No Way Back (9 page)

‘That’s the business plan, Jim. We build technology, and we licence it to social networks. That’s always been our plan.’

‘Well it’s a crappy plan.’

‘You have a better one?’

‘I do. It came to me this morning.’

‘It came to you?’

‘You know what I did this morning, before I drove to work?’ I decide to leave out the part about the Egg McMuffin. Or the second Egg McMuffin. ‘I stopped by the bank. I took
out money.’ I pause. ‘The
bank
, Dom. The bank.’

He looks confused.

‘You know the old Willie Sutton line?’ I say. ‘“Why do you rob banks, Willie?”: “Because that’s where the money is.”’

Still, Dom has no idea what I’m talking about. Subtlety and intellectual nimbleness are not his strong suit. I say: ‘Listen, you know the problem that banks have? People are always
demanding their money. Banks need to make sure they give money to the right person. That’s why we’re always typing in PINs and passwords and secret codes. You have to prove who you are.
What if you didn’t have to do that? What if banks could know with complete certainty who you were, by just looking at you?’

Something registers on his face. His brows unknit. He’s beginning to understand.

I go on. ‘From now on, we sell our product to banks. That’s where the money is. We’re not a consumer software company any more. We’re corporate. Starting today, we market
ourselves as a security solution. Corporations love security. We’ll just call our technology something different. We can make up a fancy name for it. Identity Management Technology. Some crap
like that.’

‘Hmm,’ he says. He wants very much to disagree with me, but even he recognizes there’s value in what I say.

I continue. ‘And here’s the beauty of it. We don’t need to build a new product. We just need to change the way we market what we have. We simply re-invent ourselves. We become
someone else. From now on, we are the leader in Identity Management Technology. IMT. You’re the sales guy, Dom. Make up some cockamamie story about how our technology works – how we can
help banks. We identify customers when they walk in the door. We eliminate identity theft. That sort of thing.’

Vanderbeek thinks about this. ‘Actually, it’s a pretty good idea,’ he admits, finally. ‘IMT. I like it.’

‘So... do you have any contacts?’

‘Contacts?’

‘At retail banks. We need to get a meeting. As soon as possible. Can you set something up? A sales meeting with C-levels?’

‘Maybe.’ He thinks about it. ‘Yes. I think I can.’

‘Good. I’ll come to the meeting. You arrange it. This week. I don’t care who with. Anyone who can sign a cheque for a half-million dollars.’

Dom throws back his head and lets out a joyous laugh, as if I am the most amusing person he has ever met – a delightful companion!

Having been VP of Sales myself, long ago, I know how he feels. I have sat in his chair: trying to sell a product that doesn’t exist, coping with a meddlesome boss who wants to tag along on
the next sales call, and being instructed to have someone ‘write a cheque for a half-million dollars’. As if it were that easy.

I wait for Dom’s laughter to subside. Finally, he lowers his gaze, looks at me. It’s a friendly gaze, and a friendly smile. But I can read his thoughts: He’ll put up with me
for seven more weeks. If we’re lucky, then he’ll take credit for the success; and if we’re not, he’ll blame me for the failure.

Which is probably Tad Billups’s strategy, too, come to think of it. Put an ex-addict at the helm of a failing company, see what happens.

Dom waves his hand magnanimously. ‘Whatever you say, boss.’

‘So you’ll set up a sales call?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Thanks.’ I stand and offer him my hand. He shakes.

He’s on my side. For now.

I ask Amanda to help me find a permanent desk. She leads me around the bullpen. At first she suggests I take the spacious corner office where the former CEO, Charles Adams,
used to preside. But I demur. It’s not merely because I’m superstitious and his fate gives me the heebie-jeebies – although to be honest, that’s part of it. It’s
because big corner offices tend to send the wrong message to employees.

I ask Amanda if there is anything a little less showy. We settle on a nondescript closet-sized office, without any exterior windows at all, beside the bathroom. It’s the least desirable
location in the building, which makes it perfect for my purpose.

With Amanda watching, I set up my desk. Which means: I open my briefcase, take out a spiral notebook, and lay two Ticonderoga Number 2 Soft pencils at an angle across the first blank page. Next
to it I place a battery-powered pencil sharpener. Finally, I take from my briefcase the photograph of me and my wife. I place it at the far corner of my desk.

Amanda leans over and studies the photo with great interest. She says: ‘Wow. Nice picture,’ in a way that suggests it is not.

