Chapter Three: Lady of the House

MORE OF SOMETHING MORE,

a story about a salesman trying to establish himself,

 a CEO scheming to buy out his father's influence

 and the woman important to each 

3

      Helen’s clogs rapped bare wood and echoed in the denuded condo as she moved out of the way of two men in knee pads carrying old carpet. “New carpet after lunch,” one hollered.  She waved and closed the door behind them. Going to the window, she looked over the panoramic view of Los Angeles. There was nothing to eat and no place to sit, but she was earning three times the money; Lola had been right about that. All her fears about Stephen Slade’s manipulation had come to nothing.
     At the interview, phrases rang out: remodel the condo -- entertain investors -- maintain the bank account. And then after the remodel, her time freed up. Once-a-week investor parties were the only time commitment other than ensuring the condo was stocked and money deposited. She pinched herself; the arrangement was so good. Opportunity was the reason for moving to California, but this was unreal. Her boyfriend Kelly chafed working at a bank and admired her prospect of freedom, which she promised to make good use of to chase auditions.

      In college, she acted and studied theatre, which gave her the confidence for the remodel. Everything on stage had purpose and created atmosphere. She drew up plans, made purchases and removed everything old in advance of delivery. The off-white carpet was the last to go and the succeeding stormy gray the first piece in the new setting.

     While the men worked, she caught them regarding her with amazement, as if asking how one so young could own a luxury condo. She encouraged them to suspend their disbelief, stepping into the role of lady of the house.

     In two months the concrete matched the concept. Stephen had said capital flowed like a river and swirled like a whirlpool, overwhelming obstacles, always starting fresh; therefore everything had to go.

     The new white-and-black color scheme reflected the investor decision: Yes or No. Two plush leather armchairs in contrary colors sat in opposition. Beside each was a banquette for ladies to perch and bar stools so hangers-on could overhear principals talk. On the wall, a seascape depicted a gathering wave over a peaceful beach, and against another stood an aquarium in which delicate angelfish swam.

     Throughout she was exacting to her vision, while Stephen was generous and kept his distance. The separation encouraged and confounded her: though free to use her judgment, that same freedom sowed anxiety for his approval. When everything was ready, she was still fussing over minute details: the edges of the zebra stripe bedspread had to hang equidistant from the floor in the same room where a slender split of table served as desk on which a flat screen monitor and wireless keyboard sat. She aligned them again, though why anything in the bedroom mattered, she didn’t know. Realizing she was pursuing useless alteration, she called him to inspect. 

     Helen balanced on high heels in a figure-hugging dress to watch Stephen sweep in as he always did, with thoughts seeming elsewhere, but then he staggered, backed into the window and glanced outside. He took a seat in the black armchair from where his eyes traced the track-lighting overhead and fell onto the bar. His lips curled at the seascape and smirked at the angelfish whose tendril fins waved in the water.  When his attention finally settled on her, she moved aside to reveal the white armchair. His eyes narrowed and a grin etched itself on his face.

     He rose to take her hand. “Yes!”  he said, twirling her as her feet shifted to complement the gesture. The room swirled like a chocolate-and-vanilla sundae, and he transformed too: his parted lips revealing shiny teeth and a levity she hadn’t seen. His eyes, though, maintained their intensity.  She laughed, dizzy with delight. “Thursday night,” he said, “I’m bringing an investor by.”

     He took her by the shoulders. “You look good too. The investors will be men, mid-forties and older, with failing bodies but muscular balance sheets. Don’t intimidate them by looking too chic, or challenge their manhood by being too seductive. Dress like a girl on her first night out. Hit their weak spot. Remind them of their daughters.”

     She tingled and felt a surge of power: if she could alter the condo and the CEO, what else could she do? 

                                                                    -ii-       

     Three loud raps brought her to the door, where beside Stephen stood an older man with hair silvered at the temples and balding on top. His tired eyes blinked wide and he clutched at his tie to tighten the knot. After smoothing his suit, he beamed a practiced smile. “Helen, this is Pietro Mancusi.”

     “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Mancusi. Come in.”

     “Call me Pietro, please Miss Helen.”

     They played at who-goes-first before she ceded to his wishes to lead them inside, followed by Stephen and two young men. With pink chiffon rustling and ankles buckling in high heels, she steered the investor to an armchair, his hand pushing her elbow. When he sat he pulled her down too.

