Learning Curve (3 page)

In retrospect, the whole trip was a blur, a collection of uncollated mental snapshots without a narrative, only an itinerary. But one recurring memory was vivid: it was of Cosmo Validator, never tired, never flustered, and never out of place—whether he was addressing a group of high-powered institutional investors in London on just two hours sleep, or paying off a customs agent in Seoul, or ordering an unwelcome lap dance for Dan in an LA gentleman's club. There was something about Cosmo Validator—something Dan would find in lesser measure in other famous entrepreneurs—that made him different from other people.

It wasn't just that he was smarter, or even that he seemed to have superhuman levels of energy; most CEOs had those traits. No, it was as if Validator were
wired
differently from other mortals, that he approached the world along a different track, dealt with risk and adversity and failure—even normal relationships—from the opposite perspective that other human beings saw. In the years that followed, Dan would learn to better understand the form of these traits in Cosmo Validator—and see them in other great entrepreneurs—but he would never fully comprehend their nature. So he comforted himself during trying times with Cosmo by rehashing his theory that pure, native entrepreneurs—like sociopaths—might be part of the human population, but they were not necessarily
of
it.

It had taken Dan a month to recover from that road show. He still had a scar on his shin from a taxi door that had been slammed on his leg in Berlin. But the crazy road show quickly became the source of endless stories and anecdotes with which he could regale friends and family. And the interest in those stories only grew as Cosmo Validator metamorphosed from a regional curiosity to a national business superstar to an industry legend. Even now, though he had grown jaded to it, at least once a week, someone he met—often a famous business figure himself—would lean a little closer and ask him, “What's Validator really like?” He had long since learned to reply, “Everything you've ever heard of and a lot more.” That reply even had the advantage of being true.

And Dan understood the curiosity. In the years that followed the road show, he found himself increasingly obsessed with Cosmo Validator. Sure, he had other interesting clients—and as he rose through the ranks of the Underwriting department, those clients grew ever-richer, more powerful, and more famous—but none were as interesting as Validator. He wasn't alone in his fascination, and the endless stream of cover stories and features about Cosmo in the
Wall Street Journal, Forbes, Fortune,
and
Business Week
barely slaked Dan's interest in the man.

Everybody knew the Cosmo Validator legend now. The father who'd been a Redwood City fireman until he died in a collapsing warehouse. The protective but unstable mother. The young hood, regularly arrested for drag racing on the El Camino Real… and the now-famous mug shot of a seventeen-year-old “Carl” Validator with a duck ass greaser haircut and a cigarette dangling from his lips. The genius-in-the-rough who aced his SATs and earned a scholarship to Stanford, only to be thrown out for reasons that were in still-sealed records. And the patent that Cosmo filed just a month before being expelled that would ultimately earn Stanford $100 million… and would one day lead the University to give Cosmo an honorary doctorate and name an engineering building after him. And finally, of course, there was the historic Validator Software IPO and the singular road show before it that was reported to have been just this side of a Led Zeppelin tour.

That last only seemed to burnish Dan's own reputation. He increasingly found himself pitching clients by dropping anecdotes about “my friend Cosmo.” If pressed further about details, he would just wink and say, “I've got stories about him and me that I don't even tell my wife. But if I talked about Cosmo out of school, how would you trust me to keep
your
secrets?” It worked, too. There were days when Dan felt trapped inside the Cosmo Validator reality distortion zone… and days when he loved every moment of being there.

As for personal contact with Validator, there was very little in the years that followed. An occasional message from Cosmo's assistant, a couple of telephone calls (about which Dan could recount every word), and one cocktail party when Dan had barely a moment to reach through a flock of well-wishers and shake Validator's hand.

But then, three years almost to the day after the IPO, Dan picked up the phone to hear a familiar voice. “Birthday Boy! They say you've come up in the world and now I'm supposed to talk to you. Okay, here's the deal: I've got some big plans brewing, and I'm going to need a secondary offering. If you want it, it's yours.”

