The Man Who Wouldn't Die

by A. B. Jewell

  “An NDA—says you won’t share anything you learn tonight, blah, blah, blah.”

  I walked to the counter and looked at the paperwork and wished I could feel surprised. These things had been turning up all over the place. Everyone you work for requested you to sign an NDA. I figured that made sense for a private detective, but it wasn’t just guys in my line of work or accountants like Terry dealing with confidential financials. The loaded guys were seeking NDAs from house contractors, flooring guys, painters; in one case, I heard from a barber who wasn’t allowed to give away anything about the comb-and-part strategy of the venture capitalist he was cutting. And the fellow was bald.

  “How come the Internet guys get to know everything about me but I’m not allowed to share anything about you guys?” I asked, inking my name.

  “Well, you see the conundrum.”

  “What conundrum?”

  “I can’t answer your question or I’d be sharing information I’m not prepared to share.” No self-awareness in his voice. “And sign this one.” He moved aside the first piece of paper to reveal a second. “This NDA says you won’t disclose that you signed the previous NDA.”

  I smirked. “Is there a third NDA to prevent me from saying I’ve signed the second?”

  “Why would we do that?” Genuinely incredulous. “Come on back!” Big smile as he walked into the back, in his hand paperwork I had no intention of abiding by, lawsuit be damned. Something stank here.

  Maybe it was the kiwi.

  The second I’d stepped in the back, I inhaled the scent of kiwi and I could promptly see its origin—piles of the green fruit cut into perfect circular slices. They were stacked on a snack table along the far wall of the immense room. Next to the carved fruit, if I wasn’t mistaken, large piles of sand with water spouting through the top, some sort of artisan fountain. On the wall to our right, a huge digital screen took up most of the wall. The screen showed a swirling image of outer space.

  In the middle of the room stood a conference table, isolated, surrounded not by chairs but by odd-looking seating: backs to the “chairs” but no places to place your rear end. In the middle of the conference table, rising from the center, a hologram kept changing images: outer space; the African savannah; a dolphin jumping into the air in a vast ocean; two little girls holding hands and running across a green field.

  “It’s not that impressive.” Rajeev laughed. Of course it was, he meant. “Froom.”

  “I can be out of your hair in ten minutes. I’d just like a word with Danny.”

  “Oh, c’mon, Fitch. You’re not curious?”

  I took a look at this half-pint and realized he was a veritable hologram himself. I was usually decent at reading people, but I couldn’t tell if he was serious or not, or thought himself serious or not. Dangerous kind of creature, like a deadly spider that might crawl into your sleeping bag for a nap or an attack. Deep breath, Fitch, I told myself, no need to dismiss this character before you’ve coaxed out of him what you might. Besides, speaking of spiders, the Tarantulas were combing around outside.

  “Yeah. The teensiest bit curious.”

  “You know what the greatest obstacle is to greater productivity? You know what really holds us back?”

  “Slow boot-up times.”

  “Obviously. Those are excruciating milliseconds. I’m talking about something we can solve.” He paused, milking this. Waiting for me to guess. I just stared at him. Part of me wondered if he would say mortality. Maybe he was in on the notes from the grave.

  “Conference rooms,” he said.

  “Conference rooms.”

  “Behold the conference room of the future.” He looked at the setting in the middle of this huge room. “Standard stuff. Reclaimed marble table, squatting desks. Stuff everyone can have, and should. The price of admission. But what turns this conference room into a Thinkference Room, into an Ideaference Room?”

  “A what?”

  “A place where we Change. The. World. Achieve Omniference.”

  “Kiwi?”

  “Not bad, actually.”

  “What’s not bad?”

  “Kiwi. I realize you don’t know what you’re saying. You’re talking about fruit. I’m talking about names, the names of conference rooms. Kiwi might be a great name. Rich with meaning.”

  Suddenly a full stop. He was waiting for me to get it. Which I decidedly did not. “Danny . . .”

  “Patience. The conference room is the new garage, the start-up within the start-up, where ideas get generated and flourish, or they don’t. And they will die, trust me, Fitch, they will never be born if the conference room doesn’t have a what?”

  “A what?”

