by Brian Deer
A maroon Chevy Camaro SS coupe braked and reversed to the curb behind him. Hoffman. And with him—shit—the Executive Vice President, Research & Medicine: the form-forging fucker himself.
The Black Bill Clinton scrambled from the two-door clutching a canary yellow plastic shopping bag. “Apologies for lateness,” he said, climbing into the Sentra. “Had to cross town to pick up some groceries.”
Doctorjee didn’t budge, but sat, arms folded, gazing at the rear of the sedan.
Ben summarized events: the forged reply forms, Wilson’s reaction, and the expedition to the Ramirez address. “Seems she’s gone and turned all Quincy on us now. Series 2, Episode 1: ‘Fucked Off on Clementina Street.’”
“What about Murayama and Sanomo’s proposition? You hear any more on that?”
“Hasn’t said anything, but we didn’t talk about him. You said don’t talk to anyone about that, so I didn’t know whether to raise it with her or not. But, one thing, Murayama did send me a WhatsApp this afternoon about inviting me to lunch again. I didn’t get back to him, but he’ll know I got it. Look.”
He pulled out his Samsung and showed the incoming message.
Hoffman dropped the yellow bag between his feet and studied the screen on Ben’s phone. “He’s giving nothing away there, is he? So, you still don’t know about this proposition then? If it was nothing, she’d have said something, wouldn’t she? That’s the elephant in the room here. I’m thinking she’s singing to the Japs.”
“Dr. Mayr did seem to think the reply form thing’s pretty heavy. Was paid for by the government, she said.”
“Screw the government. If Sanomo puts it out that that motherfuckin’ dickhead back there faked paperwork, our vaccine won’t be getting licensed next week. (a) we’re in front of a Congressional committee, (b) BerneWerner stock’ll tank till it hits the South Pole, and (c) the Japs, or more likely the Chinese, will buy the company for pocket change.”
“You think it’s that bad?”
“Listen. This ain’t some cheese-eating lab cheat we got here. That guy behind us sits on the board. He’s fed his face with Donald Trump.”
“Yeah?”
“So, what you figure we do then? Your take on this fuckup is what?”
Ben glanced in the rearview. Doctorjee hadn’t moved: no sign of him joining the conversation. The executive vice president lowered the Camaro’s sun visor and fingered his face in the vanity mirror.
“My take? From me? I don’t know at all, sir. Who looks after the ethical side of things?”
“That’s easy. Nobody.”
Ben tapped his teeth.
“You know Janice Hughes? Your fellow scholarship kid? They got her shredding notebooks over InderoMab.”
“Who did?”
Hoffman gazed out the window. “You ever have a skateboard? Or were you only BMX?”
AT THE COURTHOUSE steps, one kid, another, another, then the rest, pushed off toward the corner of Seventh. Ben felt a prod of childhood memory as they passed. His switch-stance was the talk of Lincoln Park.
Hoffman lifted the yellow bag from between his feet and moved as if to exit the car. But he didn’t get out. He stretched to the radio and searched for the sound of violins. Then he tipped back his head, pulled the bag against his chest, and folded his arms in a cradle. “Berlioz,” he said. “Can’t beat Berlioz. ‘Marche au supplice,’ I’d say.”
Ben absorbed the sounds of bows sawing strings before taking his chance with a question. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure, you can. Told you before, think of me as a resource.”
“Well, you know, like, you know Henry Louviere?”
“Yes, I do. Yes, I do.”
“Well, like, you know, how does he strike you? I mean as a person, would you say? I mean, like what kind of person would you say, as a person?”
Hoffman’s face widened as if he remembered an old lover. “Best commercial lawyer since they bought Alaska. I’ll say that. Mind as sharp as the Hubble telescope.”
“Yeah, but like more personally. What makes him tick, do you think?”
“Hey, you know enough of that already. Don’t ask me. Huh? If you want to know him better, know yourself.”
