It was a bright, hazy morning, not yet seven o'clock, but already
hot and humid, which wasn't so unusual for a June day in New York
City. William Harrell braced himself for the cool comfort of the
limousine's air-conditioned interior.
For twenty-five minutes he would relax in a comfortable silent
plushness. He stretched his legs, lengthening his taut body until
his feet touched the facing seatback. His calves responded
wearily. Last evening's workout, the first in more than a week,
had taken its toll. He had skipped several sessions since putting
in longer hours over the past couple of days, working on the
company's portable computer strategy. The break in his routine,
regardless of whatever aches and pains it caused, brought him the
kind of excitement on which he thrived. His regal face had the
precisely aged features of a character actor cast in the role of
judge, or the President of the United States. On occasion he wore
glasses, when he remembered, for seeing things up close. At
sixty-two, his looks suited his job perfectly.
The car briskly pulled away from the brownstone, his course and
destination the same today as it had been each business day for
the past fourteen years.
He eagerly unfolded the "Wall Street Journal. In the News Brief
column analysts speculated as they did every quarter about
changes at Wallaby, Incorporated. According to the story, sources
close to the company suggested that the company's founder, Peter
Jones, and its president, Matthew Locke, were not getting along
as famously as they once had. There was speculation that a major,
long-overdue reorganization would be announced in today's board
meeting. Matthew Locke's corporate organizational changes at
International Foods were revisited. A Wallaby engineer who had
asked to remain anonymous was quoted: "Jones has created a
rivalry between his division [Joey] and ours [Mate]." The
informant went on, "It's really strange. Jones invented the Mate,
yet he says that anyone who is not associated with the Joey is a
bozo." The article explained that separate product divisions were
precisely what Matthew Locke had earlier in his career put an end
to at International Foods, when he had merged the food and
beverage divisions, as well as several other minor groups, into
one umbrella organization. A brief background story on the Joey
discussed its sparse sales and the fact that few software
programs were available for use with the computer, underscoring
the analysts' predictions of a major overhaul. All of the experts
agreed that the product was revolutionary and proclaimed that if
Wallaby could speed Joey applications to market, it could then
gain major market share and thereby disarm the older, less flashy
technology of its largest competitor, International Computer
Products. The consensus was that Wallaby had to get its act
together if it was to have any hope of remaining at the forefront
of portable computer technology innovation.
William Harrell smiled. That was exactly what he had hoped to
read. He folded the newspaper and tossed it onto the seat beside
him.
The car neared its destination, turning for the final stretch
onto a block with the largest buildings in the city.
If everything went as the analysts predicted, William Harrell
would soon begin implementing his new plan. The existing one, a
conservative strategy that the company had followed for two
years, would soon be replaced with one informed by none of the
customary Fortune 500 company protocol. William Harrell's plan
was based on a decision he had made two years ago, around the
same time the press had touted Wallaby's newly appointed
president, Matthew Locke, as "ICP's Nemesis."
The car slowed in front of a massive building with a black marble
facade. William adjusted his tie and tugged at the jacket of his
charcoal pinstriped suit. As the driver opened his door the city
air hit him like a furnace blast. Towering above him were
seventy-six stories of world renowned corporate power, wholly
occupied by the company whose name was carved in stone above the
building's entrance: INTERNATIONAL COMPUTER PRODUCTS.
He entered the building, rode the elevator to its highest level,
greeted his secretary, and entered his office, on whose door a
golden plaque announced: Chairman & Chief Executive Officer.
* * *
Each member of the board and of the senior executive staff filed
into the Wallaby boardroom. Most of them arrived at eight o'clock
sharp, avoiding the usual idle conversation that, in the past,
had always taken place outside the room.
Matthew's secretary, Eileen, stood in the doorway of his office.
"It's time," she said, then returned to her desk.
Matthew stood. He clipped his pen to the yellow tablet on which
he'd been writing.
Eileen busied herself at her desk, arranging papers and notes.
She paused and said, "Matthew, good luck."
He gave her a small nod and headed for the boardroom.
The exotic fruits, croissants, pastries, coffee, and bottles of
mineral water on the table set up outside the boardroom had
hardly been touched. Normally the table would be nearly empty by
now, and the executive staff secretaries, disguising their
cravings by pretending to go to the ladies' room, would pick over
the remains once the boardroom door had closed and the meeting
was underway. But today they could enjoy themselves in a
leisurely fashion, for none of the board members seemed to have
appetites.
The room fell from a fuzzy hum to heavy silence when Matthew
entered. Immediately he saw that Peter had not yet arrived. He
seated himself in one of two vacant leather chairs at either end
of the long, black table. The room's amenities and furnishings
were simple and high-tech. Bleached wood paneling on one wall
stood in stark contrast with the deep charcoal rug. On the wall
opposite the windows, a series of segmented panels unfolded to
reveal a massive rear-projection movie screen. At the other end,
audiovisual equipment was stacked behind hinged, smoked-glass
doors. Here, encapsulated multimedia performances, new product
videos, employee interviews, research and development sneak
previews, and live TV spots or teleconferences were viewed with
the touch of a finger. Today, however, the equipment would remain
silent and cool, the master of ceremonies unaided by electronic
wizardry.