     His face dominating her vision forced her focus on him; looking past would have been impolite. Ice tinkled as Stephen got the drinks, and he soon appeared with vodka rocks for Mancusi and white wine for her. The others poured their own whiskey and cast sullen looks their way. Crowded knee-to-knee, the investor was clearly pleased. “Do you stay here?”

     “At times.”

     “A beautiful place for a beautiful woman. Stephen said we’re stopping for drinks. He didn’t say anything about you. How could that be?”

     “Ask him.” Helen nodded toward the hovering CEO and enjoyed the absurdity of talking about Stephen while he listened.

     “He’s too much about business, I think.”

     “Not you?”

     “When there’s beauty---”

     “Doubling your money is beauty,” Stephen interjected, as she went to the bar under pretense of replenishing their drinks. He sat on the banquette, leaning toward the other man. “Invest now and when we go public you’ll double the investment.”

     Behind the bar, Helen scooped ice into fresh glasses under the silent watch of the young men. The tall, thin one had red hair gelled to look windswept; the stout one had black hair. Mancusi craned his neck looking for her, while Stephen repeated key words like a mantra: investment blocks – going public – doubling your money. “Yes, yes. I will invest. We’ll talk later.”

     Stephen slapped his cell phone to his ear, as Helen resumed her place in the armchair. Mancusi’s eyes twinkled. “Money can’t buy everything, no?” She smiled and sipped her drink when there was a knock at the door. Seeing Bill the chauffeur, he asked, “You’re coming to the club, too?”

     "She stays here.”

     He looked to Stephen, at Helen and then back to him, as if to understand their relationship. “You want to come, no?” She shook her head silently and he took up her hand. “Maybe, we’ll see each other again.”

     They left in reverse order: the two men, Stephen and then Mancusi. She collected the glasses to put in the dishwasher, wiped surfaces, and tossed the cloth in the hamper. Even though the cleaner was coming the next day, she couldn’t stand disorder in her masterpiece. Her car was sitting in the garage ready for the drive to her boyfriend and their apartment, but she found herself reluctant to leave the scene of her triumph. Stephen must have been pleased with the impression she made on the investor whose sadness showed, knowing that where he was going there’d be no Helen. 

The next chapter will be posted by February 2. Already posted. Navigate to Chapter Four.

The characters and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.

Chapter Two: Too Intense a Focus

MORE OF SOMETHING MORE,

a story about a salesman trying to establish himself,

 a CEO scheming to buy out his father's influence

 and the woman important to each 

  

2

 

      Stephen Slade descended on the Billing Department and scanned the room for Helen’s workstation. After the budget meeting and intractable cost figures in black and red, what lay before seemed manageable. He wandered down an aisle of cubicles with the four-foot walls, which partially hid occupants and imperfectly contained their conversation.

     As he continued down the aisle, the staff became aware of his presence and created a calm before and after his progress. Conversations were muffled and aisles cleared. Dark-haired Mimosa Liang popped her head up, saw the CEO and dropped back down. Lola McIntyre, on her way to the break room, rushed to her desk and affected a preternatural stillness so as to hear every word. Coming to the end of the aisle, he started up the next then found her.

     Head tilted reading, her auburn hair parted to reveal the pale nape of her neck. She wore a lavender dress with yellow-flower patterns and black flats. He stood silently a moment, and then another before coughing for attention. On lifting her head, her eyes widened with surprise.

     “Let’s go for coffee,” he said, looking down on her and trying to match her to his recollection of their earlier meeting. “I want to talk to you.” Obediently she stood to follow him out. With relief, the staff surfaced to watch them go, none more excited than Lola who punched her co-worker. “Do you see?” Mimosa rubbed her throbbing shoulder.
     They took the elevator to the skyway and walked across to the Wayfare Hotel. His stride was long and purposeful and he was annoyed when he noticed her skipping beside. Then seated at the restaurant, he realized how young she looked: bright, unassuming eyes, hair sweeping across her brow and down the shoulders to rub away sharp angles. Soft and vulnerable, she had to be half his age and not many years older than his teenage boys.
     “Do you take every new employee to coffee? I mean I’m flattered. It’s just that I don’t want the others to think---“
     “Do you take it black?”
     “I like green tea.”
     “In the course of running the company sometimes tasks present themselves that don’t fit any job description. Things just need doing. As CEO I have to find the right people and fit them to the task. That’s why I asked you here.”
     The waitress delivered their drinks. Slade ignored the cup before him while Helen breathed in the aroma of her tea. His rising voice recaptured her attention.
     “Would you say you’re persuasive?”
     “Getting people to do what they don’t want; like that?”
     “Everybody wants to make money and, explained in the right way, they’ll understand. Can you help people gain clarity and understanding?”
     “I don’t get it. If you’re talking about insurance, I’m just learning.”
     “Think bigger, about wealth and infinite possibilities. Don’t you want that?”
     Helen sipped at her tea, then set down the cup. He sensed her mood had shifted: her eyes were hooded and downcast. He was being too abstract, not getting his point across. “I have a condo here---“
     “Don’t you have a house and family?”
     “I’m not talking about that.”
     “Maybe you should be.” She slid out of her seat and left him looking at the wall. He clubbed the table with his fist. “A CEO doesn’t beg.” When he returned to the office he drafted a memo to Human Resources.

