The Coaster (8 page)

I was too excited to go to sleep, but I didn't want to discuss it with Sarah, so I decided I would only go to Sam's office right now if she was already asleep. I opened the bedroom door and peered in. Sarah thinks she doesn't snore but she does. I heard the telltale sawing sounds and knew it was safe.

I took Sarah's keys from the hook by the garage door. She didn't spend a lot of her time at Bennett Capital, but she had a key. Sarah's had to stop by that office a bunch of times after hours and I've gone with her, so I knew the key worked. I also knew the alarm code. Daddy's daughter's birthday. 4973. No master criminal is ever going to crack that code unless he has five spare minutes and an Internet connection. Sam's computer password is probably “password” or “guest.”

There were no cars in the parking lot and I knew there was no security. All they had in there were computers, and even junkies know computers have no resale value. They're obsolete as soon as you walk out the door with them. The people working with sensitive material at Bennett Capital were expected to encrypt all their files to keep them safe and they no doubt did. I'm sure I couldn't break into Eric Jacobs' computer if I had the black character with glasses in every action movie with me. But I was counting on Sam's e-mail, at least, to be unprotected. There was no way he typed in a password every time he wanted to forward an Obama joke to his buddies.

After about nine false starts, I found the right key. I managed to get the alarm stopped in just under the thirty seconds. There's a lot of pressure entering those numbers when you're somewhere you're not supposed to be. I left the lights off. For all I knew somebody checked on the place periodically throughout the night. I probably wouldn't be in any real trouble, but I didn't want to explain myself to anyone, especially my wife, who would no doubt be their first phone call.

The emergency lights provided plenty of illumination as I made my way down the hall. Sam's computer was already on when I sat down at his desk. There was a photo in a frame of Sarah and the kids standing on a mountain. I was conspicuously absent, but someone had to take the picture.

The only computer icons on his desktop were the worthless ones that show up the first time you power on the machine. This was not the computer of a man who was downloading a lot of crap from the Internet. Sam knew how to use e-mail and that was about it.

I clicked on Outlook and it slowly opened. Just as I thought: no password. Also just as I thought: a multi-multi-millionaire uses an ancient computer. The Texas Instruments calculator I had in high school had more memory. I'm sure Sam thought “I don't need all those fancy bells and whistles like having two windows open at the same time. I only do e-mail.” And since he never turned it off, he didn't know how slow it was. It's a cliché when you find out a rich guy is cheap to say that's how he got rich in the first place—by watching every penny. But nobody ever got rich by wasting time on a shitty old computer. Maybe being stubborn helped him get rich.

I searched Sam's Sent box for the word “Sanitol.” There were only two results. The first one was an e-mail to Eric Jacobs from a few months ago:
Get me everything on Sanitol and Tom Swanson. Use all resources.

The second one was an e-mail directly to Swanson from about three weeks ago:

Dear Mr. Swanson:

Thank you for presenting your proposal to Bennett Capital. After careful consideration, we have decided not to make an investment at this time. Best of luck with your venture.

Sincerely,

Samuel E. Bennett
Principal, Bennett Capital

So Swanson was lying about Sam being excited about the project. Not exactly a shock. Swanson probably figured he might as well take a shot at the new guy. Maybe I'd have a different opinion than Sam. This was worse than normal sales bullshit. It was a flat-out lie right to my face, and one he had to figure I could check out. Did he think I was an idiot? Of course he did.

I wanted copies of these e-mails, so I started to forward them to myself. Then it occurred to me I really didn't want any record of an e-mail sent to me from Sam's computer in the middle of the night. I don't know who would ever look at it, but if anyone did, it might look a little fishy, what with Sam being dead and all. I decided to print the e-mails instead. Sam had one of those old inkjet printers that take forever to warm up. Christ, for a guy with a million-dollar house, four vacation homes, and his own jet, Sam had office equipment that would embarrass an Amish family. The professor on
Gilligan's Island
could have made something better out of bamboo and coconuts.

I hit
Print
on both e-mails and the printer came to life. In the quiet office, it sounded like a jet engine when the pilot flips that switch right before you're ready to take off. There was a series of whirrs and buzzes and clicks as the old girl adjusted herself to prepare to spread ink slowly back and forth across the page. After completing its warm-up calisthenics, the printer started to print the first e-mail. I could barely see the print, but it seemed to be working. Back and forth, back and forth.

