by James Calder
Wes had referred me to Rod. Now Wes wanted to hear how it had turned out. I gave him a quick rundown as I finished my coffee. He wanted the juicy details, but I was not in a chatty mood. Instead, I mentioned the role I had in mind for him. I wanted him to set up a date with Erika and another Silicon Glamour associate.
His first reaction was not to say it was a ridiculous idea, nor to say he didn’t need to hire his dates. Instead, he asked if the associates were good-looking.
“They couldn’t charge what they do if they weren’t,” I said.
His sneaky smile told me he was into it. This was a side of Wes that amused me. I’d known him since college, when he was a skinny physics major with a hangdog look and a shyness about dating. We made a couple of goofy Super 8 films about existentially perplexed sci-fi insects. He’d also been the first person to show me the Internet, when it was used only by government agencies and science departments at something like 2400 kilobytes per second.
Wes was as loyal as a friend could be, but like all of us he had his fixations. I figured he felt compelled to make up for all the lost time he’d spent in the physics lab. Everyone has their own way of feeling off-beam. Wes was good-looking now, with sharp features and dark hair sweeping across his forehead. He was also CTO of a net company that had beat the startup odds. But in his own mind, he was still the nerdy boy endlessly trying to prove he could get a date.
The fact that he was a tech exec—a mind-boggling fact, to me—made him the best candidate I knew to apply to Silicon Glamour. I told him to play up his geek side and to be sure to ask for a date with Erika, the name that had been scrawled on Alissa’s message board.
Wes rubbed his hands together. “No problem. We’ll show them a good time.”
“I believe that’s their job. What we need to do is earn their trust so that they’ll tell us about Silicon Glamour.”
“Trust. Right. You did say Rod was footing the bill?”
“It’ll go on my expense report.”
Wes then insisted on coming with me to Rita’s. I warned him it was not a social hour. We had work to do. He said he just wanted to see how Rod looked on screen.
Rita’s place was in the Mission, a backyard bungalow almost a hundred years old. An editing suite was set up in her basement: an Avid system loaded on a G4, two nineteen-inch monitors on a shelf, a vector scope, and speakers spread in a semicircle in front of her chair. The hard drives were under the worktable. A Beta deck and an eight-track mixing board occupied the ends of the semicircle. Out in the garage, under a plastic cover, she kept a Steenbeck flatbed for old-style analog film editing. We didn’t get to use it nearly enough for my taste.
Wes dragged a folding chair into the tiny carpeted room. Rita sat in a rolling desk chair in front of the screen. A poster of The Third Man hung on the wall.
I brought her up to speed on the Rod story. “Silicon Glamour,” she said. “Isn’t that when you don’t wear your pocket protector, Wes?”
“Nobody uses pens anymore,” he shot back.
Rita had to needle me, of course, about sticking her alone with the editing. It was already a big job for two of us. But she understood. The film business was all about last-minute changes. Besides, she was still raising money for her next documentary, and film work in San Francisco had gone quiet since the Internet bubble burst. All those filmmakers who’d been sucked into Web producing suddenly needed jobs. The good stuff—documentaries and features—only came around so often, and TV commercials had moved to Vancouver. I was lucky the Rod gig had come along when it did.
Rita said, “So what’s your take on this Rod and Alissa business, Wes? You’re the one who introduced us to him.”
“Rod is the real thing when it comes to engineering genius,” Wes said. “He’s a good guy, too. But I never said he was Romeo Montague.”
“I don’t get why he’s so desperate to have Alissa at this dinner tomorrow,” Rita said.
“Nerves,” Wes answered. “Everyone’s alert for reasons to back out at a signing. Rod’s the kind of guy who could get jittery and blurt out the wrong thing. It sounds like Alissa keeps him on an even keel.”
“It’s also for his peace of mind,” I said. “He’ll be upset if he finds out she stabbed him in the back. It’ll be worse if he finds out she’s hurt or dead. If I can at least tell him she’s okay, he’ll feel a lot better.”
“Who are these people Rod’s signing the deal with?” Wes asked.