‘Yeah,’ I say. Still, I feel the need to explain, to apologize for the photo. ‘Actually, we didn’t bring a lot of photographs with us. We packed light.’

‘Is that your wife?’ she asks.

‘Libby.’

Deadpan: ‘She seems so happy.’

For the first time I realize that Amanda may actually have a sense of humour.

‘And why is Satan in the background?’ she continues.

‘That’s not Satan,’ I say, evenly. ‘He’s a satyr. Half-man, half-beast. From Greek mythology. You know Greek mythology, don’t you Amanda?’

‘No.’

‘They love wine.’

‘Do they?’

‘And dancing in the woods naked. And music.’

‘Hmm,’ she says.

‘Amanda,’ I say, ‘don’t you have a reception desk to monitor?’

She curtsies primly, and without a word leaves my office.

I sit at my new desk. Spread before me is Tao’s old marketing material – nearly a half-million dollars’ worth of glossy folders, three-colour inserts, and
slick brochures – offset-printed chum on the water. It explains how Tao’s P-Scan can identify the faces in any photograph. It goes on to describe how, by using Tao technology, online
media companies can enliven social networks, increase user ‘stickiness’, reduce account churn, and increase customer eyeballs. I was hoping we might be able to save a few bucks and
re-use this marketing material for our new customers – multi-national banks – but all the talk about stickiness and eyeballs nauseates me, and I think it unlikely.

My cellphone rings. I look at the Caller ID. The number is unfamiliar. ‘Jim Thane,’ I say.

‘Jimmy Thane,’ a loud, raspy voice shoots back, ‘how’re you holding up?’

It’s Gordon Kramer. Gordon’s my sponsor. Which means he’s somewhere between dear friend and parole officer.

‘Gordon,’ I say. ‘It’s great to hear your voice.’

I’ve known Gordon for seven years. He was at my first meeting, in the YMCA basement in San Jose, which I attended two weeks after Cole died, when I realized how low I had fallen. Somehow
Gordon stuck with me, despite my best efforts to shake him loose. Over the years, we’ve grown close. Maybe it’s because he’s an ex-cop, like my father. There’s something
familiar and comforting about his presence – his bulk, his silver hair, his tired eyes and seen-it-all-before expression.

‘I’m calling to check up on you,’ Gordon says.

‘I’m doing great.’

‘Anything to report?’

He’s asking if I’ve had a drink, or smoked crank, or placed a bet, or cheated on Libby – or even come close to any of those things.

‘I’ve been fine,’ I say.

‘Good. Good.’ He thinks about it. ‘Work stressful?’

‘A little.’

‘Because, you know, that’s when it happens.’

‘I do know.’

‘You’re a superman in the office, and the pressure builds up, and you need a little help, need to take the edge off.’

‘Right,’ I say. It’s hard to have a frank conversation with Gordon about meth addiction while I’m sitting in an office with my door wide open. People listen to the
CEO’s phone calls. So it’s probably best that I don’t insist loudly that my drug problem is under control.

‘Can’t talk, can you?’ Gordon says. Still the ex-cop.

‘Right,’ I say again.

‘Fine. We’ll talk later. In the meantime, I got that phone number for you.’

‘What phone number?’

‘Don’t pretend you don’t know what the hell I’m talking about,’ he roars.

Damn. I promised Gordon I would see a new shrink once I got to Florida, if he found one that he approved of.

Gordon is not your typical twelve-step sponsor. He doesn’t buy into all that crap about the power of God to cure an addict. He wants science, and doctors, and white lab coats. He wants
shrinks and therapy. After Cole’s death, it was Gordon’s idea for me to visit Doc Curtis, the matronly dyke with the husky cigarette voice. After a few sessions spilling my guts to her,
crying, with snot dripping down my nose, I relented and agreed to undergo hypnotherapy. The therapy has helped. At least, I think it has. At least now the nightmares mostly happen at night. During
the day, I can forget.

‘I know what you’re talking about, Gordon,’ I say, and sigh.

Doc Curtis was helpful, but the prospect of starting again with someone new is daunting. And besides – how can I afford the time to visit a doctor? There is a magic number seared into the
back of my eyelids, and, right now, it’s all that I can see. The number is seven. As in: Seven Weeks Of Cash Left.

‘Here’s the phone number,’ Gordon says. ‘Write it down.’ He rattles off a phone number. I pretend to write it down.

‘Got it?’ he asks.

