The Next Big Thing

by Sadie Hayes

  “Is everything all right?” Michael Dawson’s patience was running thin; not because he was annoyed, but because he wanted to help.

  “Everything is fine. We’re a lot closer than we were yesterday.”

  “So should we head home and relax?” he asked sardonically.

  She shook her head and smiled. “Not time to celebrate yet. But I do have another project for you.”

  55

  Please Allow Me to Introduce Myself

  “Whiskey soda,” Dawson said, leaning his elbow against the bar and smiling at the buxom bartender. He turned his torso to face the man sitting two seats down; it was the same person from the photo at Tamarind. Dawson tapped his foot while waiting for the woman to return with his cocktail, trying to figure out his next move.

  “Man, have I missed California women,” he casually mused.

  Ted Bristol looked up from his iPhone at the speaker, then at the woman he referenced, then back at the stranger. He smiled and lifted his eyebrows in agreement. “Bay Area’s no L.A., but this is a good spot to find the best of the neighborhood.”

  Ted Bristol went back to reading something on his iPhone.

  “I’d say,” Dawson responded, undeterred. He slid out of his tweed blazer and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, loosening his collar as the bartender returned.

  “Tough day?” She smiled as she placed the drink in front of him.

  “Honey, you don’t know the half of it.” His brown eyes smiled as he pulled his lips quizzically to one side, offering his best draw-you-in grin. His broad jaw was bristled with stubble. He was handsome, to be sure, but he had a confidence that made him seem much more so.

  The bartender’s heavily-mascaraed eyes darted up and down the bar, presumably to see if any other patrons were waiting for drinks, but really to see if her supervisor was watching or if a momentary flirtation would be allowed. Dawson laughed in his head. Women are so predictable.

  “Want to tell me about it?” She moved her shoulders parallel with his and put her hands on the bar, straightening her arms so that her cleavage jutted out of her tight-bodiced dress. Out of the corner of his eye, Dawson saw Ted’s head lift as he tuned in to the conversation.

  “Oh, I don’t want to bore you,” Dawson flirted. But she moved closer and tilted her head, her long brown hair falling over her shoulder, indicating nothing he said could bore her.

  He laughed in false humility, loudly enough for Ted to hear. “Really: I’m a corporate accountant. I spend my day looking at balance sheets. You know what’s worse than that? I live in the Midwest! Trust me, all my stories are boring.” Then, for good measure, Dawson ended with: “Especially compared to the kind of fun a beautiful brunette in California must have.”

  She blushed and grinned at the Midwesterner, speechless.

  “Miss?” a man at the other end of the bar called for her attention. Dawson lifted his head to indicate she should go do her job. She obeyed, and Dawson took a sip of his whiskey, waiting for Ted to say something, which he shortly did. Men were predictable, too.

  “You’re an accountant, huh?” Ted said.

  Dawson pretended to be surprised by his question: “I’m sorry?”

  “I overheard you.” Ted indicated the space where the bartender had just been. “Did you say you’re a corporate accountant?”

  “I am.” Dawson puffed himself up as he nodded assuredly. He then recited the lines that Amelia drilled into him before sending him on this mission. “My specialty is preventing equity investments from losing their financial value; you know, antidilution provisions and all that.”

  “Oh?” Ted raised his eyebrow. “And you live … well, you don’t live here?”

  “Nope.” Dawson shook his head. “I gave up the big lights. Live in the middle of nowhere in Indiana.”

  “That must be lonely,” Ted empathized, trying to reconcile how someone with Dawson’s looks, charm, and obvious penchant for gorgeous women survived in a small town in the Midwest.

  “After my wife died, I adopted a couple kids—they’re teenagers now”—he shook his head in reflection—“hard to believe. Anyhow, they keep me company.”

  He turned his head to Ted and smiled. “You got any kids?”

  “Two,” Ted answered, clearly thinking about something else. “Our youngest, Lisa, is actually adopted, too.”

  “No way,” Dawson said. “She turn out okay?”

  “She’s an angel,” Ted admitted. “Probably better than my own genes ever could have managed.”

  “Mine too,” Dawson agreed, lifting his glass to clink Ted’s. “To picking ’em good.”

