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 Jeffs 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 “Jar-rett 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.”