I don’t bother giving an answer. Then again, he doesn’t expect one.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A button is con man lingo for a way to blow off your mark. The word button comes from the term used to describe the gold shield that a cop flashes.
But to a con man, a button means something else. A button is when you have a fake cop arrive in the middle of your con in order to start asking questions, or even to make an arrest.
Buttons are used to end a con—to scare off your mark, to preempt him from going to the real police.
It’s much better to have a con end with an arrest by a fake cop, rather than with an arrest by a real cop. Trust me. I’ve done both. The fake cops are always easier to deal with.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Back in Palo Alto, I stop by the Bank of Northern California and open an account in the name of my company, newly incorporated in Delaware, Pythia Corporation. The account is empty save for one hundred dollars I transfer from my own personal checking account.
I arrive back at my apartment. I dial the phone number the Professor had handed me before I left him. A voice answers—Russian, familiar.
“Yes, hello?”
“Dmitri,” I say, “this is Kip Largo.”
“Yes,” he says.
“You remember me?” I say. “The one with the acid?”
“Yes.”
“I’m ready for the wire. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You have a pencil?”
“Yes.”
I reel off the new bank account number and wiring instructions. When I’m done, Dmitri says, “Six million will be there tomorrow. You have two months.”
“And then I get a chemical peel?”
“Yes.”
“You take care,” I say to Dmitri.
“Yes,” he says.
I hang up. At last, the con is on.
Three minutes later, my kitchen phone rings. I think it’s Dmitri, calling back to confirm the wiring instructions. I’m surprised to hear Toby’s voice instead.
“Dad?” he says.
“Toby!” I haven’t seen him since the day in the hospital. “How are you?”
“A lot better,” he says dreamily. “They have me on this medicine. It’s really nice.”
I’m about to say something snide, but I recall my son’s accusation that I always attack him. “Great,” I say. You’re hooked on Percodan? That’s fantastic, son!
“Mom says you want me to stay with you?”
“I would love that.”
“Can you pick me up at Mom’s?”
“Sure.” I think about it. “Is everything all right?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why are you calling? I mean, it’s great; I want you here. It’s just . . . out of character. Are you having problems getting along with Mom?”
“Yeah,” he says. He pauses. I picture his biting his lip, as he does when he thinks about something troubling. Finally he says, “I guess I just feel more comfortable over there. With you.”
It is these words—not Dmitri the Russian’s agreement to wire six million dollars into my bank account—that are surely the best thing I have heard since I woke this morning, so long ago.
PART TWO
THE MARK
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
On a Wednesday night in July, Ed Napier throws a party.
He rents the Hillsboro Aviation Museum—a converted hangar in a thumbnail airport, where old Zeros and Spitfires hang by steel cables from the ceilings, and where an earlier technology revolution is celebrated with light-box displays, walk-through wind tunnels, and photographs of the Wright brothers.
The party is meant to celebrate the launch of Napier’s venture capital firm, Argyle Partners. But what it really celebrates is how fabulous life has become, here on the Peninsula—where even the secretaries earn seventy grand, where college dropouts with a business plan can raise a million dollars after a five-minute lunch, where the only thing needed to get rich is a can-do attitude, and the belief that the Internet changes everything, a phrase that means both nothing and anything, but which has become, it seems, the official mantra of the state of California.
The party is also a celebration that Silicon Valley has arrived on the world stage, or at least that the rest of the world has arrived on our stage. Now, even people who have never used a computer—as Edward Napier proudly admitted to Forbes—have set up shop here, and have begun investing in technology companies. How does a man like Ed Napier choose where to invest his dollars, you may wonder, since he has no technical knowledge whatsoever? The answer is simple (as Napier explained to Forbes): Do the entrepreneurs in question understand that the Internet changes everything? Are they can-do guys? Do they have a vision?
Tonight, I have my own vision. It is: to unspool some line—just enough to snag our mark and begin to reel him in. I show up at the party with Jess Smith and Peter Room. Without much difficulty, we have managed to wangle invitations from Peter’s code warrior friends. It wasn’t hard—all of Silicon Valley has been invited: lawyers; entrepreneurs; engineers; journalists; PR flacks; even other, competitive, VCs. And why not? There’s plenty of wealth to go around. Competition and jealousy are so pre-boom; remnants of an old world that existed before the Internet changed everything.
Jess, Peter, and I each split up to cover the room. Peter and I are dressed in the Silicon Valley uniform: chinos and blue chambray shirts. I’ve asked Jess to wear something more provocative. She chooses a tight black dress, with a slit leg and plunging neckline. When I see her—particularly that flash of toned white thigh as she walks—my earlier doubts, that she could pull off a con, vanish.
The party sprawls across two stories, with a balcony that overlooks the hangar floor. In one corner a swing band plays, with an attractive blond singer and four men in porkpie hats swinging their brass instruments in unison. At each of the three other walls, crowds gather around the open bars. Drinks of choice tonight: cabernet for the men, chardonnay for the ladies. Real glassware, by the way—no chintzy plastic cups when Ed Napier foots the bill.
