第 24 页

That afternoon when Jeff arrived home, Louise was not there. “Madame went out this morning,” Pickens, the butler, said. “I believe she had several appointments.”

I'll bet she did, Jeff thought. She's out fucking that ten-inch-cock Italian. Jesus Christ!

By the time Louise arrived home, Jeff had himself under tight control. “Did you have a nice day?” Jeff asked.

“Oh, the usual boring things, darling. A beauty appointment, shopping…. How was your day, angel?”

“It was interesting,” Jeff said truthfully. “I learned a lot.”

“Budge tells me you're doing beautifully.”

“I am,” Jeff assured her. “And very soon I'm going to be doing even better.”

Louise stroked his hand. “My bright husband. Why don't we go to bed early?”

“Not tonight,” Jeff said. “I have a headache.”

He spent the next week making his plans.

He began at lunch at the club. “Do any of you know anything about computer frauds?” Jeff asked.

“Why?” Ed Zeller wanted to know. “You planning to commit one?”

There was a sputter of laughter.

“No, I'm serious,” Jeff insisted. “It's a big problem. People are tapping into computers and ripping off banks and insurance companies and other businesses for billions of dollars. It gets worse all the time.”

“Sounds right up your alley,” Budge murmured.

“Someone I met has come up with a computer he says can't be tampered with.”

“And you want to have him knocked off,” Mike Quincy kidded.

“As a matter of fact, I'm interested in raising money to back him. I just wondered if any of you might know something about computers.”

“No,” Budge grinned, “but we know everything about backing inventors, don't we fellas?”

There was a burst of laughter.

Two days later at the club, Jeff. passed by the usual table and explained to Budge, “I'm sorry I won't be able to join you fellows today. I'm having a guest for lunch.”

When Jeff moved on to another table, Alan Thompson grinned, “He's probably having lunch with the bearded lady from the circus.”

A stooped, gray-haired man entered the dining room and was ushered to Jeff's table.

“Jesus!” Mike Quincy said. “Isn't that Professor Ackerman?”

“Who's Professor Ackerman?”

“Don't you ever read anything but financial reports, Budge? Vernon Ackerman was on the cover of Time last month. He's chairman of the President's National Scientific Board. He's the most brilliant scientist in the country.”

“What the hell is he doing with my dear brother-in-law?”

Jeff and the professor were engrossed in a deep conversation all during lunch, and Budge and his friends grew more and more curious. When the professor left, Budge motioned Jeff over to his table.

“Hey, Jeff. Who was that?”

Jeff looked guilty. “Oh… you mean Vernon?”

“Yeah. What were you two talking about?”

“We… ah…” The others could almost watch Jeff's thought processes as he tried to dodge the question. “I… ah… might write a book about him. He's a very interesting character.”

“I didn't know you were a writer.”

“Well, I guess we all have to start sometime.”

Three days later Jeff had another luncheon guest. This time it was Budge who recognized him. “Hey! That's Seymour Jarrett, chairman of the board of Jarrett International Computer. What the hell would he be doing with Jeff?”

Again, Jeff and his guest held a long, animated conversation. When the luncheon was over, Budge sought Jeff out.

“Jeffrey, boy, what's with you and Seymour Jarrett?”

“Nothing,” Jeff said quickly. “Just having a chat.” He started to walk away. Budge stopped him.

“Not so fast, old buddy. Seymour Jarrett is a very busy fellow. He doesn't sit around having long chats about nothing.”

Jeff said earnestly, “All right. The truth is, Budge, that Seymour collects stamps, and I told him about a stamp I might be able to acquire for him.”

The truth, my ass, Budge thought.

The following week, Jeff lunched at the club with Charles Bartlett, the president of Bartlett & Bartlett, one of the largest private capital venture groups in the world. Budge, Ed Zeller, Alan Thompson, and Mike Quincy watched in fascination as the two men talked, their heads close together.

“Your brother-in-law is sure in high-flying company lately,” Zeller commented. “What kind of deal has he got cooking, Budge?”

Budge said testily, “I don't know, but I'm sure in hell going to find out. If Jarrett and Bartlett are interested, there must be a pot of money involved.”

They watched as Bartlett rose, enthusiastically pumped Jeff's hand, and left. As Jeff passed their table, Budge caught his arm. “Sit down, Jeff. We want to have a little talk with you.”

“I should get back to the office,” Jeff protested. “I —”

“You work for me, remember? Sit down.” Jeff sat. “Who were you having lunch with?”

