Final Appeal (10 page)

Toni played her trump card. If Michael could lay out the cash to buy those marvelous bottles of Lafite Rothschild, he could certainly afford to invest some money in a system that would make his work easier. Besides, business expenses were deductible on his income tax. And speaking of that, she had a great program to figure out taxes. Just follow her to the office, she'd show him how it worked. Once she'd done that, they'd have dinner. She had a beef roast in the oven with those little browned potatoes he'd mentioned last night. He was staying for dinner, wasn't he?

Michael grinned as he thought about Toni. She had more energy than anyone he'd ever met. She threw herself into projects with such wild abandon that Michael was amazed just watching her. He'd never realized how contemplative he'd become during his time at Oakdale. Being with a spontaneous person like Toni was doing him a world of good, and it had certainly cured his depression.

The first full day of his freedom had been rough. During his escape and the long drive to Los Angeles he'd been running on pure nervous energy. Manic excitement was what the psychiatrists would call it. The run with Toni and Doris the next morning and the encounter with Captain Evans had prolonged his exhilaration. When he'd come back to his apartment and settled down, alone with no stimulus, he'd crashed. And his fears about his nightmares had driven him into the depths of depression. He'd been completely unable to make even a simple choice like whether or not to answer the phone. Small decisions like what to eat or which clothes to wear had taken on the same magnitude as critical decisions. He'd no longer trusted his own judgment, and he'd been crippled by his fear of making a mistake.

Looking back on those moments, Michael realized that he had lost all sense of perspective and now he knew when that had happened. At Oakdale he'd been under constant scrutiny. Everything he'd said had been written down and analyzed by psychiatrists. Every move he'd made had been chronicled in the nurse's daily report. He'd never been paranoid—at least he didn't think he had—but the whole system at Oakdale had encouraged paranoia. And even worse had been the loss of his sense of humor. How many times had he asked himself whether something was really funny or whether the nurse would decide it was his craziness that had made him laugh?

He was doing it again. He had to learn to be less analytical and more spontaneous. Michael picked up the phone and called Toni to tell her that his computer had arrived. As he opened the box and stared at the contents, he realized that he'd committed himself to a project. If he didn't write something to print out on her fancy printer, Toni would be suspicious. And that meant he had to write something. But what should he write?

Write what you know.
The phrase came back to him from one of his college professors. Since he'd told Toni that he was working on a novel, perhaps he'd write his memories of Oakdale and disguise them as a work of fiction. He certainly had the background for that!

Toni let out a very unladylike whoop as she hung up the phone. Mike had a computer. Now they had a common interest, and she could spend hours teaching him how to use it. Even more important, this was the very first time he'd called her. With Doris's coaching, she'd been making all the overtures, inviting him over for dinner almost every night and dropping by his apartment during the day.

With one quick motion, Toni saved her file and shut off her computer. She certainly couldn't go over to Mike's looking like this. Her hair was a mess. She'd pulled it all back in a plastic clasp while she was working. She'd have to style it before she went to Mike's apartment. What should she wear? She couldn't ask Doris. Doris had gone to Santa Monica to visit her mother, and she wouldn't be back until it was time to fix their dinner.

Toni sighed. She didn't like to be deceitful about the meals she'd served, but she was learning how to cook. The last batch of never-fail biscuits she'd made had been almost good enough to eat. She supposed she was making a fool of herself, but she couldn't help being interested in Mike. First of all, Mike was the only bachelor she knew in the building, unless you counted George Schilling down on two, who had to be at least sixty. There was a stockbroker who was separated on eight, but Toni was positive his wardrobe contained nothing but identical gray three-piece suits, a clean one for every day of the week. She'd never seen him in anything else, and there was no way she could be interested in a man who wore a suit and tie to empty the garbage.

Mike was different. He was a handsome man in a brooding sort of way, and he was definitely intelligent. When she'd first met him, he'd been much too serious. And the way he'd watched her every move had made her a bit uncomfortable. It was almost as if he were noticing things for the first time, things other people took for granted, and then mulling them over and memorizing them. She could almost hear his mind clicking, storing information for future reference just like the hard disk on her computer. If she really let her imagination run wild, Mike could be an alien from another planet, adopting a human form to observe the culture and fit in without attracting undue attention.

Toni laughed out loud. She didn't believe in alien life forms for a minute, but there really was something hidden and secretive about Mike. That made her all the more determined to crack through his reserve and find out what it was. He was just a little too careful about what he said and what he did. There was a lot more there than met the eye.

