“See what differently?” he asked.
Will stared at him. “You . . . you've talked to Borst, right?”
Kent shook his head. Yes indeed, something was very much amiss, and it wasn't sounding good. “No.”
“You're kidding, right? You haven't heard a thing?”
“About what? What are you talking about?”
“Oh, Kent . . .” His friend winced. “I'm sorry, man. You've got to talk to Borst.”
That did it. Kent stood abruptly and strode from the room, ignoring a call from Will. His gut turned in lazy circles down the elevator. He stepped into the computer wing and walked right past a wide-eyed Betty to the back offices where Todd and Mary would be diligently at work.
He smacked through Todd's door first.
“Hey, Todd.”
The redhead started and shoved his chair back. “Kent! You're back!”
A stranger sat in a chair to the junior programmer's right, and the sight caught Kent off guard for a moment. The man rose with Todd and smiled. He stood as tall as Kent, he wore his hair short, and his eyes were the greenest Kent had ever seen. Like two emerald marbles. A starched white shirt rested, crisp, on broad shoulders. The man stuck his hand out, and Kent removed his eyes from him without taking it.
Todd stood slack-jawed. A button on his green shirt had popped open, revealing a hairy white belly. The programmer's eyes looked at him like black holes, filled to the brim with guilt.
“I'm back. So, tell me what's up, Todd. What's happening here that I don't know about?”
“Ah, Kent, this is Cliff Monroe. I'm showing him the ropes.” He motioned to the man beside him. “He's new to our staff.”
“Good for you, Cliff. Answer my question, Todd. What's changed?”
“What do you mean?” The junior programmer lifted his shoulders in an attempt to look casual. The motion widened the shirt's gap at his belly, and Kent dismissed the sudden impulse to reach in there and yank some hair.
Kent swallowed. “Nothing changed while I was out, then?”
“What do you mean?” Todd shrugged again, his eyes bugging.
Kent grunted in disgust, impatient with the spineless greenhorn. He turned and stepped across the hall to Mary's office. He pushed the door open. Mary sat at her desk with her phone pressed to her ear, facing away from the door, talking. She turned around slowly, her eyes round.
As if, Honey! You knew I was coming. Probably having an important discussion with a dial tone. Fitting partner.
Kent shut the door firmly and strode for Borst's door, his spine now tingling right up to his skull. The man sat stiffly in his chair, his three-piece suit tight, sweat beading his brow. His bald spot shone as if he'd oiled it. His large, hooked nose glistened like some shiny Christmas bulb. The superior made a magnanimous effort to show shock when Kent barged in.
“Kent! You made it back!”
Of course I made it back, you witless fool,
he almost replied. Instead he said, “Yes,” and plopped down in one of Borst's tweed guest chairs. “I called you on Friday, remember. So who's the new employee?”
“Cliff ? Yes, he's a transfer from Dallas. An excellent programmer, from what I hear.” The middle-aged man flicked his tongue across thick lips and ran a hand through what hair he had. “So. How's the missis?”
The room lapsed into silence. The missis? Gloria? Borst must have realized his blunder, because a stupid grin crossed his face, and he went red.
Kent spoke before the man could cover his error, hot with anger. “The missis is dead, remember, Markus? It's why I've been gone for three weeks. You see, there's an office across the hall that has my name on it. And for five years now, I've been working there. Or had you forgotten that as well?”
Borst turned beet red now, and not from embarrassment, Kent guessed. He continued before the man could recover. “So how did the AFPS presentation go, Markus?” He forced a smile. “Are we on top?” He meant, am
I
on top, but he was sure that Borst would catch the drift.
The phone rang shrilly on the desk. Borst glared at Kent for a moment and then snatched it up, listening.
“Yes . . . yes put him through.”
Kent sat back and crossed his legs, aware that his heart was pounding. The other man straightened his tie and sat upright, attentive for whoever was about to address him on the phone. He turned from Kent and spoke. “Yes, Mr. Wong . . . Yes, thank you, sir.”
Mr. Wong? Borst was thanking
the
Mr. Wong?