                                                      - ii -

Weepy and with runny nose, Helen tried to stifle her fears, but every look at the yellow memorandum brought a flood of tears. It ordered her to report for the position of Assistant to the Executive for Special Projects. Without an option to decline or consideration that she hadn’t made the request, it left her feeling helpless. She renewed her tears.

     Rounding the corner and entering the cubicle, Lola pushed a square box into Helen’s hands. The tissue peeking out the top looked like a white flame, which she pulled to daub her eyes.  Grateful to her co-worker yet wary of the gossip who hunted the latest news, she pointed to the memo. Lola took it up.
     "It’s got to mean more money.”
     “For what?”
     “You’ll find out.”
     Helen gazed at the older woman who had taken the corner chair and played with the memo like a toy, of interest today and forgotten tomorrow. Was she so used to orders that this didn’t seem unusual, or had she that much faith in the CEO?  She worried about what Stephen Slade had in mind, but understood it was that job or no job.
     Next day she reported to executive reception wearing a too-large gray suit that hid her curves and covered her knees. With hair pulled back severely and knotted at the neck, her only makeup was a subtle rose gloss to the lips. The receptionist buzzed the intercom to announce her arrival then pushed the button opening the elevator. On the way up the slow and steady hum pronounced its labor, as if digesting her. When the compartment settled and the doors opened Slade stood behind his desk, his eyes upon her with too intense a focus. Her face went numb. She walked toward him.

        




 The next chapter will be posted by November 17. Already posted. Navigate to Chapter Three.
 
The characters and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.

Chapter One: Making the Rounds

MORE OF SOMETHING MORE,

a story about a salesman trying to establish himself,

 a CEO scheming to buy out his father's influence

 and the woman important to each 

1

     Stephen Slade, chief executive of Slade Insurance, sat opposite Mark Pointer, drumming his fingers on the desk. A fire that morning devastated a warehouse, and an estimate of the loss appeared with virtual speed in the company database. He witnessed the up-tick in real-time, and its impact on profit and loss, then raced down to confront the claims manager. “I want that estimate revised ASAP!
     “We got 30 days, and need the fire report,” replied the wrinkled manager with henna-on-gray hair. The CEO glared. Enamored of profits and revenue streams, he barely tolerated claims, the evil twin of insurance. Ever since taking over nearly a year before, he’d made known his intent to remake the company. The staid, complacent or just long-lived were to be replaced by the lean, the quick and more efficient. The claims manager was a prime target.
     Slade though was involved in his own struggle, against his father’s reputation. Graham Slade founded the company and remained the chairman of the board. He had roamed the company in rolled up shirtsleeves, looking like someone who wrenched marble from mountains to shape. The younger Slade had black hair and dark narrow-set eyes in a keyhole shaped head. Inches shorter and thinner, as if having emerged from the father mold overheated and shrunk, he fit neatly within his expensive suits, but looked like the one who did the polishing.

     Pointer had a long career behind him. Apparently unfazed, he recited rules and regulations of claims reporting in California. The longer he talked, the redder the CEO grew until he exploded. “Do it sooner!”

     Slade left and made his way through the hallway to the elevator and then up to the Sales Department. Passing staff smiled deferentially, though he hardly acknowledged them. His manner of living inside his thoughts created anxiety in those whose livelihood depended on him, another difference from his gregarious father who shared success, shouldered blame and made everyone feel they were in it together.

