Terminal Value (9 page)
In every Mantric office, employees stared at the scrolling ticker on the wall and waited and watched as the offering numbers scrolled across the large screens before them.
The night before, WMR Capital, the primary investment bank that was taking the firm public, had priced the offering at fifteen dollars per share, above the twelve-dollar price the bank had originally expected shares to sell for on opening day.
Now the moment of truth had arrived. Art paced the sleek, computerized NASDAQ trading floor near the WMR Capital station. Christine stood nearby, undeterred and cool. Art stopped pacing for a moment, then turned to Malcolm Pierce, a top executive with WMR Capital. “Talk to me.”
Malcolm shot a quick glance at Christine and then said to Art, “I think today's going to be your lucky day. The futures are up.” He pointed at his computer screen. “It's a good day to go public.”
“And the orders?” asked Christine.
Malcolm peered at the bids showing up on his computer. He read the numbers aloud. “Seventeen dollars for 15,000 shares. Eighteen dollars for 50,000 shares.”
The prices continued to rise. The group stared at the computer console next to Malcolm. The computer clock read nine twenty-nine.
Malcolm turned to Bob Gianno, a trader who mastered the art of picking the right opening price that made their best customers happy, while allowing the stock to sustain itself during the day. Bob entered a number on his keyboard.
“And the answer is?” Malcolm asked.
“Twenty and a half,” Bob replied.
“We're opening at twenty dollars and fifty cents a share?” said Christine, showing surprise for the first time.
Before Malcolm could answer, the opening bell went off and Bob rose to his feet. The trading floor sprang into action. Traders jumped up and down, waved their arms and shouted out orders.
“Twenty-three for fifty,” one trader shouted.
“No way,” Bob responded. “But I'll take twenty-three for a hundred.”
A hundred thousand shares at twenty-three dollars a share. “Jesus!” Christine cried out loud, looking at Art, just the hint of a smile crossing her lips.
“What did I tell you?” Art said, gripping Christine tightly by the shoulder.
She nodded, her heart pounding. It was working. The stock was definitely moving in the right direction.
Malcolm turned to Art. “Congratulations, Art. It looks like you've done it again. This is a great sign!”
Art wandered around, shaking hands and accepting congratulations.
* * *
May 2, 9:15 a.m. Boston
Dylan had spent the previous week working with Matt Smith and his team on the HyperfÅn marketing launch. Now he hovered over his computer, reviewing information on the project.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Heather cried, marching into his office. “Don't you know we go public in fifteen minutes?” She grabbed him by the arm, gently but firmly, and led him out of his office to the main conference room, where the entire office staff had gathered to enjoy breakfast and watch the real-time ticker.
Dylan sensed the excitement that filled the air. Employees laughed and called to each other about the emerging technology sector performance, their predictions on how Mantric's IPO would go, what they thought it would be worth by the time the first 25 percent of their stock options were vested, and how they would spend their newfound fortunes.
As nine-thirty approached, the crowd quieted down and gathered around the screen that displayed two lines. On one was the overall number for the NASDAQ; the other line simply said MNTR. The group watched and waited for the opening price to scroll before them.
Nine-thirty came and went. A ripple of concern ran through the room, and then, suddenly, the MNTR symbol started flashing.
“Here we go,” someone shouted out. There was a pause as MNTR momentarily disappeared. Then it reappeared, reading “MNTR â¦20.50.”
“Jesus,” someone else muttered.
I'll say
, Dylan thought. They had opened at twenty dollars and fifty cents a share, and the room erupted into loud cheers and whistles. “MNTR â¦20.50” started flashing again, and the room quickly quieted down as the ticker scrolled from right to left, as if chasing the NASDAQ number above it. Everyone leaned forward at the same time in anticipation.
The numbers began to race across the screen. “MNTR â¦21.00 â¦MNTR â¦21.64 â¦MNTR â¦22.24 â¦MNTR â¦23.50.” The room burst into deafening cheers, and then a steady chant emerged. “Go! Go! Go!” “MNTR â¦24.75 â¦MNTR â¦25.00 â¦MNTR â¦26.33,” the ticker continued.
