That did it. Jack saw Turnip-head's cheek twitch and knew she'd hit a nerve. The dark-haired guard looked Jack's way. Jack couldn't see his eyes behind the black lenses, but the rest of his face said, We both know where this is going, don't we.
Jack knew. He turned, bent, pressed his shoulder against Gia's abdomen, and gently lifted her off the ground.
"So long, gents," he said as he carried her back up the dune.
He heard their laughter behind him and one of them say, "Now there is smart man."
Gia was beating her fists against his back, crying, "Put me down! Put me down right now, Jack!"
He did—at the top of the dune. She faced him, furious.
"I don't believe you did that! You carried me off like some sort of caveman!"
"Actually, I was trying to be un-caveman and avoid a fight."
"What fight?"
"The fight that would start as soon as the guy with the orange hair shoved you and told you to shut up and get moving."
"If he tried that I'd shove him right back."
"No, I'd have to do the shoving, and that would mean facing both of them because I couldn't take on one without the other stepping in, which meant I'd probably get hurt."
"You did OK last night, and besides—"
"Those two aren't a couple of middle-aged drunks. They're not even rent-a-slabs. They've got ex-military written all over them. They're tough, they're in shape, they've probably been in battle, and though they weren't looking for a fight, they were ready for it. It would not have been pretty."
"Well, who said you'd have to step in?"
"Come on, Gia. Some guy lays a hand on you right in front of me and I'm just going to stand there and watch? I don't think so. I'd have to do something."
She threw her hands up. "I'm so sick of this macho shit!"
Uh-oh. A four-letter word from Gia. That meant she was really ticked.
"I'm not sure I know what macho is, Gia. I hear that word and I think of somebody named Tony or Hernando in a sleeveless T-shirt, tattoos on his deltoids, and a stiletto in his fist. Is that how you think I am?"
"You know damn well I'm not talking about that. It's this 'a-man's-gotta-do-what-a-man's-gotta-do' attitude. I can't stand it sometimes."
"You want me some other way?"
Sal Vituolo's words of a few hours ago came back to him. Bein' the man of the family can really suck, if you know what I'm sayin'.
Yeah, Sal. I know what you're saying.
Gia said, "I want you alive, dammit!"
"So do I. That's why I got us out of the line of fire." He held up his hands, making two Vs with his fingers, and put on his most beatific expression. "You know me… a man of peace."
That teased a hint of a smile from her. "You're a piece of work is what you are." She sighed. "It's just that I get so mad when somebody like that tries to push me around."
Jack pointed past her. "And here comes another reason for staying out of a knockdown drag-out."
Vicky came puffing up the dune carrying a horseshoe crab carapace filled with clamshells. "Look what I got!"
They oohed and ahed over her sandy treasures all the way back to the parking area.
As Gia drove the now slightly fishy-smelling car back toward the city, Jack sat in silence, pondering his next move. Since he'd already been made by Dragovic's security, he'd have to work behind the scenes.
They were near Hicksville on the LIE when Jack spotted a sign for the Jericho Turnpike. That made him think of a couple of good old boys whose services he'd employed a few years ago. And that gave him the start of an idea…
"Do you mind if we make a stop?" he said.
Gia glanced at him. "Usually it's Vicky who's got to—"
"Not that. I want to see if some old acquaintances are still in business. Take the next exit."
He directed her off the highway and along a rutted dirt road until he saw the hangar with its red sign: TWIN AIRWAYS.
"Is this the place?"
"Yeah. It's their own private airfield." He pointed to the helicopter and two Gulfstream executive jets on the runway. "They charter those out."
"And why are we here?" Gia said.
"Need to talk to these guys." He got out and started toward the hangar. "Why don't you and Vicks stretch your legs and check out the planes while I check the office."
Luckily, both the Ashe brothers were in—tall, lanky twins in their midthirties. Both had fair, shoulder-length hair, but Joe wore a stubbly beard while Frank sported a droopy mustache.
