No Way Back (13 page)

‘That’ll be fine,’ I say. I refuse to look at Vanderbeek. But in the corner of my eye, I see that he is standing, too. He also is a pro. He understands: take the money and run.
Now we simply need to leave the room. Easy enough.

I reach my hand across the table. Unsure of the pecking order, I offer it to the exact geometric midpoint between Samir and Stan. I smile, but I’m careful to make sure it’s not too
broad. Not a cat-got-the-canary smile. More like a well-that-was-a-worthwhile-meeting smile. Samir is the first to take my hand. He pumps. Then I turn to Stan Pontin, and shake his. Vanderbeek
joins the hand-shaking.

I’m about to move away from the table when a voice, on my right, speaks. It’s Darryl. He says: ‘But what about my demo?’

I continue to stare straight ahead, hoping that my perfectly modulated grin doesn’t waver. I’m about to say, ‘Don’t worry about it, Darryl,’ but then Stan Pontin
raises his palms and says, ‘Oh, my’ – as if he has been terribly thoughtless and rude. He says, ‘I’m so sorry. You came all the way here to give us a demo of your
product, and we’re rushing you out the door, without even seeing it.’

I say, ‘Well it’s nothing, really. Hardly even a full demo. We can save it for next time.’

But now Samir is staring at the camera and the laptop sitting at the end of the conference table with intense curiosity. He says, ‘No, no. We’d be remiss. If Sandy asks us about the
demo and we didn’t see it... ’ He shrugs, as if to say: You know what it’s like to work for a tough boss.

‘Right,’ I say. ‘OK.’

Everyone sits back down.

I turn to Darryl. He is slumped in his chair, with his legs outstretched, staring at the presentation screen, as if he’s impatient for a movie to begin. All he needs to complete the effect
is a bucket of popcorn and box of Jujyfruits. I say gently, ‘Darryl, why don’t you run the demo?’

He looks baffled for a moment, then says, ‘Oh,’ and scrambles to his feet. He pushes a long strand of greasy hair behind his ear. He says: ‘Great!’ and smiles. ‘Let
me show you Tao’s P-Scan 2.0 technology!’

But of course you know what happens next, don’t you?

Darryl hands the digital camera to Samir, and tells him to take a picture of anyone in the room – ‘anyone he wants’. Samir looks at the camera as if he’s been handed a
newborn baby, and the responsibility that comes with it. ‘Doesn’t matter who,’ Darryl reassures him.

Samir looks around the room with wavering uncertainty. He points the camera first at Randy, then at Vanderbeek. At last, he makes a decision.

He points the camera at me.

I freeze.

In that moment – that instant between Samir aiming the lens at my face, and clicking the digital shutter – my mind whirs through the distressing possibilities. I am not a famous man,
exactly – not in the traditional sense of the word – and yet many of my most colourful moments have been memorialized on film.

There was, for instance, the mug shot after my Menlo Park DWI. I was going eighty in a school zone. The only thing that saved me from serious jail time was that schools are not in session at
2.30 a.m. The incident is not something I’m proud of – not something I like to reminisce about – but then again, the cops don’t give you a choice about whether you want your
mug shot taken. They just simply take it.

Surely that photo, from the Santa Clara County Jail, circa 2003, is available for download, and now resides in Tao Software’s photographic database, ready to be identified and displayed on
the huge screen in this fifteenth-floor conference room?

As alarming as this possibility seems, surely it would be better than seeing my
other
mug shot – the one from that night in LA, five years ago, when I was arrested after a
bar-room brawl. At least, I think it was in a bar room. The
brawl
part I’m pretty sure about. I was so cranked up, that I didn’t sleep for forty-eight hours afterward.
It’s not every day that your picture appears in your hometown newspaper with
two
black eyes. That photo will surely have tongues wagging in the SunTrust executive lunchroom. Now
there’s
a CEO we should stake our reputation on, they will say, studying my photograph, noting the blood-encrusted hair and the meth-enhanced eyeballs popping from my skull.

But before Samir can commit to taking my photograph, there’s a commotion at the front of the room. Samir lowers the camera. The door opens, and the young blonde receptionist enters,
leading the way for an older gentleman, right behind her. ‘Here they are, Sandy,’ she says. ‘See, you’re not late, just like I promised.’

