Part 13 (1/2)
:: Kodacell business-manager Tjan Lee Tang, whose adventures we've :: followed through Suzanne Church's gus.h.i.+ng, besotted blog posts
She looked away and reflexively reached toward the delete b.u.t.ton. The innuendo that she was romantically involved with one or more of the guys had circulated on her blog's message boards and around the diggdots ever since she'd started writing about them. No woman could possibly be writing about this stuff because it was important -- she had to be ”with the band,” a groupie or a wh.o.r.e.
Combine that with Rat-Toothed Freddy's sneering tone and she was instantly sent into heart-thundering rage. She deleted the post and looked out the window. Her pager buzzed some more and she looked down. The same article, being picked up on blogs, on some of the bigger diggdots, and an AP wire.
She forced herself to re-open it.
:: has been hired to head up a new business unit on behalf of the :: multinational giant Westinghouse. The appointment stands as more :: proof of Church's power to cloud men's minds with pretty empty :: words about the half-baked dot-com schemes that have oozed out of :: Silicon Valley and into every empty and dead American suburb.
It was hypnotic, like staring into the eyes of a serpent. Her pulse actually thudded in her ears for a second before she took a few deep breaths and calmed down enough to finish the article, which was just more of the same: nasty personal attacks, sniping, and innuendo. Freddy even managed to imply that she was s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g all of them -- and Kettlewell besides.
Kettlewell leaned over her shoulder and read.
”You should send him an email,” he said. ”That's disgusting. That's not reportage.”
”Never get into a p.i.s.sing match with a skunk,” she said. ”What Freddy wants is for me to send him mail that he can publish along with more snarky commentary. When the guy you're arguing with controls the venue you're arguing in, you can't possibly win.”
”So blog him,” Kettlewell said. ”Correct the record.”
”The record is correct,” she said. ”It's never been incorrect. I've written an exhaustive record that is there for everyone to see. If people believe this, no amount of correction will help.”
Kettlewell made a face like a little boy who'd been told he couldn't have a toy. ”That guy is poison,” he said. ”Those quote-marks around blog.”
”Let him add his quote-marks,” she said. ”My daily readers.h.i.+p is higher than the Merc's paid circulation this week.” It was true. After a short uphill climb from her new URL, she'd acc.u.mulated enough readers that the advertising revenue dwarfed her old salary at the Merc, an astonis.h.i.+ng happenstance that nevertheless kept her bank-account full. She clicked a little. ”Besides, look at this, there are three dozen links pointing at this story so far and all of them are critical of him. We don't need to stick up for ourselves -- the world will.”
Saying it calmed her and now they were at the airport. They cruised into a private gate, away from the militarized gulag that fronted Miami International. A courteous security guard waved them through and the driver confidently piloted the car up to a wheeled jetway beside a cute, stubby little toy jet. On the side, in cursive script, was the plane's name: Suzanne.
She looked accusatorially at Kettlewell.
”It was called that when I bought the company,” he said, expressionless but somehow mirthful behind his curved surfer shades. ”But I kept it because I liked the private joke.”
”Just no one tell Freddy that you've got an airplane with my name on it or we'll never hear the f.u.c.king end of it.”
She covered her mouth, regretting her language, and Kettlewell laughed, and so did Tjan, and somehow the ice was broken between them.
”No *way* flying this thing is cost-effective,” Tjan said. ”Your CFO should be kicking your a.s.s.”
”It's a little indulgence,” Kettlewell said, bounding up the steps and shaking hands with a small, neat woman pilot, an African-American with corn-rows peeking out under her smart peaked cap. ”Once you've flown in your own bird, you never go back.”
”This is a *monstrosity*,” Tjan said as he boarded. ”What this thing eats up in hangar fees alone would be enough to bankroll three or four teams.” He settled into an oversized Barcalounger of a seat and accepted a gla.s.s of orange juice that the pilot poured for him. ”Thank you, and no offense.”
”None taken,” she said. ”I agree one hundred percent.”
”See,” Tjan said.
Suzanne took her own seat and her own gla.s.s and buckled in and watched the two of them, warming up for the main event, realizing that she'd been brought along as a kind of opening act.
”They paying you more?”
”Yup,” Tjan said. ”All on the back-end. Half a point on every dollar brought in by a team I coach or whose members I mentor.”