And so began Dan's second adventure with Cosmo Validator. There was no banzai road show this time, just a few presentations on Wall Street and in San Francisco. But that still meant a week of lunches and dinners (and a couple breakfasts) with Validator, who regaled his audiences of stock analysts with tales of Alaskan bear hunts—one of which nearly killed him—African safaris completing his Big Five, a night with a well-known movie star with unusual proclivities, a night in a Bulgarian jail after running over a drunk who was sleeping on the road, and a drunken late night session in the Ritz bar with the president of France. This time, Dan came away with even more stories to tell, both because he actually slept at night, and also because this time he knew what he was getting into. That said, he found himself secretly disappointed that there were no surprises. He didn't even admit it to Annabelle—though, knowing her, she already knew—but Dan felt more alive in the orbit of Cosmo Validator than he did anywhere else.

He should have known better. Four months after the successful offering, Cosmo Validator called one more time. This time there was no larger-than-life personality on the other end of the line, no reference to birthday boy, only a collection of carefully measured words, no doubt written by an attorney, whose meaning was designed to be legally clear: “Dan, I'd like to offer you the position of Executive Vice-President at Validator Software.” Then, as if reading off a prepared script, Cosmo read the duties, salary, and stock options and other perquisites of the position.

Dan had come to expect the unexpected from Validator; but this time he was dumbstruck. Finally, he managed to say, “I'm sorry, Cosmo, but I don't understand. I'm a banker, not a software guy. And you want to put
your
company in
my
hands? What do I know about software?”

Only now did Validator go off script. “Aw, for shit's sake, Dan. What does
anybody
know about software? It's just a bunch of fucking lines of code. And you get a bunch of really smart code writers to write them. That's it. And you don't even have to worry about that, because I know who all the great code writers are… and I hire them.

“No, what this industry needs right now—what
I
need—is smart financial management and disciplined operations. Nobody else seems to have noticed it, but our industry is moving into a new phase. It's not going to be about big-time, game-changing innovation anymore… well, at least not for a long time… but about holding onto what you've got, consolidating markets and customers, cutting costs a little more every year. That and marketing. Great fucking marketing, like the kind that Apple's doing in computers and Intel in semiconductors. We don't know a goddamn thing about any of that stuff. You do.”

“A lot of people do,” said Dan. “A lot of them more than me.”

“Maybe,” said Cosmo. “But I know you. You're family. And I trust you.”

I am?
Dan thought.
You do?

Three weeks later, he and Annabelle were living in an apartment in Sunnyvale, signing up Aiden for pre-K at a local private school, and looking for an Eichler to buy so they could live the full glass-house and atrium California lifestyle. Looking back, what happened in those three weeks was almost as much of a blur as the Validator road show had been.

It was almost as if the deal had been done without him—and that Dan was the last to know. Apparently, Cosmo had already talked with the chairman of the bank, and the two men had already agreed that while Dan's departure would be a loss for the firm, that sacrifice was worth the reward of having Validator as a guaranteed client in perpetuity. The underwriting department head, Dan's boss, also knew about it before he did, and had already found Dan's replacement. The going away party had already been reserved that morning at a local restaurant by his secretary for ten days hence, HR had already begun preparing the paperwork… and even Annabelle knew when he arrived home that night, having been called by Validator that afternoon.

It was like the most genteel firing imaginable: Dan was kicked out of one company to tears and congratulatory handshakes by the very people firing him, and instantly catapulted into another job with more power, more money, and more fame. And all he had to do was not say no.

And he didn't. He didn't even have time to hesitate. Dan Crowen's jump to Validator Software did not go unnoticed by either Silicon Valley or Manhattan. The tech media, long accustomed to Cosmo's mercurial hirings and strategic moves, once again asked a question as old as the industry itself: Could an Old World finance guy ever really adapt to the wildcatter lifestyle of the Valley? And, of course, they repeated Dan's own question: “What does this bean counter know about processors, compilers, and writing code?” Dan found himself compared to John Sculley and other traditional industry types who had sailed into Silicon Valley with flags flying… only to be dashed by waves against the rocks. Those publications would ask the same question at each of Dan's promotions in the years that followed, especially when he was appointed President and CEO. It was only after he had been five years in the top job—almost a decade after his arrival in the Valley—that those questions finally faded.

