by Ray Garton
After Sally’s death, their small Craftsman house in an attractive, quiet neighborhood at the southern end of Santa Vermelha seemed much larger than it had before, and far too quiet. Falczek considered moving, but simply wasn’t up to the effort that would require. He’d spent those first few months looking for any excuse to get out of the house, and sometimes he left even when no excuse could be found. Doug’s arrival made the house more tolerable. The clicking of his nails on the hardwood floors created a coziness the place had lacked since Sally’s death, and his companionship made Falczek feel less lonely. He sometimes thought about how important Doug had become to him over the years, and those thoughts always brought with them a dread of the dog’s inevitable death.
As they walked along Sutter Street, a siren wailed in the distance and grew nearer. Doug stopped walking and turned his head to Falczek with a sidelong look that seemed to say, You know what that means, don’t you?
Falczek said, “Ignore it and it’ll pass.”
But Doug couldn’t ignore it. The dog lifted his face to the sky and howled along with the siren’s plaintive wail.
Falczek stepped around Doug and walked on, tugging on the leash. “Come on, fella, knock it off and let’s go.”
Doug stopped howling as the siren faded and walked along with Falczek for a moment before trotting ahead to take the lead.
Falczek’s cell phone chirped and vibrated at the same time in his pocket. He flipped it open and checked the ID. It was Lionel Renquist.
“Renny,” he said.
“I hope I’m not interrupting your dinner.”
“Not at all. I’m walking the dog.”
“Is that a euphemism for something naughty?”
“No, I’m actually taking my dog for a walk. It’s a little late there in Washington, isn’t it?”
“For me? Don’t be silly. I made a couple of calls for you.”
“I appreciate that, Renny.”
“What on earth inspired you to ask about this, anyway? Are you taking an antidepressant now?”
“No, not me. I have a doctor friend, and he has a patient who can’t get his medication because, for some reason, none of the local pharmacies can get it in stock. There aren’t any satisfactory reasons at this end, and you know how useless it is to deal with company reps and PR people. As a favor to my doctor friend, I thought maybe I could learn something from you. So, what’s the story?”
There was a brief silence over the line, then Renny sighed. “Well, I have no—” He paused and fell silent for a moment before continuing. “There is no story, I’m afraid. Just a glitch in the manufacturing.”
Falczek had known Renny for a long time. He disliked the man intensely, but whenever Renny came up in conversation, Falczek always referred to him as his “friend”—a word that was much more convenient and expeditious than accurate. Renny was fine company, a great conversationalist, an excellent storyteller, and a necessary name on the guest list of any Washington, D.C. party that harbored any hope of being successful. Renny himself threw memorable parties, and anyone not invited had reason to worry about his or her social standing. The problem was that Renny had been born without a conscience. Those who had the misfortune of falling out of his favor speculated that he’d been born without a soul.
Renny gave meaning to a phrase Falczek’s grandmother used to mutter quietly in reference to people she didn’t like, a saying that had made him laugh as a boy: “He wasn’t born,” she’d say, “the devil shat him in flight.” Lionel Renquist was vindictive, petty, selfish, and utterly without scruples—and those were only the things Falczek had been aware of during his years in D.C. His feelings toward Renny became even more bitter after something Sally had told him shortly before she died, something that had broken Falczek’s heart and had been almost as difficult to get over as her death.
Back in D.C., he’d had many long conversations with Renny over countless bottles of scotch, and Renny had dropped plenty of pure gold nuggets of information into Falczek’s lap, always indirectly, always disguised as something else. When Renny gossiped with the wives he knew, Falczek guessed they probably spoke very openly, naming names without euphemistic caution. But with Falczek, Renny had always spoken in a kind of code that had taken awhile to learn. Getting information out of Renny was a little like playing poker—unless it was damaging information about someone who had annoyed him, in which case it flowed like champagne on New Year’s Eve, though always in Renny’s code.
While learning that code, Falczek had become familiar with Renny’s idiosyncrasies, with the little tells that accompanied his vaguely-worded stories. He learned how to tell when Renny was uncomfortable with a topic, or was being evasive, or simply lying. Renny lied often and well, so it had taken awhile to figure out the signs. There were changes in eye contact and posture, but mostly in Renny’s voice. He was from Georgia and some of that graceful drawl remained in his speech. His slightly crooked mouth was always set in a smirk, which sometimes spread into a sly smile. He spoke quietly, slowly, and eloquently, always calm and so relaxed that he sometimes appeared to be on the verge of dozing off. Renny never raised his voice or became anything more than slightly, quietly annoyed. But the farther he moved from the truth, the more clipped his words became, the higher his pitch got, the more tense his whiskey-smooth voice became, and the more he paused and sighed. His words became fractured—he’d start a sentence, stop a moment, then restart it differently. Renny’s casual lies were one thing, but Falczek had learned that when he was lying specifically to cover something up or to protect himself, the signs were more pronounced.
As the evening darkened and Doug rounded the corner they usually took onto Clifton Street, Falczek frowned and chewed on his lower lip, because he knew Renny was lying. More importantly, he was covering something up, hiding something.
