“Psychosomatic Delusional Complex,” the secretary said.
This time every VP was laughing. Even Louis smiled.
“You’ve got the picture,” he said. “We’ll also use the media to give us free publicity for Hypnocal, just like we’ve done before. We’ll run items in the papers and brief the radio and TV channels. Marketing disguised as news. You know the things. Something like, “A new drug has been found to significantly reduce the harmful effects of DeVille’s Syndrome.” That usually gets the public going. We’ll hammer home the fact that it’s a “breakthrough treatment” and get our experts interviewed on how it’s improved their patients’ life. Of course, if we can get a celebrity endorsement of the product, someone big who’ll come out and say they’ve had DeVille’s Syndrome for years and didn’t know it until they improved with Hypnocal, then we’re laughing all the way to the bank.”
Louis rubbed a clenched fist down his tie, then reached for the jug of goddamn cow juice and filled his empty glass. One of the VPs inquired as to whether or not he was feeling okay. Grimacing a little, he nodded that he was doing fine. It was just a little gastritis. Had had it for years. All he needed was some antacids to calm the flames.
Excusing himself, he went to the intercom on the side-table abutting the wall behind him. He lifted the handset and punched the call button. When his PA finally answered, he told her to fetch a bottle of Kwel-Amities he kept in his office desk. Once done, he went back to the head of the table. “Okay, where were we?” he said, clearing his throat and glancing at the dossier. “Ah yes. Step Three. An important channel for promoting awareness of DeVille’s Syndrome is the use of supporter groups. We’ll set them up in every major city and town. Forums on the Internet are also the way to go, especially if we want to go global with this thing. We’ll encourage free screenings for people who are worried they might have the disease. We’ll assist government lobbying for grants to help the poor.”
The secretary perked up. “I’ve just thought of something. What about a National Day for DeVille’s Syndrome?” He glanced around the table. “An awareness day. Like they do for AIDS and breast cancer. We can get people to wear a pair of wacky sunglasses to raise money for future research. You know, the ones with the funny nose and moustache that make you look like Groucho Marx.”
The VPs chuckled at the thought of the whole country wearing them. At that moment, Louis’ PA entered with the bottle of antacids. Ash-blonde with melons like Dolly Parton, and not an inch over five foot, even in sneakers, she made him feel like a giant cat about to pounce on an unsuspecting mouse. While she put the bottle of Kwel-Amities on top of the table, he maneuvered himself so that his elbow rubbed her breasts. Then, as she turned to leave, he let his hand fall to his side and brush her gorgeous ass. Running his forefinger across her skirt, he wondered how long it would be before she would give in to his advances. They always did, in the end.
She lifted her face to stare into his eyes. “Will that be all, Mr. DeVille?”
“For now,” he said, absently toying with the ring on his wedding finger.
Once the door had clicked shut, he opened the bottle of Kwel-Amities (one of his competitor’s products, ironically, but goddamn it they worked wonders) and took two of the little blue diamonds, chasing them down with a swig of milk. He then flicked the dossier to the last page: RESEARCH AND CLINICAL TRIALS.
“Your last suggestion is more valid than you think,” he said to the secretary. “Step Four is concerned with the scientific validation of DeVille’s Syndrome and its treatment. Probably the most difficult stage; the scientific community is as cynical as hell. Goddamn bunch of assholes if you ask me, but we need them. If we have to bin research that’s less favorable than others, then so be it. It’s common practice anyway. If we have to manipulate the statistical data in our favor, then we’ll do that too. Again, it’s common practice. In today’s world, clinical trials are nothing but marketing trials anyway. Every scientist knows that. As long as the data reflects positively in favor of Hypnocal, then we’ll do everything we can to push it into the public arena.”
Louis took another sip. Every face at the table was turned to him. He then held up the dossier, and said, “Deep down human beings are nothing but an organic process of chemical reactions. Chemicals determine how we feel, how we act, and how we think. Even love is nothing but a chemical reaction. Why not give the goddamn public what they want, control over their own chemistry? Surely we owe them the best possible life they can get. Because you know what, once the reactions stop, there’s nothing else.”
He felt like ending his talk with a big, hearty “amen.” Instead, he put the dossier down and returned to his chair, bringing his speech to a close. The next few minutes would tell whether he’d done enough.
“Well, I think that brings us to the vote,” the secretary said, standing and glancing around the table. Louis drew a deep breath, suppressing the urge to fidget in his seat. “I put forward the motion to keep Mr. DeVille as CEO. I need a second.”
The VP next to him shot his hand in the air before anyone else got the chance. “I second it.”
“Then lets call the vote.”
Louis kept holding his breath, maintaining an air of absolute seriousness. How long did he have to put up with this goddamn theatrical nonsense? Not long, it seemed. All thirteen hands shot up in unanimous agreement and it was done. As quick as that; a goddamn rubberstamp. Louis slowly released the air in his lungs and closed his eyes to collect his thoughts, barely heeding the call for votes on the remaining board positions. Should he really have been so worried? Maybe. Maybe not. Despite the feeling that everything was going according to plan, there was always a niggle of doubt in the back of his head. He guessed he had never truly recovered from that time he had almost lost it all in the early eighties, in this very same room, if you could believe it. That was a lesson he wouldn’t forget in a million goddamn years. No sir-ree. Nothing in life was a guarantee, except death and taxes, if you believed that horseshit. But what the hell, it was all in the past. He was re-elected as CEO and had survived another year. And, oh, what a goddamn year this was going to be.
After the vote for the position of secretary, the meeting was called to a close and the Vice Presidents slowly dispersed, patting him on the shoulder as they passed and telling him what a fine job he was doing; GRN was really going places. Despite the burn beneath his chest, he smiled and thanked them and said he hoped he could count on their support in the coming months. If not, they’d all be out the door so goddamn fast their feet won’t touch the ground.
Finally, the last suit and tie exited the boardroom. Louis opened the bottle on the table and took two more blue diamonds, thinking he had better get his PA to book him in for another checkup. He rubbed his knuckles up and down his chest, wondering what in hell had changed of late. The gastritis just wasn’t responding to treatment like it used to.
He let the thought slide. There were more important things to worry about, like how to get his PA into bed before any of the younger VPs beat him to it. He leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head.
Now that would be something, wouldn’t it?
CHAPTER ONE
Louis’ Problems
LOUIS DeVille sat behind his desk wondering just what to do. He wasn’t outraged. He wasn’t baffled. He just had a lot on his mind this morning. A lot on his plate, his wife would have said. Piled right up to the office ceiling, in fact. Piled like a mound of rotting garbage that had been dumped in the IN tray and marked to his attention. It was piled so high he could almost see it spilling against the bookshelves and the filing cabinets. Spilling, still more, out the tenth-story window onto the pedestrians scuttling along Broadway.
Good ol’ Lady Di, he mused. She might not be right about many things, but she was right about that; and wouldn’t she just love to rub it in? He could see her now at the Beeker Street penthouse. All five-foot two of leanness and exuberance in