Authors: Linda Lee Peterson
Edited to Death (32 page)
Gertie disappeared down the hall and then reappeared a few minutes later with two
men. The younger, an every-mother’s dream of a wholesome youth, extended his hand.
“Mrs. Fiori? I’m Gregory Bender. We met at Quentin’s memorial service.” I remembered
him and his crew cut. He had spoken passionately about Quentin’s willingness to cover
HIV in the elitist and worldly pages of
Small Town
.
Young Bender turned to the priest. “And this is Father Timothy Grogan. He’s on our
board.” Father Timothy extended his hand and we shook. I gestured to them to sit down,
and we all sat surveying each other. Bender looked about two minutes out of prep school,
from his pressed oxford cloth shirt to his Bass loafers. He had that overly pink countenance
children get when their mothers scrub them down with a rough cloth and cold water,
and when he smiled, he had the straight white teeth that suggested many years of expensive
orthodontia.
Father Timothy, on the other hand, looked, as my mother used to say, as if “he’d been
rode hard and put away wet.” His faced was lined, his shave uneven, his graying hair
in need of a brush and comb.
“I’m sorry,” I began, “Father Timothy is on your board, and that would be…?”
“Skunkworks,” they volunteered in unison.
I grinned and wiggled my little finger. “Link up,” I said. Father Timothy looked mystified.
Bender broke into a wide grin, exposing still more of those picture-perfect teeth,
and explained, “You know, for luck. When you say the same thing at the same time,
you’re supposed to link little fingers and make a wish.”
Father Timothy looked as if he’d like to be sitting in a nice cool, dark bar, with
a short brown drink, and absolutely no one around to chirp about linked little fingers.
“Well,” said Father Timothy, “can’t say that I remember such a custom.”
“Okay, then,” I said briskly, hoping to move things along. “So much for those quaint
childhood games. Now, what can I do for you?” I sneaked a glance at my watch and wondered
when I could start being pretentious enough to insist that I only saw people with
appointments. Probably right around the next millennium, and only then if Gertie could
enforce the rule.
The priest and the prepster (as I realized I thought of them) exchanged glances. They
both started at once, and then the priest nodded at the young man. “Go on, Gregory.”
Gregory leaned forward and gave me the kind of smile that would enable him to go very
far in life. “It’s like this, Mrs. Fiori,” he began. “We know that you were working
on a story about Skunkworks when Mr. Hart died.”
“Well,” I protested, “I wasn’t really working on it. I didn’t even know what it was
about. My editor had just given me the assignment.” I smiled beatifically at them.
“So you see, I really knew very little about your organization.” Bender and the good
Father exchanged glances.
“We were just wondering,” continued Bender, “if you were still planning a story. And
if so, could we do anything to help you out?”
They both settled back in their chairs and looked expectant.
“Well, I don’t know,” I began. “I mean, the magazine’s story list is pretty much booked
for the next several issues.” The priest managed a smile at this, and the look that
crept over Bender’s face looked a lot like relief to me. What was this all about?
Nonprofits were usually starved for publicity.
“But then,” I equivocated, “you just don’t know what’s going to fall in or out. Why
don’t you bring me up to date?”
“It’s a pretty simple story,” began Bender. “As you know, a number of organizations
have been putting pressure on the FDA to speed up the approval timetable of drugs
for use against HIV. Now that everyone’s starting to worry about the long-term effectiveness
of combination therapies, it’s becoming even more important to have multiple options.”
“And the FDA’s responded,” I pointed out, remembering Michael’s observations to Claire
during our ever-so-pleasant evening together.
“Yes and no,” said Father Timothy abruptly. “Look, it’s like this. ACT UP got us part
of the way there; the FDA has certainly thinned out the molasses in the system. But
when you’ve got people dying, when the conventional therapies don’t work, they don’t
want to hear about twenty-four-month timetables instead of thirty-six-month ones.
They want something to try now.”
“And that’s where Skunkworks comes in,” added Bender. “We identify high-potential
drugs, match patients who are in the most need, and arrange to get the drugs to them.”
