Fatal Reaction

having diffraction-grade crystals.”
    “And Elvis has just been recruited by Glaxo. I believe only what I read in Nature. Besides, once our sushi buddies ante up we’ll have the money to cook up all kinds of new drugs. That is, for those of you who care about making drugs.”
    “What does he mean by that?” I asked Remminger. “It’s a dig against academics. You see, where we come from making new drugs isn’t exactly considered that big a deal. I mean, hey, I wouldn’t mind finding a cure for cancer, but scientifically speaking the big prize in all of this is solving the structure of the receptor molecule and synthesizing the new compound.”
    “The Japanese don’t give a damn whether we turn ZK-501 into a drug,” complained someone named Kurt, who worked in the protein lab.
    “And it’s a good thing,” a man with a wild black beard who was sitting next to him interjected, “because at the rate we’re going we have about as much chance of making a drug as Kurt here has of getting lucky with lovely Kasandra behind the bar.” This remark was met with a chorus of hoots.
    “Would you just shut up and let me finish,” shouted the unfortunate Kurt above the din. “The reason the Japanese don’t care whether we make a new drug is that’s not what they’re really interested in. They could care less if we make money with ZK-501. Don’t you see? They already have plenty of money. What they really want is to see how we do it.” It occurred to me that Kurt was probably right. “You mark my words. It’s all part of their master plan. Ten years from now we’re all going to be taking Japanese pills the way we watch Japanese TVs and drive Japanese cars. These guys don’t want one new drug, they want the know-how to make lots of new drugs, and if you ask me, whatever they’re gonna end up paying us for it, we’re selling it to them too cheap.”
     
    The next morning I woke up feeling exhausted and vaguely hungover. I dragged myself miserably out of bed and reflected that if there was one thing the scientists of the ZK-501 project excelled at it was putting away tequila. With Danny’s funeral set for ten I was grateful that it didn’t make sense to even try to get out to Oak Brook.
    With my lawyer’s wardrobe of dark suits I could have dressed for an infinite number of funerals, but I made a special effort for Danny’s sake, selecting a black Armani suit he had often complimented me on.
    When I got to my office even Cheryl voiced her approval. “You look very nice,” she said.
    “Thank you, I’m going to a funeral.”
    “I’ve got everything set for your trip to New York. I called and spoke to Mr. Hiroshi Toyoda’s private secretary. They will be expecting you at four o’clock. Here are your tickets and your itinerary. Of course Bud Hellman called and said he’d love to take you to lunch or dinner if you have time, but I explained that you were hoping to just get in and out. He also said to be sure and let him know and that they’d make an office available to you if you needed it, etc....”
    Hellman was the managing partner of the firm’s New York office and within the last year he’d traded in a perfectly good wife for a social-climbing Texas beauty half his age named Babs. Babs made no secret of her social aspirations and practically panted to be in the same room with my mother. The fact that the last time they actually spoke my mother accidentally called her “Boobs” pretty much summed up the matter. Nevertheless, Hellman, with the optimism of a man of sixty who thinks he’s going to bed at night with his second youth, always fell all over himself whenever I came to New York.
    “What else is new?”
    “Not much. The draft-offering documents on Nuland Petroleum were finally messengered over yesterday afternoon. I’ve given them to Sherman to look over, but there’s another set on your desk in case you wanted to read through them on the plane.”
    “Where’s the mail?”
    “On your desk. Also your messages. Can I get you some coffee?”
    “I would love some,” I replied.
    It felt wonderful to be back in my own office, behind my own desk, surrounded by my own things. I flipped through the mail, stopping to read items that seemed timely or important. I dictated a few notes and replies.
    As Cheryl appeared with my coffee a thought suddenly occurred to me. I quickly picked up the phone and dialed Tom Galloway’s number.
    “I was wondering if you were planning on going to