  “The right name! You think it’s an accident that Gooble keeps generating new ideas, brilliant new ideas that actually have the potential to generate revenue? No way. Listen to their conference room names: Mandela’s Sandals; Sans Permit; the Mad Hatcher.”

  “Let’s move on.”

  “We’re on the same page. That last part was OTR, off the record. I was number two in conference room naming at Gooble and I fully appreciate what they’ve done. Great people, pioneers in their own way. But they’ve lost their way. A lot of the brainstorming for the Gooble Mouthcam Platform was done in These Are Not the DDR2s You’re Looking For.”

  “I’m not sure what you just said.”

  “Right?” He smirked. “No wonder Mouthcam flopped. Did anyone, anyone, think of the privacy issues of showing the larynx? Anyhow, the point is, we’re notching conference room naming up by orders of magnitude.”

  “You name conference rooms.”

  “We christen conference rooms—but with you at the helm. For your individual enterprise, your vision. We tailor, design, evoke, stimulate. We Coopreate. Cooperate, create, and copulate.”

  “Copulate.”

  “Reproduce ideas at a frightening rate.”

  I almost jumped when I heard his phone ring. A U2 song. “Hold on.” He put a finger up. “Sorry . . .”

  I muttered: “It’s just an app, telling you your ringer works. You can ignor—”

  “Bono, what’s the word?” he said into the phone. He listened: “Oh, sorry to hear it. Catch you on the flip side.” He listened again. “See you, my Irish Catholic bro.” He laughed and clicked off and looked at me: “Bono.” Can’t hide his pride. “Froom backer. Obviously I can’t say the equity split but he’s way down with it.”

  “I thought the Bono ringtone just warned you that your ringer was off.”

  “Maybe. Billy! Danny!”

  Who? I turned to see where he was looking. At the opening from the front. In walked an odd couple: an older guy, tall, slender and sleek, gray goatee, white shroud-type thing hanging from his shoulders to the floor; and a stocky kid, more like heavyset bordering on fat, shaved skull, jeans and a T-shirt, round head, downward glance, looked like he’d have three-day growth were he fully pubescent.

  “Fitch, the talent is in the house. I want you to meet Billy Winehouse, and Big D Donogue. Gentlemen, Willie Fitzgerald, he’s with—”

  “Myself.”

  I tried to make sense of everything. I’d thought Danny was the CEO. I said that: “I thought Danny was CEO.”

  “It’s a nontraditional in-house position. Chief Existential Officer, our spiritual adviser,” Da Raj explained. “We’ve decided to take the CEO position in-house, not use an outside service like some companies. That’s how important it is to have our values front and center. It’s a differentiator.”

  This older guy extended his hand to me. “Old-fashioned handshake,” he said. “I don’t think I could fist-bump if I tried.” I grasped and we shook. I sensed instantly that the guy was down-to-earth, which he confirmed by saying: “Don’t let Da Raj’s youthful enthusiasm get to you. We’re all going to work for him someday.” He smiled beatifically at Da Raj, who now seemed a touch off balance.

  I fist-bumped with Danny, who barely caught my eye and looked away.

  Over the next f
ew minutes, some details worked themselves out. Da Raj and Danny cofounded Froom along with someone they kept referring to as the Valley’s One Female Venture Capitalist, and Bono. The explanations were a little hard to follow because Shirli had reentered and, in response to a request that she put on music, gave directions to Pasadena. Da Raj defended her: “One of the trade-offs you make when you hire truly creative people is that they color outside the lines. You need them to do that. That’s why we let people work at the gym or a climbing-wall facility. We encourage that.”

  A few other early pre-pre-partiers streamed in. People stood at the kiwi table, sipping from the fountain of vitamin water that bubbled from the pile of sand. I was told this was a reminder to people that we’re in the middle of a drought and as a way of encouraging people to drink judiciously and also to figure out new ways to monetize water. When I’d finally had enough, I approached Danny. The place was humming now, fifty people at least. Over the loudspeakers blared indie rock, the songs sometimes interspersed with driving directions.

  “I’m sorry to hear about your grandfather.”

  “Yeah, well.”

  He fiddled with his phone, not looking up. I stared at the top of his pate.

  “Did my mom send you? I know what this is about.”

  “Oh yeah?” I tried to keep it noncommittal.

