Authors: Stuart Harrison
I gave him the fifty in my hand. “Okay, you get the rest when I come out.” He slipped it in his pocket without a word. When I reached Marcus I said, “I think I just paid some kids to steal my car.”
We found Hoffman’s apartment on the second floor at the top of a flight of stairs that smelled of cat piss and other underlying odours I preferred not to contemplate. I knocked on the door and waited, while Marcus regarded me with a blank expression, though I could tell what he was thinking. Along the hallway a door opened a crack and a thin girl of seventeen or so put her head around the corner, looked at us for a moment then quietly closed it again. I knocked again and from inside we heard a hacking cough getting closer, then Hoffman opened the door. He looked worse than he had the day before. I introduced him to Marcus and he invited us in. He saw me looking at the chain and dead bolt which he didn’t use.
“Aren’t you afraid someone’ll break in?” I said.
“Did you see three kids on the street outside?”
“Latino types? I paid them to take care of my car.”
“How much did you give them?”
“We settled on a hundred.”
He shrugged. “A little high, but your car will be fine. When I moved here the eldest one, his name is Pepe, he stopped me in the street outside and told me this was a dangerous neighbourhood. Lots of burglaries, people on drugs. He told me I needed some insurance if I was going to live around here. I pay them a few dollars every week to make sure nobody bothers me.”
“A protection racket?” I said. “They’re only kids.”
“Protection, security, it’s the same thing. And they may be young, but they’re not kids.”
It occurred to me that the vague references Hoffman had made to his missed opportunities meant he’d spent a lot of his life living in places like this. He led us into his apartment. It was small. Just one bedroom and a living room with kitchen and bathroom. I think I half expected it to be full of piles of rubbish and empty liquor bottles, but in fact it was neat and clean. There wasn’t much furniture to speak of. I glimpsed a narrow metal framed cot and a battered chest of drawers in the bedroom and in the bathroom I saw an array of pill bottles and other medication in a cupboard that had no door. The walls were bare, paper fraying and peeling, and the paintwork was faded and cracked, but I doubt if Hoffman even noticed. His living room was absolutely crammed full of electronic equipment. He had set up several long tables on which rested computer monitors, and scanners and so forth and one wall was covered in pencil scribblings, all kinds of symbols and numbers which to me were unintelligible but I imagined would make sense to another programmer. There were wires everywhere, and dismantled computer parts, circuit boards and other electronic junk.
“How familiar are you with this type of software?” Hoffman asked us as he sat in front of a screen.
“I know a little,” Marcus said.
“Sit down then.” Marcus drew up a chair as Hoffman started tapping the keyboard and the screen came alive. “First I’ll show you a version of the Spectrum program. This is a few months old but they won’t have been able to change it much in that time. Then I’ll show you my program.”
I looked around for somewhere else to sit, but every available surface held some piece of equipment or one of the piles of notebooks and manuals that cluttered up the room, so I wandered over to the window. It was up to Marcus to figure out whether Hoffman’s program was as good as he claimed. When it came to markets, and distribution and so on I knew my stuff, but for practical knowledge Marcus was way ahead of me. I used my laptop for word processing and designing presentations, but for me that was about as far as it went. Unlike Marcus I hadn’t yet been converted to the wonders of the Internet age. He used a computer at work loaded with design and graphics software, but he also had one at home to connect to all kinds of sites to buy products and services over the web, whereas I still preferred to do my banking in person and walk into a store if I wanted to buy something. Sally had tried doing the grocery shopping over the Internet for a while, but she found it clumsy and time consuming, and in the end she missed actually going out into the world among other people.
I had no doubt that computing power had revolutionized business. But at home I thought it was still a clunky tool. Whenever I used the Internet I found it so crowded with information it was practically impossible to find whatever I was searching for, and the vast majority of sites that I’d logged onto were so poorly designed anyway that I soon gave up trying. Of course that’s all going to change. The personal computer will probably disappear and be replaced with some all-purpose TV device that enables people to do their banking and shopping as well as downloading movies and games or whatever. Companies will get better at delivering the services they offer, websites will become easier to navigate and more interesting and the whole experience will become a hell of a lot simpler than it is right now. Until then I was happy to continue with my Stone Age ways.
