THE POLITICS OF PLEASURE (34 page)

Goldman only shrugged. 'Just hung-over, Carl, is all.' As yet he hadn't confessed he was wanted by the law. He wasn't sure he could make the shocking disclosure. Who knew how Carl, or anyone else for that matter, would react? With each passing day his criminal plight seemed more incommunicable. No, he'd visited Friedman primarily for the business at hand.

As if sensing this underlying reason, Friedman said, 'I've looked it over, Scott. It's good work. Highly original in its field.' He lifted the top page of the formula on his cluttered desk. 'But I'm afraid I can't touch it. I'm into a different scene now.' He let the page drop and stroked his salt-and-pepper beard.

Yeah, like sticking needles into your arm, Goldman thought sharply.

'I, ah, no longer involve myself with compounds like the one outlined here.'

'Really?' Goldman became defensive. He was proud of his work and didn't care for his friend's disparaging tone.

'Though I must say,' Friedman said, sifting through pages as if looking for a particular sequence in the formula. 'It's damn clever the way you fused synthetic oxytocin to your mother MDA molecule by ... how was it?' He paused at a page. 'Oh yes, here it is, by mixing a solution of beta-nitrostryene and sodium hydroxide. I suppose the sassafras oil in step three is responsible for the reduction in the final step?'

'Accurately determining the number of saffarole moles before preparing the beta-nitrostryene solution is the key.' Goldman winked knowingly and was momentarily proud of his work. But his expression soon changed. 'What's wrong with it, Carl? MPA isn't scheduled yet. It's not illegal. Try some, it'll speak for itself. I'm not asking that much for the formula, and you can easily pass it onto one of your contacts for a handsome profit.'

Friedman shifted in his seat on the last two words and put up his hand to slow Goldman's spiel. 'I'm out of the game now, Scott. I'm too old to play on the wrong side of the law, all that cops and robbers stuff.' He fingered his stainless steel watch and stared at Goldman with a smug air. 'My business partner and I are about to sell the manufacturing rights for a cutting-edge antidepressant. A powerful non-addictive mood elevator with minimal psychophysical side effects.' He paused and lifted his bushy eyebrows. 'Of course we've had the behind the scenes help of David Bates at the FDA. Finally it's starting to happen.' He smiled with the aura of a man who expects to be handsomely rewarded for his labours.

'Congratulations, Carl. I hope it's a success. Marlene told me how much work you've put into it.'

'Hmm, I've really burnt the midnight oil on this one. Even had to hire an old redneck to maintain this goddam property.' Friedman vented a world-weary sigh and returned his attention to the Xeroxed papers in front of him.

'Well, my friend, I can only deduce that what we have here would play havoc with the brain's natural pharmacopoeia. Blocking transporter proteins and depleting, I imagine, neurotransmitters like, oh ... serotonin and norepinephrine.'

Goldman shifted uneasily in his seat, his ears burning from Friedman's open denunciation of MPA.

'After the initial high, however pleasant, the brain's neurons would be drained of their stored transmitters, which would cause something of a psychophysical crash the following day. The dreaded comedown. I'd recommend, oh, let's see ...' Friedman stroked his beard like a college professor mired in academic thought. 'I'd say L-Tryptophan ... possibly B6 and Zinc would rectify any neurotransmitter depletion ... particularly in the serotonergic system.'

Goldman couldn't believe his ears. Friedman was relegating his work, by mere perusal of its formula, to the pharmacological scrapheap. 'Carl,' he said in a measured voice, 'I've used MPA several times and its hangover is quite minimal compared to other recreational drugs. It's a clean compound.'

'Listen, Scott, even if I was taken by your brainchild here, I don't have any put-aside cash to pay for it.' A glum expression clouded Friedman's face as he slumped back in his seat. 'All my short-term capital was lost recently in a Silicon Valley heist. Some assholes stole sixty-thousand dollars worth of semiconductors from an associate's warehouse on Semiconductor Drive. I had twenty-eight grand invested, which I doubt I'll see again. Assholes probably only intend to sell the shitty bits of gold in the conductors.'

'Not necessarily,' Goldman said, in a tone that barely masked his rising sense of dejection. 'I read recently in
Newsweek
that something like fifteen million dollars worth of semiconductors were moved on the US black market last year.'

