The Coaster (21 page)

Swanson squirted Luminol, if that's really what it was, on both sides of the knife and then sprayed a big circle on the ground where the blood had been. He signaled for one of his many henchmen to cut the lights.

Nothing. Total darkness. I thought about making a run for it, but I couldn't see any better than anyone else, so the darkness really wasn't my friend. But there was definitely no glow. I didn't know Luminol from Lemon Pledge, but I Googled it later. Apparently police investigators actually do use it to find blood.

For all I know, there was water in that bottle, but it was an impressive display, nonetheless. I could obviously test it myself pretty easily, or more likely get someone to do it for me, so Swanson didn't really have much to gain by lying, at least in this one specific case. Ergo, the Sanitol sanitizer actually worked.

The lights came back on and Swanson held up the knife. “You could operate with that knife.”

“I guess, if you're performing surgeries in an abandoned warehouse with a kitchen knife. Most people prefer to go to a hospital.”

“Seriously, Bob.” Swanson gestured to the floor. “All that blood. Gone without a trace. If O.J. had had one of these machines, he'd never even have been arrested. Weeks of testimony about blood and DNA never would have happened because there wouldn't have been any at the scene.”

“Yeah, it's a shame a cold-blooded killer had to sit through his own trial and acquittal and then a subsequent civil trial. He deserved better.”

“You know what I mean, Bob. This machine could have changed history.”

Swanson was right. If that little display of magic blood-removal was on the level, this thing was awesome. I wish I'd had one with me the other night in the barn with Corny. Maybe I could borrow it for a couple of hours. But just because I could use it for my own nefarious purposes didn't make it a sound investment. The numbers were still too good to be true.

“Swanson, I don't know what you think you just proved. I guess you'll make a fortune selling this thing to auto mechanics and painters and butchers, but I assume they're already cleaning up with something. I suppose hospitals could use it, too, but I'm guessing they've got to go through some elaborate process to get it tested and approved first. What makes this so special?”

“It's true there are other companies offering sanitizing solutions, but ours is cheaper and more effective.”

“It cleans stuff,” I said. “I get it. But you haven't shown me how it's going to make us all billionaires.”

Swanson sighed audibly. I understood. I can be exasperating. Sarah sighs like that whenever I'm winning an argument, right before she declares a mistrial on the rarely cited grounds of “I don't want to talk about it anymore.”

“Bob, I must confess I thought you'd be an easier nut to crack. Nothing in your history indicated you would show this kind of resolve or interest or even a pulse. But it's clear to me now that we—or should I say your fraternity brother, Dave—underestimated you. Badly.”

I kept my face passive but smiled inwardly. Underestimated for once! I'm almost always overestimated.

“A guy like you,” Swanson continued, “should have leapt over the table to grab the pen out of my hand to sign up for this deal. But you didn't. So now we're going to have to take your knowledge and input on this project up another level. Especially now that I know that, despite all appearances to the contrary, you're not afraid to get your hands dirty.”

“Looks can be deceiving, Swanson. You can't judge a book by its cover. Wait, how are my hands dirty?”

Swanson looked me in the eye like a poker player about to turn over a full house. “You think I haven't noticed the conspicuous absence of your old buddy, Dave?”

“So? What does that have to do with me?”

“I know you killed him.”

Chapter Twenty-five

In the book
Outliers
, Malcolm Gladwell describes what he calls the “10,000-Hour Rule.” The idea is that tremendous expertise in any field can only be achieved through at least ten thousand hours of diligent practice. Even the most talented people have to put in the work before they can master their craft. As examples in lieu of actual evidence, he notes that the Beatles performed live for ten thousand hours before they hit it big and Bill Gates spent ten thousand hours programming on a high school computer before he created Microsoft.

While the Beatles had their live performances and Bill Gates had his computer time, I've gotten the necessary reps sitting in board meetings and business planning sessions completely unprepared. I have been startled out of my reverie on, let's say, a shitload of occasions by a question posed directly to me on a subject about which I know nothing.

Swanson couldn't possibly know what had happened to Corny, but he knew he was missing and there was a chance I had something to do with it. I'm sure his plan was to spring this accusation on me and watch me closely. He'd know it was true by my guilty reaction. What he didn't know was I was the John Lennon of faking my way through answers to questions out of the blue. By now, with all of Gladwell's practice hours under my belt, I've put in the work. My heart rate doesn't shoot up and I don't stammer and fumble for words. The heroes in these kinds of stories often have hidden talents that really come in handy just when they need it. I guess this was mine.

I stared right back into Swanson's eyes. Well, actually his left eye. I have a hard time staring at both of a person's eyes at the same time. Let's just say I looked calmly in his direction. “Are you saying Dave is dead?”

“That's exactly what I'm saying. And you know it as well as I do.”

“I do not know it. What happened to him?” Guilty people always make a mistake when they don't ask questions when informed of tragic news. If you didn't know anything about it, you'd want to know what happened.

