by Ray Daniel
“Well, that was a good joke,” I said.
“When exactly do men grow up?”
“I think it’s right after they stop laughing at farts.”
“Then never.”
“One can only hope,” I said.
After a silence, Carol said, “What were you hoping to find on that thing?”
“I don’t know. It seemed like a good idea at the time. A fish rots from the head, so I figured Jack would have all the secrets.”
“What made you think that Jack, CEO of a company that writes email spying software, would write the secrets in email?” Carol asked.
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Of course not. You’re not very good at this.”
“That’s what Jael said.”
The red light on Jack’s BlackBerry started blinking. He had a new email. It was from Roland.
To: Jack Kennings
From: Roland Baker
CC: Margaret Bronte
Subject: Tucker?
“Hah! This will be a good one,” I said to Carol.
Jack, why was Tucker at the meeting today? I thought you had taken care of that problem.
Roland
That problem? That’s how he refers to me? Asshole.
I marked the email as unopened so that Jack wouldn’t know I had read it. Another email popped into the BlackBerry. Margaret had replied-all:
To: Roland Baker
From: Margaret Bronte
CC: Jack Kennings
Subject: RE: Tucker?
Roland, you worry too much. Tucker is a dear. I’ll talk to him. He won’t be a problem.
And Jack, please try to be careful to see that our deal closes. It would be a disaster for all of us if it were to fail.
M.
I marked the email as unread. The light blinked again. Roland had replied all.
To: Margaret Bronte
From: Roland Baker
CC: Jack Kennings
> a disaster for us all
For some of us more than others.
Roland
Carol said, “So, what did you learn?”
I said, “Nothing. Roland hates me and is even an asshole to Jack. Margaret likes me.”
“Sure she does.”
I ignored Carol. Another new email had come in:
From: Nate Russo
To: Jack Kennings
Subject: Tucker
Jack:
Thanks for your support in today’s meeting. I know you have concerns about Tucker. Rest assured, if he gets out of line, I’ll get rid of him immediately.
Nate
I said to Carol, “Friggin’ Nate is still playing both sides of this. Is anybody not trying to get me fired?”
“I’m not, baby,” Carol said.
“No. You already danced that dance.”
“Fuck you.”
“You had your chance.”
“You are a self-centered jerk!”
“Whatever.”
I scrolled through all of Jack’s messages, looking for an interesting subject line or person. It was more garbage.
An email caught my eye. It was sent Sunday morning, about the time I was talking to the redhead in the Common about her squirrel-feeding problem.
From: Jack Kennings
To: Kevin Murphy, FBI Assistant Special Agent in Charge
Subject: Meeting
Agent Murphy:
Thank you for calling me to discuss Rosetta. Your information is disturbing. Let’s take the rest of this discussion offline. I’ll meet you tonight as planned.
Jack
So Kevin knew about Rosetta, at least as a project name, and he had disturbing information about it. What could be disturbing about Rosetta? The software was a powerful decryption tool, but the U.S. government already tracked who bought software like this and who sold it. What could Kevin have heard about?
The cell phone rang. I had wondered what Jack would use as a ring tone. I hoped for something clever or musical. I got neither. Jack’s phone sounded like an old fashioned rotary phone with a metal bell and a clapper. I answered it.
“Tucker, this is Jack. I have to apologize. I took your cell phone.”
“You did?” I said. “Oh shit, you’re right, you did. This isn’t my cell phone.”
“That’s what I’m saying. Meet me in the lobby in five minutes so we can swap.”
“Sure, Jack.”
“By the way, Dana called your phone. She says she’ll be late to lunch and that you should let yourself into her room. I told her I’d give you the message.”
I had forgotten about Dana. I said, “Thanks, Jack. See you in five minutes.”
I opened the floor-to-ceiling door and left my little room. A guy stepped out of the stall to my left. He had wild eyebrows, gray hair, a paunch, and a business suit. We made eye contact, nodded, and walked to the sinks together to wash our hands.
The guy said, “Son, can I give you some advice?”
I said, “Sure.”
“You talked nonstop in there.”
“I know. It’s a busy day.”
“Son, you got to find yourself some quiet time. You’re gonna have a heart attack at this rate.”
I dried my hands and said, “You’re right. I’ll work on it.”
“You gotta take the long view,” he said and walked out.
I went to meet Jack, wondering if I’d live long enough to have a heart attack.
thirty-six
“Did you read my emails?” Jack asked.
I said, “Once I knew I had your phone, I tried to take a peek. But it was locked.”
Jack clicked a button on his phone. The phone was locked because I had locked it on the way back from the bathroom.
He said, “You know I bitch about that locking timer all the time. I guess it works.”
“The best security is automatic.”
Jack turned to leave, but then turned back and looked at me. I felt like I was being scanned. He asked, “Do you think you could have guessed my password?”
“No.”
“Why not? I thought you hackers were good at that.”
