bout 17 miles from Palm Springs on eastbound I-1o I see the sign for
Indian Wells, a new Hyatt Grand Champion was named after a legendary local
course. In the early morning light the hotel blooms out of the sandy earth
like some dusty desert rose. On the virgin asphalt of the California desert
distances covered fast, and as I approach i can make out thew contrasting
tarnish-green balconies that give the hotel an unmistakeably California look.
In lotus land a structure, oranything else for that matter, that doesn't manage
to look like a French confection is considered boring. The last thing that
corporate boondogglers want to be reminded of are the grim highrises of
working-class cities in which they toil.
It is nine by the time I hurry into the Grand Champion's lobby and pick up
the house phone. I ask for Harry Roberts. This time a man answeres.
Hesitating briefly, he says that he is Charles Wang. He is in room 602, he
says. I squeeze into the crowded elevator only to learn that there is no sixth
floor.
A white-haired bellman in a green uniform points toward four large villas a
hundred winding yards from the main building. None of them are numbered
602. The closest is Elena, number 600. The villa's four anonymous doors are
numbered one through four. I knock on door number two. After several
minutes minutes of knocking on it and Elena's other doors, I pick op the
house phone to call Harry Roberts. A man who identifies himself as Arnie
Demands, with good natured outrage, "Where are you?" implying that
you're incredibly late. He tells me that they are in Villa Bianca, 620, not 602.
I look down the adobe tile walkway and see a slight, pleasant-looking man in
sunglasses, blue corduroy shorts and tennis shoes. He introduces himself as
Arnie Mazur And ushers me into a pastel, floral fantasy. I recognize Wang
from the photo in the earlier profile. He and two others are sitting around a
table littered with remains of breakfast.
Wang gets up to shake my hand. He looks like a New York Jew and looks too
young, vigorous and raw to be the 47-year-old chairman of a billion-dollar
company. Somehow the movies never manage to capture the earthy vital
physical presence that most CEOs exude. Wang's narrow eyes are quick and
flashing and pierce like daggers when they focus. In a gray sweatshirt and
faded blue jeans, he might have just returned from a game of one-on-one. He
introduces me to an Asian woman named Anita, the vp of sales accounting,
then to a tall affable White, a regional sales manager. By process of
elimination I peg him for Harry Roberts, and say so. He is not. I ask where
Harry Roberts is. Glances are exchanged. Carefully avoiding other eyes,
Wang gently breaks it to me there is no Harry Roberts.
"It's a code name the PR people came up with," he says, " so I can have some
privacy when I'm traveling." If anyone finds my chargin amusing, there's no
sign of it.
"Eat, eat," Wang says, sitting down and pushing some dishes at me. Anita
makes motions of arranging some beakfast things for me until Arnie takes
over, pouring orange juice and cofee. They have finished eating-the coffee
has gone bad.
Wang is having fun. He isn't there to lecture to a hall full of anonymous faces
but to speak face-to-face with a group of 40 or 45 CIOs, chief information
officers, of CA's corporate clients. They are the people who make the
decisions about the kind of software to install in their computer systems.
[CONTINUED BELOW]
"We feel that we're partners with these companies in terms of how to better
utilize the information," Wang says to dispel my notion of what he is here to
do. "It's a dialogue more than anything else because we have to learn from
then what [they] need. It's a Q & A where they can say, 'What are you
guys doing about speech recognition? What are you doing about
touch-sensitive screen?"
I ask him whether this isn't just a big boondogle. "Everything I do is fun," he
replies quickly. "If it's not fun, I shouldn't be doing it."
Immediately below Wang in the CA management hierarchy is Wang's older
brother Anthony who is not there because he is on vacation that week. "It's a
very strange thing about Computer Associatres," Wang says in response to
my interest about their titles. "We all have titles and specific first areas of
priorities and responsibilities. Arnie runs the sales of the U.S. and so forth.
But we all work together. To give you a good example, the other day we
were looking at some license agreements. Arnie and I were having a meeting
and sharing a pizza, and he did the agreement for me because he looked at it
and his background is legal. So he said he'll knock it off and that was it. So
we're very informal."
"Except as to attire," quips Mazur.
The informality makes it easy to ascribe democratic principals to the
company's management. "No, no," Wang says, cutting me off, "I didn't say
that. You're going off in the wrong direction. It's an informal company, not a
democratic one. There's a difference."
PAGE 3
bout 17 miles from Palm Springs on eastbound I-1o I see the sign for
Indian Wells, a new Hyatt Grand Champion was named after a legendary local
course. In the early morning light the hotel blooms out of the sandy earth
like some dusty desert rose. On the virgin asphalt of the California desert
distances covered fast, and as I approach i can make out thew contrasting
tarnish-green balconies that give the hotel an unmistakeably California look.
In lotus land a structure, oranything else for that matter, that doesn't manage
to look like a French confection is considered boring. The last thing that
corporate boondogglers want to be reminded of are the grim highrises of
working-class cities in which they toil.