The room offered a panoramic view of the Santa Cruz Mountains,
which rolled northwestward toward San Francisco. The five board
members and a couple of Wallaby's senior executives faced this
view, while the less senior executives sat with their backs to
the windows. Peter Jones had personally selected every person for
his or her position in this room, most of them more than eight
years ago.
Sitting here, waiting, Matthew Locke's confidence began to
falter. The expressions around the table were grim, as all were
aware of the forthcoming conflict. Had Matthew inspected the
trashcan beside the security desk in the building's lobby, he
would have found several discarded copies of the "Wall Street
Journal," each affixed with a small mailing label addressed to
one of the persons seated around the table. Each would have read
the article predicting changes in this very board meeting, and
would know that the speculations were about to be substantiated.
Like the emotionally battered children of distraught and
noncommunicative parents, those in the room would have to choose
to which parent they would commit their trust, to the man who
could best repair Wallaby and lead the company from its stalled
state to a prosperous future. While he had already gained secret
votes of confidence from every person present, he was nonetheless
struck in the pit of his stomach by a gross realization. Here he
sat among men and women expressly chosen by Peter for their
roles, in this room whose design Peter had personally approved,
in this building that was only one of many representing the
company that Peter Jones had founded, in this little town to
which he had brought international recognition. Did Matthew
really believe, as he sat here waiting, that he could actually
unseat Peter from this very room? From this very legend?
With an imperceptible shudder, Matthew flung this thought from
his mind and replaced it with memories of the time and energy he
had invested in preparation for this day.
Seated to his right and facing the windows was Hank Towers,
assistant chairman, and Wallaby's primary investor. Over the past
several months Matthew had spent a considerable amount of time
with Hank, and he had agreed with most of Matthew's ideas about
how Wallaby should be managed. He had pored over the reports and
strategies that Matthew collected, giving particular attention to
a recent Harvard Business School study that described a
phenomenon with which every successful company must eventually
contend. It stated that by the time a business is ten years old,
its original founders have left. There were exceptions, of
course. The founding pair of Hewlett-Packard, for example, had
remained with the company for several decades and both still held
directorial roles. And, a little closer to the issue at hand was
ICP, which was founded in the 1930s by Jonathan Holmes, who had
stayed on for half a century before turning the business over to
his son, Byron. But in most cases the departure of a founder was
a natural occurrence. Typically, he or she left to begin a new
venture, however the second most prevalent manner of departure
was less amicable; the founder was forced out of the company
because he or she was hampering rather than helping the company.
If anyone could appreciate this it was Hank. Three years ago he
had persuaded Peter to let him begin a worldwide search for a
candidate who could take his place as president of Wallaby,
managing its day-to-day operations. What's more, it was Hank who
had recommended Matthew after reading about him in "Business
Week." The story had commended Matthew's successes at
International Foods, noting that he was one of the youngest and
most effective Fortune 500 presidents, and speculating that he
was being groomed by International's stuffy and conservative
chairman, Rolland Worthy, to take the elder's place when he
retired.
But today his reputation as the once-mighty leader of a large
food and beverage company gave him little faith in his strategy,
which was beginning to taste more and more stale each passing
minute.
The door opened and Peter Jones entered the room. All around the
table the members rearranged themselves, sitting more erect,
seeming to have acquired a sudden intense interest in the figures
and data and notes piled before them - anything to avoid making
eye contact with the newest and final arrival. Dressed in a
faultlessly fitted Armani suit, crisp white shirt and subdued
floral patterned tie, Peter gave the impression of a corporate
messiah, capable of both vision and leadership. He appeared well
rested and cheery as he entered the room, his eyes scanning the
table warmly.
Matthew's stomach flipped. No amount of planning or rehearsing
could have prepared him for the aura of power emanating from his
rival. Even after working with him for more than twenty-four
months, Matthew still felt mildly intimidated in the young man's
presence.
Peter seated himself directly across from Matthew, twenty feet
opposite, and opened his smooth, black leather portfolio. They
exchanged an expressionless stare, which was broken when Martin
Cohn, vice president of corporate development and liaison to the
board of directors, began the meeting.
"We don't have an agenda to hand out today," Martin said with
uncharacteristic seriousness. "Let's begin." He nodded to
Matthew, then diverted his attention out the window, avoiding
Peter's puzzled expression.
* * *
Greta Locke awoke with no great desire to leave her warm bed. She
had slept fitfully; Matthew had tossed and bucked through the
night, and the few times she tried to soothe or comfort him, he
had turned on his side with an irked sigh.
She wondered if the board meeting at Wallaby had started. It
didn't matter really, everything was going to be just fine.
Stretching, she sat up and adjusted her silk gloves. She leaned
across the bed to the night table and opened its drawer, taking
from it a fine Swiss biscuit that she unwrapped and bit into as
she pulled the sheets from her body and got out of bed. She
didn't feel like taking a shower, not right now, anyway. She took
her silk robe from the door hook as she passed the bathroom.
