by Brian Deer
Marcia returned to the chair, pulled a lever, leaned back, and shut her eyes. “Unfortunately, time has run out.”
“But we could have done it. Another six, nine months. Look what they accomplished with SARS-Cov-2. For a retrovirus, a year, eighteen months it would have taken us, maximum, to work around the issues. I know it. With an education campaign, fresh counseling at the centers, an adult conversation in the media about risks and benefits, we could’ve taken in the Brazilian data, and still come through—and still been first—if that man hadn’t done what he did.”
“What?” Marcia’s eyes snapped open. “Even with this enhanced progression, deceptive imprinting, whatever it is, thingy?”
“It’s possible.”
“Well, if that’s true, why on earth did he do it? You’re right. Good question. Or do we know something now that he didn’t know then?”
“I don’t know. Maybe nothing. Nothing’s one hundred percent in these things. But we always knew we were on the right track. We have the technology. Nothing justifies what he did.”
“I can’t think what might.”
“With more clinical data, solid black box warnings, supporting studies on high-risk groups, I’m telling you, it’s still a good try for a first product.” Trudy reached into her purse and pulled out a typescript. “Can we get this Xeroxed?”
Ben was dispatched to the outer office to make copies of Wilson et al.
Trudy donned a pair of tortoiseshell glasses. “Now look, I’ve been thinking on the plane. And this could be important.”
When Ben returned, Marcia studied the typescript. To her, it was gibberish. Too many numbers. She preferred to have science explained verbally. She’d risen to the top through Werner Laboratories’ veterinary side, and the vets never asked her to read anything.
Trudy pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Look, we know we had one very serious adverse reaction in a little over thirteen thousand inoculees on the vaccine arm of the study. Yes? That’s quite an unexceptional figure for a lifesaving pioneer product.”
Mr. Hoffman: “Better than InderoMab.”
Trudy shook a cigarette—a Doral—into her lap. “I wouldn’t know. But if that man hadn’t done what he did, any unfortunates like Helen Glinski could have gotten antiretroviral therapy, as everyone does now. And maybe we could have screened out unsuitable candidates. You know, get some contraindications going.”
The CEO rasped her feet on the carpet. “So, what are you saying? Are you saying, if it wasn’t for Doctorjee, we could have gone ahead, even with what was happening to that poor woman?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“But are you sure that’s right? And cleared the DSMB, peer review, FDA, CDC, and the federal advisory panels? I find that hard to believe.”
“That’s my opinion.”
“And what about the anti-vaxxers? They would have screamed blue murder.”
“They would have. But who honestly listens to that mob of crooks, quacks, and stalkers? Philip Crampton could run us a campaign.”
“I find that hard to believe. So you really think we might still have had our vaccine if it wasn’t for what they did?”
“Yes. Yes.” Trudy’s bulk seemed to double. “What he did was worse than murder. It was worse. You look at these figures here.” The vaccine chief’s usual tremor appeared to be fully in remission. “They’re not that bad. Even with the downside, we still get the efficacy and viral load reductions. If you turn to Table 4 here. See?”
Marcia studied a table headed “Breakthrough infections.” The figures had been altered in a tiny scrawl, with several numbers crossed out and replaced.
Trudy lifted the unlit cigarette between her fingers and rested the typescript in her lap. “Look, with what we now know, if we factor in Helen Glinski, we still get the sixty percent efficacy. Yes? WernerVac still cuts the infection rate by nearly two-thirds. And then we have a sixty-five to eighty percent reduced viral load in the breakthroughs. That’s not failure. That’s success.”
Marcia rubbed her feet with more energy. “So, what are you telling us? You’re telling us these figures would be a basis for licensure, even with the adverse events?”
“Government’s as keen for this as anybody.”
Mr. Louviere spoke next. “There’s one thing, ma’am. Like, isn’t there the issue how only 156 seroconverted on the vaccine arm of the study, so it’s one enhanced progression in 156 infected with the virus after the shots?”
Mr. Hoffman slapped an arm of the couch. “Do you have any qualifications in math, or statistics?”
