Disclosure (6 page)

“I appreciate al this,” Sanders said, “but it's Garvin's company, and he can do what he wants with it. He's been right more often than not. And I'm a big boy.

Nobody ever promised me anything.”

Lewyn said, “You're real y okay with this?”

“Believe me. I'm fine.”

“You talked with Garvin?”

“I talked with Phil.”

Lewyn shook his head. “That sanctimonious asshole.”

“Listen,” Cherry said, “did Phil say anything about the spin-off?”

“Yes,” Sanders said. “The spin-off is stil happening. Eighteen months after the merger, they'l structure the IPO, and take the division public.”

There were little shrugs around the table. Sanders could see they were relieved.

Going public meant a lot of money to al the people sitting in the room.

“And what did Phil say about Ms. Johnson?”

“Not much. Just that she's Garvin's choice to head up the technical side.”

At that moment Stephanie Kaplan, DigiCom's Chief Financial Officer, came into the room. A tal woman with prematurely gray hair and a notably silent manner, she was known as Stephanie Stealth, or the Stealth Bomberthe latter a reference to her habit of quietly kil ing projects she did not consider profitable enough.

Kaplan was based in Cupertino, but she general y sat in once a month on the Seattle division meetings. Lately, she had been up more often.

Lewyn said, “`M'e're trying to cheer up Tom, Stephanie.”

Kaplan took a seat, and gave Sanders a sympathetic smile. She didn't speak.

Lewyn said, “Did you know this Meredith Johnson appointment was coming?”

“No,” Kaplan said. “It was a surprise to everybody. And not everybody's happy about it.” Then, as if she had said too much, she opened her briefcase, and busied herself with her notes. As usual, she slid into the background; the others quickly ignored her.

“Wel ,” Cherry said, “I hear Garvin's got a real thing for her. Johnson's only been with the company four years, and she hasn't been especial y outstanding. But Garvin took her under his wing. Two years ago, he began moving her up, fast.

For some reason, he just thinks Meredith Johnson is great.'

Lewyn said, “Is Garvin fucking her?”

“No, he just likes her.”

“She must be fucking somebody.”

“Wait a minute,” Mary Anne Hunter said, sitting up. “What's this? If Garvin brought in some guy from Microsoft to run this division, nobody'd say he must be fucking somebody.”

Cherry laughed. “It'd depend on who he was.”

“I'm serious. Why is it when a woman gets a promotion, she must be fucking somebody?”

Lewyn said, “Look: if they brought in El en Howard from Microsoft, we wouldn't be having this conversation because we al know El en's very competent. We wouldn't like it, but we'd accept it. But nobody even knows Meredith Johnson. I mean, does anybody here know her?”

“Actual y,” Sanders said, “I know her.”

There was silence.

“I used to go out with her.”

Cherry laughed. “So you're the one she's fucking.”

Sanders shook his head. “It was years ago.”

Hunter said, “What's she like?”

“Yeah,” Cherry said, grinning lasciviously. “What's she like?”

“Shut up, Don.”

“Lighten up, Mary Anne.”

“She worked for Novel when I knew her,” Sanders said. “She was about twentyfive. Smart and ambitious.”

“Smart and ambitious,” Lewyn said. “That's fine. The world's ful of smart and ambitious. The question is, can she run a technical division? Or have we got another Screamer Freeling on our hands?”

Two years earlier, Garvin had put a sales manager named Howard Freeling in charge of the division. The idea was to bring product development in contact with customers at an earlier point, to develop new products more in line with the emerging market. Freeling instituted focus groups, and they al spent a lot of time watching potential customers play with new products behind one-way glass.

But Freeling was completely unfamiliar with technical issues. So when confronted with a problem, he screamed. He was like a tourist in a foreign country who didn't speak the language and thought he could make the locals understand by shouting at them. Freeling's tenure at APG was a disaster. The programmers loathed him; the designers rebel ed at his idea for neon-colored product boxes; the manufacturing glitches at factories in Ireland and Texas didn't get solved.

Final y, when the production line in Cork went down for eleven days, Freeling flew over and screamed. The Irish managers al quit, and Garvin fired him.

“So: is that what we have? Another Screamer?”

Stephanie Kaplan cleared her throat. “I think Garvin learned his lesson. Ile wouldn't make the same mistake twice.”

