Death Row

Chapter 20

Jones tucked in his chin. “You’re joking, right?”

“No,” Ben said, “I’m not joking.”

“You’re actually going to do this?”

“It’s not that big a deal, Jones. We’re just going to work out.”

Jones remained incredulous. “You mean-you’re actually going to sweat?”

Ben zipped up the jacket of a black-and-white warm-up suit, then applied himself to his Nikes. “And why is this a problem for you?”

“You’re a lawyer. Lawyers don’t sweat. They… talk.”

Ben continued lacing. “I’ve seen lots of lawyers sweat in my time.”

Jones retreated from the doorway. “Hey, take a look at this!” he shouted down the corridor. “Ben’s going to work out!”

A moment later, Christina appeared. “As in… exercise? Physical exertion?”

Ben grabbed his gym bag. “And why is that so unbelievable?”

Jones and Christina looked at each other. “You’re not exactly renowned for your physical prowess.”

“Remember the time he tried to move the copier?” Jones said, giggling.

“You should hear Mike talk about Ben’s first kung fu lesson,” Christina replied with equal mirth.

“You know,” Ben said, passing them both, “you two are starting to annoy me.”

“I’m sorry,” Christina said. She looked at Jones. “This is really rude of us.” And then they both burst out laughing.

“I should cancel their bonuses,” Ben muttered as he left the office. If they ever got bonuses.

“I can’t believe this,” Baxter said, shifting from one edge of the passenger seat to the other. “Sheila Knight never did anything wrong in her life. Except maybe talk to you.”

“Nonetheless,” Mike insisted, hands on the steering wheel, “she’s lying. Or at the very least, holding something back.”

“She told you everything you wanted to know.”

“Or seemed to. Trust me on this, Baxter. She’s lying.”

“And you know this because…”

“I just know.”

“Of course. So why don’t you drag her downtown and give her a lie-detector test?”

“Because there would be no point.” Tulsa traffic was not normally an issue, but there were a few exceptions, and Seventy-first on Friday afternoon was one of them. Even after the street had been widened to the size of something you’d expect to see in Dallas, it still clogged, worse and worse the closer you got to the on-ramp for Highway 169. Maybe it was employees fleeing en masse from the chain stores and restaurants that seemed to have sprung up overnight on this boulevard. “She’s not a suspect. I don’t know that she’s a material witness. I can’t force her.”

“She might comply anyway.”

“She might. But the test wouldn’t be admissible in court. And frankly, I think polygraphs are unreliable and easily manipulated.”

“Easily manipulated?” Baxter waved a hand across her brow. “Is this the sphincter dodge?”

“That works, actually.” It was well-known in police circles that tightening the sphincter muscle during the control questions could send the polygraph a false signal, thus disguising subsequent lies. There were several ways, actually. Putting a tack in your shoe and stepping on it at the right time. Anything that elevated the subject’s blood pressure could throw off the machine. “But it isn’t the easiest way.”

“And what is the easiest way, O Great and Powerful Superior Officer?”

“Just lie on the control questions. The test administrator asks control questions, then pertinent questions, then compares the two and looks for a change in the readout. If you lie on the control questions, though, then lie on the rest, there will never be any observable change.”

“Fine. If we can’t use the polygraph, how do we prove she’s lying?”

“We don’t have to. I already know.”

“Because…”

“Did you see her eyes?”

“Yes. Brown. Large.”

“Did you notice the crinkling lines? When she smiled?”

“I don’t recall that she ever smiled.”

“She did. When she talked about how much she used to enjoy going over to the Faulkner home.”

“Okay. And you saw crinkling lines?”

“Right here.” Mike pointed to the corner of his eye. “An authentic smile engages the whole face, including the crinkling lines, in a generally relaxed expression. A lying smile doesn’t. When it doesn’t come naturally-when it’s being put on for show-the mouth may change, but the face doesn’t.”

“So you’re saying there were no crinkling lines.”

“There were, actually, but they were more crow’s-feet than laugh lines. It wasn’t authentic.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. And there’s more. Just before she smiled, there was a flash of-I don’t know. Didn’t last for even a second. She wiped it away and manufactured the fake smile. But for a fleeting instant before that, there was… something else.”

“Which was?”