  Ted laughed and accepted the cheers.

  “So what brings you to California?”

  “I have clients with some business out here. A few Chicago-based VC firms watching out to make sure they don’t get taken.”

  “Oh, yeah? Who are you working for? Madison Dearborn? Apex?”

  “Sorry,” Dawson said, smiling, “accountant-client privileges and all that.”

  “Must be quite a project to send an accountant all the way out here.”

  “It was some tricky stuff that needed first-person attention.”

  “What kind of tricky stuff?” Ted moved closer.

  “Eh, I shouldn’t talk about it.” Dawson lifted a hand and shook his head. “I pride myself on confidentiality.”

  Ted nodded. “As you should.”

  The two men sat in silence for a moment before Ted stood up and moved to sit on the empty stool between them.

  “You know, I probably could have used a guy like you about a year ago.” Ted stopped and peered at his glass. “I had equity in a company that was being acquired for a lot of money. But because of some bad press the deal fell apart and the value crashed to one-tenth of the original offer. I got screwed.” He said it with the air of someone trying to be lighthearted but feeling the opposite.

  “Brutal. Sorry, man.” Dawson shook his head in commiseration.

  “There’s a new company that I just got control over, though. I think they’ve got real potential to bring me back.”

  “What is it?”

  Ted looked at him, evaluating whether he was trustworthy, and deciding that he was. “You’ve never heard of it. It’s an app that lets your phone see other electronic devices, like an eye. More importantly, collects user data.”

  “Until that company hits it big, you know you can write your investment losses off, right? Who’s your business manager?”

  “I can? My who?” Ted asked.

  Shit, Dawson thought, wrong word choice. “You know, the guy managing your accounts.” He took a sip of his drink.

  “Oh, Stuart?” Ted tilted his head. “He’s smart and all but super old-school. I’m a private man and he’s kind of an expert at setting up shell companies. He’s totally OCD—you should see his home office,” Ted said, chuckling. “Anyway, he’s not cutting-edge, but I trust him. He’s loyal.”

  “That’s good,” Dawson said, nodding. “You want OCD in an accountant.” Then he thought to add quickly, “Not Stuart Kipling, is it?”

  “No. Chen. Never heard of Stuart Kipling. Is he local?”

  Dawson stored “Stuart Chen” away in his brain. “No. Just a guy I went to school with who’s a total slime. Knew it was a long shot but thought I’d check in case.”

  “Good of you.” Ted clinked his glass again. “Very OCD yourself.” He smiled and after a pause offered his hand. “I’m Ted.”

  “Randall,” Dawson said, accepting the handshake, “Randall Jameson.”

  “Any relation?” Ted jovially noted the whiskey in his glass.

  “I wish!” Dawson conceded. “Wouldn’t have to slave away so hard if I’d gotten that inheritance.” He took the chance to look at his watch. “On that note, I ought to get going. Big day tomorrow.”

  “Indeed.” Ted stood up and moved out of his way. “Have you got a card? In case I ever need a nonlocal accountant?”

  “Ahh,” Dawson sai
d, patting his pockets to feel for business cards he knew weren’t there, “unfortunately not. Give me one of yours and I’ll shoot you my info?”

  “Sure thing.” Ted pulled a crisp, heavy-stock card from his wallet and handed it to Dawson. “Pleasure meeting you; enjoy the rest of your stay.”

  “Pleasure’s been all mine.” Dawson’s left dimple curled into a smile and he held Ted’s hand a moment longer than necessary before turning merrily out of the bar.

  56

  Kryptonite Firewall

  The door opened and Amelia jumped in her chair. She stood from the computer and pulled a blanket around her shoulders as Dawson entered the room.

  “Hey,” he greeted her as he threw his jacket on the sofa and headed for the minifridge in the corner, where he pulled out a beer and took a long swig.

  Amelia wiggled her toes to keep warm as she waited for him to report on the rest of his evening.

  Dawson let out a long, satisfied sigh, his eyes closed, appreciating the taste of the beer he’d half finished.

  “So?” Amelia finally prompted. “Did you find him?”

