BLIND TRIAL

by Brian Deer

  “Good question. Right. So how long you known him?”

  This was so uncool. “Three years, if you’re interested. We met three years ago last April, as it happens. At the Twenty-fourth International Conference on Retroviral Infections. In Shanghai, China.”

  “Yeah, well, because of this, I’m probably losing my job. I got a written warning last week already. And now this.”

  “That’s nothing to do with Hiroshi.”

  “Sure. And what’s all this trial shit? And all these ‘home visits’? It’s obvious you’re feeding him stuff about Wilson’s fuckups.”

  “What an insulting suggestion. He doesn’t know about any of this. I haven’t told him anything. I am a professional, you know.” She reached into the envelope and gripped the papers inside. “The protocol’s actually quite clear about this. If resources are available, and lost to follow-up information not obtained, then SPIRE says home visits may be considered. You want to see?”

  “Yeah, sure. Like the last guy, Ramirez.” He leaned across the wheel, his thick fingers over the dash. “Big success that was.”

  THE GLINSKI residence was among the city’s eagle nests, perched at the edge of the Corona Heights park on tumbledown slickensides above the Castro district. It stood in a row of similar structures: two floors above two-car garages. A redbrick ramp linked the house with the street, on which was parked a rusting Ram Dakota pickup.

  Ben stayed in his seat while Sumiko went to the door and spoke to the man who opened it. “Mr. Glinski?”

  “Hey, little lady. That’s me.”

  Glinski was mid-thirties, with a worked-on build, blue denim jeans and shirt, and hair like a burnt-off cornfield. “You here selling something, coz I gotta go out?” Then he stepped past Sumiko and strode toward the Sentra. “So how are you then, sir? I’m Peter.”

  Glinski thrust his mitt through the open car window and shook for about a month too long. He didn’t seem too bothered about what they wanted, but led them inside, up a dim flight of stairs, and launched into a commercial for a pair of hardware stores he owned in Oakland and Fresno. “Amazon ain’t killed us yet. Amazon can go to hell. You work out Ben? You look fit.”

  In a cramped second floor living room, he invited them to sit—provoking a dance over who sat where. He steered Ben to a couch—two-seat, high-back—and moved to squeeze beside him, thigh-to-thigh. But Sumiko beat him to it, dodging a side table, and throwing herself onto the spot.

  Glinski scowled and took a dining chair opposite, brushing the TV Guide onto the floor. “Now what were you saying you two was doing now? Got me a delivery to make in a half hour. Guess I could put that off.”

  Ben felt the kick of a leather summer clog as Sumiko folded one knee over the other. “Oh, it’s all rather dull actually,” she said, fingering the envelope in her lap. “And we’re so grateful for your time. A consumer survey. Statistical analysis for the hospital, the General. For quality control. I should say we’re so sorry about your wife.”

  “Yes, very sorry,” Ben confirmed.

  She wore a green patterned blouse and pleated white skirt, an inch above the knee when she was standing. But now, sat beside him with a ballpoint in her fingers, the hem was at least three inches higher.

  “And we have a system,” she said, “for checking on clients who don’t come for appointments. All very bureaucratic, I’m afraid.”

  “Sure. Helen used to go there. Was on some volunteer thing they were doing down there. ‘Blind trial,’ she called it. ‘Randomazed.’”

  “So that’s why we’re here,” she said. “It’s just a routine thing. Do you know why she stopped coming for her appointments?”

  Glinski frowned. “Why she stopped coming? Well, she died, didn’t she?”

  “Yes. Of course. And we’re so sorry.”

  “Yep. Heart thing. Guess it was her time. Comes to us all. Would you two like a coffee, or something stronger?”

  “But uhm, I think that was a little later,” Sumiko went on. “She’d already stopped attending some months before. Missed, I think, two appointments.”

  Glinski shook his head. “Moved upstate to her sister’s. Up in cannabis country, Humboldt County. Guess it was too far to come, and all.”

  “I see.” She wrote a note on the envelope. “So, did you, or she, get any letter here about the trial, reminders, asking about her not coming? Reply forms, or anything to return? Anything to sign?”

