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hollows beneath her ears.
"I don't know why you're making such a big deal of this," he said defensively. "It's just a meeting."
Instead of replying, she walked out to the car.
Mitch was already at the restaurant when they arrived. He had traded in his suit for dark brown slacks
and a gold sport shirt. A Rolex gleamed in the sandy-brown hairs at his wrist. He stood as she
approached, but made no attempt to hide his displeasure at her appearance. The men slid into the booth
on each side of him. She took the seat on the end, keeping her back as straight as Grandmother
Bennett's yardstick.
"This is supposed to be a business meeting, Sam," he said, nodding in her direction.
"That's why I'm here," she replied before Sam could answer.
The jukebox began to play a Linda Ronstadt hit. "Roberta isn't coming," Yank said abruptly.
Susannah gave him a sharp glance. Yank was hardly given to idle chatter, so he obviously wanted to
make a point, but she had no idea whether he was indicating that she shouldn't be here either or whether
he was making a distinction between the two women in her favor.
He began to draw an abstract figure in the moisture on the beer pitcher another one of his diagrams.
Did he design circuitry even in his sleep? she wondered. For the moment, it was easier to watch Yank's
finger than deal with the tension that permeated the booth.
A circle appeared. A transistor maybe?
Two dots. A curve.
Yank had drawn a happy face.
"So& did you take a job with IBM yet?" Sam's voice snapped with sarcasm.
"I've been asked," Mitch replied as the waitress approached with the pizzas he had ordered. "Actually,
I've had a number of interesting offers in the past few weeks. A lot of high-tech companies, naturally, but
Detroit, too. And the soft drink people have been pretty persuasive." As they ate, he detailed several of
his offers, including one from Cal Theroux at FBT.
Sam listened with increasing impatience, then pushed away his pizza and leaned back in the booth.
"Sounds safe. Safe and predictable."
Mitch gave him a long stare. "It's a miracle that you've managed to keep SysVal alive this long. You don't
know anything about selling a product. You don't have any organization, any definable market. Your
company is so eccentric that it's a joke." He went on and on, detailing their shortcomings until Sam's
mouth had tightened in a grim line and Susannah felt as if someone was banging her head into the wall.
Yank drew three more happy faces.
Finally, Sam had had enough. He wadded up his paper napkin and tossed it down on the table. "If we're
such a joke, then why did you come back, you son of a bitch?"
For the first time, Mitch seemed to relax. A smile spread slowly over his broad, good-looking face.
"Because you hooked me. You hooked me good. SysVal is all I've been able to think about since I went
back to Boston. I told myself I needed a vacation. I've tried to take some time off. But nothing's
worked."
Sam sat slowly upright, his expression cautious, afraid to hope. "Are you telling me "
"I'm in." Mitch shook his head. "For better or worse, I'm in all the way."
Yank smiled. Sam let out a whoop that startled one of the waitresses so badly she dropped a pie.
"That's great! God, that's really great!"
"We have to deal first," Mitch said, holding up his hand. "I have some conditions."
Sam could barely contain his excitement. "Name them."
"I want an equal partnership with you and Yank. Each of us takes one third of SysVal. In return, I'll
guarantee a $100,000 line of credit at the banks. That'll keep us away from the venture capitalists for a
while." He opened a leather folder he had brought with him and pulled out a gold pen. "Yank, you have
to leave Atari. The SysVal I is only a toy. Our future is locked up in that prototype you're building, and
you have to commit to it full-time."
"I like Atari," Yank said. "I have this new game coming out in a couple of months."
"Are you crazy?" Sam exclaimed. "This is a hell of a lot more important than a goddamn video game."
"I don't know about that, Sam," Yank replied earnestly. "It's one heck of a good game."
Sam rolled his eyes to the ceiling and turned to Mitch. "I'll take care of him. I promise."
Mitch began to discuss contingencies, eventual strategies for venture capital, a marketing plan, but
Susannah didn't hear anything more. All the muscles in her torso seemed to have contracted into tight,
painful bands. At the same time, her legs were rubbery and her pulse was beating much too fast. On and
on they went their exclusive male chatter cutting her out and pushing her aside like a whore who has
been well-used and is no longer wanted. She drew herself up and tried to calm her heartbeat, but her
voice was unsteady. "What about me?" she said.
Sam immediately grew cautious. "Let's talk about this later."
No scenes, Susannah. Be good. Be polite. The voices of the past whispered their earnest cautious
messages. But she had learned brashness from Sam Gamble, and she pushed the voices away. "No. I
think we need to talk about it now, since this concerns everyone here."
Mitch crossed his arms over his chest and looked irritated. "Another item on my list of conditions, Sam.
Keep your woman troubles away from the company."
Susannah could feel her cheeks burning. Sam put all his weight on one hip and pulled Yank's car keys
from his opposite pocket. "Look, Suzie. Take the car. I'll meet you at home in a couple of hours and
we'll go over this."
"No!" She found herself on her feet, standing at the end of the booth and glaring down at the three of
them. A pulse throbbed in her neck beneath skin as tight as a drumhead. She was dizzy and reckless with
anger, uncaring of the scene she was creating for the people in the neighboring booths. "None of this is
satisfactory to me, Mr. Blaine. None of it."
He waved his hand dismissively. "Miss Faulconer, I "
"I've got the floor now, and it's my turn to talk. Sam seems to have forgotten to give you one important
piece of information. If you intend to work with him, you need to know that he's quite brilliant in defining
the big picture, but abysmal when it comes to details. He should have told you that tending to the details
has been my job. Like finding the money to build those first forty boards. And paying our bills. And
making certain dealers took us seriously when we went to Atlantic City. The fact is, Mr. Blaine, SysVal
wouldn't exist today if it weren't for me."
She looked first at Sam and then at Yank, daring them to contradict her. Sam was scowling and Yank
was studying the beer pitcher. Neither of them said anything.
"Vision isn't enough to run a company, and neither is genius. A company needs somebody to do the
work, somebody to see to the everyday details, somebody to get the job done. That person has been
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