The general counsel dropped his hands, letting the bag slip to his lap, spread its grips and peered inside. “If what you’re asking here’s, ‘So how come they nailed him?’ then I gotta say I agree. Shouldn’t have happened. Sometimes there’s nothing as blind as what passes for justice in this country.”
Berlioz faded into an NPR announcer begging her listeners for money. Hoffman closed the bag and lowered the radio volume. “No, loyalty’s the thing. And your pa’s a guy with plenty of that, I can tell you. Loyalty. What you think about loyalty yourself?”
“Sure. Definitely. I’m for it.”
“Easy to say. Not so easy under pressure. What about loyalty in tricky spots?”
“I’d say even more important then. Obviously.”
“Okay, that’s right. Sure. ‘More important,’ you say. But now, you see this job? We got a real tricky spot here. Maybe heading some way beyond regular loyalty. And I’m thinking we can’t drag you into it, what with you just starting out with the company.”
“But…”
“Best thing for you, I’m thinking, is you head back to the office. Go make your peace with Crampton.”
“But what about Dr. Honda? We’re getting on great. We are. I mean, even with the reply forms thing, I think she’ll be cool if I stick around, like you sent me out here for. I’m pretty certain I can feel something happening.”
Hoffman stroked a cheek. “Uhm. No. Not so sure about that now with this latest shit. That was our Plan A. Sure. That’s good. But now I’m thinking’s what we need’s a Plan B. This Murayama guy’s out here with propositions to one of our people at a critical juncture. We can’t go letting those Japs fuck us over, after all the company’s been through. There’s nothing we done to deserve that.”
“Plan B? Maybe I can help with that. I mean, we were getting pretty friendly this morning. She’s got a bottle of gin in her desk.”
“Show me your phone again.”
Ben passed the Samsung.
Hoffman squeezed the power button and passed it back. “Dunno. I’m thinking, too sensitive. What with the old girl turning up those forms. That I did not expect. Even with these motherfucking dickheads, I didn’t see anything like that coming. Whatever way you look at it, that’s difficult shit. That’s a fraud on the government. No. Better keep your nose clean for now, so you still got a clean nose when you need it.”
“But then don’t you think my assignment’s even more important now? Don’t you think? Keep her cool, like you said. Make her happy. And maybe I can help with Murayama too. I can WhatsApp him back and set something up for lunch. He might tell me what’s going down. Be crazy to pull out now, don’t you think?”
Hoffman killed the radio, sat silent for a few seconds, then teased open the yellow bag again. Inside was another bag: also plastic, but transparent, with something in it Ben couldn’t see.
“Look kid, I’m none too sure here. I don’t think just asking him is necessarily a dependable strategy. Not five days before our licensure. There’s too much at stake to take chances. One day’s delay on that vaccine’s bad news.”
“No harm trying though, is there? Nothing’s lost. I mean, I can be careful what I say. I’m good at that.”
“Maybe. But that’s not the Plan B in my mind. What I’m thinking’s something needing a pretty big element of compromise. Maybe in some respects, maybe an ethical dilemma, given the exceptional situation we got here. How you feel about that, compromise?”
“No question. Compromise is good. The middle way. Nobody gets it all their own way.”
“Dunno. Given what we’re up against now, there’s this small extra job here, possibly. On top of you keeping Dr. Honda sweet. And it may not be one hundred percent ethical, it
might be argued. Possibly.”
“Guess there’s gotta be some kind of risk-benefit analysis. Balance of public interest. Weighing things up.”
“Risk’s minimal, or we’d forget about it. And the benefit? That might be saving the timely launch of our vaccine millions of folks out there are waiting on. And saving the company we work for while we’re doing it.”
“Well, if all that’s at stake, it’s got to be worth considering. Don’t you think?”
“Dunno. It might not even be strictly legal, some folks might argue, possibly.”
“I honestly don’t think I should go back to Atlanta without trying. Doc Mayr’s a decent lady. I think she needs me, too.”
“You mean that?”
“Sure, I mean it.”
“And you heard what I said?”
