Afterward I brought him a cold bottle of the dark beer he liked, and got a diet cola for myself because, I had put on a few pounds recently and my tush was getting pillowy.
He had brought me a big jar of a new moisturizing creme his laboratory had developed. It had a bronzer in it so you could get a tan without going out in the sun.
"Thank you, daddy," I said. "It will be great for rainy days. How are you coming along on that crazy pill you told me about-the one that's supposed to make every soldier into Superman?"
"Coming along fine. Greg is making progress."
"Who's Greg?"
"Gregory Barrow, our top research chemist. He's handling the project.
The man is a genius."
"I've never met a genius. What's he like?"
"A mousy kind of guy but all brain. I know he's married and has a kid, but his job is his whole life. I mean he doesn't play golf or anything like that. A real workaholic. I wish I had twenty more like him."
"You think the ZAP stuff is going to be a success?"
"Well, Greg has it in liquid form now, and when he injects it into mice, it turns them into pit bulls. I don't see any reason why it shouldn't work with humans if we can get it into pill or powder form."
"Maybe the government will give you a medal."
He laughed. "If they pay their bills on time, I'll be satisfied.
Listen, Jess, I've got to get back to the office. A client's coming in who wants to talk about a new product, a suntan lotion combined with an insect repellent."
"Hey," I said, "that's a great idea. The last time I went to the beach I almost got eaten up alive by sand fleas."
"Lucky fleas," Mcwhortle said, grinning at me.
He gave me my salary check before he left. What a sweet hustle I had going.
I showered and dressed, then phoned William K. Brevoort. He wasn't in, so I left a message on his answering machine. I watched a soap opera on TV for a while, but then Willie got back to me. I told him I had something for him, and he said he could come over that evening,around nine o'clock, and I said okay.
I phoned Laura Gunther at Hashbeam's Bo-teek and asked her if she'd like to have an early dinner at a rib joint we both liked.
She said sure, and we made arrangements to meet there at six-thirty.
Laura was the only close woman friend I had made in town since I moved up from Miami. She worked at Hashbeam's, and I stopped by one day to look around and we got to talking. It turned out she had been in the game herself but had gone straight and married a real-estate broker.
That lasted all of two years and now he was divorced. She wasn't exactly hurting for bucks but had taken the job at the Bo-teek to keep from hitting the convention circuit again.
She was a wild one, a big, heavy broad who smoked long, skinny cigars and had the voice and vocabulary of a trucker. Her current boyfriend was a guy named Bobby Gurk. I think he was in the rackets in Lauderdale, but I never asked questions.
We had a great dinner at the rib joint. Laura told me about the problem she was having with Gurk. He wanted her to stay home every night in case he suddenly decided to drop by. She told him to get lost, and they were always fighting about it. , "That elephant thinks he owns me," Laura said. "He doesn't pay enough to own, he just rents."
"Why don't you dump him," I suggested. "You should be able to do better."
"I'm working on it," she said. "I met a guy out at the club the other night who thinks he's God's gift to women. Married, of course, but he's got deep pockets. I gave him a freebie. The next time he comes sniffing around I'll tell him the facts of life, no pay, no play. it Then we started talking about new summer fashions, what was in and what was out. After a while it was time for me to leave.
We split the check and made plans to go to the beach on Sunday.
I got home around eight-thirty. My six-year-old Pontiac was making funny noises, and I decided I needed new wheels. I figured I'd drop a few hints to Mcwhortle. He knew all about no pay, no play.
Willie the Weasel showed up right on time, looking as nifty as ever.
That guy sure knew how to dress. All he wanted to drink was a glass of club soda, so I brought him that.
I told Willie about Mcwhortle's visit that morning. I didn't want to give him the whole jar of the new moisturing creme with bronzer in it, so I dug out a tablespoonful and wrapped it in aluminum foil. He said that would be enough for analysis. I also told him about Mcwhortle's client who wanted the lab to develop a suntan lotion combined with an insect repellent.
"Sounds good," he said. "See if you can get me a sample when it's finished."
He took the foil-wrapped moisturizer and gave me a white envelope containing my payoff – I guess handing me bare cash just wasn't his style, it had to be in a clean white envelope.
He started to leave, then suddenly stopped. "Oh, by the way," he said casually, as if he had just remembered, "anything new on that testosterone pill?"
It was a great performance, but it didn't fool me one bit.
I mean the guy was slick but I was slicker, I knew immediately that he was really interested in the ZAP thing, which meant big bucks were involved.
"Yeah," I said, "Mcwhortle talked about it some."
"What did he say?"
"Tell you what," I said, "I figure that project is something special.
Very important. Top Secret stuff."
He stared at me. "I told you there'd be an extra two big ones if you can get me a sample."
"So you did," I said. "But I prefer a pay-as-you-go plan.
How about an extra grand right now?"
His expression froze up. "You wouldn't be getting greedy on me, would you, Jess? "
"Nah, Willie," I said, "not me. I'm just doing what you do.
You told me you buy information from people who know and sell to people who want to know. Right? Well, I know and you want to know. Greed isn't involved. It's just business."
His face was still set, but he dug out his wallet and this time he handed over the cold cash, his hand to mine, no white envelope. I thanked him and told him what Mcwhortle had said about the injections making pit bulls out of mice.
"And does he think it's going to work on men? the Weasel asked.
"He said he doesn't see why it shouldn't if they can make it into a pill or powder."
"Did he happen to mention the name of the chemist who's working on it?"
The schmuck wanted me to show him my hole card? What did he take me for-a total twerp? I was going to feed him information all right, a little bit at a time. Cash on delivery.
"No," I said, "he didn't mention any name." Brevoort nodded, tucked his wallet away, and started out. He paused at the door.
"That's a very attractive frock you're wearing tonight, Jess," he said.
"Thank you," I said.
After the door closed behind him, I stood there a moment, still startled.
How many times have you heard a man use the word "frock"? I wondered, What's with this guy? must confess I had high hopes for a perfume based on oxytocin, the "cuddle hormone." If it succeeded, the wearer and anyone who sniffed it would become emotionally warmer, more affectionate, more caring. It seemed to me that in today's world such a scent would be of inestimable value to both sexes, but especially to men.
But Cuddle might have an even wider application. I was aware of the exciting things the Japanese were doing with what are called home fragrances or area fragrances. Perfumers were releasing scents through the ventilation ducts of homes, offices, and factories. It was claimed that certain tailored fragrances reduced stress, calmed anxieties, and improved the morale of workers assigned to boring routine jobs.
In other words, mood and behavior modification via the sense of smell! it was fascinating to imagine what effect Cuddle might have on a large gathering in an enclosed area. It was possible that such a mollifying scent, released, through air conditioning vents, could be used to control prison riots.