The Man Who Wouldn't Die Read online

  Then, from behind, a flash of light, something was coming fast. Shit. Twin Tarantulas. I picked ’em up in the rearview mirror, one in the gold-and-white MINI Cooper, closing hard on the right at fifteen miles an hour, and, on the left, also gaining on me, a red-and-blue MINI, gold trim, looked like a Beatles album cover. They were converging on me, trying the pincer move, catch my old beater between them. Rattle me at highway commute speeds. I gunned it, managing to get to twenty miles an hour before I slammed into the back of a late-model Chevy Continent, which had seating for twelve but required fuel at each exit. Nothing I wanted to rear-end.

  I hit the brakes to try to avoid a double sideswipe. No luck. The MINIs converged on either side. Simultaneous BANGs. That was the sound, at least. All sound. No sensation. I realized with only a little surprise that I didn’t feel a thing. Their cars must weigh one tenth of my truck and they went bouncing off and spinning away like Darth Vader’s little insect-looking spaceship at the end of one of the Star Wars movies, setting up a sequel. Just like I knew one was coming with these Tarantulas. But I was safe for now. The Coopers spun off, winding about fifty yards behind me, hopelessly mired.

  Dangerous, though, these guys. Stupid enough to try a double swipe in commute traffic, but focused enough due to double-synthetic Adderall to choreograph it. Made me want to call Terry and have him put one in the chamber and watch the front door.

  To make sure the Tarantulas couldn’t find me on the open road, I pulled off at the next exit. I parked on a frontage road and shut off my phone, figuring they might have been tracking the signal somehow. It was also possible they’d put a tracking device on the car, which would take hours to find, if I even could find it.

  So, now, a new plan: I’d park six blocks from Froom and walk the rest of the way, making it harder for the Tarantulas to find me if they were tracking me through my car.

  I reached between the front seats, the middle compartment, and unlocked it. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt compelled to dig in here. I opened it up, got a jolt of adrenaline, opened a second compartment, also with a key, and eyed my Detective Special, the Colt, a wedding present from Terry. Black on black. Romantic as hell. Small enough for any occasion. Powerful enough with .38s for any six Tarantulas, one per chamber.

  I left ’em empty, the chambers. Bullets were another level of escalation, though one I suspected would come across the transom before long. I put the shells into my left pocket and tucked the gun inside my worn sport coat, and off I went.

  Ten minutes later, I parked six blocks from downtown Palo Alto, the center of the known universe, according to the people who lived there. It was 6 P.M.

  Based on what Mrs. Donogue told me, the pre-pre-event at Froom started at seven, then a pre-event at seven thirty, and then an official lull until eight thirty when people who knew better would start showing up. Gave me time to walk over, take in the sights and smells, maybe ask the neighbors a few questions. For instance, it’d be nice to know what Froom was before I got there.

  The main drag here was Onaniversity Avenue. It had been a while since I’d been, but I’d heard how it had changed. It was called a Retail Incubator, the shops of the future today, or something like that. Real beautiful stuff if you’re into that kind of thing. Like the first shop I stopped at, called RescueToure. I glanced inside and saw racks of clothes with a twist. The clothes racks went only about knee-high and the clothes were tiny. Mingling about, a few people and their dogs.

  There was a small sign in the window, some fancy font:

  WHAT IS RESCUETOURE? THE LATEST IN FASHION, HAUTE COUTURE, SELECTED FOR ANIMALS BY ANIMALS. YOUR DOG OR CAT HOUSEMATE DESERVES THE BEST IN OUTERWEAR. NOT CHOSEN BY PEOPLE BUT BY OTHER ANIMALS. OUR ANIMAL PARTNERS HELP SELECT THE GARMENTS WE STOCK AND HELP CUSTOMERS CHOOSE WHAT LOOKS BEST, FROM COLORS TO STYLES. WE FOCUS ON INDIVIDUAL NEEDS. BUT WE’RE DIFFERENT FROM EVERY OTHER ANIMAL-FOR-ANIMAL CLOTHING SHOP. HOW? EVERY SINGLE ANIMAL PARTNER IS A RESCUE ANIMAL. THESE ARE DOGS AND CATS (AND AT LEAST ONE FERRET! WE LOVE YOU, BLINKY!) THAT WERE STARING DOWN TOUGH STRAITS, NOT BECAUSE THEY ARE BAD ANIMALS BUT BECAUSE THEY CAME FROM TOUGH CIRCUMSTANCES. NOW THEY ARE UPWARDLY MOBILE, WITH A CHANCE TO MAKE THE KIND OF LIFE WE ALL DESERVE. AND 10 PERCENT OF EVERY SINGLE SALE GOES TO FAMILIES WITH ANIMAL HOUSEMATES WHO DON’T YET HAVE ELECTRIC CARS.*

