I spent the rest of the day and part of the next morning looking up everything I could find on Drachon and Golden Drug Corp. That was in between making dinner—my turn—watching TV with Rachel, and sleeping with Rachel. By 10:30 the next morning I’d dug up everything the internet had to offer, not all of through strictly legal means.
Nothing in it helped. Drachon seemed to be a mostly honest businessman—he’d had a few legal battles over taxes, like most of them—with a relatively unscandalous personal life. His first divorce had been messy, but that was 20 years ago. He apparently had a brother, but I couldn’t turn anything up on him.
So I had nothing left. Calling strangers and asking them impertinent questions is my job, after all. It’s what I did as a reporter, and even with the internet, nothing replaces an actual live conversation.
That doesn’t make it easy.
I fortified myself with more coffee, checked my email, flirted with Rachel, then picked up my phone with a grimace and punched the digits for Golden’s corporate HQ. The menu up front didn’t offer a direct link to the CEO’s office, so I hit 0 and got connected with an actual human being. She didn’t hesitate to send me to Drachon, no doubt happy to hand me off to someone else to deal with.
To my surprise he picked up on the second buzz. “Ronald Drachon, Golden Drug Corp., may I help you?”
“Uh, Mr. Drachon? My name is Tom Jurgen, I’m a private detective here in Chicago . . .” I told him the story of Abel and Charlie, and his stores’ connection with other disappearances. He listened politely.
Instead of hanging up on me, or yelling, Drachon said calmly, “I understand you’re concerned, but I really don’t see what I can do for you. I mean, you’re not seriously suggesting that we’re kidnapping people off the street, are you?”
That was one possibility. Farfetched, but I’ve run into vampires and demons and magic rings that can force people to kill themselves. It didn’t seem like the best argument at the moment, though. “I’m trying to cover all the bases here. Abel was found with a spoon from the Baryar Elite Hotel. He has dreams about digging, and dogs, and bells. And he mentioned the word ‘drakon,’ which is at least a little similar to your name, and the connection with the stores—”
“Drakon.” His voice was low. “Oh my god.”
“What is it?”
I heard him swallow, as if catching his breath. “I can’t—I can’t talk about it here. Could you come out to my house? Tonight?”
“I suppose so.” He lived in Deerfield, a northern suburb. “Six thirty?”
“That’s fine.” He gave me the address, even though I already had it, but I decided not to scare him off by telling him how thoroughly I’d researched him. “Don’t—please don’t talk to anyone until we’ve talked. All right?”
I promised, and then I broke my promise after we hung up and told Rachel.
“Am I going out there with you?” She folded her arms. “It’s my turn for dinner. Is he going to feed us?”
“We’ll find someplace to eat.”
“Then I’m in.” She turned back to her computer again. “No Olive Garden this time.”
I nodded. “You pick.”
Ronald Drachon lived in a three-story house surrounded by tall trees and leafy bushes. His wife answered the door—short, pretty, in sweats and barefoot—then ran downstairs to the basement as if she didn’t want to hear anything we said. Drachon—50s, husky, with gray hair and a blunt nose, still in a suit and necktie—led us upstairs to an office. He offered us drinks, then poured himself a scotch.
“My brother David is—well, he’s brilliant.” He took a sip. “He’s always, well, troubled. He’s 12 years younger than me. Ph.D. in chemistry, from the U of C. Except he never finished the degree, he dropped out. David’s always been—different. Smart, not very social. Keeping to himself. Not exactly a nerd, but . . .” He shrugged.
“He started calling himself Drakon years ago.” Drachon shrugged. “I guess he thought our name was boring. Around when he dropped out. We didn’t see him for a long time. Our dad died. He came to the funeral, and then when mom died. Then—until he called me, about four months ago. I had to go down to see him. He’s still living in Hyde Park.” The University of Chicago neighborhood. Near Promontory Point.
Drachon paused to wipe his glasses. “He wanted me to get him something. Some kind of—he called it an herb, like an herbal supplement, but I never heard of it. Jinda—jindalore.”
I scribbled a note. Yeah, I still carry a notebook. Old reporter’s habits die hard. “Did you get it?”
“It’s from India. It’s in a pill we carry in our stores.” He opened a drawer. “Here’s some. One of our VPs, Dean Schindless, handles supplements. We support different kinds of alternative options.”
I picked up the bottle. A purple label had the words “Dragon’s Breath” in fancy lettering. It promised “increased vigor and endurance, more relaxed sleeping, efficacious digestion, and calming influence.” The ingredients included “jindalore root” some other stuff I’d never heard of. The label had the standard note that nothing had actually been confirmed by the FDA.
“You can keep it.” Drachon waved a hand. “I gave some to David. He wanted the actual stuff, whatever it is, but I asked Dean and he couldn’t find any to order. Well, I sent David a box, and that was it. I haven’t heard from him since. I’m a little worried.”
“Why did he want it?” Rachel looked over the bottle, then stuffed it into his bag.
Drachon shook his head. “He didn’t say. I’m—well, I’m afraid he’s into something illegal. Trying to get some foreign organic into the country—I mean, I don’t think you can make meth from it or anything, but David gets into some pretty weird stuff. He was doing chemistry, but he was talking about alchemy at the same time.” He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
He gave me his brother’s number and address. I thanked him, and Rachel and I went back out to the car. “So what do you think?” Rachel asked as I started up.
I shook my head. “Not sure how it figures in. At least there’s something to look into.”
“After dinner.”
I nodded. “Yeah. After dinner.”
Once we got back Rachel settled down in front of the TV for whatever Real Housewives or Below Decks was up next. I took a beer into the office for some quick research.
Jindalore was indeed some kind of plant found mostly in India. I looked at images and read the Wikipedia article. Then I took a lot of some other pages.
Some were from companies touting its supposedly medicinal and curative properties. Like Dragon’s Breath, they claimed jindalore cured erectile dysfunction, and offered startling NSFW photos of its effects. Other supposed properties included sexual stamina—“go all night!—” and athletic endurance.
Other pages referenced its cultural connections. JIndalore was associated with tigers, who were said to consume it to make them stronger and faster. Monkeys also dug it up and ate its roots, especially males, and legends said it aided their sexual relations. No graphic pictures, fortunately.
The plant was also said to be sought and eaten by various mythological creatures—manticores, nagini, dragons, rakshas, even yetis. That made me wonder.
I took a photo of the Dragon’s Breath jar and sent it to Gwen Martin, asking if it rang any—oops. I deleted that and asked if Abel remembered it. Probably not, but it was something to check.
Then I went out to watch TV with Rachel. “Should we see if those pills have the, uh, desired effect?” I put my arm around her.
She laughed and elbowed my ribs. “Like I’d let you take anything like that. Wait, you didn’t, did you?” She swung around to glare at me.
I kissed her. “Of course not. Do you think I’m—wait, don’t answer that.”
She kissed me, then pushed me away. “Later, loverboy. Let me finish this episode.”
I sat back to watch. And wait.
No comments:
Post a Comment