Boxing the Octopus, page 22
“Yes.” The Doctor took a step back to judge the angle before drawing a second line horizontally across the board. “Yes, it is.”
“That shit will never come off,” muttered George.
“The erasable markers are right there!” said Steve, jabbing his finger. “You know what that board cost?”
“It’s replaceable.” The Doctor turned to face them and lazily rotated his wrist so the pen took them all in. “Just like this board.” He smiled. “Just like all of you.” A graceful turn on his heels and he faced the whiteboard again, to draw the third and final line. “And like the lines on this board, it’s important for you to understand that some decisions, once they’ve been made, cannot be erased.”
Elaine cocked her chin forward. “Are you threatening us?”
The Doctor gave her a sympathetic look but ignored the question as he stepped to the side of his sketch. “Now what do you see?”
Six faces stared at him, nonplussed.
“It’s a triangle,” said Steve, an undercurrent of understanding in his voice.
“Very good, Steve,” said the Doctor. “No wonder you’re the chairman of the board.” He capped his pen and traced it through the air along each side of the perfectly formed triangle. “Heaven. Earth. Man.”
Six nervous faces looked around the room, reliving the childhood nightmare when the teacher is going to call on you, only you forgot to do your homework.
“Symbolism is very important to our investors in Hong Kong,” said the Doctor mildly. “And so is honoring your agreements.”
“We’re not suggesting we don’t launch the drug,” said Steve, holding up his hands in surrender. “But perhaps another look at the data—”
“You want a look behind the curtain?” The Doctor surveyed the room as if making a decision, sizing each of them up in turn. “This is a one-way ticket, my friends.”
The room looked at him expectantly, but no one spoke.
The Doctor continued. “You want a new, one-of-a-kind drug—”
“—to fight disease—” began Doris.
“—to corner the market,” said the Doctor. “To box out your competitors, hold up the insurance companies, and generate enough cash to lobby Congress to prevent any over-the-counter competitors from showing up for at least a decade.”
“We’re just looking to fast-track FDA approval without setting off any alarms,” said George. “That’s our business model.”
“I’m not criticizing,” replied the Doctor with a smirk. “But your partners in China, you do know what their business model is, don’t you?”
Doris almost raised her hand but caught herself. “Low-cost manufacturing at scale?”
“You actually think the Chinese Central Committee is a bunch of wannabe capitalists?” asked the Doctor. “Just because the Soviet Union collapsed into an orgy of oligarchs—getting their rocks off by fucking with our elections—doesn’t mean the Chinese have taken their eyes off the prize.”
“The prize?” asked Kerry.
“Um, let me think…the global economy? Try watching Bloomberg or CNBC every once in a while.” The Doctor shook his head at their naivete. “You can’t take over today’s world with H-bombs, tanks, or an army—even an army that outnumbers Justin Bieber’s twitter following.”
“You’re generalizing,” protested Steve. “That’s got nothing to do with us.”
“It’s got everything to do with you. It’s the only reason you’re profitable.” The Doctor’s stare was evangelical. “You want me to stop generalizing, fine, I’ll get specific—what happens if a patient takes one of your drugs and has an adverse side effect? Say, for example, their life-saving cholesterol medication causes erectile dysfunction?”
“Well, the prescribing physician might give them a PDE inhibitor,” Steve said slowly, clearly wondering where this was going. “Like Viagra or Cialis.”
“But what if that triggers depression?” asked the Doctor. “Then they might also prescribe…what?” He looked around the table. “Anyone?”
This time Doris did raise her hand. “An antidepressant.”
“Exactly!” said the Doctor gleefully. “So, if you sell a drug with negative side effects, and you’re the drug company, you get to sell more drugs. If the condition is chronic, we’re talking six-to-eight different prescriptions a month, easy. I’d say that is one hell of a business model, wouldn’t you?”
“It’s not that simple,” said George, frowning.
“Actually, it’s entirely that simple,” said the Doctor. “You hypocrites are pissing your pants over a bunch of seizures? Eliminate side effects and you nimrods are out of business. That is what you need to understand before you start talking about gathering more data or taking it slow.”
“You can’t tell us what to do,” Steve said unconvincingly. “This board is an independent body.”
“Sure, it is,” said the Doctor. “We’re all independent. Some of us want to cure Alzheimer’s, while others want to sell more drugs, and that’s fine. But consider this—some might get their jollies from controlling a fifth of the U.S. economy by making sure the American public gets addicted to drugs manufactured overseas.” The Doctor paused for effect. “Everyone gets something out of this deal, which means nobody gets to back out.”
No one said anything in rebuttal, and for a long moment the boardroom was as somber as a eunuch’s bachelor party.
The Doctor returned his attention to the indelible triangle, tapping the bottom of the pen sharply against the board until all eyes fixed on his hand. With excruciating deliberation, he traced the lines of the triangle in reverse.
“Heaven. Earth. Man.”
He tapped the board three more times. “In this instance think of yourselves as man—no sexism intended, ladies—man, as in mortal. Mortal, derived from the Latin word mortalis, meaning death, or in this case, capable of dying.”
“I told you he was threatening us,” said Elaine, looking around the table for validation.
