Eugene Waksit stayed for three days in Los Angeles with his college friend, which gave his former roommate a reminder of how annoying Waksit could be—and cheap. His friend paid for everything, figuring that Waksit eventually had to make a gesture, which he finally did, picking up a small tab in a Chinese restaurant during his last night in L.A. He hadn’t changed much from his undergraduate days in Australia, filling his conversation with delusions of grandeur, saying that he was on the cusp of great wealth. He was never specific beyond mentioning that his former employer in Port Moresby had willed him the results of experiments that would “stand the pharmaceutical industry on its ear.” His friend pressed him but never managed to elicit more specifics. He was aware, however, of the black briefcase that Waksit seemed to always be cradling, and that he slid beneath the bed whenever they went out.
“What’s in that briefcase?” he asked when driving Waksit to the airport.
“My future,” Waksit replied.
He didn’t ask any follow-up questions. He bid Waksit a safe and pleasant flight and drove home, thankful that the visit was over.
Waksit arrived at Dulles International Airport in suburban Washington with a sour stomach from drinks and a barely edible airline meal on the six-hour flight. He climbed into a waiting taxi and gave the turbaned driver an address in the District of Columbia, near Rock Creek Park. He settled back in the cab, his carry-on suitcase on the seat next to him, the leather satchel containing Dr. Preston King’s research results on his lap, his fingers intertwined with its handles.
The driver pulled to a stop in front of a small, modest two-story apartment building. Waksit paid the fare, added a small tip, and stood looking at the building as the taxi sped away.
There were myriad times during the journey when he’d second-guessed his decision to pick up and leave on the spur of the moment. His invalid mother still lived in Australia, and he felt a modicum of filial guilt for not having told her of his plans. Waksit’s father had succumbed to cancer when Eugene was ten years old, his father’s battle with the disease responsible in part for his son’s decision to pursue a career in medicine and medical research. His one year as a premed student had gone badly, and he’d switched his major to biology, graduating with an undergraduate degree in that discipline, although his academic results were anemic.
As he prepared to climb the short flight of stairs to the front door it opened and Nikki Dorence, a pretty young redhead wearing jeans and a T-shirt, stepped out.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hey, hello, Nikki,” Waksit said, going up the stairs, dropping his suitcase, and using his free arm to embrace her. “Great seeing you.”
“I wondered whether I would ever see you again,” she said pleasantly. “Good trip?”
“Tough trip. I thought I’d never get here.”
“Well, here you are. I bet you wouldn’t turn down a drink.”
He grinned. “Sounds like a plan,” he said.
Her apartment was on the ground floor of the building. He dropped his suitcase just inside the door but held on to the briefcase.
“Nice place,” he said, taking in the sunlit living room.
“Thanks. It’s at the top end of my budget but I love living here. A drink? I have wine, and some vodka.”
“Make it wine,” he said, going to a couch near the window and falling heavily onto it. “Whew!” he said. “I’m beat.”
“I bet you are,” she said, returning from the kitchen with his drink. She held up the glass of iced tea she’d been drinking and said, “Salud!”
“To seeing you again,” he said.
“Yes,” she said with less enthusiasm than he’d exhibited.
Nikki’s mother and father, both Australian, had worked in Australia’s High Commission in PNG’s capital city, and had given birth to Nikki while stationed there. She’d been attending college in Australia when she met Waksit during a visit home, and they’d fallen into an affair that ended when she returned to school. But they’d stayed in touch, even after she’d graduated with a degree in public administration and had left Australia for a job in New York with the Papua New Guinea Permanent Mission to the U.N. She’d worked there a year until landing a position in Washington with PNG’s embassy on Massachusetts Avenue, D.C.’s Embassy Row. “So,” she said, “here you are in Washington, D.C. When you called you said that you were on a business trip.”
“That’s right.”
“What sort of business? You were working for that doctor.”
“King. He died.”
“Oh. He was involved in some sort of medical research, wasn’t he?”
Waksit changed position on the couch and winced at pain in his lower back. “Yeah, he was researching a new painkiller using plants and herbs. I could use one.”
She laughed. “Sounds like voodoo.”
“It does, only it isn’t voodoo. It works. I’ve seen it firsthand with patients in the clinic Dr. King and I ran.”
“You ran a clinic, Eugene? I didn’t know you were a doctor.”
“I’m not, but I knew enough to treat patients. King wasn’t much of a doctor. I knew more than he did.”
His boast reminded Nikki of some of the conversations they’d had when dating. She’d decided that while Waksit was a bright young man, he tended to overstate his knowledge and accomplishments, an overactive ego at play.
He sat forward as he said, “King left all his research to me when he died.”