     But if he disquieted the company, he also represented a greater reward through his stated goal of taking it public. Investments could increase by multiples of three or four at the initial public offering. The chairman held the largest stake followed by the CEO and unnamed others. Suspicions grew that only a select few would profit directly from a financial bonanza.

     Slade stepped into the Sales department, a spacious room of wide aisles and desks. On the wall the Quarterly Tally board listed the top ten producers; he noted that Atom Green had edged ahead of Dave Forester at the top.

      Jeremy Port was gazing at the computer screen when the CEO passed through the doorframe. Looking up, a cloud of consternation crossed the sales manager’s face before his sunny smile broke through. He waved him to a seat. A large man, white-haired and with a sun-worn face, he wore white shirtsleeves, Stars and Stripes suspenders and blue slacks. The shelves of his office held model airplanes, and a photo of his Cessna was on the desk. On the coat rack, a leather bomber jacket and a blue Brooks Brothers blazer hung, ready for sales calls, trips to the Long Beach Flying Club or drinks with the crew.

     Not just another old-timer threatened with extinction, Port had been Slade’s mentor when he first joined the company. Despite that, he understood if the numbers turned things could be different.
     Slade took the chair and relaxed his grimace. “Big fire at Seller’s warehouse. The numbers are going to take a hit.” Port pulled up the account on the computer. “Premium was adjusted last year, and will go up again --if we keep them.”

     Loud voices drew near until Atom Green and Dave Forester stood at the door. Port rose. “My eagles. Come in!” The men stepped inside and he stood between them, grasping them at the shoulders within a sheltering wingspan. They laughed at being manhandled. Slade knew Forester, the son of his father’s friend. Green was the man with the funny name.

     Tall and slim with sandy brown hair, Forester’s father was a banker doing business with the company. Enquiries had been made on his behalf and the company hired him. Green, a quarter inch shorter and wider at the shoulders, had swarthy skin the color of cream coffee. He had black eyes and dark hair parted in the middle, which quivered at every motion.
     Slade sat watching, as if their play-acting was for his benefit. They paused and he nodded to Forester. “I’m waiting to see you back on top. I’m not hosting a wedding for a second rater.
     “It won’t be long,” Forester laughed.
     “Don’t be so sure,” Green quipped.
     Starting back to his office, Slade noticed a commotion on the far side of the department. A line of salesmen had formed but vanished on his approach, leaving the two women at the head.  Lola McIntyre from Billing, a woman in her late thirties trying to hold on to youth, had big blonde hair, mature body and a bracelet of jangling gold charms. She liked calling attention to herself at office parties. The other was young, angular, with blue eyes set in a delicate face and shoulder length auburn hair pinned behind flushed ears. 

      “Mr. Slade, this is Helen Roy, a new consultant in Billing.” He took her hand, which felt neat and cool in his.
     “Where are you from?”
     “Wisconsin.”
     “The land of dairy farmers.”
     “My father’s a dentist.” They shared a laugh, during which a tug and her look made him realize he still held her hand. A faint blush colored her cheeks.
     “Welcome to the company.” He said, releasing her and continuing on his way.

  

 - ii -

Lola decided she needed a cigarette. Though Helen didn't, she followed her onto a small balcony. Pressurized air sucked the door closed behind and raw sounds accosted them: car horns honking, thuds and crashes from loading docks, and the rush of freeway traffic. Helen craned her neck to see the top of the thirty-story building. Across the street was another of equal height, and a third, though much taller, stood at right angles to the shorter ones. Skyways on the 11^th floor connected the three, and she could see figures traversing the transparent tubes. The bulk of steel and glass made her feel insignificant and likely to be crushed at any moment. She shouldn’t be there. Madison had big buildings, but nothing that reached for the heavens. Anything anyone imagined was possible, she thought. Wanting to go back in, she returned her focus to the balcony and saw she was being appraised. Lola exhaled a puff of smoke. “Mr. Slade likes you, you know. Really likes you.” Helen thought she heard a tease in her voice. “So, what brings you to LA?”

     “Graduation and a boyfriend. We didn’t want to live midway anymore. Whether left or right coast, we were going all the way. Since I acted in college, and there are opportunities here, we chose LA. My boyfriend works at a bank. Do you like the CEO?”

