“I didn’t come here to eat. Just tell me what you’re proposing, Marc. Twenty-five percent of what?”
“OK. Here we go, then. Excuse the pitch. It’s a bit rough. I’ve not told anyone about this before, but you’re going to be blown away.”
AS IT TURNED OUT, blown away wasn’t the best way to describe his reaction. Judging by his expression, anyway, and the sardonic grunt he greeted my description with. I couldn’t believe that deep down he’d failed to see the potential, though. Weimann was too smart. And too greedy.
“And my part would be, what?” he asked, when I’d finished.
“Bringing this piggy to market’ll involve all the usual steps. You’ve done it a dozen times yourself. You know what they are. I have people lined up for the specialist stuff. But in this case, there’s one extra thing that needs a little attention. Something unusual. I don’t have the time or the resources, so that’s where you come in.”
“OK. Explain?”
“This is between us, OK? Because I don’t want the unwashed masses talking about it. What’s happened is—and I know this sounds bizarre, but I’m not making it up—I’ve been accused of creating a virus. It’s like one of those bogus lawsuits people bring for the nuisance value. I can’t move forward with the real work till that’s dealt with, and I don’t want any delay. I want you to take care of it. Find out who did create the virus. Where it came from. How it spread. As much detail as possible. That’s up your alley, right? Everyone says you’re the best at cyber security, and all that stuff.”
“Oh. OK. So, you do all the interesting work—and later on take all the credit—while I sweep up the shit that someone’s dumped at your door?”
“I wouldn’t put it like that. It’s important work, and we’ll share the kudos—and the profit—just like I offered on the phone.”
“No.” He got to his feet. “No deal. I’m not interested. Clean your own house. Because honestly, Marc, screw you. Who do you think you are? Your days of lording it over everyone else are coming to an end.”
Friday. Early afternoon.
I HAD NO IDEA WHAT MY NEXT MOVE WAS GOING TO BE.
None. Not even a hint of a Plan B. All I could imagine at that moment was escape. Scenes from South America flooded my mind, but they were culled from TV shows rather than experience. I had no idea which city would be best. Which country, even. And now that I was thinking straight, I knew flying was out of the question, anyway. With Homeland Security on my case—and the police, and whoever else—I’d never make it through airport security.
What about driving? How far away was Mexico? Or Canada? My desperation was getting the better of me when I heard my phone begin to ring, still in my pocket. I was in no mood to answer it, but the noise wouldn’t stop. Whoever was calling wouldn’t give up, either. Eventually I pulled the phone out, ready to silence it, but when I saw whose number it was, I paused. Then hit Answer.
“Marc?” It was Weimann. “Thanks for picking up, buddy. Can we talk?”
“About what?”
“I want to apologize for how we left things. I was way out of line.”
I didn’t respond.
“The truth is, Marc, I’ve been hanging on to your coattails for so long, there is a little resentment in me. I didn’t listen. I didn’t give you a chance. But now I can see I made a mistake. I’m calling to find out if I can fix it. I appreciate the gesture you were making. And if your offer is still on the table, I’d love to talk about it.”
I still didn’t respond, but not because of any negotiating stance I was taking. Because I didn’t have the mental capacity to form any coherent sentences right then. I was too astonished.
“Marc? You’ve gone quiet. Is that a no? Because I understand I screwed up. But, please. Don’t pile another mistake on top of mine. That won’t make things right.”
“I know.” I finally found my voice. “And it’s not a no. I just lost signal for a moment.”
“Great. Your offer stands?”
“It does. Are you in?”
“I am. With a couple of tweaks.”
“Such as?”
“The virus thing. I don’t want to get boxed into it. I’ll take care of it first, of course. But then I’ve got some ideas for the real project I’d like you to consider.”
“I’m always open to ideas, Karl. Of course I’ll consider yours. But I’m not promising to run with them. It depends what they are.”
“Good enough. They’ll sell themselves. Next thing? When you pitch to major clients, I want to be right there with you.”
“You can be in the room. But I decide what we present. And how.”
“OK. You’re the boss. Which leaves one last detail.”
“Which is?”
“Money. I want fifty percent.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“No, wait. Forty.”
“The offer’s twenty-five.”
“Twenty-five’s not enough.”
“Forty’s too much.”
“Thirty-five?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Thirty?”
“Done. You buy the champagne.”
“My house, an hour?”
“I can’t. I’m still at the hotel.”
“Leave now. You’ll make it.”
“You said you were two hours away.”
“I was. But I wasn’t at home then.”
——
I TOSSED MY HASTILY packed suitcase in the trunk of the car, then paused. Could I trust Weimann? What if his change of heart was the result of another phone conversation? One with the AmeriTel guys. What if they’d told him to lure me to his place so they could finish what their crony had started back at mine?
I didn’t like it, but there was only one way to find out.
Friday. Afternoon.
IF YOU SCALED DOWN A MAP OF WHERE I LIVE TO EIGHTY PERCENT, you’d end up with a decent facsimile of Weimann’s neighborhood. The lots were smaller, the trees were shorter, but the areas were definitely similar.
I found Weimann’s house and turned in off the street, afraid there’d be police cars in the driveway. Or agents’. Or murderers’. But the car I did see surprised me. It was a Jaguar. Parked outside Weimann’s front door. The same model as mine. And the same color. Racing green.
I rang the bell, jumping with every rustle from every bush.
“Nice car,” I said, when Weimann finally appeared.
“Thanks.” He turned to lead me through to his kitchen. “I wanted the supercharged one, but Renée balked at the cost. She made me go the pre-owned route, too. Women, eh? What can you do?”
I didn’t reply. I was having too much trouble with the irony.
“Can I get you a coffee?” he asked.
“No, thanks.” I glanced around the room. The units and appliances were good quality, although it must have been a few years since they’d left the factory. The countertop was solid granite, but there was a hazy film all across the surface. A pile of empty pizza boxes was blocking the draining board, and there were half a dozen dirty mugs in the sink. “I already had too much, at the hotel.”
He fixed a cup for himself and then directed me farther down the hallway—skirting around a heap of muddy sneakers and a half-dismantled golf cart—and into a room that was part office, part den. A few framed certificates and photographs dotted the walls, and a collection of six prints was lined up neatly in two columns above the larger of his two desks. The image was the same in all of them—an Apple computer monitor, ancient, from the mid-eighties—and each one had been overlaid with a different bold color.
“I like the Warhol effect,” I said.
“Thanks. It’s fun. It’s not an original Lichtenstein, though.”
No shit, I thought, shifting a box of magazines from the least cluttered IKEA armchair in the center of the room and sitting myself down.