“How?” I asked. “Through the pharmaceutical company that’s doing the trial? Through
the FDA?”
“That’s a little complex,” Father Timothy said. “Suffice it to say, it happens. And
we work with volunteer physicians who track how patients are doing.”
“So you’re an all-volunteer organization?” I pressed.
“Mostly,” said Bender. “I’m the executive director, and we have a part-time bookkeeper,
but everyone else is a volunteer.” Silence fell in the room. We looked at each other
some more. I sipped my cappuccino and started longing for something I felt clear about,
selling candy bars for the T-ball league, say, even making small talk at Michael’s
partner meetings. I took a breath.
“Well,” I said, smiling at both of them in my very finest “class dismissed” mode.
“It’s been so interesting hearing about Skunkworks. I can’t say when, or if, we’ll
pursue a story.” I stood. They looked at each other and stood as well. I held out
my hand. “I’m so grateful you took the time to come in, and if we do decide to do
a piece on Skunkworks, you’ll certainly be the first folks I’ll call.”
Young Bender beamed at me. “Oh, thank you, Mrs. Fiori. We really appreciate your interest.”
Father Timothy looked distinctly relieved. “Nice to have met you,” he said. He edged
Bender to the door, they both smiled one last time, and disappeared. I sipped and
contemplated a minute more, and then wandered down the hall to Puck’s office. The
door was closed and covered with yellow stickie notes that read, variously, “Do not
disturb, Brilliant Music Critic at Work,” “Enter upon pain of death,” and most warmly,
“Just Fuck Off.” I tapped on the door and pushed it open. The office was in its usual
disarray, Billie Holiday was crooning
God Bless the Child
over the stereo, and Puck was accompanying the music with a series of gentle groans
interspersed with snores. He was lying flat on the floor, fully clothed, with the
exception of his boots, which sat atop his desk. He was all in black, except for some
hot pink socks decorated with a lovely overall pattern of Mick Jagger-esque out-thrust
tongues. “Nice socks, Morris,” I observed.
Silence. “Puck,” I called. “Puck, darling, wake up.”
More silence. “Puck,” I said, a little more firmly, “I really, truly need to talk
to you.”
He hauled himself to a sitting position and half-opened his eyes. “I am way, way too
old for this.”
“For what? Gainful employment?”
“No. Partying all night.” He squinted up at me. “And it’s your fault. It was some
record release party.” He creaked to a standing position and flopped into his chair.
“Is that sissy swill you’re drinking caffeinated?”
“Sure is. Want some?”
“Yeah, thanks,” he reached for the cup, drank it down, and ricocheted the empty container
into the trash can.
“Okay, I’m here, I’m among you, I’m so, so happy to be alive,” he grimaced.
“You don’t look happy,” I noted. “You look terrible.”
Puck regarded me sourly. “Is there any chance at all Quentin will come back from the
dead and take this job away from you, Miss Priss?” he asked. “He knew enough to leave
me alone after a big opening night.”
“No chance at all,” I responded. “I believe you’re stuck with me, and if you want
to go get yourself some more coffee and a couple of aspirin, I’ll wait right here.
I have a little assignment for you.”
Puck looked as if he were considering an argument, thought better of it, then rambled
down the hall. While he was gone, I used his phone to call Stuart and ask if Puck
and I could stop by later that morning.
An hour later, with Puck somewhat revived, but bitterly complaining about out-of-office
assignments that didn’t involve alcohol, drugs, or rock and roll, we pulled into Quentin’s
drive. Stuart met us at the door. “You want to go through the kitchen, Maggie? You
think we’ve got one of your Dutch ovens?”
“Uh huh,” I said vaguely, heading to the kitchen. “I know you’ve got errands to run,
Stuart. Go on; I promise to put everything away when I’m done.”
Stuart looked puzzled, but collected his keys and headed down the stairs.
“Don’t forget to lock up when you guys go,” he called over his shoulder.
Within twenty minutes, Puck and I had every pot and pan out of Quentin’s cupboard.
