Hot Shot

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  The buzz of the intercom interrupted his thoughts, and his secretary announced Cal. Joel straightened in his chair at the same time that he pretended to turn his attention to the papers on his desk. It wouldn't do for Cal to see that anything was wrong. Not that Joel didn't trust Cal. He did. Cal was like the son he'd never had-smart, ambitious, and just as ruthless as he had been himself at that age. But the basic rule of maintaining power was not to let anyone, no matter how close he might be, see your weakness.

  "I need to go to Rio next week," Cal said after they had exchanged greetings. He took a cup of coffee from Joel's secretary and, settling into a comfortable leather wing chair across from the desk, began to fill Joel in on their negotiations with the Brazilians.

  As Joel listened, he was acutely conscious of Cal's appearance. The younger man was professionally attired in the FBT uniform: a dark blue suit, custom-made white shirt, and silk rep tie. His wing tips were polished to a sheen, his hair neatly trimmed. Joel had always found the white streak that ran through the center of Cal's hair too flamboyant, but he couldn't really blame Cal for that. All in all, he couldn't help comparing him to the long-haired thug who had carried off his daughter on the back of a motorcycle, a man who was purported to be the illegitimate offspring of Elvis Presley. He raged against the humiliation of Susannah keeping company with a person like that.

  The discussion came to an end. Joel toyed with the edge of one of the binders on his desk. "I had our security people make some inquiries about Susannah," he said carefully, "and then I went to see her yesterday." He couldn't bring himself to mention that she had been shampooing hair.

  Cal's jaw tightened, but other than that he showed no reaction. His self-control made Joel uneasy, perhaps because he no longer felt as much in command of himself as he used to. But his uneasiness might have been caused by something else, some wayward sense of protectiveness toward his ungrateful daughter, which Cal's barely repressed hostility was triggering. The thought infuriated him, and his voice hardened.

  "She and that hoodlum she's living with have actually found someone naive enough to order that ridiculous machine they're working on-an electronics dealer in the Valley. It's a small business with shaky credit."

  "I see." The room grew quiet. Cal's cup clinked delicately against his saucer. "From what you've told me, they don't sound much more professional than kids running a Kool-Aid stand." The leather seat cushion of the chair wheezed softly as he shifted his weight. "Amateurs run into so many catastrophes when they do business with each other."

  It was exactly the tack Joel had expected Cal to take, but he still couldn't suppress a growing feeling of uneasiness.

  Cal went on. "If their operation is that tenuous, the smallest setback will finish them. This fellow who ordered their little toy, for example. If he backed out, they would find it impossible to recover."

  "If he backed out."

  "It's difficult to imagine what someone like that might not be prepared to give up for a chance to do business with FBT."

  Cal had finally made his point-one that Joel had already considered. He was surprised at the vehemence of his response. "No. I don't want any interference. None, do you understand?"

  A muscle ticked just beneath Cal's cheekbone. "I'm a bit surprised."

  "That's because you're not quite as perceptive as I thought you were. You didn't understand how unhappy Susannah was, for example."

  Cal's expression grew wooden. Joel's attack had obviously surprised him, but not nearly as much as it surprised Joel. Was he actually making excuses for Susannah? He immediately backstepped. "Not that I'm blaming you, of course. Still, I don't want any interference."

  For the first time, Cal let his bitterness show. "You're obviously more forgiving than I. I suppose that isn't surprising. You're her father, after all."

  Joel thought of the way Susannah had let Gamble put his hand on her breast, and a rush of righteous outrage hit him anew. "Forgiveness has nothing to do with it. By God, Susannah is going to suffer the consequences of what she's done! Judging by what I saw yesterday, it's only a matter of time before they fail. But when it happens, I want her to know she did it to herself. Do you understand me? We do this my way, Cal. I won't give her a convenient scapegoat. I don't want her to be able to believe for one minute that she could have succeeded if we hadn't interfered."

