The Real Thing (6 page)

Borkin laughed with him. ‘How about you, Tupai, did you have a passport?’

‘Yeah, I got one when I went wallaby hunting in Oz with my old man.’

Borkin looked blankly at him for a moment, and eventually asked, ‘You like hunting?’

‘Crikey, yeah!’ Fraser exclaimed. ‘Tupai and his dad get themselves dropped off by helicopter in the middle of the bush, two weeks from the nearest civilisation, with just two days’ supply of food. They live off the land on the way out.’ There was a grudging admiration in his voice, but it was clear from his expression that he felt it was something you’d be sentenced to if you’d committed a major crime, rather than something you did for fun.

‘It’s great,’ Tupai smiled. ‘The only bit I’m not too keen on is burning off the leeches after a trek through a swamp.’

Fraser shuddered comically.

‘Are there wild animals in New Zealand?’ Borkin asked.

‘Well, there’re the Captain Cookers,’ Tupai replied.

‘Captain Cookers?’

‘Huge wild pigs,’ Fraser explained. ‘Big tusks, charge right at you.’

‘But they’re all right.’ Tupai grinned. ‘It’s the moas you’ve got to worry about. Giant birds, three metres tall. Legs like small trees. Sharp claws.’

‘Holy Cow,’ Borkin whispered, wondering what kind of a place they came from.

Fraser and Tupai looked at each other, then both burst into laughter. At some point, Borkin realised, they had started teasing her. Only she wasn’t quite sure where that point was.

Anastasia Borkin decided she was going to enjoy the company of these two exuberant young men.

Tupai had come on the journey because Fizzer, who considered himself generally to be at one with the universe, had never been at one with any part of the universe other than New Zealand, and the thought of wandering around a foreign country without at least one friendly face was a little daunting, even for Fizzer, imperturbable Fizzer.

Fizzer had asked Harry if Tupai could go, and Harry had approved it without even consulting his superiors in Atlanta, which had made them realise that, whatever was going on, it was pretty
big stuff!

Not two days after his passport arrived – in a plain brown envelope at the office of the motor camp – Fizzer and Tupai pulled up outside Coca-Cola headquarters in a bright red limousine with Anastasia Borkin.

Coca-Cola headquarters turned out to be not one building but four. It was situated on a road named after the company, Coca-Cola Plaza, stuck right in the middle of North Avenue, Downtown, Atlanta, Georgia, on the south-eastern side of the United States of America.

A massive Coca-Cola symbol stared down at them from the tallest of the buildings as they were ushered, like VIPs, up the steps of the smallest building, which turned out to be the corporate headquarters.

There was some compulsory handshaking with a bunch of Important People, with names that both of them forgot as soon as they heard them, overawed, as they were, by the whole process. Then they were whisked off to the tallest of the buildings, in through a huge reception area with floor to ceiling windows and shiny black floors. The windows were covered with a colourful tapestry of transparencies: photographs of Coca-Cola employees and their personal stories.

They passed through corridors where Coke was dispensed in cans from free vending machines or flowed from soda fountains, up in a plushly upholstered lift, or ‘elevator’ as their hosts called it, and eventually into a large room panelled in a dark, rich wood with a matching table that stretched the length of the room.

Here, there were more introductions: Mr Fairweather was a tall, grey-haired man with an angular Adam’s apple that bobbed as he spoke; Mr Pansier looked Italian, but spoke with a slow Texan drawl; Mr Capper looked for all the world like a kiwifruit, with little brown hairs sprouting in all directions; Mr McCafferty was young and friendly, but there was a fierce determination behind his eyes; Mrs Whitaker was a rather severe-looking lady in her fifties.

A series of ten plastic tumblers were set up on small white paper coasters in a row along one side of the table.

The tall man, Mr Fairweather, indicated to Tupai and Fizzer that they should sit down in front of the tumblers, but it was Mr Pansier who spoke.

‘Reports are that you have quite a discerning palate when it comes to soft drinks.’

Fizzer nodded. It seemed easier than talking in front of all these important-looking executives in their dark suits.

‘Naturally we are a little sceptical,’ Mr Pansier continued, ‘but if it turns out to be true, then your talents could possibly have a small practical application in some new field trials that we are planning.’

