Mitch sat on the rich, brown leather of the chairs in State Senator Rick Connors’s waiting room. Truthfully, Mitch didn’t notice the quality of the furniture; he had grown up in opulence that rendered the extravagance of the state government commonplace.

Fortunately for Mitch, as the third child of a second-generation inheritor, he had escaped too much notice and had developed an unassuming, laid-back personality. The wealth and history gave him access to people beyond the reach of the common folk, and his bland personality made him bearable even to the pretentious snob.

“Senator Connors will see you now,” intoned the middle-aged receptionist from her oversized hardwood desk, and Mitch stood up, respectfully pressing the office door open.

Standing to his feet, Senator Connors held his hand out to the young man entering the room. After a brief handshake, he gestured to one of the short chairs positioned strategically in front of the desk. It made sense that he knew someone whose forgettable kid worked for his daughter’s drug company – the wealthy community in Rhode Island wasn’t particularly populous, and Pharmacan was one of the largest employers in Providence. Still, Rick needed “forgettable” and desperate, and Madigan Parkington’s slacker third child seemed a perfect tool for the job. The boy’s reputation preceded him. “Mr. Parkington,” the senator began, “I was at Harvard Law with your father. It’s nice to meet Mad Parkington’s youngest son. Your father is a great man.”

You obviously don’t live with him, Mitch countered silently.

“Let’s talk about my daughter’s medicine,” the senator continued without preface.

Mitch nodded, pulling out a missive typed on thick, good-quality paper, and handing it to the senator. “I’m glad you could see me,” Mitch offered as the senator quickly scanned the paper, his countenance descending into a frown. Ignoring the evolution of his companion’s expression, Mitch continued, keeping his tone upbeat. “I realize that the news doesn’t look good, but it will be forty-five days until they cease production on your daughter’s medication. I brought the paperwork here for getting the drug designated an orphan drug, and if you could figure out how to use your contacts to push that at the FDA, Pharmacan could continue production uninterrupted.”

“‘If’ is not really a term that I am comfortable with,” the senator leveled, peering into Mitch’s eyes with intention. “I would really appreciate if you were able to engineer something a little more definite; substantial and definite.”

Unsure, Mitch peered dubiously up at the older man’s face. “I don’t really have any more substantial options at this point.”

“You are a resourceful young man,” Connors pressed. “I imagine someone as accomplished as you has the ability to think outside the box. If funds are an issue, I’m sure I can find some resources that aren’t earmarked for any specific cause.”

Mitch rolled his eyes internally. “Funds are never really an issue for me.”

Connors smirked. “No, I imagine they would not be. One of many reasons I think I have a proposition that would address an issue for you. Where money doesn’t talk, connections just might. With your job and your pedigree, you seem uniquely qualified to consult with some of my good friends on Capitol Hill in D.C.”

As Mitch sucked in a breath, he couldn’t escape the idea that the senator had lowered the morsel down in front of Mitch like a gift-wrapped treasure. Which, in fact, it was. Mitch had been dogging his parents to use their contacts to introduce him into Washington’s cadre of elites. So far, they had waved him off as a pest. Mitch would jump at the chance to dip his toe in that pool. His mind began to whirl through his own contacts, and he settled onto an idea rather quickly. Not a sure thing, but certainly a possibility. “I can give you a list of the scientists who are working on the new project; maybe you could find angles to influence them.”

“Better,” Senator Conners urged.

“And…I may have an idea that is far outside the box. You are correct, though. It would probably require some outside funding.”

Senator Connors reached into a drawer and dragged out a small package, as if he had only awaited the words from Mitch’s mouth. Without examining its contents, Mitch slid the package in his satchel, his heart racing. Mitch could be resourceful when he wanted to be.

“That sounds a little more promising. Now hand me that list, and I’ll see what I can do on my end. We can talk later this week to see how your angle worked out.” The senator smiled, seating himself back in his tall chair and raising his hands to place them behind his head. “Let me know if you have some good news for me before then.”

Slowly, Mitch rose from his chair and wandered out of the office, gazing past the trees and across the Providence River. He paused at the entrance to let a man in a suit – likely another person in need of a political contact – pass all the way into the building. Mitch would not have witnesses to what was about to happen. If he did what he was considering, he would be making a very dangerous gamble. But great risk produces great reward, he mused. Still, his heart pounded in his chest as he slid behind the wheel of his convertible.

D.C. The idea sent a sliver of thrill up his spine. For the first time since he had graduated from college, Mitch felt like he might make some progress, finally step beyond the shackles of his parents’ neglect.

He picked up his phone and logged into his company’s intranet, searching out the drug used by the senator’s daughter. When Mitch had received notice of the drug’s cancellation, he had not felt particularly concerned. The medicine represented only about two percent of his total distribution, so rare was the cancer it treated – the Connors girl’s cancer. Mitch imagined it represented a pittance to the company’s revenue.

The drug wore a label: “Defunded.”