“No, sir.”
“Biomedical science?”
“No.”
“Then shut the fuck up.”
Marcia rose and switched on the lights: two ranks of recessed spots and a table lamp. “So, what are you telling us, Trudy? I understand your reticence, but we’re all looking to you for guidance here. You really believe your vaccine could have succeeded with FDA and all the expert groups who would look at the data, in spite of this awful syndrome?”
Trudy looked up. “May I smoke?”
Marcia flapped a handful of pink fingernails. “Ben, matches.”
Trudy sucked on a flame, then exhaled a fog. “As we stand, right now, I can only give the facts we got. I’ve got no yesses and nos. Vaccine’s a long way from perfect, like any first product in a novel therapeutic group. But we know from BerneB, InderoMab, everything, the real test of a product’s not a clinical trial, but what happens out there in the real world.”
AT NINE twenty-five, Marcia called Domino’s and, when security called up to announce the delivery, lifted a bottle of Beaujolais from a closet. Ben and Mr. Hoffman ordered Mighty Meatys with extra mushrooms, while the women went with buffalo wings. She swiveled behind the desk, alternating bites and sips. This meeting was going better than she expected.
“Now understand this, all of you. I’m absolutely adamant that the full, sanitized picture must come out. BerneWerner Biomed must maintain its reputation for scrupulous ethics and the highest corporate integrity.”
Mr. Hoffman and Trudy both nodded.
“Mr. Louviere, Ben. How do you see this? As the most recent member to join our family, you might perhaps be the most detached, and have the clearest eye for the public interest.”
He raised both hands and scratched behind his ears. “Well ma’am, only thing I know’s a session in DC where that Dr. Honda was talking. She got these overheads and was saying like a partially effective vaccine soon was better than a perfect one later. For arresting the pandemic and everything.”
Trudy nodded. “Quite right. Absolutely correct. Better imperfection now than perfection delayed.”
“But then there’s the legal position. At Loyola…”
Mr. Hoffman cut him off. “Forget Loyola. Lawsuits we can handle. Got more lawsuits than Manhattan’s got lounge suits.”
“You can say that again.” Marcia laughed. “But we still have our executive vice president.”
Her general counsel nodded. “Yes, we do. And we can get to that. But it seems to me, in the light of Trudy’s guidance here, there’s two plain questions we gotta ask ourselves first. (a) How bad’s the world need our vaccine? And (b) How we keep from starting up some crazy-assed scare?”
“Go on.”
“I mean, we can’t have the education campaign and the volunteer counseling Trudy’s been talking about between now and Monday afternoon.”
“Monday afternoon? I don’t follow you.”
“The license.”
“What are you saying? You’re saying what? Go ahead?” Marcia waved a buffalo wing. “Aren’t you forgetting something? The police, for example. If we went ahead Monday, willy-nilly, then we’d get a (c). What about a volunteer being murdered?”
“One thing’s for sure, we can’t have a manhunt for America’s most motherfuckin’ when we’re looking to FDA for a license.”
“We’ll have to find him, and turn him in.”
Mr. Hoffman raised his palms toward the ceiling. “Maybe yes, maybe no. We need to think about that. Different issue.”
“Look, you couldn’t perhaps speak with friends of ours at Silver Spring, confidentially, and explain the situation? You couldn’t see how it would play at FDA if we simply made a clean breast of it? Right now. Tell the authorities everything we know.”
“I don’t think so, Marcia.”
“So… then…” She drained her glass. “Are you seriously implying… What? That we ought to really just go ahead with it on Monday? As if nothing’s happened?”
“Not as if nothing’s happened. We’re not that crazy.”
“What then?”
“Hope for better things. Be nice if it was all neat and tidy. Be nice if Doctorjee wasn’t our EVP. But after what Trudy’s said, from a scientific point of view, I’m getting to think we got no choice.”
“Then you are saying go ahead regardless.”
“Not regardless. Course not. But it seems to me we got the Battle of El Alamein here in World War II. Not the end of the war, but the beginning of the end. Keep hope alive. Shitcan for us is a shitcan for the whole biotech and pharma sectors. Market failure. Undermine investment. More regulation. Everything.”