“I'd be delighted.” He turned and faced Kent purposefully. “Yes, I'm tied up with a luncheon on the East Coast Wednesday, but I could fly to Tokyo on Thursday.” Kent knew that something very awful was happening here. He was now sweating badly, despite the air conditioning.
“I'd be delighted,” Borst said. “Yes, it did take a lot, but I had a good crew on it as well . . . Yes, thank you. Good-bye.”
He dropped the phone in its cradle and stared at Kent for a long moment. When he finally spoke, it came out rehearsed. “Come on, Kent. Surely you didn't expect all of the glory on this, did you? It's my department.”
Kent swallowed, suddenly fearing the worst. But that would be virtually impossible.
“What did you do?” His voice sounded scratchy.
“Nothing. I'm just implementing the program. That's all. It is
my
program.”
Kent began to tremble slightly. “Okay, let's back up here. In Miami I was set to introduce AFPS to the convention. You remember that, right?” He was sounding condescending, but he could not help himself.
Borst nodded once and frowned.
“But I got called away, right? My wife was dying. You with me here?”
This time Borst did not acknowledge.
“So I asked you to wing it for me. And I'm assuming you did. Now, surely somewhere in there you mentioned my name, right? Gave credit where credit was due?”
Borst had frozen like ice.
Kent scooted forward on his seat, steaming. “Don't tell me you stole all the credit for AFPS, Markus. Just tell me you didn't!”
The division supervisor sat with an ashen face. “This is
my
division, Kent. That means that the work out of here is
my
responsibility. You work for me.” He went red as he spoke. “Or did
you
forget
that
simple fact?”
“You put the paperwork through! This has always been my bonus! We've discussed it a thousand times! You left me out?!”
“No. You're in there. So is Todd, and so is Mary.”
“Todd and Mary?” Kent blurted incredulously. “You put my name in small print along with Todd's and Mary's?” And he knew Borst had done exactly that.
He shoved an arm toward the door. “They're junior programmers, Markus! They write code that I give them to write. AFPS is
my
code!” He nearly shouted now, boring down on the supervisor with a straining neck.
“I designed it from scratch. Did you tell them that? It was
my
brainchild! I wrote 80 percent of the functioning code, for Pete's sake! You yourself wrote a measly 5 percent, most of which I trashed.”
That last comment pushed Borst over the edge. The veins on his neck bulged. “You hold your tongue, mister! This is my department. I was responsible for the design and implementation of AFPS. I will hire and fire who I see fit. And for your information, I have been allotted a twenty-five-thousand-dollar spiff for the design engineer of my choice. I was going to give that to you, Kent. But you are rapidly changing my mind!”
Now something deep in Kent's mind snapped, and his vision swam. For the first time in his life he felt like killing someone. He breathed deeply twice to stabilize the tremor in his bones. When he spoke, he did so through clenched teeth.
“Twenty-five thousand dollars!” he ground out. “There was a performance spiff on that program, Markus. Ten percent of the savings to the company over ten years. It's worth millions!”
Borst blinked and sat back. He knew it, of course. They had discussed it on a dozen occasions. And now he meant to claim it all as his. The man did not respond.
The rage came like a boiling volcano, right up through Kent's chest and into his skull. Blind rage. He could still see, but things were suddenly fuzzy. He knew he was erupting, knew Borst could see it allâhis red face, his trembling lips, his bulging eyes.
Gripping his hands into fists, Kent suddenly knew that he would fight Borst to his death. He had just lost his wife; he was not about to give up his own livelihood. He would use every means at his disposal to claim his due. And in the process he would bury this spineless pimp before him.
The thought brought a sterling cool to his bones, and he let it filter through his body for a moment. He stood, still glaring angrily. “You're a spineless worm, Borst. And you're stealing my work for your own.”
They held stares for a full ten seconds. Borst refused to speak.
“What's the new code?” Kent demanded.
Borst pursed his lips, silent.
Kent spun from the man, exited the office with a bang, and stormed down to Todd's office. He shoved the door open.
“Todd!” The junior started. “What's the new AFPS access code?”
Todd seemed to shrink into his chair. “M-B-A-O-K,” he said.
Kent left without thanking him.