I said, “Everybody knows about not using their name, or their kid’s name or whatever for passwords. The best passwords are just strings of letters from a sentence.”
“What’s your password?”
“I switch it around, but recently I’ve been using IWWKMW.”
“What does that stand for?”
“I Wonder Who Killed My Wife.”
Jack pocketed his BlackBerry. His hands went to his hips. “Is that why you’re doing this?”
“Doing what?” I asked.
“Wandering around like you’re conducting due diligence for Nate.”
“I thought I was conducting due diligence for Nate.”
“You don’t understand. That is a bullshit assignment Nate dreamed up for you. The Bronte deal is locked. We’re buying her company. You’re wasting your time and you’re distracting Roland. We both know he’s trying to deliver Rosetta. He’s under a lot of pressure.”
“Yes. I know. That was me once.”
“Then you know that he can’t have you poking around, talking to his engineers, and generally fucking the thing up.”
“Well, what do you want me to do?”
“Here’s what I want you to do. I’m going to authorize Nate to pay you $100,000 for your work on this project. To earn that $100,000, you are going to go home and create a boring PowerPoint presentation to deliver to the board on Thursday morning. That presentation will say that Bronte’s software does exactly what it says it does.”
“Does it?”
“Of course it does. Don’t play games with me, Tucker. Margaret told me you saw
a demo. It does everything in the demo. You just say that you viewed the product, which you did, and that it works, which is what it does. Then Nate pays you $100,000 and we part company. I’m not asking you to lie, just report what you already know.”
I thought about getting a check for $100,000. It would come in handy. Carol and I hadn’t saved much for retirement and didn’t have much life insurance on each other. That fact alone had saved me months of wrangling with the Wellesley Police when they tried to blame me for her murder. I had no motive, other than the fighting—and what couple doesn’t fight? I’d need to get a job soon, but the $100,000 could keep me free a while longer.
“Let me think about it.”
Jack took a step toward me. He smiled a cold grin. “You’re not going to think about it. You’re going to take your $100,000 and create the presentation. That’s what Nate’s hiring you to do, because that’s what I’m hiring you to do. I’m sorry about your wife. I’m sorry about your situation. But I’m not going to let you disrupt my business. Understand?”
I swallowed involuntarily. “Yeah.”
“Now go have lunch with Dana. She’s cute. You might get lucky.”
Jack turned on his heel and left me standing in the lobby. My stomach churned. I felt like my dad had just yelled at me. Jack was right. Maybe I should just go upstairs and see if I could get lucky. There were worse ways to spend a Tuesday afternoon.
thirty-seven
Dana’s room was impossibly neat. It was beyond the tidiness of a recent maid visit; it looked like nobody had ever been here. Either Dana was a neat freak, or she wasn’t really staying in the hotel.
The Boylston Suites Hotel earned its name because all its rooms were two-room suites. Each suite had a front room with a television, a couch, and a round table under a hanging ceiling light. A closed door connected the front room to the bedroom and bathroom. Dana’s oversized laptop sat on a table in the front room. I decided to check out her bedroom and opened the door feeling like a naughty spy.
The bedroom had a sweeping view of the Charles River and MIT beyond it, MIT’s green dome reminding me of simpler times. The sun was high overhead, and shone down on white triangles that scooted around the Charles. Kids in Boston could learn to sail for a buck, and they were out in force taking advantage of the weather.
I turned to Dana’s chest-of-drawers. I opened the bottom drawer expecting to find it empty, but it wasn’t. It had a rumpled pile of clothes, obviously the laundry pile. The next drawer up had a collection of T-shirts with jeans next to them. The T-shirts had the kind of nerdy sayings that Dana had been wearing all week. The top drawer taught me something new about Dana. She wasn’t a Jockey girl.
Instead of the sports bras and practical panties I’d expected, my eyes landed on a frilly pink thong with strategically placed lace. I found a black one, a red one, and even a hot pink. Each thong had a matching lacy bra, with a generous cup. I guiltily ran my hand inside the cup of the hot-pink bra.
“Baby, you are such a pervert.” It was Carol.
I threw the bra back into the drawer, slammed it shut, and spun around.
“How does checking to see if Dana really lives here make me a pervert?”
Carol pointed at my tented crotch. “Because Mr. Winky is still at attention.”
“You leave Mr. Winky out of this. He’s nobody you’d remember.”
“For Christ’s sake, will you give it a rest? You know our shitty sex life wasn’t all my fault.”
“Really? Mr. Winky disagrees.”
“You would ignore me all day at work, miss supper, come home, and then want me to fuck you. The hell with that. I wasn’t your hooker. I was your wife.”
“You weren’t my hooker or my wife. You were a roommate.”
“I’m glad I got you fired.”
My phone rang. I looked at the display. It was Jael. I answered and looked around the room. Carol was gone.
“There is a woman heading toward your location,” said Jael.