The financial press, as was its style, took a different tack. How, it asked, could these two almost polar opposite personalities ever find enough common ground to work together?
Fortune
even entitled its feature on the piece, “Street Tough meets Eagle Scout,” playing on their very different backgrounds.
Business Week
gave the “marriage” six months, predicting that Crowen, tail between his legs, would run back to Wall Street just in time to handle the next Validator stock offering.

Those doubts faded just about the time that Dan himself began to wonder if they were valid.

An elegant hand lightly squeezed his shoulder. “Mr. Crowen?”

Dan looked up to see the pretty flight attendant, silhouetted in the dim light of the cabin. It was already dark outside.

“Sir, the pilot tells me that there is a particularly lovely aurora borealis above us right now. Mr. Validator always likes for his flight guests to see it.”

N
ot a hint of sunset glow remained on the western horizon when the plane touched down lightly at Coeur d'Alene Airport, turned away from the terminal, and taxied over to Validator's private hangar. The hangar doors were open, showing a vintage Bell helicopter parked inside. In front of the doors, silhouetted in the bright light from the open hanger, was a Lincoln Navigator with a man in a cowboy hat, his arms folded, standing beside it.

Before the plane's passenger door even opened, the man trotted over to the rear of the plane, unloaded Dan's bags, and began lugging them back to the SUV. And he was there to meet Dan as he stepped down the stairs.

Dan pumped a calloused hand. “Virgil, great to see you. How are you?”

Virgil Mason, the top hand at Validator Ranch, took off his hat, ducked his head, and nodded. “I'm good, Mr. Crowen. It's good to see you, too. It's been a long time.”

Dan slapped the man on the back. “It sure has. A couple years at least. Long enough for you to forget to call me Dan.”

“Yeah, Dan, I guess it has. Are you ready to go, or do you need to stop for anything?”

“No, let's get going.”

“Good. Because Mary's cooking up a nice supper for you.”

It was a moonless night, and cloudy. As they turned north on Highway 95, Dan could just make out a few lights beyond the reflection of the dashboard on the passenger window.

“So, Virgil, give me the news. How was hunting this year? Get your elk?”

“Yes sir, got my tags. Shot me a pretty nice one in the National Forest, just south of the lake. It'd been super cold the week before, then started to warm up. Guess he decided to get out and feel the sun on his back.”

“Bad choice.”

“For him, yeah. But we're still eating the meat.”

“Anything new at the ranch?”

“Some new fencing. Painted a couple of the older buildings. That's about it… well, except for the new wife.”

“How's that working out?”

Dan glanced over to see that Virgil had pursed his lips, as if trying to figure how much, or how little, to say.

“Ah,” said Dan.

“No, no. She's alright, I guess. Just a little different from the other ones.”

“What's her name again?”

“Amber. But we never get to call her that. It's always ‘Mrs. Validator.'”

“I see. I heard she was a cocktail waitress in Vegas when Cosmo met her.”

“That's what I heard, too. But no one talks about that.”

“I'm not surprised. So, what's she like? Pretty rough around the edges, eh?”

“No, not as much as you might think. The stuff she buys is pretty nice, at least by my tastes, which ain't much. No, I don't know. I guess you'd say she's… got a lot of energy. She's very ambitious. Very into the whole society thing. She's gotten real heavy with the Republican party around here lately.”

Dan chuckled. “The hell you say.”

“It keeps her real busy in the evening going to all of these events and glad-handing everybody. Trying to build support, or something like that. Anyway, it keeps her away from the ranch most evenings.”

“Well, that's gotta be news,” said Dan.

Virgil didn't reply.

“Does she keep Cosmo happy?”

“If she didn't,” Virgil replied, “she'd already be gone. Like the other ones.”

They crossed over Lake Pend Oreille and passed through Sandpoint. On a long, empty stretch of highway, the truck ran alongside a stretch of expensive new steel fence. After five miles of this, a groomed gravel road turned off to the right. Virgil took the turn and quickly skidded to a halt in front of a huge steel gate under a skeletal arch bearing a cursive ‘VR.' He rolled down the window, letting in a blast of chilly air, then reached out and tapped in the entry code on a freestanding keyboard. The gates silently opened.