“Plush Biologics has a genetic skin treatment called Eternaderm,” I said. “It rejuvenates your elastin fibers by regulating the enzymes that break them down and promoting the synthesis of new fibers. Your skin gets looser and more brittle as you age. Healthier elastin proteins restore suppleness and resilience.”
Wes’s eyes widened. “That’s going to score. If it works.”
“It’s being tested. They’re still ‘ironing out the wrinkles’ before it goes commercial,” Rita said, repeating Rod’s favorite phrase to describe Eternaderm’s progress. Wes rolled his eyes.
“Rod did some work for them that fast-forwarded Eternaderm,” I said. “That led to the strategic alliance. Plush is working on genes to regulate melanin, too. You’ll be able to change your skin color at will.”
Wes peered at his reflection in a blank video screen. “I think I’m going to need Eternaderm. I’ve been out in the sun too much lately.”
Rita peered with him. “Yeah, you’re losing that pale engineer tone. But keep the wrinkles, Wes. They give you character.” She liked to give him a hard time. Wes got nervous around her because she was so forthright in her opinions. “Anyway,” Rita went on, “you can’t afford Eternaderm until your company’s IPO. This is a high-end market. Silicon Valley has lots of wealthy people who are terrified of getting old.”
“Rod needs to retool and extend his technology,” I said. “That takes money, which Algoplex doesn’t have. So the third leg of the triangle is new capital coming from Plush’s big backer. Sylvain Partners will fund Algoplex’s next stage.”
Wes ceased his self-inspection. “I hope Rod isn’t giving away too much equity.”
“You know how it works. Bargain your soul to the VC’s. But Rod seems satisfied with the deal.”
“What is Alissa going to do, hold the pen for him?” Rita said.
“You don’t understand business, Rita.” Wes had found a way to get a little revenge. “You’ve got to make all the right moves at an event like this or you’ll spook your partners. Especially if Alissa’s been spying.”
“Wouldn’t Alissa being there make him even more shaky?”
“Not if he’s sure she’s on his side,” I said. “And if she’s still missing, he’s got Silicon Glamour to worry about. I need to throw Rupert off the trail for a few days. String him along with progress reports. Tell him Alissa is on her way back. As a matter of fact— can I check my email down here, Rita?”
“Sure,” she said, swiveling to bring up a browser on her G4.
“I got an email back from foxylady77 late yesterday,” I said. “They forwarded my message to Alissa’s mother, Wendy. I’m waiting to hear from her.”
“Rod’s such a nervous nelly,” Rita said as the throat-clearing sounds of connection came over the wire. “He’s got to take charge. He owns the company, for heaven’s sake.”
“Where were you when the sympathy genes were handed out, Rita?” Wes said. “Rod was in love with this girl. She’s vanished, and she might have double-crossed him.”
Rita smiled at Wes. She was talking tougher than she really felt. Because of her Botticelli face and long, wavy hair, people expected only sweet words from her. She enjoyed surprising them.
I scooted forward and logged on to my account. “Nothing yet,” I reported. “Let’s get to work, Rita.”
Rita brought the Avid to life. I took the camera originals from a cabinet behind me and stacked them on the table. Rita cued the first tape. There was Rod, pacing and squinting as he talked about the intricacies of code writing
. I’d take notes on a yellow pad while she selected shots on the Avid.
Wes watched for a little while, then got bored with our stops, starts, and fast-forwards. He clapped me on the shoulder. “Later, Billy-boy. I’ll let you know how it goes with Silicon Glamour.”
“Thanks, Wes.” I waited until the door closed, then explained to Rita that he was setting up a date with one of Alissa’s coworkers.
Rita laughed. “He’s the right man for the job.”
We moved on through the raw footage from the past three days. I already had a structure for the picture in my mind. The limits on what you could do in a piece like this were always a little frustrating. Not that I hated it, but on the other hand I’d seen a documentary about the Russian army recently. It was full of very long takes, during which, through some magic, you began to feel drawn inside the subject’s interior life even though you saw only silent exterior. When we kept the camera on Rod too long, he’d start fidgeting and offer to show us a card trick.