  Glinski grinned at Ben like a donkey at the dentist. “Nope, nothing I remember. No, nothing came here, I’m pretty sure.”

  “Possibly something from a Dr. Wilson, if that helps.”

  “Wilson? Wilson?” Glinski rubbed the back of his neck. “Nope. Never heard of him.”

  Ben slapped his own knees. “Okay, then. Guess that’s all we need.”

  “Yes, nearly done,” Sumiko cut across him. “But just before we let you get on with your day, you said she had a ‘heart thing.’ Do you remember what that was, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Sure, I don’t mind, but I don’t know much. Was away a lot of the time.”

  “Myocardial infarction? A heart attack was it?”

  “Heart failure, I heard it, and some fancy name, if that’s any different. I was away for a while of it. European vacation. Out the country. Did the whole grand tour thing. London and Ibiza and Ancient Greece. What they call the Full Monty over there.”

  Sumiko made another note on the envelope. “And she got good care, did she, from the hospital, do you know?”

  “No complaints on that score. Five stars. Only the best for our Helen. Doctors said the thing probably ran her mother’s side.”

  “A hereditary thing?”

  “Genetic dispossession.”

  “Okay, then.” Ben stood up. “Thanks. That’s useful.”

  And Glinski led them back to the street.

  At the foot of the stairs, Sumiko paused to say goodbye. But Glinski scampered past her, strode down the ramp, and lingered by the hood of the Sentra. “You need anything else, now.” He produced a purple paper flyer, scribbled a number on the back, and pressed it into Ben’s hands. “Anything at all. You give me a call now. Anything.”

  AS THE CAR grinded down from Corona Heights to the Castro, the afternoon felt good—high sixties, puffy clouds—weather to sell America by the hour.

  Sumiko trailed a hand from the passenger side window. “Now that wasn’t a waste of time, was it? That was reassuring. Didn’t you think that was reassuring? I thought so. I feel a lot better.”

  “Could be worse.”

  It’s true she looked happy. She wasn’t disappointed. But, as far as he could tell, the home visit was as pointless as the trip to the Ramirez place. They were driving round the city, achieving nothing. He’d no problem hanging out in San Fran as long as possible. But he should report back to Hoffman right away.

  At the bottom of the hill, she sneaked one of her glances. “So how much longer are you here? You staying the weekend? When do you think you’re back to Atlanta?”

  “Don't know yet. Nobody’s said. Got to make some calls this afternoon.”

  Now she looked again. No question, she looked. She wasn’t even pretending she wasn’t. “The thing is, I’m a little busy this afternoon. I’ve two appointments before six. But perhaps, I was thinking, possibly you could stop by at the apartment later.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I could show you those fish, if you like.”

  “Yeah?”

  “And we could perhaps review the situation. See how we stand. Maybe a bite to eat, if you’re free.”

  Twenty-six

  HOFFMAN’S RENTED Chevy Camaro sat on a meter downtown, outside a golf store on Sutter at Montgomery. Ben strode toward it flashing the toothiest grin since he bounced on a bouncy castle. Sumiko wasn’t a problem. She was up for action. She’d invited him to stop by later. This assignment was panning out as a walk on the moon: dinner, and a fuck, an
d a raise.

  So she screwed with Murayama? Not a hanging offense. It was obvious where her real needs lay: a hunky, hard gaijin. America, fuck yeah. They would go to paradise and come back slowly. Those pointless home visits, manila envelopes, breathless phone calls, were nothing but a smokescreen for desire.

  Doctorjee hauled his bulk from the coupe’s front passenger seat, allowing Ben to clamber into the back. The suspension rocked as the executive vice president swung himself inside—and flinched as he pulled shut the door. His shirt was torn and his left cheek puffy, as if he’d been grabbed by the collar and slapped.

  After lunch with Murayama, Ben had called the general counsel, but only got voicemail. He left a message. With Sumiko threatening to catch a cab to Peter Glinski’s, he’d no choice but use his initiative. He’d taken a decision and gotten it right. He was certain he’d solved part of the mystery. Whatever the deal going down with Murayama, the best explanation for Sumiko’s home visits was she wanted to hang out. She was lonely.