“Hard to be certain. A frown, a scowl. A grimace. The textbooks call them microexpressions, and they’re hard to spot. But that was her true, natural reaction. And that tells me there’s something Sheila Knight didn’t give us. That perhaps her visits to the Faulkner home weren’t all as wonderful as she suggested.”

“Are you serious about this? I can’t wait to read your report. ‘Suspect had suspicious crinkly lines.’ “

“Don’t laugh, Baxter. Knowing who is and isn’t telling you the truth is critical to being an effective homicide investigator.”

“Clearly. I’m surprised they don’t teach this at the academy. Crinkly Lines 101.”

Mike blew air through his teeth. “Look, if you’re going to make fun-”

“Perish the thought.” She swallowed her smile. “I’m surprised you didn’t come down harder on Dr. Bennett. Now she seemed nervous to me.”

“Some people are. Especially when the police come calling. That doesn’t mean they’re lying.”

“And she never made eye contact when she was answering your questions.”

“Who does?” Mike downshifted and moved into the right-hand lane, hoping to find an escape route from the traffic. “Most people are uncomfortable with extended direct eye contact. Looking away is simply deferential. If you see someone who’s killing himself to maintain eye contact, he’s either trying to sell you something or lying. Or both.”

Baxter laughed. “I did notice Sheila kept doing that thing with her hair. Touching it. Brushing it back.”

“True. But don’t confuse personal tics with lying. Everybody has a few nervous habits-biting nails, twirling pencils. It’s not the same thing. What you look for are discrepancies-differences between what the person is saying and what the person is doing. Saying yes but subtly shaking the head. That sort of thing.”

“Speaking of personal tics,” Baxter said, “what was all that nonsense about-what was it? Hyperthermal luminous paraffin?”

Mike grinned. “I was just giving her something to worry about.”

“So now you think Sheila Knight killed Erin?”

“I don’t think anyone killed Erin except Erin. That’s your delusion, not mine.” He paused, hung a hard right. “Even if there was a murder, it couldn’t have been Sheila Knight. She has an airtight alibi.”

“She might’ve had an accomplice.”

“And in that unlikely event,” Mike said, “she will now be desperate to get to her accomplice and inform him that his hands are coated with hyperthermal luminous paraffin.”

“And she won’t call, because you fed her all that BS about being able to trace and eavesdrop on her phone conversations.” Her head tilted to one side. “Not bad, Morelli. Will Blackwell authorize a stakeout team?”

“For this case? Not a chance. But I called for an unmarked car to watch her office. For her own safety, you know,” he said, winking. “That’ll get us to sundown. Ben’s investigator might take over after that. Mind you-just because Sheila’s lying doesn’t make her a killer. But if she is working with someone else-we’ll find them.”

Baxter nodded grudgingly. “It hurts to admit it, but-not bad detective work, Sherlock. You should teach a course.”

“I do. Every year. You’d know that if you’d gone to school on the right end of the turnpike.”

Baxter gave him a long look. “I never figured you for a teacher. How’d you get started on that?”

“There was an opening at the academy, and frankly, I needed the scratch. Alimony payments were killing me. But I found I enjoyed it. It’s a kick, really. Hanging out with the baby cops and wannabes.”

“That must require patience. Some of those new recruits are pretty green.”

Mike grinned. “Not as green as I was, way back when.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Oh yeah. Bright-eyed and bushy-brained, that was me. I thought the world was my private crime lab. Thought I could do no wrong.”

“Did that change?”

Mike gave her a wry expression. “Yeah. That changed. All too soon.” He hung a left and glided onto the highway. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to get all boring and autobiographical on you.”

“Not at all. It wasn’t-I didn’t-” Her hand stretched out, but almost immediately she drew it back. “I’m not complaining. Hey-this is the first time we’ve talked for more than ten minutes without yelling at each other or threatening bodily harm.”

“Well, that calls for a celebration.” Mike stopped at a light, then turned to face her. “Sergeant, can you make a decent pot of coffee?”

“I do all right.”

“Good. I’ll bring the beer nuts.”

She looked at him blankly. “Are we going on a date?”

“Something even better.” His eyebrows danced. “Stakeout.”

“What’s your preference, Ben? Free weights or Nautilus equipment?”

“This is your party,” Ben answered. He felt distinctly uncomfortable in this workout suit. Could he tell Ben hadn’t worn it once since his mother gave it to him for Christmas four years ago? “You pick.”