“You count me in. Like I was saying the other day, I want to prove myself, show you can trust me.”
Now the bags were wide open, revealing a brown paper package. It looked like it held a fat book. “Okay.” A long pause. “I’m trusting you now.”
“Thank you, sir. You can.”
Hoffman chuckled. “I know. Chip off the block. Can’t fool me. Never could. Now, you see this?”
Ben looked at the bags, and the brown paper package.
“Now you don’t touch that package. You gotta imagine how it’s maybe poisoned, got some disease on it, or something like that. Course, it’s not, but you gotta act like it is. What I’m saying’s the bags are fine, but don’t ever touch that package.”
Ben leaned across the gearshift. “What is it?”
Hoffman rested his “groceries” on the center console between them. “Souvenir of Frisco. A gift.”
Ben grinned. “Not a bomb?”
“Get out of here. What kind of people you think we are?”
“So, what?”
“Dunno. Haven’t opened it myself. Be something nice, though. Better than those iPads you been giving out.”
“So?”
“So, we’re only a little concerned to be sure Murayama enjoys Frisco. Want to be sure he gets to see all the sights.”
“Sure. No problem. You want me to give it him? I can WhatsApp him back for lunch and give it him then.”
“That’s one idea. Sure. But I’m thinking maybe more a surprise. Drop it by his hotel room, later, I’m thinking.”
Hoffman dipped his fingers into a pocket in his shirt and fished out a plastic key card.
Twenty-two
CHICAGO FELT as hot as the old Comiskey Park bleachers with Carlton “Pudge” Fisk at the plate. On Wednesday evening at North Cleveland Avenue, Luke circled the apartment, opening windows and setting fans spinning, before showering in what passed for cold water. Since getting home from work he’d been painting the front bedroom. He hoped to bring Mario back.
The room looked great, although he said so himself, after only one rollering of white. A grease stain on the wall where Ben used to read in bed, and the shadow of a picture—a corny Che Guevara poster—were now buried under a coat of Glidden matt. On the weekend, he’d paint the shelf where Ben used to write his songs, obliterating forever with dark Behr eggshell where wrists once rubbed on wood.
Tonight, he’d be radical. He’d accept no evasions. He’d bring Mario back, show him the room, fuck him among the paint cans, sandpaper, and brushes, and make sure he signed the lease before he left.
Luke had taken down a mirror from the ceiling above the bed and so wouldn’t get to eyeball the action. The procession of women who’d sweated beneath it were so beyond memory and mental arithmetic that, with the mirror in position, he risked rolling over and catching Ben’s eyes blinking back.
Mario knew the story about where it began: at the Cozy Cleaners, round the corner on Menomonee. Luke was nearly seven; Ben was five and was climbing up the counter while their mothers stood in line, made a lunge, fell backward, and “Waaaaaaa.” Luke sidled over, consoled him with a hug, and their lives weren’t the same after that.
A teacher in the schoolyard first asked, “Is he your brother?” Then girls used to giggle, “They’re lovers.” Later, as roommates, all the guys hit on Ben—and, oh, how he rose to that. Luke never had a guest who missed the weight in Ben’s shorts, or a trick who didn’t make some sneaky move.
Mario was classic. He’d gotten the full Louviere treatment the first time he stopped overnight. At three in the ayem, Ben appeared “looking for rolling papers,” wearing white Calvin briefs and nothing else. He tiptoed through the living room, where they were fucking—actually fucking—fetched his Gibson and sang “The Man Who Sold the World.”
Mario was at the Howard Brown health center, Monday morning, signing-up for the WernerVac trial. “Any company to put your roommate through school,” he panted, “has my vote for saving the world.”
Luke stepped into the living room and gazed in the mirror, now leaning against the table by the window. He didn’t look bad. He knew he could cut it. He wore a vertically paneled shirt in gray and ivory check, plus pleated charcoal pants with cuffs.
He patted his pockets—keys, wallet, gum—and turned off his cellphone.
All set.
