The RX Factor (13 page)

"Sorry I'm late, Ed. Got here as quick as I could."

Taking Wiley by the elbow, McNally ushered him into his private office. "How are things at the FDA, Carl?"

"As far as I'm concerned, great, since you helped me get appointed commissioner."

"Nice up here at the top, isn't it? Remember scrounging for power back in Philly? Kissing every ass in sight for a shot at the ring?"

"Yeah, I remember and I've got the scars to prove it."

"It's nice that you remember where you came from."

Something flashed in Wiley's eyes. Irritation? Maybe.

The senator wasn't too concerned. He sat back in his leather desk-chair. All around him hung framed photos of the last three campaigns. Each one featured a shot of himself, victorious.

"Well," he said, "what's the status report on my favorite projects at the FDA?"

Wiley sat down across from McNally. "Everything is on track, nice and steady."

McNally shifted in his chair. "What's this I'm hearing about a certain drug they're calling CTR 80? I heard it's on the fast track."

Wiley squirmed, failing to meet McNally's eyes. "It was, but I have my way of slowing things down. Hell, just last week we put the kibosh on Genomics's new cholesterol-lowering drug because they failed to get the proper signature on one of the consent forms. I'm sure your pharmaceutical boys were happy about that one."

"Indeed they were. So do I need to concern myself that the drug in question will make it out of phase three?"

"No way, Senator. Not a chance, at least not in this decade. We can tie their regulatory staff up for years."

"Good, good," the senator said. "I'm sure you've heard about the Social Security bill I'm authoring. I can't afford any distractions. The plan will only pass if I get help from people like you.

You do your job, and everything's easier."

Wiley nodded wearily. Like everyone else in the business, he knew that getting anything done in D.C. was a Herculean task. Distractions, whether scandalous or simply bureaucratic, often killed promising legislation.

For his part, the senator knew his Social Security plan would either make or break him. Not everyone agreed in Washington that Social Security was in peril. In fact, predictably, the issue was fairly evenly divided on partisan lines. But few were privy to what Senator McNally knew. And even fewer were aware of the big picture. The potential solutions bandied about by experts— raising the retirement age, increasing the Social Security tax rate, or partially or fully privatizing Social Security—would amount to nothing if the senator failed to succeed behind closed doors, where the real work was being done to protect the American economy and the country's future. His bill was a stopgap—necessary but only a partial solution. If it passed and showed promising early returns, it would in all likelihood catapult him to the next level. But the real work—the labor of love for which he worked ceaselessly in utter secrecy— would never see the light of day. If it did, all bets were off.

William Craven ran his hand over his head. His
bare scalp picked up what little light was in the dim and dank working-class bar. The place smelled of stale beer and tobacco. Smoke drifted in cumu-lous layers throughout the joint. Behind the bar, an array of different-shaped bottles covered the lower portion of the dirty mirror. Photos of the owner and his Marine buddies on some far-off Pacific island papered the wall behind the cash register. Sitting alone on their barstools were the ubiquitous diehard drunks, nursing their whiskeys and grumbling about their lots in life. Craven's dark tailored suit rendered him as out of place as a banker in a hobo camp. As he tossed back his Macallan on the rocks, the roar of a landing passenger jet pierced the brick walls of the seedy tavern.

He gestured to the waitress, a tall young blonde with upswept hair. A red tattoo in the shape of a heart with the name
Eddie V
stenciled through the middle of it peeked through the wisps of dyed hair on the back of her neck. When she arrived, he snarled at her. "That last one wasn't a double. Make sure the next one is."

She took his empty glass, barely hiding her disdain. "Yeah, I'll be sure to tell the bartenda'." Her New Jersey accent was tinged with sarcasm. She sashayed away as if she expected him to keep his eyes glued to her hips like most of the other guys. But he didn't. He just glowered at the spot on the table where his drink had been.

While the waitress flirted with the bartender as he poured Craven's drink, a tall, burly man with a hooked nose and dark, wavy hair approached the booth. He sat down with a curt nod at Craven and looked for the waitress, who was now approaching with the double Scotch.

