Lab Notes: a novel (5 page)

People always said Raymond Bellfort was quick on his feet when working out a business deal. But having been placed in the position of needing the Roses more than they thought they needed him severely compromised his bargaining power. It presented an obstacle to what he saw as the natural hide-and-seek, give-and-take of negotiations.

Through his sources, Raymond knew the Rose’s federal science grant had been denied. That sort of thing was not unusual in this climate of government cut-backs. Most scientists in their position would jump at his job offer—but not the Roses. Vincent Rose saw himself as a university researcher; he had already begun the hunt for non-traditional funding.

Raymond’s informants had told him that Vincent was the consummate scientist. He loved his work, and if it weren’t for the annoyance of having to eat occasionally, he would probably work without pay.

Vincent had grown up with all the creature comforts. His father Vincent Rose Sr. (the family name, Rossetti, was shortened to Rose when Vincent Jr. was a child) owned a successful chain of six Italian restaurants and pizza shops in and around Pittsburgh. Vincent had never wanted for anything. As a result, money was not his hot button.

Diane Rose was more pragmatic. She had been raised in a blue-collar environment. Her father had been killed in a steel mill accident and her mother died of a blood disease shortly after. She was raised from an early age by her grandparents. She was fortunate to be able to go through school on scholarships.

Raymond felt he might be able to entice Diane Rose by playing the salary and benefits cards. As for Vincent Rose: worry-free research funding at BRI could possibly attract his interest.

But beyond all that, Raymond suspected he had found his trump card. Vincent Rose had developed an abiding passion for boating on Chesapeake Bay while attending college in Maryland. Now, living in Pittsburgh, he was limited to sailing his twenty-five-foot sailboat in circles three months out of the year on a small manmade lake north of the city. For him BRI’s proximity to Galveston Bay and the Gulf of Mexico might be inducement enough.

At any rate, Raymond saw a preemptive offer as the only way to go—no cat and mouse games, just bowl them over with an outrageous proposal.

Now the
Enterprise
reached a blinking green navigational light that marked the western edge of the Houston Ship Channel. Raymond made a lazy right turn and took a southerly heading toward Galveston. He called Vincent’s attention to the yacht’s electronic chart, pointing out the channel and its navigational markers and their corresponding blips on the radar screen.

“The channel is about fifty miles long and forty-five to fifty feet deep in the center and runs from Galveston to the turning basin up in Houston. Houston is the third largest seaport in the country, but as you can see, it’s actually located inland.”

Raymond went on to tell Vincent about the debate between shipping interests and local conservationists about widening and deepening the ship channel. “The conservationists thought they were doing the right thing, I suppose,” Raymond said. “But after a lot of time and money was wasted, the project went forward, and the Corps of Engineers did their best to preserve the local ecology—just as they would have without the hullabaloo.

“Those people are just temporary deterrents—much like the activists who raid research laboratories and go to the courts in an attempt to delay gene therapy and so forth. In the end, they can’t stay the hand of progress.”

Raymond took the opportunity to segue into a discussion of how the scarcity of funding suppressed research to a far greater extent than even the picketing, lab break-ins and law suits by activists.

“I hear you,” Vincent said. “Our federal science grant renewal was just denied.” His voice held an edge of bitterness. “These days it’s the scientists who find themselves under the microscope. And since many of us are funded by the government, the value of our projects is being determined by political agendas: AIDS research was very popular in the 80’s and 90’s. Then there was the genome. Now, the flavor-of-the-month seems to be stem cell research. If you’re not into gene therapy or stem cells, forget about the funding. As far as government grants are concerned, this time around, my Parkinson’s drug never had a chance.”

Raymond was pleased with the direction the conversation had taken. He told Vincent the scientific community in Houston was quite competitive; everyone vying for the same government or investor dollars. There had been instances of spying and theft of intellectual properties. And brutal competition went on even within the same organization; everyone taking credit for new discoveries.

