The Stanford Solution

The Stanford Solution

by

Graham Blackburn

Copyright © 2014 by G. J. Blackburn

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publisher.

Published by Blackburn Books at Smashwords

Blackburn Books

PO Box 487

Bearsville

NY 12409

http://www.blackburnbooks.com/

International Standard Book Number

eBook 978-1-892585-10-3

Table of Contents

Prologue: Nineteen Ninety-Two

Chapter 1 Rich!?

Chapter 2 Dead Fish

Chapter 3 The Solution

Chapter 4 Korczyk

Chapter 5 The Formula

Chapter 6 A Discreet Relationship

Chapter 7 PaRANOia

Chapter 8 Suspicion

Chapter 9 Up in the Air

Chapter 10 The Worst!

Chapter 11 Find Him!

Chapter 12 Ready for Action

Chapter 13 Epiphany

About The Author

Prologue

Nineteen Ninety-Two

It felt like time to go home. He pushed himself away from the desk, leant back in his chair, swivelled around, and looked out of the window. The view across the campus was, as always, spectacular. Perched high above the bay, overlooking the town spread out below, this had to be one of the most beautiful college sites in all California. The ocean glinted in the afternoon sun, the palm trees along the beach waved gently, and the little town — city, really, he thought ruefully, it had grown so much since he had arrived — looked from this distance like a happy toy-town. He could just pick out the blue and white buses in the Transit Center and the thin line of traffic winding its way into town from Highway One. Closer to the campus, as the ground rose, the grid-like pattern of streets and houses became more irregular, finally disappearing in a broad belt of trees through which poked the occasional roof of one or two of the larger houses, mostly belonging to the university faculty. And then, a mile or so from his office window, the trees gave way to open space: the rolling, golden hills of the old ranch on which the college had been built.

The various buildings that comprised the college were scattered about the uneven terrain, some of them partly hidden in wooded depressions, others built alongside dry arroyos. The student union building and cafeteria enjoyed the luxury of a broad lawn laid out in front of the main entrance. Except during the few rainy months of winter, the brightness of this lawn was almost painful to look at: a shocking verdancy in an otherwise arid landscape of dry grass and coyote bush. But as he absently scanned the view, he suddenly noticed that today the lawn was almost invisible. In its place was a sea of brightly coloured, moving bodies, above which floated a dozen or more signs and banners waving in the breeze.

It was too far away for the signs to be legible, and the unopenable windows of the office building admitted no sound from the outside. He gave a sad sigh and shook his head. It must be the abortion rally. Either that, or the campaign for free condoms.

He stuffed some papers into his briefcase, and forgetting as usual to back up his afternoon’s work shut down the computer. He left the office, rode the elevator down to the ground floor — shyly avoiding the eyes of the other occupants, who sniggered silently and knowingly to each other — and set off for the car park on the far side of the cafeteria. Thinking to avoid the demonstration, he had turned down the path that ran between the cafeteria and the student union building when a side door unexpectedly burst open and spilled a noisy crowd of students into the narrow passageway. He was immediately caught up in their midst. A dark-haired girl, mistaking him for an older student, glared at him with an angry face: Hey, where’s your button? Are you pro-life or pro-choice?

Oh, no, he thought, don’t get me involved in this. He tried to push his way through. But a tall, skinny youth — he thought he recognized someone from the basketball team — was in his way.

I know this guy. He’s a history professor. I bet he’s pro-choice.

No way, José, said someone else, he’s pro-life. Gotta be. Look at his clothes.

If you ask me, muttered the dark-haired girl scornfully, now mildly embarrassed at having addressed a faculty member disrespectfully, "he doesn’t look like he could be a father if he wanted to."

He winced, and wondered what was wrong with his clothes. He said: Excuse me, please, and pushed his way through the group. Pro-life, pro-choice — they were all missing the point. But at the same time they were so self-righteous and determined, they unnerved him. Besides, there were too many of them. Too many of all of us, come to that, he thought. And as for being a father, the very last thing he could justify was wanting a child.

* * *

to Table of Contents

Chapter 1

RICH!?

A Volvo stationwagon, decidedly past its prime, came to a lurching halt in the short driveway at the side of a white, vintage 1930’s wood-frame house. The door squeaked when it was opened, and a tall, gangly man with fair wispy hair unfolded himself from the interior, nearly dropping his worn briefcase and an armful of papers as he did so. Squinting against the low evening sun, he barged into a garbage can on his way to the kitchen door at the side of the house and barked his shin. He had left it on the sidewalk to be picked up and emptied early that morning on his way out to work, and had promised the neighbour’s kids a dollar if they would retrieve it and put it back in its place by the kitchen door when they came home from school. But they never seemed to get it quite right; they retrieved it from the sidewalk — where it would otherwise undoubtedly have been run over or backed into by the cars that parked in the neighbourhood during the day — but each week they found somewhere new to leave it. Anywhere but where he had asked them to leave it. He made a mental note to talk to them again in the morning, although it was probably hopeless. His Spanish was worse than their English, and their English might have been double Dutch for all that he understood of it.

His leg smarting, he kicked the clattering lid to one side, managed to get the key in the lock without dropping everything, and leant heavily against the door jamb to catch his breath. Christ, he was getting old! It was all getting to be too much. It was truly pathetic. Who would have thought, the youthful-looking Professor Andrew Stanford, barely past forty and over the hill!?