The burly man said, "I'll have a VO, rocks, honey."

"How was the flight?" Craven asked without a hint of sincerity.

"How comfortable can a coach seat be for a guy like me? Cheap bastard airline didn't even offer drinks."

Craven didn't attempt any more pretenses. He leaned forward, and in a controlled rage, growled between tight teeth. "Okay, enough bullshit. What the fuck happened?"

The burly guy wasn't about to take it. He, too, leaned in. "Look, Craven, you said to get rid of her. You didn't say how. I told you before, I do it my own way."

"Yeah, your way. You fucked up. I was told that if you wanted this kind of job done and done right, you go to Ed Sulari. Well, I went to Ed Sulari, and look what happened. We may be screwed now. Not only did you botch the job, but you managed to make a spectacle out of it. Hell, I think it made every paper in the country." He caught his breath. "That might have been our last shot at her before she gets herself a couple layers of security."

Sulari started to speak, but Craven interrupted.

"Tell me everything that happened from the minute she arrived," he demanded. "And I mean everything."

Sulari hesitated. "Look, it's gonna make the papers anyway. That's how we do it. Besides, if the cops think it's a mob hit, they don't work so hard to find out who done it. It's safer for us. The target was a respectable citizen. It's not like we were going to be able to follow her to a back alley at three in the morning and clip her as she scored some drugs. If we go up to someone like that, where they hang out, and—bada bing bada bang—give them two in the hat, we are going to get made. This way is cleaner. Trust me. I had the perfect setup using the kid from the valet service."

"What kid? I didn't know anything about a kid."

"The kid is a valet at one of the services in the city. So we decide to follow them around until they went to eat. The kid had the valet uniform, and most of the valets are foreigners who can't understand much English, so it was easy to manipulate the situation. After they go in the restaurant, the kid swipes their keys and places the bomb under the passenger seat. When they leave the restaurant, the kid's there to take the ticket, get the car, and activate the bomb. It's one of them pressure-activated jobs. I was watching across the street. Carver comes out a few minutes after the guy she's with has already gotten the car, and before she gets there, he flips his pizza box onto the passenger seat and
BOOM!,
the fuckin' thing explodes. Just bad luck is all it was. The trigger was too sensitive."

"Unbelievable," Craven muttered. "Okay, now go back to when she got off the plane and tell me everything she did up until that point."

"After they got off the plane, they went straight to her building. Twenty minutes later, they walk up the street and go to dinner. Some Spanish place, Barba something. Doesn't matta'. They walk to the restaurant. Couple hours later, they come out, they're kinda cozy. Then they go back to the apartment."

"Why didn't you make the hit then? They're probably boozed, their guard is down. Perfect time."

"How was I to know he wasn't packing? Or that he ain't private heat? You didn't tell me nothin' about him. He coulda had backup. I didn't know none of this stuff, so I was careful. Let me tell you, he didn't look like no slouch. He looked like somebody. So I was careful. That's how I work: careful."

"Where did they go after that?"

"Next morning they head downtown to the Federal Building."

"Did you follow them?"

"Sure." "And?"

Sulari seemed annoyed by all the questions and in no rush to answer. The waitress came over and placed his drink on a napkin in front of him. He raised the glass to his lips while admiring her backside as she walked away. "Nice ass," he muttered, leering after her.

Craven ignored him. "So, what were they doing at the Federal Building?"

"I followed them until they walked into the FBI office and then I got the hell outta there."

Craven gritted his teeth. "Damn, the guy is hooked up—maybe officially, maybe just a friend—but he's connected."

"Looks like it."

"Is that what you meant when you said that he looked like somebody?"

Sulari cocked his head. "Yeah. Somebody you need to sweat. Somebody who could handle himself. Guys like that ain't so easy to take out. They always watchin' their back. And he had the look. Head always turning, hands close to his pocket, like he was some kind of cop or somethin'." His eyes busy, Craven asked, "Okay, this kid.

Who is he?"

"Local druggie. I've used him before. Strung out on heroin. He'll do anythin' for a buck. And I mean anythin'."

"Well, your druggie has gotta go, too."

