Poor bastard.
She sits there swiveling from side to side.
She shouldn’t have called him. Why did she call him?
After a moment she hears the ping of an incoming e-mail. She turns to the keyboard. It’s from Jimmy Gilroy. He says yes, let’s meet up, he has tomorrow night off, how about then? She writes back, okay, and suggests a time and a place.
She hits SEND.
Connections.
Then she sits there, still swiveling in the chair, staring out across the room. At nothing in particular. But this strange, weird feeling she’s got? This chill?
She can’t shake it.
He sees the absurdity of the situation, the irony, he gets it-he’s an old man and he’s acting like he’s some young kid trying to score a dime bag, if that’s what they still call them. And not just any old man either, an old man who used to own the very pharmaceutical company that’s developing the drug he’s so desperate to get his hands on.
It’s ridiculous.
At least he can do it over the phone. He doesn’t have to hang around on a street corner, waiting.
“You going to bed, sweetheart?”
“In a minute. I have a call I need to make.”
He heads for the study.
Though it’s barely ten o’clock, he and Meredith are just back from dinner at Dick and Maria Wolper’s. This was a big deal for the Wolpers, apparently-to have him there. And they’d obviously been briefed about timing and procedures. The old man has his medication regimen. Needs his sleep. No dairy or gluten. As for wine, French only, and don’t stray too far from Bordeaux. Whatever. But the thing was, Vaughan felt he could have outpaced anyone there. He was seated next to Felipe Keizer, the architect who designed 220 Hanson Street, and they were having this great conversation, Keizer talking about the litigation he’s currently involved in, Vaughan reminiscing about his dealings with Mies van der Rohe in the early sixties and the construction of the Snyder Building. It was a process, he told Keizer, that he found awe-inspiring in its speed and complexity. It was like time-lapse photography-the derricks and cranes appearing, the steel skeleton climbing up into the midtown skyline, the pipes and ducts sliding into place, followed by the partitions and suspended ceilings. It was pure magic. Keizer agreed, and then quizzed him about Mies. What was he like to work with? Was he difficult, approachable? Vaughan was happy to answer these questions, but before you knew it the whole table was listening in.
Not an experience Vaughan has had for a while-being at the center of attention, and firing on all cylinders-but he liked it. And he wasn’t too happy when a clearly terrified Maria Wolper started shunting them out the door at nine thirty.
Anyway.
He’s only got a few of these pills left, and he’s having a hard time getting in touch with his contact at Eiben. This guy, Arnie Tisch, who’s now an executive vice president in charge of worldwide business development, used to run R &D projects under Jerry Hale in the Oberon days. He was an easy enough mark-but now, what, he won’t take Vaughan’s calls?
He’s left three messages already.
Sitting at his desk, he tries him again.
“Hello?”
“Arnie?” A miracle. “Jimmy Vaughan.”
“Oh, Mr. Vaughan, good evening. I’m so sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner, I-”
“You didn’t get back to me, Arnie. That’s the whole point. It’s what, ten o’clock on a Friday night, and I’m getting back to you?”
“Oh? Oh yes, of course. Sorry.”
“And you know why I’m calling, don’t you. I need you to get me some more of those pills.”
When he says it like that it sounds sort of pathetic. Not so much a kid looking to score a dime bag as a degenerate lowlife junkie pleading for his next fix.
Like his degenerate lowlife junkie son.
When was that? Jesus, 1981? Feels like a century ago. Feels like yesterday.
“The problem, Mr. Vaughan, is that-”
“No, no. There is no problem. This is a repeat prescription, my friend.” If this bastard wants to be difficult, Vaughan will instigate proceedings to buy Eiben-Chemcorp back. Which he could do. In a heartbeat. “Just see to it that what we did last time happens again, okay? You know the terms. They’re very generous. So I’ll expect to hear-”
“But, Mr. Vaughan-”
“I’ll expect to hear from you on Monday or Tuesday. Thank you.”
He hangs up.
That has agitated him a little, and he doesn’t like it.
This drug works, it’s as simple as that, and he wants more of it. He heard all the scare stories ten years ago about MDT-48, and he wouldn’t have gone near the stuff with a ten-foot pole. But now? Now he’s old and he doesn’t give a damn. Besides, this is clearly MDT-lite.
Very lite.
His doctors are amazed-and baffled-at his improved condition, so why would he back away from this? Why would he not take advantage of it? He’s been involved with companies developing innovative products and services all his life, in pharmaceuticals, electronics, communications, the agri and energy sectors, you name it, and when has he once benefited personally or exploited his position in any way?
He gets up from his desk and leaves the study.
He should go to bed.
Instead he goes in search of Meredith. He finds her down the hall, in the main living room, splayed out on a couch with a soda in one hand and the TV remote in the other.
He steps into the room and stands there, looking at her.
The way she’s positioned, all languorous… her skirt pulled up a bit, lots of stocking showing, one shoulder strap slipped off and-
He feels-
“What are you watching?” he says.
He’s got a hard-on.
She looks up, distracted, and presses PAUSE on the remote. He turns and glances at the screen.
Connie Carillo, frozen in sober gray, staring out over the courtroom.
“I DVR’d it,” she says. “It’s so depressing.”
“Then why are you watching it?”
She takes a sip from her drink. “I don’t know. It’s Connie.” She pauses. “I still can’t believe it. I mean, she stabbed him in the chest with a carving knife.”
Hard-on’s gone.
“If she did it,” he says, only for something to say. He’s grown bored with the trial and hasn’t followed it for days.
“Of course she did it.”
Attempting to sit up now, Meredith gets a splash of soda on her dress.
“Jesus.” She reaches down and puts the can on the floor. Then she inspects the stain. “Shit. They’ll never get this out.”
“Well,” Vaughan says, “I’ll leave you to it. Good night.”
He goes to bed and falls asleep pretty quickly, but after maybe an hour something wakes him, a passing siren maybe. He stares into the darkness. He was in the middle of a dream… Ray Whitestone cross-examining Connie Carillo in the kitchen of their house in Palm Beach, asking her how many ladles and soup spoons and pepper pots she had, and if she could describe them.
It was extremely vivid.
But also stupid and meaningless.
He turns over and tries to go back to sleep.
When he’s leaving the room, Frank puts the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door handle. There’s a big fat crack on the plasma TV screen from the Stoli bottle, and he doesn’t want to have to deal with that today. He may be coming back here, he may not be, he doesn’t know. He’s paid through till Wednesday. It was the easiest thing to do.
He gets a cab outside the hotel and tells the driver to head downtown.