Shoofly Pie & Chop Shop: 2 Bugman Novels in 1

by Tim Downs

  “Your own ethics advisory board? Isn’t that like asking senators to vote for term limits?”

  “Not at all. These are professional bioethicists, very accomplished and well-respected in their fields. They are not employed by PharmaGen, nor are they remunerated by us in any way.”

  “Who sits on this advisory board?”

  “Our founding member was Dr. Ian Paulos. He’s a professor of ethics at Trinity Episcopal School for Ministry over in Ambridge. He’s been with us from the beginning—he helped us shape all of our privacy policies. If you really want to pursue this issue of genetic privacy, you should take it up with him.”

  “Thanks,” Nick said. “I just might do that.”

  To the west, in the distance, there was a cannon retort followed by a booming echo. Three seconds later a brilliant red starburst illuminated the sky, dropping sparkling silver tentacles on every side. It was the signal flare, the opening volley in the Zambelli Family’s annual fireworks extravaganza at the Point. On board the PharmaGen it was all hands on deck now, and the whole group pressed against the starboard railing to witness the aerial display. Each couple pressed tightly together, holding hands and standing side by side or cheek to cheek. Nick glanced at Riley standing stiffly beside him, and he wondered what would happen if he put his arm around her. Not an all-out embrace, not even a perceptible squeeze—just his left hand resting on her left shoulder. What would she do? He took a mental accounting of the night’s activities: he had lured her out to the middle of the Allegheny River in a rowboat, then dumped her in the water; he had caused her to lose her shoes and purse, and had ruined her dress; and he had forced her to stand almost naked and dripping in front of better-dressed women. Nick could imagine her taking out a scalpel and severing his hand at the wrist.

  He glanced at her again. I dare you, Nick said to himself, I double-dog dare you. He lifted his arm and rested it gently across Riley’s shoulders.

  Riley did nothing.

  Nick smiled. “I love fireworks,” he said.

  The PharmaGen’s twin diesels rumbled patiently, holding the boat steady in the water as the lower gates to Lock Number 2 slowly opened upriver. In the cockpit, Tucker Truett watched a handful of pleasure boats cautiously emerge, then gun their engines and curl off, leaving white streaks of foam in the black water behind them. Truett waited for a dozen or so smaller craft to enter the lock before him. It was more than civility that caused him to hold back. When the lock was filled and the great upper gates opened northward, the wake from the PharmaGen’s twin screws could turn smaller boats behind him into floating bumper cars.

  Truett heard the lockmaster’s go-ahead on his marine band radio. He nudged the throttle forward and pulled slowly into the lock, the great swan and her cygnets returning to roost upstream at the Oakmont and Fox Chapel marinas. He tossed a bow and stern line up to the lockmaster to secure his position, and then came the low, grinding sound of hydraulics as the lower gates swung closed behind him.

  Truett had taken the PharmaGen up and downriver through the Allegheny’s locks a hundred times. The process was as second-nature to him as riding an escalator. But this time when the lower gates locked shut behind him, sealed tight by the pressure of the rising water, a strange thought wormed its way into Truett’s mind: Can the doors be reopened? Can the process be reversed? If he lay on his air horn, if he signaled the lockmaster, could he open the massive doors again and allow the PharmaGen to gently back out onto the peaceful lower river?

  When is it too late to change your mind?

  Truett sat alone in the cockpit now, staring silently ahead at the warning pattern on the black upper gates, watching the yellow stripes slowly dip into the water and disappear as the level began to rise. For the next twenty minutes, he had nothing to do but sit and stare and remember.

  “To the ethics advisory board,” Truett said, raising his glass in a toast. “May you keep us on the straight and narrow.”

  “And to fortuitous meetings,” Zohar replied, raising his glass in return. “‘When comets cross, do the skies illumine.’”

  The two men sat across from one another at the S-shaped conference table in PharmaGen’s newly commissioned boardroom. The flowing curves of the table accented the soft, organic shapes of the chairs and other furnishings, all washed in tones of olive and gold and sienna. On the walls, a row of stark black frames featured digital photographs of Heinz Field, PNC Park, and, largest of all, the PharmaGen yacht.

  “I want you to know how much I appreciate your joining our board,” Truett said. “I know what a busy man you are.”

  “I consider it a great privilege.” Zohar smiled. “I’m never too busy to help with a strategic new venture. Perhaps you could tell me a little more about your vision for this board.”

  Truett leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his stomach. “Ultimately, I’d like to have a dozen or so members—well-known, highly respected ethicists like yourself, from all different philosophical perspectives.”

  Zohar smiled. “Then you see this board as largely a public-relations effort. I’m disappointed.”

  “No, not at all,” Truett said. “Our efforts here at PharmaGen are going to raise a lot of concerns about genetic privacy and bioethics. I want to meet those concerns head-on, and I want the ethics advisory board to spearhead that effort.”

  Zohar ran his index finger gently around the rim of his glass. “Have you ever served on an ethics panel yourself?”

  “Can’t say as I have.”