I see him at the far side of the room. He’s movie-star tall, dark, and handsome. Because of his tan—acquired racing his sloop in the Pacific, or vacationing in St. Bart’s—his teeth seem strangely white and sharp, like surgical instruments. He has pale blue eyes, which—even as he chats to a cluster of sycophants—predatorily sweep the room behind them, like a lion scanning the savannah.
“I think I know you,” a female voice says to me. I feel my testicles shrink: Could the con be blown already, before it even begins, because some snarky Wall Street Journal stringer recognizes me as the Diet Deck King?
I turn around to the voice. It’s Lauren Napier. She wears a navy dress, with her blond hair pulled back in an elaborate and sexy bun, held together with two ebony chopsticks. Her face has completely healed—no black eyes—or, if there are, they have been expertly covered with foundation.
“No, you don’t know me,” I say, as a piece of advice.
“What are you, exactly? A reporter? PR man?”
“I’m an entrepreneur,” I say proudly. I point to my chinos and chambray shirt. “Can’t you tell?”
“I thought entrepreneurs were all young and brilliant.”
“What makes you think I’m not young?”
We’re joined by a Chinese woman with a notepad and a microcassette recorder. “Ms. Napier,” she says, ignoring me. “I’m Jennifer H. Chin, Information 2.0.”
“How do you do?” Lauren Napier says.
“What do you think of the party your husband is throwing?”
“I think it’s fabulous,” Lauren Napier says, into the recorder, without missing a beat. “We’re just excited to be here, at the center of the technology revolution.”
“Is there any difference that you notice between Silicon Valley and Las Vegas?”
“Yes,” Lauren Napier says. “About fifteen degrees Fahrenhei
t.”
Jennifer H. Chin laughs and scribbles the line in her pad. Finally, she turns to me. “And you are?” she says. Over her shoulder, I see Jess walking past Ed Napier. She wiggles her ass like a fly-fishing lure and heads to the nearby bar. I watch Napier’s glance follow her.
“Franklin Edison,” I say. “My company is called Pythia.”
“Has Ed Napier invested in your company?” Jennifer H. Chin asks.
“Not yet,” I say. “But we’re hopeful.”
“And what does your company do?”
Ed Napier says something to the gaggle of fans that seem to hang on his every word. Two of the young men—swarthy, geeky, probably Indian engineers—smile and nod enthusiastically at him, as if he’s Ganesh imparting the secret of karma. Ed Napier gives his own thousand-watt smile, shakes a hand or two, and then walks away to the bar, toward Jess.
“What do we do?” I repeat, as if the notion that a company needs to do something is hopelessly outmoded. I stare at Jennifer H. Chin. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”
“Stealth mode?” she says knowingly.
“Yes,” I say. “It’s very top secret. But I know for a fact that we are going to change the world.”
“Can I quote you on that?”
“No.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
She is nonplussed. Apparently in her vast twenty-month career as a journalist, no one has ever refused to be quoted. She doesn’t know what to do.
I say helpfully, “Maybe if you give me your card, I’ll call you when I’m allowed to talk.”
“Would you?” she says. Her eyes light up. Maybe the flabby old guy has a good story, after all. “I would appreciate that.”
“My pleasure,” I say. She hands me a business card. I pretend to examine it carefully. I stick it in my chinos pocket. Later, it will prove a convenient place to deposit used chewing gum.
“I need to go now,” I say, mysteriously. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Chin.” I turn to Lauren Napier. “And nice to meet you, too, uh . . .”
“Lauren,” she says.
“Lauren,” I say.
Lauren Napier says, “Nice to meet you.” She shakes my hand. “Good luck with whatever you’re doing. I hope it’ll change my world.”
I smile and leave her alone with Jennifer H. Chin, to answer the reporter’s insightful questions about how parties differ between Las Vegas and Silicon Valley.
I head to the bar where Jess is waiting for a drink. In front of me, Ed Napier snakes his way through the crowd, ignoring well-wishers, trying to edge closer to her. He’s a coonhound on the hunt, and the scent of Jess’s booty is irresistible to him. Finally, when he is a foot behind her, he reaches out and taps her shoulder. Jess turns. Her reaction is perfect: a brief flash of annoyance—that some clown is trying to pick her up; then an instant of recognition; and a pleased smile.
I’m close enough now to hear their conversation over the noise of the swing music. “I noticed you were heading to the bar. Can I offer you a drink?” Ed Napier says.
“I’m having wine,” Jess says.
“Allow me.” Napier waves two fingers, slightly, to get the attention of the barman. He says, “Two chardonnays.”
“Right away, Mr. Napier,” the bartender says.
Napier takes the chardonnays and extricates himself from the crowd. He cocks his head for Jess to follow.
Now they stand ten yards from me.
“I think I’ve seen you somewhere before,” Napier says. He has that loud, booming voice that all rich people have: It says I’m going to talk and you’re going to hear me, whether or not you volunteer.
“I doubt it,” Jess says.
Napier holds out his hand. “Ed Napier.” They shake.
“Jessica Smith.”
“Pleased to meet you, Ms. Smith. What do you do?”
“Marketing.”
“Ah,” he says, as if that explains everything: why she’s pretty, and why she’s here. “What company?”