“So you think Meredith Johnson is up to the job?”

“I couldn't say,” Kaplan replied, speaking very deliberately.

“Not much of an endorsement,” Lewyn said.

“But I think she'l be better than Freeling,” Kaplan said.

Lewyn snorted. “This is the Tal er Than Mickey Rooney Award. You can stil be very short and win.”

“No,” Kaplan said, “I think she'l be better.”

Cherry said, “Better-looking, at least, from what I hear.”

“Sexist,” Mary Anne Hunter said.

“What: I can't say she's good-looking?”

“We're talking about her competence, not her appearance.”

“Wait a minute,” Cherry said. “Coming over here to this meeting, I pass the women at the espresso bar, and what are they talking about? Whether Richard Gere has better buns than Mel Gibson. They're talking about the crack in the ass, lift and separate, al that stuff. I don't see why they can talk about-”

“We're drifting afield,” Sanders said.

“It doesn't matter what you guys say,” Hunter said, “the fact is, this company is dominated by males; there are almost no women except Stephanie in high executive positions. I think it's great that Bob has appointed a woman to run this division, and I for one think we should support her.” She looked at Sanders. “We al love you, Tom, but you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, we al love you,” Cherry said. “At least, we did until we got our cute new boss.”

Lewyn said, “I'l support Johnsonif she's any good.”

“No you won't,” Hunter said. “You'l sabotage her. You'l find a reason to get rid of her.”

“Wait a minute”

“No. What is this conversation real y about? It's about the fact that you're al pissed off because now you have to report to a woman.”

“Mary Anne . . .”

“I mean it.”

Lewyn said, “I think Tom's pissed off because he didn't get the job.” “I'm not pissed off,” Sanders said.

“Wel , I'm pissed off,” Cherry said, “because Meredith used to be Tom's girlfriend, so now he has a special in with the new boss.”

“Maybe.” Sanders frowned.

Lewyn said, “On the other hand, maybe she hates you. Al my old girlfriends hate me.”

“With good reason, I hear,” Cherry said, laughing.

Sanders said, “Let's get back to the agenda, shal we?”

“What agenda?”

“Twinkle.”

There were groans around the table. “Not again.”

“Goddamn Twinkle.”

“How bad is it?” Cherry said.

“They stil can't get the seek times down, and they can't solve the hinge problems. The line's running at twenty-nine percent.”

Lewyn said, “They better send us some units.”

“We should have them today.”

“Okay. Table it til then?”

“It's okay with me.” Sanders looked around the table. “Anybody else have a problem? Mary Anne?”

“No, we're fine. We stil expect prototype card-phones off our test line within two months.”

The new generation of cel ular telephones were not much larger than a credit card. They folded open for use. “How's the weight?”

“The weight's now four ounces, which is not great, but okay. The problem is power. The batteries only run 180 minutes in talk mode. And the keypad sticks when you dial. But that's Mark's headache. We're on schedule with the line.”

“Good.” He turned to Don Cherry. “And how's the Corridor?”

Cherry sat back in his chair, beaming. He crossed his hands over his bel y. “I am pleased to report,” he said, “that as of half an hour ago, the Corridor is fan-fuckingtastic.”

“Real y?”

“That's great news.”

“Nobody's throwing up?”

“Please. Ancient history.”

Mark Lewyn said, “Wait a minute. Somebody threw up?”

“A vile rumor. That was then. This is now. We got the last delay bug out half an hour ago, and al functions are now ful y implemented. We can take any database and convert it into a 3-D 24-bit color environment that you can navigate in real time. You can walk through any database in the world.” “And it's stable?”

“It's a rock.” “You've tried it with naive users?” “Bul etproof.” “So you're ready to demo for Conley?” “We'l blow 'em away,” Cherry said. “They won't fucking believe their eyes.”

Coming out of the conference room, Sanders ran into a group of Conley-White executives being taken on a tour by Bob Garvin.

Robert T. Garvin looked the way every CEO wanted to look in the pages of Fortune magazine. He was fifty-nine years old and handsome, with a craggy face and salt-and-pepper hair that always looked windblown, as if he'd just come in from a fly-fishing trip in Montana, or a weekend sailing in the San Juans. In the old days, like everyone else, he had worn jeans and denim work shirts in the office. But in recent years, he favored dark blue Caracem suits. It was one of the many changes that people in the company had noticed since the death of his daughter, three years before.