The Doctor’s finger lovingly traced the second line. “Earth. For our purposes, think of this as our foundation—the consortium, our partners, and the bank.”
Steve worked his jaw. “And the last line?”
“Heaven.” The Doctor spread his hands like a Baptist minister. “Where the power lies, where everything was put in motion so long ago.” He brought his hands together so they were pointing at the table. “Where God watches…all…of…you.”
“Don’t you mean all of us?” asked Doris, gesturing back at him.
“Did I stutter?” asked the Doctor.
“Are you suggesting you’re God?” asked Steve, at the same instant that Elaine asked, “Are you threatening us again?”
“Yes,” said the Doctor, a beatific expression on his face.
“Damn,” said Steve.
“I knew it,” said Elaine.
58
“I knew it,” said Eva. “You’re jealous of me.”
Sergey scoffed. “I just don’t like your outfit, that’s all.”
“I think you wish that you were going to the aquarium,” Eva raised an eyebrow. “Or maybe you want to dress like a pirate.”
Sergey shook his head. “I’m not into cosplay.”
“Then why did I catch you watching television and masturbating to Wonder Woman when we were kids?”
“This is a bad example,” said Sergey.
“Fine.” Eva spread her arms and looked down at her suede boots, leggings, wide leather belt, low-cut blouse, and waistcoat. “If I’m going to seduce a pirate, I need to be dressed appropriately.”
“You look like you’re going to a Renaissance Faire.”
“Very funny.” Eva pulled a Slim Jim from her belt and unwrapped it testily, biting it in half as her brother sized her up.
Sergey idly ran his finger across the top of one of the nesting dolls, wondering if it would leave a trail of dust, but it was as immaculate as the rest of the store. He wondered if dust was as terrified of his older sister as he was.
But Nastya wasn’t here. She put him in charge of helping Eva prepare for her rendezvous, and this was one job he wasn’t going to screw up.
“And no one said anything about seducing anyone,” he added. “You are supposed to be talking business.”
Eva rolled her eyes. “I could wear a hat,” she said, “the one shaped like a triangle.”
“Then you’d look like George Washington.” Sergey scanned the shelves until he found a nesting doll painted like a pirate. He had to admit, Nastya had everything in this store, from dolls painted in the traditional manner—old women and young Russian girls—to dolls painted like politicians, celebrities, even comic book characters. From Donald Duck to Donald Trump, Popeye to Putin, anyone could be turned into matryoshka.
He took the tiny pirate and started breaking it apart, laying each successive doll on the counter. The largest looked like Blackbeard, eyes fierce and beard scraggly. The next was a corsair, a handsome rogue with a curved sword. The third looked like one of the Village People.
Sergey frowned. If he was going to help his sister, he needed some kind of visual reference. He looked at Eva.
“Was there a pirate in the Village People?”
Eva furrowed her brow. “Policeman, Indian chief—”
“—Native American,” corrected Sergey. “Don’t be so culturally insensitive.”
“Vyrezat,” snapped Eva. “Policeman, chief, construction worker and…”
“…and…”
“…and…?”
Sergey snapped his fingers. “Soldier!”
“Nice.” Eva nodded. “I forgot about him. But there was one more, wasn’t there?”
The siblings paced around the store for a couple of minutes, heads down, until Sergey smacked the counter. “Was there a guy in leather?”
“Yes!” Eva frowned. “What was he supposed to be?”
“I think he was supposed to be gay,” said Sergey.
“Brilliant,” said Eva. “I never knew that when I was a kid, though.”
“Me, neither,” said Sergey. “Wasn’t I the construction worker for Halloween, when I was ten?”
Eva shook her head. “That was Bob the Builder.”
“American culture is very confusing,” said Sergey. “Even now.”
“We grew up in two worlds.”
Sergey nodded. “So, we have the cop, chief, construction worker, soldier, and gay leather man.” He sighed in resignation and glanced at the nesting doll. “No pirate.”
“No pirate.” Eva shrugged.
“Never mind,” said Sergey, reaching for the doll. He broke it apart, muttering under his breath. He almost gave up until the fifth-smallest doll emerged. Sergey beamed as he hit pay dirt with a meticulously painted female pirate. She scowled at Sergey as if she wanted him to walk the plank. He looked her up and down, then held the doll aloft like Indiana Jones holding a golden idol.
“Who needs the Village People when you have Russian craftsmanship!”
Eva looked quizzically at the doll, then at her brother expectantly.
Sergey glanced from Eva to the doll, then back again. His eyes narrowed as he scrutinized his sister.
“Lose the vest,” he said. “And the belt.”
“But—”
Sergey held up a hand for silence. “And untuck the blouse.”
Eva complied.
“The top of your boots,” he said, “roll them back up. You want to be an authentic pirate, not an extra in a Johnny Depp movie.”
Eva took a step back, hands on hips.
“Not bad,” said Sergey, checking the doll to make sure he didn’t miss anything. Painted along the waist of the tiny pirate girl was a rapier on her left hip and musket on her right. “Wait a minute.”
