Fifteen
“God, I can’t believe it,” Brent Chartwell shouted. “What a party! You ever seen anything like this?”
Catherine, elegant in a sparkling, floor-length red gown, had to admit she had not. “What must this have cost him?” she replied,
raising her voice to be heard over the band that had set up on a temporary stage.
Brent laughed. “Whatever it was, it’s just a drop in the bucket. Graham’s raking in more money than God.”
“Thanks to you,” she said, slipping her arm around him.
“Thanks to a lot of people,” Brent said, growing hoarse as the evening progressed.
They were standing out on the lawn to better enjoy the band, having emerged from under the massive tents that had been set
up over the dining tables, their stomachs filled with lobster and caviar and risotto and champagne.
Graham Wiffel had hired Chicago, the jazz rock band that had burst onto the scene in the late sixties, for a private engagement.
They’d set up out in front of the Wiffel mansion and were in the middle of belting out “Saturday in the Park,” having already
performed “25 or 6 to 4,” “Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?” and “If You Leave Me Now.” Brent and Catherine had done
a slow dance to that one, Brent whispering into her ear how much he loved her.
“Saturday in the Park” could not have been more appropriate.
This venue felt like one, with its expansive lawns and towering trees, but it was actually Wiffel’s private estate, a rambling ten acres in the rocky Bruce Peninsula, on the western shore of Georgian Bay, a more than two-hour drive north of Toronto.
The property had been in the Wiffel family for generations, but recently, Graham had renovated the main home, expanding it
from ten thousand to fifteen thousand square feet. There were four guesthouses, each with ten rooms, on the property now—Brent
and Catherine would be staying in one of them that night—plus a tennis court and two swimming pools, even though the estate
was on some of the cleanest, bluest waterfront to be found anywhere in the country. Guests who didn’t make the cut to stay
on-site were in motels and B&Bs in nearby Wiarton and Owen Sound.
The last three years had been especially good ones for Wiffel-Smith. (The “Smith” was a nod to the other founder of the pharmaceutical
giant, Isaiah Smith, now deceased, his half of the empire subsumed by Wiffel more than a decade ago.) Their new wonder drug,
Oxy-Mirac, was being heralded by medical journals around the world as the greatest advance in the treatment of pain since
aspirin. It certainly didn’t hurt that Wiffel-Smith had made major contributions to these journals, as well as to key people
at various federal agencies in countries around the world who had influence over which drugs were approved and which were
not.
Brent guessed there were more than two hundred people at this party, which was being held to celebrate the company’s year-end
results. Top salespeople like himself were in attendance, of course, but so were doctors from across the continent who were
true believers in what Oxy-Mirac could do and were prescribing it for patients who’d found no relief with other pain medications.
GPs, specialists, heads of clinics and hospitals, so many of them here, taking a much needed break from the pressures of their
jobs to accept Graham Wiffel’s gratitude and largesse.
Brent recognized several in the crowd. There was a doctor from Vancouver, Arthur Kilgallen.
Brent had first dropped in on him two years ago, getting to know all he could about him beforehand, that his wife’s name was Julie, he had two children named Jeremy, eleven, and Sally, fourteen, he enjoyed boating, his father had served in the military.
Sally was learning to play the violin, and Jeremy had won a local spelling bee championship.
Most important of all? Kilgallen liked Kentucky bourbon.
Never show up without a bottle of Bondstone Triple Oak.
And over there, nuzzling the neck of one of several “hostesses” whose services Graham had engaged for these festivities, was
Oscar Winsome, who ran a clinic outside of Buffalo. Married to Lisa (clearly not accompanying him on this trip), father to Ian, who had at one point expressed concern that a few of his patients taking Oxy-Mirac
were finding their pain gradually returning. Not a problem, Brent had said. He shared with Winsome several new studies by
Wiffel-Smith that had concluded it was perfectly safe to increase the dosage without any addictive side effects.
“They’re just building up a slight tolerance,” Brent had explained. “Totally expected. Prescribing three pills a day instead
of two should correct that.” He brought his voice down to a whisper, and with a sly grin, said, “And I meant to mention, you
remember Tandy, from the convention we had in Chicago? She’s very much looking forward to seeing you again next time you’re
in town.”
Next, he spotted Miriam Blade, formerly of the Federal Drug Administration south of the border, who had not been terribly
supportive of approvals when she worked there. Now she was a Wiffel-Smith consultant and a believer, making three times what
the FDA had paid her. Between them, she and her husband were able to afford to send their son, Jason, to Yale. Brent would
have to say hello at some point before they left, tell her how happy they all were that she’d come aboard.