  “She wants me to go to college.” He looked up. “Did Jobs finish college?”

  I locked eyes with this kid, then he looked down again. Back to his phone. Fiddling with nothing. He said: “College isn’t the only way to make it in this world. It’s a joke. Four years that could be spent . . .” He trailed off.

  I could barely hear the kid. “Is there someplace we can talk in private?”

  He looked up. “How about my office?”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  “We’re in it. What’s on your mind?”

  I looked around. I was in the left-hand corner of the Froom room, the farthest point from the door where we came in. The kiwi and sand table was a few paces to our right, the food line stretching behind us. A surge of new attendees streamed from the entrance. I glanced at the incoming crowd, my danger alarm sounding. Something wasn’t right. I suppressed a sudden urge to call Terry, check in.

  “We have open-air, standing offices,” Danny said. “Promotes Coopreation. Feel free to squat.”

  “Oh, come on. Nobody talks like that. Listen, I’d like to promote privacy. Someplace we can have a bit more in-depth conversation?”

  “Nothing worthwhile needs more than a hundred and forty characters.”

  “Look, kid, how many characters is murder?”

  The kid stiffened. I saw the tension in his jaw. “Fitch, right? You’re a private detective? You know my mom’s a greedy weirdo, right?”

  “You always talk that way about your mother?”

  He shook his head. “I’m emancipated. Practically. This is a new world we live in. I’m making my own way and I don’t need her looking over my shoulder, and if you have any self-respect, I wouldn’t think you’d want to get involved in her dirty business either.”

  “What business is that?”

  “You should go. At least out of my office.”

  What did that mean? Take two steps to my left?

  “Call me anytime. Here’s my card.” Old-school but nice, heavy paper. Felt like a kind of peace offering. I couldn’t get a handle on this guy. I slipped the card into my pocket.

  “Listen, Danny, you’re into something. Carrying weight. It’s written all over your pimply face. What happened with your grandfather?”

  He bit the inside of his cheek. A nonanswer that hinted at something else.

  I picked up a ripple in the crowd. Da Raj, moving in our direction, along with the CEO. I look back to Danny, trying to place what was bugging me.

  “Are you taking Adderall?” I asked Danny.

  His reaction was a kind of half snort, like a forced laugh, as if to say: give me a break. Not very convincing.

  Da Raj and the CEO continued in our direction, occasionally being backslapped and fist-bumped, slowing their approach.

  “I hear he’s been tweeping—your grandfather, Captain Don. From . . .” I looked for the word. “Beyond.”

  Danny’s eyes twitched, just as Da Raj and the CEO arrived.

  “Whoa, aura,” said the CEO. “Tension. Would it be okay if I broke in with a story?”

  “Does anyone knock anymore?” Danny asked.

  “Pardon the interruption. I think you’ll like this. I was walking in Samoa. Talking to MELFIs,” then, for my benefit, the CEO explained: “Mother Entrepreneurs Learning Financial Independence. Of course, this place had no mobile connections, none. How do they do it? How do they stay so serene with all the inefficiencies? What’s their secre—”

  There was commotion near the entrance. Two Tarantulas, unmistakable. Big guys, leather vests. They got a few glances, then people returned to their elevator pitches. Not me. I made eye contact with both of them, near as I could, trying to suss them out. They separated, going for the flanks.

  “. . . meditative breathing”—the CEO had continued his story—“from the diaphragm. It’s ancient wisdom but applicable now as it was then, even without a walking stick. Think of your phone as a walking stick, handheld, a grounding tool . . .” I tuned him out, watching the Tarantulas nearby. I reached inside my jacket for my gun. I couldn’t figure it; something too obvious about this approach, here, in this crowd. And then it hit me. Shit, it’s a distraction. How did I miss it? To my right, other side of the kiwi table, a Tarantula. I’d picked him up earlier, a guy in an ill-fitting gingham shirt. What was in his hand?

  “Get down!” I dove into Danny, Da Raj, and the CEO—trying to tackle them to the ground.

  We hit the floor—I, the bowling ball; they, the pins. I heard screams and moans from the crowd. Business pitch interruptus. I pulled my gun, remembering, shit, I hadn’t loaded it. What was the next move? Where was the nearest exit?

