After two minutes, the bartender returned, placing a glass of dark-red liquid on the counter.
Berky took a sip. “You know, this place is a shit-hole, but if you give me great service tonight, you might get another tip.” He took two more bills from his wallet and waved them under the bartender’s nose. When she failed to react, he put the money away. With his drink in one hand and the leather pouch under the same arm, he lifted the duffel bag from the floor with his other hand and walked to Popkins’ table.
“Hiya Boss,” Popkins said.
Berky simply nodded, placed his bag next to the wall, put the leather pouch and drink on the table, and sat down. The lack of illumination in this corner suited his dark mood, stemming from two problems. The first was that God had not spoken to him in three days. The second was that in his haste to depart in his private air taxi for a quick trip to Savannah, he’d forgotten to wear his lucky white socks. He wondered if they might be critical for upcoming deals. You never know.
Berky watched the 45-year-old Popkins dribble vodka from his glass onto his jeans and striped sailor shirt, inhaling his drink from a grease-stained glass, eyes dulled behind crimson hexagonal spectacles that floated above a shit-eating grin.
“You look like Schrodinger when he catches a fish that’s bigger than he is,” Berky said, referring to his cat. He gulped down most of the beet juice, annoyed that Popkins would drink liquor before an interview and that he would pick a place like the Aasleagh Pub to meet a key new hire. Hey, what do you expect from a Russian?
Popkins adjusted his spectacles and wiped an unkempt beard with the back of an oversized hand. “We now got all the pieces, Boss. Ask him about his invention. It’s brilliant.”
“You’ll have to fill me in,” Berky said. “But you’re wrong. We don’t have all the pieces. There’s a major one missing. Tonight I’ll—”
“That’s him,” Popkins said, pointing.
Berky turned to see a forty-something man, approximately five-ten in height, dressed in a dusty blue linen blazer and collarless white shirt, with olive-brown skin, tousled black hair, full lips, and a vaguely Asian face. He was smiling.
Berky motioned for the server to deliver more drinks, then stood, offering a hand to the arriving candidate. “Dr. Rao?”
“Please call me Sundar,” the man said, shaking Berky’s hand. “You must be Dr. Benson.”
Berky shook his head. “Actually, I’m not a doctor. I’m the CEO. Have a seat.”
The server interjected. “What’s your pleasure?” His long blond hair fell against a tight black T-shirt that stretched over bulging muscles.
Sundar wagged a finger. “Nothing for me.”
Popkins held up his empty glass and wiggled his tongue. “Vodka.”
Berky said, “More beet juice.”
The bartender picked up Berky’s glass, stumbled, and spilled residual liquid on his shirt. “So sorry. I’ll make it up to you.”
Berky took a deep breath to check his anger. “No problem. My shirt’s red, so it won’t show much. Just remember I tipped you $100 on that last round of drinks, and I expect excellent service. I also gave your boss an even bigger tip to make sure everything is perfect. So do your job. Keep me happy.”
The server gave a nervous smile and returned to the bar.
Sundar and Popkins chatted for a few minutes, telling Berky how they met, and how they had irreconcilable differences over whether the Russian drink, kvass, was a refreshment or a hemorrhoidal ointment.
The server returned with more beet juice, vodka, and a bowl of Brazil nuts. “The snacks are on me,” he said, placing the dish. “You’ll like them.”
“Do they contain Testrial?” Berky said.
The server shrugged. “Yeah.”
“Get me something that doesn’t.”
“Sorry, sir. We’re dotting i’s and crossing t’s tonight. See those two men near the door? One of them’s from the Liquor Control Board. My boss doesn’t want to lose her license.”
“What the fuck?”
His raised voice drew the attention of the bird lady, who tilted her head like an immense cockatoo. The man near the bar fluffed his chest hair, while the two people near the door stopped their argument in mid-synchronous sentences.
The server quickly stepped away.
Berky threw the bowl at him but missed. Nuts rained like hail across the barroom floor. “Little whore,” he yelled. “You feed me poison, but I’ll bet your manager gives you steroids to look buff. You’re a traitor.” He eyed the men near the door. “They’re killing us with this abomination.”
Sundar and Popkins were silent, just looking at each other.
“What are you staring at?” Berky said to the other customers. The bird lady made a clucking sound and tilted her head down, looking at her drink; the hairy-chested man raised a weak fist in sympathy; one of the arguing patrons looked at Berky and mouthed the words, “Dick Head.”
At the bar, the server huddled with the bartender, glancing at Berky, whispering non-stop in an agitated manner until his female boss finally gestured for him to cool it. She picked up a cleaver, waved it above the counter until she made eye contact with Berky, pointed it at him, then proceeded to chop up a cucumber, beginning with the tip.
Berky jerked his gaze back to the table and slammed down his palm to get attention. This startled Sundar, but Popkins just guzzled vodka and twitched his lips into a smile.
“Listen,” Sundar said. “I tend to agree this Testrial business is—”
“Give me what you’ve got,” Berky barked. “Gregor says you’ve developed something called a gahneebow. Tell me what it is and how it’ll benefit Xanadu NeuroLab.”
“Not with the hard ‘g,’” Sundar said in a muted voice. “It’s pronounced ‘jeneeboh,’ and it rhymes with ‘placebo.’” After a moment: “I think the server was just trying—”