Terminal Value

by Thomas Waite

  “Well, Hyperfōn is my division’s biggest client.”

  “Don’t worry,” Tony said, reaching over and patting him on the shoulder. “We’ll settle him down, no problem. Trust me. It’ll be a piece of cake.”

  Joe Ferrano came around the corner. The CEO of Hyperfōn carried his early fifties with dignity. He kept his dark hair cropped short; his steel blue eyes bore into every person he met with an intensity and interest that spoke volumes. At six feet four inches tall, he carried his taut body like a professional boxer, strong and determined. His entire appearance was a study in confidence, and yet his demeanor was warm and friendly.

  “Hi, guys, good to see you,” he said, shaking their hands. “Come on in.”

  Tony and Dylan followed Joe across the open space towards his office. They walked past the twenty employees, most of them glued to their computer screens. This was one aspect of Hyperfōn’s distinct advantage. A small company with very little overhead was about to change the way people viewed smartphones forever. The inexpensive price tag assigned to the product would undercut their bigger competitors, with their massive buildings, elaborate distribution systems, exclusive contracts, and enormous executive salaries.

  For the next hour, the three of them hovered around the conference table in Joe’s austere office and reviewed every detail for Hyperfōn’s impending launch. By ten o’clock, with all questions asked and answered, Joe cocked an astute eye at Dylan.

  “So, how’s life at Mantric treating you?”

  “Great, Joe. It’s as if nothing’s changed.”

  “Yeah,” added Tony, “except now we’ve got the technological resources to guarantee Hyperfōn will stay in front of the competition for years.”

  “Well, boys, that’s nice to hear,” said Joe, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair. “Our advertising campaign starts at the end of the week, which means we’re about to spend a hell of a lot of our venture capital money.”

  “I know, Joe,” Dylan said, smiling. “And we’re ready for the launch. You’re going to blow the doors off this market. And then you’re going to be seen as the greatest mobile genius since Steve Jobs. We can’t wait to see it happen.”

  Joe leaned forward and stared into Dylan’s eyes. “Launching the marketing campaign is only the beginning, Dylan. What concerns me is how important I’m going to be to you once it is up and running. We’re going to need a lot of help figuring out what’s working and what isn’t. Screwing that up could make or break us.”

  “We know that, Joe,” said Tony. “And that’s why I’m here. I wanted to personally reassure you I’m not going to take my eyes off the ball. Not for a minute.”

  “So, does that mean I can count on you to stay personally involved in this project?”

  “Absolutely!”

  Dylan shifted uneasily in his chair. He knew Joe was especially fond of Tony, but Tony was walking a fine line. His new responsibilities at Mantric wouldn’t allow him to spend the same kind of time he had on Hyperfōn in the past. His mind went back to the conversation the previous evening, when Tony talked about his two new projects. In order to succeed, Tony would have to drop some projects or delegate. On the other hand, if Tony could attend all the key meetings with Joe, that might be enough. After all, the critical work was really in the hands of the mobile application developers now. And they’d assigned their very best to Hyperfōn.

  “What about you, Dylan?” Joe asked. “How do I know you’re not going to be preoccupied with your own IPO? When I heard the IPO had been moved up to May, I figured you’d be taking off just about when we launch.”

  So that was what had triggered Joe’s anxiety. Dylan took a deep breath. “Joe, we may be owned by Mantric, but you’re MobiCelus’s flagship client. Without you, we wouldn’t have become the success we did. I owe you this one.”

  Joe got up and paced his office. “You know, that sounds great. That really does. But the fact is, I haven’t seen much of you guys lately.”

  “Matt Smith has been managing the launch,” Dylan said cautiously, “and we meet with him constantly. And Rob has remained involved as well.”