‘Yeah, I got it.’

‘Read it back to me.’

Whoops. ‘OK,’ I say, sheepishly. ‘Repeat it one more time.’

He does. This time I write it on my pad and successfully repeat it aloud.

‘His name is Liago,’ Gordon continues. ‘Dr George Liago. He comes highly recommended. He’s successful at treating people like you.’ He means addicts who have done
shameful things, inhuman things, dreadful things. ‘He knows the programme.’

‘All right, Gordon,’ I say. ‘I’ll try to make some time”.’

‘You won’t “try to make some time”.’ He mimics me as if I’m a sissy complaining about the hem line of my dress. ‘You
will
go see him. Today.
He’s expecting your call.’

I sigh. ‘All right, Gordon.’ I know he loves me, in his weird Roman Centurion way, but boy can he be a pain in the ass.

Gordon says: ‘I’m calling Liago tomorrow. If you haven’t shown up by then, I’m flying down there and personally dragging your ass onto his couch.’

This is no idle threat. Five years ago, when I was still drowning in the shit, I missed one of my first appointments with Doc Curtis. Gordon Kramer called my cell, tracked me down, and somehow
found me in the St Regis Hotel in San Francisco, binging on minibar vodkas, and going through hookers like packs of chewing gum. He showed up, punched me, cuffed me, dragged me down into the
hotel’s subterranean parking garage, and re-cuffed me against a sprinkler pipe. He left me alone, to air out for three hours in Parking Area 4C, which I try to avoid to this very day, any
time I find myself in the St Regis. Then he returned, stuffed me into his car, and personally chauffeured me to Dr Curtis’s office. He waited in the reception room until I was done, then
dropped me off into Libby’s care.

‘I know you will,’ I say. The last thing I want is Gordon Kramer showing up at Tao and cuffing me to his wrist in front of my software engineers.

‘You promise you’ll call? He’s waiting.’

‘I promise. I’ll go today, if he has any time available.’

‘He has time available,’ Gordon says, simply. Which makes me wonder if he threatened to handcuff Dr Liago, too.

‘I’ll go.’

‘That’s my boy.’

‘You’re one hard motherfucker, Gordon Kramer.’

‘It’s called tough love, kid. If either of us had it growing up, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. We wouldn’t even know each other.’

It’s twelve noon and I’m slinking out of the office, to visit Dr Liago. Gordon was right: the doctor knew I’d be calling – was expecting it – and,
lo and behold, he had an appointment open this very day. That Gordon managed to pull off this feat, controlling the schedules of two very busy, very expensive people while three thousand miles away
from both, is a testament to his power and authority.

I pass Amanda at the reception desk. I hoped to escape before she noticed my leaving. But she looks up and asks, ‘Lunch time?’

‘Appointment,’ I say.

‘OK.’ Just two syllables, but I hear it in her voice: twenty-four hours after the new CEO reprimanded people for showing up late, he’s off to a leisurely lunch.

I say: ‘I’ll be back in exactly one hour.’

‘OK, Jim.’

‘It’s not a lunch,’ I say. ‘It’s medical.’

‘OK, Jim.’ She keeps a straight face, but looks at me with those droopy, slacker eyelids. It’s the kind of look that makes you question yourself.

I head for the door.

She calls after me, ‘Enjoy your lunch.’

I turn, am about to protest once again that it’s not a lunch. She winks and smiles. The PBX rings, a soft warm tone, and she looks down, presses a button, answers it. ‘Tao
Software,’ she says. ‘How may I direct your call?’ She waves goodbye to me, and looks away before I can argue.

Highway 876 is a rural four-lane road that cuts across the middle of nowhere. The land is flat, the view goes on for ever – brush and cypress, sinkholes and swamp. I pass
a billboard rising above the brush. As if its only purpose is to remind me exactly how far I have travelled from Silicon Valley, it is an advertisement for a Baptist church. It shows an image of
flames licking at big block letters that say, ‘HELL IS REAL’. As if I don’t know.

It’s a long fifteen miles, and finally I leave the big road and find myself in a sparse residential neighbourhood – split-rail fences, Florida bungalows, old Victorians not well
kept. I find 23 Churchill Street – which is the address I’ve written down – and I pull up in front of a yellow Queen Anne Victorian that – if it were in a town that
attracted tourists – might actually make a charming bed and breakfast. Since it’s in a town that does not attract tourists, it is instead merely a spooky oversized home-office.