As they stepped into the elevator, Susannah made a stab at polite conversation. "Roberta wasn't at the party. She's not sick, is she?"
"Roberta?" Yank didn't seem quite certain who Susannah meant.
Normally Susannah would have been amused, but despite the enthusiastic reception the Blaze had received at the party, she was on edge, and her tone was unnaturally sharp. "Roberta Pestacola, your girlfriend."
"Yes, I know."
Susannah waited. The elevator doors opened. They got off together. After a few steps Yank stopped walking, stared for a moment at a fire extinguisher, then began walking again.
She was suddenly determined to have a normal conversation with him. "Is anything wrong between you and Roberta?"
"Roberta? Oh, yes." He began patting his pockets for a room key.
They continued down the corridor. Although she was tall, he topped her by a good seven inches. Thirty more seconds of silence passed. Susannah was exhausted from the evening and still unsettled over the changes in Sam's appearance. Her already frayed nerves snapped. "The purpose of conversation is to exchange information. That's difficult to do with someone who hardly ever finishes his sentences and never seems to have the vaguest idea what anyone is talking about. It's really irritating."
He stopped walking and looked down at a point just behind her right ear. "It's probably not a good idea to take out your frustration on one person when you're really upset with someone else."
She stared at him. How did he know she was upset about Sam? He shifted his gaze and looked directly at her.
She nearly winced. His eyes were so clear and so strongly focused that she had the feeling he could see the smallest cells inside her.
"Roberta and I are no longer together, Susannah. I'm not proud of staying with her for as long as I did, since I wasn't too fond of her even at the beginning. But it's difficult for me to attract women, and I like having sex very much. This means I sometimes make compromises. Is there anything else you want to know?"
Susannah actually felt herself flush. "I-I'm sorry. It's none of my business."
"No, it isn't."
Embarrassed, she fumbled in her purse for her own room key, and managed to drop it just as they reached her door.
Yank stooped over to pick it up off the carpet. As he straightened, he once again looked at her with that penetrating gaze she found so disconcerting.
And then, more quickly than she could have believed possible, she lost him to the gods of genius. His eyes grew vague and his face emptied of all expression. Muttering something that sounded like "zany diode," he began moving off down the hallway as if she didn't exist.
Black sock.
Brown sock.
Black sock.
Brown sock.
None of them were prepared for what happened the next day. By early that morning thousands of computer enthusiasts had formed five lines that wrapped around both sides of the block-long Civic Center. No one had expected so many people, but despite the crowded conditions, everyone was good-natured and enthusiastic.
Throughout the day loudspeakers blared out announcements, computer-generated music played, and printers clattered. Lines formed to attend the event's workshops and people stood four and five deep at the booths. They could get their biorhythms charted at the IMSAI exhibit and play a game on the Sol at the Processor Technology display. Many companies-some actually larger than SysVal-were still showing their products on draped card tables with hand-lettered signs, but they were dwarfed by exhibitors like Cromemco, MITS, and even the tiny Apple Computer Company, which had apparently learned its lesson about appearances at Atlantic City. Even though they had only moved out of their garage a few months ago, they were introducing their Apple II in an impressive booth complete with a backlit plexiglass sign bearing their new brightly-colored Apple logo.
While Mitch spent his time making contacts with distributors and dealers and Yank wandered the hall to survey the competition, Sam and Susannah, along with several teenage employees they had recently hired to help manage the increasing workload, manned the SysVal booth. Sam was everywhere at once, holding four separate conversations at the same time and telling all who came within the sound of his voice about the miraculous little micro called the Blaze. Yank's splashy graphics display was a big hit with the crowd, as well as a target-shooting game people were standing in line to play.
Susannah distributed hundreds of expensively printed color brochures, smiled until her cheeks ached, and began taking orders for the Blaze almost immediately. As she discussed memory expansion, switching versus linear power supply, and eight-slot motherboards, she realized how far she had come from a woman who had once regarded her most strenuous challenge to be finding a good caterer.
At the end of the weekend, when one of the Faire's organizers announced that thirteen thousand people had been in attendance, a huge cheer went up from the crowd. Trade shows had been held in Atlantic City, Trenton, and Detroit, but the overwhelming success of the West Coast Computer Faire had put all of them to shame. On this April weekend in 1977, California had finally taken command of its own small computer kingdom.
Sam caught Susannah in his arms as the attendance was announced. "We've made history today! This is our Woodstock, baby. A digital love-in for a new generation."
That night, when they headed back to the Valley, they had orders for 287 Blazes in hand.
Chapter 19
By August the hills of the Santa Clara Mountains were brown from lack of rain. Joel Faulconer squinted at the sun through the windshield of his tan rental car and wished for the winter rains. He was finding it difficult to breathe. There was too much dust in the air.
He had parked the car so that he had a clear view of the single glass door that led into the SysVal offices, but the van parked on one side of him made the car barely noticeable to anyone walking through the lot. Over the past six months, Joel had learned to choose his locations carefully. He rented inconspicuous cars, and he always brought a newspaper with him so that if Susannah should appear unexpectedly, he could block his face.
