“That’s the point. It looks more like film at twenty-four. I can also vary the frame rate to shoot in slo-mo.”
“Sweet.”
He was trying to pull me in. Generally, the best way to get rid of tourists like Gregory is to point the camera at them. I powered it up and put it in his face. “Gregory Alton, who are you and what is BioVerge’s real mission?”
He grimaced for a moment, caught off guard. But then, just my luck, he proved himself a true member of the media generation by pulling a pose.
“As a matter of fact, Bill, we’re about to roll out some proprietary software that’s going to knock the sector on its ass. We’ll bust an IPO a year from now, and in two years we’ll be buying islands in the Caribbean and drinking daiquiris. You’re invited.”
He curled his lips into a smug grin. Smooth, no real information, ball back in my court. I zoomed in until the frame was filled with parallel lines of big, straight, white teeth. Rita would see it all on tape and be able to decide whether she wanted to call him back or not.
I lowered the camera. Ron-the-partner finally spoke up. “What kind of work are you doing with Kumar?”
“Nothing special. They’ve got a stockholder meeting coming up.” I figured this was public information. To keep them from prying any more, I hoisted the camera back to my shoulder, pivoted, and began to shoot the lot and the BioVerge building behind it.
A woman walked into the frame from behind a black Range Rover. She had long, ringletted dark hair and a troubled face. Her right shoulder was weighed down by a bulky leather bag. When she saw us, her eyes went wide and she ducked behind a car. The next thing I knew, she was moving quickly in the opposite direction.
“Those were some guilty eyes,” Ron said.
Gregory smirked. “Guilty or not, they rate a closeup.”
I ignored him and packed away the camera. “If you want to give me your card, I’ll pass it along to Rita.”
Gregory gave me his card and said, “Hey, why not come up to my office? I’ve got a keg. The beer’s always cold.”
I stowed the camera bag and took the hair dryer in hand again. “Sorry. I’ve got to blow-dry my car.”
He strode with me around to the front. “You don’t understand. We seriously want to work with you. We’ll double your fee. You and Rita are top guns. Your stuff is killer.”
The bullshit was on full blast now. First of all, Rita and I weren’t really a team. She was an old friend, and I liked to work with her, but we were no juggernaut. Nor were we widely known. Second, she only did tech industrials to support her real work. And third, every time I stepped foot into this world I was breaking a vow I’d made nine months ago. The catch was, my current financial situation didn’t leave me much choice.
“Fine. I just can’t talk to you right now. I’m late for a dinner party. I’ll give Rita your card.”
He frowned at me, then reached for the cell phone in his belt holster. The phone rang in his hand. He was delighted, as if he’d pulled off a magic trick.
“Gregory,” he answered. He turned his back on us and retreated to the SUV.
I got back to work under the hood, prying the clips from the distributor cap. Ron peered through the driver’s side window. “Look at that AM radio. A certifiable antique. You get anything on it?”
“My jeep does. Weather reports. Twenty percent chance of rain today. That means a 20 percent chance it’s not going to start.”
He laughed. I don’t think he had any idea what I was talking about. He moved beside me, hands stuffed in his pockets, and craned his neck at the cirrus-strewn sky.
“I’d say the delta for rain is approaching zero.”
“Yeah, but the Scout still heard this morning’s forecast in San Francisco.”
“Scout?”
“This thing,” I said, smacking the bumper with the palm of my hand. “International Harvester stopped making them in 1980.” I lifted the distributor cap, aimed the blow dryer at the points, and pulled the trigger. The batteries produced good heat and plenty of noise. I had to raise my voice. “Sometimes it just needs gas down the choke. If that doesn’t work, it means moisture’s the problem.”
He nodded and stared at the inner workings as if perusing ancient technology in a museum. His eyebrows and lips had a kind of pleasing asymmetry. His nose took a small bend. Ron was the nerd half of the team, I decided. Probably the one who came up with whatever brilliant idea was behind BioVerge in the first place. Then Gregory moved in, fancied it up, got himself a big office, and would make a killing on the IPO. Ron would be out of a job within months.
After another minute, I put the hair dryer and gas can away. Ron was right, the jeep shouldn’t be in a moisture pout in this weather. It was awfully delicate and temperamental for such a brute piece of machinery.
I turned the ignition. The engine erupted into its bone-rattling growl. Ron retreated a couple of steps. He flinched when I let the steel hood come down with a bang.
“Congratulations,” he said.
“Thanks,” I said, getting back behind the wheel. “See you later.”
“Wait a minute—”
I threw the Scout into reverse and started to back out. But I had to jam on the brakes. Others were pulling out too, people who could actually go home, or to their cocktail meetings, at six o’clock. I saw by their dress they were marketing and management types. I also knew that back inside those buildings, the coders were just popping their first cans of Jolt, getting ready for a long night.
As I began to back out again, there was a banging on the side of my car. I slammed on the brakes once more. It was Gregory, still holding the open cell phone. He motioned for me to roll down my window.
“We’ve got to talk,” he said. “Give me Rita’s number.”
“I already said I’ll give her your card. That’s enough.”
The eyes narrowed. The lips pressed into a disapproving line. “Bill, I need a meeting tomorrow.”
“Talk to Rita.” I rolled up my window, but Gregory curled his fingers around the top and held it.
“Work with us. It’ll be rewarding for you. Very rewarding.”
How many times had I heard that promise in the last three years?
“I also know some things about Kumar that you need to know. Don’t blow it, Bill.” His tone was somewhere between that of a threat and a personal business advisor who would be very upset if I made the wrong decision. For a twenty-something with soft cheeks, he did a great job of impersonating a seasoned Bigfucker.
I gunned the engine. “I’m going now.” How I loved its rumble.
“You’re on my dashboard,” Gregory said, looking me in the eye with calm certainty. “We’ll see each other again.”
He clamped the phone back to his ear and walked away.
2
I knew the limits of my vehicle, so normally I didn’t drive like everyone else trying to get across the valley, racing to be first in line at the next stoplight, roaring up through the gears, darting into open lanes. But this evening was different. I was annoyed by Gregory and his games, and even more annoyed at myself for letting them go on for so long when I was already late to my girlfriend’s dinner party. Swerving into the right lane, I gave an apologetic wave to a driver I’d just cut off, let out a long breath, and tried to slow myself down. Traffic was in its usual six o’clock clot. The freeway would have been worse.
Jenny’s apartment was at the end of a curving subdivision road. The enclave of three- and four-story redwood-shingled garden apartments, dotted with eucalyptus trees, reached for a feeling of rustic community and fell short. It wasn’t bad, though, once you figured out where in the parking maze you were allowed to put your car. Silicon Valley housing could get a lot worse. The back side of the apartments looked out over a fenced wafer fab, a windowless block the size of a football field encasing a single room. Chips were made in that room, a place so clean that the human workers had to dress like aliens in space suits.