Shoofly Pie & Chop Shop (60 page)

Riley’s eyes narrowed to slits. She shoved her purse between her legs and grasped the sides of the boat with both hands. “I had to hire
you,
” she growled.

Nick held on too. “You get what you pay for,” he said.

On the count of three, they turned the boat over and plunged into the darkness.

Hey! A little help down here!”

Nick and Riley bobbed in the water beside the PharmaGen yacht, just out from under the shadow of the hull, where they could be easily spotted by any of the guests on board. Beside them the overturned rowboat still floated, its ribbed aluminum bottom level with the surface of the water. Riley kicked, and one of her slides slipped off and disappeared beneath her.

“What if nobody hears us?” Riley said.

“Remember Cortez,” Nick said. “There’s no turning back now.”

“Ho there! Need some help?”

Nick slowly turned in the water; behind them, a sixteen-foot Sylvan bass boat nodded in the water like a small bar of soap.

“Take us in a little closer, Doris! Move that cooler and make room for these folks!” The one barking orders, a large-bellied man with a full beard, reached over the port side and extended an aluminum gaff.

“No thanks,” Nick said.

“What? You’re kidding. Grab ahold now.”

“No, really. We’re OK.”

“You just felt like taking a swim? What about your boat there?”

“Look, do you mind? We’d like to be rescued by a better class of people.”

Doris shrugged and gunned the engine, drowning out the big man’s colorful farewell as the bass boat motored away.

“What’s the problem down there?” came a voice from above them.

“We had a little accident,” Riley called back.

“Are you both all right? Is anyone injured?”

“We’re OK—we just lost our ride.”

“Swim around to the stern, then. I’ll lower the swim platform. Climb on and I’ll bring you aboard.”

“There, now,” Nick said in a low voice. “That wasn’t so bad.”

“Shut up,” Riley whispered back.

They worked their way around to the stern, which seemed to take forever in the dark water. Riley curled her toes as she kicked in a vain attempt to hold on to her remaining shoe, but it was a hopeless task, and she finally allowed it to drift away in search of its mate. They could hear the hiss of a hydraulic lift; by the time they reached the stern, the swim platform was level with the surface of the water.

Nick grabbed one of the projecting handles and pulled himself up into a sitting position, facing away from the boat. Riley looked up at the small crowd gathered on the aft deck to observe their entrance. She glanced down at the front of her silk dress, then reached for the handle and dragged herself onto the fiberglass facedown.

“That was graceful,” Nick said. “You look like Shamu.”

“Do you mind? I’m trying to salvage a little dignity here.”

“Good luck with that.”

The platform immediately began to rise, and after a few seconds it locked into place again. The gate to the aft deck swung open, and a young man slid down the railing to the platform below.

“Everybody OK? What happened out there?”

“We were hoping to see the fireworks,” Nick said. “I warned her not to stand up.”

“You can watch the fireworks with us,” he said. “I’m Tucker Truett, and you’re my guests. Let’s get you out of those wet clothes.”

“Nick Polchak,” Nick said, shaking Truett’s hand. His grip was fast and powerful. Truett stood eye to eye with Nick, but he was even broader in the shoulders and much thicker in the arms and chest. “This is Riley McKay.” Truett turned and smiled at Riley, who stood with her arms pinned across her chest. He did not extend his hand.

Truett’s face was square and very lean; when he turned, Nick
could see the veins in his temples and the sinewy lines of his jaw. His eyes were a pale cerulean blue, and his tight, wavy hair glistened under the last of the stadium lights. He was barefoot, and his long toes seemed to almost grip the deck. He wore crisp white slacks with knife-edge pleats, and his black poplin shirt hung open to reveal a single strand of gold. Black and gold—the symbolism wasn’t missed by Nick, nor would it be by anyone else in Pittsburgh. Tucker Truett was handsome, powerful, and he exuded confidence. He was an electrified, neon billboard for the city of steel—and for a rising new company called PharmaGen.