After the first page was done, I heard a noise that sounded like the front door was opening. I wasn't sure whether I was more afraid of getting caught or murdered. Caught probably, but either way, I needed to hide. I closed Outlook and grabbed a letter opener off Sam's desk as a weapon. If I got a free stab and threw all my weight into it, I thought I might be able to break the skin.

I didn't really think I was in any physical danger. I was more concerned that someone would find me. I cursed Sam's ancient printer. Gutenberg printed his first Bible faster than this thing could print an e-mail.

Mercifully, the printer stopped right as a shadow appeared in the doorway. I held my breath behind the door. We've all imagined these moments. What would I do if confronted with an intruder? Would I spring into action and gain the upper hand? Now I knew the answer: no. I stayed silent and hoped the person would think the office was empty and leave. No such luck. The figure continued into the room and slowly pulled the door away from my cowering form.

***

“I thought I heard the printer,” Harriet said.

No, that was just an armored tank division going by outside. “I turned the printer on because I was going to type you a note. It makes a lot of noise when it's warming up.”

Harriet glanced at my hand and saw the letter opener. “Did you drop a letter behind the door? Or were you planning to poke me to death with that thing?”

I sheepishly lowered my hand and let out a long breath. “Jesus, Harriet. I could have killed you.”

She brushed me aside. “Please. You don't have it in you.”

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“What am
I
doing here?” she asked. “I work here.”

I walked over and leaned against the edge of Sam's desk, hoping to block her view of my freshly printed e-mails. “Why are you here in the middle of the night?”

“The alarm company called me.”

“But the alarm didn't go off.”

“There's a ten-second grace period where a silent alarm goes off if the person hasn't been able to hit the right buttons in thirty seconds. The real alarm doesn't go off for ten more seconds.”

“But why would you come down here if the alarm went off? Why didn't you call the police?”

“Since the alarm got turned off before the siren went off, we usually assume it's someone too inept to push the right buttons in time. Sam wouldn't have wanted people to see the police here for no good reason, so I decided to drive by and see what it looked like. I saw your car and here I am.”

Harriet sat down in one of Sam's guest chairs and looked me up and down. “The question isn't what am I doing here. The question is, what are
you
doing here?”

That was indeed the question I'd hoped to avoid by the hackneyed ploy of asking the other person what the hell
she
was doing there. Unfortunately, that kind of tactic only works on someone like me, who becomes so defensive I forget what we were even talking about. I considered telling Harriet what I'd found out, but I still wasn't sure what I was going to do. Just because Sam turned Swanson down didn't mean I should. Maybe he was just being conservative. Either way, I didn't want Harriet to know. She'd side with Sam, no matter what. I needed to make this call on my own.

So I lied. I'm a good liar. “I told Sarah I was in Sam's office today and she asked me to bring some of his personal stuff home.” I walked around and grabbed items at random. “This photo. This plaque. His George Brett autographed baseball.”

“And this was an emergency that required a trip to Sam's office in the middle of the night?”

Even for a good actor, there's only so much you can do when you have shitty material “I'm so fucking busy with this trustee bullshit, I don't have time to do anything else during the day.”

Harriet laughed. “Well, now you know how the rest of us feel.”

“Do you have a box?” I asked.

“There's probably one in the file room.” She got up and left the room. I grabbed the e-mails from the printer, folded them and put them in my jacket pocket. When Harriet came back with the box, I piled the mementos I'd collected into it.

“Is that it?” she asked. “You came all the way down here for just those things?”

“Sam really did love that baseball,” I said. “He wanted Nick to have it.” Nick's a huge fan of baseball players who retired years before he was born.

“Did you get that file of Sam's I left you?” Harriet asked.

“Yes, I did,” I said. “Thank you. I'll let you know if I need anything else.”

“All right,” Harriet said. “Then let's get out of here. It's late and I need my beauty sleep.”

“If you got any more sleep, the men wouldn't be able to get any work done around here.”

She smiled. “Does that line of bullshit actually work on women?”

I picked up the box. “I don't know. I've never tried it on anyone I was actually trying to sleep with.”

“That's probably wise,” Harriet said. “Let's go. And stay away from the alarm. I'm afraid it'll go off if you get near it.”