  “Let me tell you how they operate. They always begin very politely, everyone sharing the same goal, colleagues all. Then individual differences in perspective begin to appear—not superficial differences, mind you, but disparities in fundamental philosophical assumptions. Soon each member becomes entrenched in his own position, defending his own precious a priori, becoming more and more intractable and defensive.

  “They’re like a group of travelers who came to a fork in the road long ago, and each chose a different path. Now all they can do is shout to one another to abandon their path and join them on their own. No one is willing, of course; they’ve all traveled far too many miles to turn back now. Soon the members tire of all the bickering and the backbiting, and the panel begins to cool down and collapse like a dying sun. The truth is, Mr. Truett, asking a diverse group of ethicists to form a panel is like asking Congress to have a discussion about politics.”

  Truett rocked slowly back and forth in his chair. “Then what do you suggest?”

  “As I see it, Mr. Truett, I have two things to offer this wonderful venture of yours. First of all, you were very wise to form this ethics advisory board. There will be many concerns, and it will be a tremendous advantage to be able to assure the public that you are addressing them. And you need to address them—but not by collecting a smorgasbord of ethical opinions. As a leader, Mr. Truett, I doubt that you make most of your own decisions by committee; that would bring your company to a grinding halt, now, wouldn’t it? So there’s the dilemma: you need to address ethical concerns, but you need to get things done. May I suggest a simple solution? You need to work from a single ethical perspective.”

  “Your perspective?”

  Zohar smiled and spread his hands. “Why not? I think you’ll find we have much in common, Mr. Truett—a vision for the future, an appreciation of technology, and most of all, a certain force of will. Like you, I like to make things happen. That’s the first thing I can do for you, Mr. Truett—I can help you make things happen.”

  “And the second thing?”

  “I can help you refocus your vision.”

  “Does my vision need refocusing?”

  “If you’ll forgive me, I believe it does. Do you know the difference between a dreamer and a visionary? Focus. Any child can conceive some grandiose scheme or utopian future; it takes a visionary to recognize the attainable part of that dream and bring together the necessary resources to make it happen. You are more than a dreamer, Mr. Truett. You�
�ve proven that already. But visionaries need to learn to refocus their visions, or their visions may end up nothing more than dreams.”

  “Refocus as in keeping a single-minded purpose? Keeping your eye on the prize?”

  “Just the opposite, actually. You see, there’s also a difference between a visionary and a fanatic. A fanatic focuses only on the destination; a visionary learns from the journey. The true visionary understands that, though he has a clear destination in mind, other opportunities may present themselves along the way that have even greater potential. The visionary must be determined, but he must remain flexible. How does the proverb go? ‘The mind of man plans his way, but the Lord directs his steps.’

  “Perhaps an example will help. When automobiles first appeared in our country, the railroad barons were kings—they had enormous wealth and power. When the automobile industry began to grow, the railroads were in a perfect position to buy them out—but they didn’t. Do you know why? Because of a simple lack of vision. The railroad owners told themselves that they were in the railroad business—and what does a railroad have to do with automobiles? If they had only had the foresight to say, ‘We are in the transportation business,’ today we would all be driving Union Pacific Town Cars and Santa Fe SUVs.”

  “Interesting,” Truett said. “So how does this apply to us?”

  “I’d like to encourage you to think outside the box, Mr. Truett. Regardless of your current mission statement, despite what it says in your annual report, you are not in the business of personalized medicine.”

  “Oh? What business am I in?”

  “The business of applied genetic information.”

  Truett let out a laugh. “I’m sorry, Dr. Zohar. That sounds like semantics to me.”

  “I assure you it’s not. Your ultimate goal is to develop personalized medicines—but along the way to that goal, I think you’ve generated some other very lucrative possibilities for PharmaGen to explore.”

  “Such as?”

  “Applied genetic information,” Zohar said again. “You know, I really have to congratulate you on what you’ve already accomplished here.”

  “I wouldn’t break out the champagne just yet. We need a salable product first. We need a clear path to cash.”

  “But you have a salable product right now. Don’t you see? It’s the genetic information you’ve collected from over a quarter of a million residents of western Pennsylvania.”

  “That information is strictly confidential.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. The information you collect should never be sold, transferred, or released to any second party. However, the good people of Pennsylvania have entrusted PharmaGen with this information, which allows the possibility of certain secondary applications within your company.”

  Truett shifted uneasily in his chair. “What sort of secondary applications are we talking about?”

  Zohar looked at him penitently. “I must confess something to you, Mr. Truett. Our introduction last week at that reception was not, strictly speaking, fortuitous. I intended to meet you there. You see, I’ve been observing the progress of your company from the very beginning. It’s just the sort of pioneering venture I might have attempted myself, as a younger man. I’ve collected quite a bit of information on PharmaGen—not just from your brochures and glowing press releases, but from other sources—external sources. I have contacts among your major investors, and they tell me that PharmaGen has all but exhausted its original venture capital. The cost of your population studies has been enormous, and it’s now a race against the clock to see if you can produce that salable product before your company goes the way of so many other promising tech startups. How many ambitious young entrepreneurs have faced the same dilemma? To attract ongoing investment, you have to promise success. But to deliver that success, you require ongoing investments. And so, like so many other young companies, you find yourself out of cash—and you’re doing your very best to hide it, aren’t you?

