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There was a software company that went by the name Silverado that had an exclusive contract with Powell's Pardners. It obviously played a pivotal, if undisclosed, role in the development of its software system; there was no indication in any record that Powell himself knew the difference between an intelligent database and a chicken fried steak.

I spread out on my bed all the video sheets and printouts put out by Powell's Pardners itself. The interview checklist, which Dansko got somewhere, covered those kind of personal questions that have been standard for years.

Nothing enlightening here, just a way of making sure you didn't match up cat people with dog people or Mozart fans with Deadheads.

For almost 30 years now, actual and virtual commerce sites have been directly downloading their log files to data warehouses.

The contract demanded a complete release of a person's consumer database for their use and analysis; of course, it promised the strictest confidentiality.

I did a meta-search on the individuals who made up Silverado Software and I began to pore over their backgrounds, published papers and curriculum vitae.

The biographies and papers pretty much reflected the same types of expertise, and then I caught something out of the corner of my eye. One of the developers, a twentyish fellow named John Armstrong, also had a few papers published on game theory.

"Now we're getting somewhere," I muttered to myself. A software developer who works for a dating service who also knows something about game theory."

"What's your game, John Powell?" I thought as I scratched my chin and began to doze off.


Before the cab arrived the next morning, I googled more on John Armstrong and found he had a much more extensive background in game theory than first appeared. I instinctively knew this was a clue, but I would still be flying by the seat of my pants because I couldn't realistically contact Armstrong before the interview.

Not only did I not have the time, but I was sure if I contacted Armstrong before meeting with Powell, he'd tell Powell. I knew I probably would have one shot at Powell. When he realized I wasn't doing a puff piece, everything would implode.

I don't mind burning a bridge or two if it serves my purpose, but I can't afford to take them out before I cross them.

The Pardners corporate office was only a few miles from the Radisson. It had the hokey Powell's Pardners western motif on its walls.

Other than a bandanna neckerchief, the lead receptionist was dressed professionally.

"Mr. Powell is expecting you, Mr. Yakir."

Powell's office was a walnut-paneled den full of western prints, shadow boxes and small bronzes. His bright shirt and florid face made him stand out like a light bulb.

"I am honored to be interviewed by a reporter from the largest newspaper in the nation," he said, as he squeezed my hand into putty.

"Bullshit," I thought, "and this guy is seriously schnockered at 11 a.m."

He had the genial affability of someone who spends his waking hours liquored up, and was actually very personable during the first half hour as he went over his personal and business background and how he founded Powell's Pardners. He continually sipped 'orange squeezings' in a juice glass.

Some oranges.

"I used to operate a travel service here in Dallas that would book on cruise line that did weekend excursions in the Gulf of Mexico," he said. "You know, making lazy 8s in the water while everyone had a fun time. I kinda segued through that into the dating service. I found when I used the right software and put the right people together on a first class fun cruise, happiness happened."

"I never knew Texas produced so much cheese," I thought. "I'm gonna blow."

Powell looked at his glass wistfully and I realized he was probably holding back on imbibing. I had a thought.

"By the way, can I have something to drink? I'm getting a little dry."

"What would you like?"

"Well, what you're having looks tasty."

Powell's eyes lit up. "I'll pour you one."

I pretty much avoided any pointed questions while I had a couple of drinks; as I had supposed, Powell tripled my pace.

I wanted to tighten the noose gently. "I know you can't, and really shouldn't, discuss the specifics of the software you use to organize and sift through your data base."

I began to sip my third drink. "Like you say, 'the secret's in the software.'"

Powell beamed a stupid self-satisfied grin of recognition.

"It's obvious that your software has top notch data base analysis tools. Maybe you'd like to talk--only in generalities, of course--about your game theory components of the software, where the genius of your system lies."

I stressed the pronouns to play to his vanity. His eyes lit up in recognition at the mention of "game theory."

He began to pace, clutching his glass, and he talked very deliberately.

"Are you married, Mr. Yakir?"

"No sir."

"I'm not married, now. I've been married three times so far. You know what, Mr. Yakir? None of these women were what I would have called the great loves of my life."

He turned to face me. "The problem was, the women--the girls, I was young once-- that I loved the most in my life didn't want me when I wanted them."

He looked down into the glass like he expected to see something. "Then the years go by, and you run into an old flame, and you find they married some jerk who's ten times the loser you'd ever be on your worst day. Why?"

I shook my head, and realized I was feeling the liquor, too.

Powell spread wide his arms. "I found the answer, with the help of a sharp software developer named Jack Armstrong. I'm sure you never heard of him, he's actually pretty quiet. Not like me."

"Sorry, the name doesn't ring a bell," I lied.

"Like I said a while back, I thought to merge my cruise bookings with a dating service when business began to sag a few years ago. I got a good lead on an outfit called Silverado Software in Plano."

I widened my eyes and looked as interested as I could.

 
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