The conference calls normally took place once a quarter, and were equivalent to a “state of the union,” unless something urgent came up that required a special meeting, such as Wayne's research.
Tobacco had always been a strong performer, but lately with all the bad press and those “settlements” the bloom was fading and the group was starting to look for alternatives to keep their combined revenue up. This call should be interesting because, along with discussing the research, he was going to propose that the group subsidize tobacco in order to keep their own revenues from falling off.
Duke had just leaned back, put his custom boots on top of the desk, and lit a Cuban cigar, when the screen came on.
Lester always kept his shades open so that either the lights from the pool lit up at night, or the daytime glare from the white sand and blue water of seven mile beach in Grand Cayman, overpowered the camera and made his face so dark it was almost unrecognizable. “Duke you old son of a bitch, how the hell are you?” was Lester's opening remark. “I'm fine Lester” Duke replied in his Kentucky drawl. “Haven't you had enough of that sun, sand, and water?” “Never!” was Lester's one word reply. In fact, since we found the cure and prevention for skin cancer, I'm outside all the time; you should try it. Duke thought Lester had already been in the sun too long but he wasn't about to tell him that.
Harry came on line next with the glow of a fireplace reflecting off of the bookcases and mounted fish that lined his office. “Little cold up there Harry? See you've got the fireplace going” Lester said. “We had a cold front move through last night Lester” Harry replied in his New England accent. “How are you feeling Lester?” “Always the doctor aren't you Harry” Lester replied. “How you stand New England is beyond me.” “Different strokes for different folks Lester” said Bert, chiming in in his barely recognizable Southern drawl. “Bert, you sound more like a Yankee all the time!” Lester chided him. “Atlanta isn't Southern anymore Lester” Bert said. “They're more Yankees here than up North. The natives can't afford to live here anymore.” “Why don't you find something that only affects Yankees and kill them all off?” Lester was on a roll. “The thought crossed my mind Lester. But then you'd come up with a cure and get even richer!” “Just confine it to the East Coast where most of the people live and keep it out of the Mid-West” this was Joe coming on. Looking past him you could see the lights on Lake Shore Drive. “That last little experiment you tried in San Francisco spread like wildfire all over the God Damn world and didn't do squat for us.” “Well Joe, next time we'll find one that just cripples people; would you like that?” “Yes, throw in a heart condition for good measure and we can sell those motorized chairs to all the poor bastards before Harry gets all their money.”
“OK, that's enough social chit chat, let's get down to the reasons for this call” this was Lester calling the group to order. The voice activated system put the speaker's picture on everyone's screen. Lester hit the remote and a set of curtains glided closed behind him. The curtains cut off the outside light and some of the details of his office became visible to the other participants: expensive teak desk, brass lamps, paintings of ships and island scenes, and on his desk scale models of his Lamborghini and fifty foot sailboat. The others had talked briefly one time, when Lester had left the room for a few minutes, the topic was the Lambo and how it probably never gets out of first gear driving in Grand Cayman, but then it's not about getting from A to B; it's about how you arrive. For these people, each unbelievably rich and self-indulgent, to find this car excessive was a major feat of extravagance on Lester's part. The fact that Lester had trumped up a reason to leave the room, and then record what went on, was one small example of the on-going mistrust they had for each other. Lester thought it was funny and in later conference calls he would casually mention having the car out and what speeds he could hit on the longer straightaways. No one ever said anything or even questioned his having it. Lester used to say having a Lamborghini in Grand Cayman was like a bull in a china shop; his not-so-subtle way of referring to the emblem on the hood. Lester regarded the others as a necessary evil and he would take care of each of them when their time came. He never told them that the screens were “live” all the time and he could see and hear everything that went on in their offices 24x7x365.
“Duke, why don't you start. Tobacco's been taking it on the chin lately. What's your plan to turn things around?” Lester was all business now. The others sensed it and leaned forward to see Duke's response. Duke shifted uneasily in his chair. He had more money than he could ever spend. He was a figure to be reckoned with in Lexington, yet he felt like he was being called to task and he didn't like it. “I've talked to the other players and we feel we've come to the point where we need a subsidy in order to continue operations and have a reasonable profit.” Duke paused to let his words sink in. He took a metal tube out his jacket and removed a Cuban cigar. Before he could continue the elaborate ceremony Lester broke the silence. “Exactly what sort of subsidy do you have in mind Duke?” The words were measured, completely void of emotion, and menacing in their total detachment. Everyone else was stone silent waiting to see how this would play out. They all had a stake in it but Lester, and the pharmaceutical empire he ran, had all the money and the power and ultimately controlled everything. Sure, one of their areas could act up and get some attention short-term, but they were no more than one sled dog of a team. Drugs, for good or evil, were the driver and they all knew that. “Well, we figured if the other areas chipped in and covered the extraordinary costs we're incurring with litigation that would put us back to even and we could continue business as usual. “Duke felt he had a case and he quickly pressed on. “We've always delivered an ample supply of consumers to the other areas so they could maintain their revenue streams. We think it's only fair for the rest of the team to help us over this bump in the road. This excessive attention will blow over before you know it and we'll be back to influencing and addicting the preteen kids in the States. We just have to get smarter about how we do it. It's not a problem in most of the world; they have bigger things to worry about.