***

I got home without incident and climbed into bed. Unless I'm tripping over ottomans and falling down trying to take off my pants, I can easily slip into bed without waking Sarah.

I lay in bed trying to decide what to do about the Sanitol deal. Sam was dead and he put me in charge for a reason, so I figured I'd handle this myself. It was time for me to do something, one way or the other.

Chapter Ten

My endless series of meetings continued unabated. I don't know how Sam could possibly keep it all straight. Subsidiaries, subsidiaries of subsidiaries, limited partnerships, limited liability corporations, IPOs, LBOs, EBITA, cash flow, sale and lease-back. In every case, I pretended to mull things over. “Let's just keep things going the way they are for the time being. If there are any new developments, be sure to let me know.”

Concerning Sanitol, I reasoned that by doing nothing, you often force the other guy's hand, like a girl playing hard to get.

Midway through the week, I received a call on my cell phone. Normally I would never answer a call from a number I didn't recognize, but I'd been stuck in a conference room all morning and I wanted an excuse to get away. I never give anyone my cell number who I wouldn't want to call me, but I looked down at the display and mouthed “I've got to take this” to Madison. I went out into the hall and said “Hello.”

“Bob? Tom Swanson, Sanitol Solutions.”

“Hello, Swanson. Where'd you get this number?”

I could hear him smiling through the phone. “You gave it to me at our last meeting. Said to call you if I needed anything.”

No way that happened. “That doesn't sound like me.”

He laughed harder than necessary. He doesn't have a sincere bone in his body. “Well, the guy sure looked a lot like you. Ruggedly handsome, nice suit, trustee of a nine-figure trust estate.”

“Okay, that does sound like me,” I said. “What can I do for you, Tom?”

“I wanted to help you with your decision. I'd like to take you to lunch today,” Swanson said. “Talk a little more about this tremendous opportunity we're offering.”

“Okay.” I did need to hear more about the company, but was it worth enduring lunch with Swanson? “When?”

“I'll pick you up in thirty minutes,” Swanson said.

***

I didn't like business lunches. I preferred to enjoy my meals. But I knew I was going to have to meet with Swanson sooner or later, and I was pretty sure we wouldn't be going to Burger King.

Swanson had reservations at Mann's Steak House, where the movers and shakers in town have been having two-hour lunches and billing the time to their clients for over fifty years. This was one of those places where the waiters don't write anything down. I don't know why that's supposed to impress us. I just want my waiter to hustle back and forth with the food and drinks. The waiter in this case showed up promptly to ask what we wanted to drink, so I liked him already, even if it turned out he couldn't memorize π out to a hundred digits. He was a very polite young man in his early twenties named something I can't recall. I'm not one of those guys who uses the waiter's name all night like we're old friends.

I ordered a Ciroc martini. After all, it was on Swanson. A couple of these and I might almost actually enjoy this lunch.

The waiter brought the drinks and asked, “Would you gentlemen like to hear the specials?”

“Only if you've got them memorized,” I said. Polite laughter from the waiter. The customer is always right, especially when you make your living on tips.

“Indeed, I do.” He proceeded to recite them in great detail. He reminded me of one of those Indian kids forced by their parents to learn every word in the dictionary so they can win spelling bees.

Swanson decided to big-time me by ignoring the menu and telling the waiter exactly what he wanted. “I don't need the menu. Bring me a porterhouse steak, seared on the outside, pink in the middle. Tell the chef to slice some potatoes and fry them in butter, just short of crispy. I'll start with a salad, iceberg lettuce only, none of that mixed greens crap, with chopped tomatoes and cheddar cheese. Have the chef mix some olive oil with a tablespoon of mayonnaise and bring it on the side.” Like I'm supposed to be impressed.

I would never go off-menu. These people are experts. The chef has relied on his experience and expertise to decide on a combination of ingredients that go together in a pleasing way. That's why you go to a nice restaurant in the first place.

So I ordered one of the specials, steak, and told the waiter whatever came with it was fine. “You pick whatever sides would go best.”

He beamed. “I'll treat you right, sir.”

I took a sip of my martini and waited for Swanson to start. This was his show, after all.

“Bob, I appreciate you making time to have lunch with me. I know you're very busy these days.”

“No problem. I needed a break anyway.” This wasn't a break. This was more of the same, only worse, because it was one-on-one.

