FaceMate

by Steven M. Greenberg

  “Columbus? Isn’t that where the FaceMate headquarters is? Eddie told me that it was, I think.”

  “Right, and they’re the guys we need to talk to.”

  “Yeah? The FaceMate guys? OK, sure; I’ll take the day off then if you think it’d be helpful. But you still owe me something, remember?”

  “Huh? What is it I owe?”

  “Your greatest aspiration, didn’t you promise you were going to tell me that? Wasn’t that part of the deal?”

  “It was, Tommy, and I’ll keep my promise; I always do. But it’s getting late now, after twelve already, see?”

  Ben pointed to the gold and crystal timepiece on his desk, also from Sotheby’s, also purchased casually for megabucks, just like the desk itself, and the rug, and the leather-bound volumes on the shelves, and….

  “And we’ve had a long, eventful day so far—I’m beat. So how about this, then: Let’s spend the next couple of days going over any other auto parts companies I can find for sale at discount prices and see which ones are salvageable—and transferable to domestic sites too, if you insist—Then we can finish our discussion on Monday about my life-experience and goals. We’ll have plenty of privacy then, and five full hours on the plane.”

  38

  “There’s a man out in the hallway who wants to see you, Mr. Patel. Is it OK to bring him in?”

  “Naw, it’s gonna be one of those obnoxious salesman guys, Andi. Just see if he’s got some pamphlets on whatever stuff he’s peddling, and tell him I’ll get back to him if we’re interested. But no, those guys are a pain in the you-know-what and a total waste of time; don’t let him in.”

  Andi looked sheepish, but she looked pretty determined as well, an atypical type of demeanor for her.

  “Um, I don’t think he’s a salesman, sir. I think he kind of knows you, actually. It’s a Mr. Daugherty, Mr. Lester Daugherty. I think he might be, like, some kind of relative of your friend.”

  “Daugherty! Lester, did you say? Wow—yeah, that’s Alex’s dad! Sure I know him; I’ve known him since I was twelve—And he’s out in the corridor, you said? Geez, Andi, sure. Show him in. Yeah, Andi, go ahead and bring him right on in.”

  So off went Andi in a rush. She disappeared for a minute or two, while Rajiv sat there perplexed, pondering the off-the-wall unlikelihood of Lester Daugherty showing up here—showing up anywhere he might run into Alex and be rewarded with another wall-of-silence confrontation from his son.

  But there he was, several seconds later, sweet-tempered, long-suffering Lester, standing at the opening to Rajiv’s cubicle with Andi at his elbow, hat in hand, head bowed, as usual, hangdog look on his face, one foot crossed in front of the other in a uselessly protective pose. But Geez-oh-Pete—Mr. Daugherty—Man! Why in the world would Lester Daugherty show up here, of all the possible places he could show up at? Which is precisely why Rajiv’s astonishment necessitated that he ask:

  “Geez, Mr. Daugherty! It’s nice to see you, sir, but I’ve got to ask you….”

  “Yes, I know, Rajiv, you’re probably a little bit surprised to see me show up here at you and Alex’s place of business, right?”

  “Right—Exactly right, sir a hundred percent.”

  “Well, why I came—Do you want me to tell you why I came, Rajiv?”

  “Sure. I wouldn’t be asking you if I didn’t want to know.”

  “OK, well I came because I’m worried about Alex. Not just me, but Helen too. Both of us are worried that something serious might be wrong.”

  “With Alex? No. Heck no. Alex is terrific. Alex is better than he’s ever been in all the time I’ve known him. Why are you guys so worried that there might be something wrong?”

  “He called us.”

  “He called you?”

  “Yes. The other day, Alex called.”

  “OK, so … is there more to it than just him calling you? I mean … why would that make you think there’s something wrong?”

  “You don’t understand, Rajiv. Alex called us. He called us on the phone.”

  “Well yeah, but that’s how people generally call each other, isn’t it? On the phone? How else would someone call?”

  “I know, Rajiv, I know. But Alex never called us before. On the phone, I mean. We never heard his voice before on the phone, until two days ago. That’s why we’re worried, Helen and me both.”