I went over to the window and looked down on the street where I could see my car. So far it appeared to have remained untouched. I glanced over at Hoffman as he explained something to Marcus. They were both intent on the screen. Marcus asked a question and Hoffman clicked on the icons, bringing up different applications. From what I could see of the graphics the program looked easy to use and was interesting to look at, and Marcus was apparently absorbed. I left them to it and wandered through into the kitchen. The cupboards were mostly bare, but I found coffee and some cups so I busied myself making coffee for us all. While I was at it I went into the bathroom and sneaked a look at the medicines in the cabinet. There was a whole array of pills and liquids, all of them with long complicated names that I couldn’t get my mouth around. When I took the coffee through I watched Hoffman in front of the screen, surrounded by leads and manuals and notebooks, bathed in the faint light from the screen, and I pondered how he’d lived in this cheap apartment spending his final days working on his program. This act of revenge against his old partner had become the focus of his life. There was nothing in the apartment to indicate he thought of anything else. No other books, no music, no pictures.
Eventually, after they’d been at it for almost two hours, Marcus had seen enough. As they finished up Hoffman was seized with a coughing fit that made his eyes stream and his whole body convulse in pain. It came in spasms that left him weak and gasping, and we had to take him through to his bedroom and help him onto his bed. He kept a bottle of something on the bedside table which he glugged back that appeared to help.
“I think we should get a doctor,” Marcus said quietly as we stood just inside the room.
“No doctor,” Hoffman called hoarsely. He waved a hand weakly. “I’ll be all right in a little while.”
He didn’t look it. He lay with his eyes closed, his breathing shallow. We retreated to the doorway and spoke quietly.
“I still think we ought to get him a doctor,” Marcus said.
“He doesn’t want us to, and it’s his decision. Besides, I don’t think anyone can do much for him.” I gestured back towards the living room where they had been working. “So, what do you think?”
Marcus took off his glasses and started polishing them thoughtfully. “As far as I know there isn’t anything like this available. At least not in a package like this. It’s easy to use, it has a lot of different applications for business and home use. I’d say that it’s a good product.”
“How does it compare to the Spectrum program?”
“It’s better,” Hoffman said from his bed. He had propped himself up against his pillow and was watching us.
I looked questioningly at Marcus who shrugged. “He’s right. It’s easier to use and it has more applications.”
Then I asked the big question. “But is there a market for it?”
“No question.”
When we got outside my car remained untouched across the street. I went over to the three kids who hadn’t moved from their step and I gave the one Hoffman had called Pepe the other fifty.
“Thanks.”
The note vanished into his pocket. “No prolem, man. You need anything else? Lil something’ make you chill, he’p you relax, man?”
“I don’t think so.”
He grinned. “Well if you do, you know where we’re at.”
I promised I’d remember that. As I pulled out from the kerb the three kids watched. They were skinny and faintly ridiculous in their oversize clothes. Put them in some middle class suburb, get rid of the amateurish tattoos they all wore and give them a football to throw around and they would be little more than children. But here in this environment they exuded an air of casual menace.
We hit the freeway again and headed back towards the bridge. Marcus hadn’t spoken since leaving Hoffman’s apartment. We had the address of a lawyer downtown who Hoffman told us had set up the trust that would retain ownership of his program, and who would draw up an agreement detailing the arrangement between Carpe Diem and the trust. He said he would call the lawyer’s office and tell him to expect to hear from us.
Marcus appeared lost in thought. “You don’t look too happy about any of this.”
He came to. “I don’t know what to think.”
“Think about a million dollars, Marcus. This deal saves our lives.”
“Maybe it’s what happens afterwards that I’m worried about.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean if this works out, if we repay what we owe, get ourselves back on our feet. What happens then? How long before another Spectrum or Office Line comes along?”
