“Then who?”
“One of us. The leader of the slugs.”
“You have, um… let me get this straight. You’re not the leader of the slugs? You have a different leader?”
“Indeed. And he will speak to you three days from now, at exactly three o’clock a.m. He’s very exact when it comes to times, so be ready.”
“Got it, sure. Lots of threes.” Gabriel held back a groan. The slugs mystified him. They seemed to get stranger with every encounter, and every time he attempted to figure out whether or not they were real, he was left with a splitting migraine and no logical answers. Still, they were the only help he had. “Tell me, by any chance, does this marvelous slug leader of yours have a name?”
“Of course.” Leopard Print’s antennas straightened. “His name is Michael.”
Chapter 22:
Empty
Autumn 1981
“So in conclusion, gentlemen, I trust that after reviewing all of this information, you’ll understand why it’s imperative for us to pursue potential cures for this contagion before it becomes more widespread.” Gabriel turned off the projector and stood before the group of black-suited businessmen in their black-and-white room, trying to keep his knees from wobbling.
The men in front of him controlled the medical industry, the key to his future. The window shades were lowered, and the room was dark and silent, other than the sound of a man in the back smacking his lips. Gabriel spun his wedding ring around his finger then clasped it tightly. Give me strength, Yvonne. When I come home tonight, I’ll finally be the man I’m supposed to be.
Gabriel had gotten through the slideshow presentation, told them all about his research, and explained the virus. He’d given them all the evidence from confirmed cases and his hypothesis on what had caused the virus. He had also presented examples of the current infections occurring in San Francisco, where people were increasingly popping up with swollen lymph nodes, bizarre symptoms, and strange cases in which the immune system failed to fight off simple infections.
If the men didn’t rally behind him, the whole game was over. He was just one strange little man living on a sailboat with his dance instructor wife, and he needed their financial resources. He needed labs, proper equipment, and paperwork know-how that went over his head. He could also use some lawyers to keep him out of any legal hot water.
“I have a question,” said Rufus Verne, staring at Gabriel with the amber eyes of a predatory falcon.
“Yes, Mr. Verne?”
“Well, from what I can see, you’re asking for us to fund your research, yes?” His deep, gravelly voice cracked under the pressure of at least four decades of harsh cigarettes.
Gabriel nodded. “Yes.”
“You want us to spend an enormous amount of money, time, and resources on your project.” Verne’s mouth smiled, but his eyes were untouched. “You want us to supply you with a research team, media attention, a whole hullaballoo. Am I correct, Mister… Schist, is it?”
Don Foyer, a churlish, Michelin-Man figure who wore white suits meant for a man three sizes smaller, snickered. The other men remained dead silent.
“Schist, yes,” Gabriel said, attempting to project a confidence he didn’t feel. “And you are correct, sir. That’s what I’m asking for.”
“I see. Now, Mr. Foyer”—Verne glanced back at Foyer—“was that a laugh I heard? Is there something you’d like to add to this conversation?” Verne’s eyes and mouth pulled toward the center of his face, wrinkles knotting together into an icy, unfeeling smile.
Foyer’s eyes bulged, and he raised his massive shoulders. “It’s very, um… interesting. You’re a smart guy, Mr. Schist, but is pouring all our money into your research practical?”
“Yes,” Gabriel stated.
“Yes, you seem quite sure of yourself,” Verne said, giving Gabriel a grandfatherly wink. “I concur with Mr. Foyer in that I found your presentation quite interesting. However, may I ask you something?”
Gabriel looked down briefly then straightened his back. He couldn’t allow himself to look weak, not even for a moment. “Of course.”
Verne narrowed his eyes. “This hypothetical disease you speak of, aren’t you really just speaking about this whole gay cancer business? The situation that’s going on over in San Francisco?”
“Gay cancer.” Foyer smirked. “Yep.”
Gabriel tightened his jaw. “It’s been referred to by that name, yes. But I can assure you —”
Verne held up a hand. “Mr. Schist, can you tell me why we should dump all of our money into developing a cure for some homosexual disease?”
“Mr. Verne, it’s not—”
“Frankly, I hope this is a joke,” Verne scoffed. “Even if this disease does spread throughout the gay community, won’t it just end once they’re all dead? Just like that, gay cancer will be over. Have you even—”
Gabriel took a step forward. “Stop it. Right there.”
The room went dead silent. Nobody interrupted Rufus Verne. Gabriel clenched his fists. Verne’s face became a tangled knot of wrinkles, and his eyes went corpselike. Gabriel squeezed his wedding ring again. I’ll make you proud, Yvonne.
“First of all,” Gabriel said, “I’d appreciate it if you stopped casually dismissing people’s lives, Mr. Verne. Every life is valuable, and any human life lost to this virus is a failure on our part. People are dying. That’s not something to snicker at.”
“Oh, please,” Foyer said. “Can you—”
“Second,” Gabriel interrupted, “listen to me. The immunodeficiency virus that I’m telling you about has absolutely nothing to do with homosexuality. It’s spread through the contact of bodily fluids. It spreads through blood, and yes, through sexual contact, but if we don’t do something about this now, people will continue to die. Hundreds of people. Thousands.”
Verne glared ahead, his falcon eyes sharpened by bloodlust. The rest of the suit-clad men sat bolt upright with mouse-like expressions. They were all so on edge that it was a wonder they hadn’t toppled over a long time ago.
Gabriel continued. “In 1978, there was a person who rapidly lost weight and died in Kinshasa with swollen lymph nodes and a cytomegalovirus infection. The year after that, a concert violinist in Cologne—”
“A gay concert violinist?” Foyer interjected.
“A violinist contracted Kaposi’s sarcoma. Three months later, his lymph nodes swelled. His body was attacked by one disease after another until the accumulative effect finally killed him. In 1980, a patient at UCLA came down with a yeast infection in his throat—”
“Get to the point!” Gene Yates, a surly character seated beside Rufus Verne, growled.
“My point? It’s happening, gentlemen. People are already dying, and this is only going to spread faster. I can help you, and you can help the world. You can give me additional researchers, funding assistance—”
Verne tapped the glass table. “And who are you, Mr. Schist?”
“Pardon?”
“I had my employees do some research since I’d never heard your name before. Do you know what I found?”
Gabriel’s lip trembled. He reached into his pocket and wrapped his fingers around his cool metal pocket flask filled with cheap whiskey, his hidden escape route that Yvonne didn’t know about, for emergencies. Overcome with guilt, he pulled out his hand and instead squeezed his wedding ring. I won’t drink it, Yvonne. I promised you. He stared at the table of businessmen, who looked like grinning demons.
“Turns out you’re a bit of a renegade.” Verne smiled. “A mad genius, from what I hear. A lot of academic achievements. Not everyone can claim to be an immunologist, a virologist, and an applied mathematician. But I also hear you’re something of a rebel. I hear you’ve never kept a healthcare-related job for more than a year.”
“Well—”
“Yes, it seems you have a long record of getting fired for using company materials for your research. And, Mr. Schist, when it comes to your precious research, you’re a bit obsessed.”
