“Here’s to your career with Arolen,” said Percy, holding up his glass.
“What about this pregdolen you’ve been pushing?” asked Adam, remembering Jennifer’s recent complaints. “My wife has been having some trouble with morning sickness. Maybe I should take a couple of those starter samples.”
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” said Percy, suddenly serious. “I know Arolen sells a ton of it, and a lot of people think it’s the best thing since sliced bread, but I don’t think the drug works and there’s a possibility it’s toxic.”
“What do you mean?” asked Adam.
“It’s been written up in several of the more important medical journals,” said Percy, taking another sip of his drink. “Of course, I don’t refer to those articles when I call on the doctors. Obviously the doctors haven’t read them because they keep prescribing the stuff like crazy. It sure explodes the myth that doctors get their drug information from the medical journals. For most practitioners that’s bullshit. They get their drug information, what little they get, from the likes of me, and I only tell them what I want to tell them.”
Percy shrugged when he noticed Adam’s shocked expression. “You more than anyone must know that doctors prescribe out of hunch and habit. Our job is to try to make Arolen part of that habit.”
Adam slowly turned his glass and watched the olive revolve. He was beginning to realize what he’d have to close his eyes to in this line of work.
Sensing Adam’s misgivings, Percy added, “To tell you the honest truth, it will be a relief to get away from the sales end of the business.”
“Why?” asked Adam.
Percy sighed. “I don’t know how much of this I should be telling you. I don’t want to dampen your enthusiasm. But some weird things have been going on in my area. For instance, a number of doctors that I’d been seeing on a regular basis have been taken off my sales list. At first I thought that they’d moved away or died, but then I found out that most of them had gone on an Arolen Conference Cruise, come back, and given up their practices to go to the Julian Clinic.”
“Julian Clinic” evoked a strange response in the pit of Adam’s stomach, as he remembered the name from Jennifer’s story.
“Some of those doctors I’d gotten to know pretty well,” continued Percy, “so I went to see them even though the Julian Clinic isn’t part of my territory. What struck me was that they had all changed somehow. A good example was a Dr. Lawrence Foley I’d been seeing since I began working for Arolen. He didn’t have much use for Arolen products, but I saw him because I liked the man. In fact, we played tennis about twice a month.”
“The Lawrence Foley who just committed suicide?” asked Adam.
“That’s the one,” said Percy. “And his suicide is part of the kind of change I’m talking about. I really felt I knew the man. He was a partner in one of the busiest OB-GYN practices in town. Then he went away on an Arolen cruise, came back, and gave up everything to work at the Julian Clinic. When I went to see him, he was a different man. He was so preoccupied with work, he couldn’t take the time to play tennis. And he was not the suicidal type. The man had never been depressed a day in his life, and he loved his work and his wife. When I heard what happened, I couldn’t believe it. After shooting his wife he put the shotgun in his mouth and…”
“I get the picture,” said Adam quickly. “What’s the story about these Arolen Conference Cruises?”
“They are very popular medical seminars that are given on a cruise ship in the Caribbean. The lecturers are the most famous professors and researchers in their various fields. The meetings have the best reputation of any medical conventions in the country,” said Percy. “But that’s all I know. Being curious, I asked Clarence McGuire about them, but he said he didn’t know much more except that they were organized by MTIC.”
“If you’re really curious,” said Adam, “why not ask Bill Shelly? If what you told me is true about Arolen liking information about doctors, it seems to me they’d be fascinated by your observations. Besides, I can tell you that Bill Shelly is a surprisingly young and personable guy.”
“No kidding,” said Percy. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ll go over there this afternoon. I’ve always wanted to meet Mr. Shelly and this could be my chance.”
When Adam asked Percy to drop him off at the medical center late that afternoon, he had the feeling he was not going to be the same doctor after working for Arolen. They had visited sixteen physicians’ offices and had, according to Percy, dispensed over five hundred bottles of sample drugs. Most of the doctors had been like Smith: eager to get the samples, quick to accept Percy’s pitch.
Adam went into the hospital through the medical school entrance and headed up to the periodical room at the library. He wanted to look up pregdolen in the recent journals. Percy’s comments had made him curious, and he did not like the idea of selling a drug with really bad side effects.
He found what he wanted in a ten-month-old issue of the New England Journal of Medicine. It would have been hard for a practicing OB man to have missed it.
Just as Percy had suggested, pregdolen had proved inefficacious when tested against a placebo. In fact, in all but three cases the placebo had done a better job in controlling morning sickness. More importantly, the studies showed that pregdolen was often teratogenic, causing severe developmental abnormalities in fetuses.
Turning to the Journal of Applied Pharmacology, Adam found that despite the adverse publicity, pregdolen’s sales had shown a steady increase over the years, with an especially impressive surge in the last year. Adam closed the journal, wondering if he were more awed by Arolen’s marketing abilities or the average obstetrician’s ignorance.
Putting the magazine back, he decided it was a tossup.
Percy Harmon felt like he was on top of the world as he drove out of the parking area of his favorite Japanese restaurant with a fabulous meal of steak sukiyaki under his belt. The restaurant was located in, of all places, Fort Lee, New Jersey, but at that hour of the night, ten-thirty, it wouldn’t take more than twenty minutes to return to his apartment in Manhattan.
He did not notice the nondescript man in a blue blazer and tan slacks who’d stayed at the bar the entire time Percy had been in the restaurant. The man watched until the blue Chevy disappeared from sight, then made for the nearby phone booth. “He’s left the restaurant. Should be at the garage in fifteen minutes. I’ll call the airport.”
Without waiting for an answer, the man cut the connection and dropped in two more coins. He pushed the buttons slowly, almost mechanically.
Driving down the Harlem River Drive, Percy wondered why he had never thought of going to Bill Shelly before. Not only had the man welcomed Percy’s observations, he’d been downright friendly. In fact, he’d taken Percy to meet the executive vice-president, and making those kinds of contacts within an organization like Arolen was invaluable. Percy felt that his future had never looked so promising.
Percy stopped in front of the garage Arolen had found for him just four blocks from his Seventy-fourth Street apartment. The only time it was inconvenient was when it was raining. It was in a huge warehouselike structure that dominated the potholed street. The entrance was barred by an imposing metal grate. Percy pressed the remote control device that he kept in the glove compartment and the grate lifted. Above the entrance was a single sign that said simply “Parking, day, week, or month,” followed by a local telephone number.
After Percy had driven inside, the metal grille reactivated and with a terrible screeching closed with a definitive thud. There were no assigned spots, and Percy made a hopeful swing around before heading down the ramp to the next level. He preferred to park on the ground floor; the ill-lit spaces of the substreet levels always made him nervous.