The mass production of the Rattler line had already begun, and the sets would be available in giant golf retail stores like Cox Sports and Golf Universe by Halloween.
The prototypes of the Legendary line would be crafted and shipped by plane within two weeks. With a simultaneous submission to the PGA for compliance certification, they’d be taking orders for Excalibur drivers, Vorpal iron sets, and Khanda putters at trade shows for delivery starting at Thanksgiving.
The price was going to be legendary, too. He wasn’t holding back on the zeroes.
The Legendary line wasn’t going to be just a luxury item. It would be a status symbol, the must-have for every golfing billionaire. No gaudy diamonds or gold on them, either. Nope, the Legendary line would be sleek titanium and steel, understated and tasteful, quiet old-money rich like no-logo baseball caps that cost five grand or outdoorsy coats that cost twenty thousand dollars.
If you knew, you knew.
He’d market them to royals and Vanderbilts, not insecure nouveau riche slobs that flaunted their gauche froufrou so disdained by those who had taste.
Indeed, an email from Dali confirming receipt of the designs and specs was in his inbox. His gaze swept over it, noting that the delivery dates were correct.
And then he slammed his email shut, slammed the door behind him, and slammed the car door of the hotel’s courtesy vehicle to take him back to the Javits for the afternoon.
He might have to move hotels to the Four Seasons or the Intercontinental. Something about the Baccarat was making Kingston’s chest feel heavy and giving him a sinus headache.
44
The Second Wave
NICOLE LAMB
Monday morning, Nicole was back at work at Sidewinder, hanging out in the lab, swathed in white papery Tyvek like a mummy, and hiding her red eyes behind scratched plastic safety glasses.
Everyone had noticed her, said hello, hovered for a moment in case she wanted to process her emotions, and then went off to do their work.
Machines hummed and clanked, and keyboards clicked around the lab.
Arvind had double-swiveled at her when he’d shuffled in. “I thought you were out for the week.”
Oh, trust Arvind to poke the grumpy boss-beast.
She couldn’t be chipper, so she kept her voice level. “I changed my mind.”
Her words came out grim, dang it.
“Well, good,” Arvind said, “because I’ve got a problem with face deformation on the new women’s club, the Cascabel.”
The Cascabel driver was their new women’s low swing speed driver with a thinner face for more spring when the club hit the ball.
They were running out of good rattlesnake names for their clubs, however. The Cascabel was a South American rattlesnake, along with the Marajoan and the Rupunini.
Rupunini.
No matter that Nicole thought it was a cool name, marketing would not like that one.
Pickin’s for names were getting slim.
Within a few years, they were going to have to expand their nomenclature to the rest of the pit viper snakes. Nicole was looking forward to designing a driver that would be named the Copperhead. Excellent name.
“But the Cascabel isn’t due for production until next summer,” she said to Arvind, confused.
“Yeah, but I’ve got some data that calls into question whether we should be using our usual glue formulation to attach the driver’s face to the body of the club. The face must be thin to get that bounce at low speeds. The failure rate is too high.”
Changing glue formulations from their standard recipe would add months and millions of dollars to the club’s development. “Oh, no. Let me see.”
Every phone and computer in the lab simultaneously beeped or chimed in a flurry of delivered emails like they were living inside a pinball machine.