The indignity of what he was doing was something he refused to dwell on. He didn't think of it as spying on his daughter. He tried not to think of it at all. Coming here was necessary. That was all. He had to find a way to get her back.
In an hour he was due in his office for an afternoon meeting with one of the most important industrialists in Japan. It was the kind of encounter that had once sent adrenaline pumping through his veins. Now what he really wanted to do was take a nap.
He continued to have difficulty sleeping at night, and last night had been particularly bad. He should have been more honest with his doctor when he had finally gone to see him a few weeks ago, but he couldn't bring himself to confess to a medical lackey twenty years younger than himself that he was suffering from a depression so deep and so black that he didn't think he could ever climb out of it. The night before, he had spent hours locked in his library, gazing down at the Smith & Wesson revolver he kept in a mahogany case.
Sweat broke out on his body. For weeks now he had felt as if he were living on the jagged edge of something monstrous. He told himself not to think about it. He would be better soon. Any day now.
The door of the building opened and Sam Gamble walked out. Joel's stomach pitched. The bastard. Gamble moved across the parking lot toward the used Volvo he had bought a few months ago. His walk was cocky, as if he were a king instead of an arrogant upstart. Joel consoled himself with the thought that the Gamble car was merely another item that would fall to the bankruptcy court when this harum-scarum operation went belly up. He was both incredulous and frustrated that it hadn't already happened. Of course, he hadn't counted on Mitchell Blaine throwing his hat into their circus ring. Still, even Blaine couldn't work miracles.
Cal had been as bewildered as Joel when he had heard the news. "Why is Blaine doing something so bizarre?" Cal had asked.
Joel had kept his response casual. He saw no sense in
letting the younger man realize how much the news had shaken him. "His wife left him. He's obviously not thinking clearly. But I don't believe we need to worry too much. Even Mitch Blaine won't be able to keep them afloat much longer."
Cal had pressed him to move more aggressively against SysVal, but once again Joel had demurred. Susannah was going to fail on her own. Only then-only when she had suffered defeat at her own hands-could he possibly take her back. He envisioned her remorse, the way she would beg him to let her return to Falcon Hill.
The sound of tires squealing distracted him from his thoughts. Gamble was just reaching for his car door when a small red Toyota shot into the parking lot and jerked to a stop near the Volvo. A woman jumped out and began rushing toward him. She wore a purple elasticized top, black jersey wrap skirt, and high heels with ankle straps. It took Joel only a moment to recognize her as Gamble's cheap little floozy of a mother.
Gamble had already spotted her. She had left the engine of her car running and the door open. He hurried forward in concern. She grabbed his arm and began to speak with enormous agitation. Joel could pick out a few isolated words but not the sense of what she was saying. Gamble looked as if he were growing angry. She clutched harder at his arms. He shook her off and went back to his car.
"Sam!" she cried.
Gamble jumped into the Volvo without sparing her another glance. Gunning the motor, he peeled out of the parking lot. She crumpled like a rag doll against the trunk of her car.
Joel watched her clutch her arms in front of her stomach and begin a slow rocking that sent her gold hoop earrings swaying. Her dark hair was mussed and her expression was full of despair. Perversely, the sight of her misery lifted his spirits as nothing had in weeks. It made him feel more in control of his own life, more like his old self. At the same time, curiosity piqued him. Anything that made Sam Gamble angry might be good news for him.
He hesitated for only a moment before he got out of the car and walked toward her. The pavement began to tilt under his feet. He wasn't feeling well, not well at all. Perhaps he should cancel his appointments this afternoon and go home. But no. Someone might discover that he wasn't feeling like himself. That wouldn't do at all.
Several moments passed before the woman seemed to recognize who he was, but even recognition didn't alter the misery on her face.
"Is there anything I can do?" he inquired. Despite his solicitous words, he felt no particular sympathy for her-she was cheap and common-and yet the strength of her misery gave him a peculiar sense of relief. No matter how difficult the past year had been for him, he hadn't once been reduced to this sort of excessive display of emotion.
"It's over," she said, a black trail of mascara running down her cheeks. "There's nothing anyone can do."
Once again he had the sense that the pavement was tilting beneath him. He concentrated on keeping his balance and on trying to decipher her words. What was over? Did she know something about SysVal? Was that why Gamble had been so angry?
"Have you ever lost someone?" she went on in a broken voice. "Someone important to you."
For a moment, he was afraid something had happened to Susannah, and fear rushed through him. Then he remembered Gamble's anger and realized it was something else. This woman had probably had a squabble with one of her aging boyfriends. All of this hullabaloo undoubtedly had its roots in a middle-aged lovers' quarrel.
"Part of me wants to die, too." She dabbed at her eyes with the back of her hand, leaving a dark smear on her first two knuckles.
"Nonsense," he replied sharply, wincing as a dull stab of pain went through his shoulder. He wanted to rub it, but he forced himself to keep his arm still. "It's ridiculous to make a fuss over trivialities. I suggest you go home and fix yourself a drink."
"I can't go home now. There's something I have to do. Someplace I have to go." She turned away from him and walked toward the front of the car.