Tupai and Fizzer looked at each other. They may have been young, naïve and from a small country at the bottom of the world, but neither was foolish enough to believe that they had been whisked away from New Zealand at a moment’s notice and were now standing in front of a bunch of high-powered executives just because Fizzer might be able to assist with a field trial.

Mr Pansier’s manner was friendly, but there was a small bite of disbelief in his voice. ‘If what is claimed about you is true, then you’ll be able to pass this simple test we have prepared for you.’

He indicated the tumblers.

‘All of these glasses contain cola drinks. One of them contains our own product, Coca-Cola. We’d like you to see if you can identify it.’

They’re not glasses, Fizzer thought, they’re plastic tumblers, but he nodded anyway.

‘Take your time,’ Mr Pansier said, meaning that Fizzer should start.

‘Could I have a glass of water?’ Fizzer asked. ‘And a bucket? Oh, and a pen and some paper.’

There was a small delay while these were fetched, during which Fizzer noticed a small, discrete smile trickle out from the face of Anastasia, just a few sparklers, not the full fireworks display, as if she had suggested this herself earlier but had been overruled.

Tupai folded his arms and tried to look like a bouncer because he was a bit nervous and had nothing much else to do.

When the water arrived, Fizzer took a sip, rinsed it around inside his mouth, then spat it into the bucket. It seemed a crass thing to do in front of high-powered executives in such a posh boardroom, and he caught a disapproving glance from Mr Pansier, but Anastasia winked at him and he relaxed and smiled back at her.

Fizzer went quickly down the line of drinks, watching the bubbles, sniffing the tumblers, sampling the drinks, rinsing his mouth between each one, pretty much the same routine as at the Glenfield school fair. The main difference was the notes that he jotted down on the supplied notepad as he went. He finished the last sample, rinsed his mouth for a final time, and sat down studying his notes.

‘Any luck?’ Mrs Whitaker asked gently.

There was a silence, during which even Tupai began to look doubtful.

Mr Pansier crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, shaking his head sceptically.

Eventually Fizzer looked up. He said quietly, ‘These drinks have been sitting here too long. You should have waited for me to arrive before you poured them.’

Mr Pansier started to say something but stopped as Fizzer continued firmly, ‘Also, you served them in plastic tumblers. You should have used paper. You can taste the plastic. However …’

He looked around the table, then back down at his notes.

‘You have also lied to me, saying that only one of these drinks was Coca-Cola.’

Mr Pansier looked indignant, but caught a menacing glare from Tupai, whose menacing glares would frighten a wild animal, and said nothing.

Fizzer continued. ‘They’re all Coca-Cola, except for the last one which is Diet-Coke. The first three are out of a can, the first two of which were poured quickly, but the third one was left to sit in the can for a while before it was poured. Number four is from a small plastic bottle, about a half litre bottle, I’m not sure if you use the same sized bottles here as we do in New Zealand. Number five is from the same sized bottle, but
not the same bottle
, as number four. Six, seven and eight are from a larger bottle, at least two litres, and number nine is from a post-mix dispenser like a soda fountain.’

There was general surprise around the table, and Mr Pansier in particular looked absolutely flabbergasted, but Fizzer hadn’t finished.

‘I wouldn’t stake my life on any of this, however, because the drinks all taste a little strange to me. I suspect you might use a different sweetener here in the States than we do back home. Maybe corn syrup instead of cane sugar. Something like that, I can’t be sure.’

He put his notes down and looked a little guiltily around the room. ‘Sorry.’

Mr Fairweather looked at Mr Pansier. ‘Well, Ricky, how did the lad do?’

Mr Pansier looked stunned. As a pretext for delay, he opened a folder in front of him and pretended to scan a few sheets. Eventually, just when the wait was getting embarrassing, he said, ‘I think he’s right, pretty much, although it was a sixteen-ounce bottle, numbers four and five.’

‘Fraser did say
about half a litre
,’ Anastasia reminded him. ‘And half a litre is five hundred mil, which is near as dammit to a sixteen-ounce bottle.’

