With apologies to Dashiell Hammett.
1.
The temporary receptionist stood by the edge of the big plate-glass divider. He was tall and lanky, blond, pale despite the California sun so that Spade wondered if the boy ever saw daylight.
“There’s a woman here for you. Her name’s Wonderly, if you can believe it.”
“A pitch?”
“I guess so. I saw her here with Archer last week. Her nails are fantastic, I wish I had them.”
Spade imagined the receptionist using pliers to remove a woman’s fingernails. He shook it off.
“Bring her in.”
A few moments later a woman paced up the hallway and through the door to Spade’s office. She was young, tall, bleach blonde, with oversize black sunglasses pushed up over her hair, and wore a gray tracksuit with a whiff of Neiman Marcus. She sat on the edge of her chair opposite of his onyx marble desk.
Spade leaned back in his chair: “Now what can I do for you, Miss Wonderly?”
“I’m hoping to find Archer. He is supposed to be signing today, bu… I haven’t been able to reach him at all! I have an appointment, you see, and my partners are expecting me to bring papers back today.”
Spade nodded, frowned sympathetically, and tightened his lips together. “Suppose you tell me about it, from the beginning.”
“You mean Mr. Archer didn’t tell you anything?”
“We each have our own projects. A lot of them. It can get busy. It’s normal.”
“I’m Brigid. I’m from Dingus. We specialize in systems management for automated hospitality and retail services. Are you sure Mr. Archer told you nothing?”
Spade squinted his eyes. “Ack-shoo-hull-eeeeeeeee. Yes. He did say something about an exciting new company. Software…?”
Brigid nodded. “Dingus leads the industry in sensor feedback processing and simulated random mechanical responses. Spade and Archer are taking a fifty-five percent stake. It’s been scheduled for weeks. We even have a party tonight, to celebrate. Oh!” Brigid ran her hands up over her face quickly and rubbed her temples. “I knew I should have confirmed the appointment earlier. I knew it! Mr. Spade, tell me the truth, am I to blame for this?”
“Not unless there are things I don’t know about. Miles can be…. Mercurial. I wouldn’t say it was your fault.”
She said, “Thank you,” very softly, “but I’ll always blame myself.” She fidgeted with the glasses. “Listen, I know it’s a lot to ask, but would you come to our party tonight? Our celebration?”
“With papers unsigned?”
“That’s just it. My partners might get spooked if they thought that Spade and Archer were pulling out of the deal, Mr. Spade. It would reassure everyone that everything is fine. Come, won’t you?”
“Sure, sure,” Spade found himself responding, while frantically texting Archer under the desk.
2.
There were still no responses from Archer by the time that Spade’s Maserati broke down at the top of Skyline, on the way to the party. It took over an hour to get a tow. Spade arrived by Uber, late and flustered. The house was mock Tuscan, but the action was mostly outside, back by the pool. There was a DJ, vintage electronica, and Psilocybin-infused vodka slushies. It was definitely not Saturday morning golf.
He found Brigid. “Are these all Dingus employees?”
“Oh goodness! No! Our team is here, but also friends of the company, hopeful recruits, comp-sci students up from Stanford….” Brigid began introducing him.
Hours passed. Spade grew tired of fist bumps. He wandered to the buffet to graze. There he encountered one of the Dingus execs, his hair long and unkempt, his face a woodland masquerading as a beard.
“May a stranger offer you an escape?” The exec said across a table filled with Detroit-style square pizzas. “I’m Falcon. VP of Innovation. Brigid introduced us earlier.”
Spade said nothing in a blank-faced indefinite way.
“Follow me,” the bearded man said. He went out through a patio door. Spade followed him into the darkness. A long walk through a dense garden brought them to a small Asian-inspired gazebo, inside of which sat a large, deep, wood-lined tub. It was about the size of a small car, its water steaming. Falcon stripped naked and stepped into the tub. He looked over at Spade and said “What are you waiting for? The temperature is perfect.”
Spade undressed and got in. Hot water overwhelmed his senses. He lost track of time. Everything became muddy. He almost wanted to sleep. Then, Spade remembered where he was, and why he was there. He looked over at Falcon.
“So, Archer never told me—”
Falcon scowled and shook his head slightly. Spade tried again, and this time Falcon put a finger up to his lips and hushed him. Time passed, then Falcon stood with a sigh. “Sorry,” he said. He put his legs over the side of the tub, He sat on its edge. “One never talks in an ofuro. It is a rule.”
Spade got out of the tub and sat beside Falcon. “Well now we can talk.” Spade said.
“Yes, we can talk,” Falcon replied. “I like to talk, and I like a man who likes to talk.” They began to discuss Dingus. To Spade, the nudity was comforting. It was the way that generations of Spade family men had conducted business, in country club saunas and athletic club steam rooms. It reminded him of his first time at the Bohemian Grove.
“So I’ll have to know what it’s all about,” Spade said. “What does Dingus make?”
“Partial AI controls for paradigm-breaking automated culturally-relevant product delivery.”
Spade nodded, then repeated the question again, slightly rephrased.
“Mostly it’s algorithm-driven, predictive iterative heuristics that enable smart dexterity in technology driven sustenance delivery modes.”
“Spectacular! But… not to sound like a blithering idiot… what’s it actually useful for?”
“So many things! Our market potential for adaptation variance is superb. We aren’t just making things, we’re making a philosophy. It’s why I believe in Dingus. It’s why I’ve put my own personal capital in. And, by Gad, we’re excited that Spade and Archer beat out other VC offers. Well, you know we are makers, we don’t do what we do for money, no.” Falcon’s yellowish eyes glittered between narrowed lids. “But the minimum, the bare minimum—it’s a helluva lot of dough. The maximum I refuse to guess. You’d think me crazy. I don’t know. There’s no telling how high it would go.”
3.
Monday. Miles Archer walked into Spade’s office.
“Where have you been?” Spade asked. “Didn’t you get any of my tests? I thought you were dead!”
“I was in Joshua Tree, cleansing,” Archer replied. “Didn’t the receptionist tell you?”
“Temp.”
Archer sighed. “Are we going to have to fire another one?” He looked at his phone. “Also, why do I have an email saying that O’Shaughnessy Partners have sold us their 55% stake in a company that uses robots to make burritos?”
Spade had a sickening feeling in his stomach. “Dingus wasn’t one of yours?”
Archer said in a small flat voice: “No.”
Spade, looking down at his desk, nodded almost imperceptibly, knowing what he must do. “Temp,” he said, and shivered. “Well, send him in.”
Harbour Fordyce 