Chapter 1

Detroit, Michigan in the summer of 1946

The sun set slowly on the city of Detroit as an elderly man of slight build walked hurriedly into the Gray Street Grocery and Market.

"Just a minute, Sir. We are closing in fifteen minutes," a dark-haired teenage boy informed from behind the counter, pointing to the clock on the far wall.

"Nevermind that, sonny. I need to see the proprieter. It's an emergency," the old man huffed, nearly out of breath.

"Hold your horses, Gramps," the boy snarled before shouting towards the back of the shop. "Hey, Joe. Some old guy's callin' for ya'.

Just then the door to the back room flew open and a portly grocer wearing a blue apron and an aged face sauntered forward. "I told you not to bother me, Ray. We gotta get this shipment of ice cream from the truck into the freezer by closing time. It's liable to melt." The grocer wiped his hands on a towel and was noticably surprised as he saw the old man standing in front of him.

"What's the matter, Joe? I told you I'd come back sooner or later," the elderly man wiped sweat from his brow with a handkerchief.

"Professor Barton, I—. You have the stuff then? Did you bring it with you?"

"Yes, I have it. Now all that remains is to talk to you. And call me Doc."

"What's all this about, Joe? We close in fifteen minutes and I gotta meet Polly for a date at eight o'clock. It's Friday night for cryin' out loud," the youth spoke in an anxious tone.

"Mind your business, Raymond. Go sweep the floor." Joe ordered. "My friend and I have some urgent business here."

"But I already swept the floor three hours ago."

"Then do it again," the storekeeper shouted, grabbing a broom and dustpan from the wall and hurling it towards the boy.

"Joe, can we get down to business or are you going to play Pop to the kid all day?" The man called Barton was visibly frustrated as he stuffed his hankie into his suit pocket and straightened his suit.

"Yes, Doc, I'm sorry. Come into my office."

The two men headed toward the back of the store. They whisked past the food storage room where two more teenage boys were stocking ice cream into a giant freezer. They walked through a tiny corridor and came to Joe's office at the end. Joe opened the door to his office. Once he and Doc were inside, Joe closed the door softly and locked it with his key.

"Show it to me, Doc. Show me the formula." Joe barked with anticipation as he turned on the light.

"I have it here." Doc pulled a glass vial of dark purple liquid from the pocket of his suit jacket and handed it to his friend.

"You ripped this off of Hendricks."

"No, Joe. He gave it to me. After I put three slugs into him."

"What? You killed him?" The grocer couldn't believe his ears but was somehow relieved.

"Yes. Although my assistant was a brilliant chemist he was also a saboteur. As you may have heard, my company Barton Pharmaceuticals was seized by the government last year. Hendicks had been helping the Nazis develop experimental drugs since 1941. He went into hiding and continued selling his research to the Soviets since wars end. As his employer, the government held me and the company I built responsible for his treason."

"And did you try to explain your innocence? Did they even listen?" Joe studied the vial of dark fluid.

Doc Barton paced across the room as he continued. "I appealed to some bureaucracy, begged them to believe that I was unaware of everything. Rather than send me to the chair for treason, they took away everything I built. All of the company's money, gone. All our holdings and assets, gone. For nearly a year I have been a disgraced scientist and am living off of my own personal savings. I finally found Hendricks and earlier today I took my revenge. Then I remembered our arrangement, this formula he had cooked up and the deal we made with you so long ago." The elderly man removed his glasses and began cleaning them down with his handkerchief.

"Well, good then. One less thing to worry about. And you're sure this stuff will do what Hendricks claimed?"

"He tested it, Joe. We always said when the formula was perfected we could proceed with our plan."

"Okay, then." Joe smiled. "We can finally move forward. This new food additive will make anyone who ingests it addicted to it. I'll put it in everything on the store shelves. Folks'll come in here and practically beg me to sell them more food. And the best part is, nobody will ever get wise. I can become the richest grocer in this city. And just imagine, if I market the food right Joe Greggors' food will become a household name. I could be bigger than Betty Crocker."

"All that remains is my payment."

"What? Oh yeah, the dough. I got it here in this drawer. I've been savin' this for ya'." A sinister grin formed on the man's lips as he reached into his large oak desk at the center of the office and quickly pulled out a revolver, aiming it at his accomplice.

"A double cross? Now, Joe, think this through," Doc smiled with confidence. "What you have there will barely be enough for your produce aisle. It'll be gone in a week. You'll need more of this formula. Hendricks created it but his recipe died with him. Why, with him gone, I'm the only one smart enough to reverse engineer it and make more. You'll need me as a supplier."

"Say, I will at that. So, it looks like you're the brains of this outfit, huh, Doc? And I suppose you want a cut? Alright, how much?"

"I want a partnership. I make the additive. You process it into the food on your shelves. And we sit back and watch the money roll in. I want half."

"Half? Of my store profits? Nothing doing, Doc. No dice!"

"Without me, Joe, you won't see anymore of that precious fluid you hold in your hands. Without me there's nothing. I do half the work, I want half the profit."

"What about a third, Doc?" Joe Greggors put the gun back in the drawer to show he was trying to negotiate.

"That won't cut it. I need more. Forty percent."

"Thirty-five."

"I could agree to thirty-five percent, Joe, provided you pay me once a month. Give me half of that vial. I'll need a sample for research. Give me twenty-four hours to break it down and another twenty-four for processing and I can deliver you with twenty ounces of the stuff. You keep the rest for a trial run."

"Okay, Doc." Joe looked at the glass bottle in the light. "Say, it's got a purple color to it. Is it gonna dye the food?"

"No, Joe. Once the formula oxidizes it will be odorless, colorless and tasteless. You won't even know its there."

"How much is here in this bottle anyway, Doc?"

"That's fifty milliliters, Joe, or nearly two ounces. And if you want more you'll agree to my price. Thirty-five percent of your take monthly and no trouble."

"No trouble, Doc. No trouble at all."

"Then we have a deal." The elderly man extended his hand.

"Oh yes. We have a deal, Doc. And what a swell racket this is gonna be." Joe Greggors laughed as he shook the hand of his new partner.