  *STORE OWNERS

  A guy passed me walking an Irish wolfhound in Stanford sweatpants. Both the guy and the dog, actually. In the sweatpants. They walked inside.

  Wrong place to ask about Froom.

  I took in the next few stores. One was called One Last Thing. Evidently, according to a woman window-shopping, it stocked only one item at a time and only one of that thing. When that was sold, they moved to a new item. Next store was called Sold Out. Then a store called I Stand For, where you paid a membership fee to write on the wall what you stood for or you could choose from preselected stances, plus they sold frozen yogurt with toppings.

  Three doors down from the address I had for Froom, I walked into a store called Ben’s Bags, empty except for a guy behind the counter. Maybe a shot at a conversation. The store was narrow but deep, lots of pedestals, each with the same bag perched on top, looked like it was made of some fancy white canvas, if there even is such a thing, embroidered with the name Ben and looking a bit like old Chuck Taylor high-tops made into a handbag.

  “Welcome,” said the guy behind the counter. His heart wasn’t in it. Out of place: ponytail, buckteeth, Vulcan ears. First-class nerd in the new Beverly Hills. “We’re having a sale.”

  I pretended to glance at a bag. It cost $299. For a bag.

  I looked up.

  “Next few days, you buy a bag, you get a free shopping bag. Ordinarily ten cents.”

  He reached beneath the counter and pulled out a bag that looked identical to the one on the pedestal.

  “So you get two bags for the price of one.”

  “Nah, this is just the shopping bag. That’s the Ben’s Bag. It costs two hundred and ninety-nine dollars, but if you want something to carry it out in, you can get this for free. We pick up the tab for the bag.”

  “I . . . but it’s the same . . .” Didn’t compute and I didn’t bother trying to make it. “Lemme think about it. Hey, I’m supposed to be at a party and I’m looking for the address. Froom. You know where it is?”

  This perked him up. Eyes opened, ponytail swished with activity. Then he looked down.

  “A few doors down. Is it a plus-one?” He paused. “Joking.”

  “I might be able to work something out,” I said.

  “Really.” More a statement than a question.

  I walked over to the counter. I saw the guy had been scribbling on napkins. Numbers and signs. I realized I was looking at a coder. What was he doing working here? Could be making $250,000 at . . . anyplace.

  “Maybe. Gonna be packed with movers and shakers. Danny Donogue. Heard of him?”

  Ponytail nodded; hell yeah. “That guy is going to be the next Captain Don. Smart, poised, maybe a little behind. Really needs to stay focused, how I see it. Or wind up like the rest of us.”

  “He’s eighteen.”

  “You take my point.”

  I decided to go for it. “How much you know about Froom? Seems to be a little on the down low.”

  He laughed. “Dude, of course I know about it. It’s this place where they do . . . they, um . . . I . . .” He looked down. “It’s bold and exciting stuff. The next frontier.”

  “You have no idea. What are you scribbling?” I looked at the napkins, Xs and Ys, a drawing of a bubble, a symbol that looks like infinity, the word “Eliza.” Lines pointing to and from it, leading to a cloud. He covered up his work.

  “Uh . . .” He took me in. “You an investor?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, well, anyway. Without giving too much away, it’s new and radically improved facial recognition software. Gonna be huge.”

  He pulled up his phone and shot my picture, without asking, befo
re I could move. I managed a smirk. He hit a few buttons on his phone and showed me my picture.

  “I don’t like having my picture taken without my permission.”

  “Of course you don’t,” he said. “No one does. But that’s because people aren’t comfortable with how they look.”

  He pressed a few buttons. He held up the phone with my picture, but now it showed me without my scruffy facial hair and with a new haircut.

  “Ta-da! New and improved,” he said. “This way, when some entity uses facial recognition software—”

  “Entity?” I interrupted.