“You killed him, that's what happened to him.”

“That's ridiculous. I couldn't kill Dave even if I wanted to. You've met us both. What odds would I get? They'd have to take the fight off the board in Vegas because no action was coming in on me.”

“I don't know how you did it, but I know you did.”

“What makes you think he's dead? The police haven't contacted me and I haven't seen anything in the paper.”

“He's missing and Dave wouldn't run off. He's not that kind of guy. So somebody got to him. I know it wasn't me, so that leaves you.”

“So what you're really saying is you don't know where Dave is and you have no idea if he's dead or alive.”

Swanson took a step toward me, putting his face closer to mine than I prefer another man's face to be. “That's right. I don't know for sure. But I have no doubt that Dave paid you a little visit on your farm and never came back.”

A little too close for comfort, but he'd admitted he didn't know. “Wrong again, Swanson. Maybe Dave just had a change of heart. Maybe he finally got sick of doing the dirty work for rich pricks like you.”

“Then I'm sure you won't mind if I make a little anonymous phone call to the police telling them they might find a body on your property.” Shit. Can the police really get a search warrant just based on an anonymous tip? If so, I've got a few people I'd like to have body-cavity searched. Starting with Swanson here.

I called his bluff. The last thing Swanson wanted was the cops involved. “Go ahead. I've got nothing to hide.”

“Bob, you've been blackmailed before, so I'm not going to bore you with how it works, but murder is like the holy grail of extortion. I needed some more leverage on you, and now I've got it. It's like you're doing my job for me.”

“There's no leverage if I didn't do anything.”

“That's true, I suppose, although irrelevant.” Swanson chuckled to himself and shook his head back and forth with a little grin on his face like a parent pretending to be disappointed but actually proud of his child's misbehavior. “You know, Bob, I didn't think you had it in you. In a way, you're a better fit for this company than ever. Come on back up to the office. I have a few more things you need to hear.”

***

We climbed back up to Swanson's temporary office and sat down in the same chairs. “Can I get you anything?” Swanson asked. “We have water.” He pointed behind me to one of those old-fashioned water coolers with a five-gallon jug that some poor bastard had to lug up the metal stairs and then flip upside down into the base without spilling it. One of the linebacker twins could probably do it without much trouble. They weren't much good for anything else.

Despite what I thought was a successful deflection of Swanson's questions, my throat was a little dry. It's not that I didn't get nervous at all. I was just able to fake my way through it. I got up and went over to the cooler. Although undetected by the casual observer, I still might get a little cotton-mouth. After a brief search of the water cooler, I found the hidden cup dispenser. They never want to make it too easy on your typical dehydrated factory worker. Otherwise, they'd be hanging around the water cooler all day, except for the ten hours they spend on the line.

I pulled out a cup. Perfect. The kind shaped like a little cone. You have to do all your drinking right there at the cooler since you can't set the cup down. Why in the hell would anyone make any kind of a liquid container with a pointed bottom? It's what a kindergartener would come up with if he tried to make a cup out of construction paper. Were employees hoarding water at their workstations?

I sat back down. “You get enough to drink?” Swanson asked.

“Yes. I like to drink my water in a series of shots.”

“Good. Like I said downstairs, Bob, I didn't think you had it in you. But this newfound…I don't know, ruthlessness of yours has convinced me that I need to lay all my cards on the table.”

“I'm no more ruthless than I ever was, but let's hear it. I want to get this over with and get out of here.”

“Do you acknowledge this is a fantastic investment if the projections are accurate?”

Where was he going with this? “That's a big if.”

“You're having a hard time believing those numbers?”

“Legitimate businesses don't make those kinds of returns.”

“Right. But this one does.”

I was puzzled. “So…what are you saying? This is an illegitimate business?”

Swanson put his finger on his nose. “Bingo. That's exactly what I'm saying.”

“I want nothing to with anything illegal.”

“That may have been true before you murdered your old friend, but it appears your moral compass is becoming a little more flexible.” Swanson held up a hand as if to signal
Stop
or
Heil Hitler
. “Don't say anything. I know you deny it. Let's just agree to disagree on that for now.”

I should have gotten up and walked out of there right then. It was a long trek back to my office, but I was fortified with a couple of tablespoons of water and I probably could have made it. But now that Swanson was allegedly coming clean, I needed to stick around. I wasn't necessarily going to believe any of it, but I definitely wanted to hear it.

“What do you know about meth?” Swanson asked.

“Meth?”

“Yes, methamphetamine. Also known as speed, glass, ice, boo, crank, jet fuel, tick-tick, trash, scootie, and chicken feed.”

“I know what it is. I've seen
Breaking Bad
.”

“I don't know how to tell you this, Bob, but that show is not a documentary. Let me give you a little crash course.” Swanson opened a file folder on the desk in front of him. “Meth is the second most popular drug in America, after marijuana. In rural areas, it's number one with a bullet, and it's moving into the suburbs. It's the drug of choice for white people.”

