by Bill Capron
Dick Kaye leaned into the table, reducing the distance between him and his putative future boss. “Donald, Robin’s right. He’s down to ceremonial duties, figurehead stuff.”
The diminutive King pounded the table, but the effort looked staged, the effect comical. “That’s not what your customers think. Robin Morgan is FindIt. If he goes, so does an important piece of the business.”
An awkward silence engulfed the room while the receptionist positioned a luncheon tray of sandwiches and salad. Robin used the occasion to disengage. “Let’s take five, and then see if we can get this back on track.”
He opened a diet Coke and avoided the food, returning to his seat. His gaze stopped at Dick Kaye, his strong right hand since before the move to Portland. Dick’s past included its own Mona, a girl who latched like a lamprey to his bank account. He got free in six months, but it cost him assets twenty years in the building. He’d landed on his feet with FindIt.
Once bitten, Dick had vowed to stay single, but was married again in less than a year. Jackie was almost as pretty as Donna, but unlike her predecessor, her main purpose in life was her husband. They were well matched A-type personalities who wanted the same things out of life. Robin trusted Dick like a brother, and rewarded him with twenty percent of the business.
Kathy Senn sat to Dick’s right. She was the same height as Dick, five-eight, and as intense. At thirty-five, she was one of those people who got better looking every year. She’d been with Robin for eight years, through Rebecca’s death and Mona’s infidelity. She was loyal without any perceptible bound. She had earned her ten percent of the company.
Kathy and Robin carried on a wonderfully platonic non-relationship. Wonderful from his point of view, less so from Kathy’s. He knew she’d been in love with him a long time. Now with the imminent departure of Mona, he figured Kathy to take one more shot. He believed she was afraid that when the sale was done, he was gone forever. She was right.
Robin Morgan wanted out. FindIt’s market was softening. He saw the telltale signs of slackening growth, and the company was being deluged by competition for the first time since its inception. Imitation might be the sincerest form of flattery, but right now wasn’t the best timing. He might have to roll up his sleeves and work hard again, but his heart wasn’t in it. The current offer from King was fair, now they had to get it closed, but that didn’t mean he was going to let Donald King roll him over.
Dick, too, was anxious to be done with it. He wanted a VP position with King, Inc., a major high-tech growth company and a stock market darling. He felt the asking price in a tentative market was high, and proposed lowering it. Robin said that was a slippery slope he didn’t want to start down.
Kathy agreed the market was soft, but she thought FindIt would dominate to become even more valuable. Behind closed doors she and Dick fought over their competing visions, while Robin refereed. One more reason to be gone.
Robin switched his attention to the buyer. Donald King was a grasper, but Robin wasn’t sure what he was grasping for. Maybe it was fame, purchased fame, as King bought his way into charity golf events, political friendships, Asian art, sports franchises and antique cars; but that was a symptom; it was the power, an infinitely larger version of what Robin was trying to shed.
Donald King had a market inflated net worth of over three billion dollars. He was the latest in a long line of techno wizards riding the NASDAQ wave, precariously, but not without his own unique brand of arrogance. Robin knew it couldn’t last; the man was incapable of delegating as the company ballooned beyond his ability to manage it. King’s plan was to grow through acquisition, but to Robin it was growth through chaos; and King wouldn’t have a clue that the company was financially bleeding to death until it stopped growing. Then it would be too late. But that was a year or two away, and by then Robin would be free of his King stock.
Donald King, a thirty-one year-old Jewish man-boy right out of a Philip Roth novel, would never be happy with his station in life, so he grasped for Robin’s company, the twentieth such acquisition in the last year. But King couldn’t leave it at that; he had to tell Robin his stuff was better. Robin was waiting for King to say he valued his junk too dearly, though not so bluntly.
He doesn’t want you, he’s jiggering down the cost. Call him on it. Robin pressed a finger to his lips, waited for King’s eyes to meet his. “Is that what it takes to get full price, Don? You want me back at it hard for the next year? You want me on the King team? Maybe even on the Board?”
