No Way Back by Matthew Klein

line?’ I say. ‘“Why do you rob banks, Willie?”: “Because that’s where the money is.”’
    Still, Dom has no idea what I’m talking about. Subtlety and intellectual nimbleness are not his strong suit. I say: ‘Listen, you know the problem that banks have? People are always
demanding their money. Banks need to make sure they give money to the right person. That’s why we’re always typing in PINs and passwords and secret codes. You have to prove who you are.
What if you didn’t have to do that? What if banks could know with complete certainty who you were, by just looking at you?’
    Something registers on his face. His brows unknit. He’s beginning to understand.
    I go on. ‘From now on, we sell our product to banks. That’s where the money is. We’re not a consumer software company any more. We’re corporate. Starting today, we market
ourselves as a security solution. Corporations love security. We’ll just call our technology something different. We can make up a fancy name for it. Identity Management Technology. Some crap
like that.’
    ‘Hmm,’ he says. He wants very much to disagree with me, but even he recognizes there’s value in what I say.
    I continue. ‘And here’s the beauty of it. We don’t need to build a new product. We just need to change the way we market what we have. We simply re-invent ourselves. We become
someone else. From now on, we are the leader in Identity Management Technology. IMT. You’re the sales guy, Dom. Make up some cockamamie story about how our technology works – how we can
help banks. We identify customers when they walk in the door. We eliminate identity theft. That sort of thing.’
    Vanderbeek thinks about this. ‘Actually, it’s a pretty good idea,’ he admits, finally. ‘IMT. I like it.’
    ‘So... do you have any contacts?’
    ‘Contacts?’
    ‘At retail banks. We need to get a meeting. As soon as possible. Can you set something up? A sales meeting with C-levels?’
    ‘Maybe.’ He thinks about it. ‘Yes. I think I can.’
    ‘Good. I’ll come to the meeting. You arrange it. This week. I don’t care who with. Anyone who can sign a cheque for a half-million dollars.’
    Dom throws back his head and lets out a joyous laugh, as if I am the most amusing person he has ever met – a delightful companion!
    Having been VP of Sales myself, long ago, I know how he feels. I have sat in his chair: trying to sell a product that doesn’t exist, coping with a meddlesome boss who wants to tag along on
the next sales call, and being instructed to have someone ‘write a cheque for a half-million dollars’. As if it were that easy.
    I wait for Dom’s laughter to subside. Finally, he lowers his gaze, looks at me. It’s a friendly gaze, and a friendly smile. But I can read his thoughts: He’ll put up with me
for seven more weeks. If we’re lucky, then he’ll take credit for the success; and if we’re not, he’ll blame me for the failure.
    Which is probably Tad Billups’s strategy, too, come to think of it. Put an ex-addict at the helm of a failing company, see what happens.
    Dom waves his hand magnanimously. ‘Whatever you say, boss.’
    ‘So you’ll set up a sales call?’
    ‘Tomorrow.’
    ‘Thanks.’ I stand and offer him my hand. He shakes.
    He’s on my side. For now.
    I ask Amanda to help me find a permanent desk. She leads me around the bullpen. At first she suggests I take the spacious corner office where the former CEO, Charles Adams,
used to preside. But I demur. It’s not merely because I’m superstitious and his fate gives me the heebie-jeebies – although to be honest, that’s part of it. It’s
because big corner offices tend to send the wrong message to employees.
    I ask Amanda if there is anything a little less showy. We settle on a nondescript closet-sized office, without any exterior windows at all, beside the bathroom. It’s the least desirable
location in the building, which makes it perfect for my