Marcia leaped up, walked to the outer office, hunted for another bottle, but couldn’t find one. Then she returned to the desk and spun in the chair. “I must say, if we did make progress, there could be some handy resource benefits for the Third World. Money saved from HIV treatment would mean more for coronavirus, malaria, diarrhea, more for everything. More could even be targeted to the Glinskis of this world. A win–win situation.”
“Exactly so.”
“And here’s an idea.” She felt lightheaded. “What if we gave a percentage of our profits to drugs for Africa? That would be a tremendous boost to our profile.”
“Through the BerneWerner Foundation.”
“Excellent idea.” She turned to Trudy. “So, what’s your position on Mr. Hoffman’s suggestion? I know this isn’t easy. What’s your guidance?”
Trudy sucked on the Doral. “One thing we can predict is studying the downside could stimulate some mighty big jumps in molecular biology, genetics, immunology. We could learn plenty if we got WernerVac into a big bunch of folks.”
“Of course.”
“If I could get back into the lab, maybe we could find a way to tweak it.”
“Tweak it? I see.”
“Hell, in the fifties the first polio vaccine caused two hundred polio cases and eleven deaths before they got it bedded down right.”
“Did it really?”
“Sure did.”
“That’s marvelous.”
“What gets my goat is we could have played it straight. The tragedy would be standing back and letting him destroy everything we worked for all these years.”
“You’re right, Trudy. Good people with good hearts worked with you on this.” She quarter-filled her glass with the last of the Beaujolais. “But you’re quite sure about the science?”
“Look, I’m not happy about this situation. But I’ve done some figuring since last night. If you’re asking my analysis, from a scientific point of view, that’s it.”
“What? So, from a scientific point of view, the product’s a good thing, even with the, you know?”
“From a scientific point of view.”
Marcia looked at her general counsel. “The legal position?”
“Straight up and down. Garberville never happened. And leave me to take care of Doctorjee.”
“You can take care of him?”
“I can take care of him.”
“Mr. Louviere?”
“Makes a kind of sense, I guess.”
“Bravo. I can see it.” Marcia sprang from her desk. “WernerVac. The time has come.”
Fifty-two
BEN PUSHED open his front door at Ericson Vale, and a stink of rotting food breathed past his face onto the walkway overlooking the pool. During his five days away on the Sumiko Honda matter, the July heat had festered a scraped-away curry and turned a bunch of bananas into charcoal.
He stepped into the kitchen, tied a knot in a garbage sack, and hauled it downstairs to a dumpster.
His mind ached with confusion. And he’d no way to share it. He’d no cellphone since Hoffman snatched it last night. He’d no company laptop after it vanished from his car. His broadband package came without a landline. So, unless he found a payphone—and Luke took the call—he couldn’t get advice if he wanted.
And wasn’t that a question? Did he want Luke’s advice? Or had a line already been crossed? With all that turning off phones, long sighs, ignoring WhatsApps, nothing needed saying about what was going down: his best friend was shutting him out. With one last heave, one rented-out bedroom, Luke was trying to rewrite the Cozy Cleaners saga with himself not the hero but the victim.
A cab brought Ben home after the meeting with Marcia Gelding, and he considered having it stop at Ansley Mall. Should he put up the Bat Signal, or hit his Jimmy Olsen watch, and have some muscled guy in spandex save the day?
No. He wasn’t calling Luke. Luke could go to hell. He could shove his Cozy Cleaners up his ass.
Ben stripped naked, threw his laundry together with a tab of Tide detergent and set the washing machine sloshing in the kitchen. He gathered plates and mugs, loaded the dishwasher, and wiped countertops with Easy Scrub.
The trouble with Luke was he got off on playing rescuer when it was him who most often needed saving. Who was it who closed the deal on the apartment at Cleveland Avenue? Who was it who got Luke’s grandmother to go halves on the Spider? Who was it who snagged him Mario at Charlies?