Slowly she descended the stairs. With each step her mind turned
over her options for the day ahead. Stanford Mall? Union Square
again? Clothes? Gourmet food?
Her housekeeper, Marie, appeared at the bottom of the stairway.
She was wearing rubber gloves and carrying a bucket filled with a
strong-smelling ammonia solution. She greeted Greta with an
obedient smile.
"Mrs. Locke, I cleaned the windows on the patio outside."
"Fine, I'll inspect them," Greta said, pivoting from the last
step.
She strolled into the large black and white tiled kitchen and
opened the refrigerator. As she reached for the pitcher of
fresh-squeezed orange juice, she noticed an open bottle of Mumm
champagne resting on the back shelf. Why not a mimosa, she
decided, to celebrate Matthew's success.
She tugged the elaborate silver stopper from the bottle. It
popped weakly, and the champagne fizzed lightly as she topped off
her half-full glass of orange juice.
Give yourself a hand, she thought wryly, remembering back to the
first time she and Matthew had toasted with drinks. This came to
mind every time she had a fizzy juice cocktail. They had met at
International Foods' advertising agency. She had been hired as a
hand model. It was what she, Gretchen Bonner, had done before she
had met Matthew. In her lovely hand she had been holding a can of
Orange Fresh, a new, all-natural carbonated orange beverage.
While at the agency for another meeting, Matthew had dropped in
on the shoot. His eyes had locked on the beautiful hand wrapped
around his newest beverage invention. He followed the hand to the
arm to the body to the face. Holding his creation perfectly still
in her hand, the woman glanced at Matthew and smiled. She was
perfect for the part, and when the shoot was over he offered her
a glass of International Foods' own brand of vodka over ice. She
accepted the drink, warning him that she would become woozy if
she drank it straight on the rocks. She poured Orange Fresh into
the glass and took a sip. She said she liked it better that way,
sweet. At that very instant, unknown to either of them, she had
single-handedly invented a multimillion dollar market segment for
International Foods, for which Matthew would later garner
considerable praise.
Marie entered the kitchen. Forgetting discretion, the servant
allowed her critical gaze to rest for a moment too long on the
open bottle of champagne in Greta's hand. Bad move.
Greta placed the bottle on the granite counter, set down her
glass and, walking toward the long, sweeping kitchen windows,
removed the glove from her right hand. "Marie," she called.
Marie, who had gone back to her business, faced her employer. She
brushed her hand across her blinking eyes, which showed the
effects of ammonia vapors.
"I think these need cleaning too," Greta said, running her index
finger along the windows. She smirked.
"Of course, Mrs. Locke."
"And don't forget the outside," Greta added, picking up her
drink. She gulped down half of it, then poured the remainder of
the champagne into her glass. She left the empty bottle on the
counter, and opened the refrigerator again and searched its open
shelves for breakfast. She took a plastic container and opened
it. Inside were two slices of veal left over from last night's
meal. She ate one of the slices. The sauce was congealed and
hardened, but the meat tasted good, and she licked the oily shine
from her fingers. Her mood was returning to normal.
Greta exited the kitchen and stretched out on the couch in the
sitting room. Her hand found the remote control between the
cushions and she pointed the thing at the television and pressed
its buttons, sipping her drink as the screen flipped through
channels. Her mind flipped through its own channels, still
contemplating what to do with her day.
She stopped on a commercial showing a young, laughing couple
running along a beach hand in hand. It was interspersed with
quick, one-second images of cocktails, dancing, dining. It
concluded with the pair on horseback, galloping down the beach
into the sunset, leaving her with the message: "Live again!"
She tucked the device between the pillows and set her empty glass
on the coffee table; she had resolved today's activity dilemma.
In the bedroom she tossed her robe onto the bed. Hesitating, she
considered showering. She decided against it; she'd only get
dirty again in an hour or so. She pulled on jeans, a rugged
cotton shirt, and a scarf. From the closet she collected her
riding boots and a vest. She refreshed her color with a slash of
blush across each cheek. Running a brush through her hair, she
caught the white flash of the remaining silk glove shrouding her
left hand. Casting her glance out the window, she removed it and
took a pair of worn leather riding gloves from her vest pocket.
She put them on, taking extra care with the left one, adjusting
it carefully so that it appeared to fit naturally. There.
She backed her car from the garage and slid her sunglasses on her
face and cruised down the twisting road, feeling a little buzzed
as the convertible gained speed, the wind whipping all around
her.
This area of Woodside was hilly and lush. Either side of the road
occasionally gave way to gated driveways or hedged walls. At
certain bends, off to the right and downhill, she could see the
small, artificial lake resting in the middle of this particular
smart-set valley. It was a short drive, her destination within
walking distance of her home had she chosen to take the footpath
that circled the lake.
She turned onto the long private drive. The hot pavement turned
to dusty road as she approached the ranch. She passed a small
stilted shed that marked the property line of the ranch. To the
right, in a liberally spaced cluster, were two cottages, a ranch
house, a small stable, and a second, larger double-door barn.