  “The financial cost of failure would be enormous for you—but the personal cost would be even greater. You see, Mr. Truett, I’ve also looked into your past business ventures; this isn’t your first attempt at a visionary startup, now, is it? There was that rather innovative multilevel marketing effort you attempted, followed by a most ambitious Internet venture. Each time you raised several million dollars in venture capital to get your project under way, and each time you failed.”

  Truett’s face grew red. “That was not my fault.”

  “Of course not. There were unforeseeable market forces, unpredictable actions on the part of your competitors, but investors rarely bother themselves with such details, do they? Despite all their financial sophistication, investors tend to operate by a rather simple rubric: three strikes and you’re out. To borrow a metaphor from your beloved Pirates, Mr. Truett, you are standing at the plate for the last time. If PharmaGen fails, you fail, and it will be time for you to retire to a nice, safe, conventional job—perhaps as an entry-level investment banker. That’s a nice little career—though I doubt it comes with a yacht.”

  Truett looked at Zohar as though he had never seen him before. He had misjudged the man’s abilities, and that was an error he rarely made. He ran his eyes over the old man again, quickly revising all of his initial impressions. Zohar was small in stature and unassuming in appearance—but he carried himself like a man much older than his actual years. Truett saw now that Julian Zohar was not old, he was cunning; he was not polite, he was calculating; he was not weak, he was restrained. Truett had thought of the man as little more than a doddering old academic, someone who could lend a scholarly aura to his company’s sterile image—but now he saw him in a different light. Zohar was a serpent—a cobra—and Truett was unsure of his reach, his speed, or the power of his venom.

  The old man reached across the table and gently patted Truett’s hand. “My young friend,” he said softly, “you’re in such a fragile position. A virtual sword of Damocles hangs above your head—and I would hate to see that sword fall, Mr. Truett. I would deeply regret the demise of this visionary venture. I would do anything in my power to help keep this company alive. That’s why I wanted to meet you; that’s why I sought you out. I want to show you that path to cash.”

  Zohar smiled warmly. “Would a million dollars a month help? Tax free, of course.”

  The grinding of gears from the lockhouse brought Truett back to attention. There was a crackle from the marine band radio. In the smaller boats ahead of him, captains and their crews scurried over their vessels, coiling ropes and preparing for the remaining journey upriver. Truett glanced over the side of the lock at the lower river far below. When is it too late to change your mind? The question seemed strangely foreign to him now, a product of the black water and the darkness of the lock, and he cast the thought aside like a clinging bow line. There was nowhere to go but forward—and Tucker Truett was not a man to look back.

  The water was at pool stage now, and the black-and-yellow upper gates began to groan open away from them. Truett stared at the warning pattern and watched as it disappeared into the dark of night.

  Dr. Ian Paulos ambled down the hallway at Trinity Episcopal School for Ministry, surrounded as always by an eager group of students who hovered around him like tugboats on a barge—a fitting image, since Dr. Paulos himself was built something like a barge. He was much too stocky to fit the expected image of a scholar, and he walked more like a longshoreman than a doctor of divinity. His uneven mustache completely obscured his lower lip, and his gnarly salt-and-pepper hair looked as though it could shatter any mortal comb. He wore half-spectacles on the tip of his nose, causing him to constantly tip his head back and forth, depending on whom or what he wanted to include in his range of vision. Wherever he went, at any time of the day, his left arm seemed to be forever curled around a stack of books, and his right hand always carried an ancient brown leather briefcase.

  His introductory ethics courses, intriguingly entitled “Right and Wrong 101�
� and “Telling Good from Evil” were the most popular in the seminary curriculum, and they were impossible to contain within four walls. Dr. Paulos had a habit of ending each lecture by simply turning and exiting midsentence; anyone curious enough to know how that particular sentence might end would simply follow after him. Discussions invariably ensued down hallways, across courtyards, through parking lots—sometimes even in crowded rest rooms, much to the chagrin of the female students.

  “I still say love is the highest of all principles,” one student passionately contended. “The most loving thing to do is the right thing to do. ‘You must love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your soul, and all your mind,’ he quoted. “This is the first and greatest commandment. A second is equally important: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’”

  “Read the book and saw the movie—loved them both,” Paulos said. “So this ‘highest principle’ of yours, this ‘love’—what exactly is it?”

  “What is love? Doesn’t everybody know that?”

  “Do they? What about that woman a few years ago who backed her car into a lake and drowned all her kids? When they interviewed her later, she said, ‘I loved my kids. No one ever loved their kids more than I did.’ Do you think she loved her kids?”

  “Of course not.”

  “How do you know? Are you able to somehow get inside her head and tell me what she did or didn’t feel?”

  “Maybe she felt the feelings of love,” another student said, “but she didn’t act in a loving way.”

  Without breaking stride, Paulos turned to the student, tipped his head forward, and peered at her over the top of his glasses. Trinity students learned to read Paulos the way a hunter reads a bear: When he leaned back and squinted at you through his lenses, that was good; it was a sign of consideration or even respect. But when he leaned forward and looked at you full on, it was time to climb the nearest tree.