  “I’m trying to understand what you’re saying here, sir; I’m doing my best. But—let me get the stuff you’re telling me a little clearer in my head. You’re saying Alex called you—when? The day before yesterday, right? That’s Saturday, isn’t it? Saturday?”

  “Uh-huh, that’s when it was. Around eight o’clock Saturday night.”

  “And what did he say to get you so upset?”

  “I don’t know, not much of anything, really. You know Alex: He never really has anything much to say.”

  “Yes, but he must have said something to upset you guys. What exactly did he tell you when he called? Was he worried or anxious or sad about something? Did his voice sound stressed, or—I don’t know—maybe a little different somehow?”

  “Yes, well sure it sounded different. Anybody’s voice would sound different to you if you hadn’t ever heard it before—On the phone, I mean—Once in a while he used to talk to us in person, though.”

  “But he’s never called before on the telephone? That’s the main thing you and Mrs. Daugherty are worried about?”

  “Uh-huh, that’s it, Rajiv. That’s the thing exactly.”

  “OK, so can I ask you something else then? When you answered the phone that night, what did Alex say?”

  “Well, he said ‘Hello’. Then he said ‘I met a really nice friend’. Then he said ‘Goodbye’, and before I could hardly even open my mouth to respond, he just hung up.”

  “Did you try to call him back? Maybe you were just cut off.”

  “Yes, I did try, sure I did; and Helen did too, all night Saturday till almost 11:00, then all day Sunday from eight o’clock on. But he wouldn’t pick up. He never picks up when we call. All he does is send an email sometimes; or if we ask him something on the answering machine—something he needs to answer—he answers in a text.”

  “Yep, that’s Alex; that sounds just like my buddy Alex, alright. But anyway, Mr. Daugherty, chill, OK? Relax. And you can tell Mrs. Daugherty that she can stop her worrying too. Alex has changed a lot—and for the better. Your son has been a whole different person the past few days; everybody’s noticed. And as for the telephone, sir, he’s even calling me, and….

  “And you know what else, sir? You know what else, Mr. Daugherty? It’s great to hear his voice again. Alex is fine; Alex is wonderful! Alex is better than he’s ever been in all the years I’ve known him. It’s terrific dealing with a guy who’s happy all the time and interacts with people instead of staring at that damn computer screen all night and day.

  “Come on with me, sir; come with me over to those cubicles in the back. She might not say much to you, she might not say anything at all, but I want you to meet her anyway. Linda Mackey is her name; she’s nice, she’s smart, she’s probably gonna wind up as your daughter-in-law eventually, and I think it’s time for you and her to at least touch base.”

  They stopped to pick up Eddie, whose eyes were barely open that early in the day, then made it to the airport by quarter-of. Brandon had the Gulfstream all fueled and set to go, and they were off the ground and in the air and pretty near a hundred miles into Pennsylvania by the time the clock struck 8:00.

  Which is exactly when the sleepiness caught up with them; whereupon they put their seat-backs back as far as the Gulfstream’s seats would go, they shut their eyes, they dimmed the cabin lights, and reclaimed at least a portion of their interrupted sleep.

  Ah well, so much for the heart-to-heart Ben had promised Tommie they were going to have: Tom had done his share on Friday, opening his heart about those goals and aspirations Ben had been so set on hearing about; and today was supposed to be Ben’s
turn: All that stuff about his aims in life, the things that kept him going. But it was early still; there’d be lots of time for them to have their talk that afternoon. Let’s see: Figuring the first two hours to get a bit of shut-eye before they reached Columbus, then the meeting with the FaceMate kids, from maybe 10:00 or 10:15 until they went and grabbed a little lunch—An hour, ninety minutes max, to have a decent meal before the flight out west: a steak for Ben, a gin and tonic for Eddie, and another burger for the kid—hell (Ben smiled), the boy was going to look like a goddamned ground beef patty, if he ordered the same thing every time he ate!—OK, so then, once they got their bellies good and full, back on the plane by probably 2:00—2:15 at the latest—when they could finally sit back, stretch their legs out in the aisle, and have their promised talk.