This is unbelievable
, Dylan thought. He looked around the room at Heather, and their eyes locked for an awkward moment. They smiled, then quickly looked away. They both knew what this meant. From a risky idea born at a party on Beacon Hill to a crazy vision for revolutionizing the mobile computing world, they now were about to realize their dreams.
“Holy shit!” someone yelled out from behind. Dylan spun around and looked at the ticker again. “MNTR â¦35.50” Silence crept through the room. Some people covered their mouths with their hands; others spoke silent words of encouragement to the screen as they watched the price continue to climb. “MNTR â¦36.25 â¦MNTR â¦37.50.”
Corks popped out of champagne bottles, and flutes of the golden liquid moved through the crowd. The staffers laughed and toasted each other. The celebration continued through the afternoon, with little work accomplished. Matt and Sarah and half a dozen other members of the MobiCelus division dragged Dylan over to Matt's workspace, where an active IPO drinking game was in progress. Every time MNTR rose another point, a raucous group toast erupted. When the price broke above forty, another round of cheers, celebrations, and champagne toasts exploded in the crowd. Then, as it bounced up and down in the forties, the noise stabilized to a soft hum.
The market closed at four o'clock, and Mantric's stock finished at $41.25 in a stunning début. The market value of the firm closed at over a billion dollars.
Dylan found his way over to Heather. “When does your flight to L.A. leave tonight?”
“Not âtil eight.”
“Good. The guys are supposed to join us online in about fifteen minutes to celebrate. But Tonyâwell, where do we think our errant young inventor is, anyway?”
“I have no idea. I haven't heard from him all day,” she said, her eyes looking deeply into his. They clinked glasses and turned away from the partiers.
Dylan felt something stir inside him as her shoulder brushed his. “I wish all of us could be together. Tony and I have dreamed of this moment for years. Let me just check my voice-mail. Maybe that rat has checked in.”
Heather smiled and nodded. “So, seriously, do you have any idea where he is?” she asked, sitting at the side of his desk.
“Beats me. This type of celebration would never interest him. He always seems to have something better to work on.” An icon on the lower right corner of the screen began to blink, and the time and date flashed with Tony's name. Dylan nodded and held up a finger. “Yep, a message from Tony!” he said as he clicked on it.
Tony's voice came over the phone. “Dylan! Hey, it's Tony. How come you're never there? Look, things are sort of crazy around here, y'know? I got sort of caught up in something big. Ha! So you're coming back to Boston tonightâright? Listen, stop by my place on your way home and I'll show you what I've found, like I promised I would. And look, this is hush-hush, so don't tell anybodyâokay? Heads are gonna roll when this gets out. Oh, and heyâI'll be online just after four for the IPO celebration. Promise!”
Dylan set his jaw and frowned. “Now what do you think that was all about?”
Heather shrugged. “He is who he is, Dylan. His life is about technology, not money.”
He turned in his chair and fussed over his screen, turning it so both he and Heather could see it. Then he saw Rob's icon flashing.
“Rob!” called Dylan as he made the connection. “Can you see us? We're here!” He felt flushed from the champagne.
“Yeah, I see you.” Rob sat close to the screen, his face distorted by the closeness; deep shadows surrounded the little bit of light that shone from behind him. “Where's Tony?” His voice came across in a hoarse whisper.
Dylan glanced down the list of “buddies.” Tony's name was grayed out. “Who knows? Probably developing something none of us would ever dream of.” He laughed and added, “Can you guys fucking believe it? Who would have bet our little start-up would ever turn into a huge, publicly traded corporation? I guess selling the firm wasn't such a bad idea after all.”
“Always the master of the understatement,” Heather said, and smiled at Dylan.
“I can't believe we went out so strongly today,” said Dylan. At the moment, at least on paper, Dylan was now worth over six million dollars, and his partners close to three-point-five million. Dylan raised his glass. “I'd like to make a toast. To my co-founders and friends. With apologies to the Grateful Dead, what a short, strange trip it's been!”
Dylan and Heather raised their glasses; Rob just nodded.
“I have something I want to say,” said Heather in a serious tone. “I know we've sometimes had our differences over the past year and a half. But I want to take this opportunity to tell all of you that the best decision I've ever made in my life was agreeing to partner with you to launch MobiCelus.”
“Hear, hear,” murmured Dylan. He turned to the computer. “Your turn, Rob.”
