Читать книгу A Thin Place - Jack Peterson - Страница 13

June 11th, 1927

St. Paul, Minnesota

Jeremiah Trent stood outside, staring at the two huge brass entry doors that led to the St. Paul Hotel’s lobby. Instinct told him to abandon his plan, turn and run, but just walking had suddenly become a major challenge. The most important meeting of his life was just fifty yards away and he was afraid to go inside. He could still hear Richard Gurzi’s early morning telephone conversation… Come alone! Gurzi emphasized the word alone so ominously it caught him off guard. His words were cold, harsh, and remained imbedded in his mind eight hours later.

Shaking some life back into his legs, Trent tipped the door attendant and walked inside. His heartbeat kept pace with his racing mind as he took a booth in the dining room and waited. Even though Gurzi had always been affable and accommodating, Trent thought him an enigma. He could switch personalities as he saw the need, going from friendly to evasive, genuine to condescending. For Trent, it was clear that Gurzi was not a man one should cross. Whether or not he should be trusted wasn’t a sure thing either. For the moment, he could only accept the man for what he was. Where their relationship led was up to Gurzi. He had no other choice. The only certainty was that he had to be careful.

After being seated in the dining room, Trent looked around. Tuxedoed waiters and white tablecloths were not a common occurrence in his life, and the formality wasn’t helping his already fragile demeanor. He sat alone. Too nervous to think, each minute that passed seemed an hour. Then, a familiar voice came from behind. “Dr. Trent, it’s good to see you again.”

Trent stood, offering Gurzi his outstretched hand. Slightly built, Gurzi was from a world Trent did not recognize. Trent guessed he and Gurzi were about the same age, but the similarities ended there. Of Italian descent, the man was blessed with a pleasant accent complimented by a distinctively deep voice. He wore clothes with brand names usually only seen in magazines, and he guessed Gurzi’s imported loafers cost more than he made in a month at the university.

Avoiding any further pleasantries, Gurzi carefully placed a small leather briefcase on the table and sat down. He wasted no time and was blunt. “Are you prepared to do business?”

Caught off guard, Trent wasn’t exactly sure how to respond. He didn’t want to appear anxious, but he was certain Gurzi was well aware that he was desperate for money. The good news was that the only possible reason Gurzi had for requesting a meeting had to be that the sample preservative he delivered to him a week earlier had tested viable. Any chemist worth his salt could have used his sample to recreate a reasonable facsimile of the formula. It wouldn’t be exact, but it would be close enough to confirm the formula valid, and that it would perform as he claimed. Whether or not Gurzi knew he had already submitted a patent application was another matter. He wanted to be sure everyone understood his rules. He cautiously danced around Gurzi’s doing business question. “Before we go on, I think you should know that I have already taken measures to protect my formula.”

Expressionless, Gurzi offered no response, not even a blink. Trent was a giant of a man, physically far more intimidating than the man on the other side of the table, but Gurzi’s cool silence erased any thought that his own superior physique could give him any form of advantage. As a precautionary measure, he filed a patent application a few days earlier to legally prevent any pirating of his formula. Now, any similar formula submitted would be automatically rejected providing his original patent was approved. He didn’t want to offend Gurzi by explaining the process, but he had to know. “Mr. Gurzi, do you understand what I just told you?”

Gurzi nodded, still stone-faced. Trent waited. He had no idea where to take the conversation. A moment later, Gurzi smiled for the first time since he arrived. “Dr. Trent, let’s dispense with the gamesmanship. Of course we know you filed your application. We expected as much. In fact, my client was pleased that you have already initiated the patent process. It will save them valuable time.”

Trent knew Gurzi’s use of the word client was a euphemism for a drug company, but there was more to it than that. After their initial meeting a week earlier, he decided to do a little homework of his own. In addition to representing several drug companies as a sales representative, Gurzi also represented a pharmaceutical supply company that his father purchased three years earlier. The same company supplied excipients and other raw pharmaceutical materials to drug manufacturers.

Trent looked across the table at Gurzi who was still displaying an obsequious smile. Trent was tentative, but he had to know, “Then you have run your tests?” he asked

Gurzi nodded.

Trent hesitated before asking the obvious… “And?”

“My client is satisfied with the preliminary results. They have an interest.”

It was impossible for Trent to disguise his hard swallow, and he was certain Gurzi noticed. He was gathering the courage to ask a question he had rehearsed non-stop for two days. His voice cracked. “Then, am I to presume that your clients are ready to negotiate a price?”

Gurzi slowly leaned back in his chair, offering no response. Trent watched him closely. The man looked like a cat playing with its prey, toying with it before the kill. Trent thought it ironic he would risk his entire future on a man he met only months earlier while standing in line for a hot dog at the convention, but it wasn’t as if he hadn’t heard the Gurzi name before. Gurzi had a reputation for knowing all the key movers and shakers in the drug industry so he took a chance and shared his idea about developing a vaccine preservative over a second hot dog. Gurzi quickly turned into more than just a casual listener. Now, the man on the other side of the table held the only key that could open the door to his future.