Underneath the word defunded, there was a clickable link that took Mitch to a page that read “earmark transferred.” It listed another drug, the apparent recipient of the earmark, and the entry was labeled “Pending.”

When Mitch clicked on the pending drug, a page of details popped up on the screen, detailing the source, the mechanism, and where it stood in the approval process. Phase 2 trials. He clicked on the description. Since its discovery and isolation two years prior in Peru, the drug had flown through protocols and phases, using Fast Track approval to bypass red tape and waiting periods. That explains the sudden defunding of the senator’s drug, Mitch realized.

There had been a minor pause in the approval process when the originators of the study found a slightly different variation of the herb source, a natural crossbreed that produced faster response in vitro, and the originators needed to transplant the sample and grow an adequate sample size to refine and manufacture the product. The researcher claimed that they had grown enough of the parent herb in Peru, that they would be able to process and ship the herb to the lab within one week, and production could begin again in two weeks. Mitch stopped his reading.

As far as he could tell, Mitch had to figure out a way to interrupt the processing of the new variety of the drug. He could stop it at many points, but most involved steps he was not willing to take. Risking exposure, committing a crime: short of corporate espionage, Mitch couldn’t figure out how to interfere.

A thought dawned in his mind, and he paused to consider. If he could manage some sort of damage to the supply in Peru, no one would be able to connect it back to Mitch – not without a lot of difficulty. Not without delving into contacts that thrived on secrecy and made a profession out of evading detection. Mitch picked up the phone.

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After a few rings, Tarin answered. “Yeah,” he leveled.

“Hey, Tarin. How’s business?”

“Same as yours, I imagine. Price is right.”

Biting his lip, Mitch started his sales pitch, easing into the illicit subject before dropping the bomb. “You guys have lots of good business, right? Not just the one you and I have in common.”

Tarin seemed reluctant to answer. “I mean, most of them are limited to the infrastructure and the neighborhoods, but sometimes we get a call for goods trafficking or a green light. I’m left arm. That’s right arm – or, I guess, crossover. But I have friends.”

The moment of truth had finally arrived. Once Mitch did this, he had crossed a line. He wondered how many Washington players had danced around the line – regularly danced around the line. He wasn’t naïve enough to believe that politicians as a group comported themselves with absolute virtue, and as long as no one could prove his complicity, even rumors would matter little. Fortunately, complicity protected complicity so Connors would say nothing, and the worst thing a gang member could do was snitch, so Tarin would say nothing. If Mitch could just make himself stomach it, he risked little. “I’m not sure exactly what all that means, and I don’t really want to know. I just need to utilize a service – like a business deal.”

Tarin paused before answering. “Are you sure, bro? I mean, we’ve been doing this together for a while, so I know I can trust you. You drive a lot of business my way. But you aren’t exactly the typical client.”

“You mean other gang members?”

“Or lackies for legitimate businessmen.”

“Or politicians, yeah. Can we just meet?” Mitch couldn’t risk managing the deal on the phone.

“Tonight at the usual place,” Tarin agreed, and Mitch’s stomach clenched.

This is really happening, he breathed as he shifted into drive. The man from earlier had returned to the parking lot, and he seemed a little nervous as he stared out at Mitch. Probably wondering why it’s taken me ten minutes to get out of a parking lot. Mitch alleviated the circumstance quickly, pulling out of the lot and heading to see Tarin.

Whenever Mitch arrived, he didn’t really know what he would do. Ask Tarin if he had any contacts in Peru? Ask if those contacts would be willing to destroy some property for a fee? Maybe the guys could light up the greenhouse where the medical herb was growing. Mitch did not know, but if Tarin took the money, Mitch didn’t really want to know. He would just have to watch the intranet to see if the pending drug was delayed again. Then, he would have to call his company and ask them to restart funding on Connors’s drug. It was a long shot and a risk, but the payoff could be monumental.

++++++++++++

Rick fumed at the back of the young man walking out of his office – that had accomplished little. Well, his inconsequential contact had proven ineffective, so Rick would have to try a more consequential one. If he were to guarantee results, he would need to hit the dilemma from several angles. The kid could access the underground, hit the problem from below. Rick would hit it from above.

Raising the phone to eye level, he punched in the number. “Darren!” he blustered. “That was a great idea you had, with the contact. Just met with him.”

“Well,” Darren agreed. “Most people in Washington exist for one reason, and they tend to be a little simplistic. The DoD tends to see things in a more complex manner.”

“Which is exactly what I need here, Darren. This contact gave me some information that could use some more elucidation. I have a couple of names I wanted to have checked out. They may have been complicit in a little incident down in Peru. Their names are Bernardo and Vivian Prado. They’re pharma in Peru, but I’m thinking there are some drug ties.”

Silence filled the phone for a minute, but Rick could detect the barely audible sound of a clicking keyboard, so he waited. He knew his colleague would have to pull up a file on the scientists, but he wouldn’t find anything more interesting than the circumstantial evidence Rick had offered. They were blank slates, but they were conveniently also the lead scientists, which automatically made them responsible for any problems.

