by H. L. Wegley
The murmuring started again. He had baited the hook and Trent would let them swim for a while, then see which board members bit.
Tony Manetti waved his index finger. “I get your point. But what I don't get is how we’re gonna get this bleeding edge technology?”
Trent drew a deep breath and blew it out in slow, dramatic fashion. “I was wondering who would be first to ask that question. To make it in our industry, to rise above the competition, you need actionable intelligence. You see, I've got a longtime friend in the Pentagon, one who does contract administration and who is—how shall I put this—hooked on our products and doesn’t want anyone to know it. He has a Top-Secret clearance, one of those compartmentalized kinds, that he doesn’t want to lose, because that would end his career.”
Trent had a half-dozen carefully selected, porn-addicted informants who would do his bidding, within reasonable limits. But that was information best kept to himself. “This DOD employee is overseeing a contract dealing with the very technology we need. Tony, you asked how we get the technology. Well, here's how it works. The basic technology gets developed for the DOD at the government's expense. With very little investment, we take it commercial with our products, using our relationship with the video games giant, LACO.”
Dick Cunningham folded his arms and rocked in his executive-style chair. “How can we be sure this comes off without a hitch? There are a lot of moving parts in your plan. A lot could go wrong.”
“Point taken. And that's why I called Lorenzo Russo in New York. He’s providing us with surveillance—high-tech spies—and a little muscle, in case anyone needs a little persuading. Persuading shouldn't be hard to do, because this is a win-win. There’s plenty of profit here for everyone involved and nobody is stepping on anyone else’s turf.”
Cunningham’s eyes said he wasn't happy. However, he did unfold his arms and he stopped rocking. “So who's prime on this DOD contract, you know, the people developing our technology for us but don’t know it yet?”
Trent locked gazes with each pair of eyes, sequentially. “Don’t discuss this outside of this room. Got that?”
Heads nodded around the table. Each person’s assent was visible to everyone in the room. That, alone, was enough to hold them accountable, because violations of trust brought extremely unpleasant consequences at MMI. Disagreement was acceptable, but once a decision was made, mutiny was a mortal sin.
“The prime contractor is a high-tech startup in the Northwest, run by a couple of geniuses who are years ahead of the competition,” Trent sat and folded his hands on the table. “One of the two partners has already committed to LACO’s vision for the future of virtual reality. The uncommitted partner is in a hospital, dying. That opens some interesting possibilities. The company’s called Virtuality Incorporated.”
Trent scanned the room. A couple of shrugs, but no head shaking. “As I mentioned, LACO has an in with one of Virtuality’s partners and we have one with LACO. I’m drafting a document formalizing our agreement with LACO. You will all have the opportunity to review it before we sign. For now, that’s all I’m going to say about the contractor and LACO.” He paused. “Are we ready to vote on our new virtual reality venture?”
When they voted, ten minutes later, Trent's proposal won in a virtual landslide.
Chapter 7
Confrontational, volatile, intense, fiery, explosive.
Jess had tried to describe the upcoming meeting with Patrick in three words. But three words had become five as she considered Vince’s temper. He hadn’t been exposed to Patrick’s stonewalling tactics. That was about to change.
Vince should be leaving Paul's house in Fairwood, on his way to pick her up for the meeting with Patrick in Snoqualmie. As Jess dressed, events from yesterday replayed, creating something like the delightful aroma near the Cinnabon shop at the mall.
After their discussion at the coffee shop, they had walked the Soos Creek Trail together. Their three-mile walk on the paved trail, lined with lush vegetation, the air filled with the songs of birds and the sun warm on their bare arms and legs, had enticed Jess like the aroma of fresh-baked cinnamon rolls.
Before either had realized it, they were walking through the wetlands hand-in-hand as if the clock had been turned back eight or nine years to a time when Vince and Jess were closer than any two friends she had ever known. But, before they returned to Vince’s car, cinnamon rolls had turned to a coiled, hissing serpent. If only she hadn't asked him that question about their senior year of high school.
