“That’s what I’m hoping for,” Gus said, picking up his note cards and sliding them into the breast pocket of his suit coat. “Wish me luck.”
“One second, if you don’t mind,” Jerry said. He reached across the desk and straightened Gus’ tie, then stepped back. “Now you’re perfect. I think you’ve got a better shot at making this work than Jim Macoby ever did.”
Gus was halfway across the office before the last of Jerry’s words struck him. “Jim Macoby?” he said. “Jim Macoby was planning a presentation on orphan drugs?”
“That he was,” Jerry said. “Until that sad accident with the coffeemaker.”
Gus took a long look at Jerry to see if the mailman was sending him any kind of coded message. He’d just told Gus that the last two executives who attempted to do what Gus was about to try died in freak accidents. Was there some kind of warning there?
“You’re going to be great in there,” Jerry said without a trace of subtext or hint of caution. “I look forward to hearing all about it.”
Gus took one last look at Jerry, then headed out of his office.
Chapter Twenty-six
“Turn off the television and do your homework.” That was what Gus’ father used to say to him whenever he came home from school, went to his room, and flipped on the little black-and-white TV that sat on his desk. “Turn off the television and go outside and play,” he’d say on the weekends when Gus chose to indulge in his favorite activity. “Homework makes you smart. Sports make you strong. TV just rots your brain.”
Even at the tender age of ten Gus knew that was wrong. TV didn’t rot his brain; it filled him with knowledge. What was he going to learn from school? How to add stacks of numbers, how to spell the names of state capitals. What could he learn from watching television? Everything.
Especially if he was lucky enough to come across one of those “very special episodes” that existed to instruct and educate its viewers. Did his father know how the grand jury system could be used to intimidate, harass, and ruin an average citizen who came up against the district attorney’s office? Gus did, because he’d seen it happen to Jim Rockford. Did his father know that sexual assault against innocent young girls was wrong? Gus did, because he’d shared Natalie’s terror on The Facts of Life. Did his father understand how much harm alcoholism could do to a family? Elyse Keaton’s adorable younger brother taught Gus all about that, too.
Gus had tried to explain this to his father, but it never did any good, and every time he tried he ended up losing TV privileges for a couple of days. Finally he gave up.
Now Gus was standing in front of the executive committee of Benson Pharmaceuticals, proposing a plan to restructure a large piece of the multinational company to refocus its mission on the manufacture and distribution of drugs to aid people suffering from orphan diseases. And it was all because he’d watched TV as a kid.
Specifically it was because he had happened to flip on the set one afternoon when he was avoiding a mountain of math homework, only to find that his usual afternoon lineup of The Brady Bunch, The Partridge Family, and What’s Happening!! reruns had been replaced by a baseball game. Desperate to find something to keep him away from the rigors of mathematics, he had flipped over to the UHF band and started twirling the dial slowly, hoping to find anything that looked remotely entertaining.
When he saw Oscar Madison testifying before a jury, he stopped. He’d only seen a handful of The Odd Couple episodes, but they had all made him laugh. So he settled in for a few premath chuckles. It took a couple of minutes for him to realize there was something strange about this particular episode. For one thing, it wasn’t funny. Okay, that could happen to the best of sitcoms, but in this case even the studio audience wasn’t amused. There wasn’t a single chuckle on the laugh track. Second, people kept calling Oscar “Quincy.” And he seemed to have a surprisingly large number of lab coats in his wardrobe for a sportswriter.
By the time he finally realized he must be watching whatever show Jack Klugman had starred in after The Odd Couple, Gus was hooked. Because while this Quincy guy might not be as lovable as Oscar, what he had to say was as compelling as anything he’d ever seen on TV.
In the show Quincy started off by investigating the tragic death of a teenage boy. But the mystery quickly petered out as the crusading M.E. found the real culprit: a rare disease. Rare but not incurable. There was a drug that could have saved him. Unfortunately there were not enough people suffering from the disease to make it profitable to manufacture the cure for it.
Even as a young boy Gus had been shocked by this revelation. He knew it was wrong and he wanted to do something to change it. And while there wasn’t a whole lot he could do in his preteens, that desire never left him, and had helped move him toward his first job in the pharmaceutical industry.
Now Gus felt the spirit of Jack Klugman flowing through him as he delivered his presentation to the executive committee of Benson Pharmaceuticals. He tried to capture Quincy’s mixture of compassion and outrage, his passionate devotion to the cause with the self-deprecating awareness that he was just one little guy taking on the system. While he was preparing he’d even flirted with the idea of using Quincy’s signature attitude and informing the committee that if they didn’t do exactly what he said thousands of people would die and it would be their fault, but at the last minute he decided that kind of confrontation wouldn’t go over well with D-Bob.
Now that his presentation was almost finished, Gus glanced around the room to see how it was going over. D-Bob was smiling happily and nodding at all of Gus’ key points, but Gus had been at the company long enough to know how little that meant. D-Bob liked ideas, and he liked people who were passionate about them. If Josef Mengele’s grandson had appeared in the boardroom and laid out a case for kidnapping children off the street and conducting medical experiments on them, D-Bob would have smiled and nodded exactly the same way through the presentation. Then, when Mengele Junior was finished, he’d lay into the guy, tear apart every one of his points, and throw him out of the building. He’d probably end up calling the police. But during the presentation he’d be the soul of courtesy.
Gus would find out later what D-Bob thought of his idea. But he wasn’t going to have to wait to learn where his colleagues would come down. They hated his plan. At least that was how they all looked. Gus knew he could be misinterpreting their hostile stares, though. It was just as likely that they hated him, too.
“We are doing well,” Gus said, “but we can do even better by doing good.”
Gus stopped and dropped his hands to show he was finished and ready to field questions. But the three executive vice presidents sitting across the table from him looked like they were more interested in throwing knives than queries.
Of all the angry faces staring at him, none was angrier than that of Stephen Ecclesine, who was in charge of worldwide manufacturing. His shaved scalp had turned bright red, nearly matching the hibiscus flowers in his tie, and even the diamond stud in his nose seemed to glow more brightly than usual. Gus had generally managed to avoid Ecclesine during his tenure at Benson, mostly because until he’d joined the executive committee he was never sure if the bald hipster usually dressed in a black T-shirt and jeans was a member of the team or a local musician hoping to make a few bucks volunteering for clinical trials. But now that Gus had spent a few hours sitting in meetings with Ecclesine, he had seen that the club-crawler outfit was a disguise to hide the classic company man. Ecclesine was interested in only two things in life: the success of his division and the amount of money that success would bring him.
Ecclesine had hated Gus from the first time they met. Not out of any particular animus, but a basic theory that the existence of any other human being could present an obstacle between him and the sack of gold he was searching for. Now that Gus had finished presenting a plan that would cost manufacturing millions in retooling and re-equipping the company’s factories, Ecclesine was just about ready to declare war.
The woman next to Ecclesine presented a much more welcoming face. Like most of the women she hired to work in her sales force, Lena Hollis had spent her teen years on cheer squads, and along with the perpetual tan and the toned muscles she’d never lost that perfectly gleaming cheerleader’s smile. But Gus knew that smile too well, having been on the receiving end of it every time he tried to ask one of his high school’s cheerleaders out on a date, or even offered help with homework. It looked friendly, but the message it sent was You are so far beneath me that it’s not worth my effort to be rude. The fact that she was flashing it at him now was telling him that she considered his plan so pathetic it wasn’t even worth arguing over.