Dressage and jumping rings were not far from these buildings,
separated from the lake by a dirt path. In one of the fenced
circles a trainer led a tethered Morgan colt in medium-sized
circles, gently guiding the shining black animal with a long
lunge whip. In another ring a young girl neatly sailed a black
Hanoverian over post-and-rail jumps, under the instruction of a
tall man dressed in mixed hues of indigo. Greta had never seen
the man here before. From this distance he appeared lithe and
attractive, and her curiosity was piqued. As if sensing her
appraisal, he turned and looked in her direction. He leveled his
hand against his brow to shield the sunlight. As he did this, she
noticed that he was wearing an odd white garment over his right
arm; it took her an instant to realize it was a sling.
She raised her sunglasses from her face and settled them in her
hair. Had the man been looking at her or at something else
nearby? He turned back to the rider, signing with a wave, then
turned and jogged out of the ring, disappearing into the smaller
barn.
She climbed out of the car and proceeded to the massive double
doors. Inside, she was surrounded on either side by large
beautiful horses of various breeds. Their heads turned in her
direction as she passed. Occasionally she stopped to pet a
particular animal owned by an acquaintance. She grew excited by
the smell of the horses, the dust, the feed, and the dryness, and
was glad she had decided to come here to ride. When she wasn't
shopping or doing the other things that consumed the hours of her
day, this was her passion, being here at the ranch with these
beautiful, powerful creatures.
Stall 28, at the end of a long row, held Mighty Boy, her
four-year-old thoroughbred stallion. So black he was almost
purple, Mighty Boy had been a gift from Matthew when they had
moved to California.
"Hi sweetie," Greta said, stroking the animal's head. She nuzzled
her face into his cheek, her chestnut hair mixing and mingling
with his black mane. The horse nodded and whinnied, happy for her
arrival.
"Hello, Mrs. Locke," said Jennifer, the ranch's owner. She was a
solid woman with white-gray hair and eternally sun-squinted eyes.
"What a happy boy he is," Jennifer said. "Everyone who sees him
is in awe of his beauty."
"He is a pretty boy, isn't he?" Greta said. She paused to
appraise the animal for a moment before leading him out of his
stall.
Jennifer slipped Mighty Boy a treat and patted his head.
"Gorgeous day for a ride."
"Truly," Greta agreed. Peripherally, a movement caught her eye.
It was the man she'd seen in the ring, dressed in denim pants and
a worn denim shirt. He was walking toward them. She became
conscious of her tousled hair, and tried to remember whether or
not she had brushed her teeth. Yet she did not fully connect
these concerns with the materialization of this stranger.
"You must be the fortunate owner of this magnificent beast," the
smiling man said. His lean, strong jaw and powerful physique were
matched by a robust, accented voice.
"Yes," Greta said with evident pride.
He was taller than he had first appeared when she spotted him in
the ring, a hair over six feet, she estimated. He had hazel eyes,
and his dark brown hair was long and thick and pulled back into a
neat ponytail. She guessed he was in his mid-thirties.
"Jennifer?" the man said, turning to the ranch's owner.
"Oh! I'm sorry." The older woman placed a casual hand on Greta's
shoulder. "Jean-Pierre Poitras, this is Mrs. Greta Locke." At the
"Mrs." part, her voice had risen ever so slightly.
Greta offered her right hand, then realized her mistake. He
laughed, and with his left hand he gestured at his slung arm.
Staring at it, she saw that there was no cast. "We can use this
hand," Jean-Pierre said. Before she had a chance to realize what
was happening, he had her left hand in his own.
She gasped, recoiling her hand like a viper. She clasped it
protectively in her other hand, as if it had been scalded.
Jean-Pierre's face mirrored her own astonished expression.
Jennifer's too.
Greta attempted to cover the awkwardness. "Oh," she said with a
nervous laugh, "I'm sorry. It's just that you startled me."
Unconsciously she was gently squeezing the hand he'd held, trying
to imagine how it had felt to him. Horrorstricken, she asked
herself, Did he feel it?
There was a long moment of silence in which everyone looked to
everyone else. Finally, Jennifer spoke. "Jean-Pierre is a polo
champion from Deauville, France."
Greta seized on this to move the conversation along. "Really? How
fascinating. Are you playing polo here?"
He laughed at this, and everything seemed to fall back in order.
"There is no polo here. That is why I've come."
Jennifer explained. "We're considering starting a polo club right
here in Woodside, Mrs. Locke. Perhaps Mr. Locke would be
interested in sponsoring a player." This last comment was
directed to Jean-Pierre. He arched his brows, inviting an
explanation.
Instead of responding to this, Greta let go of her hand and
fluttered it uneasily at his arm. "What happened?"
"Oh, this. My nemesis. Chronic dislocation. Shoulder. Worst it
has ever been. I figured it was time to give my pony a rest and
look into the idea of starting a club here. I need some time to
recuperate." His eyes connected with hers, and for the moment
that she held them, she felt as if he were acknowledging some
unspoken confidence that they shared.