Lester was silent for a moment. “What do the numbers say?” Duke went into a detailed explanation of how baby boomers' children were now having families and by the time they were in their teens the current uproar over tobacco would be long gone. “Everything diminishes over time; it's human nature. Look at World War II; today you've got people running around saying the Holocaust never took place. We'll be in the same situation if we just bide our time and keep a low profile for awhile. We'll become a model citizen.” “You mean like the good neighbor down the street who turns out to be a child molester?” this was Harry and his New England ire was up. “Relax Harry” Lester cut in. “None of us are going to win any awards, except maybe from the devil. Let's get on with it and work out the details.” Over the next half hour it was decided that each of the four other areas: disease control, medical peer review, medical devices, and pharmaceutical, would each channel five hundred million a year into a fund in the Cayman Islands to be used by tobacco as needed. Lester would handle the details and distribute it on a case by case basis. Everyone agreed tobacco had done it's fair share to make them all rich. Keeping them afloat for another payoff down the road just made good business sense.
“What's next?” Lester wanted to keep things moving. “Disease control has a few things we're fooling around with.” Bret always wanted to release a plague and “find” a cure so he could cash in and run for a political office where the real money is. “Let's talk about that Bret” Lester felt AIDS had been a good money maker, but it was getting under control and past it's prime. They needed something new. The fuss over stopping vaccinations looked somewhat promising but the government could always step in and demand them in the interest of public safety.
“What about something neurological?” Joe wanted a bigger piece of the action. “All the things we've done lately haven't been heavy hitters for medical devices. Now with the subsidy
we'll be paying tobacco, we could use a disease that requires heavy duty hardware. How about something that causes people to become paraplegic? Then we could bring out that virtual robot that uses computers to move people.” Duke was hardly listening. He had gotten what he wanted for his people. Besides, he didn't like viruses and all that biological crap. He was much more comfortable with something you could grow in the ground and control and that took years to cause problems. Finally Duke spoke up “Will you be able to control it any better than that last fiasco?” “Hey Duke, things happen. How were we to know that flight attendant would be so prolific? Come on Duke, you know we never let anything out unless we already have the cure.” Bret was getting defensive. “I don't care, one of these days we're going to get in over our heads. Some of these new viruses are changing so fast we have to leapfrog some of our planned “cures” to keep up with them” viruses were Duke's hot button. “Duke might have a point.” Harry said. “A plague could disrupt global economics and that would come back to bite us.” Lester chimed in “I agree with Harry, it would not be good. We've always known we're pushing the envelope coming up with new things. Maybe we should coast for awhile and milk the diseases we already have for all their worth. We still have the heart diseases and the cancers to keep us going for quite some time.” Harry spoke up “I'm not so sure about the cancer Lester. I recently saw some research papers from a young maverick in California and he's right there with the cure. The details are in the material Duke forwarded to all of you last week. He doesn't follow the rules. All he needs is the right person with the right physical profile and he'll figure out the cure in a matter of weeks or months. Once that happens the cat is out of the bag and goodbye cancer revenue stream.” “Then make sure he doesn't get that person. Or, if you don't want to be bothered with it, have the team take care of it.” Lester was looking out his window at the sun going down in the West somewhere over Mexico. His words were so matter of fact you never would have thought he was saying kill the young researcher. Harry didn't want to do that. He saw a spark that reminded him of himself so many years ago. “I want to see where he goes with this” Harry said. “I'll keep tabs on him and make sure he doesn't find that profile.” “If you let it go too far we'll have to take extra pains to resolve it, Harry. We can't afford a cure for cancer just yet; too much money is riding on it. Besides, the residual results provide us with customers for years to come. Don't screw this up or it's your ass Harry!” Lester had made himself crystal clear; then the screen went black in Harry's office.
Harry sat there for several minutes and rolled his thick white hair. He looked around the room that held a lifetime of success and excess. “Harry you dumb ass, how did you let yourself come to this.” He shook his head and picked up the research papers to study them. In Grand Cayman, Lester wore a frown as he continued to watch and listen through the “dead” screen as Harry grappled with what he had become. Without taking his eyes off Harry, Lester hit the West Coast button on his phone. Instantly there was a raspy voice on the other end. “I have a job for you and Daryl.” was all Lester said. That was enough; someone was going to die!