Her uncomfortable feeling of being observed and evaluated had disappeared when Doris pointed out that he was a writer. Then it had all made sense. Talented writers saw things through fresh eyes. She'd heard that in an interview once, and it seemed perfectly reasonable. And some writers were so busy observing that they didn't take time to enjoy life. She'd make sure that didn't happen to Mike.

He was good for her, no doubt about that. Toni knew she was compulsively spontaneous. She was on the go every minute, no time to sit around in solitary reflection. But since she'd been spending time with Mike she'd leveled off a little. His questions had forced her to think about what she was doing and why.

Mike hadn't made a pass at her yet, even though she'd given him a couple of opportunities. Doris had told her not to worry, that it was bound to happen eventually. He certainly liked her, he made that perfectly clear. Perhaps he'd had a bad experience in the past and was reluctant to get involved again.

Toni peeled off her clothes and put on a shower cap. Then she turned on the water and jumped under the spray. There wasn't much time. She'd use the scented soap that Doris guaranteed would drive Mike wild and hope for the best.

A quick once-over with the washcloth and a final rinse, and she was finished. Toni toweled off and rushed to the closet. None of her dresses seemed right for the occasion, but there was a bright red silk lounging outfit hanging in the back of her closet, and Toni pulled it out. It was the first thing she'd bought for herself after she'd moved into this apartment. Back then, the idea of wearing a bright red outfit had seemed terribly wild and exciting. Now she slipped it on and smiled in satisfaction. It was six years old, but it still fit perfectly. She was lucky she had an active metabolism. Most women would blow up like the Goodyear blimp if they ate the way she did.

Toni studied her reflection in the mirror. The silk clung to her body, and the neckline was cut in a daring V with a tiny gold zipper that ran all the way down the front. She'd never had the nerve to wear it before. She opened her dresser drawer and found the matching red-and-gold-patterned scarf that she had bought to go with the outfit. Time for a decision. To fill in the neckline or not'?

If Doris were here, she'd say to forget the scarf. Toni tossed it back inside the drawer. The neckline wasn't low enough to be indecent, and she wanted to be provocative.

One last glance in the mirror, a quick spray of perfume, and she was ready. Toni picked up her keys and the tiny screwdriver she'd need to attach the cords to Mike's computer. What else did she need? A word processing program, of course. And an operating system, just in case his computer had come without one. While she was at it, she grabbed a couple of games from her shelf of software. Mike had really enjoyed playing Flight Simulator. She'd zip the games on his hard disk right away. It was important for him to have a positive experience the first time he used his new computer. They could get to the harder stuff tomorrow. And when she got a free minute, she'd alter the programs so they could both play at the same time.

Toni was humming a catchy little tune as she went out the door. What was it? Her father had come home singing it one night when he'd had one too many. Some of the words began to come back to her as she walked down the hall and hummed in rhythm. It was something about bride and groom, and . . . another season and another reason for . . . for what? Toni got to Mike's door just as she reached the refrain, and she was laughing when she rang his doorbell. She'd been humming the tune to “Making Whoopie.”

 

 

It took several minutes of deep breathing before Stan was able to control himself. Damn this new computer system! Since Joyce had already left for the day, he'd tried to locate a client's file himself. And the damn machine kept telling him that Raymond Schwartz didn't exist. Stan knew damn well he existed in there somewhere. He'd seen Joyce enter the data yesterday.

Carefully, gritting his teeth all the while, Stan typed in the name again R..A..Y..M..O..N..D, and then S..C..H..W..A..R..T..Z, the question mark Joyce said would locate the file, and the enter button to start what Joyce called the global search. The machine made a noise like a dryer spinning, and its little red light flickered. It was doing something in there.

The red light stopped flickering, and an answer flashed on the screen. FILENAME RAYMOND SCHWARTZ DOES NOT EXIST. This new system certainly wasn't reliable if it lost information overnight.

Stan stared at the screen for a moment, and then he shook his head in disgust. He'd better try it once more, just to make sure. It was always possible he'd hit the wrong letter and misspelled the name. He'd never been a very good typist.

When Stan pressed the key that was supposed to clear the screen, the computer gave an irritating beep, and another message flashed. It was blinking on and off demandingly. ARE YOU SURE? ARE YOU SURE? ARE YOU SURE? Of course he was sure! He wouldn't have pressed the damned button if he hadn't been sure!

It seemed to be waiting for an answer, so Stan pecked out A ... F ... F ... I ... R ... M ... A ... T ... I ... V ... E and hit the enter button. The machine beeped again and another message replaced the first. Enter “Y” FOR YES OR “N” FOR NO. Stan snorted. The damned computer was cracked up to be so intelligent. He'd read a report that said they were developing new models that could diagnose and repair themselves when something went wrong. And this one wasn't even smart enough to know what affirmative meant?