“Last year at Hematec Labs, a biotech company up north of the city, one of their scientists injected another researcher’s prized cigars with a known carcinogen,” Raymond said. “The case is still in the courts. Pete Sabedra, the plaintiff, works with us now. So far he’s cancer free.”

Raymond turned and looked at Vincent. “Do you believe those sons-of-bitches at Hematec Labs still have the other guy on their staff? He’s probably trying to blot out colleagues as we speak.”

In response to Vincent’s questioning, Raymond gave him a summary of the research projects going on at BRI. He then told Vincent that due to royalties from past ventures and investor confidence, BRI was awash in funding for new research. “Our scientists can concentrate on their projects without living in fear of a change in the political climate at the National Institutes of Health.”

A blip on the radar screen grabbed Raymond’s attention. A large boat approached from the south. He surveyed the water up ahead through his night-vision binoculars and suddenly became agitated. “Speak of the devil!” Raymond throttled back the engines.

Out of the mist emerged a large power cruiser with a displacement hull similar in design to that of the
Enterprise
. The boat came toward them, up the ship channel. It passed the
Enterprise
on her port side and continued on its way up the bay. Its huge wake caused the yacht to roll slightly. A chorus of gleeful
wheee’s
arose from the salon below them.

“Bloody rude. Didn’t even have the courtesy to slow down,” Raymond grumbled.

After few quiet seconds with Raymond negotiating some waves, he leaned toward Vincent with a smug grin. “It’s ten feet shorter than this one.” Then, in answer to Vincent’s puzzled expression, he added: “That was Hematec Lab’s boat that passed. They usually keep it in Bermuda or somewhere in the Caribbean. Sometimes they’ll bring it up here to wine and dine potential investors—especially during holiday seasons.”

“Are you in direct competition with Hematec?” Vincent asked.

“Affirmative. They’ve been developing lab tests, exclusively. We beat them to the market with the test for Swine Flu. Then Pete Sabedra jumped ship and joined us. I’d say the folks at Hematec are rather miffed at us right now.” Raymond chuckled.

The smell of butter and garlic wafted up from the galley and Raymond took a deep whiff. At that moment, Colton Fey, the ship’s captain, arrived on the scene and Raymond made the introductions.

“Colton here will take over so we can go below and have a bite to eat… unless you’d like to take the helm for a while.” Raymond winked at Colton. “I’m sure Colton won’t mind sitting in the copilot seat.”

Vincent enthusiastically volunteered to take the wheel. Raymond switched on the autopilot then forced his collar closed at his throat and reattached his bow tie. “Let me give you a quick briefing.” He pointed down the channel. “It’s clearly marked. We draw seven feet. If you see you’re getting into less than twenty feet of water, steer her back toward the center a little. I have our way points punched into the GPS in case this fog gets any denser. Have you ever used satellite navigation?”

“On road trips,” Vincent said.

“Good.” He cut his eyes to Colton. “Colton here can answer your questions if anything comes up.”

Colton nodded, his smile glowing an eerie red in the reflection from the instrument panel.

Vincent settled into the helmsman’s seat, and for a moment he was an awe-struck kid again, sitting on his grandfather’s lap behind the wheel of his Buick sedan. He ran his palms part way around the wheel, then back to the center.

Raymond excused himself and went below.

By 9:30 p.m. the
Enterprise
had docked in Galveston. Thoroughly sated guests enjoyed an after dinner cappuccino or Courvoisier on the upper and lower decks. After playing a set of old standard dance music, the musicians took a break.

Vincent had gone off with Raymond and Charlotte Bellfort and Carlos Carrera to board the tall ship,
Elissa
, docked nearby. Diane had begged off the tour stating that her short-cropped satin jacket would not be adequate against the cool night air.

She sat on one of the Enterprise’s upholstered bar stools, sipping a cappuccino. From outside the pockets of laughter, she watched the crowd in an attempt to pierce through all the revelry and assess the aggregate that was BRI. In conversations throughout the evening, she had been mostly unsuccessful at penetrating the heart of the organization. Party dresses and tuxes were accessorized with sterling party manners. Any attempt at delving into company policies and politics was met with a wall of pleasantries.