“Good enough. Let’s go Nautilus.” Peter Rothko was a tall, lean man with a striking shock of burnt-orange hair. “I need to do some serious sweating. I had lunch in the corporate dining room-fabulous food, but so rich!” He patted his stomach, which did not appear extended to Ben. “Thanks for meeting me here. I know it’s indulgent, but with my schedule the way it is these days, it was here or not at all.”

“I’m grateful to you for meeting me. I feel out of my depth with all this fast-food-and-flavor stuff, and I think it may be important. I needed to talk to someone who really understands the business.”

“Well, I might qualify.” He led the way to the Nautilus machine. “I like to do the whole circuit in order, starting with the leg presses. Can I show you how it’s done?”

“Thanks, I know how it goes.” Ben lowered himself onto the black leather seat and wrapped his feet behind the weighted bar.

“You work out?”

“Yeah, I have a membership here, too,” Ben said, grunting slightly as he worked his quads. “But don’t tell my staff. It would destroy my image.”

“You come regularly?”

“A couple, three times a week. Though I don’t normally wear this snazzy suit.” Ben smiled. “That was just to impress you. I come as often as I can, when I’m not in court. I usually arrive later in the day, though. After work.”

“Good for you. How long have you been doing it?”

“A couple of years now. A while back I got the bad end of a scuffle and-well, the result was being pushed off some high-rise refinery scaffolding.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah. I was hurt pretty bad-in a coma for days. After that, I decided I needed to do something to improve my physical condition. Before it was too late.” Ben finished his leg presses, then vacated the seat. “But you know-I’m supposed to be interviewing you here. How did an amiable guy who’s even younger than I am end up the CEO of a huge national fast-food chain?”

“Oh, dumb luck, mostly.”

“Yeah, I believe that. Don’t be modest, Peter, or we’ll never get anywhere.”

“It’s true. But what is luck, really? Let me tell you-it’s when opportunity meets preparation. I’d been preparing for a long time, toiling away in the burger biz. When the opportunity came, I jumped at it.”

“What happened?”

Rothko straddled a bench and began doing arm curls. “Like most of America, I grew up working at McDonald’s. When I turned twenty-one, I managed to get a little seed money so I could buy an independent burger joint on Peoria that was closing. My parents thought it sounded like a dodgy move, but hey, fast food was all I knew.”

“How did it go?”

“Terribly. Disastrously. I lost money by the fistful.”

“So why is it my partner thinks you’re the richest most eligible bachelor in Tulsa?”

Rothko grinned. “That came later. The first two years were a travesty. Competition was slaughtering me. And then-things began to change.”

Ben grabbed an overhead bar and pulled it down behind his head. “What made the difference?”

Rothko released the pull bar with a grunt. “Chemicals.”

For someone who didn’t even like to drink that much, he sure spent a lot of time in bars, Loving mused. Maybe it was just his imagination, but he’d been working as Ben’s investigator for many years now, and it seemed as if he’d spent about half that time hanging out in saloons, taverns, pubs, and watering holes of all shapes and sizes.

Why did he always draw these assignments? he wondered as he climbed out of his pickup. If the investigation involved some high-tech something or other, Jones would handle it. If it involved anything feminine or upscale, Christina would draw the straw. And if involved anything fun, Ben would do it himself. Why was he always the one who got sent to the bars?

To be fair, bars were generally a good place to get people talking. Whether they thought the alcohol affected them or not, it did, and tongues moved more freely after the third or fourth Bud Light. Just observing people in this environment told Loving more than he could learn in half an hour of sober yakking.

So, he supposed, he drew these assignments because he was good at them. That was what he was going to tell himself, anyway.

As he surveyed the exterior, he realized that this trendy Brookside hangout was considerably more upscale than his usual haunt. He wished he had dressed differently-his white T-shirt and blue jeans might look out of place among the Ralph Lauren pullovers and Miss Jackson originals. But what the heck. He’d make do.

He stepped inside, then caught his breath. Wait a minute. This wasn’t a bar. At least not his idea of a bar.

This was a sushi bar.

The fishy aroma wafted down to Loving’s nostrils, and he almost instantly felt sick. He didn’t like fish even when it was cooked; there was no way he was going to be able to keep this squishy slithery stuff down.

