"Of course you can do it. You mean you won't."
"All right. I won't."
Dorfman shrugged. "Then what do you want from me? You come to ask my advice in order not to take it? This is nothing special." He grinned. "I have a lot of other advice you won't take, either."
"Like what?"
"What do you care, since you won't take it?"
"Come on, Max."
"I'm serious. You won't take it. We are wasting our time here. Go away.
"Just tell me, will you?"
Dorfman sighed. "Only because I remember you from the days when you had sense. First point. Are you listening?"
"Yes, Max. I am."
"First point: you know everything you need to know about Meredith Johnson. So forget her now. She is not your concern."
"What does that mean?"
"Don't interrupt. Second point. Play your own game, not hers."
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning, solve the problem."
"Solve what problem? The lawsuit?"
Dorfman snorted and threw up his hands. "You are impossible. I am wasting my time."
"You mean drop the lawsuit?"
"Can you understand English? Solve the problem. Do what you do well. Do your job. Now go away."
"But Max-"
"Oh, I can't do anything for you," Dorfman said. "It's your life. You have your own mistakes to make. And I must return to my guests. But try to pay attention, Thomas. Do not sleep through this. And remember, all human behavior has a reason. All behavior is solving a problem. Even your behavior, Thomas."
And he spun in his wheelchair and went back to the dining room.
Fucking Max, he thought, walking down Third Street in the damp evening. It was infuriating, the way Max would never just say what he meant.
This is your trouble, Thomas. And it has been a long time coming.
What the hell was that supposed to mean?
Fucking Max. Infuriating and frustrating and exhausting, too. That was what Sanders remembered most about the sessions he used to have, when Max was on the DigiCom board. Sanders would come away exhausted. In those days, back in Cupertino, the junior execs had called Dorfman "The Riddler."
All human behavior is solving a problem. Even your behavior, Thomas.
Sanders shook his head. It made no sense at all. Meanwhile, he had things to do. At the end of the street, he stepped into a phone booth and dialed Gary Bosak's number. It was eight o'clock. Bosak would be home, just getting out of bed and having coffee, starting his working day. Right now, he would be yawning in front of a half-dozen modems and computer screens as he began to dial into all sorts of databases.
The phone rang, and a machine said, "You have reached NE Professional Services. Leave a message." And a beep.
"Gary, this is Tom Sanders. I know you're there, pick up."
A click, and then Bosak said, "Hey. The last person I thought I'd hear from. Where're you calling from?"
"Pay phone."
"Good. How's it going with you, Tom?"
"Gary, I need some things done. Some data looked up."
"Uh . . . Are we talking things for the company, or private things?"
Chapter 15
Private."
"Uh . . . Tom. I'm pretty busy these days. Can we talk about this next week?"
"That's too late."
"But the thing is, I'm pretty busy now."
"Gary, what is this?" "Tom, come on. You know what this is." "I need help, Gary." "Hey. And I'd love to help you. But I just got a call from Blackburn who told me that if I had anything to do with you, anything at all, I could expect the FBI going through my apartment at six a.m. tomorrow morning. "Christ. When was this?" "About two hours ago." Two hours ago. Blackburn was way ahead of him. "Gary . . ." "Hey. You know I always liked you, Tom. But not this time. Okay? I got to go." Click.
Frankly, none of this surprises me," Fernandez said, pushing aside a paper plate. She and Sanders had been eating sandwiches in her office. It was nine p.m., and the offices around them were dark, but her phone was still ringing, interrupting them frequently. Outside, it had begun to rain again. Thunder rumbled, and Sanders saw flashes of summer lightning through the windows.
Sitting in the deserted law offices, Sanders had the feeling that he was all alone in the world, with nobody but Fernandez and the encroaching darkness. Things were happening quickly; this person he had never met before today was fast becoming a kind of lifeline for him. He found himself hanging on every word she said.
"Before we go on, I want to emphasize one thing," Fernandez said. "You were right not to get in the car with Johnson. You are not to be alone with her ever again. Not even for a few moments. Not ever, under any circumstances. Is that clear?"
"Yes."
"If you do, it will destroy your case."
"I won't."
"All right," she said. "Now. I had a long talk with Blackburn. As you guessed, he's under tremendous pressure to get this matter resolved. I tried to move the mediation session to the afternoon. He implied that the company was ready to deal and wanted to get started right away. He's concerned about how long the negotiations will take. So we'll start at nine tomorrow."
"Okay."
"Herb and Alan have been making progress. I think they'll be able to help us tomorrow. And these articles about Johnson may be useful, too," she said, glancing at the photocopies of the ComLine pieces.
"Why? Dorfman says they're irrelevant."
"Yes, but they document her history in the company, and that gives