Shoofly Pie & Chop Shop: 2 Bugman Novels in 1

by Tim Downs

  “You’re going to humiliate me, aren’t you?”

  “I’m going to get you on the boat,” Nick said. “Whether or not you’re humiliated is up to you.”

  She gave him a searing stare.

  “Let’s look at this thing logically,” he said. “As you pointed out, we can’t just knock on the side of the boat. And we can’t very well throw grappling hooks over the side and climb aboard either. One way or the other, they have to invite us to join them. Now I asked myself, what would make them do that? There are boats all around here, and no one’s inviting them to join the party. And then it occurred to me: What if we were in distress? It’s the first rule of the sea: Boaters always stop to help others in distress.”

  “What kind of distress? You mean like losing an oar?”

  “That hardly qualifies as ‘distress.’ They could just hand us a spare oar.”

  “What are we supposed to do, set the boat on fire?”

  “A fire? On a boat with no engine? That makes sense. ‘Excuse me, can you help us out? We seem to have spontaneously combusted here.’”

  “Then what?”

  “It has to be genuine distress. Our situation has to be desperate, immediate, irreversible.”

  “Nick—are you suggesting that we jump in the water?”

  “Of course not—If we fell in the water, we could climb right back into the boat again. Unless, of course, the boat wasn’t here anymore.”

  Riley looked at him in horror. “Nick, do you know what you’re saying?”

  He nodded. “You’re going to lose your fifty-dollar deposit at the marina.”

  For the first time, Riley looked at Nick’s clothing. He wore a beaten pair of loafers broken down toward the insteps, and he had no socks. He wore a crumpled pair of khakis and a faded navy sports coat that showed white threads around the sleeves and collar.

  “Look at you! The water would improve that outfit! But look at me—I’m wearing silk! Do you have any idea what this thing would look like wet?”

  “It’ll give us just the right touch of pathos. After all, who would help us if we fell in in our swimsuits? It’s only fifty yards to shore.”

  “Turn the boat around,” she demanded.

  Nick released the oars, folded his arms across his chest, and cocked his head to one side. “I think it’s time for my ‘Commitment’ speech,” he said. “Whose cause is this anyway? Who’s helping who here? How is it that I seem to be more committed to your cause than you are?”

  “I am committed—but not like this. There must be other options.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “We can meet with Truett some other way.”

  “How? I tried to make an actual appointment—not a chance, unless you’ve got an extra million dollars in your back pocket. I tried to drop in on him yesterday morning—he’s got tighter security than the governor. We have to catch him when he’s standing still, and a man like that is rarely standing still—except when he’s on this boat, where he was certain to be on the Fourth of July. So here we are, and there he is. What do you want to do, Riley? It’s your call.”

  She said nothing.

  “OK,” Nick said, “I didn’t want to have to resort to this, but you leave me no choice. I dare you, Riley. You gutless pretender, I double-dog dare you.”

  Riley’s eyes narrowed to slits. She shoved her purse between her legs and grasped the sides of the boat with both hands. “I had to hire you,” she growled.

  Nick held on too. “You get what you pay for,” he said.

  On the count of three, they turned the boat over and plunged into the darkness.

  Hey! A little help down here!”

  Nick and Riley bobbed in the water beside the PharmaGen yacht, just out from under the shadow of the hull, where they could be easily spotted by any of the guests on board. Beside them the overturned rowboat still floated, its ribbed aluminum bottom level with the surface of the water. Riley kicked, and one of her slides slipped off and disappeared beneath her.

  “What if nobody hears us?” Riley said.

  “Remember Cortez,” Nick said. “There’s no turning back now.”

  “Ho there! Need some help?”

  Nick slowly turned in the water; behind them, a sixteen-foot Sylvan bass boat nodded in the water like a small bar of soap.

  “Take us in a little closer, Doris! Move that cooler and make room for these folks!” The one barking orders, a large-bellied man with a full beard, reached over the port side and extended an aluminum gaff.

  “No thanks,” Nick said.

