Disclosure: A Novel (24 page)

Lewyn stalked off. The elevator doors started to close. Sanders stuck his hand out; the doors closed on his fingers. He jerked his hand, and the doors opened again. He hurried out into the lobby after Lewyn.

He grabbed Lewyn on the shoulder. "Mark, wait, listen-"

"I got nothing to say to you. I got kids, I got responsibilities. You're an asshole."

Lewyn shrugged Sanders's arm off, pushed open the door, and walked out. He strode quickly away, down the street.

As the glass doors closed, Sanders saw a flash of blond in the moving reflection. He turned.

"I thought that was a little unfair," Meredith Johnson said. She was standing about twenty feet behind him, near the elevators. She was wearing gym clothes-navy tights, and a sweatshirtand she carried a gym bag in her hand. She looked beautiful, overtly sexual in a certain way. Sanders felt tense: there was no one else in the lobby. They were alone.

"Yes," Sanders said. "I thought it was unfair."

"I meant, to women," Meredith said. She swung the gym bag over her shoulder, the movement raising her sweatshirt and exposing her bare abdomen above her tights. She shook her head and pushed her hair back from her face. She paused a moment, and then she began to speak. "I want to tell you I'm sorry about all this," she said. She moved toward him in a steady, confident way, almost stalking. Her voice was low. "I never wanted any of this, Tom." She came a little closer, approaching slowly, as if he were an animal that might be frightened away. "I have only the warmest feelings for you." Still closer. "Only the warmest." Closer. "I can't help it, Tom, if I still want you." Closer. "If I did anything to offend you, I apologize." She was very close now, her body almost touching his, her breasts inches from his arm. "I'm truly sorry, Tom," she said softly. She seemed filled with emotion, her breasts rising and falling, her eyes moist and pleading as she looked up at him. "Can you forgive me? Please? You know how I feel about you."

He felt all the old sensations, the old stirrings. He clenched his jaw. "Meredith. The past is past. Cut it out, will you?"

She immediately changed her tone and gestured to the street. "Listen, I have a car here.

Can I drop you somewhere?"

"No, thanks."

"It's raining. I thought you might want a lift."

"I don't think it's a good idea."

"Only because it's raining."

"This is Seattle," he said. "It rains all the time here."

She shrugged, walked to the door, and leaned her weight against it, thrusting out her hip.

Then she looked back at him and smiled. "Remind me never to wear tights around you.

It's embarrassing: you make me wet."

Then she turned away, pushed through the door, and walked quickly to the waiting car, getting in the back. She closed the door, looked back at him, and waved cheerfully. The car drove off.

Sanders unclenched his hands. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His whole body was tense. He waited until the car was gone, then went outside. He felt the rain on his face, the cool evening breeze.

He hailed a taxi. "The Four Seasons Hotel," he said to the driver.

Riding in the taxi, Sanders stared out the window, breathing deeply. He felt as though he couldn't get his breath. He had been badly unnerved by the meeting with Meredith.

Especially coming so close after his conversation with Lewyn.

Sanders was distressed by what Lewyn had said, but you could never take Mark too seriously. Lewyn was an artistic hothead who handled his creative tensions by getting angry. He was angry about something most of the time. Lewyn liked being angry.

Sanders had known him a long time. Personally, he had never understood how Adele, Mark's wife, put up with it. Adele was one of those wonderfully calm, almost phlegmatic women who could talk on the phone while her two kids crawled all over her, tugging at her, asking her questions. In a similar fashion, Adele just let Lewyn rage while she went on about her business. In fact, everyone just let Lewyn rage, because everyone knew that, in the end, it didn't mean anything.

Yet, it was also true that Lewyn had a kind of instinct for public perceptions and trends.

That was the secret of his success as a designer. Lewyn would say, "Pastel colors," and everybody would groan and say that the new design colors looked like hell. But two years later, when the products were coming off the line, pastel colors would be just what everybody wanted. So Sanders was forced to admit that what Lewyn had said about him, others would soon be saying. Lewyn had said the company line: that Sanders was screwing up the chances for everybody else.

