that your boy Anthony, the purest of the pure, is going to stoop to making flavored rum?”
“Not flavored like the garbage on the bottom shelves. This would be different. The flavors would all be natural.”
“Natural. Well, excuse me, jump back! I guess that changes everything. Everything except that our owner is a felon and his chemist is a weirdo.”
“We don’t know for sure that he’s a weirdo.”
“Fair enough. All we know for sure is that he’s a price-gouger and a fraud. Other than that, maybe he’s a super guy. Look, I’m not trying to be negative—”
“You’re not?”
“I’m just saying it all seems kind of odd, and if there happened to be something just slightly fishy going on, a reasonable person might guess that Anthony would be in on it.”
“Anthony’s there because he loves his work,” she quietly insisted.
“I know he does. It’s what makes him irresistible to you. You’ve told me that. I’m not bitter about it.”
“Except maybe you are a little bit.”
“Okay, maybe I am a little bit. Let’s leave that on the side for now. Bitter or not, I know you have the hots for him. And I also know that where the hots are involved, people sometimes make regrettable decisions.”
“Decisions? What kind of decision am I making, Blake? We’re having a drink together, that’s all.”
“And I hope you enjoy the heck out of it. I’m just saying be careful, Rita. We don’t really know these people and we don’t really know what’s going on up there. You don’t. I don’t. Does Anthony? I’m just saying before you get any more involved with him, be careful.”
21
S ay this for Master: He can always smell a Fed.
No, let me rephrase that, since I’ve already made it clear that, compared to us dogs, human beings can’t smell much of anything. So let’s just say he can always recognize a Fed. I can’t say exactly how he does this, since I don’t pretend to understand his human instincts any better than he understands my canine ones. Then again, human instincts seem to be a mystery even to humans; if they weren’t, why would people act so strangely? For instance, take a guy who’s always picking fights, even when there’s really nothing to fight about. What the hell is up with that? Or people who cheat at games when there’s really nothing at stake, and even though we all know that the fun goes out of it as soon as someone cheats.
Just as a little aside and an example here, I’ll mention shuffleboard, a game that Master plays pretty regularly, with limited skill but unblemished integrity. There’s a guy at our condo about whom that last part could not be said. He cheats. Any time it’s close, he cheats. He’s a somewhat younger guy, probably no more than eighty or so, so he’s a little quicker than Master at strolling up the court after the pucks have all been shot. This gives him the opportunity to say that a seven or an eight or a ten-off is either touching or not touching a line, whichever is more advantageous to him, and then, without even looking up, he casually knocks the pucks away, sometimes with his stick, sometimes with the toes of his orthopedic shoes, while Master is still lagging half a stride behind and hasn’t had a chance to look for himself. The cheater thinks he’s getting away with this, but he isn’t; the eye of dog is upon him. I’m off the leash and up the court way before he is, plus my perspective is like three inches above the ground. So I’m on to his bullshit. Sometimes, when he’s made a real stinker of a call, I try to signal my disapproval to Master, but either he doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. To him it’s just a pastime, an excuse to put on a terry-cloth jacket, go down to the pool area, and kibitz. I’m the only one who gets worked up about it. To me it’s a matter of character, of absolutely basic principle. I mean, if a guy will cheat at shuffleboard, what won’t he cheat at?
Anyway, back to Master’s uncanny ability to recognize a Fed. Far as I can tell, there are a few different telltale signs he goes by. Sometimes it’s their cheap suits with the stiff lapels and pants that crinkle up like cellophane behind the knees. Other times it’s their chins, which they tend to stick out aggressively, not because they’re handsome, naturally jutting chins, but because they aren’t. Other times again, it’s something furtive in their posture, like they’re looking back over their shoulder even when they’re staring straight ahead. However he does it, he always seems to get it right.
So the other evening, Master, me, and Albin are having a drink at the Eclipse Saloon. To be more accurate, Master and Albin are having drinks, and I’m having a couple of maraschino cherries steeped in bourbon. The Eclipse is Master’s favorite bar, mainly, I think, because it’s one of the few places where people still make a fuss over him when he comes in. Make a fuss might be an exaggeration. A few people say hello. Apparently he’s been a regular there since way before my time. I’m a regular too by now, which is kind of funny, since I’m not technically allowed to go in at all. But everybody knows I’m there, hidden under a cardigan or a V-neck, and no one seems to mind. They treat me like a mascot. Before you think, Oh, how cute, think a little harder for a second. It’s really kind of insulting. I mean, would you like to be the mascot for a dive bar or, for that matter, even a fancy sports team? I’ve seen them on TV now and then, dressed up like a Trojan or a giant duck or a wedge of cheese. Undignified or what? Anyway, I roll with the mascot bit, like I try to roll with everything. As I’ve said, fulfilling expectations is job one for a dog.
So anyway, we’re sitting there, right at the bend of the U-shaped bar, when these two guys come in. They tick all the boxes: cheap suits, short chins, jumpy gazes. Plus one of them, the taller one, is wearing a crap toupee. From my low angle, I can see the edge of the sticky netting that’s supposed to hold it in place. Master takes one look at the pair and says to Albin, “See those two yeggs? A dollar says they’re Feds.”
“Why would I bet against an expert?” Albin wisely replies.
“And I would not be too surprised,” Master goes on, now speaking figuratively, of course, “if they’re the same Feds who’re sniff
ing around your brother’s ass. I mean, unless there’s a convention going on, how many Feds are likely to be crawling around Key West all at once?”
Albin just does one of his typical eyebrow shrugs.
Master says, “What say we buy ‘em a drink?”
“Buy them a drink?” says Albin, his voice skidding half an octave upward on the final word. “Why in God’s name would we buy them a drink?”
“’Cause it’s a nice thing to do, buy strangers a drink now and then. Makes ‘em feel welcome. Opens a door, so to speak, to conversation.”
Albin says nothing to this.
Master says, “Ya remember the guy’s name?”
“What guy?” says Albin. Maybe he hasn’t quite been tracking the conversation, maybe he just doesn’t want to get involved. It’s hard to tell with humans, especially where family stuff is muddying the waters.
“The agent. From the business card. That Rita showed ya. What’s his name?”
“Bert, do you really think it’s a good—?”
“Come on, try ta remember.”
Albin looks down, half turns away, sighs, then finally says, “Johnson, I think. Eric Johnson, Evan Johnson, something like that. But what’s the—”
“He the tall one or the fat one?”
“I have no idea.”
At that, Master catches the bartender’s eye and has him deliver a round to the newcomers in cheap suits. They look baffled for a moment when the drinks arrive, then pleased but a tad suspicious, as people do when getting something supposedly for nothing. When the bartender points over to Master as the sender of the drinks, they manage cautious smiles and raise their glasses in greeting.
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