“Pythia.”
“Pythia? I haven’t heard of that one. What do you do?”
“I could tell you,” Jess purrs, “but then I’d have to kill you.”
“I see. Not even a hint?”
“Massively parallel computing.”
“Sounds good to me,” he says. “You looking for funding?”
“Are you offering?”
He shrugs, as if considering the possibility of picking up the check at Denny’s. “Sure. Why not?”
Jess pretends to notice me for the first time. “Speak of the devil. There he is. Franklin! Come here.” She waves me over. “Ed, this is my partner, Franklin Edison.”
I walk over, shake Ed’s hand. “How do you do.”
Napier says, “Mr. Edison. Your partner won’t tell me what you do, but it sounds fascinating.”
I glare at Jess. “My partner talks a little too much,” I say.
Jess looks down at the ground.
“She didn’t say anything, really,” Napier assures me.
Jess says to me, as if apologizing, “Mr. Napier says he’s interested in talking about funding us.” When she says the word funding, it drips with innuendo.
“Really,” I say. I turn to Jess. “Can I talk to you for a second?” Before she can agree, I grab her arm, a bit too hard, and lead her five feet from Napier. He’s watching our little tête-à-tête. I whisper to her, “What did we agree? No outsiders.”
“But he has money.”
“We don’t need it,” I say. “Not yet.”
She makes a face: that I’m wrong, but it’s no use trying to convince me. Not here, not now. I lead her back to Napier. “Sorry,” I say. “I guess we crossed some wires. We’re not really looking for any outside funding at the moment.”
Napier shrugs. “That’s fine. If you change your mind . . .” He produces a business card from his pocket and hands it to Jess. “Call anytime. Be sure to tell my assistant who you are. She’ll put you right through.”
“Thank you,” Jess says.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me. It seems I’m wanted.”
He looks over at the corner of the room where the musicians stand. They’ve stopped playing, and the blond singer is holding the microphone out, in Napier’s direction.
Some voices from the crowd say, “Come on, Ed, speech! Speech.”
Napier leaves us and makes his way to the far side of the room. He climbs on the raised platform, takes the microphone from the singer. He taps it twice. The speakers pop—pop.
He says into the mike, “Hello?” His voice echoes from the amplifier, a warm honeyed baritone.
He smiles radiantly. The crowd cheers.
“I’m glad you could all come tonight. I understand that as soon as I sent out the invitations to this party, a mysterious European competitor sent out invitations to its own party, to be held tonight—and they’re offering twenty-five percent more alcohol than I am!”
The audience laughs.
Napier pauses, scans the faces in the crowd. He continues: “Well it looks like I’ve won at least one bidding war.” More cheers. The drummer in the porkpie hat gives a rim shot. The crowd laughs.
“I promised my wife, no speech today,” Napier says. “So I just want everyone to enjoy themselves. You’re going to hear a lot about my firm, Argyle Partners, in the future. Now that we’ve conquered Las Vegas, we’re here to conquer . . . excuse me, invest in, Silicon Valley. We’re going to invest in great companies. Companies that change the world!”
More cheers. Napier raises his fist in a little self-deprecating salute. He hands the microphone back to the blonde. The band strikes up “When the Saints Go Marching In.” I’m not sure if the irony of associating Napier—a Las Vegas gambling magnate with connections to the underworld—with sainthood is apparent to the band, or anyone else in the room. Or maybe it is, and the open bar helps everyone overlook it. Napier skips off the platform merrily and is immediately mobbed by well-wishers. That’
s what having a few billion dollars can do: turn you into a movie star.
Jess turns to me. “How’d I do?”
“I’d say he’s hooked. Now we just reel him in.”
But she’s looking at me, and I know immediately what she’s thinking. Nothing goes this easily. When things go too easily, it’s a warning. To run like hell.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
We’ve set up our office in an industrial park near the salt ponds at the foot of the Dumbarton Bridge. We have seven thousand square feet of space. You may think that seven thousand square feet is too large for a company of three people. But if you think like that, my friend, then you do not have the proper can-do spirit that is required to change the world.
It has taken us seven days to set up a fully functioning office. This is one of the miracles of the Valley: that there are hundreds of companies whose job is solely to set up other companies. All you need is a bank account. Then you make a phone call and say: “Please create my company.” Within days, your company has sprung to life like a giant fungus that explodes, one rainy night, from an invisible spore.
So: The real estate agent finds us space near the Dumbarton. The office was previously occupied by a biotech company that itself moved into larger offices that were previously occupied by an Internet shoe retailer. Where did the Internet shoe retailer go? I ask the real estate agent, as we drive along Bayfront Expressway to see our office for the first time.
“Where did it go?” the agent repeats, as if I asked him to answer an impenetrable riddle. “What do you mean?”
This sums up the difference between the New Economy and the Old Economy. In the Old Economy, of which I am a proud card-carrying member, every winner creates a loser. Every new office tenant requires an old tenant to leave, to disappear, to die. In the New Economy, there are no losers. Nothing is finite. Not only can you have a free lunch; you can also have free breakfast and dinner. And a cappuccino with that, too.
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