He looked down at his watch and saw that if he didn't leave soon, he would be late for his meeting. And then the numbers began to waver in front of his eyes. He swayed and braced himself on the trunk of her car. His own car suddenly seemed to be miles away.
She bent to get into the Toyota. Pain gripped his chest. He leaned against the car trunk, using it for support. The pain didn't ease. For the first time it occurred to him that he might actually faint. The idea horrified him. What if Susannah found him helplessly crumpled in the parking lot? He had to sit down. He had to rest for a moment, but his car was so far away, and he didn't have the strength to get there. He took several awkward steps forward, moving along the side of the car to the open door.
She looked up at him curiously. His mind raced, but his brain was dull with pain and he couldn't think what to say. He had to sit down. He couldn't stand any longer. "You-you need to go home," he stammered. "You're not-not in any condition to drive."
She reached for a pair of oversized sunglasses. "I can't go home. I have something I have to do."
He had begun to sweat profusely. In a breathless, choppy voice that didn't seem to belong to him, he said. "Not-not alone. You shouldn't go alone." His hand convulsed over the roof of the car. He couldn't faint. He couldn't let Susannah see him like this. "I'll-I'll go with you. Make certain you're safe."
"Whatever," she said dully. "It doesn't really matter."
He barely made it around the front of the car, but she was so caught up in her own misery that she didn't notice. As he slumped down into the passenger seat, he gasped for breath. The car began to move. He no longer cared about his meeting or the rental car he had abandoned in the parking lot. All he cared about was the fact that he hadn't crumpled like an aged fetus onto the asphalt where his daughter could see him.
They had begun to move out into the traffic on El Camino, and the pain was easing. He noticed that her fingernails were too long and covered with a garish purple-red polish. She pushed a tissue underneath her sunglasses to dab at her eyes. He thought about asking her what was wrong, but he didn't really care. He was too tired. His legs felt rubbery, his head hurt. He would just stay with her for a while, until he felt more like himself, and then he would call his driver to come and get him. Once again he shut his eyes. If he rested for just a few minutes, he would feel more like his old self.
When he awakened, the sun was sinking. He blinked with alarm and tried to get his bearings. They were moving fast. A road sign for Interstate 5 whipped by on his right. He saw a herd of cattle grazing and the ridges of the Sierra Nevada Mountains in the distance. They must be somewhere in the San Joaquin Valley.
The radio was playing softly, a pop tune. He looked down at his watch and was startled to see that it was nearly seven o'clock. "Where are we? Where are you going?"
She jumped as if she had forgotten he was there. Her sunglasses were off, and the lap of her skirt held a collection of damp, wadded tissues. She tilted her head toward the radio. "I-I can't talk now. When the song is over."
The voice on the radio was familiar-a male pop singer. He dimly recognized the song, something about a child being born in a ghetto.
There were so many things he needed to do. He should tell her to get off at the next exit so he could call his driver. How would he explain this? Everyone would be alarmed because he hadn't shown up for his meeting. He had a full work schedule planned for tomorrow. He tried to arrange his thoughts in proper order, but he couldn't manage it. All he could see was the Smith & Wesson revolver lying in its mahogany case. His eyes drifted shut again, and he was consumed with a sense of his own helplessness. The song came to an end.
Her voice quivered. "They've been playing all-Elvis for hours. I-I still can't believe that he's dead. He was so young. Only forty-two."
His eyes shot open. "What are you talking about?"
"Elvis," she whispered softly. "Didn't you hear? Elvis Presley died today. August 16, 1977."
Was that what this was about? He wanted to roar his anger at her, but his brain felt foggy and his head seemed to have been wrapped in
hot, wet wool. She stared straight ahead at the road. A tear dropped off her chin and made an amoebalike stain on the front of her purple stretch top. No wonder Gamble had been angry with her in the parking lot. It was beyond Joel's comprehension that someone could be so distraught over the death of a celebrity when there were so many real problems in the world.
"I have to go to Graceland-in Memphis. I have to pay my respects." Her voice caught on a sob.
He couldn't believe he had heard her right. "You're driving to Tennessee?"
"I have to." She blew her nose, dropped the tissue into her lap, and picked up another. And then she said something that sent a chill slithering up his spine. "The King is dead. I can't believe it. I just can't believe that the King is dead."
He could feel sweat breaking out on his forehead. No! He was the King! He had years ahead of him. Decades. He had so many things left to do and endless time in which to do them. The interior of the car was cool, but he couldn't seem to stop sweating, and he made a dash at his forehead with the sleeve of his suit coat.
Her mouth trembled. "I never imagined it. I thought he would live forever." She turned to look fully at Joel. Her face was stripped bare of makeup, her lipstick eaten off. "I'm only forty-three. That's not old. Only a year older than Elvis. It's just-How can I ever be young again if Elvis Presley is dead? How can any of us ever be young again?"
Joel no longer even remembered what it was like to feel young. He closed his eyes again, not to sleep, just to escape.
South of Bakersfield she exited to get gas. He went into the phone booth and called his secretary. He made up an excuse for his absence and began to tell her to get hold of his driver, but he ended up telling her to inform Paige he wouldn't be coming home tonight.
Hot Shot Page 27