And with miniature screwdrivers in hand, we began removing every handle from every
pot. Inside the handle of a lovely copper-bottomed sauté pan I found what I was looking
for: An elongated, foil-wrapped cylinder. We looked at each other. I weighed the cylinder
in my hand, then peeled the heavy foil off. Inside lay a plastic-wrapped vial filled
with clear, amber liquid.
“Holy shit,” said Puck. “How’d you know there’d be something in these handles, Maggie?”
“A hunch. I thought I smelled a skunk at work,” I said, feeling smug. “It’s that nonlinear,
sissy-swill-drinking brain of mine.”
“Well, that’s that,” said Puck. “Let’s call your big buddy over at the SFPD.”
“Not so fast,” I said. “I invited you along because you’re my drug expert.”
“Gee, imagine how flattered I am,” said Puck.
I was busy attempting to pry the stopper off.
“So does this look like anything you know?” I asked.
“You mean, like something recreational,” asked Puck. “Gimme a sniff of it.” I passed
the vial over. While he examined it, I took a closer look at the aluminum foil. “What
does this wrapping stuff look like to you?” I asked, tossing it to him.
“Heavy, isn’t it?” he said, puzzled. Then his face cleared. “You know what this stuff
is? It’s like the seal they used to put on wine bottles, the one that’s lined with
lead, the one they’re replacing so all us winos don’t die of lead poisoning.”
I looked at Puck. “Even when you’re hungover you’re pretty good,” I said. “Of course
it’s lead-lined. That’s so you can’t see inside the handles if you X-ray them.”
Puck sat back on his heels.
“Well, Maggie, you’re one smart broad, but I don’t know what you’re going to do with
this information. I have no idea what this stuff is—it doesn’t look like anything
I’ve seen sold on the street to be smoked or sniffed or shot up. But then, I’m not
as up to date as I used to be.”
“That seems like a step in the right direction,” I said.
“Yeah, well, don’t sound so self-righteous. Let’s remember who came to whom for an
expert opinion.” We sat in silence for a few minutes.
“Puck, start putting this stuff away, would you?” I asked, and headed into the living
room.
“And do it quickly, would you?”
“Hey,” he called, “thanks for the help. Whatever happened to ‘if you make a mess,
you’ve got to help pick it up?’”
But I wasn’t listening to Puck talking, I was listening to the very particular kind
of racket it makes to move a lot of pots and pans very quickly. And I was thinking
that the perfect thing to cover that noise up was some heavy metal rock.
We left Stuart a note, claiming we couldn’t find the allegedly missing Dutch oven,
and surveyed the kitchen for any telltale signs. Then I tucked the vial in my purse
and we headed out the door.
Puck dozed off in the front seat, exhausted by the heavy lifting, I guess. He woke
up as we pulled into the garage. We set out up Sutter Street back to the offices,
with Puck alternating complaints about all the work I’d dragged him away from and
pressing me for assurances I’d call Inspector Moon.
“I’m calling, I’m calling,” I said. “I just need to think some things through.”
“Yeah, well, while you’re thinking things through, there could be some nut out there
who gets wind of the fact you’re interfering with his hot scheme to ship essence-of-sheep-pituitary
into the good old US of A,” said Puck. “And, not to be a coward, lady, but when they
come after you, I’d just as soon not be around.”
“My, how gallant,” I said, as we stopped at the door to Puck’s office.
He caught my hand. “Come on, Maggie, I’m serious. Get some help with this stuff. You’re
getting in way over your head.”
“Oh, I’m getting some help,” I said. “I’m definitely going to some higher authorities.”
Puck let his breath out and examined my face, clearly looking for signs of truthfulness
and good character. I obediently put on my good Girl Scout face.
“Cool,” he said. “I knew you’d wise up.”
“Very soon,” I said, disengaging my hand. “First, I think I need to pray about it.”
Just before we turned out the light on Saturday night, I flung my book on the floor,
snuggled up to Michael, and said, “I’ve got a great idea about tomorrow morning.”