'Whatever.' Friedman's glumness lifted, as if not wanting to give anymore thought to his loss. His eyes lit up with the certitude of a well-informed investor. 'There's wonderful money, Scott, bags of it, in fact, being made out in the Valley. Palo Alto will never be the same. Apple will be a household name in a few years ...'

Goldman tapped his knee nervily. He felt like an unscrupulous impostor taking advantage of a friend's hospitality. What was he if not a desperate fugitive in dire need of cash? Under different circumstances he would have taken a genuine interest in Friedman's cutting-edge world. But not today.

'... honestly Scott, read
Microelectronic News
to stay posted. Only a fool would miss this roller coaster. Invest in stocks like, oh ... Siltec, Intel, Synertek, Signetics.'

Great idea, Carl
,
it's just that all my savings have been frozen by the DIA ... which is the main reason I'm here and that formula is on your desk
. 'Hmm,
Microelectronic News
,' Goldman said. 'I'll certainly look into it.'

Friedman reshuffled the papers and eyed them as a whole. 'So this MDA offshoot is a little something you put together in your
spare
time at work?'

Goldman stroked his chin. 'It has similarities to a line of research we undertook at the beginning of the year.'

'I'm sure it has,' Friedman said slowly. Goldman sensed his old university friend knew there was more to the matter than being said. 'And you hoped to make a little money with it while on holiday?'

Goldman chuckled and showed his open palms, as if caught out.

'Still the wild Australian boy, eh?'

Goldman raised his eyebrows. 'I guess so.' His lackadaisical response sounded forced and shallow in his ears. He half-expected Friedman to lose his renown temper and ask what the hell was really going on? But to his relief the moment passed without incident. He studied an H.R. Giger print on the wall behind Friedman's desk. He'd read somewhere that Giger had designed the slime-dripping monster in the blockbuster
Alien
movie. The gunmetal creature in the framed print certainly shared a similar maw with its Hollywood cousin.

Friedman leaned back in his seat and steepled his fingers, a crafty glint in his eye. 'You know Scott, I think I know just the person to take this off your hands.'

Thursday, 30th October 1980.

Michelle steered the rented Datsun through misty stretches and curves as she and Scott made their way along the Big Sur coast. The coastal air was bracing and Highway 1 traffic surprisingly light for the late-morning hour.

They'd spent the previous day with Carl and Marlene, once Tandy had boarded her local school bus. The four of them had made a day of it tramping about Muir Woods and Mt Tamalpais State Park. Michelle was taken by the breath-taking beauty of the Californian Redwoods. The mollifying stillness, the damp scent of the forest floor, the cathedral of majestic trunks rising toward the cloud-laden sky; all had had a remedial effect on her. The summit of the excursion, however, had been the 150 kilometre view in all directions from the top of Mt Tamalpais.

'We'll have to get gas soon,' Michelle said, lighting her third cigarette of the day. A brown and white sea hawk swooped past the windscreen as Goldman turned up the car radio, “...
and now a new UK band hailed by many critics as the hope of rock's future: U2 with
11 o'clock Tick Tock”.

Goldman squinted as sunlight broke through dispersing mists and reflected off the metal edge of a road sign. The green and white sign listed upcoming towns, the closest thirty-something miles away. He looked over at the fuel gauge and grimaced. The pointer was inside the red zone. He sensed Michelle's fragile grip on the wheel. He yearned to take her to more legitimate ground, to a world where he didn't have to look over his shoulder and wrack his brain to stay ahead of an unseen enemy who wanted him dead and buried.

From his side of the car he watched waves break against a rocky beach down from the road. Two seagulls skimmed the spume, narrowly escaping the clawing surf. They sailed upward on a rising thermal. A bright shaft of sunlight illuminated their sleek grey bodies. The soaring birds inspired Goldman to start afresh in Europe. He believed nothing was impossible if he put his mind to it. He had buckets of energy, a crackling IQ, and a steely resolve to overcome whatever General Turner might throw at him.

Over a few beers, Goldman and Carl Friedman had talked about old friends Brad Ryan and Rick Sorenson. Before working at Silverwood Centre, Goldman had worked with Friedman in drug discovery and development at a UCLA medical research department. At that time Brad Ryan and Rick Sorenson were UCLA students and friends of Friedman. The four of them had knocked about for a while and clocked up some memorable times both on and off campus. Ryan had majored in biochemistry; whereas Sorenson had achieved qualification as an industrial chemist.