It was the right step. King didn’t really want him, didn’t particularly like him, and he definitely didn’t want him on the Board. He backpedaled; “Well, maybe a year’s not enough,” but Robin’s offer took the edge of arrogance off his voice.
Robin turned to his CEO. “You think Dick wants to play second fiddle for a year,” he paused for effect, “or some indefinite longer period?”
King played with a cuff link.
Robin knew King wanted Dick on his team; he spoke at Dick, “We’d rather walk away. Right, Dick?”
Dick was up to the game. He leaned his elbows on the table and talked through steepled fingers. “Yes, Robin, we’d have to walk away.”
Robin leaned back in his chair, putting distance between himself and the erstwhile owner. He pointed his index finger. “Don, I’m done with the business. Whether you go through with the deal or not, Dick and Kathy will be running the FindIt. If not for you, then for themselves.” He said it like it was the end of the discussion, but he knew the topic was far from dead.
He watched Kathy. Yes, she wanted to blow the sale out of the water, but he trusted her loyalty to control the urge. She said, “Donald, let me and your financial guys get our heads together a little more and see if we can sharpen our pencils.”
FindIt’s lawyer, Robert Wallace added, “Yes, Donald, let’s take a day to rethink our positions. I’ve got to get with Winstem’s anyway and revise some of the documents. It’s getting to that time where we should fish or cut bait.”
Robin agreed; “It’s now or never, Don. The ball’s in your court. Let’s shoot for next week. If we don’t get it done, we’ll shake hands and part friends.”
King had the look of a man who’d been hustled, and he didn’t like it. After all, he was the billionaire, the eight hundred pound gorilla at the table. His brain’s working played out on his face, saying I’m not done yet.
Robin Morgan knew that. He got up, nodded to King and left.
~ ~ ~
Robin propped his feet up on the desk in his temporary office and reminisced. It didn’t feel like his company any longer. He was already out of the loop; all he needed was his walking papers. He’d been at it ten years, starting in San Francisco with an idea to streamline the capital acquisition process. He recalled the first years when failure loomed a couple times a month. He was so buried in the detail, he didn’t notice when success arrived, but suddenly they were in the chips, and the rest of the world agreed they had a great idea.
Then, like some kind of anti-capitalist punishment, California denied FindIt the tax benefits of its accumulated losses because the state needed the money. He and Rebecca decided it was time to go …
There was a knock on the door; it swung open to Robert Wallace with Dick and Kathy. Robin waved them in, reluctantly. They took chairs facing him.
The attorney opened; “We’ve sent Donald King and the Kinglets home. Kathy’s meeting the finance guy tomorrow, and next week we close in Chicago.” His words sounded more wistful than certain.
Kathy blurted, “Robin, we have to consider what to do if the buyout doesn’t fly.”
Dick didn’t wait for Robin’s response; “We have to move forward like it’s going to happen. If we start planning for failure, we might as well kill the deal right now.”
Kathy pointed a finger at Dick but kept her eyes on Robin. She countered, “If we can’t afford a little caution, then yes, we should stop it right now. If it doesn’t happen, we still have to run the
business.”
Rebecca would have agreed with Kathy; she called it cautious pessimism. Robin wasn’t made that way. Still? He asked Dick, “How much have we invested in this so far?”
Dick opened his folder. “Legal and other outside expenses, we’re in for about two hundred grand; and another hundred to wrap it up.”
Robin’s black eyes locked onto Kathy’s. “We go forward, Kathy, but Dick will look at a contingency plan for if the bottom falls out.”
He turned to Dick. “Nothing too elaborate, couple of pages.”
Dick gave up with a sigh; arguing against a contingency plan was too much like arguing against motherhood. “I’ll modify the one we did in April.”
Robin nodded. “That’ll be fine.”