  Hoffman rested an elbow on the steering wheel, with a thumb and forefinger between his eyes. “Okay then, what was said? Gimme the latest. How deep’s this shit we’re in now?”

  “Shit? No, you’re wrong. Everything’s cool. Sumiko’s, Dr. Honda’s, not a problem.” Ben recounted the Glinski visit, the fake consumer survey, the dance over who sat where. “She needs attention. That’s all. For real. Like we said when you sent me out here. She’s not an issue for the company, I’m certain.”

  Hoffman adjusted the rearview mirror. “What did the husband say?”

  “Just confirmed how his wife was going to the hospital, the trial center, and later she died of heart failure. End of story. If you ask me, he’d other things on his mind.”

  Doctorjee turned his back to the passenger door. He wafted tangerine and lavender cologne. “If I might interject. This is what I’ve been saying. I’ve been trying to explain this in lay terms. People do die, even whilst enrolled in clinical trials.”

  “And you can shut the fuck up.”

  The EVP flinched again.

  Hoffman: “Ben.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Was that everything the husband said?”

  “Said she got great medical care.”

  “Nothing about anything from the center?”

  “Dr. Honda asked about any paperwork. Forms or anything. Nothing he could recall.”

  “And what else did she say?”

  “Nothing much. Asked if he’d heard of Dr. Wilson.”

  “And he said?”

  “No. But she wasn’t exactly being like forensic, or anything. All seemed pretty pointless, if you ask me. Half the time she was checking me out. I mean, in the car I was getting the whole up and down treatment.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Practically had her face between my legs on the way back to the hospital. And get this: she’s invited me round to her place tonight. Just like your plan.”

  “Don’t tell me about my plan.”

  “That’s what I’m saying, I mean I’m thinking it’s not impossible that maybe we’re keeping her happy. We did it. Your plan. It’s working.”

  He slid across the rear seat to escape Hoffman’s gaze. But the general counsel readjusted the mirror. “What’s the deal with Murayama then? How do you square him with your hypothesis? Because you know she’s fucking the Jap?”

  That was a complexity. But was it fatal? Rivals for affection he could handle. “Okay, right. That’s true. They got a thing going in China, she said. Some conference in Shanghai, years ago. But she’s asking me to go round later. Me. Me.”

  “What, you think if you fuck her that voids Sanomo’s proposition? You think she’s that shallow, you’re telling me?”

  “No. I’m not saying that. But right now, we don’t even know what the proposition is. Maybe I can find out tonight.”

  “And maybe you can. But what about Murayama? Where are we on that?”

  “All done at my end, like you wanted.”

  Hoffman eyed Doctorjee, who still cowered against the door. “And you, you motherfucker, what is it you think?”

  “I surely don’t know. I cannot predict. I think we must be prudent. Yes.”

  Ben pulled out his shades and wrapped them across his face. “I mean, definitely she’s out to get Wilson. That’s definitely genuine. But I’m thinking maybe she’s getting over it, seeing it more in perspective. Like you said. Maybe she’s chilling out, the danger’s passed, and she’s thinking about other stuff. I mean, I could stay here the weekend, if it helps.”

  Hoffman laughed without a trace of amusement. “So, she’s just looking for a good time now?”

  “She is being pretty friendly.”

  “What you saying here? She’s gonna be getting out of bed with the Jap one night and getting in with you the next, without taking time out to change the sheets?”

  “Maybe she’s doing that now.”

  “I don’t mean change the goddamn sheets. I mean the guy’s still in town. What are you saying here? He fucks her Wednesdays and Fridays, and you fuck her Thursdays and Saturdays? That how it works?”

  That did seem kind of strong. “I’m not saying that exactly. But she did make this big deal about asking me over. I mean, she did. She really did.”

  Hoffman’s gaze punched through the Maui Jims. “Now I find it hard to believe this Murayama guy wants to fuck with us. But he ain’t in town for squashed duck on Potrero Hill, I’m telling you.”