Jeff hesitated. “No one special. An old friend.”

“Charlie Bartlett's an old friend?”

“Kind of.”

“What were you and your old friend Charlie discussing, Jeff?”

“Uh… cars, mostly. Old Charlie likes antique cars, and I heard about this '37 Packard, four-door convertible —”

“Cut the horseshit!” Budge snapped. “You're not collecting stamps or selling automobiles, or writing any fucking book. What are you really up to?”

“Nothing. I —”

“You're raising money for something, aren't you, Jeff?” Ed Zeller asked.

“No!” But he said it a shade too quickly.

Budge put a beefy arm around Jeff. “Hey, buddy, this is your brother-in-law. We're family, remember?” He gave Jeff a bear hug. “It's something about that tamper-proof computer you mentioned last week, right?”

They could see by the look on Jeff's face that they had trapped him.

“Well, yes.”

It was like pulling teeth to get anything out of the son of a bitch. “Why didn't you tell us Professor Ackerman was involved?”

“I didn't think you'd be interested.”

“You were wrong. When you need capital, you go to your friends.”

“The professor and I don't need capital,” Jeff said “Jarrett and Bartlett —”

“Jarrett and Bartlett are fuckin' sharks! They'll eat you alive,” Alan Thompson exclaimed.

Ed Zeller picked it up. “Jeff, when you deal with friends, you don't get hurt.”

“Everything is already arranged,” Jeff told them. “Charlie Bartlett —”

“Have you signed anything yet?”

“No, but I gave my word —”

“Then nothing's arranged. Hell, Jeff boy, in business people change their minds every hour.”

“I shouldn't even be discussing this with you,” Jeff protested. “Professor Ackerman's name can't be mentioned. He's under contract to a government agency.”

“We know that,” Thompson said soothingly. “Does the professor think this thing will work?”

“Oh, he knows it works.”

“If it's good enough for Ackerman, it's good enough for us, right fellows?”

There was a chorus of assent.

“Hey, I'm not a scientist,” Jeff said. “I can't guarantee anything. For all I know, this thing may have no value at all.”

“Sure. We understand. But say it does have a value, Jeff How big could this thing be?”

“Budge, the market for this is worldwide. I couldn't even begin to put a value on it. Everybody will be able to use it.”

“How much initial financing are you looking for?”

“Two million dollars, but all we need is two hundred and fifty thousand dollars down. Bartlett promised —”

“Forget Bartlett. That's chicken feed, old buddy. We'll put that up ourselves. Keep it in the family. Right, fellas?”

“Right!”

Budge looked up and snapped his fingers, and a captain came hurrying over to the table. “Dominick, bring Mr. Stevens some paper and a pen.”

It was produced almost instantly.

“We can wrap up this little deal right here,” Budge said to Jeff. “You just make out this paper, giving us the rights, and we'll all sign it, and in the morning you'll have a certified check for two hundred fifty thousand dollars. How does that suit you?”

Jeff was biting his lower lip. “Budge, I promised Mr. Bartlett ”

“Fuck Bartlett,” Budge snarled. “Are you married to his sister or mine? Now write.”

“We don't have a patent on this, and —”

“Write, goddamn it!” Budge shoved the pen in Jeff's hand.

Reluctantly, Jeff began to write: “This will transfer all my rights, title, and interest to a mathematical computer called SUCABA, to the buyers, Donald 'Budge' Hollander, Ed Zeller, Alan Thompson, and Mike Quincy, for the consideration of two million dollars, with a payment of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars on signing. SUCABA has been extensively tested, is inexpensive, trouble-free, and uses less power than any computer currently on the market. SUCABA will require no maintenance or parts for a minimum period of ten years.” They were all looking over Jeff's shoulder as he wrote.

“Jesus!” Ed Zeller said. “Ten years! There's not a computer on the market that can claim that!”

Jeff continued. “The buyers understand that neither Professor Vernon Ackerman nor I holds a patent on SUCABA —”

“We'll take care of all that,” Alan Thompson interrupted impatiently. “I've got one hell of a patent attorney.”

Jeff kept writing. “I have explained to the buyers that SUCABA may have no value of any kind, and that neither Professor Vernon Ackerman nor I makes any representations or warranties about SUCABA except as written above.” He signed it and held up the paper. “Is that satisfactory?”

“You sure about the ten years?” Budge asked.

“Guaranteed. I'll just make a copy of this,” Jeff said. They watched as he carefully made a copy of what he had written.

Budge snatched the papers out of Jeff's hand and signed them. Zeller, Quincy, and Thompson followed suit.