“Glad I could help,” Swanson said. “I wanted to get together and make sure you have all the information you need to make your decision to invest in Sanitol.”

“I think we do,” I said. “I'm not really the numbers guy. More data wouldn't really change anything for me.”

“Okay, forget about the numbers,” Swanson said. “What can I tell you about the company?”

I mulled that over as I sipped my drink. If I was going to sign off on this deal, what did
I
really want to know?
“How'd you come up with this cleaning process? You don't seem like the scientist type. More like the game show host type.”

Swanson laughed. “Oh, I'm no scientist. I'm the sales guy. The inventor is a guy named Hans Becker. He used to work for Dow Chemical. He was fooling around trying to come up with a solution to clean up a stain on his garage floor and he stumbled across the greatest sanitation innovation since the discovery of soap.”

I pictured an über-nerd pouring a bubbling liquid from one test tube to another. “And the Nutty Professor is running the company?”

“Of course not,” Swanson scoffed. “You never put the inventor in charge. What the hell does he know about business?”

“Bill Gates did okay,” I offered, just to be contradictory.

“There are exceptions to every rule,” Swanson said dismissively. “Becker's on the board of directors, but basically the company purchased the patent.”

“There's no question about ownership of the patent?”

“None whatsoever,” Swanson said. “There's an opinion letter in the materials we provided you from the top intellectual property law firm in the country. Becker owned the patent free and clear and now we own it.”

“So everything looks good then,” I said and then let out a little rope for Swanson. “I figured it would or Sam wouldn't have been interested in the first place.”

Swanson grabbed the rope and wrapped it around his own neck. “That's exactly right. Sam knew business, and once he did his due diligence, he was on board.”

“So how much did he plan to invest?”

“He wanted in for the entire forty mil. He was in the process of getting the funds together when he had the heart attack.”

”Unfortunate timing.”

“It was just unfortunate, period.” Swanson adopted a somber tone. “Obviously all of his business interests were affected, but Sam was a husband and father first. His loss is a tragedy. It can't be measured in dollars and cents.” Swanson was good. I wanted to hire him to walk around with me and make appropriate condolence conversation at funerals.

“It's been a tough time for our family.”

“I realize that.” As if Swanson would graciously put a giant business deal on hold out of respect for a personal tragedy. “And I understand that you're going to want to get with your people and complete your own due diligence before you sign off on the deal.”

I didn't need to get with my people, even if I had people to get with. Sam didn't trust Swanson and neither did I. As much as I wanted to stake my own claim and prove my worth as a shrewd businessman in my own right, I was no Sam and I never would be. If Sam rejected Sanitol, who was I to overrule him?

“I appreciate that, Tom. I'll let you know as soon as I can.” I had another martini and we spent the rest of the meal just conversing like normal people, if one of the people is completely full of shit. Swanson has a salesman's gift for keeping a conversation going, which was helpful because I have an introvert's knack for running out of things to say. He asked a lot of questions about my family and I asked none about his. Looking back, I should have found it strange that he already knew so much about my personal life, but a couple of martinis have a way of dulling your senses.

As I got out of the car back at Madison's office, Swanson stuck out his hand. “I'll be in touch. What's the best way to contact you?”

I pretended I didn't see his hand and shouted “Friend me on Facebook!” back over my shoulder.

By the time I got out of the elevator on Madison's floor, my phone beeped. I already had a friend request from Swanson. I hit
Decline
because there wasn't anything stronger. I was hoping there'd be a
Fuck Off
button.

***

I spent the rest of the day thinking about Swanson while pretending to pay attention to PowerPoints and prospectuses. I had already decided to turn him down, but I wanted Swanson to know I knew he was lying about Sam. Who knew how long he'd keep on the full-court press if he thought I was waffling on the deal or afraid to pull the trigger? I didn't want to spend the next six months ducking his phone calls.

When I got home that night, I went into my office and reread Sam's e-mail. Then I sent an identical e-mail to Swanson:

Dear Mr. Swanson:

Thank you for presenting your proposal to Bennett Capital. After careful consideration, we have decided not to make an investment at this time. Best of luck with your venture.

Sincerely,

Robert Patterson
Trustee, Samuel E. Bennett Irrevocable Trust

I thought Swanson would be smart enough to recognize the language and decide to let the matter drop. I was half right.