Berky felt his face grow warm. “I don’t need to explain to you or—”
Popkins took control of the conversation, changing the subject, squinting at Berky through blurred eyes. “He’s a magician, Boss. Look ...”
With a painful lack of coordination, Popkins pushed the sleeve of Sundar’s jacket up his arm. “No tricks here. Just here.” He tapped Sundar’s forehead.
“Go to sleep Popkins,” Berky said.
“I got to pee pee first.”
Popkins stood, stretching to his full height of 4-feet-8-inches, gave an exaggerated bow to both Berky and Sundar, then stumbled toward the men’s room, slipping on Brazil nuts in his path.
Berky shook his head. His words to Sundar were tinged with irritation over Popkins’ performance, smoldering anger at the bartender, and the absence of lucky socks. “My associate wants to hire you, but you have to convince me. Tell me why I need to bring you onboard.”
Sundar cleared his throat, then struck a tone that Berky thought sounded rehearsed. “Sure. The technology I invented will cut your costs, shorten your experiment setup time, and improve your trust in the results. It’ll integrate easily with Kublai Khan, your neuromorphic experiment design system. I’ve already discussed how to do this with Gregor.”
Berky felt a second flush of anger. Popkins had no business blabbing trade secrets.
Sundar removed a vial from an interior pocket and held it up to the light for Berky to see. The liquid inside was the color of pale ale. “I developed this for my previous company,” he said. “They went belly-up and never patented it. It’s an orphaned technology, but one I think is critical for genetic behavior research. Hire me, at my proposed salary, and it’s yours. Don’t hire me, and I go to work for your competitor.”
“Nice try,” Berky said, “but you won’t be working for anyone else. I did some checking.” He unzipped his leather case and put documents on the table. “Your H-1B visa expired when you left the company. You have only a few days to reinstate it under the new rules. I happen to have the paperwork here and can submit tomorrow.”
Sundar pouted, trying to process the changing dynamic.
“We’ve already done the legwork,” Berky said. “We just need your signature on this petition. It says I’m your employer and states your salary, which is average for new-hires in the industry.”
Berky placed a pen near the petition.
Sundar gave the paper a quick scan. “This salary is an insult. You know very well I’m worth five times that amount.”
“You’re free to go elsewhere,” Berky said, “but if you turn me down, I’ll tell ICE you’re an illegal. They’ll make you their guest for a year or so in a detention center before they ship your ass back to India.”
Sundar looked at the document and blinked.
“Think fast, my friend,” Berky said. “How quickly can you get a visa with someone else?” His poker face transformed into a got-you-now-you-sonofabitch smile.
Sundar held Berky’s gaze, but his lower lip trembled. He looked at the document. Then he picked up the pen as if it weighed ten pounds and scrawled a light doodle with few flourishes.
Berky lifted the paper, admired the signature, and slid the document into his leather pouch. “That was the right decision, my friend. By the way, you just agreed that if you jump ship after learning our trade secrets, you can’t work in the biopharmaceutical industry for five years. That pretty much knocks out your escape hatch. Wait here until Popkins gets back. He’ll tell you what to do, assuming he’s sober enough. I’ll let the bartender know you’re celebrating your new job and want to pay for our drinks. Remember to give her a big tip. Now excuse me. I’ve got other business.” He gave a short nod to show the discussion was over, then stood, picked up his duffel bag, and walked toward the bar.
The bartender and server stopped their furtive discussion as Berky approached. “Mind if I use your cleaver?” Berky said. Without waiting for a response, he dropped his duffel bag, selected an orange from a fruit basket on the bar, seized the cleaver on the counter, and whacked the orange in two with a single chop. “Never mess with me,” he said, loud enough that others in the bar could hear. “I’d consider buying this place just to put you and handsome here out of a job, but I don’t invest in shitsties.” He picked up his bag and walked out the door.
Nadia sometimes talked to her only companion—a doll wearing a long print dress like an Appalachian settler. Its roughly carved wooden head, dark brown with age, had painted eyes and a broad smile framed by human hair the same color as her own. The doll was always supportive but occasionally asked too many questions.
“You didn’t destroy the Berky demon,” the doll said, matter-of-factly.
Nadia pouted. “Let’s talk about something else. I have to write my History.”
“He’s part of your history,” the doll insisted. “He owns the town. He seems to own you.”
Nadia made the doll cross its legs. It seemed to wait for an answer. She wasn’t going to give it the satisfaction. Instead, she hummed. It was her way of making ugly ideas disappear. Poof!
“Okay, I get the idea,” the doll said. “You aren’t comfortable talking about Berky. What about Lionel?”
“You mean—”
“Berky’s father.”
“Sure. I was eight years old when they put him in an institution. They say he’s crazy. He killed his wife.”
“Berky’s mother?”
“Right.”
“Do you think Berky got hit with the same crazy stick? It might be in the genes.”
Nadia hummed, channeling Big Bill Broonzy. “I’m trouble in mind, babe, I’m so blue ...”
The doll seemed annoyed. “Okay, stop it.”
“They say he killed his wife because she put too much salt in his supper, and that disrespected him. Okay? They say he left Gloria’s body on the kitchen floor before a neighbor found her.”