W Is for Wasted

big fat superior white asses while kids like Pete rose to the challenge of the bullies. Linton—shit, even his name was prissy—would dissolve in tears while Pete fought down to the bitter end. His nose might be bloody and his shirt torn, the back of his pants streaked with dirt and grass stains, but the other guy always backed off first. His opponents took to coming after him with chains and stones, at which point he was sometimes forced to concede. Anything short of that, Pete was fearless.
    Dr. Reed adjusted his watchband, not checking the face, which would have been rude, but making his point nonetheless.
    “Ms. Sobel mentioned you had a personal matter to discuss.”
    “I’m here to do you a favor.”
    The set smile appeared. “And what might that be?”
    Pete opened the folder he’d brought with him and placed it on the desk. He wet his index finger and turned a page or two. “It’s come to my attention that you’re in a bit of a sticky situation.”
    “Oh?”
    “This is in regard to the Phase II clinical trials involving a drug called Glucotace. I confess I don’t understand all the nitty-gritty details, but according to my sources, the drug was originally intended for diabetics until it was taken off the market for what turned out to be, in some instances, fatal side effects. Your current hypothesis is that in combination with Acamprosate and another drug . . .”
    “Naltrexone, which is in common use. Studies have shown it mitigates the craving for alcohol.”
    Pete held up a piece of paper. “I’m aware of that. It says so right here. Your theory is those two drugs plus Glucotace might prove effective in the treatment of nicotine and alcohol addiction.”
    “Statistics show alcoholic smokers are more prone to severe nicotine dependence than are nonalcoholics with higher smoking rates.” Dr. Reed’s tone was bemused and slightly professorial, as though Pete might benefit from enlightenment. “We’re just beginning to address the relationship.”
    “And we appreciate your attention to the matter,” Pete said. “With regard to Glucotace, your observation was that patients in treatment for alcohol dependence often develop a craving for sweets, which naturally plays havoc with their insulin levels. Your idea was to control glucose as a means of minimizing the peaks and valleys. Use of Glucotace, in this instance, would be classified as off-label.”
    The doctor smiled. “And you know this how? I’m just curious.”
    “Get an NIH grant and much of this is public record. The rest I picked up on my own. Success here would go a long way toward boosting your career. Comes to publishing, you’re already ahead of the curve. How many papers in this year alone? Forty-seven by my count. You’re a busy boy.”
    “Some of those were coauthored.”
    “Duly noted. I made a copy of the list.”
    Linton Reed’s face remained blank. No herding behavior here. “I don’t understand where you’re going with this.”
    “You want the long version or the short?”
    Dr. Reed’s eyes were dead. “Keep it short.”
    “There’s been some suggestion you’re cooking your data.”
    “Pardon?”
    “The clinical trial. You’re manipulating the numbers, making them look better than they are; something I gather you’ve done in the past. There was that business in Arkansas, which I grant you was a problem of a different sort.”
    “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “I may not know the whole of it, but I know enough. Whatever’s going on is of no interest to me personally, but I gather it’s of the utmost importance to you. You have that pretty little bride of yours, new home the in-laws bought you, nice car.”
    “Leave my private life out of this.”
    “Just pointing out how much you have to lose. Good job, all those high-class friends. This comes to light and you can kiss all that good-bye.”
    “This conversation is over.”
    “Conversation’s over, but your jeopardy is not. I have an idea how you might sidestep disgrace. I’d be happy to spell it out if you’re interested.”
    The good doctor’s voice dropped into the manly range that must have served him so well in other circumstances. “If you don’t leave my office this minute, I’ll call security.”
    Pete stood and took out a business card that he placed on the desk. “I’d give it some thought. You’ve got a lot at stake and you can’t afford to get caught out. Even the
accusation
of trimming, founded or