  It was 9:35 when the wheels hit the tarmac in Columbus and jostled the three of them into awakening. Cindy’d been busy since early this morning—unless she’d taken care of things late last night—arranging for the limo they found sitting in wait right next to the Gulfstream’s step-ramp when Brendan let it down. The driver’s name was Gregor Something-or-other, a new name, long and Slavic and a challenge to pronounce. A new face, too, dark and brooding—just as Columbus was a new set of surroundings to Ben. He hadn’t been here in the Whiz-kids’ home in ages; hadn’t seen this part of Ohio in nearly thirty years, in fact—the last time being a real-estate transaction back in the days the firm was young and ramping up—back in the good old times the company disposed of merely a few millions, as opposed to the multiple billions their investments were costing now. Less money in the old days, sure, but the building of the company, and the excitement of watching it grow and blossom—those stimulating times sure were fun!

  And now, dealing with this brilliant kid—Good Lord!—fresh new ideas; a whole different way of looking at the world—Ben could feel some of the old creative juices starting to flow again: The anxiety of failure?—Sure, that was part and parcel of the game. But wasn’t the possibility of failure a welcome change, for a change? The incentive to work smarter? longer? To think a little quicker than the next guy, to bargain a little harder than you’d ever bargained before? Didn’t the excitement of staking everything you owned on a risky bet enrich the euphoria of triumph when the bet was finally won?

  And what were the odds that success would follow? What had Tommy said? Ninety-five percent? Ninety-six? If the boy said it, if this brilliant goddamned kid assured you of such fantastic odds, you could take it as an article of faith. Yes, sir, smart as a whip, that kid—Imagine! A goddamn modular car, for Christ sakes! Who else could have come up with such an ingeniously innovative thing? You could bet everything you owned on Tommy Mulroy’s extraordinary mind-And Ben was prepared to do precisely that.

  Ah, but were the FaceMate kids equally prepared? And should they be? Should they risk the endless billions they hadn’t even cashed in their chips on yet, on a venture with even a five percent chance of risk? Figure the odds, thought Ben, then factor in the finances so you can help the Whiz-kids make up their minds.

  OK (he calculated mentally as the limo motored on) so FaceMate was up to—what? Well, as of yesterday evening at 8:00 p.m., the website said five hundred and eighty-seven million subscribers, to which you can figure adding another fifteen to twenty million more today. Twenty bucks each in annual subscriptions, so round it off and say an even eleven billion in annual revenues, probably a whole lot more; then another ten or twenty billion profit in ads, so total minimum of twenty to twenty-five billion a year cash flow, even discounting future enrolment (which could double net income within the next twelve months).

  And any potential buyout would posit a bottom-line profit of eight percent on capital investment at the current income stream. So multiply all your revenues by twelve, and you wind up with a final figure of—what? Yep, that’s right: Right around two-hundred-fifty to two-hundred-eighty billion, pre-tax gross, either in a cash buy-out or proceeds from a leveraged IPO. Subtract the twenty percent due AthCorp, and it leaves two hundred to two-twenty—in billions, that is—pretty close to one-sixty-five after lawyer fees and tax: And if AthCorp leaves its stake in the pot—There’s the full two hundred billion, post-tax, available for use—Enough to finance Tommy Mulroy’s project in full, a couple of times over—and still leave plenty more.

  And Alex and Rajiv: hardly the kinds of spendthrifts addicted to living too high on the hog, from what their habit-patterns showed thus far. Most of what they spent, was spent on-what? KFC and pizza, tee shirts and Reeboks and jeans—Oh, and maybe the biggest splurge-of-the-month might go out for a couple of end-zone tickets to a Bengal’s game—not much to drain a couple hundred billion, that’s for sure. So as for the FaceMate wizards themselves—Hell, if they had, say, eighty or ninety billion left in the kitty to spend after backing Tommy’s venture, most likely they could eke out a meager existence on that. Oh, and say Tommy hit the jackpot big-time, which he almost certainly would—well then Alex and Rajiv would double or triple the fortunes they already had. A minimal risk for a near-infinity of gain.

