Murder Below Montparnasse - By Cara Black Page 0,12
peered up at the Formica rental-car counter. The voice continued to boom like a loudspeaker above him. The gist of it was that the car with adaptations for his height hadn’t arrived. He needed to clear his jetlag-fogged brain and think. He had a meeting with Tradelert’s CEO in an hour. Thank God he’d gotten the international cell phone.
Kobo didn’t answer. Time to call another friend.
“WELCOME TO THE Valley, René,” said Bob, one hand on the baby-blue steering wheel of his big, finned 1974 Cadillac, the other draped over the passenger seat’s shoulder rest. René had met Bob, a fellow programmer, last year when he’d come to Paris to work on a Netscape project. They had discovered a shared passion for vintage cars.
“Smart to snap you up,” Bob said. “But why the hurry?”
“Seems everybody’s gone into overdrive,” René said. “New venture capital interest, so the agenda’s on warp speed. We’ve got to get the security system up now. Such a challenge and thrill to get in on the ground floor.”
“They’re offering you stock options, right?” Bob turned down the radio, which was blasting Creedence Clearwater Revival.
René nodded. “I’m more interested in the work visa. I came in on a tourist—”
“Whoa, René, look out the window. See that temple?”
A gated block, the peaks of a tiled Japanese roof hinting at the wooden temple.
“No time for the scenic tour, Bob.”
“A twenty-four-year-old owns that. Took it apart, brought it over piece by piece from Japan and reassembled it.”
René nodded. “It’s a gold rush, eh, Bob?”
“More like a bubble. Make your millions and get out. That’s the smart thing.”
As they drove south, the fog evaporated into piercing blue sky. To the west, clouds like tufts of cotton hovered over the range of coastal blue-purple mountains. Again he was hit by the immensity of everything.
“All this feels like CinemaScope. The colors like Technicolor. But I thought California would be hot.”
“We’re in the land of microclimates, René.” Bob pulled into the motel off Alameda de las Pulgas. “Translates to ‘Avenue of the Fleas.’ ”
A bilingual country—would he need to learn Spanish?
Bob grinned. “The fleas thrived here, sucking the conquistador’s blood. But anyone can thrive here, René.” Bob flicked the transmission into park. “No matter who you are, where you’re from, or where your daddy went to school. Parlay your concept into money—that’s what talks here. That’s the Valley—never forget.”
René checked into the motel. The receptionist shook his head. “We have your reservation booked for tomorrow.”
Again?
“Alors, there’s some mistake. I reserved one room.”
“Mister Free-ant, right now the honeymoon suite’s all that’s available.”
Complete with pink Jacuzzi.
René shrugged and passed over his credit card.
Ten minutes later, Bob dropped him off at Tradelert. “How about dinner where Steve and Larry eat sometimes?”
Bob spoke fast and René had trouble keeping up. Half the time he didn’t catch what Bob meant and had to pretend otherwise. Had Bob mentioned these mecs before? “Your friends, Steve and Larry?”
“When anyone mentions Steve and Larry.…”
René caught himself before he gasped. Swallowed. “You mean Jobs and Ellison.”
“As in Apple and Oracle, René. You need to pick up Valley lingo.”
A different language all right.
Full of excitement at the vista opening up before him, René adjusted his new silk tie, the cuffs on his handmade Charvet shirt, and walked into the former Buick showroom, now Tradelert’s new suite of offices. Bob had told him start-ups scrambled for space, often operating out of warehouses, attics, and garages until funded by venture capitalists; after they hit it big, they bought the building. Like Tradelert had.
The ceiling loomed over him, lost in popcorn stucco and fluorescent lighting. Everything was so high up. The office directory loomed several feet above his head on the wall. He bit his lip, wondering how he’d find his office and the meeting room. Of course, he was supposed to have been there five minutes ago. What about that special-needs accommodation, or whatever they called it, that he’d read about?
Feeling self-conscious, he grabbed an orange plastic chair and climbed up to read the office directory sign. But his name wasn’t there. His nerves overtook him. Had he made a mistake, or had they changed their mind and hired someone else? Here he’d left Aimée and flown thousands of miles from his home and life.
To the left, on a corridor wall, in bright brass shone SECURITY DIVISION MEETING ROOMS 101–106. ROOM 104—RENÉ FRIANT, CHIEF TECHNOLOGY OFFICER. Pride coursed through him. He stepped off the plastic chair and ran down the corridor.