“Rod is kind of sweet,” Rita said during one of the fidgeting shots.
“We could use this shot if we want Plush to think he’s sweet, too.”
“Depends,” she answered, pulling the old wool sweater she was wearing over her head. The space was unheated and she always started an editing session with three layers. As the machines warmed the room, she’d peel down to a loose camisole. We’d been a couple once, and every so often I wondered whether we ought to get back together. “How sweet are the Plush people?”
“I got a glimpse of them when they came for a meeting, but no more,” I said. “Dr. Plush seemed quite full of himself.”
“It’s his wife who runs the business side.”
“No fidgeting,” I decided.
We moved on. I was creating a list of shots on my pad while Rita sorted them into virtual bins. A few hours later we were down to the tape we’d shot on Friday, the scenes meant to show Rod’s personal side. We watched him fumble the Frisbee in the Ultimate game. Mike trotted by, gave Rod a pat on the butt, and told him he’d get ’em next time. Rod looked at the Frisbee like it was some kind of alien saucer.
“That’s not bad,” I said. “We need a little humor.”
“Can’t leave out the full-frontal nerdity,” Rita said. She skipped ahead to a shot in which several players leaped as one for a floating Frisbee. It was tipped, tipped again, and landed in the hands of a young woman who then quickly passed it to a teammate. “Here we go. Teamwork. Striving. Grabbing for the plastic disk.”
“If they like this sort of thing, they will find this the sort of thing they like.”
Rita chuckled. The old Abe Lincoln line was a motto we used when we created a scene that we thought was a little cheesy but knew the client would appreciate.
“Mike will love it,” I said. I tipped back in my chair. “Okay, I think we’ve enough to build an assembly. Will this keep you busy for the rest of the evening?”
“Plenty. You can go look for Alissa.”
“Thanks, Rita. Mind if I check my email again?”
She brought up her browser and we switched chairs. As soon as I logged on, the message popped out at me. “Look at this,” I said. “We’re on a roll.”
Subj: alissa
From: sPcLdy
this is alissas mother wendy, please do not worry about her. she will be present for the dinner, she knows its important. send place and time and i will give her the information. wendy :)
Rita lifted her eyebrows at me. “In the nick of time.”
“Yeah.” I frowned. “I don’t know if I believe it, but . . .”
“Quit looking on the dark side, Bill. The whole Alissa thing has been blown out of proportion from the start, if you ask me. It’s been a product of Rod’s nervousness.”
“It’s interesting that Wendy doesn’t know the place and time,” I said. “Then again, maybe Rod hadn’t told Alissa yet.”
“And the message fits with your theory that Alissa had just gone to help Wendy with something and didn’t want to tell anyone.”
“I suppose. Well, you’re in luck, Rita. You’re stuck with me tonight after all.”
“Joy. You’ll go with Rod tomorrow night, too?”
“Oh, yes. To shoot the happy ending: Rod signs the deal and gets the girl. The company’s saved and everyone’s satisfied.”
“Even if that doesn’t come true, you’ve got a legitimate way to string Rupert along now.”
“Yeah. I’ll call Rod and tell him. Then I’ll call Rupert. I just have to be careful which strings I pull. I don’t know what all they’re attached to.”
6
“Do you think she’ll really be there?”
It was only the 89th time Rod had asked. I knew he wanted me to say yes. But for the 89th time, the best I could offer was, “Wendy said she would.” And for the 89th time Rod said that was what worried him. I was looking forward to the dinner if only to put an end to the questions. I was also hoping I’d at last get to meet Alissa.
He was in the bathroom when I arrived. I waited outside, feeling like a best man.
“Rod,” I called, “we’re supposed to be there in five minutes.”
The bathroom door swung open. He was still in his boxers and a T-shirt that read LIKE YOU, ONLY SMARTER.
“How does this work, Bill?” he said. “How do you get your hair under control?”