“What?” asked Eva, but her brother had set the doll on the counter and disappeared into the back of the store. Eva heard him rummaging around before he cried out triumphantly. A minute later he was standing in front of her with both hands behind his back.
“Hold out your left hand,” he said.
Eva studied his expression before cautiously extending her hand, wondering if her brother would revert to his puerile instincts and drop an ice cube or ball of slime into her palm. But Sergey was full of surprises lately.
“Put this in your boot.” Sergey put something slim and heavy into Eva’s hand. Looking down, she recognized it instantly.
“Your knife,” she said. “I forgot about that one.”
“Remember, it’s a switchblade.” Sergey took it back from her, holding it gingerly in his right hand. The blade was concealed, the handle made of horn grips with a recessed button on one side. Sergey swung his thumb over the button and pressed. Eva jumped backwards as the blade snapped open. One second it was an innocuous pocket knife, the next it was a cobra about to strike.
Sergey showed her how to release the catch that locked the blade in place, then folded it back into the handle until he heard a click. “When you press the button your hand should already be in motion, stabbing. Unless you just want to show off and intimidate someone.”
Eva took the knife and moved her hand up and down, getting used to the weight. Then she bent down and slid it into her right boot, flexing her calf until it settled.
“Now turn around,” said Sergey.
Eva looked at him suspiciously. “Are you going to look at my ass?”
“There isn’t much to look at, mladshaya sestra.”
“Hmph.” Eva spun around and felt her brother’s left hand on her hip, then something slipped into her waistband at the base of her spine. She guessed what it was even before she reached around and pulled it free.
Eva turned to face Sergey before looking down at the gun in her hand.
It was a slim .32-caliber semiautomatic that fit neatly in her palm. A logo that looked like a Z enclosed by a C was stamped into the plastic grips. The metal of the slide felt as cold as a Russian winter.
“Where did you get it?” Eva asked.
“It’s Nastya’s,” replied Sergey. “I know where she hides it.” Then, seeing the look of concern on his sister’s face, he added, “Don’t worry, Eva, just bring it—and you—back in one piece, and Nastya won’t mind.”
Eva looked at her brother as if seeing him for the first time, then stood on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. “Spasibo, brat.”
Sergey blushed. “You’re welcome.” He wiped his cheek in mock annoyance. “And remember, Eva, never trust a pirate.”
Eva slid the gun behind her back. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep the safety off,” she said, “and my eyes open.”
59
Vera opened her eyes and knew something wasn’t right.
She lay on the cot in the back of the store, her head across her right arm. She awoke with the sensation she’d been crying in her sleep. Rolling onto her back, she twisted her neck to see the window. There it was, a hole punched through the glass. Raising her hand to her face, she touched her cheek below the left eye and visualized the blood streaming down Cape’s face.
That wasn’t a dream, she thought. That wasn’t even a nightmare.
Then she glanced at the floor and smiled at the memory of rolling around like a pair of teenagers. That wasn’t a dream, either.
Vera wondered what time it was.
Her body felt stiff, neck complaining that she’d slept on her arm instead of a pillow. A faint creak as she sat up, and for an instant she wondered if the sound had emanated from her tired bones instead of the springs on the cot.
Creak. Pause. Creak.
It wasn’t the cot.
Footsteps, it sounded like footsteps at the front of the store.
Vera took a deep breath to clear her head and listened more closely, but it was impossible to gauge distance. Someone was pacing outside the store, each footfall squeezing a creak or groan from the wooden planks of the pier.
It occurred to Vera that Cape would have let himself in, so she stood up, realizing a policeman might be posted outside her door. Might as well say hello. She ran her hands through her hair and tried to blink the sleep from her eyes.
The light coming through the window was murky and gray, the lamps on the pier reflected upward by the fog. As dawn approached, the fog always thickened, wrapping around the buildings like a straitjacket.
Vera stepped from the back room into the store. It was brighter here because of the size of the front window and the reflective surfaces of the clothing displays, but the view outside was an impenetrable wall of filthy cotton.
As she approached the counter, the front door opened suddenly.
A man was silhouetted against the fog, one hand on the doorknob, the other outstretched in a half-hearted wave.
“Cape?” Vera came forward but stopped as if she’d walked into a wall.
The invisible barrier was a smell unlike anything Vera had ever encountered, an olfactory onslaught that made her eyes water and throat constrict. She took a step back as the store filled with a blend of rotting seaweed, damp fur, and brine.
If Poseidon had taken a thousand sea lions to indulge a sudden craving for Taco Bell, only to realize in the middle of the night they were violently allergic to cheese, this is what it would smell like. And somewhere in that miasma of nautical nausea, Vera also detected a faint smell of soggy donuts.
“Who the hell is Cape?”
Vera gasped as she recognized the voice.
Lou stepped into the light and smiled crookedly.
His pants were torn, his shirt disintegrated, and his skin as pale as an albino shark. He wore the odor of the bay like a cologne, and the seaweed on his head resembled hair extensions. His shoes were bobbing in the waves near Alcatraz, but he stood at a jaunty angle as he leaned against the counter.
Vera shook her head in disbelief, but her nose told her this wasn’t a nightmare, she was wide awake.