Did Ben know where this woman was going when he handed out this assignment? Was this his idea of humor? Send the big burly redneck to the raw fish joint? Laugh when his face starts to turn white? Watch him try to order chicken fried chicken or something?

Well, it wasn’t going to happen. Loving felt a great deal of loyalty and devotion to Ben-but everything had its limits.

To his relief, he spotted the woman he knew to be Sheila Knight sitting up at the front, at the bar. The liquor bar, that is. There were empty seats on either side of her. She appeared to be on at least her second drink, judging by the glasses in front of her. She was wearing a party dress-bright red and rather tight-fitting. No woman would dress like that unless she was going out on a date-or looking for one.

Perfect. This was going to be easier than he thought.

He sidled up to the stool on her left. “Mind if I sit here, ma’am?” He couldn’t be less subtle; almost every other seat at the bar was untaken.

To his relief, she didn’t object. She gave him the split-second once-over and shrugged. “Sure.”

Loving assumed that meant he had passed the sniff test. The bartender asked for his order. “Shot of Bailey’s, shot of Kahlúa. Separate glasses.”

That got her attention. “Little early to break out the hard stuff, isn’t it?”

Loving grinned. “Each to his own poison.” After the drinks arrived, Loving pulled his laminated Oklahoma driver’s license out of his wallet and plopped it on the top of the bar. “Okay, here’s the challenge. Get the Kahlúa into the Bailey’s glass, and vice versa. Using only what’s on the bar right now.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Is this one of those stupid bar tricks?”

“Yup. And since it’s so stupid, you shouldn’t have any problem.”

She gave him a sharp look, then turned her attention to the two drinks. She picked up both shot glasses, as if to pour one into the other. No, that wasn’t going to work. She considered the driver’s license, but that didn’t bring many possibilities to light. She experimented with the salt and pepper, the Tabasco sauce, the menus, the nonfat dairy creamer. But none of it solved the problem.

“All right, wonder boy. I give up. Show me how it’s done.”

“It’s a secret.”

“If you weren’t planning to tell, why’d you start this thing?”

“I’m not saying I won’t tell. I’m just saying you gotta make it worth my while.”

She drew back. “Wait a minute, cowboy. Do I look like-”

“Five minutes. That’s all I want.”

“Five minutes of what?”

“Talking. Like this. Right here. I ask questions, you answer.”

“Is this going to be some kind of kinky Cosmo test thing?”

“Nope. Just regular gabbing.” He lowered his chin. “I’m a very lonely person.”

“Why do I not believe that?” She looked at him for a long moment, and when she finally spoke, it appeared to be against her better judgment. “All right. Go for it.”

Loving laid the license across the top of the Kahlúa, completely covering it. Gripping the glass firmly, he turned it upside down so that it and the license were on top of the Bailey’s shot. Slowly and gently, he slid the license to the side until there was a gap between it and the rim of the glasses. The Kahlúa began to flow through the gap into the bottom glass. And then, like magic, the Bailey’s began to flow upward into the top glass. When the two liquids had totally changed places, Loving closed the gap and flipped the top glass upright again.

“That’s amazing,” Sheila said, truly impressed.

“Yeah,” Loving agreed. “Makes a mess of your driver’s license, though.”

“So I suppose I have to talk to you now, huh?”

Loving returned her smile. “Life is tough sometimes.”

Ben readjusted the weights to add twenty more pounds. “So you got a new flavor formula?”

Rothko appeared impressed. “You know about this stuff?”

“I’ve had the short course. I’ve toured Prairie Dog Flavors’ facility and talked to some of the chemists.”

“Then you understand. When I started my operation, I couldn’t afford that stuff. My food tasted like what it actually tasted like.”

“Horrors.”

“Well, it explained why my place was such a flop. You can’t compete with the big boys at Burger King and Mickey D’s if your food doesn’t give customers the same buzz. And I couldn’t afford the buzz. Then I got lucky. My grandfather died.” He paused. “Wait, that doesn’t sound very good, does it?”

“I think I know where you’re going.”

“He left me some money. Not a fortune, but enough. I spent every penny getting myself a secret formula. Something new. Something better.”

“And it worked?”

“Like a dream.” Rothko grabbed his towel and wiped his brow. “Have you ever eaten in one of my shops?”

