“I networked, plenty. And I wasn’t hiding in that damn office. I was working. Doing the job they hired me to do.”
“Maybe. But not anymore. And now they’re keeping me and letting you go. And you just can’t handle that.”
“That’s nonsense. I’ve—”
“You know what?” She erupted from her seat. “Forget it. Just stop talking. I’m sick of the sound of your voice.”
“Suits me.” Her footsteps thundered across the room and up the stairs. “I’m bored with listening to you, anyway.”
Monday. Early afternoon.
WHEN IN DOUBT, MAKE COFFEE. THAT PRINCIPLE’S ALWAYS PAID dividends for me. I’ve broken through more conceptual logjams standing in front of my old Cuisinart and watching the murky liquid drip hypnotically into the jug than through doing anything else. It’s a charmed activity for me, magically summoning the solution to my current problem out of thin air, and that day things seemed no different. The pot was no more than half full when I heard soft footsteps creeping up behind me.
“Let’s not fight about this, Marc.” Carolyn’s voice was quiet. Her face was very pale, and her eyes glistened with dampness. “Please. I’m sorry you lost the contract. I honestly am. I guess I was feeling a little embarrassed, still working there, and thinking about how it was me who pushed you into taking the job in the first place.”
“It’s no biggie, sweetheart. I’m over it already.”
“I honestly thought it would be good for us, to work together. In the same place, anyway.”
“It was. It was great.”
“Did you like it? Really?”
“Of course I did. And thanks for coming home early today. I know you were worried about me, sweetheart. I appreciate it. I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you got back.”
“You’re really OK about it? Losing the job?”
“I was pissed at the time, I’m not going to lie. It was mainly the way LeBrock told me. He can be a pompous prick at times. Sending the security guard to summon me. Then trying to bury me in a bunch of management-school double-speak. You know the kind of thing? I’m so good and so valuable he’s got no choice but to go ahead and terminate me. The asshole.”
“Roger’s not an asshole.” The angry pink swept back into her cheeks. “It’s not his fault. The company—it’s a house of cards, waiting to fall. The whole industry is.”
“You’re on LeBrock’s side now? What happened to being sorry I got thrown under the bus?”
“I’m not on his side.” She clenched her fists, then slowly released them. “There are no sides, Marc. I’m just saying, things are complicated. There’s a lot going on.”
“I know exactly what’s going on. I’m probably the only one who does, after all the analysis I’ve done. And let’s be clear, the whole industry isn’t in trouble. AmeriTel is. And AmeriTel’s problems are LeBrock’s fault. His, and the spineless imbeciles he surrounds himself with. Like the new CFO he brought in. Michael Millan. Have you met him? He’s a complete cretin. If you ask me, you’re crazy, too, if you keep working there.”
“Now you’re telling me where I should work?”
“No. I just think you’re wasting your talent. AmeriTel doesn’t deserve you.”
“Because of what happened to you?”
“Because of the state the company’s in. Plus, the bandwidth auction’s tomorrow, and AmeriTel’s going to lose.”
“It might not.”
“It will. And then it’s just a question of who the company gets sold to. And how long after that till your contract follows mine down the toilet. You’d do better jumping now, before the job market gets flooded with washed-up telecom people.”
“Funny you didn’t say this before.” She clamped her hands on her hips, tipped her head back slightly, and pretended to sniff the air. “What’s that smell? Oh? Could it be sour grapes?”
“No, it couldn’t.”
“No.” She released her hair from its ponytail, shook her head a couple of times, then tied it back up again. “You’re right. We’re not going to argue. We have a whole afternoon together for the first time in how long? Months? And a whole night to follow. We should put them to better use, don’t you think?”
“I guess …”
“The question is, where to start? How does a pitcher of milliondollar margaritas sound to you?”
I was torn. A pitcher of margaritas sounded extremely good to me. Not just because I’m a fan of Mexican cocktails, though. More because of the effect tequila has. On Carolyn. Tequila usually leads to a whole host of pleasurable possibilities. But on the other hand, there was my new project. My head was so full of ideas for it—colliding into one another, multiplying, racing away in a hundred different directions at once—I was literally feeling dizzy. I was on the verge of suggesting a rain check—at least till that evening, to give me time to get a few initial simulations up and running—when I saw the expression on her face. It brought back an echo of an old childhood saying. Something about living to fight another day …
“Great idea.” I was careful to keep the reluctance out of my voice. “How about La Pasadita?”
La Pasadita is the closest Mexican restaurant to our house.
“I was thinking Zapatista’s. They use better tequila.”
And are much farther away …
“All right, Zapatista’s.” I paused to calculate the extra journey time. “Do you want to head over there right now? Or change first?”
“You change, if you don’t want to go in your work things. I’m going as I am. There’s something I need to drop off at the office on the way.”
“Oh? What?”
“Something you might have brought home by mistake?”
“What do you mean?”
“Something you brought home from AmeriTel. I need to take it back. To keep you out of trouble.”
“How can I be in trouble? They can’t fire me twice. And I didn’t bring anything back. I didn’t have the chance. They threw me out on my ass, remember? My office was sealed. They’re sending my stuff back by messenger, later today.”
“That’s not quite true, is it, Marc?”
I felt my temper start to flare at the implication, but then I remembered the memory sticks nestling in my pocket.
“What are you talking about? Of course it’s true.”
“I don’t mean anything physical.” Carolyn’s eyes stayed on my face, searching for the lie. “Or anything with any real value, even. But Simon found out you downloaded some data over the weekend. A lot of data.”
“So?”
“There was no sign of it in your office, Marc. It wasn’t in your database. There were no discs. No hard drives. No memory sticks. Nothing. So, whatever you copied the data onto, you must have it with you. You probably forgot, with all the drama this morning. I thought if I could jog your memory a little bit, you could just give it to me, and I could return it on the way to the restaurant. Draw a line under the whole thing. Save any unpleasantness further down the road.”
I slid my hand into my pocket and took hold of the key ring that the memory sticks were attached to, but I just couldn’t pull it out. I couldn’t move forward on my new project without data to work on, and I had no way of getting hold of more from anywhere else. Not the kind of authentic, real-world data I needed to prove my new concept. Not in large enough quantities. Not after AmeriTel had stabbed me in the back. And that realization gave birth to another nasty little thought.
“Was it your idea to ask me for the data back? Or did someone send you to get it? Simon Wakefield? Or was it LeBrock?”
“It was my idea, Marc. It’s a serious thing—stealing confidential data. I’m trying to keep your chestnuts out of the fire. A little gratitude wouldn’t be out of place.”