I looked over at him. “Marcus, we’ve been friends for a long time. I can’t change what’s already done, and you’ve got every right to think the way you do. But this isn’t going to happen again. I swear. From here on in we don’t do anything unless we both agree to it. I won’t ever try to push you into something you don’t want to do. I don’t expect you to believe that right away, but I’d like it if you gave me a chance. I’d like it if we were friends again.”
I meant every word, and I hoped he knew that. I could see that at least part of him believed me, but I could also see doubts and reservations remained.
He pointed ahead to the sign for the bridge. “You better switch lanes or you’re going to miss it.”
In the morning we went to the offices of Brinkman, Kessler, Baker, the firm Hoffman had hired to draw up our agreement. They were a mid-sized firm specializing in corporate work, mainly contracts and advisory work for companies whose businesses involved them in complicated regulatory issues and so forth rather than litigation. They were housed on the twenty eighth floor of a tower on Battery in the Financial District. At reception we were asked to wait and were offered coffee. The waiting area was furnished with leather couches and a table held a selection of business magazines. The atmosphere was clubby and expensive, which was a spectacular contrast from the apartment where Hoffman lived.
“Would you come through?” a woman who appeared asked us. “Mr. Brinkman is free now.”
His personal assistant showed us through to his office, which was in a corner with windows looking straight towards Pier 31 on the Embercadero and the Bay beyond. A tourist boat was heading out to Alcatraz which obliged the folks from Kansas by appearing rocky and grim. Brinkman rose from behind a massive desk made of some kind of dark richly polished wood and waited for us to cross the acres of carpet to reach him. We shook hands all round and he asked us to take a seat.
“Can I offer you anything. Coffee? Water?” We said we were fine. “Thank you, Carol,” he said to his assistant, and she murmured something and left us to it.
Brinkman was in his fifties. He had a confident, distinguished manner, with greying hair and manicured nails. He wasn’t fat, but he was well fed, though the impeccably cut dark suit he wore disguised it a little. There was no doubt that he enjoyed the good things in life. A bright red silk handkerchief was carelessly stuffed in the breast pocket of his jacket so that it overflowed like a flower bursting into bloom. It was a flamboyant and somehow telling note. His eye travelled quickly over the jeans and “I-shirt Marcus wore and as he opened a file on his desk the merest suggestion of a frown creased his brow.
“Well, gentlemen, I believe that you’re aware that my client, Mr. Hoffman, engaged me to set up and administer a trust that is to retain ownership of certain intellectual properly belonging to him,” he began. “A computer software program to be precise.” He smiled and relaxed back in his chair, his hands clasped loosely over his stomach. “It’s a slightly unusual situation. You’re aware of course that Mr. Hoffman is not a well man.”
“I understand he has cancer,” I said.
“Yes. That’s also my understanding. It’s inoperable I believe. Very unfortunate.” Brinkman paused, looking suitably solemn, then he spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “However, it comes to us all in the end.” He leaned forward and began leafing through some papers on his desk.
“Now, my instructions are that I’m to draw up an agreement between the trust and the company nominated by my client to manage the sale and promotion of his software program. That company is of course yours, which is called…” He searched among his notes.
“Carpe Diem,” I said helpfully.
“Yes, Carpe Diem.” He looked up and smiled affably. “Interesting name. Now, the terms of the agreement are quite simple in essence. As I believe you know, your fee is to come from the total advertising budget of three million dollars, which in turn will be derived from sales of the program which are to be made via the medium of the Internet. The price charged for each program is to be the amount of five dollars.” He paused. “Any excess funds are to be channelled into the trust for later distribution to charity. That’s if there are any of course,” he added.
“I think you can pretty much count on it that there will be,” I said.
“Really?”
“You sound surprised.”
“Well, to be perfectly honest with you, I didn’t know quite what to make of all this at first. I don’t pretend to know a great deal about the type of program Mr. Hoffman has devised, in fact he hasn’t told me a great deal about it.”