BLIND TRIAL by Brian Deer (best books to read for beginners TXT) 📗

“Several.”

“Me too.”

Mario sank onto a stained brown couch. “You might as well know what gives.”

Luke quit rocking. “Okay.”

“Well… You know how I signed up for that vaccine thing at the Howard Brown? And how they gave me those shots?”

“You did choose to do that. You know I didn’t.”

“Okay, I did. My choice. Not bringing that up.”

“So then?”

“And you know how it is? It’s late, you’re drunk, you got no rubbers, or some drop-dead stud says he don’t use them?”

“Think we all been there.”

“Yeah, well I’m also thinking about this vaccine, so maybe I can’t catch anything anyhow?”

“Not sure I know that. I do PREP most of the time. My health plan covers it, so I don’t get into that headfuck much.”

“Yeah, well, my plan doesn’t cover it. I don’t even have a plan.”

“I shouldn’t have brought that up.”

“So, I’m sometimes thinking maybe I can’t catch the bug.”

“If you say so. But you might have gotten the placebo and the shot was still unproven. You could still get HIV.”

“Yeah, I did.”

Twenty-three

TWO WHITE Nissan Sentras sat parked on Potrero Hill: one facing west, the other north. One glowed in streetlight, the other skulked in darkness, not fifteen yards from each other. In the first: nobody. In the second: Ben Louviere. Both cars had cooled here for hours.

Between Ben’s legs rested Hoffman’s transparent bag. It felt like it weighed about a pound. Inside, the brown package was open at one end, exposing a polythene sachet. That too was unsealed, and crudely closed up. The yellow shopping bag lay on the floor. A rolled-up banknote poked from his shirt, behind which his heart thumped double time.

When he agreed to deliver it to Murayama’s hotel room, he’d no clue what he’d let himself in for. A joke, he guessed. But what was the punchline? He needed to understand Plan B.

He’d pulled up at this corner before half past eight in a check for the Sanomo guy. Assuming he wasn’t here, Ben planned to phone Sumiko and ask straight out, “What gives?” He would ask her to explain the proposition she’d gotten, and listen for the flicker of a lie. If she told him the truth, he would have stopped by, and they’d have gotten it together.

But no.

He checked the time: 22:25. He’d been waiting here more than two hours. He ran his tongue across his Samsung, licking crumbs of white powder. His lips felt deliciously numb.

When she’d come on to him before, he’d suspected she was lying. Her body language looked great: all neck-touching and breast-pushing. But it was as phony as a dog playing piano. All those sneaky glances and that “come and see my fish” crap? She was figuring to play him for a sucker.

Watching her apartment—on the top floor of the three-story—he counted four rooms on the Missouri Street side, with two flat windows and three bay windows: one of which wrapped the corner. Two were screened with venetian blinds, the others with pairs of drapes. Through a gap between drapes, he now saw shadows move. Living room? Bedroom? Hard to tell.

He tapped his phone and on North Cleveland Avenue the landline rang out unanswered. He’d been calling for an hour. He’d kept trying Luke’s cellphone, but only got voicemail.

What to do?

When he accepted the package, he’d thought it was a prank: maybe BerneWerner brochures, or something. Then he remembered Hoffman talking about the Jap seeing “the sights.” More probably it was money: a bribe.

Or maybe not a bribe, but a sting on Sanomo.

Not a bomb. Kiddie porn? Or drugs?

He hadn’t meant to open it. He’d told Hoffman, “You can trust me.” But he needed to know, to be sure. And once it was open, he couldn’t go back. Necessity was the mother of temptation.

Forty minutes ago, the machine stopped working, and Luke’s cell still cut to voicemail. By then, the package lay unsealed between his legs, and he’d sampled a little—just a tentative, tiny, taster—hardly any—on the tip of a finger. That proved what it was but made him feel anxious. So he took another snort to steady his nerves.

Again, Luke’s cell. Again, to voicemail. He took another snort to tide him over. Back to the landline, with a snort for composure. He liked it. Deserved it. Why not?

In a moment, he’d take a modest final toot for closure: the last one tonight. For certain. He’d seal up the package and wrap it in the bags. Then tomorrow he’d find Hoffman, say, “Sorry, no can do,” and return to Atlanta, having failed.

Luke was avoiding him. What other explanation? He was never out this late Wednesdays. “Answer… Answer… Why don’t you fucking answer? You gotta be home bro. I know you’re home.”

He rested the phone on a knee, tugged at the package, and dug into the powder with a quarter. He lifted the coin to a nostril.

Ssss-sss… Ssss-sss.

Then the other.

Ssss-sss… Ssss-sss.

The tang of coke bit. He swallowed. Loved it. The world’s best taste: a coked breast. White rocks cascaded down his shirt and pants, disappearing into the stitching of the driver’s seat.

He studied her windows: the lighting had changed. One room was dimmer. But why?

What else could be happening, but foreplay to fucking? They’d probably finished plotting against the company. She’ll have told him all the juicy stuff: every protocol violation, every badly folded reply form perforation.

Probably what it took to get the Jap’s dick hard. “Cytotoxic T-lymphocytes. Oh baby.”

He resealed the brown package, and closed the transparent bag, having rubbed his sleeve everywhere he’d touched it. Then he stretched the yellow bag, elbowed the other inside, and let the package’s weight pull it down. He tipped back his head, swallowed warm spit, and hit the car’s ignition. The engine fired.

What better time than now to bring justice to all? But now—get this right—signal first, brake off. Lights on? Sure.

Where’s the bag?

The Sentra pulled away and rolled down Missouri.

He braked at Sixteenth and turned left.

THURSDAY JULY 24

Twenty-four

THE GRAND Hyatt on Union Square, near