  Some of Joel's tension eased. Susannah just needed more time, that was all. It had only been a few weeks. By going to see her yesterday, he had rushed things. Once the reality of her sordid new life set in, her desire to rebel would fade and she would come running back to him.

  He saw that Cal still looked wary. Did Cal sense his ambivalence where Susannah was concerned? He returned Cal's gaze steadily and steered the conversation into safer waters.

  "Paige said you invited her to dinner at the yacht club on Saturday."

  "Yes," Cal replied smoothly. "I'm enjoying her company very much."

  I can't… get no… sa tis… fac tion…

  Paige kept her eyes shut, waiting for it to be over. It was creepy being in bed with Cal. She didn't even know why she had let it get this far, except Conti had called her today to tell her he was going back East, and he had cried on the phone.

  Cal stiffened, then relaxed. For a moment, she wondered what was wrong, then she realized that small spasm had marked his orgasm. He had made no sound-he had barely inconvenienced her. Apparently Cal was always well-behaved, even when he came.

  As she eased herself out of bed and went into his bronze and gold bathroom, she was grateful that he had gotten it over with quickly. Maybe Cal didn't enjoy sex any more than she did. It was a tantalizing idea, and later, when they were dressed and he was driving her home, she decided to test it.

  "I don't think it's a good idea for us to sleep together again, Cal. It's a little too weird."

  The headlights from an approaching car caused an angular pattern to pass over his face. "You're quite sensitive, Paige. I never realized that until tonight." Incredibly, he reached over and patted her knee. The gesture was comforting rather than sexual. "I don't want to speak out of turn, but I know it can't be entirely easy for you at Falcon Hill. I respect Joel more than any man in the world, but he's not the easiest man to please."

  His sympathy and understanding touched her. "No, he's not." Then she said bitterly, "Especially since I'm not his precious Susannah."

  His expression stiffened as it always did when she mentioned her sister's name. Sometimes she did it deliberately, just so she could watch the way his lips tightened.

  "Susannah manipulated him," he said. "But then, she manipulated all of us, didn't she? When I think how she used to talk about you… the lies and distortions she spouted behind your back. The worst of it is, I believed her." He glanced over at her. "I'm sorry for that, Paige. I feel as if I owe you something. If we're not going to be lovers, at least I'd like for us to be friends. Do you think that's possible?"

  Paige was cynical about men. She knew that Cal wanted to stay close to Joel, and from his viewpoint, one daughter was probably as good as another. But he had been so kind, so sympathetic, and she needed someone to care about her. "What about-sex?" she asked. "You're not mad?"

  Once again, he patted her knee. "I've never been particularly interested in carving notches on my bedpost. Don't misunderstand me. I enjoy sex, but it's not the most important thing in my life. Right now I need a friend more than a lover." He extended his hand. "Friends?"

  He was so sincere that she let her guard down. "Friends," she repeated as she took his hand.

  They chatted easily the rest of the way to Falcon Hill. Gradually, she found herself relaxing. Cal understood how unfair Joel had always been to her, and for the first time since her mother had died, she had someone on her side. By the time they reached home, she felt better than she had in ages-like a battered ship that had just sailed into a safe harbor.

  Sam delivered the forty computers to Pinky at Z.B. Electronics precisely on schedule. Each machi
ne was neatly encased in a wooden box with the words SysVal and the Roman numeral I visible on the front in gold rub-on letters that Susannah had finished applying just before dawn that morning.

  To her relief, Pinky paid his bill on time and she was able to settle up with Spectra. But they were only out of debt for a day before Sam ordered more parts on credit and the cycle began all over again. Only this time they didn't have a committed buyer for the new boards.

  During the next few weeks, Pinky sold several of their single-board computers to hardware freaks like himself, but the machines weren't flying off the shelves, and she was frantic with worry. They had taken out several ads in hobbyists' magazines and a few orders had trickled in, but not many. Yank had already started work on the prototype of the self-contained computer they wanted to build, but if they hoped to survive long enough to begin manufacturing it, they needed to buy themselves time. And they needed money. Big money. Susannah decided to swallow her pride and see if she could find it.