Mr McCafferty was more direct. ‘Let me get this straight. This kid can tell the difference between the taste of Coke from a big bottle, and Coke from a small bottle, and you’re quibbling over a few mil! Hell,’ he tossed his pen down on the table in amazement, ‘I couldn’t tell Coke in a can from Coke in a bottle, and I work for the company! What kind of a test was this anyway?’

‘I … er,’ Mr Pansier started, but Mr Fairweather held up a hand and cut him off.

‘He was right about the sweetener too. So does anyone have any doubts about Fraser’s ability to help us out of our little … difficulty?’

There was a unanimous shaking of heads.

‘OK, Fraser,’ he said, ‘let’s talk money.’

It turned out to be just as well that Tupai was there, as Fizzer, never having had much money, had no real idea how to negotiate financially. Also, he believed that if you did good in this world, then good came back to you through unexpected ways, so he would have done it for nothing if it came to that. Karma he called it, (although, actually, Karma is a much more complicated concept than that).

Tupai, on the other hand, found the negotiation process a little like a street fight and jumped in boots and all. Helped, no doubt, by the fact that, unknown to him, the people at that table were desperate enough to have mortgaged the company if they’d had to.

The actual amount they arrived at is highly confidential, and there are several severe penalties for revealing it. But suffice to say that Fizzer and his dad would no longer be living in a caravan park by a smelly mangrove swamp, and Fizzer would not have to pay his way through university. He could also have purchased a brand new convertible Italian sports car if he’d wanted to, but he didn’t have a drivers’ licence and, anyway, he wasn’t into that sort of ostentatious display of wealth. Money had very little meaning for Fizzer.

Tupai also accepted a modest fee, for no other reason than that they offered it. There was even the prospect of a job at Coca-Cola for Fizzer, after he had finished university, but that was too far ahead in the future to think about.

So Fizzer was appointed as a Coca-Cola taster on a short-term contract, and Tupai was appointed as his assistant.

Fizzer possessed good, almost uncanny intuition. But he was not psychic; he could not see the future. And that’s a real shame, because, if he had known what was in store for him, he might have turned the job down.

The lock on the far doors of the yacht’s lounge snicked loudly, and the twin handles began to turn.

A man and a woman entered. He was holding a menacing-looking pistol in his right hand, while she carried a clump of small, spiral-bound notepads and a handful of pens. In truth, any pistol looks menacing when it is pointed at you, and this one was pointed unfalteringly at the three of them seated on the pink couch.

Clara Fogsworth’s first thought on seeing the weapon was, ‘How rude,’ for it is certainly not the height of decorum to aim a gun at another person, especially an elderly, unarmed person. But then she looked at the man’s face, and she was no longer surprised.

Ralph Winkler just grunted, as if he had been expecting this all along, and the sooner they got it over with the better. He did think, though, that he might have seen the gentleman with the gun somewhere before, but he couldn’t quite remember where.

Bingham Statham sat with his lower jaw touching his chest in total shock at this latest turn of events. He didn’t know the man with the gun from a bar of lavender-scented soap, but he recognised the woman all right.

‘Hello, Bingo,’ she said, using her private name for him that he’d always thought was a bit silly. ‘It’s a real pleasure to see you again, considering the circumstances.’

‘Hello, Candy,’ Bing said, thinking maybe he should have mounted her head on his trophy wall while he’d had the chance.

Clara still said nothing. She was quite determined not to, in fact. The absolute curmudgeon! Tall, handsome and athletic he might be, but Mr Joseph Sturdee was nothing more than an amoeba on the scale of worldwide evolution as far as she was concerned.

Then Ralph finally clicked. ‘You’re that actor,’ he blurted out, as if it were a crime in itself. ‘You play Doctor Messenger on
The Beautiful Years
.’

Joseph Sturdee’s smile was as menacing as the gun. ‘Used to play.’ He had given that smile daily, terrorising the other characters in the soap opera for over fifteen years, just to be dumped, unwanted by the network, booed and pelted in the street by fans. All because he had left his real-life wife, the popular and charismatic Pepper Green, to have an affair with Candy Statham, the wife of the Coke millionaire.

And to top it all off, Pepper had sued him and won millions! Not that she needed the money. Her star shot up like a comet after the affair, and her character on the program became one of its hottest properties.

All Bing could think of to say to Candy was, ‘I had a ferret named after you. It died.’