  “Matt’s good. In fact, he’s very good. But I’ve been around the block a few times, guys. I know what happens in business when companies get bought. I know about Art Williams and his reputation. Promises get broken because the people who made them have new bosses. Personal integrity goes out the window when big money comes in the door. I’ve got a lot of good people out there who have been working their asses off for me for practically nothing. They get paid peanuts, and hell, even the secretary owns a bunch of stock. They’re like family to me. I owe them everything, and I want to be damn sure they get the riches they deserve.” Joe stopped his pacing and looked directly from Dylan to Tony. “So tell me. Do I have your personal guarantee to help me make that happen?”

  Dylan composed himself, stood up, and tried not to think of the fact that he was already pretty stretched. The important thing was that the Hyperfōn work would be done—and done by the best. He could put the IPO aside; he would figure out how to make it all work. “You have my word, Joe. We’re gonna help you rock the world and nuke your competition.”

  Joe paused for a moment and then laughed. “I’m a pacifist, Dylan, so I’ll just stick with rocking the world. What about you, Tony?”

  Tony stood up as well. “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss this revolution for anything!”

  “All right then. Just keep your heads firmly attached to your shoulders—all right?”

  “We will,” Tony and Dylan said in unison.

  “Well, thanks for coming by, boys,” he said shaking their hands. “And I look forward to seeing you both again real soon.”

  Tony and Dylan left Joe’s office and walked back across the open space. As the elevator doors closed, Tony turned to Dylan and grinned.

  “See what I mean? Piece of cake.”

  But something in his tone raised a concern in Dylan’s mind. He mulled over Joe’s cryptic comment about Art Williams. A sideways glance told him Tony apparently thought nothing of it. Dylan realized this was a situation to keep a close eye on.

  * * *

  April 6, 11:45 a.m. Boston

  Dylan and Tony drove separately to MobiCelus’s former headquarters. Dylan headed across the Fort Point Channel towards the converted warehouse, not far from what was now the booming seaport area of the city. He pulled into his parking space in the garage, entered the old freight elevator, and hit the button for the fourth floor. The elevator jumped and then slowly creaked its way up. Dylan marveled at the difference between this elevator and the one at Mantric’s office in Manhattan, and yet he felt a comfortable closeness with this old one. He knew that once the lease was up, Mantric would dump this property. He already missed the slow churning of the elevator.

  The smell of fresh paint lingered in the building, a reminder of the cosmetic revamping that had occurred in the weeks following the acquisition. More vivid reminders were the new faces that ignored him as he crossed the floor.

  Dylan walked past Tony’s workspace—a jumble of computers, mobile devices, and assorted electronic toys scattered everywhere. That at least was the same, but only because Tony had no interest in redecorating it.

  Dylan turned the corner. “Hey, Dylan,” Sarah Forrester called from her new desk outside his office. “Christine wants to see you. Pronto.” Before the acquisition, Sarah had been receptionist, office manager, and support person for all four MobiCelus partners. Now she was Dylan and Rob’s personal assistant in the Boston office. Even though Rob had technically moved over to Mantric and had a New York office, he retained an office in Boston.

  “Thanks.” Dylan sat at his desk and turned on his computer. As he waited for it to boot up, he checked his voice-mail on the speakerphone.

  “Good morning, Mr. Johnson,” said a chipper female voice. “This is Arlene calling for Ms. Rohnmann. She would like to see you at your earliest convenience.”

  “Hello, Mr
. Johnson. This is Arlene again. Ms. Rohnmann asked me to give you another call.”

  “Hi again, Mr. Johnson—”

  “I told her you were at a meeting,” said Sarah, leaning on the office door and smiling.

  Dylan returned a wry smile. “Have we received the itinerary for the road show yet?”

  “Nope.”

  “Okay. Why don’t you call Arlene and tell her to tell Christine I’m in and will be over shortly.” Christine Rohnmann also kept an office in Boston—another part of the transition.

  “Have you been a bad boy?” Sarah asked with a grin. “She seems mighty impatient.”

  “She just wants to talk about the road show.”

  Sarah sighed and shook her Gibson-girl head. “You really need to get a life, Dylan.”