  That’s what Ben was working on, entirely in his head, while the limo took them through the traffic to the FaceMate headquarters near downtown. His first look at the building was underwhelming to say the least: An older structure, built maybe in the fifties as a warehouse—that seemed to be the kind of layout the place once had, till some cheap developer had converted it more recently into office space. Not classy office space, either; not pretty office space, not exactly a glittering jewel in the AthCorp crown, but it appeared to function well enough—especially considering what that cheap Fourth Floor venture was currently raking in.

  Eddie had been here twice before and knew enough to lead the way: In the front door, through the lobby—which looked even more unprepossessing than the outside looked: A run-down pharmacy opening to the street, a couple of decrepit medical offices farther in, a public ash tray near the elevator full of butts: Not a property to be featured in the Atherton Annual Investors’ Brochure, even without the tenants. One of the doctors did pain management, the other weight control. Amphetamines and opiates, in other words: They probably owned a piece of the pharmacy as well. Ben made a mental note to the effect that their leases would not be renewed.

  And so over to the single elevator still in service (Ben checked the inspection sticker before the door slid fully closed), and up to Four. Then out and across the corridor to the only door in evidence. On which Eddie gave a knock. And from which a security guard in an official-looking uniform opened up an eight-inch crack and stuck his head out through. They announced their presence and identities, and in a matter of seconds, they were greeted by a red-haired, slender, even-featured girl who looked about twelve, but had to be considerably older, given Ohio Labor Laws, with a name tag that said ‘Andi’. She opened the door quite a bit wider than the guard had done, and smiled, and told them:

  “Yes, sir—or sirs, I mean—Oh, hi, Mr. Parker, how are you today? So—Mr. Patel is expecting you guys, I guess. So—if you want to follow me, I’ll, like, take you to his desk.”

  “Hey, I know the way,” Eddie told the girl, giving her that special smile of his, which he reserved for single ladies under thirty-five. He had a smile for single ladies over thirty-five as well, and an entirely different smile for married ladies of any age; and if you knew him well enough, and had observed him in action long enough, you could easily recognize the difference between the three. You could pretty nearly tell a woman’s age and marital status by distinguishing the difference between Eddie’s smiles.

  So Eddie wound up leading the way—not that ‘the way’ was all that hard to find. Thirty feet inward, ten or twelve feet to the left, you could see Rajiv’s clean-cut Gujarati noggin sticking up above a partition in the center of the room; so there they went directly, and the instant that he spotted them, Rajiv popped up and ran right over to give them his trademark warm hello. He hugged Eddie effusively—well sure: everybody hugged Eddie effusively�
��all the women and eighty percent of the men. He took Ben’s hand and arm and gave him an affectionate clasp and squeeze in the same way he’d done it in Red Bank two months ago, then stopped and cranked his head a little to the left to have a better look at Tommy, who was standing immediately behind:

  “And this has gotta be—Tom, right? But, geez, no point in even asking you, is there? I’ve seen your picture, so I really oughta know.”

  “My picture?—or Ben’s?”

  “Honestly, man, it’s impossible to tell the difference between the two of you age-for-age. You know, when the computer kicked that picture out of you and Ben together on the screen, and Alex and I took one look at it, it totally blew us away! And even now, in person, you guys look so much alike it’s incredible!—Like father and son almost—but no, even closer than that, like twins except for age—But OK, guys, I realize you didn’t fly here just for my comments on your handsome looks, so … let’s head over to my office and we can sit down and talk it out. From what Ben told me, it sounds like a great investment opportunity, and, as for myself, I’m all in. So come on, guys, this way: let’s sit down and have our talk.”

  They followed Rajiv to his office—just a desk and chairs with four-foot high white partitions around it. Rajiv led them in, had them take three chairs in front of the desk, while he took the seat behind, and when everyone was seated, he started off: “So—A car company, right? Is that what we’re gonna be investing in, Ben?”

  “Whoa!—That’s for you to decide, Rajiv. My job as a minority participant in the consortium is to bring the option to your attention; then your job is to decide if this kind of investment is right for you, once you evaluate the benefit and risk. And I’ll be happy to go over the potential benefits and risks for you and Alex, so—I gave you the fundamentals on the phone the other day, right? Have you run it by Alex yet?—Knowing Alex, I’m betting you’re probably going to tell me no.”