I stood next to him facing the mirror. Rod was trying to get a strand of reddish hair to sit down over a thin spot. The strand kept popping up like a jack-in-the-box. My own hair was a study in chaos theory, a landscape of swirls and eddies the color of dirty flax.
“I keep it short,” I said. “If it grows out too much, it looks like a place in the grass where a deer spent a bad night.”
Rod wet his hand and smacked the offending strand down again. It would not stay.
“Do you have any hair gel?” I asked.
“You mean like Brylcreem?”
I searched through his drawers for something to improvise with. He didn’t even have hand lotion. Alissa must not have spent nights with him. I found some antibiotic ointment and applied it to the strand.
Rod let out a sigh of relief. “That’s better.”
“Good. Now let’s get going.”
He dressed himself up in a charcoal suit and unobtrusive tie. I straightened his tie and gave him a little push toward the door.
We drove down 280 in the twilight. I’d already assured Rod that Silicon Glamour would leave us alone. Rupert had gotten my message about Alissa. He wanted to see her first thing tomorrow morning; I told him that would be up to Alissa. Meanwhile, I just wanted to get Rod through the dinner. I said I’d been able to spend most of yesterday and today cutting a decent rough version of the film.
Rod’s nervousness only increased. “Are you sure we should show it? It seems kind of, I don’t know . . . egotistical.”
“You’re supposed to have some ego as an executive. I know you’ve got it as an engineer. You can let the film do your talking for you.”
“Good point. I’ll just sit back and enjoy.”
Sylvain Partners, the VC firm, had arranged the dinner. It was in a private room at a restaurant in Palo Alto. I brought my camera and laptop with us in through the main part of the restaurant and then through a dimly lit corridor, off of which branched the kitchen and rest rooms. A fourth door, attended by a young man in a suit, led into the windowless private room.
A fire blazed in the flagstone hearth. A small bar in the corner was stocked with martini glasses. The long, oval table was set for sixteen. A baroque painting with lots of pink cherubic flesh took up one wall. The flesh was given extra glow by rose-tinted halogen lighting and candles on wall sconces. The painting came with a pair of curtains that could be closed, but this was a dinner in which skin would be in favor.
My eyes immediately went to the focal point of the room: a woman in a short beaded dress. Her back was to us. Highlighted almond hair cascaded down her shoulders. Seven or eig
ht guests were gathered around her. They burst into laughter at something she said. Rod picked up his pace. From the eagerness in his step, I thought he might bend her back in a big, dramatic kiss. Instead, he stopped three feet behind her.
“Alissa?” he said.
She turned. “Hello, Rod. Where have you been?”
The guests beamed. Alissa wore a smile, but not quite the one I expected: It was more coy than mysterious. Rod froze, and as I came even with him, incredulity flashed across his face. Then he forced a smile and stepped forward to meet her embrace. A chorus of oohs and aahs went up.
Rod swiveled with Alissa so that I saw his face. It showed panic. Putting his arm around her waist, he pulled her toward the door. “Alissa, honey, could we go over here—”
She squirmed. “Rod, honey, what about the guests?”
I grabbed my video camera case and stepped in. “We need a picture. If you’ll just come over here where the light’s better . . .”
Voices rose in mock protest, imploring Rod not to deprive them of Alissa. Mike said, “Let the lovebirds have their fun. Lucky guy!”
We hustled the complaining Alissa out through the door. The guy tending it stood there gaping at us. I told him to go inside.
Rod disengaged his arm from behind Alissa’s back. They stared at each other in the passageway between the restaurant and the private room. Rod’s face was flushed.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
She took a step back toward the private room. I blocked the way. She cast a resentful glance at me, whirled, and said, “Rod, what is wrong with you?”
Rod stood trembling, his gaze fixed on a small gem around her neck as if he’d become hypnotized by it. Alissa had been wearing the same necklace in the photograph.
I scrutinized the woman’s face. It was a close facsimile of the one I’d seen: The hair was done as Alissa’s had been, the eyebrows had the same contour, the nose the same slight upturn. . . . But this woman had too much swagger, too much insinuation in her manner. In place of the mysterious playful smile was a calculated pout.