Ben hedged. “Well…”

“That’s all right. Nothing to be ashamed of. I’ll just explain. Every business needs some kind of marketing angle, something to differentiate them from the competition. At Burger Bliss, our gimmick is that we’re the high-class outfit. Better-quality food. Sit-down restaurant food delivered with fast-food efficiency.”

“How did you come up with that?”

“Like most great ideas throughout history, it was born of sheer necessity. I had a great-tasting product, but that wasn’t going to help me unless I could get people in my store. I couldn’t underprice McDonald’s. Who could? So I had to convince people my food was worth a little extra.”

“How did you go about that?”

Rothko shifted to the next machine and started working his triceps. “We advertised that we used a higher-quality meat-which is true. And with the chemicals, my burgers tasted more like beef tenderloin than hamburger. We didn’t bury it under mustard or ketchup or secret sauces. We let people taste the meat.”

“And this worked?”

Rothko smiled. “Ten years ago I opened the first Burger Bliss. There are now three hundred and forty-three Burger Bliss restaurants in forty-eight states and three foreign countries. Burger Bliss is on the Fortune 500 list and is actively traded on the New York Stock Exchange. Our corporate profits are in the billions.” He stopped to catch his breath. “Yeah, I’d say it worked.”

“So the key was the flavor.”

“That was one of them, certainly.”

“You’ve worked with these flavor people, then. Do you think it’s possible there could be rivalry between the chemists?”

“Let me put it to you this way, Ben. The fast-food industry makes over one hundred and ten billion dollars annually in profits.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“There’s huge money to be made in this business. Huge. And it all hinges on flavor.” He moved to a stationary bike and started pedaling. “Of course there’s competition among chemists. They all want to be the one who invents the next Big Mac.”

“Because that man’s going to be the king of the lab?”

He looked at Ben levelly. “Because that man’s going to be rich.”

Loving’s five minutes turned into a little over a half an hour. Sheila glanced at her watch a few times, but otherwise, she didn’t seem to mind, which Loving attributed to his personal charm. And perhaps the fact that he offered to buy the next three rounds of drinks. In that time, he told her stories and anecdotes, never revealing who he worked for, and regaled her with every bad joke he’d heard in the last year. He even explained that since Kahlúa is denser than Bailey’s and the empty space in the glasses is finite, the Bailey’s is forced upward when the Kahlúa comes rushing down.

“So they put this new guy in as editor in chief,” Sheila explained. “He decides which writing assignments I get and which I don’t. And he’s totally clueless. I know in a heartbeat he’s not from Oklahoma.”

“How could you tell?”

“Well, he kept telling me that, now that he was here, there was all this stuff he was going to do. He never once said ‘fixin’ to do.’ “

“A dead giveaway.”

“When he talked about Durant, he actually pronounced it Duh-rant, instead of Doo-rant, like everyone else around here.”

“And let me guess. He didn’t pronounce Miami ‘Mi-am-uh,’ and he didn’t call Oklahoma City ‘the City.’ “

She nodded. “And he didn’t even know where to begin with Eufaula or Okemah.”

“Good thing you don’t have clients in Gotebo,” Loving replied. They both laughed.

The bartender arrived bearing gifts. “Here’s your appetizer, ma’am.”

“Great.”

Loving took a whiff and tried not to gag. “What is it?”

“It’s an assortment of their best. Calamari, sushi, eel. Won’t you share it with me?”

Loving hesitated.

“We can eat it right here. That way we can continue talking.”

Loving drew in his breath. Ben Kincaid, you owe me so bad…

“All right,” Sheila said. “Let’s start with the eel.”

Loving survived the consumption of the appetizer plate, and as much as he hated to admit it, actually enjoyed much of it. The secret, he realized, was not to let Sheila tell him what it was. Better not to know. Just eat in blissful ignorance.

The conversation continued merrily along. Loving kept her going, deftly moving from one subject to the next, guiding without appearing to guide. But none of it was idle chatter. Without ever asking a direct question, Loving managed to draw out enough information to write a small biography of Sheila Knight.

After they finished the appetizer plate, he decided it was time to give her a little push-in the direction of Erin Faulkner.

“Must be tough to lose a friend like that,” he said sympathetically.

“It was hell. Living hell. I’d known her all my life, practically.”