Rob looked back and forth between them and then pushed his hair off his forehead. “I don't know what to say.” His voice, digitized, choked a little. “To good friends!”
Dylan took a long drink of champagne, draining his glass. “Hey, Rob, when you get back from New York, call me. I'm going to stop by Tony's later. Maybe we can all go out for dinner?”
He looked at Heather, who shook her head and tapped the face of her watch. She mouthed the words
plane to L.A.
, and he remembered. He shrugged and mouthed
when you get back
. Heather nodded, blew him a kiss, and quickly left the office.
“Er, yeah, sure. I'll call you when I get back there.”
A sheepish smile crossed Dylan's face as he realized Rob had watched the exchange.
* * *
May 2, 9:00 p.m
.
Boston
Dylan sat alone in his office completing the details for the HyperfÅn project. Now Dylan wanted to spend time with Tony, his best friend. He needed to spend time with him, to get drunk with him and celebrate achieving their goal, but every time he tried to reach Tony, he went right to voice-mail. Tony's unexcused absence annoyed Dylan. He looked at his watch.
Time to find out where my friend has wandered off to
, he thought as he shut down his computer. He walked out the door and glanced throughout the quiet office. All the celebrations had either stopped or moved offsite. He smiled as he thought of the success of the day. Just then a movement at the end of the hallway caught his eye. In the distance, he saw a shadow that looked like Sandeep enter one of the offices. What was he doing here?
He continued to the old elevator and listened to the loud grumblings echo through the empty building as it slowly descended. A light rain fell over Boston; with a shake of his head, Dylan hurried to his car and drove the dark streets of Boston to Tony's address on Hancock Street.
At nine-thirty, Dylan stepped out onto the damp cobbles of Beacon Hill. The unusually warm spring temperatures foretold a hot summer ahead, and after a brief shower, the resulting mist wrapped eerily around the lampposts. Dylan admired the old neighborhood, with its Federalist and Greek Revival brick row houses, most of which were built between 1800 and 1850. After the turn of the century, many of the wealthy residents moved to the suburbs, and the old houses were subdivided into small apartments and, later, condominiums. Tony had moved into one of the roomier apartments shortly after their initial MobiCelus success. True to his character, his eclectic furnishings barely filled the space.
Dylan climbed the stairs unsteadily, still feeling the effects of the champagne. He reached for the key in its usual spot on top of the light next to the door.
“Tony!” he called as he turned the handle of the door.
He walked into the dark apartment, wondering if Tony was in the workroom designing his next work of genius. Dylan fumbled for the light switch on the wall next to the door. The dim light illuminated the room, casting shadows across the dark walls, and Dylan's initial reaction was to smile at the disorganized mess in front of him, but, as his eyes became accustomed to the light, he stopped in horror.
In the middle of the room, Tony lay on his back, a tangle of burnt electrical cord wrapped around his body. His lips, a dark blueâalmost purpleâwere in sharp contrast to the ashen tinge of his skin. His left arm extended into the acrid air; his lifeless eyes stared at Dylan, an expression of terror and pain frozen in ghostly silence.
May 3, 6:55 a.m. Boston
The police station on New Sudbury Street, built in the 1960s, shared its ugly appearance with the other government offices nearby. The unsightliness trailed inside as well. Building renovations in the surrounding neighborhood had bypassed the police station. No modern windowed cubicles here, just a warren of tiny offices connected by faded linoleum paths and echoing hallways, painted in a muted brown that had dirtied through years of greasy hands and endless scuffles.
Dylan sat alone in a bleak nine-by-twelve room, at a table that had been secured to the floor to ensure conflicts did not involve furniture. A large, round clock anchored high on the wall emitted an audible tick each time the second hand moved. He shifted his gaze from the clock to the pink and black linoleum tiles on the floor; his eyes picked points of damage where the linoleum had been slit, or where it curled away from the floor in a corner, the result of too much water when the floor was washed. The events of the last few hours played over and over in his mindâshouting Tony's name, adrenalin surging through his veins, his fingers fumbling to dial 911. He watched himself stand by helpless when the paramedics arrived, practiced in controlled speed, then the arrival of the first police, slow and cautious, and the sound of his own voiceâstrangled and highâasking if he could go with Tony in the ambulance.