‘Thank you, Margie,’ he says gruffly. The blonde leaves, shutting the door as she goes.

The older man is portly, with the jowls of someone who has been enjoying fine wine and good steaks for as long as he can remember. He introduces himself – needlessly – as Sandy
Golden, CEO of Old Dominion. I notice his tie, a beautiful azure silk Hermes, which sparkles electrically in the sunlight that streams through the conference-room windows. He wears an impeccable
suit of dark wool. It occurs to me that the only people in Florida who can get away with this kind of outfit are those who are ushered from air-conditioned conference room to air-conditioned
limousine to air-conditioned restaurant. Sandy Golden is a man who hasn’t perspired in twenty years.

Golden turns to his lieutenants and says: ‘What did I miss, guys?’

Samir summarizes the meeting economically. ‘Tao has what we’ve been looking for, Sandy. Passive image scanning. We can pop it in at our branches. Back of the envelope, I’m
guessing it’ll reduce liability and compliance costs by thirty per cent, minimum. As far as the deal, we can do a small equity tranche, half-million, and they can use Metro Atlanta as the
pilot platform.’ He indicates the camera in his hands. ‘They wanted to give us a quick demo.’

‘Ah, good!’ Golden says. He has the booming voice of a man who is used to being in charge. ‘Just in time for the show.’ He looks at Samir. ‘Go for it,
Sammy.’

His tone is somewhere between good fun and impatience. Samir gets the hint. He lifts the camera, points it at his boss, and snaps a digital photo.

The camera beams the photo into the laptop, which in turn sends it to the screen at the front of the conference table. Sandy Golden’s photograph appears larger than life, accentuating his
beefy jowls and the flesh that overhangs his collar like a turkey giblet. God, I think to myself, I hope the P-Scan software doesn’t highlight
that
.

Even so, I’m relieved at the turn of events. Surely the software will be able to identify Sandy Golden. He is one of the financial industry’s most recognizable CEOs, and there are
countless newspaper and magazine articles about him, many recent photographs of his hobnobbing with politicians and treasury officials and other industry bigwigs. And the photograph that Samir just
snapped is perfect – a close-up, head-on, in sunlight. His face will be impossible to get wrong.

Darryl says, ‘OK, Sandy.’ I cringe at my programmer’s use of the CEO’s first name. ‘Let me tell you how this works. We’re going to digitize your photograph
– you’re a handsome man, by the way – congratulations – and then convert it into a series of measurements. Basically, we’re turning your picture into numbers, and then
we’re going to use those numbers to search our database. Think of it like a visual search engine.’

Please,
I silently pray.
Please stop talking now.

‘It’s really a clever algorithm,’ Darryl continues. ‘I suppose it isn’t going to seem like very much to you – I mean, you’re kind of famous, actually,
so it’s no big deal to identify you – right? But still. You need to use your imagination a bit, Sandy. What you’re about to see here – you should imagine it taking place in
all
your bank branches, with thousands of your customers experiencing what you’re about to experience.’

Lord, save me,
I think. And for a moment, I wonder if I’ve accidentally said this out loud. I glance around the room. No one is staring at me, so I must have spoken silently.

Darryl says: ‘OK, so let’s see if we can identify the mystery man on the screen.’

He winks at his audience and types a few keystrokes.

The P-Scan algorithm kicks in. On screen, Sandy’s photograph is converted into granular grey blocks. The software identifies his most salient visual characteristics; I grimace as I watch
Sandy’s fleshy neck being highlighted in yellow. But when I look around the room, no one seems to notice.

On-screen, the software begins announcing which databases it is scanning: first, the state-by-state DMV records, the local newspapers, Facebook, YouTube...

The scanning continues.

I think to myself, with growing concern, that surely the program will arrive at the correct identification at any moment. After all, it is analyzing a photograph of Sandy Golden. A
perfect
photograph. Of
the
Sandy Golden. Industry Titan. Famous, and publicity-hungry, CEO.

No answer comes. P-Scan continues scanning. Thinking.

Another list of databases crawls down the screen:
Crain’s New York Business
...
Fortune
magazine...
Bloomberg Businessweek
...

Ah
, I think to myself.
Closing in on the answer. Closing in. Here it comes.

We wait one moment longer.

Finally text appears on the screen: ‘Identity Confirmed. Probability: 98.3%.’