  “What? You’re kidding. Grab ahold now.”

  “No, really. We’re OK.”

  “You just felt like taking a swim? What about your boat there?”

  “Look, do you mind? We’d like to be rescued by a better class of people.”

  Doris shrugged and gunned the engine, drowning out the big man’s colorful farewell as the bass boat motored away.

  “What’s the problem down there?” came a voice from above them.

  “We had a little accident,” Riley called back.

  “Are you both all right? Is anyone injured?”

  “We’re OK—we just lost our ride.”

  “Swim around to the stern, then. I’ll lower the swim platform. Climb on and I’ll bring you aboard.”

  “There, now,” Nick said in a low voice. “That wasn’t so bad.”

  “Shut up,” Riley whispered back.

  They worked their way around to the stern, which seemed to take forever in the dark water. Riley curled her toes as she kicked in a vain attempt to hold on to her remaining shoe, but it was a hopeless task, and she finally allowed it to drift away in search of its mate. They could hear the hiss of a hydraulic lift; by the time they reached the stern, the swim platform was level with the surface of the water.

  Nick grabbed one of the projecting handles and pulled himself up into a sitting position, facing away from the boat. Riley looked up at the small crowd gathered on the aft deck to observe their entrance. She glanced down at the front of her silk dress, then reached for the handle and dragged herself onto the fiberglass facedown.

  “That was graceful,” Nick said. “You look like Shamu.”

  “Do you mind? I’m trying to salvage a little dignity here.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  The platform immediately began to rise, and after a few seconds it locked into place again. The gate to the aft deck swung open, and a young man slid down the railing to the platform below.

  “Everybody OK? What happened out there?”

  “We were hoping to see the fireworks,” Nick said. “I warned her not to stand up.”

  “You can watch the fireworks with us,” he said. “I’m Tucker Truett, and you’re my guests. Let’s get you out of those wet clothes.”

  “Nick Polchak,” Nick said, shaking Truett’s hand. His grip was fast and powerful. Truett stood eye to eye with Nick, but he was even broader in the shoulders and much thicker in the arms and chest. “This is Riley McKay.” Truett turned and smiled at Riley, who stood with her arms pinned across her chest. He did not extend his hand.

  Truett’s face was square and very lean; when he turned, Nick could see the veins in his temples and the sinewy lines of his jaw. His eyes were a pale cerulean blue, and his tight, wavy hair glistened under the last of the stadium lights. He was barefoot, and his long toes seemed to almost grip the deck. He wore crisp white slacks with knife-edge pleats, and his black poplin shirt hung open to reveal a single strand of gold. Black and gold—the symbolism wasn’t missed by Nick, nor would it be by anyone else in Pittsburgh. Tucker Truett was handsome, powerful, and he exuded confidence. He was an electrified, neon billboard for the city of steel—and for a rising new company called PharmaGen.

  They were joined now by some of the other guests, who gathered around them with towels and long terry bathrobes monogrammed with the PharmaGen logo. Three elegantly clad women ushered Riley below deck. Nick stripped off his o
wn dripping jacket and shirt, pulled on a bathrobe, then dropped his khakis around his ankles and kicked them away. He followed Truett up the steps to the aft deck and exchanged brief pleasantries with two other men, who then descended to the salon to check the satellite TV for the starting time of the fireworks display. Truett stepped to a refrigerator in the cockpit, opened it, and handed Nick an Iron City Beer.

  “Thanks,” Nick said. “Nice boat.”

  “It’s a yacht,” Truett said. “Technically, a yacht is any vessel that carries another boat on board. We carry a spare.”

  “I could have used a spare tonight. Is this yours?”

  “It belongs to my company—PharmaGen. Ever heard of it?”

  “Who hasn’t? As a matter of fact, I stopped by your office the other day to join your Keystone Club—but you’d have no way of knowing that, would you?”

  “Nope. I’m proud to say, you’re just a number to us. But thanks for helping out.”

  “A population study of half a million—that’s a researcher’s dream.”