THE PLAN was to meet at Charlie’s: a Western-themed bar, a mile-and-a-half uptown on Broadway. When he parked his Fiat Spider, soon after eleven, the dance floor was thudding to a two-step. In Luke’s mind, country music should be put out to grass, but Mario liked the old stuff: Lucinda Williams, Rhett Miller. Ben’s thing was Son Volt and Uncle Tupelo.
Tonight, a few desperates sported comic book Stetsons, as did most of the heads in a wall of cheesy photographs: winners of Charlie’s Man of the Month. Second left, fourth row, hung Ben’s dopey mugshot. He’d entered back in March, and yeah.
He found Mario at the bar in grey cargo pants and a collarless white linen shirt.
“Right on time, as ever,” Mario said.
“And I’ve been painting as well. Hey, you gotta come back. There’s still time to pick out a color.”
“Take it easy. Only here ten seconds and you’re leaving already. You want a bourbon or an OJ tonight?”
“Time to move fast and get yourself a deal. You know I’m still shelling out on rent.”
“Put an ad on Craigslist. You’ll get a line halfway to Springfield.”
“Yeah, but you said you wanted it. That was the idea, so I’ve been holding it for you. Be a good set-up. Better than what you got now.”
“Maybe so.” Mario made for the restroom.
Luke checked his phone was switched off.
By the time his friend returned, the dancefloor had cleared for a Riley Green epic, with lyrics to break out the sickbags.
I wish the price of gas was low and cotton was high,
I wish honky tonks didn't have no closing time,
And I wish grandpas never died.
“Look, I got to tell you something.” Mario blew air till his cheeks swelled. “It’s been bugging me for weeks. I need to tell you.”
“Chicagoland is listening. This is Mario Bianchi.”
“No, listen, it’s not a gag. I need you to hear this.”
“Hang on.” Luke grabbed a stool.
“Look, I’m not as lily-white as you think.”
“What are you talking about? For five hundred dollars, Who is Lilly White?”
Mario stared past him. “Sometimes, you know, when I’m working late at the gardens.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, sometimes I’m working the big-G app.”
“What, Grindr? Okay. So?”
“Let’s get out of here? Let’s go.”
BACK AT Cleveland Avenue, Luke killed the ancient answering machine before Mario topped the stairs. Five incomings were logged, but he didn’t plan to listen. When his cellphone was switched off—which was quite a lot lately—it was only Ben who didn’t get the message.
Luke yanked on a cord to kill the draught from a fan, and poured
two Early Times, straight up. Then he dropped into a rocking chair which creaked on floorboards that once pumped Ben’s band through the building.
Mario shed his boots and walked to the window as a scratching sound escaped the front bedroom. An enormous old locust tree leaned against the house, reporting every breath from the street. When the wind got going, it scraped, rasped, and bumped: a sail ship riding a storm.
“Look,” he said. “It’s not just Grindr.”
Then the landline rang.
Luke ignored it. “What, so you met the man of your dreams?”
“Several.”
“Me too.”
Mario sank onto a stained brown couch. “You might as well know what gives.”
Luke quit rocking. “Okay.”
“Well… You know how I signed up for that vaccine thing at the Howard Brown? And how they gave me those shots?”
“You did choose to do that. You know I didn’t.”
“Okay, I did. My choice. Not bringing that up.”
“So then?”
“And you know how it is? It’s late, you’re drunk, you got no rubbers, or some drop-dead stud says he don’t use them?”
“Think we all been there.”
“Yeah, well I’m also thinking about this vaccine, so maybe I can’t catch anything anyhow?”
“Not sure I know that. I do PREP most of the time. My health plan covers it, so I don’t get into that headfuck much.”
“Yeah, well, my plan doesn’t cover it. I don’t even have a plan.”
“I shouldn’t have brought that up.”
“So, I’m sometimes thinking maybe I can’t catch the bug.”
“If you say so. But you might have gotten the placebo and the shot was still unproven. You could still get HIV.”
“Yeah, I did.”
Twenty-three