  * * *

  April 6, 2:00 p.m. Boston

  Christine Rohnmann’s home page, always set on CNBC, flickered as charts neatly tracked the daily fluctuations of the NASDAQ and the performance of Mantric’s competitors. Christine multitasked in a myriad of ways, primarily by keeping watch on the incoming messages during meetings in her office while asking detailed questions of those in attendance. And she was infamous for keeping a close eye on the firm’s employees’ personal as well as professional lives.

  Christine thrived in her role as CFO. She had dived into the furor of the past three months with relish. She led the effort to register Mantric with the Securities and Exchange Commission, and after submitting it to the SEC, she had responded to a large number of questions and requests for revisions. This action had chewed up valuable time, as their technology sector of the stock market was the one hot spot. She enjoyed being in the spotlight, and she let everyone know that complications such as being required to spend valuable time in Boston, working with the menial Rich Linderman on the acquisition, did not please her.

  As Dylan walked across the open space, he had a good view of Christine through the new glass wall of her office—glass walls designed to represent fiscal transparency and unity with the employees on the floor, yet maintaining a distinct separation. As Dylan watched her expressionless face staring at the huge LCD display in front of her, tapping the lethal fake nails of her left hand on her desk, he could not help but think transparency was not the picture. Dylan rapped on the glass door and entered as she looked up and waved him in.

  He was uncomfortable with this new office style, which was so out of character for MobiCelus. Christine had done the room over in steel and glass, giving it a sense of ice. She then covered every available surface with stacks of papers, spreadsheets, and notes. The shelves on the side walls overflowed with binders, and more stacks of papers were piled high on top.

  “Morning, Christine,” said Dylan, mustering up civility.

  “Have a seat,” said Christine, pointing to a hard-backed chair on the far side of her desk.

  Dylan settled into his chair as a winter-like chill washed over him. “You’ve made some interesting changes to your office,” he said, attempting to start a conversation.

  Christine neither nodded nor shook her head, an ingrained habit of hers. “I hope you’re not planning on starting all of your conversations today like that.”

  Dylan smiled. He found Christine’s abrasiveness odd but refused to let it bother him. Through his acquaintance with her over the past few months, he realized she used that technique with everyone, to get them on the defensive and off balance. She was the polar opposite of the affable Art, and together they formed a corporate good cop/bad cop team. The trick was not to accept her terms.

  “I had a meeting with your people here this morning in preparation for the road show.”

  Dylan sat back and wrinkled his brow. While it wasn’t his company anymore, being kept out of the loop just didn’t sit right. It was still his division. “Well, Christine, I’d appreciate it if next time you want to communicate with my division about any issue, you’d work through me.” He silently wondered if she was still angry about the incident with Rich several months ago.

  “You were out of your office.”

  “I’m often out of my office, Christine. It’s part of my job.” Christine raised her eyes, but not her head. Dylan felt the room closing in on him. “What can I help you with?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “We’ve decided to limit the road show to only Art, myself, and Sandeep—with our support staff, of course.”

  “What?” Dylan responded, shocked. Even though they had never discussed the road show except in the abstract, he had always assumed he’d be part of it. “Are you serious?”

  “I’m sure you were hoping to go with us, but we don’t want you distracted from running our mobile computing division. The last thing we can afford is to stumble while we’re out selling ourselves to investors.” She continued to watch the scrolling information on the screen.

  “But, Christine,” Dylan protested, “a huge piece of what makes us attractive to investors is our mobile computing business. And the MobiCelus reputation is an important asset for our offering. I really need to be there.”

  “Our success isn’t going to be determined by just our IPO. We need you and your team to make sure our numbers continue to improve so our stock value will go up over the long run.” She did not raise her eyes toward him but kept her famous multitasking activities moving.