Chapter 7 Vincent and Daryl
The black BMW with the smoked windows was doing seventy heading South on the coastal highway. Vincent was driving, totally focused on the task at hand, he was unaware of the considerable concern he was causing his passenger. Daryl tried to think of another place and time, anything to take his mind off the guard rails that were flying by so fast they looked like a picket fence inches from the side of the car. If he looked beyond the guard rail he saw the Pacific ocean several hundred feet below. He closed his eyes but that just brought his other senses to the forefront. His ears were filled with the high whine of the highly modified engine and the raw exhaust note. The car was a lethal weapon, capable of acceleration that snapped your neck back and caused you to briefly stop breathing. The suspension had been tuned until the car drove like it was on rails. Like a giant cat, the car clawed it's way through the curves and pounced onto the straightaways heading South toward L.A. If it started to slip, Vincent punched the gas and the tires carved a path down the road. Inside, anyone or anything not strapped down would have been tossed around like a rag doll. Daryl's body was straining to remain in an upright position; his muscles were sore from trying to counteract the centrifugal forces being exerted with every curve in the road. Add to this, Daryl's fear of an imminent, painful, death and he had had enough. “Is this really necessary?” he tried to sound matter of fact but it came out as whining. “What?” was Vincent's one word reply. “Going this fast!” Daryl knew he was pleading and he hated it. “This? This isn't fast. This is fast!” Vincent said as he jammed the gas pedal to the floor. Even at seventy, the car took off like a scalded cat. The whine from under the hood became a roar that filled the cabin and permeated Daryl's body, like those speakers big enough for a concert hall, jammed into a car, that play nothing but base over and over while the occupants try to appear non-nonchalant and detached. “Who me? I'm not trying to draw attention to myself and make you miserable at the same time; I'm just enjoying my music.” I went through a period of time where I wanted to get a Freon boat horn and blast one of those morons the next time they pulled up alongside me at a traffic light. I got over that and now console myself knowing that they'll be deaf, along with already dumb, by the time they're thirty.
Daryl was white-knuckled on the arm rest and the center console. He starred straight ahead and prayed it would end. “You have to learn to trust me. I wouldn't let anything happen to you; we're a team” Vincent was enjoying himself. This car was his pride and joy. Not so much the individual parts, but the combined package and the performance it was capable of producing. He enjoyed scarring the hell out of anyone foolish enough to ride with him.
Vincent was a very good driver. He had, for a short period, been a professional driver and had worked his way up to the highest levels of the stock car circuits. There was a “problem” where it was claimed that he had been hired, contracted actually, by an unknown figure not to win a race, but rather to make sure certain other drivers didn't finish. The speculation is that there is a lot of money that changes hands on every lap of a race. Vincent did his job too well. Competitors became suspicious and hired a private investigator. Once it came out that Vincent was a hired four-wheel “assassin” his racing career was over and he was banned for life. The shadowy figure who had hired him vanished and Vincent never found out who it was. About that time Lester contacted him looking for a driver with his skill set and Vincent has been working for him ever since. It's been good for Vincent. He's gotten to drive cars he could only dream of before; like this beast he was now rocketing down the coastal highway. He wasn't involved in the design or construction of the cars; that was done by others. Money paid to people to build something very capable; then used in a way never intended by it's creators. Similar to gun sales in the United States; best of breed become the most efficient killing machines in the wrong hands. There should be a graduated scale in order to qualify to own the higher performance things created by our society. The faster the car, the more qualified the driver; that would put a lot of people back on bicycles. The more deadly the weapon, the more stringent the requirements for ownership: extensive background checks, mental tests, etc. Of course that might make an acronym like NRA mean Not Really Able with a lot of people reduced to qualifying to use nothing more than sticks and stones.
Vincent noted the one hundred miles per hour on the speedometer and eased off the gas. He grinned in satisfaction. At this moment life was good. His life was the car, once he stepped out of the car his life was a shambles. He had no values, no goals, no direction. He lived moment to moment and did whatever Lester said. He wasn't particularly intelligent so none of this bothered him. He didn't even mind the “jobs” he had to do. He got a perverted satisfaction out of making an assassination look like a hit and run. Even the jobs he had to do with Daryl gave him some variety although he didn't like being face to face
with the victim the way Daryl did. Daryl enjoyed inflicting pain on others. Maybe that's why Vincent enjoyed putting Daryl through the ordeal in the car.
Vincent slowed an turned left off of the coast highway. The pace was slower now, under fifty, not because he couldn't go faster, but because he was on Lester's property now and he knew cameras covered every inch of the road to the house. Ten minutes later they came to a stop in the circular driveway in front of Lester's sprawling mansion. As was customary, Vincent and Daryl went around back to the stables.
Lester looked away from the monitor where he had watched the BMW approach. He knew how Vincent drove and where he went thanks to several GPS tracking devices hidden in the car. Lester knew he was dealing with damaged goods and just accepted it as part of the package known as Vincent. He got up and grabbed a cigar from the humidor on his desk. He didn't like Vincent and Daryl but they were a necessary evil. Smoking the expensive cigar in front of them, and not offering them one, was his way of saying “You're nothing, you don't count, I own you but I don't like you” of course Lester never said this. Quite the contrary, he would do all of the salesman BS to make them think they were special and accepted. Neither Vincent nor Daryl were rocket scientists so they bought it hook, line, and sinker. Lester thought a couple of times about telling Vincent how he had set him up to be a hired gun on the stock car circuit, then making sure the detective found out so he would be banned and Lester could pick him up for a song, but there was nothing to be gained other than the satisfaction of watching Vincent's face as he told him the story; too much to lose for now. So Lester kept silent, but one day, when he had no further use for Vincent, he would tell him.
The Cure Conspiracy Page 4