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San Francisco, California
Eddy O’Conner met with her two protégés four nights following their meal on her patio. Seated in her penthouse with its marvelous evening vistas, they reviewed the background material Alice Linda and Joe McRory managed to obtain since their initial visit.
O’Conner began, “At the risk of stating the obvious, Todd Adams’ life spun out of control when his girlfriend learned she was pregnant. He alienated his family. She alienated hers. Both families detested their child’s choice of a lover and they were thrilled even less the love affair produced a pregnancy.”
“Don’t forget the baby momma’s daddy,” Alice Linda offered.
“Yes, the arms dealer selling stolen armaments to the Taliban. My friends told me that these renditions and enhanced interrogation techniques would not turn out well. Unfortunately, the White House wasn’t buying what the CIA was pitching. The Agency was being accused by some within the Administration as too soft on terrorists and terrorism. Worse yet, they told me little actionable intelligence was produced. So much for the ‘shining city on the hill’ Ronald Reagan spoke of.”
Each of the three was momentarily silent until O’Conner returned her wine glass to the sofa table. “So, Adams’ postdoc appointment blew apart with his anger and rage. Is that why he never returned to UC-Berkeley? It sounds like the university was willing to give him a break.”
“Adams left,” Joe McRory responded, “when Achmed Al Hami’s appointment ended.”
“Why? Explain.”
“Several reasons, possibly. First, Al Hami introduced the two love birds and he may have believed he was to blame—at least partially. Second, Al Hami spent too much time outside of his research and not enough in the lab even before all this craziness took place. Third, he had his hands full with Adams—now his roommate. The kid was at war with the world. Whatever. The department chair recommended Al Hami’s appointment not be extended.”
“Didn’t the university offer to extend Adams’ appointment?”
“Yes. It appears Al Hami was the kid’s only friend in the world. When the university wouldn’t extend Al Hami’s appointment, but they were willing to extend the kid’s, the kid saw it as one more unfair thing. As an act of solidarity, he wrote to the university and told them to—“
“—I got it,” Eddy interrupted. “So now we have two angry young men. Really, smart young men. What happened next?”
Now it was Linda’s turn. “The high-flying tech companies, like Apple, Google, Facebook, and the older companies, too, recruited heavily at places like Stanford and UC-Berkeley. Adams was the physicist who fell in love with computing. It appears he had his fill of higher education and took a chance with the private sector. All he had to do was accept a huge signing bonus and annual salary.”
“So how did a bright and suddenly rich kid decide to declare war on his government?”
“Here’s where things get a bit weird. The guy started at Apple, a company known to work its people to death. He never left the office. He berated the people on his team when they went home at night or stayed away one or both weekend days. For a while he showered at work, sent his clothing to the in-house laundry service, and took all his meals in the cafeteria. At one point, security towed his car to an impound lot because it hadn’t been moved for months.”
“That behavior is consistent for prodigies,” Eddy referred to her earlier observations on former child prodigies.
“It got worse,” Linda added. Referring to her notes, “The folks at Apple were thrilled with his work ethic—up to a point. He became so extreme he couldn’t keep people on his team. He was relentless. He walked the parking lot looking for the cars belonging to his colleagues, made public notes about who was missing, who wasn’t. People started to complain. Worse, they start to leave.”
“But Apple promoted him to a supervisory position?”
“Yes, several times, in fact. Toward the end, he was one level below vice president. He was making more money, accruing thousands of dollars in stock options—worth millions today. He didn’t rent an apartment. Didn’t own a home. Never claimed his car from the impound lot. The folk at Apple began to think they might have a problem. But they wanted him fixed, not gone.”
“Was this the beginning of the end at Apple?”
“Yeah. First they suggested he visit his physician for an annual physical. They even made it a part of his annual performance plan. He didn’t go. So, Apple brought in a shrink and put the two of them in a room.”
“And?”
“Adams left the company. Walked away from a career most would envy.”
“Is that when he joins Google?”
“I think. I haven’t spoken with anyone at Google, yet. I have a former colleague at Google. He promised to talk to me tomorrow.”
At this juncture, McRory smiled, “Don’t forget to wear your lip gloss.”
O’Conner threw a questioning glance to Linda. She just rolled her eyes.
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Removing the Santa figure took place in full view of the crowd milling about the intersection of Las Vegas Boulevard and Flamingo Road. The casino clubs were closing. People were retreating to the places remaining open all night, or if they’d had enough entertainment, their hotel rooms.
The pledges carried out their assignment with the grace and aplomb of a comedy act gone wrong. It took three of them several attempts each to shimmy up the light pole on the southwest corner of the intersection. The first to make it to the faux Santa lost his grip and fell on his friends below. One laughed so hard he wet his pants.
After several tries, they succeeded in separating Santa from the pole, carefully dropping it to their drunk friends standing on firm ground.
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Casino Security at the Bellagio operated a security force with the best toys money could buy and the experts designed. One of the security staff monitoring the camera views around the perimeter of the hotel watched the drunk antics on the street corner. He liked the Santas and he was sad to see the closest one disappear into the night. But hey, this was Las Vegas after all.
It took the pledges over an hour to make their way back to the UNLV campus and the frat house. None of them drove. Earlier that evening, they took the RTC bus from campus to Flamingo and transferred to the east-west bus route traversing Flamingo. Coming back, they reversed the route.
They were the only passengers on board the bus with a large plastic Santa. No one on the bus—and it was filled—took note of the boys and their booty. Again, it was Las Vegas after all.
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The morning of the dance with Chi Omega, the fraternity Social Chairman was in the basement taking inventory for that night’s party. Stacked in the corner next to the propane tanks was the Santa figure. Check. Needed more beer. Check. Burgers and dogs. Check.
This was going to be a sick party, he thought as he turned off the basement light and walked up the stairs.