Jennifer spoke up. "We're delighted he's going to be staying with
us for awhile." With a click of her tongue she began leading
Mighty Boy along.
Jean-Pierre stopped her and took the horse by the halter. "May
I?" he asked Greta.
"Oh. Why, yes," she replied.
Jennifer patted Mighty Boy's head. "Have a nice ride," she said,
and walked back toward the office.
Greta studied Jean-Pierre as he led the animal from its stall
with a firm but casual hand. Mighty Boy tramped along happily,
unresisting, as they walked the length of the stable in silence.
Outside they stepped aside to allow the young groom to bridle and
saddle the animal.
Jean-Pierre plucked a pair of sunglasses from his shirt pocket.
"Perhaps we can ride together one morning, Mrs. Locke?" He
grinned. Perfect straight white teeth contrasted with his
healthy, tanned complexion. There was something suggestive in his
fixed smile.
She felt herself blush. "Perhaps," she said. She had a
premonition that was not altogether unpleasant. Before she had
time to let the image develop any further, she quickly busied
herself with the saddle's girth and stirrups. She could feel his
eyes observing her. It felt intrusive, yet, at the same time,
exciting. She nullified this indulgence by reminding herself of
today's board meeting at Wallaby; its conclusion would signal a
new beginning for her and Matthew. She pulled her scarf from her
vest pocket, twirled it, and wrapped it lightly around her neck.
The lenses of his sunglasses reflected her motions, but she could
not tell on what exactly his eyes were focused, though they
seemed fixed in the general direction of her upper body. Her
breasts. At this thought she felt a prickling beneath her skin.
First chilly. Then hot.
Feeling suddenly loony and playful, she stared directly into
his sunglasses, as if she were facing a small display mirror.
With a bold tug she knotted her scarf and laughed, and at the
same time cinched her commitment to Matthew.
His own hearty laughter joined hers, filling her with an
uncharacteristic and powerful sense of triumph.
She placed her booted foot into the stirrup, and his deft
attention was little surprise as his free hand solidly gripped
her other boot. With a quick hoist she was in the saddle.
He stood before Mighty Boy and stroked the horse's head. "Such a
beautiful creature," he said, removing his sunglasses, "should
certainly be allowed to jump, to learn new things. Yes? Maybe you
would like to try?" He lifted his sunglasses and held them so
that their eyes connected. He held hers for more time than she
should have permitted. She quickly diverted her gaze to the
jumping ring. Could she do that? Wait - why was she even
considering it? She told herself to get going. Besides, she had
not showered, and her hair was all mussed. Hadn't she come here
to ride her horse?
"I don't think I could do that," she said. "I think I prefer
simply riding alone."
He lowered his sunglasses again and bowed, as if to say that was
fine. For now.
"Well, then. See you," she said. She was satisfied with the way
that had come out, a practiced social indifference to her tone.
Pressing her heels into the horse's ribs, she trotted off past
the buildings and toward the hills across the low, golden, grassy
field. She let herself look back. He was still standing there,
watching her ride off. She hastily returned her attention to the
path.
After Mighty Boy warmed up she pushed him hard, leaning into his
powerful gallop. As if testing her will, yesterday's clear, hard
thoughts of Matthew's secret plan and of her celebration bowl
melted away, and were supplanted by fantasy. Her heart raced, and
her mind ran free with raw and fiery images of the provocative
Jean-Pierre.
* * *
"Thank you, Martin," Matthew Locke said.
Peter turned to Hank Towers for an explanation for this break in
custom; it was he, Peter, who always started the meeting with
opening remarks. But Hank's attention, like that of everyone else
in the room, had shifted to Matthew. Something was wrong, but
before he could speculate, Matthew spoke.
"As we are all aware, Peter and I have been at odds about how
this company should be managed."
Peter threw his pen down on the table. With an audible huff he
pushed himself back in his seat with straightened arms. "What's
going on here?"
Matthew ignored this and continued, his eyes roaming from person
to person in careful, measured doses.
"Peter and I have very different styles and strategies, which is
positioning you, the executive staff and board of directors, in
the middle of our discord. The situation isn't healthy for
Wallaby." He let this sink in for a moment while he got up and
walked toward a pitcher of water. Slowly he poured himself a
glass.
"Peter," he started, resting the glass, "I've decided to ask the
board of directors to accept my resignation - "
Peter could not believe his ears, and before Matthew had even
finished with his explanation Peter was already celebrating
inside. Hallelujah! Here he had thought that Matthew was going to
propose a reorganization, but instead he was resigning. It was
priceless! Maybe, Peter thought, Matthew had realized himself
that he was not cut out for high technology, and would be better
off going back into the potato chip business, with its bright
colored plastic bags, its brainwashing the public on the virtues
of junk food, its pureeing of rotten ingredients -
" - provided," Matthew continued, "that they don't approve my
recommendation that you relinquish your duties as Wallaby's vice
president of Joey, and chairman of the board."