Budge was beaming. “A copy for us and a copy for you. Old Seymour Jarrett and Charlie Bartlett are sure going to have egg on their faces, huh, boys? I can't wait until they hear that they got screwed out of this deal.”

The following morning Budge handed Jeff a certified check for $250,000.

“Where's the computer?” Budge asked.

“I arranged for it to be delivered here at the club at noon. I thought it only fitting that we should all be together when you receive it.”

Budge clapped him on the shoulder. “You know, Jeff, you're a smart fellow. See you at lunch.”

At the stroke of noon a messenger carrying a box appeared in the dining room of the Pilgrim, Club and was ushered to Budge's table, where he was seated with Zeller, Thompson, and Quincy.

“Here it is!” Budge exclaimed. “Jesus! The damned thing's even portable!”

“Should we wait for Jeff?” Thompson asked.

“Fuck him. This belongs to us now.” Budge ripped the paper away from the box. Inside was a nest of straw. Carefully, almost reverently, he lifted out the object that lay in the nest. The men sat there, staring at it. It was a square frame about a foot in diameter, holding a series of wires across which were strung rows of beads. There was a long silence.

“What is it?” Quincy finally asked.

Alan Thompson said, “It's an abacus. One of those things Orientals use to count —” The expression on his face changed. “Jesus! SUCABA is abacus spelled backward!” He turned to Budge. “Is this some kind of joke?”

Zeller was sputtering. “Low power, trouble-free, uses less power than any computer currently on the market… Stop the goddamned check!”

There was a concerted rush to the telephone.

“Your certified check?” the head bookkeeper said. “There's nothing to worry about. Mr. Stevens cashed it this morning.”

Pickens, the butler, was very sorry, indeed, but Mr. Stevens had packed and left. “He mentioned something about an extended journey.”

That afternoon, a frantic Budge finally managed to reach Professor Vernon Ackerman.

“Of course. Jeff Stevens. A charming man. Your brother-in-law, you say?”

“Professor, what were you and Jeff discussing?”

“I suppose it's no secret. Jeff is eager to write a book about me. He has convinced me that the world wants to know the human being behind the scientist….”

Seymour Jarrett was reticent. “Why do you want to know what Mr. Stevens and I discussed? Are you a rival stamp collector?”

“No I —”

“Well, it won't do you any good to snoop around. There's only one stamp like it in existence, and Mr. Stevens has agreed to sell it to me when he acquires it.”

And he slammed down the receiver.

Budge knew what Charlie Bartlett was going to say before the words were out. “Jeff Stevens? Oh, yes. I collect antique cars. Jeff knows where this '37 Packard four-door convertible in mint condition —-”

This time it was Budge who hung up.

“Don't worry,” Budge told his partners. “We'll get our money back and put the son of a bitch away for the rest of his life. There are laws against fraud.”

The group's next stop was at the office of Scott Fogarty.

“He took us for two hundred fifty thousand dollars,” Budge told the attorney. “I want him put behind bars for the rest of his life. Get a warrant out for —”

“Do you have the contract with you, Budge?”

“It's right here.” He handed Fogarty the paper Jeff had written out.

The lawyer scanned it quickly, then read it again, slowly. “Did he forge your names to this paper?”

“Why, no,” Mike Quincy said. “We signed it.”

“Did you read it first?”

Ed Zeller angrily said, “Of course we read it. Do you think we're stupid?”

“I'll let you be the judge of that, gentlemen. You signed a contract stating that you were informed that what you were purchasing with a down payment of two hundred fifty thousand dollars was an object that had not been patented and could be completely worthless. In the legal parlance of an old professor of mine, 'You've been royally fucked.' ”

Jeff had obtained the divorce in Reno. It was while he was establishing residence there that he had run into Conrad Morgan. Morgan had once worked for Uncle Willie. “How would you like to do me a small favor, Jeff?” Conrad Morgan had asked. “There's a young lady traveling on a train from New York to St. Louis with some jewelry….”

Jeff looked out of the plane window and thought about Tracy. There was a smile on his face.

When Tracy returned to New York, her first stop was at Conrad Morgan et Cie Jewelers. Conrad Morgan ushered Tracy into his office and closed the door. He rubbed his hands together and said, “I was getting very worried, my dear. I waited for you in St. Louis and —”

“You weren't in St. Louis.”

“What? What do you mean?” His blue eyes seemed to twinkle.

“I mean, you didn't go to St. Louis. You never intended to meet me.”