  “It’s an IT’s nightmare—but that’s part of the challenge. This company is built on information.”

  “Funny,” Nick said. “I would have said your company is built on trust.” He ran his hand over the cool white fiberglass hull. “What’s a boat—sorry, what’s a yacht like this worth anyway?”

  “With the extras? About two million.”

  “That must have taken a sizable bite out of your venture capital. What did your board of directors have to say about it?”

  “It was their idea.” Truett cocked his head and looked at Nick more closely. “What do you do for a living, Mr. Polchak?”

  “It’s Doctor Polchak—I have a PhD. Technically, a PhD is anyone who carries a student loan the size of a yacht. I’m just a lowly professor from the backwater state of North Carolina.”

  “My, aren’t we humble,” Truett said.

  “Humility is a nice quality, don’t you think?”

  “Not in my business. This yacht is almost twice the size of anything on the three rivers, and that’s no accident. Been to a Bucs game lately, Dr. Polchak? What do you suppose it cost PNC Bank to put their name on that stadium? This yacht sits right here every weekend, and especially for every home game. We always turn the stern to face the park, and there hasn’t been a game yet where the JumboTron didn’t show the PharmaGen logo to thirty-eight thousand fans.”

  “When was the last time the Pirates had thirty-eight thousand fans?” Nick peered into the cockpit. The Euro-styled captain’s chair looked like something from the bridge of the starship Enterprise. The instrument console was covered in high-gloss mahogany burl, and a soft blue light glowed from the radar and navigational monitors. “So this is all for advertising? Wouldn’t a billboard have been cheaper?”

  “This yacht is worth twice what we paid for it. The PharmaGen doesn’t just sit in the river, Dr. Polchak; it dominates the river. We own the river, just as we will soon own the field of personalized medicine. As you said, this business is built on trust—on public confidence. You don’t ask a man to invest by telling him, ‘Someday we hope to be successful.’ You tell him, ‘We’re successful now, and if you don’t get on board you’ll be left behind.’”

  “Are you successful now? Where exactly are you in your population study? How close are you to your goal of half a million volunteers?”

  “The research doesn’t have to wait for half a million volunteers,” Truett said. “Are you familiar with the Marshfield Clinic in Wisconsin? They’re doing similar research, and their goal is only forty thousand volunteers—that’s enough to produce statistically significant results. We have eight times that many now, and our research is well under way. It’s a progressive effort: as the population study grows, so do the scope of the research and the reliability of the conclusions we draw. Once again, Dr. Polchak, it’s all about confidence. Our study is so massive, so far beyond anything anyone else has attempted, that we will virtually swamp the competition.”

  “Big yachts swamp little boats,” Nick said. “But size isn’t everything; quickness counts. What if one of the little guys beats you to market with a product? And what about FDA approval, how long will that take? Just how far are you from a marketable product, Mr. Truett?”

  Truett smiled.

  “I know,” Nick said. “Very, very close.”

  Just then, Riley emerged from the stateroom below. She was still barefoot, but she was now dressed in loose-fitting slacks and a breezy, open blouse with a camisole underneath. The clothes were casual, but very expensive; she was better dressed now than before her dive into the Allegheny. She stepped onto the aft deck, rubbing at her hair with a white terry towel. “Thanks for the hospitality,” she said.

  “Feeling better, Ms. McKay?”

  “Much. I appreciate the clothes; I’ll get them back to you.”

  “Keep them. Dana has plenty—I make sure of that.”

  “By the way,” Nick said, “it’s Doctor McKay.”

  “Another doctor? With all that education between you, you’d think you two would be better sailors.”

  “We all have our specialties,” Nick said. “What’s your specialty, Mr. Truett?”

  “Vision, Dr. Polchak. I am an evangelist.”

  “And just what is your vision?” Riley asked.

  “I see a world where no one ever dies from an adverse drug reaction; where physicians have an entire range of medicines to choose from to treat a deadly disease; where medications target tumors like smart bombs and leave surrounding tissues unharmed; where genetic susceptibility to disease can be determined in childhood, and possibly even prevented.”