Remembering Everett’s reason for not believing the story given for the mysteriously unavailable antidepressant, Falczek said, “I find that hard to believe, Renny. In the unlikely event that an unforeseen manufacturing glitch popped up that hadn’t been thoroughly prepared for in advance, a big pharmaceutical beast like Braxton-Carville would clean it up fast, before it became a problem. Certainly before it resulted in any lost revenue.”
“You’re an expert on the workings of pharmaceutical companies now?” Renny said with a little ice in his voice.
It was so slight, it wouldn’t have been noticed by anyone who didn’t know Renny well, but Falczek thought the sudden chill in his voice was significant.
“Who told you it was a manufacturing glitch?” Falczek asked.
Renny’s sigh sounded like a summer breeze passing through the branches of a willow tree. “Someone... who would know.”
“Your friend, right? What did you say her name was? Laura? No, it was Lauren, wasn’t it? Lauren Parks, right?”
“Oh, what does it... what difference does it make?”
Falczek said nothing for a moment. Renny fell silent, too, which was unusual. He didn’t like conversational dead air and had always been able to fill it with a new topic of discussion or an amusing anecdote. Now he said nothing.
“There’s something you’re not telling me, Renny.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Knowing you for almost thirty years, for one thing. Paaxone is unavailable. At least, it’s unavailable to the people who are taking it here in California. I can’t believe that a major pharmaceutical corporation like Braxton-Carville would allow something like that to happen.”
“I’m sure the problem will be remedied very soon,” Renny said, once again sounding like his old self. “For all I know... how do you know it hasn’t been remedied already?”
“No, it hasn’t been remedied. I’ve looked into it, asked around. This is more than just a glitch, Renny. The drug has disappeared, and the manufacturer seems to be completely unconcerned about it.”
Renny sighed again. “Look, all I know is what I’ve told you,” he said, pitch
climbing again. “Neither of us knows any more than that, so I... well, I can’t see the value in speculating that... that the manufacturer is... why would the manufacturer be unconcerned? You don’t know that.”
“But Renny, you know as well as I do that a glitch would be—”
”What do you want me to tell you?” Renny snapped loudly. “What do you want me to say?”
Falczek flinched and his feet scraped the sidewalk as he came to a halt. Doug pulled the leash taut and turned around. He gave Falczek a look that asked, What’s the holdup?
Renny sighed, and in a voice that nearly reached falsetto heights, he said, “Falczek, I just... I can’t... this is not a priority for me, all right? I don’t know what to tell you. If you don’t like that, then I’m sorry, but this is not on my radar right now.”
“You okay, Renny? Is everything—”
”Of course I’m okay!” The words were spoken loudly, but not convincingly.
Falczek was startled. He’d heard Renny shout only once before, and that had been under very tense circumstances—a situation Falczek did not like to remember because of the guilt it stirred in him.
Renny went on: “You’re the one who doesn’t seem... maybe you’re not okay, Falczek. You’re the one who, who’s asking about ridiculous things that... they have no basis in...” He stopped and sighed again. “I have to go, Falczek. I’m busy this evening. We’ll talk again.”
The connection was severed with a soft click.
He stood there on the sidewalk for a moment, frowning at his cell phone. Maybe Renny was having some personal problems he didn’t know about. Maybe he was in ill health. He was more than ten years older than Falczek, putting him in his late sixties, and he had a history of kidney problems. Maybe those problems had returned and were getting the better of him. But Falczek doubted it. Renny had always been a fiercely private person and quite adept at keeping his problems to himself, never letting them alter his mood or darken his demeanor.
No, this was something else, something new. Something that was somehow related to Falczek’s questions. Obviously, Renny didn’t want to answer them because they might lead to answers he didn’t want to give. His odd behavior might have been because he felt cornered. He knew Falczek had the leverage to make him answer those questions if he chose to use it, and that no doubt bothered him. Renny probably doubted Falczek would ever do such a thing because Renny seemed to think himself untouchable—or to think everyone was too afraid to touch him—but still, the possibility existed. Years ago, Falczek had witnessed something at Renny’s house. Something bad. That had been the one time he’d known Renny to shout. At the time, Falczek had been afraid to do anything about it, and his failure to act had haunted him ever since. But even now, it was still something that could create a storm of trouble for Renny if it got out, and Falczek was willing to use it to get the information he wanted.
Falczek wasn’t afraid, but he got the feeling Renny was. He wondered why. And he wondered what was going on with Paaxone that Braxton-Carville was covering up. Whatever it was, Renny knew something about it.
Falczek felt something in his abdomen that he hadn’t felt in years. It was a growing tension that almost became a cramp, as if he had gas or was experiencing bowel problems. But he knew it was neither of those things. It was the feeling he used to get in his newspaper days whenever he stumbled onto something that he suspected had more to it than he was seeing, something that would become more complex and fascinating on closer examination. In other words, a story.
Doug had been sitting on his haunches watching Falczek, waiting patiently for their walk to continue. The dog ran out of patience. He stood on all fours and barked once.