You got to know these people. You became their friends. You insinuated yourself into their lives. You learned what their appetites
were, and fed them.
Those doctors couldn’t write those scrips fast enough.
“Oh, there’s the big man now,” Brent said.
Graham Wiffel was making his way through the crowd.
When he spotted Brent, he smiled, showing off those perfect teeth of his.
Midsixties, lean and tanned from a recent trip to his place in the Bahamas, thinning hair and piercing eyes.
He extended a hand, and when Brent took it, he drew him in, hugged him, patted his back.
Looking over Graham’s shoulder, Brent noticed another man, standing two steps away. Unassuming in a black suit, narrow black
tie, he had short black hair and glasses with thick, black rims. Maybe five six, five seven tops, a little soft around the
middle. Brent caught the man’s eye, and there was an almost imperceptible nod between them.
“How’s my number one guy?” Graham asked Brent.
“Just great, sir, just great. You’ve met my wife, Catherine?”
He turned to her, took her hand and kissed it.
“Oh my!” Catherine said, laughing. “Aren’t you the charmer!”
“This is a very talented man you have here,” he told her. “This guy could sell shit to pigs!”
Brent chuckled nervously. That analogy didn’t sit well with him, but Graham could be a bit earthy at times.
“He’s something, no doubt about it,” Catherine said, beaming.
“And how are the boys?” Graham asked. “Holden? And Reece?” The boss followed his own teachings. Get to know your people. Draw
them in close.
“They’re great,” Catherine said, unable to hide how impressed she was that the big man knew their sons’ names. “I really can’t
thank you enough. We’re going to be able to provide them such a wonderful future.”
Graham smiled. “That’s what I love to hear. Well, I gotta keep mingling. Everyone wants to kiss the ring!” Another laugh and
he began to move on. The short man in the black suit followed and as he passed Catherine he flashed her a quick smile.
“Such a lovely man,” Catherine said of Graham once the boss was out of earshot.
“Yeah, he’s something.”
“What?” she said, detecting a tone in his voice.
“Nothing, nothing. You’re right. He’s a great guy.”
“He’s changed our lives, Brent,” Catherine said.
“Everything we have, we owe to him. I grew up with nothing. I never dreamed I’d live a life as nice as the one we have now.
” She scanned her surroundings. The beautiful people partying, the band, the majestic mansion that dominated the landscape.
“It’s like a dream, you know? But it’s not.
We’re not going to wake up from this. It’s our life.
And did you notice, he knew the boys’ names? ”
“He’s good at that,” Brent said. “Probably had them whispered into his ear two seconds earlier by Crane.”
“Crane?” Catherine asked.
“His shadow.”
“The little nerdy guy with the glasses?”
That made Brent laugh. “Yeah, him.”
“Is Crane a first or last name?”
“Last. Don’t ask me his first name. No idea.”
“Is that his job? To whisper the right name into Graham’s ear at the right time?”
“A little more than that. He oversees security.”
“Him?” said Catherine.
“Appearances can be deceiving. He makes sure Graham’s safe. Not a bodyguard exactly, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s packing.”
“No,” she said, aghast. “I didn’t see a gun.”
“You’re not supposed to.”
“Why does Graham need someone like that?”
“You get to where Graham is, you need a bubble around you. Protection. Someone could, I don’t know, kidnap him, figuring they
could charge a hefty ransom. Maybe someone with a bone to pick with Wiffel-Smith. You never know when you’re at his level.
There’ve been death threats. Even I’ve had the odd run-in with people.”
“When?” Catherine asked, startled.
“On the road, checking in on all these clinics, some strung-out addict nut thinks you’ve got a trunk full of Oxy-Mirac, wants
to rip you off.”
“When did this happen?”
Brent shrugged it off. “It was nothing, really.”
“You’ve never told me about this.”
“I don’t want you to worry about every little thing that goes on when I’m traveling.”
She grabbed his arm. “I want to know. Right now.”
Brent sighed. “Okay, but it’s going to sound worse than it actually was. I was coming out of a clinic in Cleveland, and the
waiting room was standing room only, people getting scrips for Oxy-Mirac, and I came out of the doctor’s office—a briefcase
in my hand—and this one guy follows me out, thinks maybe I’ve got samples in that case, and he pulls a—”
“Oh my god.”