Straits of Fortune - Anthony Gagliano [62]
“Thanks.”
I walked into the living room, retrieved the .45 from the coffee table, tucked it under the waistband of my borrowed trousers, and started for the door. I felt old, tired, and evicted. The thought occurred to me that I should just turn myself in and get it over with, that in my present condition a quiet jail cell would seem like a retreat. I walked very slowly toward the front door. I was not sure that I could face what was on the other side of it.
“Hey, you!” Susan yelled from behind me. “Come back here.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Go sit in the living room,” she commanded. “I’ll make you a sandwich. Tuna fish. It’s all I’ve got.”
“Thanks.”
I went into the living room and sat on the couch, as thankful for the brief reprieve as the condemned man who gets the governor’s call at the last minute. From the kitchen came the sounds of cupboards opening and closing and then the muted whir of an electric can opener going to work. I glanced down at the coffee table, my eyes skimming over the magazine covers. There were three ancient issues of People and a copy of Time. There was also a copy of the Miami Herald. It was two days old, but as I hadn’t done much reading lately, I picked it up and began flipping idly through the pages.
I couldn’t really concentrate. A few lines here and there. Then, on page eight, something caught my eye, and just like that I was all bright light and deadly focus.
It was a story about the Colonel.
“I don’t have any mayonnaise!” Susan shouted from the kitchen. “Is mustard okay?”
“Fine, that’s fine,” I shouted back.
I read slowly, taking it all in.
“What kind of bread?” Susan yelled. “Stale white or stale wheat?”
“Either one is fine!” I said, not paying attention.
It seemed that Pellucid Labs, the Colonel’s company, was in mucho trouble, to say the least, and was under investigation by several federal agencies, including the FDA, the DEA, and, worst of all, the IRS. Someone had altered the results of the clinical trials of certain “promising” antidepressants in order to win FDA approval. The actual results, uncovered with the help of a former researcher now turned whistle-blower, were that the drugs in question produced various “undesirable side effects,” contradicting the findings of the researchers cited in Pellucid Labs’ initial reports. The company had also filed for bankruptcy and was seeking additional financing from an undisclosed consortium of venture capitalists who themselves were the subject of a government probe into allegations concerning the illegal transfer of funds from Pellucid’s accounts into offshore banks in the Cayman Islands.
There were two interspersed paragraphs describing Patterson’s military and scientific careers by way of counterpoint: the Rhodes Scholarship, West Point, Vietnam and his heroism during the Tet Offensive back in ’68. There was mention of the Purple Heart and the Bronze Star he had won. Despite my having known him, it was hard not to envy his biography. In an age of myopic specialization, the Colonel had been a Renaissance man. He had walked out of obscurity with nothing but brains and a set of balls and had become a war hero and a millionaire. The gist and tone of the article were all too familiar: Someone who had achieved everything was on the verge of losing it all—another reassuring message for the mediocre who had never dared to reach beyond the meager possibilities of the next paycheck and a sure pension. Back in your place, Colonel Patterson. Who in the hell did you think you were? In the end, despite your genius (which, by the way, we always hated you for, even while we were applauding you), you turned out to be just another liar and another fraud, and we’ll all sleep the better for having known it.
I finished the article and refolded the newspaper—slowly, as though it were a Christmas present opened prematurely. My head was so crowded with facts it felt like a holding cell after a riot. I closed my eyes and tried to think, but then my stomach grumbled and once again the only