existence? He needed an answer. And he needed it fast.
10:44 p.m.
“We’ve been friends a long time, is that fair to say?” Dixon Burlingame asked in a deep, slightly hoarse voice.
They sat together on three steps leading to the peach-colored facade of a set-designed Puerto Rican home. Dixon, a heavyset man in his late fifties with a head of thick salt-and-pepper hair, had loosened his tie. He’d lost one of his shirt studs during the course of the long evening, and David could see his white undershirt protruding through the opening. In the background, salsa music still pulsed although many of the patrons had left.
“Indeed we have. I dare say, I’ve known you longer than anyone,” David replied. They’d been friends since the fifth form at St. Mark’s and then roommates at Haverford College. As bachelors, they’d shared an apartment on South 37th. David had been the best man at Dixon’s wedding, then a godparent to Dixon’s eldest son, and, since his divorce, he had been going to the Burlingame home for Thanksgiving dinner.
“Do you remember that redhead freshman year? Ramsey Whitmore.”
“The one who wore shorts so short her derriere was ever-so-teasingly visible?” David laughed, remembering.
“That’s the one,” Dixon said, smiling. “Do you remember the advice you gave me about her? I’ll never forget what you said. You told me not to ask her out. That she was too hot for a pudgy guy from Pennsylvania who hadn’t made the cut for even a club sport. You told me that it was better to preserve my ego and not put myself in the position of being turned down. That it was better in the long run to focus on the girls who might say yes. Some of the best advice you’ve ever given me.”
David smiled, remembering the conversation. Since then, he’d offered professional advice and medical consultations on subjects far more important than how to deal with the most popular girl in the class. Dixon was chairman of AmeriMed, one of the three largest pharmaceutical companies in North America, and he’d relied heavily on David’s expertise and guidance over the years. David had helped Dixon survive numerous mergers and acquisitions by providing information about the status of FDA approvals, translating into layman’s English the medical terminology in patent licenses, and keeping him abreast of potential areas of research to exploit. All the while, Dixon had grown his company into a monolith and amassed a fortune in stock options.
But now, finally, payback time had come. Because of Dixon’s power and prestige in both the medical and business communities, and because of AmeriMed’s role in the development of the facility, he’d been named head of the search committee for the director of the Wilder Center, a position that virtually guaranteed David’s appointment.
“So now it’s my turn to be blunt.” The reminiscence about Ramsey wasn’t just the drunken reverie of a middle-aged man. There was a point.
“When have you been anything
but
that?” David asked good- naturedly.
“Well, what I’ve got to say kills me but I’m in a bind.” He coughed. Phlegm rattled in his throat. “I need you to withdraw your application for the directorship.”
“What?” David must have misunderstood. His reputation in the medical community was well established. He had strong ties to the University faculty, as well as to the FDA and NIMH. Navigating through various governmental agencies would be key to operating a brand-new psychiatric hospital. Dixon had capitalized fully on that experience when it served his purpose. Plus David had a proven track record of fund-raising capabilities. Sometimes he wondered whether he should have been a salesman because he was so good at getting others to part with their money in support of his causes. But most important, he had extensive experience with pharmacological advances in the treatment of mental illness. “Why would I do that?”
“For your own good. You’re
10:44 p.m.
“We’ve been friends a long time, is that fair to say?” Dixon Burlingame asked in a deep, slightly hoarse voice.
They sat together on three steps leading to the peach-colored facade of a set-designed Puerto Rican home. Dixon, a heavyset man in his late fifties with a head of thick salt-and-pepper hair, had loosened his tie. He’d lost one of his shirt studs during the course of the long evening, and David could see his white undershirt protruding through the opening. In the background, salsa music still pulsed although many of the patrons had left.
“Indeed we have. I dare say, I’ve known you longer than anyone,” David replied. They’d been friends since the fifth form at St. Mark’s and then roommates at Haverford College. As bachelors, they’d shared an apartment on South 37th. David had been the best man at Dixon’s wedding, then a godparent to Dixon’s eldest son, and, since his divorce, he had been going to the Burlingame home for Thanksgiving dinner.
“Do you remember that redhead freshman year? Ramsey Whitmore.”
“The one who wore shorts so short her derriere was ever-so-teasingly visible?” David laughed, remembering.
“That’s the one,” Dixon said, smiling. “Do you remember the advice you gave me about her? I’ll never forget what you said. You told me not to ask her out. That she was too hot for a pudgy guy from Pennsylvania who hadn’t made the cut for even a club sport. You told me that it was better to preserve my ego and not put myself in the position of being turned down. That it was better in the long run to focus on the girls who might say yes. Some of the best advice you’ve ever given me.”
David smiled, remembering the conversation. Since then, he’d offered professional advice and medical consultations on subjects far more important than how to deal with the most popular girl in the class. Dixon was chairman of AmeriMed, one of the three largest pharmaceutical companies in North America, and he’d relied heavily on David’s expertise and guidance over the years. David had helped Dixon survive numerous mergers and acquisitions by providing information about the status of FDA approvals, translating into layman’s English the medical terminology in patent licenses, and keeping him abreast of potential areas of research to exploit. All the while, Dixon had grown his company into a monolith and amassed a fortune in stock options.
But now, finally, payback time had come. Because of Dixon’s power and prestige in both the medical and business communities, and because of AmeriMed’s role in the development of the facility, he’d been named head of the search committee for the director of the Wilder Center, a position that virtually guaranteed David’s appointment.
“So now it’s my turn to be blunt.” The reminiscence about Ramsey wasn’t just the drunken reverie of a middle-aged man. There was a point.
“When have you been anything
but
that?” David asked good- naturedly.
“Well, what I’ve got to say kills me but I’m in a bind.” He coughed. Phlegm rattled in his throat. “I need you to withdraw your application for the directorship.”
“What?” David must have misunderstood. His reputation in the medical community was well established. He had strong ties to the University faculty, as well as to the FDA and NIMH. Navigating through various governmental agencies would be key to operating a brand-new psychiatric hospital. Dixon had capitalized fully on that experience when it served his purpose. Plus David had a proven track record of fund-raising capabilities. Sometimes he wondered whether he should have been a salesman because he was so good at getting others to part with their money in support of his causes. But most important, he had extensive experience with pharmacological advances in the treatment of mental illness. “Why would I do that?”
“For your own good. You’re
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