Kathy accepted her little victory and changed the subject; “How did Channel 2 find out about the sale? It’s complicating our dealings with King. Now that it’s public, he wants to be doubly sure he’s getting a good deal. He doesn’t want to be second guessed before the deal’s even closed, and –”
Dick finished the sentence for her; “– and now he’s playing to an audience, so we’ve got to deal with his ego.”
Robert Wallace answered Kathy’s question; “I got it from the station manager, off the record, Mona let it slip to one of their reporters. We don’t know the circumstances.”
Robin laughed. “No, we don’t know the circumstances, but we can guess.”
Dick was less understanding; “You should kick her butt, Robin.”
Robin dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “Hey, Mona will be Mona, nothing I can do to change that. Anyway, she’s not exactly a business guru, Dick.”
Kathy took a gratuitous jab; “That’s true, but it won’t stop her from taking her three million.”
Robin’s smile was kinder than the words; “That’s not your problem. If three million is all it costs me to be rid of her, then I’m glad to be worth less.”
The lawyer asked, “Any chance King knows about the divorce?”
Robin’s response was immediate; “No, Robert, and he’s not going to. My private life is not going to be a bargaining chip. We’ve told him all we’re going to tell him.”
Robin repressed a welling up of queasy panic. He couldn’t wait to be disengaged from FindIt. In fact, he was already living in the future, or had been until December. He worked until noon and took the rest of the day building a life. Everyone told him it would be hard to cut loose from the business, but they were wrong; he was ready. Then came the buyout. He wanted Dick to handle it all, but as the majority stockholder he was the key player; and, reluctantly, he was immersed again.
The long days brought back memories of San Francisco when the company lived and died on every check; and Rebecca’s regular salary carried them through the tough times. She was his infrastructure, managing his finances and life, while he managed the business. Together they got over the bumps.
Then she was killed in a car crash in the fog outside Sacramento, like a last vengeful stick in the eye from California. She was one of ten dead in the chain reaction accident, a name listed in the newspaper, unknown outside of a small circle of friends and the man who loved her. Robin recalled the reporter who came to their flat, to do an up close and personal; he’d reacted badly.
Robin thought of Rebecca every morning when he woke up, alone. The wonder was that he’d almost forgotten he was ever married. Mona was a mistake, but like that last bad hole in a round of golf, she was already gone. Mona wasn’t in his history any longer, a history defined by the time with Rebecca, and the time without.
He pulled open the right hand drawer on his desk, and searched until he found it, the snapshot of the two of them in Toronto. They’d almost drowned in the rental sailboat during a thunderstorm. A tear worked its way down his cheek. He wiped it away and moved the picture to his wallet.
~ ~ ~
The handsome black woman filled Robin’s cup. “You expecting someone, Mr. Morgan?”
“Yes, why don’t you bring two more setups, Marta.”
As she put down the silverware, he asked, “So, Marta, I’ve been meaning to ask for a long time, how does a black woman get the name Marta?”
She looked around as if for approval, but I was the only customer. She sat down after casting a nasty look at the cook/owner of restaurant. She laughed. “You’re the first person who’s ever asked.” I motioned her on. “My dad used to smoke Chesterfield cigarettes. He saw an ad with some woman named Marta Toren. She was a vamping B-movie actress starring in ‘Deported’ back in 1950, the big year of my conception. He took my mother to the drive-in and the rest was history. I asked about my name when I was ten. They hemmed and hawed. Three years later my mom told me.”
“You ever see the movie.”
“Yeah, wanted to add it to my history.”
Robin smiled. “It’s nice to have a history.”
She reached over and patted his hand. “Everybody has a history, Mr. Morgan.” She got up when the door opened to three men. Two waved at Robin and took the chairs at the table. The other took a seat at the far end of the room.
Canby Carter said, “Don’t you get tired of this place. God, it’s almost like being a cop again. Hole in the wall restaurants with no atmosphere.”
“Hey, the food’s good, and the waitress knows my name.”
Peter Zov, a thirty year-old psychotherapist, added, “Yeah, that’s because you’re the only customer.”