“What's the matter with you? Affirmative means yes!”

“Mr. Gerhardt? Is everything all right?”

One of his junior law clerks was standing in the doorway, looking at him with a worried expression. Stan's face turned red, and he felt like crawling under the rug. What was her name? Oh, yes . . . Wilber. Catherine Wilber.

“I'm fine, Catherine. I was just taking out my frustration, that's all. This new computer system isn't working.”

Catherine nodded and looked very serious. “Maybe I can help, Mr. Gerhardt. I went to all the training sessions. What were you trying to do?”

“The Raymond Schwartz file. I need a copy.”

“Sure, that's easy.” Catherine stepped over to the machine with a confident smile. “You just type in the name, Mr. Gerhardt. See?”

Catherine started to type, and Stan tapped her on the shoulder. “Raymond starts with an R, Catherine. You made a mistake.”

“No, Mr. Gerhardt.” Catherine beamed up at him. “You have to enter the surname first. Schwartz, Raymond, with a comma separating the fields. If you reverse the order, it won't work at all.”

Catherine finished typing the name and smiled up at him again. “That must be what you did wrong, Mr. Gerhardt, but it's simple if you remember that it's just like a real file cabinet. The computer searches for the first three characters you enter, and if it locates more than one filename that matches, it goes back to compare them to the rest of the name. When you typed in Raymond, it searched for R-A-Y. And naturally, it didn't find anything that matched.”

He felt like an idiot, and her attitude certainly wasn't helping. He didn't want instruction on how to use the computer from a junior law clerk. He wanted the Schwartz file so he could go home.

“Now watch, Mr. Gerhardt. When you've typed in the name, you hit a question mark. That tells the computer to locate the file. And then you press the enter button. That starts the global search. See? The light's flickering. That means it's searching right . . . there you go!”

“Thank you, Catherine.” Stan drew a deep breath. I'll take it from here.”

Catherine looked concerned. “Are you sure, Mr. Gerhardt? The print program's a little tricky. It's easy to get confused. I'd better run the hard copy for you. Did you need one copy or two?”

“Just one. I'm going to get a drink of water, Catherine. Just leave the file on the desk when you're through.”

Stan shut the door to his executive washroom and locked it behind him. Then he walked toward the mirror and peered at his reflection. He didn't look well at all. His heart was pounding hard, and he was sure his blood pressure had risen to a dangerous level. When he'd gone in for his annual physical the doctor had said his blood pressure was normal, but doctors made mistakes. At times like this, when his heart pounded alarmingly, Stan knew he had to be careful.

Deep breathing should help, coupled with the technique he'd learned in that seminar on stress. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. At least he wasn't a smoker. If he'd smoked, he might have had a coronary right there in front of that damn computer.

Stan closed his eyes and concentrated on his personal stress-relieving image. The other lawyers in the group had used the ones that had been described in the lecture. There were waves breaking on a sandy beach, sunlight glistening on the surface of a clear blue lake, and a field of tall grasses waving gently in the breeze. They were nice, but Stan's image worked better. He pictured the decisions that his law firm had lost and fed the papers into a shredder. The Alden decision, confetti. The Chandler decision, confetti. The Donelley decision, confetti. It never took more than five to relax him.

In a moment or two Stan decided his color was better. His hands had stopped shaking, and his breathing was deep and even. Computers might be the wave of the future, but they had to build them better than the one in his office. The salesman had promised that the new, sophisticated models could process thousands of bits of information in nanoseconds. Lists, figures, calculations, permutations, and extrapolations, It did them all with lightning speed and efficiency. But it shut down cold if you failed to type the last name first.

Stan waited until he was sure that Catherine had left before he went back into his office again. She'd known exactly what he'd done wrong. Would she mention it to anyone else in the office? Just to be on the safe side, he'd call Joyce at home and tell her to assign Catherine to that case they were handling in Sacramento. Roger Merrill could use a hand up there, and Catherine was a bright young woman. She'd understand that her plum assignment was a trade-off for keeping her mouth shut. And if she didn't, he could always fire her later. Their complement of junior law clerks was much too large anyway.

The Schwartz file was on his desk. Stan picked it up and tucked it in his briefcase. Working with the computer was a frustrating experience he didn't care to repeat. It could drive one completely crazy. Was it possible he'd made a terrible error when he'd sent that computer to Mike? If Mike got frustrated, he might go out and do something stupid. And if the police arrested Michael, it would put a real crimp in his plans.