Sidney Sheldon 3-Book Collection: If Tomorrow Comes, Nothing Lasts Forever, The Best Laid Plans. Sidney Sheldon
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about this ’37 Packard, four-door convertible –’
‘Cut the horseshit!’ Budge snapped. ‘You’re not collecting stamps or selling cars, or writing any fucking book. What are you really up to?’
‘Nothing. I –’
‘You’re raising money for something, aren’t you, Jeff?’ Ed Zeller asked.
‘No!’ But he said it a shade too quickly.
Budge put a beefy arm around Jeff. ‘Hey, buddy, this is your brother-in-law. We’re family, remember?’ He gave Jeff a bear hug. ‘It’s something about that tamperproof computer you mentioned last week, right?’
They could see by Jeff’s face that they had trapped him.
‘Well, yes.’
It was like pulling teeth to get anything out of the son of a bitch. ‘Why didn’t you tell us Professor Ackerman was involved?’
‘I didn’t think you’d be interested.’
‘You were wrong. When you need capital, you go to your friends.’
‘The professor and I don’t need capital,’ Jeff said. ‘Jarrett and Bartlett –’
‘Jarrett and Bartlett are fuckin’ sharks! They’ll eat you alive,’ Alan Thompson exclaimed.
Ed Zeller picked it up. ‘Jeff, when you deal with friends, you don’t get hurt.’
‘Everything is already arranged,’ Jeff told them. ‘Charlie Bartlett –’
‘Have you signed anything yet?’
‘No, but I gave my word –’
‘Then nothing’s arranged. Hell, Jeff boy, in business people change their minds every hour.’
‘I shouldn’t even be discussing this with you,’ Jeff protested. ‘Professor Ackerman’s name can’t be mentioned. He’s under contract to a government agency.’
‘We know that,’ Thompson said soothingly. ‘Does the professor think this thing will work?’
‘Oh, he knows it works.’
‘If it’s good enough for Ackerman, it’s good enough for us, right fellows?’
There was a chorus of assent.
‘Hey, I’m not a scientist,’ Jeff said. ‘I can’t guarantee anything. For all I know, this thing may have no value at all.’
‘Sure. We understand. But say it does have a value, Jeff. How big could this thing be?’
‘Budge, the market for this is worldwide. I couldn’t even begin to put a value on it. Everybody will be able to use it.’
‘How much initial financing are you looking for?’
‘Two million dollars, but all we need is two hundred and fifty thousand dollars down. Bartlett promised –’
‘Forget Bartlett. That’s chicken feed, old buddy. We’ll put that up ourselves. Keep it in the family. Right, fellas?’
‘Right!’
Budge looked up and snapped his fingers, and a waiter came hurrying over to the table. ‘Dominick, bring Mr Stevens some paper and a pen.’
It was produced almost instantly.
‘We can wrap up this little deal right here,’ Budge said to Jeff. ‘You just make out this paper, giving us the rights, and we’ll sign it, and in the morning you’ll have a certified cheque for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. How does that suit you?’
Jeff was biting his lower lip. ‘Budge, I promised Mr Barlett –’
‘Fuck Barlett,’ Budge snarled. ‘Are you married to his sister or mine? Now write.’
‘We don’t have a patent on this, and –’
‘Write, goddamn it!’ Budge shoved the pen in Jeff’s hand.
Reluctantly, Jeff began to write. ‘This will transfer all my rights, title and interest to a mathematical computer called SUCABA, to the buyers, Donald “Budge” Hollander, Ed Zeller, Alan Thompson and Mike Quincy, for the consideration of two million dollars, with a payment of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars on signing. SUCABA has been extensively tested, is inexpensive, trouble-free, and uses less power than any computer currently on the market. SUCABA will require no maintenance or parts for a minimum period of ten years.’ They were all looking over Jeff’s shoulder as he wrote.
‘Jesus!’ Ed Zeller said. ‘Ten years! There’s not a computer on the market that can claim that!’
Jeff continued. ‘The buyers understand that neither Professor Vernon Ackerman nor I holds a patent on SUCABA –’
‘We’ll take care of all that,’ Alan Thompson interrupted impatiently. ‘I’ve got one hell of a patent attorney.’
Jeff kept writing. ‘I have explained to the buyers that SUCABA may have no value of any kind, and that neither Professor Vernon Ackerman nor I makes any representations or warranties about SUCABA except as written above.’ He signed it and held up the paper. ‘Is that satisfactory?’
‘You sure about the ten years?’ Budge asked.
‘Guaranteed. I’ll just make a copy of this,’ Jeff said. They watched as he carefully made a copy of what he had written.
Budge snatched the papers out of Jeff’s hand and signed them. Zeller, Quincy and Thompson followed suit.
Budge was beaming. ‘A copy for us and a copy for you. Old Seymour Jarrett and Charlie Bartlett are sure going to have egg on their faces, huh, boys? I can’t wait until they hear that they got screwed out of this deal.’
The following morning Budge handed Jeff a certified cheque for $250,000.
‘Where’s the computer?’ Budge asked.
‘I arranged for it to be delivered here at the club at noon. I thought it only fitting that we should all be together when you receive it.’
Budge clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You know, Jeff, you’re a smart fellow. See you at lunch.’
At the stroke of noon a messenger carrying a box appeared in the dining room of the Pilgrim Club and was ushered to Budge’s table, where he was seated with Zeller, Thompson, and Quincy.
‘Here it is!’ Budge exclaimed. ‘Jesus! The damned thing’s even portable.’
‘Should we wait for Jeff?’ Thompson asked.
‘Fuck him. This belongs to us now.’ Budge ripped the paper away from the box. Inside was a nest of straw. Carefully, almost reverently, he lifted out the object that lay in the nest. The men sat there, staring at it. It was a square frame about a foot in diameter, holding a series of wires across which were strung rows of beads. There was a long silence.
‘What is it?’ Quincy finally asked.
Alan Thompson said, ‘It’s an abacus. One of those things Orientals use to count –’ The expression on his face changed. ‘Jesus! SUCABA is abacus spelled backwards!’ He turned to Budge. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’
Zeller was sputtering. ‘Low power, trouble-free, uses less power than any computer currently on the market … Stop the goddamned cheque!’
There was a concerted rush to the telephone.
‘Your certified cheque?’ the head bookkeeper said. ‘There’s nothing to worry about. Mr Stevens cashed it this morning.’
Pickens, the butler, was very sorry, indeed, but Mr Stevens had packed and left. ‘He mentioned something about an extended journey.’
That