He met Davis at a martini place in River North. Pale amber light splashing on polished wood, soft trip-hop in the background. The woman tending bar wore boots that came halfway up her thighs. The chemist looked just the way Ian remembered: a short-sleeved oxford tucked into his slacks, a haircut his wife had obviously had a say in. Add a pocket protector and a pair of Coke-bottle glasses, and he could have worked for NASA.
“There’s the man! Look at you, Ian. Still conquering Wall Street, huh?”
“Doing my best.” He ordered a Glenlivet, neat. “How was the party?”
“Expensive. The clown smelled like marijuana. But Janie loved it.”
“She’s six, huh? Crazy how time flies. When we did Hudson-Pollum, I think she was four.”
“I want to thank you again for that.” Davis glanced around, then said, in a low voice, “I made a killing. You really helped me out.”
“Glad to hear it. Couldn’t have done it without you.” Which was true. The Hudson-Pollum Biolabs buy had made Ian. On the surface, HPB had looked like a loser; a small company with a long-delayed patent and serious cash-flow problems. But something about it had caught Ian’s eye, and he’d worked it hard. The breakthrough had come when he stopped talking to analysts and traders and started talking to chemists. It had been Davis who had explained how revolutionary their pending patent could be. It didn’t seem sexy-a complex process for manipulating volatile organic compounds-but Davis lit up as they’d talked. With proper financing, the thing had potential to become industry standard for certain segments of the pharmaceutical industry. Most of what the man had told him had flown several miles over Ian’s head, but the essence had hit him square, and over the next weeks he’d quietly put together a major buy. When the patent cleared review, he’d gone from a junior trader to a respected wunderkind with a private office.
And in the time since, you’ve gone from a wunderkind to a fuck-up. Ain’t life a card.
Ian took it cool at first, keeping the conversation on innocuous subjects so Davis had time to get a martini down and order another. Felt good to be maneuvering again, going after what he needed. It was only once the chemist was halfway through his second drink that Ian began to broach the subject.
Davis ’s cheeks were reddened by booze. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“Which part?”
“You want me to figure out what something is by description? It’s just, I don’t see how this fits any sort of investment. Is this one of your games?”
“No,” Ian said. “No, it definitely is not.”
“What are you, doing research for a screenplay or something?”
“Can you just trust me for now?”
“There are a million possibilities.”
“You know what? Pretend it is a game. You’re not writing an article for Nature.”
“Yeah, but-”
“It’s a thick fluid. Dark-colored.”
Davis shrugged. “Crude oil.”
“It looks like that, yeah. But even smelling it causes massive headaches. Trouble breathing. Clenched muscles.”
“Some kind of industrial solvent.”
“But extremely valuable. Four quarts are worth, say, a quarter of a million dollars on the black market.”
“The black market? What the hell?”
“Assume it’s illegal. For the sake of discussion.”
“Tell me again how this will help my portfolio?”
“ Davis…”
The man sighed. “OK. A dark, viscous, illegal liquid. You said four quarts?”
“Yes.”
“Not a gallon.”
“Aren’t they the same?”
“Yeah. But you said four quarts. Why?”
“Oh. Separate containers. Four one-quart containers.”
Davis nodded, and Ian could see him starting to get engaged in the problem, enjoying the intellectual exercise. “What kind of container?
“Plastic.”
“Any seal?”
Ian wasn’t sure, but figured Jenn and Mitch would have mentioned that. “Let’s say no.”
“Chemicals are most commonly stored in glass or metal. Since it’s in plastic, it’s probably something that reacts with them. That narrows it down some.”
“Drugs? Or something for cooking up drugs?”
The man shook his head. “Doesn’t make sense.”
“Why?”
“Do the math. Four quarts of the stuff are worth $250,000? It would have to work out to a huge pile of drugs. Or else a drug that was worth an unbelievable amount. Unless a gallon of this stuff makes, you know, pounds and pounds and pounds of cocaine, it doesn’t make sense. Plus, most drugs aren’t that hard to synthesize. You hear stories every now and then of chemists who wash out, it turns up they’d been cooking their own heroin. The ingredients are easy enough to come by if you work in a lab. So the math doesn’t make sense.”
The simple logic smacked Ian hard. This whole time, they’d been assuming that this was a drug deal. They’d taken it as a base assumption-Johnny used to sell drugs, and what else was worth that kind of money? But now that seemed silly.
“I guess it could be some sort of superdrug we haven’t heard of,” Davis said, “but Occam’s razor. The simplest explanation is the right one.”
“So what is the simplest explanation?”
“It’s not drugs. It’s illegal and moving on the black market, so it’s not likely for industrial uses. It’s not radioactive, or it wouldn’t be in plastic. It reacts to glass and metal, and just smelling it results in a headache and clenched muscles. My best guess?”
“Jesus, Davis, what have I been asking for?”
The man paused for a moment, and Ian felt irritation like an itch, fought the urge to reach across the table, grab the chemist by his lapels, and shake the answer out of him. Finally, after a long moment, Davis began to speak.
And as the bottom fell out of his stomach and the room began to spin, Ian realized why Davis had hesitated.
And why Victor wouldn’t.
IN THE DREAM, she was on a beach. A beach unlike any she’d ever actually seen, the likes of which she booked trips to for other people. Soft white sand, rustling palms, and no one for miles and miles.
She was in a hammock, in a bikini, and her belly was enormous. Ripe as tropical fruit. Swollen and heavy with child. She was eating a mango. The juice ran slick down her chin. The sound of the waves was steady and constant, each paving the way for the one to follow.
When she woke on the couch in her apartment, sweating and awkward, twisted into the cushions, the first thing that hit was joy. Then she realized that it had just been a dream. And for reasons she couldn’t quite explain, she began to cry.
She wasn’t much of a crier, and it took her by surprise. Was she crying because of the dream? Because she wanted a child? Or was it deeper than that?
Maybe she just wanted life to matter. To mean something. Maybe that was all she’d ever really wanted. A life engaged. No more games, no more calculated distance and ironic detachment. Everything else was a smoke screen, crap sold to her by Hollywood. After all, now that she was living her adventure, what she really wanted was to take it all back. Not just the robbery-the years. All that time wasted, the hours and months pissed away instead of seized with both hands. She’d watched life flow by like it would never end, like there was always more.
But there wasn’t. What she had squandered was gone, and where she had ended up wasn’t where she wanted to be.
After a while, the tears slowed. She felt vaguely self-conscious as she wiped her face. Lying in a dark room, crying existential tears, it was sort of pathetic. She stood and washed her face in the bathroom. The cold water brought color to her cheeks, snapped her mind back to her body. Her head hurt, and she realized she was hungry. No food since breakfast, and it was after nine.
It was as she was walking back from the Thai place at the end of the block that the police arrived.