No. He wasn’t calling Luke. Luke could listen to the wind in the telegraph wires, and when his phone didn’t ring, he’d know who wasn’t calling. One last heave? What a laugh.
With the kitchen straight, he stepped into the bathroom, and looked himself over in a full-length mirror beside the basin. He’d a classic black eye, practically stamped with Hoffman’s knuckles. He felt a bump—maybe a break—in his nose. His right ear had bled. His cheek swelled near the jawbone. He’d bruises round his neck where Hoffman grabbed him by the throat, and a lump on the back of his skull.
What a state to come back in from a special assignment. Dinner and a fuck and a raise. His upper left thigh was all yellow and blue where one of Hoffman’s kicks caught him square. On his right flank, he saw a stain: blood beneath the skin. It stopped barely short of breaking through. He raised both arms and studied marks above his elbows where the general counsel grabbed and gripped him. Reflected in the mirror, even his dick looked discolored, like he’d taken Hoffman’s boot between the legs.
That Sumiko Honda lady should be asked to look at this. She should see where her “shambles” had gotten him. If he hadn’t lost his phone, he would have sent her a video so she could study every inch of his body. She could use her doctor skills to reach a prognosis: like how long he’d have this pain in his back. And while she was looking, she could see what she was missing: seven-and-threequarters, smooth and thick. She could study it hard: the perfect fit.
He moved his feet apart, gathered spit on his tongue, looked down, let it dribble, and rubbed. So, Doctor Honda, what are you doing tonight? Remember me? Ben? I think you do.
He ran his hands up his body—his bruised, broken body—till they crossed at his pecs. He squeezed his biceps. He stroked himself down, past his abs to his groin, and brought his thumbs together below his navel. He ran them through his hair as his palms traveled his shaft and his fingertips met as if in prayer. His erection sprang back. He licked his lips and grinned. Doctor Honda.
Then he turned from the mirror, set the shower spraying, and stepped into the warmth of warm water. He let it run through his hair, down his back, between his legs. But he wouldn’t jack off just yet. As Sumiko could tell y
ou, he wasn’t short on performance. If he did the deed now, he’d recharge in fifteen minutes. But not tonight, alone, and feeling sorry. If he spanked the monkey now, he’d probably fall asleep. And it was Saturday night in Atlanta: Hotlanta.
He toweled himself off, fetched his Wahl stainless trimmer, returned to the mirror, and went to work.
If he could, he’d grow his beard from its usual designer stubble to at least three millimeters. Maybe a Viking. Given the choice of a look, he’d go with Andrea Pirlo, the Italian soccer star of modern legend. Pirlo’s facial hair must be five millimeters on the cheeks, with a denser beardy beard around his chin.
But Ben’s DNA ruled. He just couldn’t do it. If he didn’t crop everything to barely more than a fuzz, it grew patchy between his sideburns and mouth.
He trimmed with the grain on his cheeks and neck, quitting where his chest hair began. Next, above his lip, he ran the gadget the other way, combatting the thicker growth below his nose. Then he lifted his right foot, rested it on the toilet, and trimmed stray hairs around his nuts. That done, he brushed his teeth and reexamined his injuries.
No way was he calling Luke.
At half past midnight, he was showered, shaved, and dressed: in an olive Che Guevara vest, camouflage commando shorts, and white New Balance sneakers. All done, he grabbed his Gibson and sat on the bed, picked out arpeggios of C and G, then chords of F and C. He hummed through his nose. The vibration made it ache. He touched it. Was it broken? Maybe not.
C–G, F–C–F.
He cradled the instrument, remembering its arrival on his twenty-first birthday, five years back. He came home that evening and found it in his bedroom, with a note from his mother. The liar. She didn’t say she bought it, but she definitely let him think it. She let him tell the world that lie.
He was the son of liars: father and mother. Deception was encoded in his genes. Just as he couldn’t grow a beard like Andrea Pirlo’s, he could only make the most of who he was.
He cleared his throat for one of his better compositions: “Winter’s Song,” for the end of live sets. Now Plus Tax was Ben Louviere with Plus Tax. Smell of beer. Steamy room. Lights low.