  “Law enforcement, a commercial business, new home security systems, whatever, it’ll be your best face, the best you.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  He shrugged. “I think part of the big resistance to facial recognition software is people would like to put their best foot forward.”

  “You don’t think the resistance to facial recognition software is about privacy.”

  “Listen, you want to look foolish when you’re ID’d, be my guest. Not my problem. Besides, I’m just trying to get the patent and then people can do with it what they want. That’s where the money is, in the pat . . .” He paused, looked at me, seemed to hesitate, or realize he was wasting his breath. “You want a Ben’s Bag or not?”

  “I’m saving up to get something next door.”

  Bored, he asked: “At Already Broken or Exotic Yo-Yo?”

  I shook my head. He was shining me on; this wasn’t real conversation. Smelled wrong but I couldn’t pinpoint why.

  “You’re holding out on me,” I said. “You know more than you’re saying.”

  He shrugged. “Nice bags we have here. Zuckerbaum got one for everyone in the wedding party. Enjoy Froom. Come back on the way out and let me know what the big secret is over there, or if you want to get in on the ground floor of my start-up. You’ll be retired before you know it.”

  Eight

  I WOUND UP TAKING stairs to a belowground doorway, which seemed like the right place, given the self-important sign on the doormat outside: What Is Froom?

  “Exactly,” I mumbled, letting myself in.

  No sooner had I taken a step inside than I heard a voice: “Welcome Mr. Fitzgerald.” The voice sounded computerized, and familiar. I couldn’t place it.

  I looked around. No one there. Just a sleek, slate-white reception counter with a computer monitor on it. All bathed in soft blue light. An empty chair sat behind the counter.

  “Hello?” I ventured. How the hell did they know my identity? I patted my pistol, reminding myself it was there.

  “Mr. Fitzgerald, please sign in at the terminal and get a badge. Would you like your usual?” Same digitized voice.

  My usual?

  Jesus, I placed the voice. Shirli.

  Before I could respond, a woman stood from the other side of the counter, where she’d apparently been kneeling, holding a pen, maybe that she was picking up from the floor. Long black hair, soft features but plain, looks late twenties.

  “Coffee, black?” she asked.

  I stared at her hard. So this broad knew my name, drink of choice, and her voice was a dead ringer for Shirli, the digitized damelike voice loaded on everyone’s smartphone. Before I could shake my surprise, I heard a sound from the right and a short man with dark skin walked through an open doorway.

  “Thanks, Shirli, I’ve got this.”

  “The pleasure was mine,” Shirli said. Freaky, just like my phone said it.

  “Hello, Willie,” said the guy in the plaid shirt, a stack of leather bracelets showing through on his left arm. “Rajeev Cohen. Raj. You prefer Fitch. You’re early. The pre-pre-party doesn’t even start for an hour.”

  I recognized the guy from my research. Rajeev Cohen, Da Raj, Danny Donogue’s business partner.

  “We feel so lucky to have stolen Shirli,” he said. “The competition for talent here is brutal, but people get on board when they realize they have a chance to really change the world.”

  “Shirli,” I said, still astounded.

  All at once both of our phones said in response to me: “How can I help you?”

  This prompted laughter from Rajeev and a tight smile from the real-world Shirli.

  “I thought I turned it off,” I said in the direction of my phone.

  “Finding something for your cough,” responded Shirli on my phone, totally mishearing me.

  “Try enunciating,” said the Shirli behind the desk, irritated.

  “You’re saying this is my fault?”

  “Finding the nearest vault,” responded the Shirli behind the desk.

  “Take five, Shirli. It’s gonna get nuts here later. We’re expecting upward of two hundred,” said Rajeev.

  “Baking jive,” Shirli answered.

  “Oh, sorry.” Rajeev smiled patiently. Then: “Baking jive.”

  “Taking five,” Shirli said.

  As she walked out from behind the counter, Rajeev turned to me. “Grab a badge, Fitch, sign the NDAs, and come back and see the future.”

  It didn’t happen often but I found myself all but flummoxed.

  “Don’t look so surprised. Of course we know who you are,” Rajeev explained as he neared the computer monitor on the counter and poked the touch screen. “We use facial recognition software and instant AI to immediately identify everyone who walks in the door, then layer it with taste analysis drawn from search habits so that . . .” He looked at me. “Do you even have an invitation?”