The room spun. Suddenly, all eyes were fixed on Peter. He
blinked, and tried to focus on a single pair, but those glanced
away, as did the next pair, and the next. He leaned back in his
chair. It squeaked loudly. He looked up at the whiteness of the
ceiling for a moment and let his mind drain. Suddenly he
understood Matthew's little game. He laughed at the ceiling. For
a split second he had actually thought it could somehow be true,
that Matthew was going to resign, that that was what Matthew was
trying to warn him of, threaten him with yesterday. Such was not
the case. Resigning was the farthest thing from Matthew's mind.
The absurdity - proposing that the board give him the boot.
Admittedly, considering the rumors that were flying about a
reorganization, he'd been more than a little apprehensive late
last night. But upon waking this morning, he'd told himself there
was nothing to fear. He was the company's founder, and he wasn't
going anywhere - except where he damn well pleased. This was
preposterous. It was laughable. And he laughed hard and full, his
shoulders pitching a little. None of the others joined in the
fun.
When he managed to get his laughter under control, he
straightened up and placed his clasped hands comfortably in his
lap. "Sorry," he said, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. He
gave himself a little shake, and blew out an exaggerated breath.
"Forgive me for laughing, Matthew," he said with a smile,
flattening his hand over his heart, "You had me going there for a
second. I thought you were going to make my job easy."
His smile vanished. "But I guess you're not. So I'll spell it out
for you." His face was relaxed and smooth, and he spoke coolly.
"Matthew, you're not right for Wallaby anymore," he said. He let
this hang in the air for a few moments. To his way of thinking,
as chairman, his decision was already made. Out of courtesy he
would explain to Matthew the circumstances, as a coach would
after try-outs to the child who doesn't have what it takes to
make the team.
"You did a good job of helping to get the organization in place
for managing us through troubled waters. You created a strong
sales force, and you did some other good things. I can't remember
them all right now, but you did some okay things. However, were
you to remain in your position any longer, this company would
fail because of your weakness. You have no vision."
All this time Matthew had remained on his feet. Peter was
impressed with how well he was taking it. Let's see, Peter
thought, how he handles this part.
Peter opened his leather portfolio, which contained copies of the
organizational chart he had prepared yesterday, listing himself
as the acting president and CEO. "I think we can work out a
respectable severance package, with full relocation, of course,"
he said, graciously, "and - "
"Peter, " Matthew said, cutting him off.
Oh wonderful, Peter thought, just what he had feared. Matthew was
going to beg to stay. Yet he saw no sign of anguish on Matthew's
face. Perhaps he was experiencing shock?
"You're a brilliant young man," Matthew said. "You've made this
industry what it is. Were it not for you, we all know this
company could never have been." His words flowed easily, without
tremor.
"You had a dream to make portable computers for individuals, and
you created this company out of sheer willpower and brains.
Everyone here acknowledges that."
This was worse than Peter had thought. How long would he and his
team have to sit through this, he wondered. Should he stop him
now, and thank him? No, he told himself. Let him finish. After
all, he had hired Matthew, and if anyone was to blame, it was he,
for not realizing that a potato chip man could not be transformed
into a silicon chip man. At this last thought he felt the start
of a giggle in his chest, and he was forced to bow his head and
pinch his lips tightly together to contain his laughter.
Matthew paused. What Peter didn't see were the sympathetic
glances sent his way by the members of his hand-picked team. He
resumed, "I was hired to complement you so that you could
concentrate on developing your product ideas without the burden
of managing a rapidly growing organization..."
Resigned to listening to the rest of Matthew's good-bye speech,
Peter let his mind concentrate on important things. Leaking
batteries, for instance. Longer screen life. Easy-to-service
keyboards. Storage. Faster performance. Yes, that one was
becoming more and more important. Must have faster performance.
Matthew's voice had become a faraway drone. "But I cannot do my
job without having the power to fulfill my responsibilities. You
have managed to create a rivalry with your once-greatest fans..."
What else? Agents. Now there was a subject he had become more and
more interested in. Which reminds me, Peter thought, I've got to
call the guys at MIT and see what they've come up with that we
might use with the -
"IJoey Plus computer is late for delivery because of your
inability to manage your organization. All that must change."
He sensed that Matthew was winding down, and focused once again
on the here and now. Glad tidings, etcetera.
"So I have decided to ask each member of the board and executive
staff to vote."
Peter looked at Matthew. "And what are we going to vote on,
Matthew?" he asked, his voice pitched a good deal higher than
usual.
"As I said," Matthew went on, planting both of his hands on the
back of his vacant chair, "I cannot do my job as long as you have
the final say in everything. I am asking the board and the
executive staff to decide which of us will run this company. If
they choose you, I will resign."
He looked around the room. Everyone seemed to think their blank
notepads were fascinating.
"Matthew, now I'm getting angry," Peter said, rising from his
seat. Unconsciously he began popping the button of his ball-point
pen up and down with his thumb. "Can we please stop this
desperate little game?"
"This is no game. I am perfectly serious. And as this company's
president, I intend to conduct a vote."