"Well, well," Frank said in a thick Georgia drawl. "Looky who it is."
Joe stepped up and stuck out a hand. "Where you been keepin' yerself, boy?"
They liked small talk about as much as Jack, so after thirty seconds or so of catching up, Joe said, "What brings you round, Jack?"
"A little business. A couple of quick charters."
"No offense," Frank said, "but since it's you, I gotta ask: how legal we talking 'bout?"
Jack shrugged. "Not terribly zflegal."
"Not no RICCO-level shit where we could get our assets froze, I hope. That would be a bummer."
"No-no," Jack said. "Not even close. More legal than the last time. Promise."
"Reckon we can handle that," Joe said. "What's up?"
11
Doug Gleason congratulated himself as he left Dr. Alcott's office in Great Neck and walked toward his car. Another once formidable barrier had fallen. He'd penetrated Dr. Alcott's perimeter defenses and actually got to sit down with the man. A coup among sales reps.
Doug had never seen himself as a salesman but had thrown himself into the job to see what he could wring from it. He'd approached it as he would a programming problem, establishing object relationships and then functionally decomposing them. His applied system had met with resounding success.
In Doug's two years on the job, the most important truth he'd discovered was that knowing all the receptionists' first names, knowing the names of all their children and grandchildren, burbling at their baby pictures, smiling for them until you thought your cheeks were going to cramp, did not guarantee you a sit-down with the doctor. You needed the secret weapon.
Food.
A crumb cake or bagels and cream cheese in the morning or pizzas and subs at noon and, for the battle-hardened veterans who manned Dr. Alcott's front lines, the afternoon coup de grace: chocolate-covered strawberries.
Those had done it. The guardians of the gate had hoisted the white flag and all but demanded that their boss give that nice young Mr. Gleason five minutes.
Doug stowed his sample case in the trunk, then slipped into the front seat of his company car—more of a business office on wheels, actually. In addition to the indispensable cellular phone, he had a cellular fax, a cellular modem for his laptop computer, and a small inkjet printer.
He checked his cell phone—not wanting to be interrupted in Alcott's office, he'd turned it off—and the display told him he had voice mail. The message was from a pharmacist in Sheepshead Bay wanting to know where he could return some TriCef that was going out of date.
Doug wondered about that as he returned the call. TriCef had been out a couple of years now, long enough to start hitting its initial expiration dates, but with the way it was selling, there shouldn't be any of those old batches left.
When he got the pharmacist on the line, Doug identified himself and said, "So what did you do, lose a bottle in the back of one of your cabinets?"
"Not at all," the man said with a vaguely Jamaican-sounding voice. "TriCef simply isn't moving for me."
"Top-selling branded cephalosporin in the country."
"Yes, I read Pharmaceutical Forum too, but it's not moving in my place. Same with most of the other pharmacies around here. Only a couple of our docs have ever written for it."
Troubled, Doug gave the pharmacist directions for returning his outdated stock directly to the company and said good-bye.
Was this a trend? Were sales of TriCef slowing? Not
according to his commission checks. But GEM commissions were based on dollar amounts shipped rather than number of prescriptions written. And GEM did its own distribution, so it was right on top of product flow. If sales were slowing, his checks would be shrinking.
So Sheepshead Bay had to be an anomaly.
But an anomaly was a glitch, and the programmer regions of Doug's brain abhorred glitches. He opened the pharmacy section of his computer's address book and made some random calls. First three, then five, then a dozen. Each pharmacy had the same story.
TriCef wasn't selling well. Had never sold well.
Unsettling, but only a bit. Because this didn't make sense. Somebody was buying it. GEM's profits were on target and the stock price was steady.
He wondered what the head honchos would say about it. As top salesman in a small company, he'd met all three. He didn't particularly care for any of them—and couldn't figure Nadia's near worship of Monnet—but at least they'd been reasonably accessible. Until lately. Over the past months they'd grown increasingly withdrawn, all but moving into their fortresslike boardroom.