For several years, their relationship had been heart-to-heart, soul-to-soul with nothing in between. There were no secrets. Jess had assumed it would always be that way. But presumption was probably the greatest breaker of human hearts. Relational expectations became emotional time bombs that exploded into heart-shattering breakups.
Were there ever second chances? Maybe not after one person blows everything to bits. And that person was Vince, not her, wasn’t it? Or could Jessica Jamison be so flawed that no good man would want her?
Jess tried to shake off that depressing thought as she slid into her cut-off jeans. She pulled on a tank top and threw a lightweight cotton blouse over it. After pulling on her favorite running shoes, she sauntered into the living room.
There would be no makeup today and no making a spectacle of herself by what she wore.
Outside the living room window of her apartment, Vince’s car rolled to a stop.
Jess painted on a smiling face, pulled her locked door closed and prayed for Cinnabon.
Vince stood at the curb, waiting for her with the passenger door open.
As she approached, Jess held her breath and tried to read the expression on his face.
He gave her a crooked smile. “Much better. I know this person.”
She blew out her relief. “The frumpy female next-door is back, looking like something the cat dragged—”
“I'm sorry, Jess. Please forgive me for yesterday.”
Maybe the Cinnabon prayer had helped. But she had no words for this turn of events.
“No matter what you're wearing, or not wearing, you’re beautiful.”
“Not wearing? I'm not sure how to take that, Mr. van Gordon.”
“I was talking about the make-up.”
Vince’s brother had just died, and they had serious business matters to discuss with Patrick, but the relational issues between her and Vince were the elephant in the room, dominating everything. They got as far as flirtatious banter, but neither of them seemed willing to go further, to address the giant pachyderm.
What if it trumpeted and charged? That would happen sooner or later. If Vince and Jess didn’t voluntarily approach the subject, it would approach them.
Jess slid into the passenger seat with pictures of a charging elephant playing through her mind.
Vince circled the car and took the driver's seat.
Since they hadn’t resolved the spat from yesterday, Jess needed something, even a temporary resolution, to avoid being trampled to death by a rogue elephant.
Girl, why don’t you just ask Vince for what you really want?
It was worth a try, if she could find the right words. Jess looked up into his eyes. “Vince, can we just start over again? Please?”
“Okay. You go back to your door and come out again, and I’ll—”
“No. I mean roll the clock back thirteen years to when we were twelve. You know, to when we were the closest friends ever, and try to go forward from there? The rest never happened. Okay?” It was what Jess wanted, but it sounded crazy and a bit juvenile when she put it into words.
Vince hit the ignition, started the car, then swiveled in his seat to face her. He took his time as his gaze followed a path from her shoes on the floorboard up to her face.
In an instant, her cheeks grew hot. Probably hot pink. She raised a hand to block Vince’s view of her face.
“Okay. We start over from twelve. But, Jess … I'm not looking at a twelve-year-old girl, an
d there’s no way I can pretend that I am.”
Great. He had noticed her red face. She reached for the air conditioner control and turned it on full blast.
Vince laid a hand on her shoulder. “See what I mean?”
The air conditioner wasn’t helping. Neither was Vince’s hand on her shoulder. “We're meeting with Patrick in about forty-five minutes, Columbo. Shouldn’t you be planning all those clever questions?”
* * *
The awkward moment had passed. They had set their relational clock back more than a decade. And Vince decided to give Jess some mental space to settle into their new normal while he drove toward Virtuality’s lab.
The Virtuality Incorporated offices and laboratory lay about twenty-five miles east of Seattle on the edge of Snoqualmie. The city had been trying to develop the old mill site since Weyerhaeuser moved out more than ten years earlier. The western edge of the property bordered Mill Pond Road which ran along the snow-fed waters of the Snoqualmie River.