“Thanks.” I walked out of the bedroom, shut the door, and sat down at the computer holding the phone to my ear.
“How long will you be with her?” Jael asked.
“It’s not what you think,” I said.
“I don’t think it is anything.”
“She wants me to help her with her computer code. There’s no telling how badly her code is screwed up, so I don’t know how long I’ll be here.”
“Call me when you are about to leave the room.”
“OK.” I hung up just as I heard the card key.
Dana entered the room. She was stunning in an electric-blue dress that was conservative enough for a business meeting, but still showed off all her curves. I wondered if she was wearing a matching bra. A deep V in the front showed a hint of cleavage, and the dress stopped just above her knees. She was wearing a gold necklace, matching earrings, and blue shoes. I would never have guessed that Dana had blue shoes, or matching jewelry for that matter.
“Well, well, well,” I said. “You clean up pretty good.”
Dana rolled her eyes. “Roland had me in a meeting today with that Bronte woman to talk about sharing code. I am so screwed.”
Only if I can get you out of that dress.
Dana kicked off the shoes and picked them up by the heels. She said, “They want to start merging engineering operations as soon as the deal is done. They want me to have all the code packaged up so that both teams can start working on it.”
“What’s it like now?” I asked.
Dana crossed the room and looked at the laptop. She said, “You haven’t even logged in yet.” Her voice had a tense whine to it.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I can fix it.”
“How do you know?” she asked.
“I always fix it.”
I logged into Dana’s computer using the password she had written on the pad of paper. Who writes down their password in a security company? It was becoming clear to me that she didn’t know this business. I took my keys out of my pocket and attached my new USB drive to the computer.
“What’s on that?” asked Dana.
“There are some programs on it that I like to use when I write code. You know, editors, search tools, that sort of thing.”
I installed the programs, pulled out the USB drive, and tossed the keys onto the table.
Dana’s files were like an archaeological dig. As I read them, I traveled back through time. I could see the foundation Carol had laid down—the orderly structures and efficient scripts that had held the software together.
Carol’s work gave way to Alice’s. Alice didn’t have Carol’s skill, so the file structures got messier. Huey and his teammates created new code, but they had no good place to put it. It was clear that the structure deteriorated as time passed.
When I reached Dana’s code, the structure was gone. It was clear that Dana had no idea what she was doing. Different file types were mixed together. The programs that built the software didn’t match the code. There was no way to build a working release. Dana was right: she was screwed.
Dana was looking over my shoulder. She said, “I was trying to refactor the code.”
I said, “More like defactoring” and made a snorty nerd laugh.
Dana said, “I’m doomed” and stood behind me.
I puttered around a bit looking at files while Dana looked over my shoulder. She said something about getting comfortable and went into the bedroom. I focused on the screen, lost myself in her code.
I got into software programming because when I’m writing code, the world disappears and I enter the flow—a place where time has no meaning. It’s just me and the machine, working together to create something that had never existed before.
Programming a computer is more addictive than a video game. Like the video game, you start out solving simple problems. These
reveal other problems that you solve to reveal other, more intricate problems that teach you more about the problem at hand, leading you to find other side issues to solve and knock off, and then come back to the main problem, only to fork again onto another challenge, and another, and another—each a testament to your own prowess, each a tiny win that gives your ego the stroke that it desperately craves, demonstrating that while you may not have mastery over the world outside, in this world, the computer world, you are a god and nothing can stop you.
“I brought you a burrito,” said Dana.
“Huh?” I looked up.
“You’ve been working on that code for five hours. I thought you’d like a break.”
“Did you go out?”
“You didn’t notice that I left? I told you I was going out.”
I remembered that Dana had said something a while ago. I grunted. Ghosts of my marriage began seeping out of the walls. I’d been in this conversation before.
“Sorry,” I said, “I was just fixing this.” My eyes drifted back to the screen. My cursor blinked seductively at the end of a line. Only five or six more errors remained. I clicked at the key, finishing the code on the line. Only a few things. A couple of scripts, a program or two, moving some files, fixing some others, cleaning up some errors, just this one, just that one, I’d be done in a minute. Just one more thing, and another. Write a little documentation, and voilà!
I looked up. Dana was not in the room. I heard the television running in the bedroom with the door closed. My burrito sat in its foil. It was stone cold. I was thirsty, and my head was fuzzy from extended concentration. I knocked on the bedroom door.
Dana opened it and said, “Wow. Were you working the whole time?”
“Yeah, let me show you.”
Now came my favorite part. All day, I had pictured showing Dana what I had done. I had looked forward to seeing her appreciation, her acknowledgement that I was a fantastic coder, a smart guy, and a programming stud. I had imagined walking Dana through the cleanliness of the new file system, the smoothness of the operation, and the elegance of the architecture. Now, I proudly gave her the grand tour.
Dana took it all in and said, “This is nice.”
“What?” Nice?
“It’s simple.”