  “They said he’s a tourist. Both of them. He bought an Elvis movie this morning. Probably a collector’s item. Killing time before going to DC Monday, he says. Then he’s heading for Nagoya, he says. She says she’s not told him anything about Wilson. Wouldn’t be professional, she says.”

  “Sure. He says, she says. And ain’t this world so sweet ’n’ lovely? My guess, Ben Louviere, is she’s playing you for a dope.”

  “A dope? How d’you mean? I don’t get it.”

  “Okay, let me explain, so maybe you do. My money’s on this lady walking us all around in a big, lazy ol’ circle here, chewing up our time on all this source data verification garbage, home visits for Christ’s sake. And, yeah, sure, maybe she’ll be sucking your cock till four in the morning.”

  “Cool.”

  “And then she turns up in DC next week, next month, whenever, with this fucking Jap screaming, (a) she made complaints of scientific malfeasance, and (b) the old girl, you, this asshole here, the whole fucking company, did jack shit about it.”

  “What, you mean they’re in it together?”

  “Give the man a prize. They’re in it together.”

  TIME SLIPPED on to a little after seven. Ben gazed at the street, now practically deserted. Nobody else was holding meetings in their cars.

  Hoffman snapped his fingers. “Gimme your phone.”

  Ben passed forward his Samsung.

  Hoffman squeezed the power button and gave the phone back. “Don’t you see? She’s got you blinded. All of us. If we’d fessed up Monday and said, ‘Hey, we got a query with one of our trial centers’—unexplained excess lost to follow-up shit, patients going awol—FDA would’ve hauled our asses up to Silver Spring, slapped us, whined like hell, and still given us the license. See? But we dragged our feet, listening to that woman.”

  “You think?”

  “She knew you’d come to us. Probably knew we’d send this motherfucker out here, or the old girl, scratching her ass at the Hyatt. That’s Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday gone. Tomorrow’s Friday. Can’t get a meeting that fast. Then the weekend, Monday comes, and we can’t level with the feds if we wanted.”

  “Yeah, but she, they, could have gone to FDA without telling us anything. Why even bother with all this?”

  “Look here, FDA wouldn’t care about what she told you. Some little-dicked KKK apologist, racist abuse, homophobic insults, threw a guy off the trial, volunteer retention issues, a couple of tot
ally irrelevant deaths, and how Wilson stinks like a sewer?”

  “I guess.”

  “Fuck’s sake, we told her about those reply forms. What else she have before that crap? Not a chance. Sanomo wanted her to get us out here.”

  “Didn’t think of that.”

  “We locked her out the database Saturday, and she called you Sunday, didn’t she?”

  “She did.”

  “They knew anything Wilson was in on would be chiseled in some way. There’s bound to be more we don’t know about. Fuck knows why he still works for us. And don’t forget, when it comes to the feds, vaccines are seriously political these days.”

  “So, what’s the difference now?”

  “The difference now is (a) she’s got what that crazy old bat found out about this useless piece of shit here—excuse me, please, Dr. Executive Vice President, Research and Motherfuckin’—and (b) she can scream ‘cover up,’ the longer she keeps this going. And cover-up is what?”

  “I’m not with you.”

  “Begins with a ‘p’.”

  “Uhm, political?”

  “Correctamundo. Mucho political. That’s what dropped President Richard Nixon. It’s always the cover-up. It’s always the cover-up that gives the mens rea. Proves the intent.”

  “But they can do all that anyway now, can’t they, if they were going to? I mean, and she’s still inviting me over.”

  Hoffman jabbed a thumb. “Listen to me kid, my money says she’s laughing at you, laughing at the lot of us. You hit on that lady and you see her laugh in your face. One look at your cock and she’ll scream.”

  Ben leaned back and tried to stretch his legs. There was only one way to find out who was right. And only one guy booked for the job. “So, what you want me to do then? You want me to go over there, or not?”

  “Makes no difference to me, so long as you keep your trap shut. Now we’re in all this crap. Sure, why not? We’ll deal with Murayama. Find him a city bed for the night. You want to go over there and keep your trap shut, fine by me. Got no problem if you reach Planet Vulva.”