Page 3 - Like No Business I Know
P. 3

Rejuvenol

          “Wrinkle cream,” she pronounced. “The best ever. I’m using it
        myself.”
          Probst squinted through his spectacles at her face. Yes, he could
        discern a difference. The basal-cell carcinomas polka-dotting her
        thrice-lifted face appeared to float on a much calmer sea than he
        remembered.
          “The  company  producing  it  is  nothing,”  she  continued
        hurriedly, “a converted warehouse in Jersey City. In the last fiscal
        year  they  shipped  only  2500  units.  I  had  them  investigated,
        Myron—you  know  my  methods.  It  wasn’t  loan  sharks  slowing
        them down. No Mafia ties. No ties to anybody or anything. The
        guy running it was a medical technician on Long Island until three
        years ago. No business sense, so he was waiting for an offer. I got
        to him first with the most. Or so he thinks.”
          Probst  wondered  silently  how  the  competition  had  been
        stymied, the naive victim set up for the kill. But he was a scientist,
        so he said, “I see. We’ll take over production and he’ll collect a
        royalty, like the inventor of the time-release douche we—”
          “No, Myron, it’s much, much better than that.” She smiled like
        an  indulgent  wolf  at  his  lack  of  entrepreneurial  expertise.  “We
        have  the  whole  thing.  All  the  rights.  Complete  ownership.  He
        thinks he’s getting away with murder. We’ll gear up and recoup the
        investment in eighteen months; then it’s pure profit until the next
        big breakthrough—I estimate  another five years,  at least.  It’s an
        unusual  deal,  but  Stouffer  and  Sockett  checked  the  whole  thing
        out. It’s in the bag.”
          Myron Probst frowned. Unusual? In this business?
          Gilda  Fishel  leaned  back  in  her  hydraulically  self-adjusting
        swivel chair and steepled her short stubby fingers.
          “Young  Mister  Frintzwilder  was  so  scared  of  big,  bad  Chic
        Salons  that  he  paid  more  attention  to  protecting  his  precious
        secret  formula  than  to  analyzing  the  offer  we  made.  Myron,  I
        didn’t  get  to  be  top-shelf  in  cosmetics  without  hiring  the  best
        lawyers and accountants in the country. And chemists, of course.”
          He blushed, gratified by the compliment.
          “So,  we  can  scrap  the  research  on  petrochemical  collagen
        solvents and get right down to work on scaling up the recipe for
        Rejuvenol?”

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