With the gravel now grinding under the wheels, they set off on a five-mile road that curved over the near ridge. Dan could just make out a faint glow beyond its summit. “Where I live,” he said, “my hundred foot driveway is considered long.”

“Yeah, heh, I suppose,” said Virgil. “This one's long even by Idaho standards.”

“Any problem with the Nazis and the Aryan Army these days?”

“Naw. They mostly keep to themselves. Sheriff raids them once in a while on weapons, but that's about it. But I gotta do some serious background checks on anybody who applies for a job on the ranch. Every once in a while, one of those crazies tries to find work near their camp, so I always got to be careful. Actually, poaching is a bigger problem. Lost a couple nice elk last year, and a big mulie. Rangers caught one guy, but they're still looking for the other one.”

Just then a huge four-legged form, almost white in the glare of the headlights, bolted across the road just ahead of them. Virgil involuntarily jerked the wheel, then corrected himself. “Shit.”

“Speaking of elk,” said Dan.

“Big one, too. Always a risk driving at night this time of year. Like I told you before, Dan, you oughta get up here during the season and cull one of your own. Get Mr. V. to invite you. You can damn near shoot a Boone and Crockett mulie off the back porch. And I'll drive you up in the mountains over there and you'll get a monster elk.”

“We'll see,” said Dan. “Maybe after my life quiets down. So, how much property does Cosmo own these days?”

“About the same. Picked up a couple small ranches last year. So, he's up to something like 45,000 acres, give or take a few hundred.”

“It's hard to picture. I've looked on a map and the house is only like twenty percent into the property.”

“Yeah, that's about right. Basically it's everything you see right now—or you would see if it was daylight—all the way out to the mountains out there. And then a few miles into them.”

“And you've got to manage every single one of them.”

“Yep,” said Virgil, “every one.”

As the truck crested the ridge, the great house, as bright as a refinery—and nearly as big—at last came into view. “I've never asked,” said Dan, “but what's the power bill on that place every month?”

“You don't want to know,” said Virgil.

They parked at the foot of the slate walkway leading to the huge copper entrance doors of the four-story river stone and cedar main hall. Through the tall craftsman windows beneath the copper roof, Dan could make out the towering, fifty-foot cedar tree trunks that served as columns. Virgil unloaded Dan's luggage and started towards the doors, but Dan insisted on taking it himself so Virgil could park the truck.

Suitcase and briefcase in one hand and suit bag slung over his shoulder, Dan was just reaching for the doorbell when one of the big doors swung open silently. Mary Mason, Virgil's wife and chief cook for the ranch house, wrapped him in her arms. She was all curves and encased in denim, rhinestone glasses perched on top of her teased hair. The hug lasted a long time. Finally, Mary stepped back, taking the briefcase from Dan's fingers, and gave him the huge, warm smile that was her trademark. “Well, look at you, stranger. About time you paid us a visit.”

“I must confess, Mary, that four hours ago I didn't know I was going to be here.”

“Oh, honey, I knew that. Do you think
anybody
comes here unannounced? C'mon in.”

Before they crossed the threshold, Dan caught Mary's shoulder and whispered, “Where's the great man?”

“Oh,” she said in a normal voice, “didn't they tell you? Mr. Validator isn't here. He's flying in from Europe in the morning.” Seeing the stricken look on Dan's face, Mary patted him on the chest. “I know, baby, but don't worry. We'll have nice fun evening, just the three of us. And I've got a helluva dinner planned.”

Dan made his way across the vast hall. It was almost sixty feet tall at its peak; its distant cedar beams rested atop the great barkless cedar trunks whose own bases were five feet in diameter. There was a fire in the giant fireplace, its mouth tall enough to walk into, and the chimney was a ­four-story waterfall of rounded river stones, the ones at the base larger than the span of Dan's arms. The flames produced half the light in the room; the rest came from the soft warm glow of van Erp and Tiffany lamps and sconces. Those yellow lights made a soft glow on Persian carpets, on the hammered copper and golden oak of Stickley furniture, and on Remington and Russell bronzes. The flames and light reflected off the distant wall of glass that, during the day, was filled with a panorama of the nearby mountains.

