The Lunch
“I s’pose you’re wondering why I brought you here, Prof,” Harry said, with a knowing grin. Indeed, Dr. Wertlos had been wondering that. This dive was far from The Supper Club he frequented: the décor was garish and revolting, and the patrons were making him uneasy. He rarely stepped foot on this side of town and he couldn’t help fretting about the safety of his Mercedes in the carpark.
“Really, Mr. Skelling, it’s Dr. Wertlos if you don’t mind, and yes, I have to admit I am wondering why you’ve brought me all the way out here when there are perfectly respectable restaurants by my office,” he snapped; acting as a virologist he held a measure of professional respect towards Harry Skelling, the CEO of the only local pharmaceutical company left in the state, but on a personal level he just couldn’t stand the man. “Wait, are those . . . are those two both men?” Both Harry and Dr. Wertlos turned to look over the edge of the booth at two people in leathers leaning against the bar drinking beer, their black hair teased and make-up outlandish.
“Don’t worry about it,” Harry drawled. “Trust me, this place is great; no one gives a damn who you are, no one wants to know your business, and the food is pretty good for what it’s worth.” Dr. Wertlos already noted what it was worth, and it wasn’t much. “Anyway, I need your . . . expertise. As far as virologists go, you’re the man, and you’ve got the know-how to make us both very happy people, if you get what I mean.”
“No, Mr. Skelling, I don’t ‘get’ what you mean,” sniffed the doctor as a waitress slammed a limp Caesar salad on the table. Harry winked at her as she plonked his lunch in front of him, tipping her with a flirtatious comment for her troubles.
Harry launched into his steak, slathering it in barbeque sauce first. “Well, Prof, let me put it to you this way: my Granddaddy’s company has been around a long time now, and the Skelling family has put a lot into it. But we’re not gonna to last forever. Them multinationals are baying at my door and they’ve been getting louder ever since my Daddy handed over the reins. And I need your help to get this business back to what it once was.”
“And how do you propose I do that?” said Dr. Wertlos, sipping his mineral water.
“It’s simple, but hear me out before you jump to any conclusions, alright?” Harry paused to mop the errant blobs of sauce from his jacket. “I need you to create me a disease. And you gotta have a cure too. I don’t want no AIDS epidemic, just a common cold’ll do. Something that will make people feel like crap, but scared enough to want to take a pill. I want new, I want effective, I want something that’ll shift units. This should be a breeze for you, hey Prof?”
“I’m astounded,” Dr. Wertlos stammered, his fork dropping to the table. “People could die; you could unwittingly start a pandemic! This is the most irresponsible, unethical and downright heinous thing I’ve ever heard. Your absolute floccinaucinihilipilification of human life is incomprehensible!”
“I don’t know what that means, but I’m not asking for something dangerous, just something that’s going to piss people off. Like the flu. The flu never killed nobody.”
“Mr. Skelling, the flu has killed lots of people! Mostly children and the elderly, but I don’t suppose that matters to you,” Dr. Wertlos said, grabbing his coat. “I don’t think we have any more to discuss on this matter so I’ll bid you good day . . .” Harry wrote a number on his napkin and slid it across the table, stopping the doctor dead. “Are you serious?”
Harry nodded. “You better believe it. And that’s just your cut.”
“Skelling Pharmaceuticals stands to make that much?” ask Dr. Wertlos, sliding back into the booth.
“It’ll bring this company back into the big league. I’m gonna make my Granddaddy proud, God rest his soul. Hell, I’ve already got over 200 potential medicine names copyrighted. If anyone makes knock-offs they better have a damn good imagination ‘cause I can guarantee the name’s already been taken.”
“And why me?”
“No one knows sickness like you, Prof,” smiled Harry, dabbing at the grease on his plate with his chips. “Plus I know the way you work. I’ve seen you fudge results for the sake of a ‘cure’.”
“You have no proof!” hissed the doctor.
“Oh yeah,” Harry threw a small wad of print outs across the table. “That’s a record of everything deleted or altered from our lab’s database. You really should use some else’s login when you tinker with things. Oh, and I could show you security footage of a certain professor’s actions at a certain German lab . . . Think about it. I could finish your career so fast you won’t know what hit you, Prof.”
“How dare you!” snarled Dr. Wertlos. “This is blackmail!”
“Hey, pal, it’s no stress! I’ll even give you a week to think about it, and we’ll do lunch again,” beamed Harry, grabbing the doctor’s hand and shaking it vigorously before swaggering over to the till. “It’s been a pleasure, Prof!”
And as the doctor sat shaking in the booth, he could just make out the taillights of his Mercedes speeding off into the distance.
© Molly Cule, July 2008
One Penny Profiles said,
July 5, 2008 at 10:27 am
Cool clip, Molly. (By the way, I loved “Survivor.” Can’t wait for “Snuff”)
Drop by and read some stories if you want. I have one called “Lunch with the Folks” and I was thinking of B.E. Ellis with a Chuck minimalism.
Take care
mollycule said,
July 5, 2008 at 11:46 am
Nice . . . my first non-spam comment! Wait, that means people are actually reading?!
Thanks for dropping by – Survivor is my favourite so far (although I’m a bit behind on some of his newer stuff).
Anyway, I’ve just found your stuff, so I’ll mosey on down and have a read