“Okay, okay,” Falczek said, putting his cell phone back in his pocket. He walked on with Doug. But now he frowned, deep in thought, preoccupied with questions he couldn’t answer, and the answers he wanted to find.
2.
The next morning, Wednesday, Eli woke up very early, well before Chloe’s alarm went off. Chloe was still asleep, lying on her side facing away from him. He looked at her smooth, pale back and resisted the urge to touch her, deciding to let her sleep until the alarm sounded. Normally, it took a few minutes for him to come out of sleep, but he was wide awake and alert. He knew there was no chance of catching a little more sleep.
He got out of bed, put on his robe and went into the bathroom. He stood at the sink and faced the mirrored medicine cabinet. With a growing sense of apprehension, he opened the cabinet and took the orange bottle from the shelf. He opened it and tipped the yellow pill into his left palm.
Eli frowned at it for awhile. Then he held a glass under the faucet for a moment and drank down his last Paaxone.
Chapter 7
The Hook
1.
Ten hours after his brief, odd phone conversation with Renny, Falczek was on an early plane heading for Chicago, and after changing planes there, he would go on to Washington, D.C. He hadn’t been there since he and Sally had moved to Santa Vermelha. The idea of going back without her made his gut feel hollowed out. They’d met, dated, and married there, raised a family there. Going back made him feel Sally’s absence more acutely.
He’d been rereading Catch-22 for the last half hour—he hadn’t read it in at least 30 years—but his eyes were growing tired, so he closed the book and put it in the empty seat next to him. Tired of the mind-deadening thrum of the plane, he put on the headphones and browsed the channels until he found one playing Sinatra, then leaned back and closed his eyes.
Falczek’s phone call with Renny had set his mind racing. For the rest of his evening walk with Doug, he’d been unable to think of anything but whatever it was that Renny wasn’t telling him. Renny was an inveterate gossip and Falczek had never known him to hold back when he knew something. There had to be a reason for Renny’s discomfort. He knew something about the disappearance of Paaxone that, for some reason, he felt he could not share. That had the same effect on Falczek as catnip on a tabby.
In the past, Renny had dropped all kinds of information he wasn’t even supposed to know, let alone pass on. He’d always used his informal little code, never saying anything directly, always dancing around it with plausible deniability in one hand and a sign in the other that read, “I know something you don’t!” His abruptness and irritability during their phone conversation was so uncharacteristic that it told Falczek he not only didn’t want to talk about Paaxone, he was afraid to talk about it. It was so striking that Falczek made the decision to fly to D.C. and meet with Renny only minutes after hanging up.
He’d been thinking about getting back to work for the last few years. He did not consider his occasional scribbling for the Santa Vermelha Journal to be work—it was a distraction. Work was a story that buried a hook in his gut and pulled him along irresistibly. He hadn’t had that feeling in a long time. Even in the last five years or so of his job at the Post, he’d missed the buzz that came from being seduced by unanswered questions, the adrenaline rush of digging for answers that others didn’t want him to find.
In the last decade or so, news had gotten as soft as a baby’s belly. Celebrity drug habits, politicians’ sex secrets, missing children, and everything from fashion to primetime television had eclipsed all the things Falczek considered to be news. Real investigative reporting seemed to be a thing of the past. It was almost as if news outlets were afraid to turn their investigative reporters loose on anything important for fear of what they might find. And they certainly wouldn’t want to damage their access by offending any news sources with the truth about anything. News was so competitive now that the loss of access to a source or two could be a real setback. They were also limited by silent, unwritten corporate restrictions that were neither acknowledged nor even denied. Everything was so interconnected now that news outlets and the corporations and financial entities they normally would report on were all part of the same conglomerates, and none of those conglomerates wanted to uncover anything damaging about
any of their holdings, so the nation’s attention was focused on safe targets like gossip and sensation. Old news snoops like Falczek were left with little to do.
Falczek had been a cub reporter at the Post back in the Woodward-and-Bernstein seventies, when investigative reporting was hip and sexy. Back then, he’d made his career by revealing the cover-up of falsified research used to get government approval for a food dye that contained two different carcinogens. He doubted the story would be assigned today, let alone published. In recent years, the Post had been bending over backwards to achieve a political even-handedness. It wanted to please everyone and offend no one. In the process, it had failed to win over its conservative detractors and had lost the interest of its liberal readership, achieving only a bland wishy-washiness that Falczek predicted would bring about its demise in the near future.
After taking Doug for his evening walk the previous night, Falczek had begun making arrangements for a spur-of-the-moment trip. Doug was his first concern, so he called Mrs. Fitch. He had never gotten the hang of housework, but he hated mess and clutter. Mrs. Fitch was a feisty woman about Falczek’s age who cleaned houses to make a little extra money and get out of the house that had been empty since her children had moved out and her husband had dropped dead of a heart attack. She came over twice a week and tidied up, usually bringing him something she’d cooked too much of the night before. He asked her if she’d be willing to take Doug for a few days while he was out of town. She loved the dog and happily agreed to care for him.
