He was about to leave when he looked back at the chalkboard notes and diagrams. Do we really want to open that door?
And a small voice in his head, whispered: Yes, oh yes.
Dexter had messed up-yielded to a crazy nostalgic impulse. A last-ditch effort to bathe in the fires of spring. But when the time came, Chris wouldn't be so foolish. No way.
10
Quentin arrived at two-thirty and paced in circles around George Washington and his horse for half an hour. In a shoulder bag he carried unmarked hundred-dollar bills. But not twenty-five thousand of them. Over the week he had raised only $1.5 million-a million shy of what he owed.
It was a cool drizzly day, and only a few people were in the Garden. Quentin's stomach was a cauldron of acid. He chewed Tums, thinking that Antoine was being cagey, probably waiting to see if he had brought police or narcs. The thought had never crossed his mind. About three o'clock a kid in jeans and a slicker approached him. "He's waiting for you in the lounge across the street." He pointed to the Ritz-Carlton Hotel then took off in the opposite direction.
Quentin crossed Arlington Street, feeling relief they were meeting in a civilized place. The lounge was dim and only a couple of businessmen sat by the window. A waiter directed Quentin to a table in the far corner where a man sat, but it was not Antoine Ducharme.
"How's the finger?" asked Vince Lucas.
Instantly, Quentin's hand began to throb. The finger had a permanent crook which made Vince smile.
"Where's Antoine?"
"Let's just say it's inconvenient for Antoine to travel."
Quentin sat and the waiter took their orders-a Chivas on the rocks for Quentin, a second Perrier for Vince. Quentin clenched the bag of money between his feet. He could not stop trembling. All he could think of was his daughter, Robyn.
"You got a problem?" Vince asked. "You seem a bit jumpy."
"It's just I'm out of breath from running over," he stammered and mopped his face with the napkins.
The waiter brought the drinks. Lucas's eyes were deep black and totally unreadable. He wore a gray suit, blue shirt, and paisley tie, like a stockbroker. Quentin's heart pounded so hard that he wondered if Lucas could hear it. He called the waiter back to bring some nuts. When the waiter left, Lucas said, "Do you have the money, Mr. Cross?
"Oh, sure." He shoved a handful of nuts into his mouth.
Lucas reached over and pulled the bag over. Quentin started to protest, but choked it back. It took Lucas a few seconds to estimate the contents. "Where's the rest?"
"That's what I want to talk to Antoine about."
Lucas sighed. "Mr. Cross, I told you a long time ago that I speak for Antoine, understand? And he's not happy." His eyes had hardened into flat onyx marbles.
Suddenly a thought occurred to Quentin-an interesting one that sent a ripple through his bowels. He finished his drink and flagged the waiter for a refill. Meanwhile, Lucas watched him squirm and gobble down nuts-his face an uncompromising blank.
"We're both businessmen, correct?" Quentin began. "And you're successful I assume. I mean, you're well dressed and all…" He tapered off.
More gaping silence as Lucas tried to read Quentin.
"As you may recall, I'm the Chief Financial Officer of a very reputable pharmaceutical company-"
"Cut the blah-blah and get to the point."
"Okay, there's nearly a million and a half dollars in there. I know it's short, and I have every intention of paying the balance, but frankly, I simply can't raise that kind of money without serious consequences. But Darby Pharms is on the verge of something with cosmic potential."
The waiter came with more nuts and Quentin's drink.
"How old are you, Mr. Lucas?"
Lucas narrowed his eyes at Quentin without response then checked his watch.
"I'd guess thirty-five." Quentin removed a half-eaten roll of Tums from his pocket and placed it on the table. "What would you pay for a compound that could freeze you at thirty-five for another hundred years?"
Lucas glanced at the Tums then gave Quentin the same menacingly blank look. "You asking me real questions, or is this your idea of conversation? By the way, you've got three minutes."
Quentin felt a burst of panic. "For what?"
"To settle the rest of your debt." Quentin's mind flooded with all sorts of horrors-being dragged to a waiting car outside, or maybe even shot dead right here with a silencer, fast when nobody was looking. He glanced desperately to the table of businessmen at the window.
"They're with me," Lucas said. "You were saying?"
Oh, God. Quentin thought. There was no compromising these people. No extensions. No second chances. It was all he had left. "Look, please. I'm serious. I'm… I'm talking about something historic… Something we're developing while we speak, in fact. It's for real. What if those weren't antacids but pills that prevented you from aging?"
"What's the catch?"
"There is no catch."
"Sounds like bullshit."
"It's not. It works. The stuff exists. I'm telling you, it's for real."
"How many people have you tried it on?"
"Nobody yet, but it works on lab animals-mice and monkeys."
"Maybe you should think about moving to people, because I wouldn't give you a dime till I was certain."
"But suppose it worked? What do you think such a compound would be worth to the company manufacturing it?"
"Sky's the limit, I guess. Why, you people making this stuff?"
Quentin felt a rush of relief. He had captured Lucas's interest. "Yes." Quentin did not mention the accelerated senescence. "We've still got some testing left and FDA approval, then we're rolling."
Suddenly Betsy Watkins's pointy little self-righteous face rose up in his mind. He pushed it down when another face shot up. Ross Darby's. "I need not remind you, that this is supremely confidential." But they didn't get it. None of them did. His back was against the wall with a professional killer glowering at him point-blank. He had no choice, so he told Vince Lucas about the mice and rhesus monkeys in detail. And Lucas listened intently.
"You're talking months if not years to get this marketed. Antoine wants his money today."
"Vince, you're a successful businessman-"
Vince reached across the table and grabbed Quentin's index finger. "Get to your point or I'm going to snap these off one by one."
"M-my point is I am offering you a percentage of Elixir. We can work out the details later, but I am offering you a piece of Darby stock in return for a capital investment that would cover our debt to Mr. Ducharme."
Vince Lucas stared at him incredulously. "You want me to lend you a million dollars to pay off Antoine?"
"No, not a loan. An investment in Elixir."
Lucas smiled. "That's a new one."
"We're talking about the ultimate miracle drug, a little pill that would prolong life indefinitely. And I'm offering you an opportunity to be part of it-part of untold fortunes. It's a chance of a lifetime, literally."
Quentin continued in his smoothest entrepreneurial manner. He produced the capital-raising literature Ross had presented to the small coterie of investors, a video of the lab animals, and legal financial documents should Lucas agree to come aboard. All the stuff he had intended to unload on Antoine Ducharme.
Lucas studied the material, fingering through the figures and graphs. "Looks interesting."
"Interesting! Mr. Lucas, these are road maps to the Garden of Eden!"