Was something going on? Something he should know?
Doug knew this little mystery would keep nipping at his ankles until he solved it. Maybe it was something Nadia should know as well.
Nadj… that was another mystery. How had he lucked onto her? Every day he awoke thankful that he'd found her and that she somehow, miraculously, cared for him.
He had planned to knock off early today anyway. Why not spend some of the afternoon looking into it? He had hours before he was to meet Nadj for dinner. That should be enough. He was an expert with the investigating tool he planned to use: his computer.
He was sure there was a logical explanation, but at the moment he couldn't imagine what it could be.
But if it was findable, he'd find it. He smiled as he started the car. This could be fun.
12
"How many old tires can you scrape together?" Jack said into the phone in the Ashe brothers' office.
He'd come to terms with Frank and Joe on the when and how of the delivery; now he had to arrange for the payload. For that he'd called Sal Vituolo.
"Old tires?" Sal said. "Christ, I got tires up the freakin' wazoo. They ain't good for nothin' though, 'cept maybe dumpin' in the ocean."
"I've got another use for them. Can you put together a truckload?"
"You kiddin'? I can put together two or three. What you gonna do with a buncha old tires?"
"Trust me—you're going to love it. Pile them in the back of your biggest truck and I'll be by later to pick them up."
"This got something to do with the little matter we talked about earlier?"
"It do."
"Awright! You got 'em!"
As Jack hung up he wondered what sadistic uses Sal was imagining for those tires. He turned to Frank and Joe.
"It's a go."
Frank grinned through his droopy mustache. "Gotta hand it to you, Jack, you sure do come up with some fun stuff."
"Boy's downright evil," Joe drawled.
They sealed the deal with a handshake; then Jack headed back to the car. Gia and Vicky had seen all they wanted of the aircraft and were waiting for him. He reminded himself to call Nadia when he got back and let her know that her fix-it was being cofinanced by another party, so she'd only have to pay half the usual fee. Sal, however, would pay full fare.
He threw an arm around Gia and kissed her. He was feeling very good about the day.
"Why are you smiling?" Gia said.
"Just glad to see you."
"Uh-uh," she said. "You've got that cat-after-a-canary-casserole look."
"Well, I did just solve a little problem that's been nagging me."
"Does it involve a certain Serb?"
"It do."
"I don't want to know about it," she said, slipping in behind the wheel. "I just want to know if you'll be in danger."
"Not this time. This gig will be strictly arm's length."
At least it'll start out that way, he thought. Things go right, it'll stay that way. But when was the last time everything went right?
13
Doug was not his usual gabby self at dinner. Nadia watched him push his chiles rellenos back and forth across his plate while his Corona went flat. All around them in the Lost Coyote Cafe people were laughing, talking, calling across the room to friends, but their table was an island of silence.
"Earth to Doug," Nadia said. "Earth calling Douglas Gleason, are you there?"
He snapped his head up and straightened in the seat, ran a hand through his sandy hair, and smiled. "Sorry. Just thinking."
"About what? Something wrong?"
"I'm not sure," he said.
His blue eyes held hers as he told her about the call from the pharmacist this afternoon and the other calls he'd made.
Nadia's last sip of her margarita soured on her tongue. "Is the company in trouble?"
"That was my first thought," he said. "And it occurred to me that maybe it wasn't such a good idea for both of our incomes to depend on the same source. If something goes wrong with GEM, we could both be out of work."
If something goes wrong with GEM... She didn't want to think about that. She'd just started…
"But you said that magazine, what was it called?"
"Pharmaceutical Forum."
"Right. Didn't it say that TriCef was tops in its class?"
Doug nodded. "But it's a lie."
Nadia tensed. "How can you know?"