  Dawson opened his eyes and looked at her in mock surprise, pulling Ted’s card out of his pocket and tossing it onto the table in front of her as he went into the bedroom to change out of his “Randall Jameson” costume.

  “Where’d you get this?” she called from the front room. “Did you meet him?” Her voice was eager. Dawson was quiet, getting back at her for being so guarded in the parking lot.

  “No, I found it on the street,” Dawson called back.

  Amelia’s shoulders dropped in disappointment. He popped his head back through the doorframe. “I’m kidding. Of course I met him.”

  She perked up again and sat back in the chair, tapping her foot and tugging at her earlobe anxiously while she waited for him to return.

  He reentered the room in sweatpants and a white undershirt, tossing the empty beer can in the garbage as he pulled out another.

  “What have you been working on?” he asked innocently.

  “I’ll tell you later.” Amelia was annoyed by the pleasure he took in stringing this out, and the fact that she hadn’t uncovered anything new about VIPER. “Come on,” she pleaded, “what did you find out? Did you talk to Ted about Violet?”

  “Nope.”

  “What?” Amelia snapped. “Why not? That was the point.”

  “I did you one better.” Dawson smiled. “Ted’s your mystery owner.”

  “What are you talking about?” She felt her heart drop. She thought it was true, but she hadn’t prepared herself for confirmation.

  “He’s doing it all through a shell company; doesn’t want anyone to know.”

  Amelia sank back in her chair. “Ted Bristol owns Doreye.” She let herself say it out loud.

  Dawson waited, not sure what to do.

  “But why?” She twisted her mouth, looking at Dawson for an answer. “Doesn’t he want to bring the whole thing down? Doesn’t he want to punish me?”

  “Amelia, you’re sitting in a mouse-infested basement and your only ally is me, a man you threw in jail. I would call this rock bottom.”

  “But…” It was the first time Amelia realized what had become of her. He was right. Before her emotions took over she shook her head. Don’t think about that right now.

  “But what’s his angle? I mean, what is he trying to do?”

  “He wants to make money, I presume.”

  “But Ted lost all his money in Gibly. Where did he get twenty million to invest in Doreye?”

  “Maybe he got it from somewhere else?”

  “Okay.” Amelia’s voice was annoyed at the obvious statement. “So how do we find that out?”

  “Easy,” Dawson said, smiling. “Stuart Chen.”

  “Who?” she grumbled.

  “Ted Bristol’s accountant.”

  Amelia lifted her head, and her eyes shined with a new hope before she turned back to her computer and googled his name.

  “Doubt you’ll find anything,” Dawson interjected. “Ted said he’s old-school. Has a home office, though.”

  “So what do you suggest we do?”

  Dawson finished his beer. “That’s enough for me today. I’m hitting the hay.”

  “But—” Amelia protested.

  “And I suggest, young lady, that you do the same,” Dawson lectured, then said more tenderly: “You look exhausted. And we made a lot of progress today. Get some sleep—the next step will be clear tomorrow.”

  Amelia’s eyelids fell with admission that she was exhausted, and that he was right.

  “Thank you,” she whispered from her chair, but he’d already turned back to the bedroom.

  57

  Virtual Reality Bites

  “What a treat,” T-Bag exclaimed with equal parts mockery and earnestness. “Delta Gamma brunch? This is every gay man’s dream. Are there a lot of cute boys here?”

  Patty laughed as she opened the door for him to come in through the kitchen, wondering uncomfortably whether his flamboyance might be a greater cause for concern than the Comp Sci geekery she’d initially been hesitant about.

  “I’m kidding,” he said in a normal voice. “I promise I won’t embarrass you in front of your friends.”

  Patty blushed at being called out and felt a pang of shame at her own shallowness.

  “Can I get you coffee?” she asked to redeem herself, leading the way through the kitchen, where two chefs were busy flipping pancakes and cooking eggs, and into the dining room, where girls and guys were filing in for brunch.

  Delta Gamma’s chef served brunch every Friday, replete with bacon, pancakes, and made-to-order omelets. It was the perfect antidote to the inevitable hangovers following Sigma Chi’s Thursday-night Penthouse parties, and was so popular that each girl was only allowed one guest. The result was that the Delta Gamma brunch became notorious across campus; invites were coveted, and the meal took on an exclusive allure.