Below this definitive statement of great certitude is a photograph of the man that P-Scan has conclusively determined is the same man who is seated in the conference room.

It is a driver’s licence photograph. In defence of the P-Scan algorithm, I will admit that the man on the screen in front of us shares a similar build and heft to the Old Dominion CEO. The
man in the photo too has a fleshy neck that hangs pendulously beneath his chin. There, alas, the similarities end. The man in the photo is black, weighs about three hundred pounds, has two gold
front teeth, and sports a gigantic 1970s afro. His name, according to the text beneath the photo, is ‘Anthony B. Tybee’, and he lives in South Carolina, or at least he did when the
photo was taken, two years ago.

We descend from the fifteenth floor to the parking garage in silence. Even Randy Williams, who lacks any business sense, knows enough not to speak, and instead stares down at
his shoes, which are, I notice dishearteningly, white Keds. Dom Vanderbeek isn’t smiling exactly, but his lips are twisted puckishly, like an altar boy trying not to laugh when the priest
lets slip a fart. Darryl looks from face to face, sensing that he is the subject of some as-of-yet undetermined emotion. He’s not sure what he has done wrong, but he knows it’s
something
.

The floor indicator counts down from 3, 2, L, and then finally P1. The chime sounds, and the door opens. The four of us exit the elevator and step into the dark parking garage. The air is humid.
As I turn to look for Vanderbeek’s BMW, a figure slips past us and steps into the elevator. Behind us, the elevator doors rattle and start to close.

I didn’t get a good look at the man, but caught enough of a glimpse to realize he was familiar. I’m not sure where I’ve seen him before, but I know I have. Recently. So I turn,
to get a better look.

By now the elevator doors have almost closed, and – here’s something odd – the man who entered – whom I’m trying to get a good look at – is standing off to
one side of the elevator, as if to stay out of view. The doors clank shut, and I’m left looking at my own misshapen reflection in the polished wood and brass of the doors.

I look at the floor indicator just above my head. It rises past L, without stopping, and keeps ascending. It stops finally on 15 – the floor from which we just came – and pauses
there for a while, before it begins its descent back to the lobby.

‘Jim?’ I hear someone behind me say. I turn, startled. It’s Dom Vanderbeek. Now he’s grinning broadly. His mirth is unmistakable: Boss loses sale. Boss freaks out in
parking garage, stares at elevator. Good story to tell when we return to the office. ‘Everything OK?’ he asks.

‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Let’s go.’ I lead them to the car. As I walk, I realize at last whose face I just saw – who it was that ascended to the Old Dominion executive
suite. The face was that of my neighbour – the man across the street, the carnivorous velociraptor with the bulbous head and feral eyes.

But that’s impossible. I saw the face for only an instant, and my brain – overtired, burdened by our recent humiliation at the sales meeting upstairs – surely must be playing a
trick on me. As I climb into the passenger seat of Vanderbeek’s car, I try to put the episode out of my mind.

By the time we pull into Tao’s parking lot, an hour and a half later, I’ve succeeded, and I think no more about the man in the elevator, or the failed meeting, or the imminent
termination of my short-lived career as a corporate turnaround specialist.

Back in my office, I check my voicemail. There is just a solitary message from Gordon Kramer, ‘checking in’ and making sure I kept my appointment with Dr Liago
yesterday – ‘or else’. I call Gordon back right away, and leave him a message that the appointment went fine. The last thing I need is for Gordon to think I went AWOL, and have
him show up with a set of handcuffs at the Tao office building.

I glance at my watch. While this morning’s failed meeting at Old Dominion means I won’t be bringing any new cash in through the front door, at least I can stop it from leaving out
the back.

It’s time to pay a visit to the corporate embezzler who has been stealing millions of dollars from my company. I finger the piece of paper where I wrote the address of the thief –
the real address, where the money actually winds up: 56 Windmere Avenue, Sanibel.

It’s time to pay a visit to 56 Windmere Avenue.

My phone rings. It’s a soft muted tone. The Caller ID says ‘Reception’.

I pick up. ‘Yes, Amanda?’

‘You have a second, Jim?’

I’m already on my feet, the phone receiver wedged against my shoulder, the paper with the Windmere address clutched in my hand. ‘Actually I’m on my way out the
door—’