Vince swam in the Snoqualmie River as a kid, when he went to a Christian camp near Carnation. Even in August, the temperature of the treacherous water reached only about forty degrees, cold enough to claim several lives each year.
Thirty minutes later, Vince drove his car slowly through the site. Most of the buildings on the property appeared vacant. He pulled into a parking spot near what looked like the entrance to Virtuality’s office.
He and Jess got out and Vince offered her his arm.
Jess took it, and they walked toward the main entrance.
Hopefully, the meeting with Patrick would go as smoothly as business transacted between two friendly partners. That’s how it had started between Paul and Patrick, supposedly two committed Christians. But Vince had only vague clues about how it had ended, and Paul’s clues worried Vince.
The main door opened before they reached it.
Patrick stood several inches shorter than Vince remembered. Patrick shook Vince’s hand, but ignored Jess. The short man had gained a few pounds and, apparently, lost his manners.
Jess seemed to take Patrick’s rudeness in stride, but Vince had to bite his tongue to stop remarks he would probably regret.
Vince and Jess took seats at Patrick’s desk and the conversation began.
Five minutes into their discussion, Patrick was still trying to control the direction and content of the conversation and his tone … condescending. “Vince, you’re an author. You write words, not code, and I don’t think you have much interest in software development.”
Painting Vince into a corner using Patrick’s choice of color—that wasn’t going to happen. “Actually, Paul piqued my interest. Virtuality’s products could be the wave of the future.”
“But there’s always risk when you start a new business venture. You can make a lot or lose your shirt.” Patrick tugged on the collar of his polo shirt in melodramatic fashion.
Vince chuckled. “Sort of like writing and self-publishing a novel. It’s like a box of chocolates. You never—”
“Let me come to the point.” Patrick clasped his hands on the desk. “I can remove all risk to you. I'm willing to purchase your share in Virtuality for a fair market value. Our lawyer says, at this stage of development, and with the Army contract partly completed, the company is valued at a little under eight million dollars. That includes our equipment, software … all our assets. I'm prepared to write you a check for four million dollars. Invest it wisely and you're set for life.”
“What about the human assets?”
“Paul’s dead. All we have is his intellectual property contained in specifications.”
“Specifications that Jess coded.”
Patrick pointed a thumb at Jess. “But she’s not part of Virtuality. Any of my programmers could have coded Paul’s algorithms, using his specs.”
Jess had taken everything Patrick dished out in silence, so far. But now her feet shuffled under her chair like she was dancing the Bop to one of those old ‘50s songs. She wouldn’t remain quiet much longer.
And Patrick Michaels was looking more like that bully, Jimmy Grant, with each condescending look and verbal jab he gave Jess.
“Dude …” Vince reached over the desk and poked an index finger into Patrick’s chest. “… I think you need a reality check.”
Patrick flinched and leaned back in his chair.
Jess was probably one of a small handful of people on the planet who could have understood and correctly implemented Paul’s work. Patrick must realize that. But did Patrick realize how close he was to getting his nose flattened? At the moment, knowing how much Jess disliked Vince’s bad temper was the only thing saving Patrick.
Vince looked across the desk and studied the short man’s face.
Eyes darting, beads of sweat on his upper lip—Patrick knew something was about to happen. He certainly didn’t have the composure of a good poker player.
Vince hadn’t had an opportunity to examine Virtuality’s books. He’d only glanced at a bank statement he found at Paul’s house that indicated the company’s available cash was far less than four million dollars. This was the perfect time to bluff.
Vince glared at Patrick. “I have it on good authority that Virtuality only has about a million dollars in the bank. A check for four million—where’s that coming from?”
A shadow flickered across Patrick's face and the knuckles of his clasped hands turned white. “Uh, it's from … investors, venture capitalists.”
Jess scooted her chair toward the table. “If you bring in venture capitalists, you'll end up with less than the forty-nine percent of the company you now own. Why would you want to do that?”