  Every day for a week, she put on her old Chanel suit and, borrowing either Yank's Duster or Angela's Toyota, went to see acquaintances from what she had begun to think of as her former life. She didn't waste time trying to contact Joel's friends or any FBT people. Instead, she phoned members of Kay's old social circle and people who had sat with her on the boards of charitable organizations. Almost all of them agreed to see her, but she quickly discovered that they were far more interested in confirming the gossip they had heard about her than in investing in SysVal. When the subject of money came up, they shifted uncomfortably in their seats and remembered urgent appointments.

  Each day, she returned tired and discouraged. At the end of the week, she went out to the garage and told Sam that she had run out of names. He pressed the half-empty can of Coke he had been drinking into her hand and said, "We need to find a venture capitalist who's willing to pump a few hundred thousand into the company. Then we could get serious about moving beyond the hobbyists' market and building the computer we really want to build." He lifted a board from the burn-in box and began putting it in its wooden case.

  She rolled the lukewarm Coke can between her hands. "No respectable venture capitalist will pay any attention to us. We don't look serious."

  At that moment the buzzer that Yank had rigged over the workbench went off. She sighed, set down the can, and rushed from the garage and across the yard toward the kitchen door.

  Generally she made it to the phone on its fifth ring, but today she stumbled on the step and lost time. As she lifted the receiver to her ear, she yearned for the day they could afford to have a separate telephone line in the garage instead of being forced to use the kitchen phone. She knew that it sounded more professional to have a woman answer, but sometimes she resented the fact that she was the one who always had to make the dash across the yard.

  "SysVal. May I help you?"

  "Yeah. I got a question about the voltage levels at the I/O interface."

  At least this phone call was from a customer instead of one of Angela's friends. "I'm sure we can answer that for you. Let me put you on hold while I connect you with our Support Services Department." She flipped on the portable radio they kept tuned to a rock station and set the receiver in front of it, then she rushed back outside and gestured for Sam, who was watching at the garage window. He hurried across the yard to take the call.

  Appearances, Susannah kept repeating to herself. Appearances are everything.

  That same night she and Sam enjoyed the luxury of being able to sleep together, since Angela had taken an overnight trip to visit a friend in Sacramento. But even lovemaking couldn't push their business problems far from their minds.

  "I've been thinking," Sam said, his lips resting against her forehead. "We need to take on one more partner. Someone who understands electronics and knows about marketing. A person with a sharp mind, who hasn't bought into the system." He rolled over on his back. "Someone inventive. And he can't be an asshole. We need to hire somebody like Nolan Bushnell at Atari."

  "I think he already has a job," Susannah said dryly. She twirled a strand of his hair through her fingers.

  "Or-this would be great-one of the big guys at Hewlett-Packard."

  Susannah rolled her eyes. Hewlett-Packard, with its progressive management style, seemed to be the only American corporation that Sam admired. "Why would anyone leave H-P to come work with us in a garage for no money?"

  "If they had vision they would. Hell, yes. We wouldn't even want them if they didn't have vision."

  This was what she both loved about him and despaired over. "It would be impossible for us to attract anyone with an important name to this company."

  "Will you stop telling me what's impossible? You do that all the time. Start telling me what's possible for a change."

  "I'm just being practical."

  "You're just being negative. I'm getting sick of it, I can't work like that." He pushed himself from the bed and went out into the kitchen.

  Her stomach churned, but she forced herself not to go after him. She was determined not to settle back into her old patterns of conciliation. Sam's anger burned hot and fierce, but it was over quickly. Still, she didn't fall asleep until several hours later, when he slipped back into bed.

  Not long after their conversation, Sam began cornering Hewlett-Packard vice-presidents in the company parking lot. Several of them thought they were being mugged and locked themselves in their cars, but a few of them actually came to the garage to see their operation and to offer advice. On one rainy evening, Sam even managed to corner Bill Hewlett himself.