“A legitimate white people problem.”

“I guess, for them. But not for us. Approximately twelve million Americans have used meth. That's a lot of customers.”

“What, did you send out a consumer survey?”

“I did some research, just like any businessman would before entering a market.”

“You really need a PowerPoint for this.”

Swanson smiled. “I thought about it.” He waved a hand at his surroundings. “But we don't really have a modern office environment here.”

“I can see that. So why is meth getting so popular?”

“First of all, meth is better and cheaper than cocaine. Highs can last eight to twelve hours instead of twenty to thirty minutes.”

“Jesus. Who'd want it to last that long? It would take me a month to recover.”

“More bang for your buck,” Swanson shrugged. “Second, it can be made from common household products. You can use cold tablets, paint thinner, camping fuel, fertilizer, iodine, drain cleaner, rock salt, battery acid, even kitty litter. There are thousands of recipes on the Internet.”

“Just about every one of those things sounds like something you'd never want to put in your body unless you were trying to kill yourself in the most painful way possible.”

“That's why people use mostly cold tablets, if they can get them.”

“But even that messes you up pretty bad. I've seen those
Faces of Meth
pictures on the Internet. You'd have to be crazy to even try it.”

“Not necessarily. At first, meth is similar to an ADD drug. It gives you incredible focus and energy. Users are often people working long hours at grueling blue-collar jobs, young parents with small children struggling to get through the day, or people looking for an escape from their miserable lives.”

“What are you, their industry spokesman?”

“I'm merely trying to explain why someone would use it. You asked.”

“They must see what happens to other people when they keep using.”

“Well, at first they're just looking for a pick-me-up, but when they take meth, they feel fantastic. Among other things, it produces bursts of energy, euphoria, heightened concentration, high self-esteem, and enhanced sex drive.”

“I could actually use all of those myself.”

“Exactly.” Swanson chuckled like we were just two old friends having a good time, but I was getting tired of this.

“Okay, I'm up to speed on meth.” Swanson started to laugh again but I cut him off. “No pun intended. So what's your point, Swanson?”

“Let me give you a little background history.”

“What for?”

“Hear me out. It's relevant. Meth first became popular with outlaw motorcycle gangs in the seventies. Back then it was called crank because they smuggled it in motorcycle crankcases. In the nineteen-eighties, the Mexican syndicates moved in, mostly in the Southwest. Today the Midwest and the East Coast are supplied almost entirely by thousands of mom and pop enterprises. And that situation cries out for change.”

“Why?”

“Because these people don't know what they're doing. If they're not killing their customers with their drugs made from paint thinner or drain cleaner, they're killing themselves in lab explosions. Someone competent and organized could dominate that market.”

“So why hasn't anyone?”

“Because it's too messy. Literally, not figuratively. Cooking meth gives off a strong smell, like ammonia or cat pee. That's why it's usually made in Cletus and Jolene's trailer out in the middle of nowhere.”

I was beginning to see where this was headed. Swanson continued. “It's almost impossible to get rid of the smells and the residue from a meth lab.”

“So it would be a pretty big advantage to have some kind of a portable system that could really clean up a lab.” I got there.

“Yes, it would. No big organization has moved in because without a way to clean up, it's just not worth it. If it's not the smell, it's the garbage that gives meth labs away. You're tossing dozens of trash bags outside a small house or trailer every single week. All the cops have to do is dig through your trash and when they find rubber gloves, aluminum foil, funnels, glass beakers, and hot plates, you're screwed.”

“How do you clean the hardware up? Your little sanitation machine isn't going to vaporize a glass beaker, is it?”

“No, the Sanitol sanitizer just disposes of the chemicals and makes sure all traces are completely gone. We've got something else for the big stuff, which I'm looking forward to showing you.”

“So the reason the Sanitol projections are so impressive is that you're really selling the sanitizers to your own meth labs.”

“And a gold star for little Bobby. Dave owes me fifty bucks, if we can ever find him. He bet me it'd take me a week to get you to understand our operation.”

Good luck collecting on that one
. “What does the creator of this magic solution think of your plans for his invention?”

“He doesn't know anything about it. He's a scientist who works in a laboratory. We don't bother him with real world issues. But it's a tremendous business model. Our market is growing. Unlike most drugs, which appeal largely to men, nearly half of all meth users are women.”

“Excellent. Equal opportunity destruction of lives. Meth is like the Title IX of addictive substances.”

“And we don't lose customers.”

“Except when they die.”

Swanson continued without missing a beat. “A poor economy doesn't affect our business. Demand is inelastic. Our customers will lie, cheat, steal, fuck, suck, or kill to acquire the disposable income to purchase our product. There's no down cycle. The worse the economy, the better we do because more people are desperate for an escape. It's really the perfect business, if you can get past any ethical qualms you may have. And now that your elimination of your old friend has shown us what kind of man you are, I don't see why you wouldn't climb aboard.”