He needed a rest. He needed to think. He grabbed his briefcase and walked angrily past Betty's desk without acknowledging her. This time one of the tellers called a greeting to him as he rushed through the towering lobby, but he ignored the distant call and slammed through the tall glass doors.
THE MADNESS of it all descended upon Kent one block from the bank. It was then that a burning realization of his loss sank into his gut. If Borst pulled this offâwhich, judging by the call from Wong, he was doing just splendidlyâhe would effectively strip Kent of everything. Millions of dollars. That hook-nosed imbecile in there was casually intercepting his life's work.
Kent's chest flushed with a wave of panic. It was impossible! He'd kill anybody who tried to steal what was his. Shove a gun in the guy's mouth and blow his brains out, maybe. Good grief ! What was he thinking? He could hardly shoot a prairie dog, much less another man. On the other hand, maybe Borst had just given up his right to life.
And what of Spencer? They would be virtually broke. All the boasting of Euro Disney and yachts and beachfront homes would prove him a fool. An image of that grinning monkey from the Chicago airport clapped its cymbals through his mind.
Clang-ka-ching, clang-ka-ching.
Kent snatched up his cell phone and punched seven digits. A receptionist answered after two rings. “Warren Law Offices.”
“Hi. This is Kent Anthony.” His voice wavered, and he cleared his throat. “Is Dennis in?”
“Just a minute. Let me see if he's available.”
The line remained silent for a minute before his old college roommate's voice filled his ear. “Hello, Kent. Goodness, it's been awhile. How you doing, man?”
“Hey, Dennis. Actually, not so good. I've got some problems. I need a good attorney. You have some time?”
“You okay, buddy? You don't sound so good.”
“Well, like I said, I've got some problems. Can I meet with you?”
“Sure. Absolutely. Let's see . . .” Kent heard the faint flip of paper through the receiver. “How about Thursday afternoon?”
“No, Dennis. I mean now. Today.”
Dennis held his reply for a second. “Pretty short notice, buddy. I'm booked solid. It can't wait?”
Kent did not respond. A sudden surge of emotions had taken hold of his throat.
“Hold on. Let me see if I can reschedule my lunch.” The phone clicked to hold music.
Two minutes later Dennis came back on. “Okay, buddy. You owe me for this. How about Pelicans at twelve sharp? I already have reservations.”
“Good. Thanks, Dennis. It means a lot.”
“You mind me asking what this is about?”
“It's employment related. I just got screwed out of a major bonus. I mean major, as in millions.”
Static sounded. “Millions?” Dennis Warren's voice cracked. “What kind of bonus is worth millions? I didn't know you were in that kind of money, Kent.”
“Yeah, well, I won't be if we don't act quick. I'll give you the whole story at lunch.”
“Twelve o'clock then. And make sure you have your employment file with you. I'll need that.”
Kent pulled back into traffic, feeling a small surge of confidence. This wasn't the first time he'd faced an obstacle. He glanced at the clock on the dash. Nine o'clock. He'd have to burn three hours. He could retrieve a copy of his employment agreement from the houseâthat would take an hour if he stretched things.
“God, help me,” he muttered. But that was stupid, because he didn't believe in God. But maybe there was a Satan and his number had come up on Satan's big spinning wheel:
Time to go after Kent. After him, lads!
Ridiculous.
PELICANS GRILL bustled with a lunch crowd willing to pay thirty bucks for the privilege of eyeing Denver's skyline while feasting. Kent sat by the picture window, overlooking Interstate 25, and stared at his plate, thinking he really should at least finish the veal. Apart from a dip from the mashed potatoes and a corner sawed off the meat, his lunch sat untouched. And that after an hour at the table.
Dennis sat dressed smartly in a black tailored suit, cut with care to hang just so on his well-muscled frame. The jet-black mustache and deep tan fit his Greek heritage. By the Rolex on his wrist and the large emerald ring on his right forefinger, Kent's college roomy had obviously done just fine for himself. He had listened to Kent's tale with complete rapture, biting at his steak aggressively and
humphing
at all the right junctures. The man had just heard of Gloria's death for the first time, and the announcement had brought his fork clattering to his plate. He stared at Kent, frozen, his mouth slightly agape.