We zigzagged through the drooling crowd and made our way to the atrium. Booths lined the edges of the central pathway. The riot of conversation seemed twice as loud as it bounced against the ceiling and the overhanging ledges of the mezzanine. Kiosks towered between the booths and displayed large posters emblazoned with earnest, feel-good messages. END WORLD HUNGER, sponsored by Cargill. STOP WAR, by General Dynamics (ha!). CURE DISEASE, from our friends at Rizè-Blu Pharmaceutique (that is when they were not populating the world with larger breasts).
We stopped by the Rizè-Blu booth. A monitor announced a new breakthrough in the treatment of erectile dysfunction, Rizè-Blu’s new wonder boner pill: Tigernene.
Young women costumed like vintage cigarette girls in satin vests and tap pants offered samples from trays. The packets included: NuGrumatex, a translucent amber pill; Olympicin, a tablet with a golden metallic sheen; Luvitmor, a pink tablet with a tiny button that looked like a nipple; and Tigernene, a round pill in macho yellow with black stripes.
Krandall snatched a packet of Tigernene. “This will put titanium in your pencil.”
“You’ve used it?”
“Am using it.”
“And the effects?”
Peltier perched her chin on Krandall’s shoulder. “Like a stallion. Bigger and better.”
Krandall mimicked a whinny and used a leg to act out a horse hoofing the ground.
I clasped their heads and mussed their hair. “Maybe you two need to get a private stable. And soon.”
Peltier withdrew her head and frowned. She patted her hair back into place.
Krandall gave a small, embarrassed cough. “Sorry, TMI.” Too much information. “Let’s go meet my boss.”
Krandall took Peltier’s hand and used his other arm to part through a wall of people. He pointed to a portly man standing in front of the Eden Water booth. “I work for him.”
The man was Daniel Gruber, the former senior advisor to the last president. Gruber held court to a small group that gathered before him, and he spoke using a brisk, rehearsed cadence.
This was the first time I’d seen Gruber in person. His head was shaped like an eggplant that had stayed in the refrigerator for too long, sagging and bottom-heavy while the top sprouted thin white wisps. Small, intense eyes shone from under his thick brow, and his gaze bore through his spectacles as if he was looking into the future for his next moves.
Gruber clicked a tiny remote in his hand. The flat monitor screen resting on the table behind him showed a graph superimposed over a couple of African children. “Once Eden Water is established in central Africa, we can expect these levels of return from your investments.”
Another click and the screen showed the line of a graph climbing to the upper right corner of the screen.
“Phase two of the Eden Water project migrates the initiative to Latin America. Here our projected returns are double those from Africa.”
Another click and the screen showed the graph superimposed over a man in a primitive skiff pulling a net from the water.
Gruber’s eyes focused on his audience and his attention was now firmly in the present. “Phase three implements Eden Water here at home. The challenge…” Gruber paused to let his gaze seize the attention of the people circled before him, “…will be to educate legislators that municipal control of fresh water makes as little sense as the government managing any other commodity.”
An older woman asked, “What about access to safe drinking water as a right?”
Gruber’s answer continued the practiced rhythm. “We live in a global economy. Rather than let arbitrary notions of rights dictate what is available to the consumer, we need to allow the mechanisms of a free market to meet the demand.”
I stood beside Krandall and couldn’t help but ask: “What about the right to justice? Is that also for sale?”
When he worked in the White House, Gruber had been twice indicted for perjury, and wealthy friends of the president had helped him beat both raps.
The others listening to Gruber turned their heads and glared over their shoulders. Krandall jerked on my sleeve. Did I know who I was talking to?
Gruber dismissed me with a fleeting, annoyed look. He clicked his remote again. The graph was superimposed over a girl and a boy prancing through a lawn sprinkler.
“We’ll increment the adoption of the Eden Water initiative. You can see here that at milestone one, the first year return with 10 percent marginalization of the existing market-”
The woman who had spoken before asked, “Marginalization?”
Gruber smirked. “Control.” The smirk gave way to a serious expression. “That 10 percent will deliver a return of 1.1 billion dollars-”
A man in the group interrupted: “You talk about investors. What’s Rizè-Blu’s stake?”
Gruber jabbed a finger into the air. “Excellent question.” He tapped the remote. The screen showed the logo of Rizè-Blu Pharmaceutique and a pie chart. The largest slice, 87 percent of startup costs for Eden Water, belonged to Rizè-Blu. “Our recent successes with Rizè-Blu’s new line of prescription actualizers-ladies, I notice that you all have at least tried Luvitmor”-(they giggled)-“has given us the resources to leverage the Green Planet project from a dream into reality.”
Gruber was shilling for Rizè-Blu’s idea of putting all of the world’s fresh water into Eden Water’s scheming corporate hands.
I raised my voice to get his attention. “What’s next? Selling air?”
Gruber turned to me. His pupils dilated and shrank, as if his mind darted to another place and then back to the present. That smirk returned. “We’re working on it.”
Gruber shifted his attention to someone else. Krandall pulled me away. Peltier shook her head.
Krandall walked me from Gruber’s booth. “What did you do that for?”
Obviously, I wanted to needle the windbag. I grasped Krandall’s fingers and unwrapped them from my sleeve. “What are you getting at?”
“Don’t be surprised if you never get another invitation.” Krandall closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. “For guys like you and me, being at this place is all about kissing ass. Our job is to tell these guys what they want to hear. You want the attention of the most powerful men on this planet, this is where you’ll find them. You won’t make points by pissing them off.”
“I appreciate the advice.”
Krandall patted my shoulder. “Rookie mistake. By the way, where’s your friend the brunette?”
“Close by, I’m sure.”
A server weaved through the crowd.
Peltier set her empty cocktail glass on the tray. “What’s she like?”
“Enthusiastic.”
“Really?” Peltier wiped her fingers with a napkin and dropped it on the tray. “What are her plans?”
“You’ll have to ask her.”
Peltier gave my wrist a squeeze. “I’m sure we’ll meet again.”
Krandall gave me the thumbs-up. He put his arm around her waist and turned Peltier toward the Eden Water booth. Her dress swayed from her round, tight bottom.
I wondered what would happen if we did meet again.
Before then, I had to find someone else. I walked past the booths and started my search for Goodman.