He glanced around, looking furtive, then leaned forward. "My company laptop hooks into the GEM system to let me download my data, email, and new information on the product line directly, and upload my contact reports. I spent a few hours this afternoon using that entree to hack into other areas of the GEM network."
She gasped and reached across the table to grab his hand. "Doug, you could go to jail for that!"
"Maybe, maybe not. I don't know. It's not as if I was trying to crash their system or anything. My company laptop puts me on the other side of their fire wall, so I'm not really breaking in. But I didn't push things. I was very careful. If I ran into a secure area, I tried to sneak past rather than break through."
"This sounds dangerous."
He sipped his Corona. "But what was I going to do, Nadj? I couldn't just sit around wondering and not do something to find out. You know me."
Yes, Nadia knew Doug. Once he sank his teeth into a problem, he wouldn't let go until he'd solved it. She'd seen him stay up for forty-eight hours straight resolving a programming glitch.
"And obviously you learned something you're not supposed to know."
"Yeah. I broke into the sales master files." He glanced around the little restaurant. "I guess I'm not such a great salesman after all. My sales figures for TriCef stink. The only consolation is that I'm not alone—the entire sales force has tanked on TriCef."
She could feel his hurt. "But your commission checks—"
"Inflated. Just like everyone else's."
"But that doesn't make sense!"
He sighed. "Tell me about it."
"So the company's in big trouble?"
His eyes fixed her again. "That's just it: the company's bottom line is fine. TriCef is a major hit overseas, doing gangbusters business. The dollar amounts are staggering."
"So much so that they can pay you commissions on antibiotics you haven't sold?"
"Apparently, yes. But why the discrepancies between the real and published sales figures? Why are Pharmaceutical Forum's figures so inflated?"
"Obviously, to hide the fact that TriCef is a flop in the U.S."
"But it's a monster overseas. What's the point?"
Nadia shrugged. 'To protect the stock price?"
"I don't see that. They're operating in the black."
"How about company pride?" Nadia knew Dr. Monnet was a very proud man. But would he involve himself in a deception of this magnitude? Surely he valued his personal reputation more than
the company's.
"You might have something there," Doug said after a swallow of beer. He picked up a blue corn chip and dipped it in the salsa. "GEM started as a generic company. TriCef is their first time out competing against the big boys and they want to look like winners."
"I'm sure that's it."
"Well, I'm not that sure. I've still got a few questions that need answering." He grinned. "Let's go to my place when we're done. I'll make you into a hacker."
Nadia forced a smile. "OK."
She knew Doug would gnaw this bone till he was satisfied no morsel remained to be gleaned from it, and she had an uneasy feeling she should stick as close as possible to him on this.
14
The front section of Ozymandias Prather's trailer served as the business office for the Oddity Emporium. Luc Monnet sat inside and glanced at his watch. Almost time.
He'd been enormously relieved to learn that the creature was still alive.
He looked around the tiny office: a rickety desk, two chairs, and no room for much else. The rear section, Prather's living quarters, Luc presumed, was curtained off. Curiosity about the lifestyle of this strange man with an even stranger business nudged him to take a peek, but he resisted. He was not a snoop.
Nothing wrong with perusing the walls of the business office, though. It was papered with old posters and flyers, one particularly old one mentioning a Jacob Prather and his "Infernal Machine." Prather's father, perhaps? Behind the desk was a map of the U.S. with a planned route that circled the country.
"Find anything interesting?" said a deep voice behind him.
Luc jumped. He hadn't heard Prather come in. He moved quietly for such a big man. Luc didn't turn but continued looking at the map.
"You've played in all these places already this year?" Luc said.
"That is a future route card," Prather said. "A dream of mine… for when I've gathered the proper troupe—the ultimate troupe, one might say—of handpicked performers. That will be the tour to end all tours."
Something in his voice made Luc turn. Prather's eyes were bright under his lanky hair; his grin looked… hungry.
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