The clicking stopped. "A vote? Then be my guest," he said,
sweeping a hand at the mannequins seated around the table. "Go
ahead, Matthew, ask. Ask everyone in this room who they want to
run my company."
Hands in his pockets, Peter began to pace slowly around the room,
like an impatient father awaiting the inevitable. "Wait," Peter
said. "Better still, Matthew, I'll ask, okay?"
Matthew shrugged deferentially.
Peter stepped behind Alan Parker, general manager of the Mate
division, the first executive Peter had hired when he had founded
Wallaby.
"Alan," Peter said, resting his hand on Parker's shoulder. "What
do you think about all of this? Pretty awkward, I agree. But
nothing we can't take care of, right? Do I need to repeat the
questions? Who do you think should be in control here at our
company?"
Parker sat upright, his attention focused on his hands, which he
held tightly clasped together on the table. Normally a warm and
friendly person, Parker had worked as Peter's right-hand man
during the early years of Wallaby when they had found themselves
a major force in the Fortune 500. He removed his glasses and
brushed the back of his hand across his forehead. His dread was
palpable.
"Yes, Peter," Parker said, his voice struggling against fond
memories, "we did build Wallaby into a wonderful thing. And if it
weren't for you, this industry would have never become what it is
today. However, you and your Joey team have created a rivalry
with my Mate group. My division, which provides the butter for
our bread, feels that you, the very inventor of our livelihood,
think the Mate, and my people who work on it, are second-class
citizens."
He swiveled in his chair to look at Peter with his complaisant,
pleading eyes. "Because of the way you behave I can't do my job,
either. It's like you've abandoned your roots in favor of Joey,
like you've forgotten all about the millions of people, the
millions of children, who use a Mate computer every day. Mate is
your family, and we feel abandoned."
Peter moved his face closer to Parker's. "Spare me the history,
Al. Okay? I'm sorry if you're sensitive about the way things may
seem, but face it, you know our future lies in Joey. What do you
need to hear? What can I say to make you feel better? I think you
and your group do a great job keeping Mate alive, and you can
tell them I said so. I'll even tell them myself. I'll come over
every other week, if that's what you want, and pat them on the
back. Matthew can't do that. He can't even work a Mate computer.
How the hell is he going to talk to the people who keep it
alive?"
Parker stiffened. "That's not the point. Don't you see? You're
doing it right now. Doing what you always do, changing and
twisting things around to suit you. Only you."
In all their years of working together, Parker had never spoken
to him like this. It was as if the man had suddenly aged and
hardened before his eyes.
"We're not a little start-up company anymore, Peter," Parker
exploded. "We're big business, and we need to be run like a big
business. And that includes taking care of the people who got us
here!"
An unpleasant taste shot up from Peter's throat. He already knew
what Parker's vote would be. And if Parker, who was easily his
least problematic executive, felt his way, what about the others?
Alan Parker narrowed his eyes and slowly shook his head. His face
softened, and for a moment he was once again the kind and
grateful man Peter remembered. "Peter, I believe Matthew has what
it takes to run this company. But I also believe you should lead
our new product development - "
Peter lifted a hand, cutting the executive off. "Save it," he
said, patting Parker stiffly on the shoulder. "So, everyone
thinks I'm a jerk. But it was this hot-shot businessman," he
said, flinging a hand towards Matthew, "who let things get to
this point of confusion and misunderstanding."
Matthew stood. "Peter, I want us to work together, but for me to
be able to manage Wallaby, you need to let me have the power to
do what's right from a business standpoint."
"Well forget it, Matthew," Peter said. "And let's cut all this
crybaby sentimental crap too, okay? Okay. Fine. If this is how
you want to play the game, we'll just go around the room and ask
everyone if they want me out." He leaned against the window
ledge, in the exact section Matthew had just vacated. He squeezed
the ledge on either side with his hands, white-knuckled, as if
this would somehow anchor his place in the room.
"All right, who's next?" Peter said, his voice bordering on
hysteria. "Let's see. Denise. You. Just a simple yes if you think
Matthew should have final power. No drama, please, we've all got
a lot of work to do today."
Denise Campbell had started her career with Wallaby as a
financial analyst. Young and bright and a genius with numbers,
Denise's long record of successes had recently been rewarded by
Peter, who had promoted her to the role of CFO. With anguished
eyes, she faced Peter. "As a publicly held company, our first
obligation is to our shareholders."
Peter held up his hand again, stopping her before she could go
into a long-winded justification. "No verbosity, please, just a
yes or no." His eyes blazed.
She looked into her lap. "Yes," she said. "But Peter, you have to
stay on as - "
Eyes closed, he turned away from her with a disgusted expression
and a quick shake of his head.
Paul Crane, executive vice president of sales and marketing, was
regarded by everyone for his no-bullshit manner, which he now
demonstrated with a simple nod of his head.
Matthew stood off to the side, watching the process without
expression. It went on like this until the entire executive staff
was polled. Then Peter queried each of the visiting directors,
who had flown in from different parts of the country to attend
the meeting. Not a single no was spoken. When Matthew counted all
but the final response, he stiffened, awaiting the finale.
