Free Dead End Deal by Allen Wyler Page B

hour he would be making a concession, which in turn would give the impression of flexibility. Truth be told, with his condo only a block away, most days found him in his office by now anyway. Being the first to arrive each day gave him an uninterrupted block of time to scan the latest news and prepare his schedule before the constant onslaught of unanticipated interruptions and meetings turned any semblance of an orderly schedule into havoc.
    Ritter was already waiting in the lobby, white Starbucks cup in hand, studying the building directory. At the sound of the elevator door, he turned with a hopeful look on his face. Yet in spite of this newfound hope, he appeared haggard: sagging facial muscles and dark circles under the eyes. Stillman couldn’t suppress a hint of satisfied smile. Jon Ritter, the holier-than-thou academician, didn’t look so goddamn smug now. Not the same sanctimonious prick who, a year ago, stood up at the North American Stem Cell Symposium to challenge Stillman in debate. He remembered all too well the embarrassing sting of not being able to answer Ritter’s hyper-technical, nit-picking questions. Questions only a lab tech might reasonably discuss. Running a company didn’t give him the luxury of wandering the halls to visit labs and learn about every employee’s job. That style of management was, in his opinion, micromanagement, and he had more productive ways to spend the precious minutes of his already heavily scheduled days. So, yes, Ritter might be an expert on growing cells in petri dishes and flasks, but the prick didn’t have a clue about the skills needed to grow a fledgling company from nothing into a red hot Wall Street IPO.
    Well, time to eat crow, Ritter . Stillman smiled. “Right on time. Promptness. I like that.”
    Ritter offered his hand. “Thanks for meeting with me.”
    Stillman graciously motioned him onto the elevator, punched five. “Trophozyme has three through five. My office is on five.” The elevator door rattled shut.
    Stillman eyed Ritter’s clothes, a professor cliché if ever there was one: gray slacks, navy blazer, white shirt, rep tie. Ninety percent of the neurosurgeons he’d ever set eyes on lived in those preppy blazers with the gold buttons as if it were some uniform. Today Stillman wore understated corporate casual: a black Ermenegildo Zegna long-sleeve, form-fitting crew-neck sweater, chosen to emphasize his well-developed pecs, lightweight black wool slacks, black, well-buffed black Ferragamo loafers, a black-faced stainless steel Movado Museum Dial on his wrist. If you knew what you were looking at—which Ritter obviously didn’t—his selection made a statement of superior taste and class. Casual elegance, he believed, blended him into the start-up company culture while simultaneously elevating him above common employees.
    Both men faced the door as the cage moved upward, Stillman thinking, My my, how things change . Five months ago, when offered a generous salary, fat signing bonus, and stock options, Ritter turned up his nose. It hadn’t been the refusal per se that pissed him off. It was the way Ritter did it. Without a moment of hesitation. As if he’d been offered an intravenous dose of Ebola virus instead of a well-paying, once in a lifetime career opportunity. Even more grating was Ritter’s unspoken attitude. As if he, Stillman, was some kind of leper instead of the leader of a biotech company. Well, look at you now Mr. Arrogant Holier-Than-Thou academician. The temptation to utter those exact words was almost too much to resist. Instead, Stillman simply savored the delicious irony unfolding before him.
    Off the elevator, down a hall, Stillman led Ritter single file, past a series of work cubicles and an empty conference room. Stillman turned left through a doorway and motioned for Jon to follow.
    The moment Jon walked into Stillman’s office and his eyes registered the interior, he stopped, amazed at the elegance. The size wasn’t