Well, screw them, he thought.

As for Meredith-he had had the distinct feeling that she had been toying with him in the lobby. Teasing him, playing with him. He could not understand why she was so confident.

Sanders was making a very serious allegation against her. Yet she behaved as if there was no threat at all. She had a kind of imperviousness, an indifference, that made him deeply uneasy. It could only mean she knew that she had Garvin's backing.

The taxi pulled into the turnaround of the hotel. He saw Meredith's car up ahead. She was talking to the driver. She looked back and saw him.

There was nothing to do but get out and walk toward the entrance.

"Are you following me?" she said, smiling.

“No.”

"Sure?"

"Yes, Meredith. I'm sure."

They went up the escalator from the street to the lobby. He stood behind her on the escalator. She looked back at him. "I wish you were."

"Yeah. Well, I'm not."

"It would have been nice," she said. She smiled invitingly.

He didn't know what to say; he just shook his head. They rode the rest of the way in silence until they came to the high ornate lobby. She said, "I'm in room 423. Come and see me anytime." She headed toward the elevators.

He waited until she was gone, then crossed the lobby and turned left to the dining room.

Standing at the entrance, he saw Dorfman at a corner table, eating dinner with Garvin and Stephanie Kaplan. Max was holding forth, gesturing sharply as he spoke. Garvin and Kaplan both leaned forward, listening. Sanders was reminded that Dorfman had once been a director of the company-according to the stories, a very powerful director. It was Dorfman who had persuaded Garvin to expand beyond modems into cellular telephony and wireless communications, back in the days when nobody could see any link between computers and telephones. The link was obvious now but obscure in the early 1980s, when Dorfman had said, "Your business is not hardware. Your business is communications. Your business is access to information."

Dorfman had shaped company personnel as well. Supposedly, Kaplan owed her position to his glowing endorsement. Sanders had come to Seattle on Dorfman's recommendation.

Mark Lewyn had been hired because of Dorfman. And any number of vice presidents had vanished over the years because Dorfman found them lacking in vision or stamina. He was a powerful ally or a lethal opponent.

And his position at the time of the merger was equally strong. Although Dorfman had resigned as a director years before, he still owned a good deal of DigiCom stock. He still had Garvin's ear. And he still had the contacts and prestige within the business and financial community that made a merger like this much simpler. If Dorfman approved the terms of the merger, his admirers at Goldman, Sachs and at First Boston would raise the money easily. But if Dorfman was dissatisfied, if he hinted that the merger of the two companies did not make sense, then the acquisition might unravel. Everyone knew it.

Everyone understood very well the power he wielded-especially Dorfman himself.

Sanders hung back at the entrance to the restaurant, reluctant to come forward. After a while, Max glanced up and saw him. Still talking, he shook his head fractionally: no.

Then, as he continued to talk, he made a subtle motion with his hand, tapping his watch.

Sanders nodded, and went back into the lobby and sat down. He had the stack of ComLine photocopies on his lap. He browsed through them, studying again the way Meredith had changed her appearance.

A few minutes later, Dorfman rolled out in his wheelchair. "So, Thomas. I am glad you are not bored with your life."

"What does that mean?"

Dorfman laughed and gestured to the dining room. "They're talking of nothing else in there. The only topic this evening is you and Meredith. Everyone is so excited. So worried."

"Including Bob?"

"Yes, of course. Including Bob." He wheeled closer to Sanders. "I cannot really speak to you now. Was there something in particular?"

"I think you ought to look at this," Sanders said, handing Dorfman the photocopies. He was thinking that Dorfman could take these pictures to Garvin. Dorfman could make Garvin understand what was really going on.

Dorfman examined them in silence a moment. "Such a lovely woman," he said. "So beautiful . . ."

"Look at the differences, Max. Look at what she did to herself."

Dorfman shrugged. "She changed her hair. Very flattering. So?"

"I think she had plastic surgery as well."

"It wouldn't surprise me," Dorfman said. "So many women do, these days. It is like brushing their teeth, to them."

"It gives me the creeps."

"Why?" Dorfman said.

"Because it's underhanded, that's why."