He nudged the door closed and walked into the untidy house, dumping his briefcase and papers on the washing machine and picking up the mail from the mat just inside the door. In the living room he threw this pile down on the desk, knocking over a half-empty cup of scummed coffee. Damn! he thought, I really ought to do some housework. Turning, he stepped on the cat that had quietly come over to greet him. The cat squealed and Andrew jumped.

Oh, sorry, Crosbie. I didn’t see you.

The ride home had done it to him again. It was all the rush-hour racers; all those fierce young men with mustaches and tattoos in pick-up trucks with oversize tires. There seemed to be more of them every day, swerving in front of him, fighting for every tiny space that opened up on the freeway. He couldn’t understand why they were in such a hurry. He was sure most of them were only headed for miserable little homes in the hills; trailers filled with fat slatterns and snot-nosed kids. And then again in the mornings — were their miserable jobs so exciting that they had to get there at breakneck speed? But he supposed it was all they had. They had to be allowed some release or there would be more planes with missing rivets and more computers with inoperable motherboards.

He bent down to stroke the cat. The ginger, marmalade cat with the white feet. His unquestioning friend, his companion — virtually his only companion these days.

Straightening up again with a groan, he reflected that it had not been so bad ten years ago — even five years ago, come to that. Then you could at least count on a nonstop drive from the college to the downtown exit. Now you were lucky if the only serious tie-up was at the infamous intersection with Highway 17 — the so-called fish-hook. There were just too many people for the system now. And more were coming all the time. Ten thousand, twenty thousand a year — and with them more mail, too. Even though hardly anyone wrote letters anymore there was more mail every day; most of it total junk mail.

Oh, come on, Crosbie! he muttered defeatedly, as the cat jumped onto the desk, walked through the spilled coffee and then proceeded to stand right on top of the mail, leaving a big wet paw-print in the middle of a long white envelope.

Now look what you’ve done! You’ve made an even worse mess than I did.

Irritation momentarily getting the better of him, he swept the cat from the desk and knocked half the mail off at the same time. He bent down to pick it up, and the long white envelope with the paw-print caught his eye. It looked more substantial than the usual bill or advertising piece. It had a first-class stamp on it — and a rather impressive, letterpressed logo.

Without straightening up he now got down on both knees and picked up the envelope. Uh oh! — lawyers, he thought. Now what? Is someone suing me; don’t tell me I’ve lost track of another unpaid credit card? I thought I took care of all that last semester. Perhaps it’s Marion after something again. Never should have agreed to marry her in the first place. Serves me right I suppose. Well, I guess I’d better see what she wants.

But it was not a credit card bill, and neither was it from or about Marion. It was from Goldberg, Berger and Blatt — a group new to Andrew. Marion, he knew, had always dealt with White, Wright and Uptight — or whatever their names were — solid wasp lawyers, in California since the Gold Rush, the very epitome of old money, class, and prestige. He cringed at the memory of their supercilious disdain when he had had to sign the separation agreement. He opened the envelope, tensing for some similar assault. The first thing he noticed was that this Goldberg, Berger and Blatt outfit were writing to him from New York. He scanned the page expecting the worst but discovered to his surprise they were being unexpectedly polite: ‘…it is therefore our privilege and pleasure to inform you…’

Crosbie wiped his tail across Andrew’s eyes as he knelt on the floor reading the letter, and distracted him again. He swept a hand after Crosbie’s rapidly receding red rear end, but the cat was too fast for him and scooted out of the way only half an inch in front of the avenging fist. Unable to connect or stop the swipe, Andrew lost his balance and fell forward, banging his elbow on the floor as he fell. The pain shot through him so badly he could not even yell. He squinched his eyes shut and tried to breathe deeply, slowly, concentrating on overcoming the knife-like sensations shooting up and down his arm.

When he thought he had it under control he untensed and opened his eyes. He found himself staring at the letter which was now right below his nose: ‘…in excess of the sum of ten million dollars…’

Ten million dollars! He sat up fast and banged his head against the desk top as he did so, but this time he felt nothing. Ten million dollars! Whose pleasure? What were they telling him?

Fifteen minutes later he had read and reread the letter more than a dozen times. He was still searching for the fine print that would tell him the award was free but there would be a fifteen dollar delivery charge. Or that the odds were eight million to one that he would be entered in the final round. Or that the interest rate and insurance charges would amount to thirty percent a month. But none of the above seemed to be true. No matter how he read it, the message stayed the same. From the umpteenth floor of the World Trade Center, high above Wall Street, Berg, Berger and Goldblatt continued to insist that it was their pleasure to inform him that he, Andrew Stanford, was heir to a ten million dollar Norwegian sardine-cannery business!

*

All right, all right, I’ll open a can. I know it’s all you really care about. Just leave me alone for a minute to figure this out.

Crosbie tucked in to his Tuna Bits, but the moment Andrew left the kitchen he lost interest, and by taking the short route behind the desk and over the coffee table — knocking down a couple of magazines and an ashtray on the way — beat Andrew to the couch and settled in for the evening curled up on top of a handy black sweater. It was a losing battle with Crosbie, no matter what you put down this most curious of felines would be sure to find it and lie on it. The more it was liable to show cat hair, the faster he claimed it. Black cashmere was his greatest achievement to date — the light ginger hairs showed to wonderful advantage on this garment — but tonight Andrew was so distracted by Bergblatt and crew’s letter that he let him lie there. What he wanted more than surcease from Crosbie’s trampling of his wardrobe was confirmation of this incredible letter. Unfortunately, New York was three hours ahead of coastal California,