  “Right out of the brochure,” Nick said. “Where are the fireworks when you need them?”

  “Why, Dr. Polchak—you sound like a cynic.”

  “Cynicism is the ugly cousin of humility, Mr. Truett. I don’t think much of myself, but then I don’t think much of anyone in your species either.”

  “My species?”

  “What about you?” Riley cut in. “Surely you have a little personal vision in all this somewhere?”

  “You bet I do. I see a world where patients think of medicines the way they think of coffee: they want it strong, they want it made their way, and they want it now—and PharmaGen will be there to serve the coffee. I see a world where aging baby boomers will pay anything to have the latest, strongest, and most personal medication. In other words, Dr. McKay, I see dollar signs—and I’m not ashamed to say it. I raised seventy million dollars to start this venture, and I plan to make a whole lot more in return. My goal is not to make money; my goal is to succeed—but if I succeed, the money will follow.”

  Nick watched him as he spoke. Truett would talk about PharmaGen all night, Nick thought. He was the genuine item, a true believer. He had willingly answered each of their questions, ignoring his invited guests for the opportunity to defend his dream to a couple of perfect strangers. His conviction and enthusiasm were hypnotic; he cast vision the way a dog sheds water, catching everyone within his reach. Maybe the yacht was worth two million, who knows? One thing was for certain—Tucker Truett was worth a whole lot more.

  “I wonder if you know an associate of mine,” Riley said. “Dr. Nathan Lassiter?”

  “One of our early investors,” Truett said. “A visionary himself.”

  “Oh? How so?”

  “Most people invest their money in bits and pieces, a little here and a little there. They’re trying to avoid risk—but that’s investing out of fear, Dr. McKay, and that’s no way to live. Life is a gamble, and you have to roll the dice. Dr. Lassiter is a visionary, he can see the future—our future. He placed his money on PharmaGen, and he was wise to do so.”

  “The dice don’t always come up the way you want.”

  Truett smiled. “It’s my job to see that they do.”

  One of the other guests emerged from the stateroom now, a young woman almost as long and as sleek as the yacht itself. She was the l
ady in red, the one they had glimpsed from the water below. Nick watched her; she moved smoothly, silently, flowing like the river around them. She leaned up against Truett, slipped an arm behind him, and nuzzled his ear—but Truett showed no awareness of her presence. She’s an early investor too, Nick thought, but the return on her investment wasn’t yet clear.

  “Speaking of risk,” Nick said. “What about this Keystone Club?”

  “What about it?”

  “You’re asking people to give you a sample of their DNA—but no one really knows just how much information is locked up in the DNA molecule. We can read a certain amount of it today, but tomorrow we may find a way to unlock an entire library of genetic information about the individual.”

  “That’s what we’re hoping for; it means that even more extensive research will be possible.”

  “It also means that people have no way to know what they’re really giving you. It’s like asking them to sign a blank check.”

  “But the check is not from their personal account. Don’t forget, Dr. Polchak, they give this gift anonymously. No one knows who you are.”

  “Yes—’PharmaGen promises complete confidentiality.’ That’s a big promise, Mr. Truett.”

  “As you said, this whole thing is built on trust.”

  Nick slowly folded his arms across his chest. “So I give you infinite knowledge of my genetic makeup, and in return you promise to keep it a secret—is that the trade? You called yourself an evangelist—if I remember my Latin, the word means ‘messenger of good news.’ You definitely are a messenger, Mr. Truett, the best I’ve ever seen. My question is: are you sure this is good news?”

  Truett let out a laugh. He pulled the lady in red in close and planted a kiss on her, as though he just now became aware of her existence. She was a prop, Nick thought, just a visual aid in his presentation, and this was his way of making a transition. He was sprinkling pixie dust on everyone, trying to lift the ship out of troubled waters.

  “I understand that you two might have some cautions about all this,” he said. “I find that better-educated people often do. That’s why, early on, PharmaGen established an ethics advisory board to advise us on controversial issues like genetic privacy.”