BLIND TRIAL, Brian Deer [top 10 motivational books .txt] 📗

molecular biology, genetics, immunology. We could learn plenty if we got WernerVac into a big bunch of folks.”

“Of course.”

“If I could get back into the lab, maybe we could find a way to tweak it.”

“Tweak it? I see.”

“Hell, in the fifties the first polio vaccine caused two hundred polio cases and eleven deaths before they got it bedded down right.”

“Did it really?”

“Sure did.”

“That’s marvelous.”

“What gets my goat is we could have played it straight. The tragedy would be standing back and letting him destroy everything we worked for all these years.”

“You’re right, Trudy. Good people with good hearts worked with you on this.” She quarter-filled her glass with the last of the Beaujolais. “But you’re quite sure about the science?”

“Look, I’m not happy about this situation. But I’ve done some figuring since last night. If you’re asking my analysis, from a scientific point of view, that’s it.”

“What? So, from a scientific point of view, the product’s a good thing, even with the, you know?”

“From a scientific point of view.”

Marcia looked at her general counsel. “The legal position?”

“Straight up and down. Garberville never happened. And leave me to take care of Doctorjee.”

“You can take care of him?”

“I can take care of him.”

“Mr. Louviere?”

“Makes a kind of sense, I guess.”

“Bravo. I can see it.” Marcia sprang from her desk. “WernerVac. The time has come.”

Fifty-two

BEN PUSHED open his front door at Ericson Vale, and a stink of rotting food breathed past his face onto the walkway overlooking the pool. During his five days away on the Sumiko Honda matter, the July heat had festered a scraped-away curry and turned a bunch of bananas into charcoal.

He stepped into the kitchen, tied a knot in a garbage sack, and hauled it downstairs to a dumpster.

His mind ached with confusion. And he’d no way to share it. He’d no cellphone since Hoffman snatched it last night. He’d no company laptop after it vanished from his car. His broadband package came without a landline. So, unless he found a payphone—and Luke took the call—he couldn’t get advice if he wanted.

And wasn’t that a question? Did he want Luke’s advice? Or had a line already been crossed? With all that turning off phones, long sighs, ignoring WhatsApps, nothing needed saying about what was going down: his best friend was shutting him out. With one last heave, one rented-out bedroom, Luke was trying to rewrite the Cozy Cleaners saga with himself not the hero but the victim.

A cab brought Ben home after the meeting with Marcia Gelding, and he considered having it stop at Ansley Mall. Should he put up the Bat Signal, or hit his Jimmy Olsen watch, and have some muscled guy in spandex save the day?

No. He wasn’t calling Luke. Luke could go to hell. He could shove his Cozy Cleaners up his ass.

Ben stripped naked, threw his laundry together with a tab of Tide detergent and set the washing machine sloshing in the kitchen. He gathered plates and mugs, loaded the dishwasher, and wiped countertops with Easy Scrub.

The trouble with Luke was he got off on playing rescuer when it was him who most often needed saving. Who was it who closed the deal on the apartment at Cleveland Avenue? Who was it who got Luke’s grandmother to go halves on the Spider? Who was it who snagged him Mario at Charlies?

No. He wasn’t calling Luke. Luke could listen to the wind in the telegraph wires, and when his phone didn’t ring, he’d know who wasn’t calling. One last heave? What a laugh.

With the kitchen straight, he stepped into the bathroom, and looked himself over in a full-length mirror beside the basin. He’d a classic black eye, practically stamped with Hoffman’s knuckles. He felt a bump—maybe a break—in his nose. His right ear had bled. His cheek swelled near the jawbone. He’d bruises round his neck where Hoffman grabbed him by the throat, and a lump on the back of his skull.

What a state to come back in from a special assignment. Dinner and a fuck and a raise. His upper left thigh was all yellow and blue where one of Hoffman’s kicks caught him square. On his right flank, he saw a stain: blood beneath the skin. It stopped barely short of breaking through. He raised both arms and studied marks above his elbows where the general counsel grabbed and gripped him. Reflected in the mirror, even his dick looked discolored, like he’d taken Hoffman’s boot between the legs.

That Sumiko Honda lady should be asked to look at this. She should see where her “shambles” had gotten him. If he hadn’t lost his phone, he would have sent her a video so she could study every inch of his body. She could use her doctor skills to reach a prognosis: like how long he’d have this pain in his back. And while she was looking, she could see what she was missing: seven-and-threequarters, smooth and thick. She could study it hard: the perfect fit.

He moved his feet apart, gathered spit on his tongue, looked down, let it dribble, and rubbed. So, Doctor Honda, what are you doing tonight? Remember me? Ben? I think you do.

He ran his hands up his body—his bruised, broken body—till they crossed at his pecs. He squeezed his biceps. He stroked himself down, past his abs to his groin, and brought his thumbs together below his navel. He ran them through his hair as his palms traveled his shaft and his fingertips met as if in prayer. His erection sprang back. He licked his lips and grinned. Doctor Honda.

Then he turned from the mirror, set the shower spraying, and stepped into the warmth of warm water. He let it run through his hair, down his back, between his legs. But he wouldn’t jack off just yet. As Sumiko could tell you, he wasn’t short on performance. If he did the deed now, he’d recharge in fifteen minutes. But not tonight, alone, and feeling sorry. If he spanked