Robin tapped his watch. “It’s eight and they close in half an hour. So order.”
Robin and Canby ordered hamburgers with various degrees of added fat while Peter asked for a fruit salad. He said, “What’s with the cholesterol?” He pounded his chest. “You have to clear those damn arteries.”
“Everybody’s got to die of something.” Canby pointed at the picture of his hamburger. “It even looks like cop food.”
Right on cue three cops came in. They talked to the owner before they took a seat. Robin noticed the man at the far table turn his chair away from them. Criminal behavior. And one of the cops took notice. Mind your own business.
Peter asked, “And you don’t like cop food?”
“No, I love it, but never cared much for the ambiance.”
Robin asked, “So after you got your law degree and became a DA, did you eat at better places?”
Canby shook his head. “No.” He held a hand up and made a circle to take the room in. “These little eateries are addictive. Even more so in Boston. Ugly and addictive.”
Peter asked, “So why did you leave?”
“My dad died and left me money. Decided I should get a new life. This was about as far as I could get. I landed a prosecutor job with the city. I even stopped eating in holes in the wall, until I met Robin, that is.”
Robin wondered aloud, “And you end up in Vancouver. Weren’t the bad guys in Seattle up to snuff?”
“They were, but I was done dealing with crooks. And I wasn’t meant to be on any side of criminal law anymore.”
Robin shrugged. “So what are you going to do?”
“I have all I need in the bank. I’ll concentrate on my running and think about a job later.”
Marta brought their plates. “You guys better chow down, fill those tanks for the big run.”
Peter said, “They’ll never get up to speed with all that fat in them.”
She laughed. “Well a skinny little thing like you don’t need so much.”
Robin pointed a finger at Peter. “He runs like the wind, Marta. Come September we’ll be a good forty-five minutes behind him.”
Peter joked, “You wish.”
Canby laughed. “Peter will be asleep in his bed an hour before I finish.”
Peter answered, “Well, run faster.”
Canby, the slowest of the three, whined; “Yeah, right. Keeping up with you guys means I get to concentrate on one thing, breathing, right after I toss my cookies.”
Robin, Canby and Peter comprised three members of a fivesome
training for the Portland Marathon. In another nine hours they’d be sweating through a fourteen mile workout. Robin first met Canby and Peter at a fishing club meeting. Canby had been in the process of moving from Seattle. The lawyer was twice married but now single, with roots in Boston and an accent to match. Peter Zov was also a transplant by way of Seattle. He too had a New England accent, but much more subtle. Robin hadn’t asked where he was from because they weren’t that close; mostly because Robin had made judgmental comments about Peter’s profession, the witchcraft of psychotherapy. Of late they avoided the topic and stuck to fishing and running.
They formed their marathon clique during that first meeting. The next day they were off and running. Then Peter added a woman he’d met in the city. So they became a foursome, one of hundreds of training groups throughout the area. Two weeks later they added a fifth, another group-less runner befriended by Peter.
They talked about fishing while they ate. It was after eight-thirty as they were leaving. More customers straggled in from the movie theater two blocks over. Even though eight-thirty was closing time, the restaurant didn’t shut the doors until there was no more business to be had.
Canby shook himself like a dog as the cold rain hit his face. “I must be nuts running with your guys.”
Peter said, “We always hang back for the first eight miles.”
“Yeah, probably afraid I’m going to quit on you.”
Peter nodded. “And it lets Robin charge his batteries to keep up with Carla and me.”
Robin shook his head. “I’m not in your class, Peter. Nor Carla’s.”
~ ~ ~
Robin stayed in front of Peter Zov’s SUV until they crossed the Interstate Bridge where Peter exited at Delta Park. He was mentally preparing for the wet workout. The runs were beyond grueling, but he wanted to do well in what he planned on being his last marathon. His previous marathons in Seattle and Los Angeles started with strong first half times, but his feet eventually gave out carrying two hundred and ten pounds.