  Patty knew this, of course, and thought using this week’s invitation for T-Bag would be a powerful message of how much she appreciated his help finding Amelia.

  “Coffee would be great,” T-Bag answered. “I assume you have nonfat soy milk and Splenda?”

  “Of course.” Patty found T-Bag’s mockery of DG’s girly dietary habits pleasantly disarming. She grinned. “And egg-white omelets cooked without oil.”

  “Perfection.” He grinned behind his glasses. He had really great bone structure, she thought, and perfectly clear skin. His plaid shirt and dark-wash jeans were really well assembled. In short, she approved of his style and general demeanor, and applauded herself for being open-minded to someone from outside her normal clique.

  The two piled food from the buffet onto their plates and took a seat in the corner, where they chitchatted about classes and Patty’s plans for an internship and her dabbling with start-ups. They talked about relationships and commiserated over the selfishness of boys.

  When they were finished with their food, T-Bag dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “But I know you didn’t bring me here to discover the intricacies of my love life, so let’s talk about Amelia.”

  Patty bit her lip. “What do you know?”

  “I don’t know where she physically is, but I think I know how to find her virtually.”

  Patty lifted an eyebrow.

  “There’s this video game we all play called ZOSTRA,” he explained, “but Amelia has blocked T.J. and me from finding her. However, if you set up an account, you should be able to hunt her down. That is, assuming she’s still playing. But I can’t imagine she wouldn’t be.”

  “I still can’t believe T.J.’s a video-gamer loser.” Patty rolled her eyes and laughed as she sipped her orange juice.

  T-Bag glared at her.

  “Sorry.” She blushed again.

  “T.J. plays, and you are about to. Come on, I’ll set you up.”

  T-Bag followed Patty to her room and showed her how to log on to ZOSTRA, how to set up an acc
ount, how to navigate the virtual worlds. As they were choosing Patty’s avatar’s wardrobe, T-Bag’s phone rang. He ignored it, but the caller tried back and T-Bag looked, concerned, at the caller ID.

  “Is it the boy?” Patty asked.

  “Yes, but I don’t want to talk to him.”

  Patty rolled her eyes. “Stop being a girl.” She shooed him out of the room. “Go! I think I’ve got it.”

  “You sure?” T-Bag asked.

  “Yes.” She stood up and hugged him without thinking, and held on until his surprised arms relaxed and returned the embrace. “This has been fun.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “you’re a good time, Patty Hawkins. I mean, for a sorority chick.”

  “You too, for a geek.”

  He smiled as he put on the messenger bag over his head and prepared to go. “Call me if you have any trouble. Oh, and I’d recommend starting in Paris. That’s where Amelia used to hang when she was feeling down.”

  “You think she’s sad?”

  “Of course she’s sad,” T-Bag chirped as he exited the room, “she hasn’t seen me in weeks!”

  “Bye!” Patty said, rolling her eyes.

  “Ciao, bella.”

  Patty turned to her computer monitor, a bright pink Apple screen she’d begged for last Christmas, and finished assembling her avatar.

  Virtual Patty was an artist. She was short and slim, with dark curly hair that bounced when she walked. She wore high black boots over leggings and Yoko Ono glasses. Domicile? The program asked her. “Brooklyn,” she typed. Super skill? “Painting,” she entered, thinking briefly on the art classes she’d taken as a child and wondering if it was too late to find one at Stanford this term, now that Focus Girls was done and she had more time.

  The ZOSTRA screen asked whether she wanted to join a game, find a community, or explore on her own. She selected the last option and followed T-Bag’s suggestion to head to Paris.

  The digital map zoomed in on France, then dove in for the capital city, where the sun was disappearing over a gloomy winter afternoon. Patty scrolled familiarly down the Champs-Élysées, thinking back on her high-school summer there, to the tall monolith in the center of the Place de la Concorde. The game gave her the option of hiding other players, but so far she hadn’t seen anyone else, and enjoyed having Paris all to herself. She directed her virtual self up rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré and entered the Christian Louboutin store before remembering her mission and assuring herself that, even in a fantasy land, there was no chance she’d find Amelia shopping for shoes.