"You didn't pay for him."

"I'm telling you, he's gotta go. I'll pay. If the cops get to him, he'll finger you. If they get to you, that puts them one step closer to me. No, he's a dead man."

Sulari leveled his gaze on the man in the suit. "You got it, but it's gonna cost you another ten large."

"I don't give a shit."

"You got it."

The two men sat in silence as the working-class bar churned along in its daily routine. Neither man wanted to show the other any sign of weakness. The silence was finally broken when Craven asked, "Have you checked out the guy with Carver?"

"What I could. I got a man with connections in the force. The Chicago P.D. don't seem to be too excited about him. They're not goin' to any special trouble to find out who tried to waste him."

"That's good. What else?"

"I got a connection down in the Bahamas, too. Our stranger's definitely American, but we don't know much else. It doesn't look like he's got nothin' to do with law enforcement down there."

Craven sat back in his seat, his mind whirling. "Any chance this guy is with the Company?"

"What company?"

Craven rolled his eyes. "The government— the Feds, CIA."

"Couldn't tell ya. But that's the kind of guy he looks like. Definitely."

"Or he could just be some schmuck who she met on the island."

Sulari shook his head in agreement. "I figured that, too. She's some sweet piece of tail. In a way, it's a shame."

Craven threw the big man an irritated look.

"What? I can't appreciate beauty? I'm just sayin', she's hot as shit, and it's a shame she's gotta get wasted. That may be the only reason the dude is protecting her."

The hoodlum was beginning to get on Craven's nerves. "It's not safe to think that way. Better to assume he's someone on the inside who could do her a lot of good."

Sulari finished his drink and gestured to the waitress for another one. His eyes explored her swaying hips as she approached. He flashed her a crooked smile and mumbled something about her ass before ordering his next drink. As Craven waited to regain Sulari's attention, he surveyed his surroundings. He noticed that many of the other men in the bar were huddled in conversation, too. But he knew they were talking about such banalities as tonight's bowling league competition, how the clandestine date with the bar girl down the street went, or maybe even plotting a holdup of the local convenience store. By a contrast too steep to measure, he and Sulari were talking about things that would affect the lives of millions of people, not to mention the fortunes of a select few. Yet, there he was in the same bar, drinking the same booze, and breathing in the same foul air. In this dump, the fates of the high and mighty were decided along with those of the plebian and insignificant. It gave him a sense of superiority.
What a waste of humanity these bums are.
As unsavory as his current assignment was, he would never count himself among these low-life scumbags.

The waitress now gone, Sulari was ready to talk. "Okay," Craven said with the authority of a corporate executive about to end a meeting. "So it's up to you to get rid of the kid. If you fail, things are not going to go well for you."

His words reached the thug like a hard slap in the face. Sulari leaned forward and grabbed Craven's arm. "Ya know, you may think you know me, but I don't think you know enough. I made my bones while you were going to frat parties. Sure, I do a little freelancing on the side, but I'm with the Outfit, and I think mine's bigger than yours. Don't
ever
threaten me again, suit."

For a long moment, their eyes locked. Craven's were unreadable, though a contemptuous sneer was beginning to form on his lips. All at once, his hand lashed out cobra-swift as he lunged across the table and seized Sulari's neck in a death grip. He squeezed harder, his face not changing as the thug's went ashen.

"Buddy, I was eliminating scum for God and country when you were still rolling bums in alleys for rent money. And my outfit could buy and sell your outfit down the river with the money we keep in petty cash."

Seconds before Sulari was about to pass out, Craven released his hold and then stared down two of the patrons at the bar watching the excitement until they feigned a lack of interest and turned back to their drinks.

Sulari sat gasping and wheezing, his eyes bulging. "Motherfucker," he mumbled, "no need for that commando crap. I was just tryin' to make a point."

"I'll make the points—you'll listen and follow orders."

"Yeah, sure," he mumbled, massaging his throat. "Jesus Christ." Sulari was trembling now, though doing his best not to show it. "I'll get it done."

Craven gave a mocking grin before getting back to business. "Yeah, you will."