Before dinner, Charlotte Bellfort had made sure Diane met everyone on board the yacht. She was impressed that BRI even had a staff veterinarian; David Crowley was his name. He was handsome in a rawboned kind of way. However, his amusing Southern adages (spoken with a Texas drawl that conveyed an easy-goin’ sense of meetin’ ‘round the cracker barrel) clashed with his tailored tux, taut jaw and watchful eyes. She saw him as a target of opportunity and hoped to chat with him again after dinner. But he seemed to have jumped ship when the boat docked in Galveston.

Charlotte had also introduced Diane to Maxine Boudreaux, the BRI business manager. Maxine was a thick-bodied, slender limbed young woman who was oddly attractive. Her hearty welcome and patent assuredness had strongly indicated she was in charge, despite Charlotte Bellfort’s bluster.

Charlotte had even swept Diane through the restaurantsized galley when Andor, the Hungarian chef, and his assistants were putting finishing touches on the lobster thermador. Andor was a comical figure whose half-moon eyebrows seemed to be raised in a perpetual question. In response to his introduction to Diane, Andor had thrust a teaspoon of sauce in her direction and commanded: “Taste for salt.”

Diane followed his order, then moaned with pleasure as flavors of butter, cream, sherry and exotic mushrooms erupted on her tongue. “Perfect,” she told him.

“Goot,” he replied, then shooed them out of his galley.

At the clang of the dinner bell, Charlotte had turned Diane over to Raymond Bellfort who had morphed from the distracted bulldog she’d met at lunch in Pittsburgh to a waggish Saint Bernard who drooled with geniality as he led her through the buffet line.

Diane found the Bellforts’ double-teamed hospitality exhausting—the real reason she had stayed behind when the group went off to see the
Elissa.

She reached for a cognac from a nearby tray. It was time to discard her Mata Hari ways, rejoin the fun. After all, what’s not to enjoy? The ambience was dazzling; the food and music, wonderful; the people, gracious to exuberant.

Now, the girl who played the keyboard came in from the deck and sat two seats away from Diane at the bar.

“You play beautifully,” Diane said to her. “I’ve thought about getting an electronic piano. It must be wonderful having an orchestra at your fingertips.”

The girl beamed, and self-consciously adjusted her bowtie, worn as a choker over her off-the-shoulder sweater.

“I’m Diane Rose.” Diane extended her hand.

“Murphy O’Shea,” the girl said, reaching to shake Diane’s hand.

“For your age, you have an amazing repertoire of old standards.”

“That always throws people,” Murphy said. “Ling, the violinist, and I are students at Rice University’s Shepherd School of Music. We found out we couldn’t get many gigs by playing Bach and Mozart. So-oo-o we learned some Big Band stuff and old standards… and here we are. You said you play the piano?”

“Not as well as you.”

“Do you want to sit in on the next set? I can change the settings while you play and give you a feel for what the instrument can do. You’ll love it.”

Murphy’s enthusiasm eventually overcame Diane’s fear of stage fright. She agreed to sit in.

“Do you know
Funny Valentine
?” Diane asked.

“Yes, I love it.”

Listening to her grandparents’ vintage record collection during her teens, Diane had developed an affinity for popular music from the forties and fifties. And early in their courtship, Vincent had also developed a love for those songs—particularly
Funny Valentine
. They both enjoyed its romantic melody but found some of the words to be amusingly rude and often parodied them. Vincent would recite the lyrics and accompany Diane on guitar while she played piano and sang. But when she pleaded with him to sing along, he always begged off saying his voice had the resonance of a moose in rut.

Now, Diane sat down at the piano. Aware of the returning guests, she played haltingly at first. But eventually the music filled her, eliminating any self-conscious thoughts. Murphy O’Shea stood behind the keyboard, pressing buttons and throwing switches. Suddenly, Diane was accompanied by vibes, George Shearing-style. Then, magically, she was playing an organ, then the harpsichord. She laughed with delight.