“It looks like the broken parts of a printer—and an obsolete one at that,” says John Rifkin, vice president of sales, using that condescending tone people reserve for children and low-cortical adults. “As I’m not a collector of such things, I think you may be in the wrong place.”
“Nothing wrong about it. I came to your company because there are six companies bigger and more successful than yours that make medical machines. I looked it up.”
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sp; John Rifkin, vice president of sales, seems slightly taken aback. “You looked it up?”
“Yes, I did. Also, unlike those other companies, Rifkin Medical Instruments has no ties to Proactive Citizenry.”
“No, we don’t. Which is probably why we’re number seven,” he says, irritated by his own admission.
“I also looked you up,” continues Grace. “The company’s got your name—Rifkin Medical Instruments—but someone without your name is now its president, which tells me you’ve got fangs for that job, and could use a boost up the ladder, am I right?”
Now he gets uncomfortable. “Who put you up to this? Is it Bob? It’s Bob, isn’t it?”
“There ain’t no Bob, there’s only me.” Then she gestures to the array of parts before her. “This here is an organ printer. It’s kind of unwound right now, but it’s the real deal.”
John Rifkin relaxes a bit, and offers her something of a superior smirk. “Miss Skinner, organ printing was debunked as a fraud years ago. It was a nice idea, but it didn’t work.”
“That’s what they want you to think,” she whispers. “But Janson Rheinschild knew better.”
Suddenly he’s sitting up straight, like a kindergartner on his first day of school. “Did you say Janson Rheinschild?”
“You heard of him?”
“My father did. The man was a genius, but he went crazy, didn’t he?”
“Or he got driven that way. But not before he built this.”
Now John Rifkin is interested. He begins tapping his pen on the table, finally considering that maybe Grace is worth taking seriously. “If Rheinschild built that, why do you have it?”
“Got it from his widow. Old woman in Ohio, ran an antique shop.”
He grabs his phone.
“Don’t bother, she’s dead. Big fire. But of everything in her shop, I knew she wanted me to save this, so I did. And I’m here to give it to you.”
He reaches for one of the parts, but hesitates, and asks, “May I?” Grace nods, and he gently picks up the printing part, turning it over in his hands to explore it from every angle. “And you say it once worked.”
“Once that I saw, before I went and dropped the thing down the stairs.” Then she pulls out from her pocket an object that will seal the deal. A small plastic bag containing a decomposing ear. “I watched it make that.”
Rifkin looks at it in both awe and disgust, and reaches for the bag.
“Prolly shouldn’t take it out here,” Grace warns. “It didn’t keep well.”
He withdraws his hand, and just continues to stare at it.
“My bet is that you can fix the printer and make more of them. A lot more. In all shapes and sizes and colors.”
Grace studies him as he studies the ear and the pieces, and even the empty box. For a businessman he doesn’t have much of a poker face. She can see him calculating. “How much are you asking for it?”
“Maybe I’ll just give it to you.”
Then he takes a moment to look at her. He glances at the door as if someone might be watching, then comes around the table, sitting in a chair just next to her.
“Grace . . .”
“Miss Grace.”