She was one step ahead of Vince. He wanted to give her a smile and thumbs up but opted for silence and the opportunity to watch Patrick stew in Jess’s insinuation. She had either called him a liar or implied he was stupid. Either way it seemed to fit.
Patrick cleared his throat and opened his mouth.
Jess cut him off. “Maybe you’ve found a creative way to acquire the venture capital, one that doesn’t force you to give up controlling interest.”
“Something like that.” Patrick’s bushy eyebrows pinched closed. “But, Jessica, I didn't invite you to this meeting. Vince is a big boy. He can handle his own interests without a wom—uh, without your help”
Compared to Jess’s intelligence, Patrick was Forrest Gump minus his box of chocolates and his platitudes. And Vince had heard enough from this guy. He balled his fists and stood, ready to get in Patrick's face.
Jess’s hand clamped on his wrist and tugged. She wore her enigmatic smile, a look that had meant trouble for Jess's adversaries since she was eight years old. And, as he’d just reminded himself, she was smarter than Patrick.
Vince sat, challenging Patrick to a staring contest.
The short man must have felt the daggers coming from Vince. Patrick rolled his chair back from his desk, eyes darting between Vince and Jess.
Maybe a little intimidation went a long way with this guy. In that case …
“Here’s how it is. I'm not selling, Patrick. I retain controlling interest in Virtuality. That's my best and final offer. And I don't want to hear yours.”
Patrick clutched the front of his polo shirt tight enough to pop off the buttons. “You're going to regret this, Vince. You've made a bad decision, a very bad decision.” His attempt at a fierce expression looked more like a pouting child’s face.
Vince stood and gave Jess his hand.
She took it, stood beside him and nodded toward Patrick.
“Come on, Jess. I think his meeting’s over.”
* * *
Jess hurried out the door of Patrick's office, hoping Vince would follow her, not turn around and beat the stuffing out of the stuffed polo shirt. She shot a glance at Paul's car that Vince had driven this morning.
A tall skinny man in work coveralls, like janitors and mechanics wore, walked away across the large, mostly vacant parking lot. He headed toward a
building on the far side.
Vince nudged her toward the car. “Let's get out of here, Jess, before I lose patience with that stuffed polo shirt.”
Stuffed polo shirt. Jess smiled as she opened the passenger door. Vince and Jess had always thought alike about people and important issues, except one. At that thought, she stopped smiling.
Vince slid in and started the engine. It idled roughly then sputtered and died. He restarted it and pulled out of the parking spot, headed toward the highway.
“Jess, do you know where I can get my hands on a copy of the partnership agreement between Paul and Patrick?”
“Paul probably kept a copy of the contract in the safe at his house. Why? Are you thinking, like me, that Patrick would do just about anything to gain control of Virtuality?”
“He would never have offered me four million dollars, at this juncture, unless he knew he could make a fortune. Someone must be guaranteeing his success. Someone like the people Paul feared would abuse the technology. And maybe that's the danger Paul referred to. But how would that endanger you?”
Vince turned onto Highway 202 and headed toward North Bend.
“I don’t know if it could endanger me, but Paul did give me zero-point-nine percent of the company. It was part of his payment for coding his algorithms. But that still left him in control.” She paused and mentally shoved the decimal point seven places to the right, then rounded up. “If Virtuality turns out to be a billion-dollar business, that would give me a cool ten million. I could retire and write novels.”
“Jesse James an author? That’ll be the day.”
Vince went silent as he drove. Probably cooling off after nearly losing his temper. He didn't speak again until they had exited from I-90 onto Highway 18, a highway that bypassed Seattle far to the east.
Highway 18 climbed part of Tiger Mountain then descended through the foothills of the Cascades to the Puget Sound Basin, rejoining I-5 fifteen miles south of Seattle. It was the shortest route to both Fairwood and Jess’s apartment in Kent.