Brusque and profane in private, Garvin was al charm in public. Leading the Conley-White executives, he said, “Here on the third floor, you have our tech divisions and advanced product laboratories. Oh, Tom. Good.” He threw his arm around Sanders. “Meet Tom Sanders, our division manager for advanced products. One of the bril iant young men who's made our company what it is.

Tom, say hel o to Ed Nichols, the CFO for Conley-White . . .”

A thin, hawk-faced man in his late fifties, Nichols carried his head tilted back, so that he seemed to be pul ing away from everything, as if there were a bad smel .

He looked down his nose through half-frame glasses at Sanders, regarding him with a vaguely disapproving air, and shook hands formal y.

“Mr. Sanders. How do you do.”

“Mr. Nichols.”

“. . . and John Conley, nephew of the founder, and vice president of the firm . . .”

Sanders turned to a stocky, athletic man in his late twenties. Wireframe spectacles. Armani suit. Firm handshake. Serious expression. Sanders had the impression of a wealthy and very determined man.

“Hi there, Tom.”

“Hi, John.”

“. . . and Jim Daly, from Goldman, Sachs . . .”

A balding, thin, storklike man in a pinstripe suit. Daly seemed distracted, befuddled, and shook hands with a brief nod.

``. . . and of course, Meredith Johnson, from Cupertino.”

She was more beautiful than he had remembered. And different in some subtle way. Older, of course, crow's-feet at the corners of her eyes, and faint creases in her forehead. But she stood straighter now, and she had a vibrancy, a confidence, that he associated with power. Dark blue suit, blond hair, large eyes.

Those incredibly long eyelashes. He had forgotten.

“Hel o, Tom, nice to see you again.” A warm smile. Her perfume.

“Meredith, nice to see you.”

She released his hand, and the group swept on, as Garvin led them down the hal . “Now, just ahead is the VIE Unit. You'l be seeing that work tomorrow.”

Mark Lewyn came out of the conference room and said, “You met the rogues'

gal ery?”

“I guess so.”

Lewyn watched them go. “Hard to believe those guys are going to be running this company,” he said. “I did a briefing this morning, and let me tel you, they don't know anything. It's scary.”

As the group reached the end of the hal way, Meredith Johnson looked back over her shoulder at Sanders. She mouthed, “I'l cal you.” And she smiled radiantly.

Then she was gone.

Lewyn sighed. “I'd say,” he said, “that you have an in with top management there, Tom.”

“Maybe so.”

“I just wish I knew why Garvin thinks she's so great.”

Sanders said, “Wel , she certainly looks great.”

Lewyn turned away. “We'l see,” he said. “We'l see.”

A twenty past twelve, Sanders left his office on the fourth floor and headed toward the stairs to go down to the main conference room for lunch. He passed a nurse in a starched white uniform. She was looking in one office after another.

“Where is he? He was just here a minute ago.” She shook her head.

“Who?” Sanders said.

“The professor,” she replied, blowing a strand of hair out of her eyes. “I can't leave him alone for a minute.”

“What professor?” Sanders said. But by then he heard the female giggles coming from a room farther down the hal , and he already knew the answer. “Professor Dorfman?”

“Yes. Professor Dorfman,” the nurse said, nodding grimly, and she headed toward the source of the giggles.

Sanders trailed after her. Max Dorfman was a German management consultant, now very elderly. At one time or another, he had been a visiting professor at every major business school in America, and he had gained a particular reputation as a guru to high-tech companies. During most of the 1980s, he had served on the board of directors of DigiCom, lending prestige to Garvin's upstart company. And during that time, he had been a mentor to Sanders. In fact, it was Dorfman who had convinced Sanders to leave Cupertino eight years earlier and take the job in Seattle.

Sanders said, “I didn't know he was stil alive.”

“Very much so,” the nurse said.

“He must be ninety.”

“Wel , he doesn't act a day over eighty-five.”

As they approached the room, he saw Mary Anne Hunter coming out. She had changed into a skirt and blouse, and she was smiling broadly, as if she had just left her lover. “Tom, you'l never guess who's here.”

“Max,” he said.

“That's right. Oh, Tom, you should see him: he's exactly the same.” “I'l bet he is,”