“And then she’s gone.” Loving shook his head. “You two must’ve had a lot of happy memories.”

“We did.”

“ ’Specially when you’re young, just kids. No worries, no responsibilities. Nothing bad ever happens when you’re a kid.”

Sheila fell silent. Should he push a little more, or just ride it out? He chose to remain quiet, and a moment later, his patience was rewarded.

“Something bad happened to my friend.”

“Yeah?”

“Something horrible. When she was just fifteen.”

“I’m sorry. Still, fifteen’s practically grown up. At least she had those great fifteen years.”

“Those years were… not always great.” Loving noticed that she was looking at the bar top now more than she looked at him. “Even before the tragedy, she had problems. We both did. We never talked about it, but…” She lifted her head. “I’m sorry. You don’t want to hear this.”

“I don’t mind.”

“No, we just met. It isn’t right.”

Loving took her arm. “Listen to me. It’s obvious you have something on your mind. You need to talk. I got ears.”

Her hands trembled a bit as she ran a finger across the bar top. Her point of vision seemed to recede inward. “Have you ever had a secret so bad, you couldn’t tell anyone?”

“Yes,” Loving said. “Once.”

“Erin and I had a secret like that. And Erin-I think maybe she had another secret. I’m just starting to figure it out, but-I think that may be why she died.” Her face saddened. “It’s horrible. Having all these secrets and not being able to tell anyone. Even if you really want to. Even if you know you need help. Know you could help others. But still… you just can’t do it.”

“You can,” Loving said firmly. “You can tell me.” He gripped her wrist all the firmer. “You know you need to get this out of your system.”

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe…”

“I am. You know I am.”

Sheila nodded slightly. Her lips parted. “All those years ago, I-”

“Sheila! Sorry I’m late!”

Loving swore under his breath. A tall black man in a cashmere coat edged between them.

“There you are,” Sheila said, collecting herself. “I was wondering what happened to you.”

“Stuck at the office. You know how it goes.” He glanced at Loving. “Looks like you weren’t bored.”

Loving smiled pleasantly. Damn, damn, damn!

The man looked his watch. “We’d better hurry, or we’ll be late for the show.”

“Right, right. And we can’t be out late. I still need to pack.” She glanced at Loving. “I’m going to the lake for the weekend.”

“How nice.”

“Oh, it’s nothing fancy. I just need to get away for a spell. I’ve got a cabin at Grand Lake.” She grabbed a few bills from her purse and put them down on the bar. “Okay, James, I’m ready.”

James Wesley? Loving wondered. The man who dated Erin Faulkner before she died? He fit the description.

Sheila pushed away from the bar. “Sorry,” she said to Loving as she left. “Got to run. Enjoyed it, though.”

“Me, too,” Loving answered. “Next time I’ll show you how to get an olive into a brandy snifter without touching it.”

She laughed and departed, Wesley on her arm.

The bartender reappeared. “Something else to drink?”

“Yeah,” Loving growled. “And this time, something real.”

The bartender glanced at Sheila as she exited. “Looks like you lost out.”

“Damn right.” He pinched his fingers together. “And I was this close. This close. To something big.”

“There’ll be other chances.”

“I hope you’re right. My boss may not be so optimistic.”

The bartender appeared puzzled, but decided to let it go. “Say… would you show me that bit with the Bailey’s and Kahlúa again?”

Loving frowned, growled, then with a great sigh, let it all go. “Why the hell not? You see, it’s all in the wrist action…”

“You think that’s possible?” Ben asked as he jogged on the treadmill. “Professional jealousy among chemists?”

“What can I say, Ben?” Rothko answered, pedaling away on his exerbike. “It’s not all Ronald McDonald and Dave Thomas in burgerland. It can be a nasty business. And not just at the flavor factory.”

“How so?”

“Where to begin? Ever wonder why so much fast-food marketing is targeted toward children?”

“Okay, I’ll bite. Why?”

“One word, Ben. Addiction.”

Ben did a double take.

“It’s true. Little kids get hooked on high-fat food just like teenagers do on nicotine. They’re similar, in a way. The tobacco industry used to target their advertising at young people because they knew that someone who started smoking as a teen would have a much harder time quitting than someone who started as an adult. It’s not a matter of willpower-it’s biochemical. Same for fast food. Hook ’em when they’re young, and you’ve got a customer for life.”