  Dylan struggled to maintain his composure while his anger seethed just under the surface. His numbers were fine, and taking ten days to go on the road wouldn’t be a problem. Christine was wrong. Showcasing their phenomenal mobile computing expertise and clients was absolutely critical to the stock offering. “Christine, you can’t do this. You know how important our expertise will be seen on the street. Given the acquisition of MobiCelus, I think people will be really surprised not to see me there. Besides, who the hell else is going to describe our work?”

  “Art will handle that,” Christine said. “And he’ll need you to help get him prepared.” She stared at him for just a moment, then her eyes returned to the charts flicking along the bottom of the screen.

  Dylan felt the blood rising above his collar, and his anger surged. “Art knows nothing about mobile computing—absolutely nothing. As one of the world’s foremost experts in this field, I have proven myself many times over. This is an incredibly stupid decision.” For the first time since selling his firm, Dylan knew he didn’t like having a boss. “Art will get slaughtered if he can’t answer a tough question.”

  “You don’t think Art can handle it?” Christine stopped multitasking and looked up at him, a glimmer of a smile curling her lips.

  The moment she asked it, Dylan knew it was a loaded question. He refused to answer it. “I guarantee you my going on the road show won’t impact my division at all. And it’ll do great things for our IPO.”

  “I’m sorry.” Christine returned her attention to her computer monitor and tapped at the keyboard. “Art and I talked it over. The decision is final.”

  Dylan stared at her and then turned his attention toward the window. He took a deep breath. “I’m asking you to think about it for a couple of days. Let me talk to Art—”

  “There’s no point,” she countered, her deadly nails continuing to tap on the keyboard. “He wants you to help him get prepared, and he wants you to continue to focus on your division. The road show is at the end of this month, so you’ll need to have some intense meetings with Art. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  Dylan was being cut out of the game, and he didn’t like it. “Jesus, Christine. This is just stupid.”

  Christine didn’t say anything. She sat across from him. Staring. Silent. Smiling.

  Dylan stared back. “You’re making a mistake. A big mistake.” He shook his head. “But Art’s the boss. I’ll pull together some material for him. But don’t blame me if he gets blindsided by a technical question he can’t answer.”

  “That’s just it, Dylan. I will blame you,” Christine said, standing up. “Thank you, Dylan.” She held out a hand.


  Dylan did not take it. “I’m returning to New York.” He felt her stare burning into his back as he turned to leave the office.

  “Have a safe trip,” Christine said, and returned her attention to the computer.

  Dylan walked out of the office in a daze.

  * * *

  April 6, 4:00 p.m. Boston

  Dylan’s mind replayed the meeting with Christine over and over. His anger continued to rise. He paced back and forth in the elevator as it climbed up two floors to the nerd herd, where he sought out Tony. There was no mistaking this was where the technologists liked to hang out. The open space found on the other floors wasn’t open here at all. Clutter defined the area, with boxes piled against walls and chairs, bookshelves in a state of disarray, small mechanical devices in various states of creation spread everywhere—a hoarder’s paradise. Most boxes were unopened and contained computers, assorted cell phones, smartphone components, plasma screens, routers, printers, and other equipment. The rest were empty pizza boxes. By the elevator, a poster showed a man dressed in a suit in a circle with a slash painted over it.

  Dylan walked towards Tony’s office. As he turned the corner, a small, silver robotic dog bounced off his right foot.

  “Ah, sorry dude,” said a young man with a pierced nose and orange hair holding the remote control. Dylan didn’t know his name, but he’d seen him before. Enormously talented, the young man had a reputation for playing during the day and working all night. He also changed his hair color every week. Last week was his purple period.

  Dylan said nothing as he stepped over the metallic dog. He heard it skitter across the hardwood floor and down the hallway behind him. Dylan walked to Tony’s office and glanced inside. Empty.

  “Dylan!”

  Dylan looked up and saw Rich walking towards him with a stack of papers in his hand. Since the acquisition, Rich was now working under Christine.

  “You okay?” asked Rich. When he got no answer, he caught Dylan by the elbow and steered him into Tony’s workspace. “What’s up?”