They were joined now by some of the other guests, who gathered around them with towels and long terry bathrobes monogrammed with the PharmaGen logo. Three elegantly clad women ushered Riley below deck. Nick stripped off his own dripping jacket and shirt, pulled on a bathrobe, then dropped his khakis around his ankles and kicked them away. He followed Truett up the steps to the aft deck and exchanged brief pleasantries with two other men, who then descended to the salon to check the satellite TV for the starting time of the fireworks display. Truett stepped to a refrigerator in the cockpit, opened it, and handed Nick an Iron City Beer.

“Thanks,” Nick said. “Nice boat.”

“It’s a yacht,” Truett said. “Technically, a yacht is any vessel that carries another boat on board. We carry a spare.”

“I could have used a spare tonight. Is this yours?”

“It belongs to my company—PharmaGen. Ever heard of it?”

“Who hasn’t? As a matter of fact, I stopped by your office the other day to join your Keystone Club—but you’d have no way of knowing that, would you?”

“Nope. I’m proud to say, you’re just a number to us. But thanks for helping out.”

“A population study of half a million—that’s a researcher’s dream.”

“It’s an IT’s nightmare—but that’s part of the challenge. This company is built on information.”

“Funny,” Nick said. “I would have said your company is built on trust.” He ran his hand over the cool white fiberglass hull. “What’s a boat—sorry, what’s a yacht like this worth anyway?”

“With the extras? About two million.”

“That must have taken a sizable bite out of your venture capital. What did your board of directors have to say about it?”

“It was their idea.” Truett cocked his head and looked at Nick more closely. “What do you do for a living, Mr. Polchak?”

“It’s Doctor Polchak—I have a PhD. Technically, a PhD is anyone who carries a student loan the size of a yacht. I’m just a lowly professor from the backwater state of North Carolina.”

“My, aren’t we humble,” Truett said.

“Humility is a nice quality, don’t you think?”

“Not in my business. This yacht is almost twice the size of anything on the three rivers, and that’s no accident. Been to a Bucs game lately, Dr. Polchak? What do you suppose it cost PNC Bank to put their name on that stadium? This yacht sits right here every weekend, and especially for every home game. We always turn the stern to face the park, and there hasn’t been a game yet where the JumboTron didn’t show the PharmaGen logo to thirty-eight thousand fans.”

“When was the last time the Pirates had thirty-eight thousand fans?” Nick peered into the cockpit. The Euro-styled captain’s chair looked like something from the bridge of the starship Enterprise. The instrument console was covered in high-gloss mahogany burl, and a soft blue light glowed from the radar and navigational monitors. “So this is all for advertising? Wouldn’t a billboard have been cheaper?”

“This yacht is worth twice what we paid for it. The
PharmaGen
doesn’t just sit in the river, Dr. Polchak; it dominates the river. We own the river, just as we will soon own the field of personalized medicine. As you said, this business is built on trust—on public confidence. You don’t ask a man to invest by telling him, ‘Someday we hope to be successful.’ You tell him, ‘We’re successful
now,
and if you don’t get on board you’ll be left behind.’”

“Are
you successful now? Where exactly are you in your population study? How close are you to your goal of half a million volunteers?”

“The research doesn’t have to wait for half a million volunteers,” Truett said. “Are you familiar with the Marshfield Clinic in Wisconsin? They’re doing similar research, and their goal is only forty thousand volunteers—that’s enough to produce statistically significant results. We have eight times that many now,
and our research is well under way. It’s a progressive effort: as the population study grows, so do the scope of the research and the reliability of the conclusions we draw. Once again, Dr. Polchak, it’s all about
confidence.
Our study is so massive, so far beyond anything anyone else has attempted, that we will virtually
swamp
the competition.”

“Big yachts swamp little boats,” Nick said. “But size isn’t everything; quickness counts. What if one of the little guys beats you to market with a product? And what about FDA approval, how long will that take? Just how far
are
you from a marketable product, Mr. Truett?”