Now she sat forward in her chair. “That’s impressive,” she said. “He must have really liked you.”
“Yeah, he liked me, but more important he knew how much I contributed to the research. I came here to talk with some big pharmaceutical companies about selling them the results of our work. It’s worth millions, could be billions.”
“And you know that it’s effective?”
“Of course I do. Look, this is a painkiller made from simple plants, it’s cheap, and doesn’t have any of the usual side effects—and it’s not addictive!”
“Wow!” was all she could think of saying.
“I just have to be careful about protecting my interests. You know how these Big Pharma companies rip people off.”
“Do they? I mean, I’m sure you’re right. What did this doctor do, leave everything to you in his will?”
“It was more of an understanding that we had.”
His explanations didn’t ring true to her but she didn’t pursue it. Instead she asked, “How did the doctor die?”
“Somebody broke into our lab and killed him.”
She groaned. “How awful. And the police have never caught the killer?”
“No, and they never will. Hey, you know how incompetent and corrupt the police are in Port Moresby. They can’t find their left hand with their right.”
Nikki offered to refill his glass, which he accepted. When she returned from the kitchen she asked about Dr. King’s family.
“Just one daughter,” he said.
“Where is she?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. She’s a flaky character, probably thinks that because he was her father she should be the one to benefit from his research. King knew that I was the right person to carry on his work. But I’ll take care of the daughter after the deal is made.”
It occurred to him as he said it that there was the possibility that Nikki might know Jayla King. After all, how many young women from Papua New Guinea could there be in Washington? Did they have an expat club of PNGers in D.C.? Did women from PNG get together for girl talk over drinks one night a month? Of course, Jayla and Nikki traveled in different circles. Jayla worked in medical research for a firm in Bethesda; Nikki was with the embassy. He gave himself a mental reminder to not bring up Jayla again.
“So,” Nikki said, “what are your plans while you’re here? Where are you staying?”
Waksit grimaced and shook his head. “I have a cash flow problem,” he said. “I have a ton of money waiting for me back in Port Moresby, money the doctor left me. But you know how slow the government is in settling an estate. The truth is I got here on my credit card but it’s almost maxed out, and I don’t have a lot of cash, at least not enough to check into a hotel. I hear that hotels here in Washington are bloody expensive.”
Nikki said nothing.
“I suppose I can find some sort of hostel, you know, a place where students stay on the cheap.”
“I don’t know about them,” she said.
“Any chance of my crashing here with you for a few nights? I’m sure that when I make contact with the right pharmaceutical company the money will be rolling in.”
“I don’t know, Eugene, that might be—”
He flashed his most engaging grin. “Hey, Nikki, I’m not suggesting that we pick up where we left off back in PNG. I’m just talking as a friend.” He patted the couch. “If I could sleep here for a few nights I’d really be grateful. I’ll stay out of your hair. I know you have an important job at the embassy and I promise I won’t get in your way.” Another wide smile. “Hey, I may be short of cash but I’m not that broke. I’ll treat you to a nice dinner, your choice of where. I just need a few days to get my bearings in this city. Man, it makes Port Moresby look like some native village in Sepik, huh? I have an important contact I have to see in the next few days, a man with big connections in the pharmaceutical industry. I’m sure he’ll give me an advance and I’ll pay you for any time I’m here.” He paused. “What do you say, Nikki, for old times’ sake?”
“I suppose it would be all right for a few days,” she said. “I’m leaving to attend a conference the day after tomorrow, but you can stay until then. I have small room I use as a home office. It has a pull-out sleeper couch. I’m sure you’ll be comfortable there.”
“That’s great, Nikki. I’ll leave when you do. Want me to make us breakfast? I make terrific scrambled eggs.”
“I don’t eat much breakfast,” she said.
“Whatever you say. How about dinner tonight? You have a favorite local place?”
They went to a neighborhood Thai restaurant where Waksit spent much of the evening extolling the plans he had for the research that Dr. Preston King had bequeathed him. Nikki listened patiently and kept to herself her doubts about his grandiose ideas and claims of being on the cusp of a fortune. They returned to the apartment, drank wine, and she went to bed—she had an early morning meeting at the embassy. Waksit fell asleep on the couch in her office/guest room wearing his boxer shorts and a T-shirt. Nikki lay awake for a time in her darkened bedroom and thought over what had occurred since his arrival. She second-guessed her decision to allow him to stay, but kept justifying it based upon their former, albeit brief relationship, and the need to be gracious to a visiting person from her home country. But while explaining away her decision to give him a place to sleep for a few days made sense, she was uneasy having him in the next room.
Sleep finally put an end to these doubts—at least for that night.