"What's underhanded?" Dorfman said, shrugging. "She is resourceful. Good for her."

"I'll bet Garvin has no idea what she's doing to him," Sanders said.

Dorfman shook his head. "I'm not concerned about Garvin," he said. "I'm concerned about you, Thomas, and this outrage of yours-hmm?"

"I'll tell you why I'm outraged," Sanders said. "Because this is the kind of sneaky shit that a woman can pull but a man can't. She changes her appearance, she dresses and acts like Garvin's daughter, and that gives her an advantage. Because I sure as hell can't act like his daughter."

Dorfman sighed, shaking his head. "Thomas. Thomas."

"Well, I can't. Can I?"

"Are you enjoying this? You seem to be enjoying this outrage."

"I'm not."

"Then give it up," Dorfman said. He turned his wheelchair to face Sanders. "Stop talking this nonsense, and face what is true. Young people in organizations advance by alliances with powerful, senior people. True?"

"Yes."

"And it is always so. At one time, the alliance was formal-an apprentice and master, or a pupil and tutor. It was arranged, yes? But today, it is not formal. Today, we speak of mentors. Young people in business have mentors. True?"

"Okay . . ."

"So. How do young people attach themselves to a mentor? What is the process? First, by being agreeable, by being helpful to the senior person, doing jobs that need to be done.

Second, by being attractive to the older person-imitating their attitudes and tastes. Third, by advocacy-adopting their agenda within the company."

"That's all fine," Sanders said. "What does it have to do with plastic surgery?"

"Do you remember when you joined DigiCom in Cupertino?"

"Yes, I remember."

"You came over from DEC. In 1980?"

"Yes."

"At DEC, you wore a coat and tie every day. But when you joined DigiCom, you saw that Garvin wore jeans. And soon, you wore jeans,too.

"Sure. That was the style of the company."

"Garvin liked the Giants. You began to go to games in Candlestick Park."

"He was the boss, for Christ's sake."

"And Garvin liked golf. So you took up golf, even though you hated it. I remember you complained to me about how much you hated it. Chasing the stupid little white ball."

"Listen. I didn't have plastic surgery to make myself look like his kid."

"Because you didn't have to, Thomas," Dorfman said. He threw up his hands in exasperation. "Can you not see this point? Garvin liked brash, aggressive young men who drank beer, who swore, who chased women. And you did all those things in those days."

"I was young. That's what young men do."

"No, Thomas. That's what Garvin liked young men to do." Dorfman shook his head. "So much of this is unconscious. Rapport is unconscious, Thomas. But the task of building rapport is different, depending on whether you are the same sex as that person, or not. If your mentor is a man, you may act like his son, or brother, or father. Or you may act like that man when he was younger- you may remind him of himself.

True? Yes, you see that. Good.

"But if you are a woman, everything is different. Now you must be your mentor's daughter, or lover, or wife. Or perhaps sister. In any case, very different."

Sanders frowned.

"I see this often, now that men are starting to work for women. Many times men cannot structure the relationship because they do not know how to act as the subordinate to a woman. Not with comfort. But in other cases, men slip easily into a role with a woman.

They are the dutiful son, or the substitute lover or husband. And if they do it well, the women in the organization become angry, because they feel that they cannot compete as son or lover or husband to the boss. So they feel that the man has an advantage."

Sanders was silent.

"Do you understand?" Dorfman said.

"You're saying it happens both ways."

"Yes, Thomas. It is inevitable. It is the process."

"Come on, Max. There's nothing inevitable about it. When Garvin's daughter died, it was a personal tragedy. He was upset, and Meredith took advantage of"

"Stop," Dorfman said, annoyed. "Now you want to change human nature? There are always tragedies. And people always take advantage. This is nothing new. Meredith is intelligent. It is delightful to see such an intelligent, resourceful woman who is also beautiful. She is a gift from God. She is delightful. This is your trouble, Thomas. And it has been a long time coming."

"What does that-"

"And instead of dealing with your trouble, you waste your time with these . . .

trivialities." He handed back the pictures. "These are not important, Thomas."

"Max, will you-"