Truett smiled.

“I know,” Nick said. “Very, very close.”

Just then, Riley emerged from the stateroom below. She was still barefoot, but she was now dressed in loose-fitting slacks and a breezy, open blouse with a camisole underneath. The clothes were casual, but very expensive; she was better dressed now than before her dive into the Allegheny. She stepped onto the aft deck, rubbing at her hair with a white terry towel. “Thanks for the hospitality,” she said.

“Feeling better, Ms. McKay?”

“Much. I appreciate the clothes; I’ll get them back to you.”

“Keep them. Dana has plenty—I make sure of that.”

“By the way,” Nick said, “it’s
Doctor
McKay.”

“Another doctor? With all that education between you, you’d think you two would be better sailors.”

“We all have our specialties,” Nick said. “What’s your specialty, Mr. Truett?”

“Vision, Dr. Polchak. I am an evangelist.”

“And just what is your vision?” Riley asked.

“I see a world where no one ever dies from an adverse drug reaction; where physicians have an entire range of medicines to choose from to treat a deadly disease; where medications target tumors like smart bombs and leave surrounding tissues unharmed; where genetic susceptibility to disease can be determined in childhood, and possibly even prevented.”

“Right out of the brochure,” Nick said. “Where are the fireworks when you need them?”

“Why, Dr. Polchak—you sound like a cynic.”

“Cynicism is the ugly cousin of humility, Mr. Truett. I don’t think much of myself, but then I don’t think much of anyone in
your
species either.”

“My species?”

“What about you?” Riley cut in. “Surely you have a little
personal
vision in all this somewhere?”

“You bet I do. I see a world where patients think of medicines the way they think of coffee: they want it strong, they want it made their way, and they want it now—and PharmaGen will be there to serve the coffee. I see a world where aging baby boomers will pay anything to have the latest, strongest, and most
personal
medication. In other words, Dr. McKay, I see dollar signs—and I’m not ashamed to say it. I raised seventy million dollars to start this venture, and I plan to make a whole lot more in return. My goal is not to make money; my goal is to succeed—but if I succeed, the money will follow.”

Nick watched him as he spoke. Truett would talk about PharmaGen all night, Nick thought. He was the genuine item, a true believer. He had willingly answered each of their questions, ignoring his invited guests for the opportunity to defend his dream to a couple of perfect strangers. His conviction and enthusiasm were hypnotic; he cast vision the way a dog sheds water, catching everyone within his reach. Maybe the yacht was worth two million, who knows? One thing was for certain—Tucker Truett was worth a whole lot more.

“I wonder if you know an associate of mine,” Riley said. “Dr. Nathan Lassiter?”

“One of our early investors,” Truett said. “A visionary himself.”

“Oh? How so?”

“Most people invest their money in bits and pieces, a little here and a little there. They’re trying to avoid risk—but that’s investing out of fear, Dr. McKay, and that’s no way to live. Life is a gamble, and you have to roll the dice. Dr. Lassiter is a visionary, he can see the future—
our
future. He placed his money on PharmaGen, and he was wise to do so.”

“The dice don’t always come up the way you want.”

Truett smiled. “It’s my job to see that they do.”

One of the other guests emerged from the stateroom now, a
young woman almost as long and as sleek as the yacht itself. She was the lady in red, the one they had glimpsed from the water below. Nick watched her; she moved smoothly, silently, flowing like the river around them. She leaned up against Truett, slipped an arm behind him, and nuzzled his ear—but Truett showed no awareness of her presence.
She’s an early investor too,
Nick thought, but the return on her investment wasn’t yet clear.

“Speaking of risk,” Nick said. “What about this Keystone Club?”

“What about it?”

“You’re asking people to give you a sample of their DNA—but no one really knows just how much information is locked up in the DNA molecule. We can read a certain amount of it today, but tomorrow we may find a way to unlock an entire library of genetic information about the individual.”