  “Rajeev!”

  It was the CEO screaming. His face was inches from Da Raj’s. I managed a quick take and saw Da Raj turning blue. And something protruded right from his neck. A dart! Shit, that’s what had been in the Tarantula’s hand, some sort of toxic blowgun. Glassy-eyed, Da Raj stared at Danny. “You, Danny boy . . .” He trailed off. “I know. You . . .” He slumped, gasped his last breath—on my behalf.

  Bastards. I stood and raised my gun. Bullets or not, I’d put the scare into them. That poor Irish Catholic kid had just taken a dart meant for me.

  Over the loudspeakers, I heard Shirli dialing the phone. After a ring, someone picked up: “Emergency operator.” Shirli responded: “Finding carpet cleaner.”

  The Tarantula with the blowgun gadget hit the exit, turned back, seared a look at me, and took off. I gave chase.

  Nine

  SHOUTS, MURMURS, A shrill scream. In my peripheral vision I picked up someone pointing at me: stop him! Halfway across the room, a hand snagged my arm and I yanked it away forcefully enough to send the person spinning, toppling into a few other people, prompting human dot-com dominoes to teeter and fall. Compostable plates and GMO-free, organic kiwi splashed into the air like confetti.

  Somewhere in the recesses, it dawned on me that I’d become the face of this murder, the guy fleeing after standing next to Da Raj before he hit the floor.

  At the wall that led to the little entry room, I paused. Could be Tarantulas hiding behind it. I’d have felt much better if the gun had been loaded. But even then, it would be three on one and I was coming around the blind corner. Another arm snagged at me and I swatted the person away and, the hell with it, turned the corner.

  Nothing. Empty. Except for Shirli. She smiled. “Hello, Willie Fitzgerald . . . er, Fitch. Can I help you with something?”

  Great, her first positive identification in months, and it was me. Just the kind of thing I needed her telling the police. As I loped to the door, I made a fleeting mental note to call Lieute
nant Gaberson and set things straight. I burst out of Froom, bounded up the stairs, and discovered a world totally different from the one I’d left less than two hours earlier. For one thing, it was dark. And besides that, it was now wholesale bustle.

  In fact, no sooner had I stepped off the top stair than I was practically assaulted by a guy trying to hand me a flyer. “Hey, I’m Tuck.”

  I ignored him and scanned the packed area. People paraded along both sidewalks, which were sufficiently crowded to cause some to stream into the street. Cars honked, pedestrians flowed among them. I craned to find a Tarantula. It was like Mardi Gras.

  What had Da Raj meant when he looked at Danny with a deathbed accusation? Unmistakable, right?

  The guy calling himself Tuck said: “Cornell, at a baseline, guaranteed, with all the usual caveats. Someone tells you they can guarantee Dartmouth or above, don’t believe it. Is that a gun?”

  “Water pistol.” I scanned for Tarantulas.

  “Oh, smart. Scare off the frauds. Nice. What year is your kid? Freshman or still in junior high? What percentile? I just mean ballpark, on the PSAT?”

  I still saw no Tarantulas. But I did see the cops, a cherry-top half a block away down on the right, stopped in traffic. The passenger door on the police car opened.

  “I get it,” this pest said. “You’re just checking it out, scoping the competition. Lot of fly-by-nights. Used to be just three of us here, two years ago. Now it’s wall-to-wall test prep. We’ve got a track record. You cannot beat what we’re offering.”

  No freaking clue what this huckster was hawking and no Tarantula in plain sight. A cop headed right for us, gun drawn. I looked at this joker. A head shorter than me, floppy hair, casual dress to a fault. He took my looking at him as encouragement.

  “Just check us out, is all I’m saying. Your kid play an instrument? Obviously, he or she does. We can offer package deals with a local conservatory. We’re just two doors down.”

  Cop closing in. I said: “Show me—”

  “Tuck. Tuckster.”

  “Tuckster.”

  “Great. Great! You won’t regret it. Full disclosure, I work on a commission basis, but I don’t get paid if your young genius doesn’t see a fifteen-percentile increase on the next official SAT, all the usual caveats. Boy or girl? My goodness, I didn’t even ask. And I didn’t catch your name.”