He passed down the long hallway, which was lined with Santa Fe chests and antler and horn chairs and benches. His room, the suite at the end of the hall, was already lit, its doors opened, a fire burning in its own vintage iron stove. This was the “Cowboy Beaux Arts” suite. It had a big brass bed, a hand-painted Victorian bureau and armoire, framed shadow boxes filled with dime novels, and a wall-sized display of Winchester lever action rifles. The curtains were open. By the light of the room, Dan could just make out the statue of The End of the Trail. It was one of Fraser's first run of bronzes—Cosmo had seen it at Sotheby's and paid a fortune “to bring it back West where it belongs.” The slumped Indian atop the weary horse was even more evocative in the wintertime, when it stood alone in the snow, fading into the gloom.

Five minutes later, having dumped his suitcase on the bed and hung up his tie, suit, and shirt, Dan was back in the Great Hall. Virgil was waiting for him, sitting on one of the hand-tooled leather couches. A martini and a bowl of cashews stood on the coffee table opposite.

“Bombay Sapphire, anchovy olive, right?” asked Virgil.

Dan dropped heavily onto the couch. “You remembered that after two years?”

“Naah.” Virgil made a typing gesture with his fingers. “Database in the bar's computer.”

“Of course.” Dan raised his glass in a toast. “Good hunting.”

“Straight shooting,” Virgil replied and took a swig out of his beer glass.

After they finished their drinks, they made their way to the dining room. Its walls were manzanita and glowed deeply with rubbed beeswax, and from the ceiling hung a chandelier made of deer antlers. The two men sat at one end of the antique vestry table with ancient silver conchas nailed around its perimeter. Mary arrived a moment later, carrying a plate and followed by two assistants, one with two more plates and the other carrying a silver lidded casserole.

Mary set the plate in front of Dan.

“Is this what I think it is?” he asked, leaning forward to savor the smell of the meat.

“Yep,” said Mary. “Saddle of elk in morel and juniper berry sauce. Plus local wild rice, marinated Brussels sprouts, and white truffle mashed potatoes.”

“You spoil me.”

Mary slid into her chair. “I had to. I felt guilty. I know what this night means to you and Annabelle.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“She called this afternoon. Asked me to do something special for you, with her love. I sure hope you appreciate that wife of yours.”

“Oh, I do,” said Dan. “I do.”

It was a pleasant dinner. Dan had always enjoyed the Masons. They reminded him of the Iowa wing of his family: good, reliable, happy people who worked hard, enjoyed a good laugh, and weren't impressed by all of the extravagance that surrounded them. Over dessert, a thoroughly stuffed Dan asked about the new Mrs. Validator. Mary frowned. “Breeding tells,” she said. “And when you give your child a stripper name like Amber, you've got to know what you're going to get.”

“That's pretty harsh,” Dan said. “I take it that you're not a big fan.”

“Figured that out, did you?” She forced a smile, but it looked more like a grimace. “Actually, it's not too bad. At first, when she was wandering around this big ol' house acting all air-fairy like she had just won the lottery…”

“Which she did,” interjected Virgil.

“… she was a pain in the ass. I even thought about quitting. I'm mean, a week before he proposed she's—excuse my French—a fucking cocktail waitress with her big fake knockers being drooled over by drunks, and now she thinks she's the Duchess of Validator Ranch? That was too much for me.”

“At least it was kinda funny,” said Virgil.

Mary's grimace grew grimmer, “Washing your feet in the bidet and saying ‘filay mig-non' doesn't make up for being a class A, gold-plated bitch.”

“Wow,” said Dan. “I've never heard you talk like this before.”

“Never needed to. But truth be told, it's not so bad now. She settled down after awhile. Mostly, she was just scared. And now, she's got
ambition
—which is good for the rest of us because she's out of the house most days before lunch and not home until late evening. And when she is around, I just tell myself that she won't be around any longer than the other ones.”