  “I’m looking for Danny Donogue.”

  He smiled, wide. “Of course you have an invitation. You don’t think I know that. And don’t act surprised we know your search habits. Everyone does. It’s in all those Gooble waivers you click when you surf the net. So wonderfully efficient. This system lets us get past all the small talk, inefficiencies, nonsense, and bureaucracy so we can instantly get you your badge and drink and move on to the important business of changing the world. Besides, it’s the police surveillance you really have to fear. Fourth Amendment, baby!” He ripped a badge that had printed from the monitor. “Just sign these NDAs.” He waved a pen.

  “I don’t think so. I’m here on business.”

  Rajeev laughed. I made a more in-depth study; his small stature was offset somehow by a slightly disproportionate large head, short dark hair parted and combed, a gleam to his teeth. Fancy jeans. On his feet, the latest fad: sandals with laces.

  “Trust me, this nondisclosure agreement is worth it. Besides, you think you’d get taken advantage of by someone from your own tribe?”

  “My own . . .”

  “Irish Catholic, brother!”

  Enough. “Rajeev Cohen isn’t Indian? Or Jewish?”

  Rajeev practically recoiled. “You racist!”

  Not again.

  “This is Silicon Valley,” he said. “It’s a meritocracy, the ultimate meritocracy. You are judged by what you do. You can be anything you want.”

  I sighed. Picturing my fee in my head. Could it possibly be enough?

  “Listen, pal, you’re twisting the meaning of ‘meritocracy.’ It doesn’t mean you get to pick your own heritage.”

  He shook his head, like I was too simple to get it. “Suit yourself. Not everyone has a high EQ. Besides, I’m not in the mood to argue. It’s too great of a night. We’re moving from unofficial alpha to pre-official alpha with beta rising. We’ll be doing one-on-one demos and our CEO will be here and the One Female Venture Capitalist and we have a taco truck.”

  “Danny. I’m looking for Danny. Let’s cut the crap.”

  “You don’t want to sign the NDA, fine.” He shrugged. Before he turned away: “I wouldn’t come to your office and ask you to share your secrets.”

  “Evidently, you know all my secrets.”

  “Touché. Feel free to see yourself out.”

  There it was, just one of those moments. I remembered the moment when Terry and I were about to say our vows. Ready or not? Leap into the unknown or
hit the Harley and return to a life of solitude. That was a no-brainer. So was this one.

  “I’ll be on my way. Just one thing. You know about Captain Don?”

  “What about him?”

  “Took a dive on his bike.”

  Rajeev lowered his head, pursed his lips. “A great man. That was a guy who knew how to innovate. Right up until the end.”

  He started on some soliloquy. Captain Don helped build the Valley, deserved a spot next to Jobs, believed that what matters were ideas not who you are—unlike me, he was suggesting, giving me a look like I had Klan ties—and single-handedly made the world more efficient.

  “I hear his death was no accident.”

  He looked up at me square with dark, piercing eyes. “I don’t know anything about that.”

  It felt canned.

  “You seem pretty sure of yourself. That’s the first time you’ve shown the slightest indication you might not know something.”

  “You told me yourself. He took a . . . he fell off his Pinarello. Serious tragedy.”

  “So you said.”

  “The bike. Gorgeous.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “Of course I’m kidding. It was okay. Old-school. Decent ride, nothing special, like an eighth of a pound heavier than it needs to be. But no reason to speak ill of the dead.” He stood there with the pen in his hand, like he was holding his damn dick, waiting for me to sign or go.

  I took one last, long slow sip of this guy, just a little too much of what you’d expect if you were scripting him. With a wrench and a pair of electrodes, I suspect I’d find he knew much more than he was letting on. Dare to dream.

  “See ya.” I turned to the door, feeling momentarily relieved to be free of this utter nonsense. That is, until I opened the door—and got an eyeful of danger. At the top of the stairs, back to me. A Tarantula. In a sleeveless leather vest with a spider on the back. Only a moment’s extraordinary fortune seemed to have him looking the other direction when I nearly walked his direction. I quickly shut the door.

  “Black,” I said to Rajeev. “My coffee. But you know that. What is it I’m signing?”