  Hewlett was pleasant but firm. He wasn't quite ready to leave the billion-dollar company he had helped found and follow Sam Gamble's silver tongue to the land of small computer nirvana.

  After that, Sam lost all respect for Hewlett-Packard.

  Labor Day weekend marked the first small computer trade show. It was being held in Atlantic City, and Sam announced that they were going. "We need to establish ourselves as a national company instead of a local one," he said.

  Susannah agreed with him philosophically, but felt that the expense of the trip for a company that hadn't sold even all forty of its original single-board computers made it impossible. He rode roughshod over every one of her objections, and when she saw she couldn't change his mind, she made a condition of her own. If they were going to exhibit at the trade show, they would do it her way.

  Atlantic City, by the summer of 1976, was a faded hooker about to succumb to a variety of social diseases. Legislation was afoot in Trenton to allow legalized gambling, but until that happened, the city that had once been the gayest spot on the Atlantic seaboard had lost all vestiges of its former beauty. The boardwalk was decaying and their hotel seedy. By the time they had checked in, Susannah was convinced the trip was doomed, but she still hustled her partners over to the convention hall to set up their booth.

  To her relief, the worst of her nightmares hadn't come true-the crates that held what Sam called "Susannah's Goddamn Folly" were undamaged, and he began unpacking.

  She concentrated on how great his rear end looked when he bent over instead of on what he was saying. The booth had ended up costing nearly a thousand dollars-far more than they could afford. But she had wanted them to look like a much larger company than they were, and so, over Sam's strident objections, she had ordered it built. If she was wrong, she would have to shoulder the blame alone.

  But as it turned out, she wasn't wrong. By noon the next day, several hundred people were wandering through the exhibits, and all of them were drawn to the SysVal booth. While the companies surrounding them displayed their products on crudely draped card tables bearing identical white tagboard signs printed with the company's name, SysVal showed off its machine in a brightly colored booth with dramatically angled walls and the company name spelled out in illuminated crimson letters. Only MITS, the manufacturers of the Altair, and IMSAI, their closest competitor, had more elaborate displays. Without a word being spok
en, Susannah's booth made SysVal look like the third largest single-board computer company exhibiting, when in fact they were one of the smallest. Her triumph made her feel wonderfully cocky and full of herself.

  Toward the end of the first day, she glanced up and saw Steve Jobs standing in front of their machine. Since their situations were similar, she had been interested in watching the two Steves-Wozniak and Jobs-as they tried to stir up interest in their Apple single-board computer.

  Jobs was only twenty-one and Woz twenty-five, and like her own partners, neither was a college graduate. Compared to Steve Jobs, however, Sam was a fashion plate of respectability. Jobs was unkempt and unwashed, with dirty jeans and battered Birkenstock sandals. Sam had told her that he was a vegetarian and a Zen Buddhist who had traveled to India in search of enlightenment. He was still thinking about returning to become a monk.

  Instead of looking at the computer they had on display, Jobs was studying Susannah's booth. He and Woz were selling their Apples from a card table on the other side of the convention hall. She watched Jobs as his alert eyes took in the multicolored backdrop and the brightly lit name. He knew the SysVal operation was just as small and eccentric as his own, but he could see that they had made themselves appear bigger and more important. He looked at Susannah, and she felt a moment of recognition pass between them-a moment that leaped across the barriers separating a San Francisco socialite and an unkempt Silicon Valley hippie. Jobs understood what she had done. She suspected that the little Apple Computer Company-if it survived-would never again make the mistake of showing up at a trade show with their wares displayed on a card table.

  Late Monday night, after the trade show had closed, Susannah, Sam, and Yank left Atlantic City and headed for the Philadelphia airport with fifty-two new orders in their pockets. Their success had even made Yank talkative, and they boarded their flight with a sense of celebration.