Goldman learnt that Sorenson had recently broken up with Ryan's young sister Rhonda, after a fiery six-month relationship. It seemed the hot-blooded split had finally put an end to Sorenson's and Ryan's flagging friendship. Apparently Ryan had started a nutrition supplement business in Hawaii.
Natural Force Foods
imported amino acids, Chlorella and Coenzyme Q10 from Japan, before tableting the compounds and selling them in stylish containers to a growing chain of North American health food stores.

Goldman called Brad Ryan on Wednesday night. After the initial excitement of catching up with each other again, Goldman jotted down Brad Ryan's Hawaiian details, as well as Rick Sorenson's LA phone number. It seemed Sorenson had gone a different road to Ryan. After a four year stint as a production chemist at a pesticide-manufacturing plant, Sorenson was drawn into the fast money of underground chemistry. From a string of makeshift labs he'd made commercial quantities of LSD and amphetamine. According to Ryan, Sorenson now made speed for some rich kids in Westwood, and from all accounts was profiting handsomely from the venture.

Goldman gazed at a solitary A-frame house on top of a coastline ridge. Grazing deer dotted the treeless horizon while lingering pockets of coastal mist caressed the windblown ridge stretching alongside the speeding Datsun. Michelle tightened her grip on the wheel as gusting ocean wind slammed the side of the car. The windshield misted over from accompanying sea spray. She put on the wipers. This only worsened visibility by streaking the windshield with salty grime.

'Put on the washers,' Goldman said.

She did, but the spurting jets of water and the sweeping wipers laboured awkwardly before visibility returned. Michelle pushed back in her seat and sighed aloud. Goldman was again conscious of fuel and only hoped they'd make it to the nearest gas station. He admonished himself for not being more alert. The smallest detail could prove his undoing, and possibly Michelle's ... He couldn't afford to be careless, not with Turner's office hot on his heels. Goldman prayed Rick Sorenson or one of his associates could get him a false passport. Each day the hustle and bustle of Milan piazzas grew more inviting, and more so with Michelle by his side.

Michelle whooped as a petrol station came into view. She braked beside a vacant pump and asked the portly female attendant to fill the tank. After buying drinks and confectioneries, the couple continued along Highway 1. They planned to stay with Michelle's friend Sandy Collins, an ex-Alexis model living in Hollywood Hills. Like many before him, Goldman was confident of getting what he wanted in the sprawling metropolis to the south.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Friday, 31st October 1980.

Westwood, Los Angeles.

Michelle read the street number on the sandstone wall and stomped the brakes. She swerved into a circular driveway and pulled up behind a silver Nissan Skyline with mag wheels and a prominent rear spoiler. A black Porsche Carrera with tinted windows, and personalized plates that read: RICK 1, was parked on a nearby lawn.

Goldman and Michelle had stopped out front of an Old Santa Barbara Spanish-style house. The three-storey dwelling boasted a red tile roof, cream stucco walls and a riot of purple bougainvillea climbing its southern wall. The colourful creeper was entwined through the wrought-iron grilles attached to the wall's five windows.

Goldman climbed from the Datsun and stretched in the early-afternoon sun. It was a pleasant day. Fluffy scraps of cloud moved lazily across the sky and red fox sparrows chirped excitedly in a nearby eucalyptus tree. Goldman stretched his arms and filled his lungs with surprisingly fresh air. He and Michelle had spent the previous night at Sandy Collins' hillside home, in a large oval bed with an impressive city lights view.

'I sure hope Rick is here,' Michelle said, climbing from behind the wheel. She straightened her clothes and gazed at a large Yucca plant in a weeded flower bed beside the cobblestone drive.

'I'd say he is, judging by the plates of that Porsche.' Goldman could only admire his companion's front-cover looks. She turned towards the house, flicked back her hair, and waited, her long shapely legs encased in tight denim, her upper-body clothed in a white T-shirt and a Ramones-style leather jacket.

Goldman stepped up to the front door and pressed its buzzer. Before long a girl appeared in the doorway. She was dark, pretty and slim, reminding Goldman of a Somalian model in a GQ magazine back at Sandy's place. Iman someone or other.

'Is Rick in?'