Several very long seconds passed before Trent gathered his courage to ask the most difficult question of his life. “What’s the offer?” he asked tentatively.

Gurzi pounced, emphatically slamming his fist on the table. “One hundred thousand dollars!” he announced.

Doing a poor job of disguising his surprise, Trent leaned back in his chair. He wanted to yell hallelujah but restrained himself. As a chemist, it was more money than he could earn in the next twenty years but the amount on the table was far less than what he could get if he proved his formula viable and opened it up to bid on the open market. The thought was nothing more than useless speculation. Time was not on his side. Medical school started in less than ninety days, and he had drained all his cash reserves to pay his first years tuition. He was hurting, and Gurzi knew it.

Gurzi pushed, “I assume you agree with the price?”

Still flushed, Trent could only nod his approval.

Gurzi took out a pen and scribbled a phone number on the back of his business card and pushed it across the table. “To complete the process, you will call this number tomorrow morning and tell the receptionist your name. She will transfer you to a man who will identify himself only as Mr. Cartwright. He will present the terms of the contract and arrange for you to sign the patent transfer application. I suggest you follow his instructions. There will be no changes to these terms.”

Trent picked up the card and tucked it into his shirt pocket. Gurzi’s stoic face slowly turned to a smile. He opened the briefcase and pulled out a large white envelope nearly an inch thick and pushed in across the table. “Here’s the first installment.”

“Installment?”

“Yes, the first fifty thousand dollars, all in cash. You will receive the balance after my client has successfully transferred the patent transfer to his name.”

Trent started to reach for the envelope but thought better of it. “I don’t understand. I haven’t even signed the transfer yet.”

Gurzi’s voice slowed, hardened. “My clients are aware of the risk. They consider it minimal but, if you choose to take this offering this evening, let me give you some advice.”

Trent didn’t respond. He had no idea what else to do. Gurzi’s brief smile dissolved, displaced by a very intimidating glare. “Dr. Trent, my clients are reputable businessmen. For obvious reasons they wish to remain anonymous. If you take this money and haven’t signed the patent transfer within three days, I can assure you that my client’s demeanor will change considerably and that they will hold me personally responsible for their displeasure. If that happens, there will be serious repercussions. I suggest you sign the transfer. Once the patent transfer application is approved by the US Patent Office and delivered to my client, the second installment will be sent to you by my courier within forty-eight hours. Do I make myself clear Dr. Trent?’

Unable or afraid to respond, he was not sure which, Trent simply nodded his head in agreement.

Gurzi stood up immediately, pointing to the envelope. “I suggest you put that in a very safe place. You know how to reach me,” he offered, shaking Trent’s hand. Without another word, Gurzi closed his briefcase, turned, and walked away. Trent remained behind feeling as if he were frozen to his chair. His mind was still a whirlwind. He knew going in that he would be playing this game on other people’s terms, and it would be their way or not at all. Now, his bed was made. He had to sleep in it. With $50,000 cash under the mattress, he was certain his bed would feel a bit more comfortable.

Trent picked up the envelope, walked outside, and took in a huge breath of fresh air. He decided to walk a few blocks before catching a taxi home. As he walked to clear his mind, he marveled at the irony of Prohibition. He had no qualms with the legitimacy of Gurzi’s father’s business, but he held no illusions about how an immigrant from Italy with no visible means of income managed to finance the purchase. Seven years earlier, only after substantial pressure from the temperance movement, Congress had passed the Volstead Act prohibiting the sale of alcoholic beverages, but the government had done little to enforce the law. At last count, it was estimated there were over fifty thousand speakeasy clubs in New York City alone. Other major cities across the country weren’t far behind, and it was no secret that bootleg liquor was openly supplied to the speakeasies by organized crime, and they made it a habit to put their profits to work by investing in legitimate businesses. Rumor had it that Gurzi’s father, a man of little education and simple means with no apparent income, apparently convinced some anonymous benefactor’s to help him pay cash for his pharmaceutical supply company. It gave Trent pause for concern but not so much to change his mind about selling his formula. As long as someone paid his price, he didn’t have the time to worry about what Gurzi euphemistically referred to as his benefactors.

An hour later, Trent finally felt a welcomed sense of relief as his taxi pulled away from the hotel. While the Volstead Act had been successful in reducing the amount of liquor consumed nationally, there was a downside to the legislation. A byproduct of the law seemed to be destroying society by other means. As much as he hated to be a participant, Trent knew today was a perfect example of just one of the many problems the nation faced with the repercussions of Prohibition. People were taking advantage of opportunities, legal or otherwise, and he was no exception. In two weeks, he would move to Chicago.