“If the trend continues,” Jules says, “we’ll be down year on year.”
“We can’t have that,” Craig says. He sits up and puts his elbows on the table. “We need to acquire a company that gives us strategic leverage while providing us with potential revenue we can use in case your WAIs old men decide they need to put money aside for their funeral plots instead of their eulogies.”
He says that whole sentence without taking a breath. Maybe he does have some kind of superpower, I think for a minute. Maybe Cyrus saw something that Jules and I missed. Then his assistant comes in with bowls of what she calls beet polpetti, and when I take a bite, they are indeed little balls made of beets that taste exactly like beets.
“Look,” Craig says, his teeth stained purple, “a lot of folks are going to approach you now that you’re the flavor of the month. They’re going to sit on your board and suck up to you and not tell you that the ship is about to sink, or that you’re two mistakes away from being Keanu Reeves in Speed 2, you know, the one where the cruise ship is about to crash into the shore? I’m a value add because I won’t bullshit you. What you see is what you get. You’re gonna have to grow, open new offices, fund a global expansion, and buy up a lot of assets. And you definitely want someone on your team who’s willing to go all the way with you, not just sit back and watch the dollar signs but actually jump in there and get the work done.”
Jules and Cyrus are nodding. I guess Cyrus understands Keanu now.
We go through the rest of Gaby’s slides, and then we wrap up. Craig tells us we should come up with a list of possible companies to acquire (“You find ’em, I’ll bring ’em home,” he announces, suddenly Texan), and then we call it a day, but not before Craig attempts to entice us to base-jump out of his helicopter, an invitation we politely decline.
* * *
We’re in our hotel suite with a tray of room service between us, and Cyrus is listing the companies he wants to buy as if he’s writing a last-minute letter to Santa.
“We could buy Headzen,” Cyrus says. “Or Meditate.io.”
“We can’t afford them.”
“It’s important that we think big. Craig has deep pockets.”
Jules suggests the dog collar that sends a message when a pet owner has died.
“What’s that? Never heard of it.”
“It’s called HereBoy. Did you know that over fifty percent of solo pet owners who die in their homes get eaten by their pets?”
I gasp. “What the fuck?”
“It’s the dark side of domesticated animals.”
“Cats or dogs?”
“Equally out for blood.”
“Pets would be a little left-field,” Cyrus says.
“But somewhere in the area of death might be a good place to start,” Jules suggests.
“Death Tech,” Cyrus says. “Has anyone coined that?”
I’m going to look back and regret what I’m about to say. But it’s me who suggests it. “What about Marco’s thing?”
“That AI app that kills you online?” Jules asks.
“It doesn’t kill you because you’re already dead. It manages your death. Turns off all your socials, informs your contacts.”
“Sounds like a great idea. Is it in market?”
“I think they’re a few months away.”
“Still think we should buy Headzen,” Cyrus repeats. It grates on him, I know, that the CEO of Headzen is not himself as into meditation as one might expect. In fact, he told Cyrus jokingly at a CEO mixer last month that he never really cared for all that mindfulness crap, but boy, did it light up people’s phones.
“It’s a lot of extra work,” Jules reminds us. “Buying someone out, all the legals. And then you have to integrate them into your team. It can take months, and even then it’s rough going.”
“I don’t mind,” Cyrus says. “Sounds like fun.”
“Just buy someone who uses React Native,” I say. “Oh, and check their bathrooms to make sure they don’t force their female staff to pump milk in them.”
“Right,” Jules says, pretending to make a list. “?‘Fun-loving CEO seeks small to medium company with a focus on arcane rituals to merge with his already impressive portfolio. Must speak Native and treat women with a modicum of respect. Accepting applications.’?” He starts singing a tune from a musical called Once Upon a Mattress. “I did it in high school,” he announces.
We have an opening for a business
A beautiful bonafide business.
He says in the original, it’s princess. A beautiful bonafide princess. Cyrus and I throw pillows at him and order him out of our room. “I’m going for a swim. See you later fellow assassins!”
We’re getting ready for bed when Cyrus’s phone rings. It’s Craig. Cyrus puts him on speakerphone.
“You gotta come meet me,” Craig says. “I’m at this party, you’d love it.”
I make a slicing gesture across my neck.
“Asha and I were just about to retire,” Cyrus says.
“Retire? What’re you, ninety years old?”
“Where is the party?”
“Not far. My driver will pick you up.”
I’m shaking my head, but Cyrus is looking at his phone. “Maybe just for an hour? Asha, what do you think?”
“Um, I’d rather not, to be honest. Why don’t you go ahead without me.”
“Asha, seriously, these people are great, you’re going to love them. C’mon, let me show you some Californian hospitality,” Craig insists. I’m not sure I want to find out what this entails, but Cyrus has already said yes.
“My car’s on the way,” Craig says. “See you guys soon.”
* * *
“Californian hospitality apparently means dragging your friends to the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night,” I whine. We’ve been in Craig’s car for nearly an hour. The tiny tide of energy I rode in the first moments of getting dressed is long gone, and I am regretting not putting my foot down. “Why couldn’t you just go by yourself?”
“Because we roll together.”
The car goes up yet another winding road, but this time it stops at a gate, where a man with a big head leans in, checks the driver’s name, and waves us through.
The house is large and flat and wrapped in glass. We walk through room after room of brown, low-slung furniture, tables of food, and a row of television screens turned vertically so that they resemble paintings, except they are video installations. I watch fifteen seconds of multicolored lines moving up and down.
In the last room, like a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, there are clusters of bodies melting into other bodies. They are mostly naked, and without needing to stare, I can tell they have all been born with perfect proportions, and whatever God neglected to give them has been provided by working out and eating whole foods. All the kissing and fondling is very quiet, so we have to whisper.
“How the fuck are we supposed to find Craig?”
We back out of the room and into a courtyard fringed by small gecko-green trees.
Craig appears at Cyrus’s shoulder. “Who says all the fun happens in New York?” He smiles, waving his arm as if he’s conjured it all himself just to prove an East Coast/West Coast point. “Let’s get you two a drink.” He disappears for a few minutes, during which I beg Cyrus to leave, and then he comes back with a pair of martini glasses. No way I’m drinking this. It’s probably spiked to make me want to lasso my bra around one of the small bronzes in the hallway.
“So do you guys hand out condoms at the door?” I ask brightly, as if I’ve ever seen thirty people naked at the same time before.
“Oh, there’s none of that,” Craig says. “The cuddle puddle is a strictly non-penetrative ritual.” He looks to Cyrus for approval. Cyrus, who has finished his drink, appears not to have heard him.