Peter knelt before Hank Towers.
"Hank," Peter said, his voice a desperate croak. "You, more than
anyone else in this room, know what Wallaby means to me." He
drummed his chest with his palm. "You and I, Hank, we made
Wallaby everything it is today. Didn't I agree with you a few
years ago that we needed someone to run the company? And wasn't I
supportive when we hired Matthew? We made a mistake is all, and
no one gets it. But you do. I know you do."
Hank sat perfectly still, but Matthew could see that Peter's
words were having an effect on him. And on some of the others.
Sounds of sniffing and little coughs, throats clearing, filled
the room.
Matthew's pulse quickened. Although everyone else in the room had
voted in his favor, Hank could essentially persuade them all to
compromise in Peter's favor, dissolving Matthew's ultimatum. If
Hank did that, the plan would be off.
"Hank, you have to trust me on this one," Peter implored.
"Matthew isn't right for Wallaby. If you let him have this, he'll
turn Wallaby into a second-rate company. All I want is for us to
be number one, Hank. It's all we've ever wanted, right?"
Matthew sweated to read Hank's expression. Had he been kidding
himself into thinking he could lure Hank's loyalty away from
Peter.
"Damn it, Hank, look at me. Don't you see what he really wants?
He wants us, the renegades, to connect to IC-fucking-P's
computers! If that's not selling out, man, what is?"
Matthew held his breath, for Peter's assessment was ultimately
the motivation behind his entire secret plan. And if this
revelation, however ridiculous it may have sounded, caused Hank
to waver, to trust Peter's instincts, then Matthew had not a
single grain of hope of ever succeeding with his monumental plan.
He heard the sound of his own heartbeat squishing wildly in his
ears.
Hank looked Peter in the eye, and slowly shook his head.
Peter grunted. It was a wrenching, painful sound.
"Hank, no. No, Hank. No." He spoke very slowly, pausing with
every few words to catch his breath. "We did it before. And we
can do it again." He planted his hands on Hank's shoulders and
gave him the sort of shake one gives a drunkard. "We can run
Wallaby. Until we find someone who can cut it. Hank."
Hank gently removed Peter's hands from his shoulders.
"No, Peter," Hank whispered. "No."
"Hank, this is my life we're talking about, here. You will kill
me if you don't save me." Tears spilled down Peter's cheeks.
"You're my only hope."
Hank rested his hand on Peter's shoulder. "Petey, we're a big
company now, at probably the most critical point in all our
history. You are too unfocused to manage Wallaby. Matthew can."
He punctuated this last line with a squeeze. "But you've got to
stay on and be the innovator. We only want you to let Matthew do
his job. You'll think this is all bad for awhile, but then you'll
understand. You'll be a lot happier focusing on future products."
He let out a huge, exasperated sigh. "For Chrissake, Peter, we
love you."
Peter slowly rose to his feet. Matthew was rounding the table,
coming toward him.
"And if I don't agree to all this?" Peter said to Hank.
"I'm afraid it's the only option you've got."
Peter could think of a few others. For example, he thought with
morbid pleasure, he could pummel Matthew with punches, that was
one option, or he could choke him until he turned red, then blue,
then black and begged for his life while everyone sat there as
they had through the whole meeting, staring at their fucking
yellow pads, just dying to lift their pens, Wallaby logo pens,
and begin calculating what their stock options would be worth
after today's news got out.
And wasn't that what it all came down to in the end, he asked
himself. Wasn't that what he'd used to lure each and every one of
them there? The bottom line. Didn't they understand that for him,
it wasn't the money. His life's happiness was the bottom line.
And he had just lost it. With this thought a deep dread coursed
through his chest. He thought of last night, and he felt a
shudder, as though an ice-cold fear had poked its finger into his
rectum. He felt as if he were about to defecate, right there for
all of them to witness, his grand exit. He was coming apart from
the inside out.
With every last ounce of strength he willed himself to stop
shaking, to compose himself as best he could. He lifted his chin.
"Wallaby is my life," he said, his voice high and distraught.
"But as you've all determined for me, that doesn't matter
anymore."
Matthew came closer. "It doesn't have to end like this," he said.
"I want you to stay with me. I want you to make our future while
I manage the present." He reached out to Peter.
"Don't you come near me!" Peter screamed, flinging his hands into
the air. Several of the people in the room jumped in their seats,
groaning in agony at what they were being forced to witness.
Their eyes linked for the last time. "You've stolen my life,
Matthew." He faced the people seated at he table. But he had
nothing more to say. He turned and charged for the door.
Martin Cohn leapt from his chair and started after him.
"Leave him," Hank ordered, fixing his eyes sharply on Matthew.
The door slowly and silently swung inward, sealing the new team
together inside the room for the first time without Peter Jones.
Matthew couldn't see Hank's gaze. He was facing the sunlit
window, staring down at his clenched fists. He willed them to
relax. And as he watched them uncurl, he felt his guilt slip
away. And in its place he grasped a new feeling.
Power.