“Bernardo and Vivian Prado. One daughter, aged eighteen months. They live in Providence. Okay, I’ll put a man on them for observation, pull their bank records, etc. See if we can figure out their habits, if they look like they’ve suddenly gotten spendy.”

“And you’ll keep me updated?” Rick pleaded.

“I don’t see why not. It’s in your district.”

“Thanks, Darren. Say hello to Christine for me.”

“Will do,” Darren agreed. “And you say hello to…whichever pretty young thing has latched onto you at the moment.”

Both men laughed, and Rick cut off the call, all amusement gone. He had set two different balls in motion, and at least one had better hit the target.

+++++++++++

“I'll go,” Sebastian shrugged, rising to his feet and slipping on his loafers. “Do I need to change?”

After a once over, Sebastian's roommate Alec shook his head. “Not really. Throw on a sport coat, though, if you don't want to freeze. Half of the party is outside.”

Sebastian grabbed his jacket from the closet and followed Alec out the door. After half an hour, the little roadster pulled up to a familiar quarter-mile stretch of driveway, and Sebastian shook himself. He never ceased to wonder at the wealth of some people. In his experience before coming to Jamestown, wealth had come by stealing, but in his newer life at Brown, many of his friend’s parents claimed to have come by their wealth honestly. From what he could work out, the Jamestown set had largely worked hard for their money. Some were heartless in their homes and others were conscientious, but they had all gained their fortunes through determination and ingenuity – except the inheritors, but Sebastian could not judge them for something they had no control over. The fact that his friends were largely decent human beings gave Sebastian hope for his own future.

“This house belongs to a friend of mine, Marshall Hempstead.” Sebastian smiled as he glanced over the invitation, suddenly much more comfortable with the evening that would follow.

“As long as it's a good party,” Alec shrugged. “And I have been assured that it is a good party.”

When he thought of the word “friend,” Sebastian had to laugh. Marshall and “friend” did not really belong in the same sentence. From his first year at Brown, Sebastian had found himself courted by the wealthiest residents of the area, including Marshall. He hadn't understood at the time, noticing only that a lot of Brown students shunned the frat parties and attended the Jamestown affairs. At some point, though, in conversations and through observation, Sebastian realized that people wanted to befriend him because he gave them claim to open-mindedness.

“One of my best friends is Hispanic,” they would inform him in some manner or another. Such a philosophy allowed them to call themselves progressive, and though Sebastian rolled his eyes at the sentiment, he certainly wouldn't refuse their friendship or their invitations. If he had learned one thing in Langley Park, he had learned that “if someone don't got your back, you gonna fall hard.” He often didn't like his companions in the barrio, but he needed them.

The first thing Sebastian always noticed at the parties was the man standing amidst the various amber bottles that poured forth pleasure for the guests – sooner or later, he would be able to watch the entire guestlist pass by the bar and set out with liquid courage. Sometimes, Sebastian would grab a beer to nurse while he mingled with the crowd, but that depended less on whether or not he wanted to drink than how far into the party he had arrived. Once everyone else had passed tipsy, he worried little that they would judge him for his sobriety.

“Bash,” Alec elbowed him as soon as they stepped foot onto the marbled entry, “you'll come and get me if you see any hot girls, right?”

“I always do,” Sebastian smirked. “And I'll also come get you if I notice you're being too friendly with any not-so-hot girls.”

Alec flashed a grin and dove directly into the crowd that danced in the center of the room. Even though the clothes and music altered slightly, Sebastian could tell little difference between the posh mansion and a raucous frat house, what with the slobbering drunks and his fear of stumbling upon hidden nooks with unmentionable happenings. Sebastian had witnessed comparable parties hosted by the Perucañas, too, though instead of beatings by goons for some inexplicable transgression, the wealthy parties merely utilized bouncers to toss out any rabble who had committed some equally mystifying offense. Whatever Sebastian did, he did not cause trouble, either with the Perucañas or the Jamestown crowd.

Of course, he laughed at his promise to Alec. Never had Sebastian encountered a truly unsightly face at a Jamestown event. Too much silicone and collagen flowed to allow for variation from the norm. Good, predictable plasticity filled the rooms at every party he had attended. They filled the house at his current party as well, but he could not resign the night quite yet. Almost as soon as he entered the house, his eyes encountered a pair of regular-looking girls, and Sebastian paused.

When he had begun his trek around the perimeter of the room, he had aimed for the breathtaking balcony that hung two stories over an inlet from the bay. Sebastian knew the inlet well. On his fishing expeditions, he had hit every shore around Narragansett Bay. Beneath the balcony stood a series of lower, private balconies, and underneath those flowed a series of well-manicured paths which led directly to the beach. As soon as he could manage, he would find his way through all of the ruckus and escape onto the relative quiet of the beach. The fresh breeze, the whisper of the waves, the shifting sand beneath his feet: Sebastian would disappear for at least an hour or two without Alec's notice.

First, though, he intended to assess the two very human young ladies who had caught his eye from the dance floor. The night just might prove more interesting than he had expected.