“Incredible.”

“Burger Bliss, of course, has gone the opposite direction. We’ve targeted grown-ups. We’re the high-class fast food. And that’s cost us. Market research has shown that small children often recognize the McDonald’s logo before they recognize their own name. The average American kid will have a Happy Meal once every two weeks. We don’t get any of that kind of business.”

“Too bad.”

“Another example. The fast-food biz pays minimum wage to a higher percentage of its employees than any other business. You thought the service was lousy last time you chomped down on a Whopper? There’s a reason.”

“And that is?”

“Turnover is incredibly high. At McDonald’s the average employee lasts three months. But the kids keep coming. One out of eight American workers has been employed by McDonald’s at one time or another. Way too many kids give up sports, sacrifice their grades, or drop out all together so they can work. And the pay is pathetic.”

“Must create some resentment.”

“That’s an understatement. Did you read about those fast-food employees who were arrested for putting yummy things like spit and urine and bleach and Easy-Off oven cleaner into the food? They’d been doing it for months. Really-you don’t want a bunch of angry, crazy kids running your restaurant. Much better to pay responsible, reliable people decently. That’s what we do.”

“Probably helps contribute to your image as the high-class fast-food stop, too.”

Rothko winked. “Can’t hurt. We have a much lower injury rate than the incredibly high rate at most burger joints, too. ’Course, it’s in part because our employees aren’t total morons. But we’ve also spent some major money on safety precautions. Nationwide, the injury rate for working teenagers is twice that for adults. But not at Burger Bliss. Statistics are also way high on fast-food robberies-usually by former or current employees. But not at Burger Bliss. And I think it’s because we treat our people with respect.”

He paused for a moment. His pedaling slowed. “We did have that one horrific incident a few weeks ago. The shooting.”

Ben nodded. “I heard about that firsthand, from one of the cops at the scene. Wounded six people, was it?”

“Yeah,” Rothko said solemnly. “Killed three. It was a horrible tragedy. And a PR nightmare. We had to close that restaurant.”

“I’m sorry.”

“But just for the record-our burgers really are the best. You read enough about slaughterhouses, the kind of meat my competitors buy, and you’ll understand how E. coli spreads. But there’s never been an E. coli outbreak in a Burger Bliss. Never once. We send all our managers to a food safety course. We use refrigerated delivery trucks equipped with record-keeping thermometers. We calibrate our grills to guarantee the meat is sufficiently cooked. We make our fry chefs use tongs-not their hands. USDA testing is a joke-we do our own microbial testing. I wanted Burger Bliss to be a model of how a fast-food restaurant could be-and should be-run. We really are a quality restaurant.”

“And the amazing thing is,” Ben replied, “you haven’t gone broke.”

“Exactly. Truth is, all these things I’ve talked about-better salaries, better meat, safety precautions-add very little to our total cost. Like maybe a few pennies per burger. In this billion-dollar business, everyone could be doing it.”

“Then why don’t they?”

“I think you already know the answer to that question, Ben. Greed.” He pushed himself off the bicycle. “They don’t do it because they don’t have to. And it’s taking a toll. All that fatty fast food is. Do you know what the national obesity rates are? It’s shocking. Fully fifty percent of our population is overweight. Twenty-five percent of all children. Fifty million Americans are obese-meaning they’re over fifty pounds heavier than they should be. It’s the second leading cause of mortality-after smoking! And it is directly related to the rise of fast food. That’s why Burger Bliss is committed to offering a higher-quality alternative. I’m proud of what we’ve accomplished.”

Ben stepped off the treadmill. He was dripping with sweat, but he felt better, as he always did after a good workout. He might not be Arnold Schwarzenegger, but he wasn’t total flypaper anymore, either. “You have every right to be proud,” Ben replied. “You’ve taken the high road. And you’ve made it work.”

“Well, thanks. But I have to tell you, Ben-the best part of it is being my own boss. I’m sure you can appreciate that. Have you ever worked for a corporation?”

“As a matter of fact, I have.”

“Then you know what corporate competition can be like. When people are competing for their livelihoods-especially when there’s a lot of money at stake-anything is possible.”

“Like one chemist knocking off a better chemist?”

“Anything, Ben. Absolutely anything.”