     “It’s different since he took over. Take my friend Bill. One day he’s in the warehouse, and the next he’s the chauffeur in uniform and cap. Then Mr. Slade took an office on the 11^th floor, away from the other officers. He had a private elevator built. Before, anyone could go into the CEOs office to complain. Now, Slade’s the one dropping into manager offices to get into their face.”

     “Unhappy managers,” said Helen. “Is it all for show, or is there something behind it?”

     “See that building?” Lola pointed to the tallest of the three. “That’s the Wayfare Hotel. The upper floors are condos, and he bought one.” Lola smothered her cigarette. “I thought you should know there’s a place nearby.” A mischievous grin creased her face, though her eyes remained focused on the newbie. Helen, deciding the tour was over, pulled open the door and led the way back to their department as the shorter woman struggled to keep up.

- iii -

      Slade stood in the compartment of the small elevator listening to the hum “working only for me”. With that happy thought, he entered his office when the doors opened, reached beneath his desk to push the locking button, then sat down to wait.

      The office had an eagle’s view of the city, a desk of dark oak and a plush leather high-backed chair. A photo of wife and kids sat on the bureau opposite; others of him with prominent people hung on the walls.

     One photo was of the nation’s latest Republican president: grandson to a senator, son to a president and brother to a governor. Predecessors had blazed the path. George W. Bush had tried business, but was hit and miss before becoming a governor. Slade was never convinced about the politician with quizzical eyebrows and a tentative smile. When delivering bad news, he always seemed to hide hooded thoughts and struggled to maintain eye contact.

     The buzzer sounded and the light flashed on the intercom. “Mr. Slade, do you need anything?” He told the receptionist no, hung up and went to the far wall where he engaged the catch opening the door hidden in the woodwork. Passing through, he entered the 11^th floor corridor. “Poor Betsy.” He thought of her confused look whenever he resurfaced, hours later. She didn’t know he used the door to take public elevators down to attend meetings. Though his key could unlock the private elevator from behind her desk, he always went back through the secret door.
     With nothing scheduled he headed to his condo. The corridors were empty and he passed a man in the skyway and miniature pedestrians below. At the hotel elevator, he punched in the pass code for upper floors then, after traversing the long hallway, was inside.
     A recent acquisition, the realtor had been tasked with the furnishing, but it had the feel of a department store showroom. After inspecting the bedrooms, he returned to the front and flipped a switch, opening the drapes to the panoramic window. Clear days offered views all the way to the Pacific. Below, cars inched along narrow paths; above jets pursued invisible routes in the sky.

      His mind wandered back to George W. After becoming the most powerful man in the world, he still followed a path charted by his father, even attacking the same dictator, but on winning re-election, he broke new ground. How did it feel, succeeding where his father had failed? 

      His entire life was being his father’s son. From private academies, country and yacht clubs to elite social circles, doors opened to admit “Graham’s son”.  A golden aura enveloped him, of which he wasn’t aware until a minor incident took place.
     At the start of the semester at the University of Southern California, Slade had gone to the Admin building to settle some small issue. After standing in line, he stepped to the counter, stated his business and waited for satisfaction. The moonfaced clerk with round glasses shuffled paper as if he hadn’t heard him. He repeated his demand, louder, but the moon face stared blankly. Then he uttered words he’d always remember: “Don’t you know who my father is?”
     The clerk operated at his slow pace until miraculously coughing up the needed document. Slade grabbed it and stormed away, angry at his own reaction. Smart and self-confident, he took pride in thinking he could handle any problem, but his words betrayed him. Thinking it through, he recognized his father’s support of him and his lifestyle; the thought grated. Over the years, he interpreted the incident, perversely, as the time he realized his father wasn’t so great.  

      Graham Slade’s failing as CEO was his complacent satisfaction with steady and unspectacular earnings. Content to provide a workman’s product so commerce could mitigate financial risk, he was wary of Wall Street interference. Stephen’s eyes shone at the prospect of an IPO. Overnight, his wealth could triple, even quadruple. He hid his excitement, though: if his grew, his father’s would grow the more, having the majority stake. He needed to rectify that before the IPO.

     Gazing out the window, the pieces fell in place. He needed to raise capital; investors were always looking for a deal; and he could promise great returns. "Entertain and pitch them at the condo", he thought, but it seemed a poor place to transact golden shares. It had to shine as brightly as dreams of wealth and power. He thought about the young woman he met earlier. He needed a hostess. She was too young perhaps, but pretty on the edge of beauty and with an appealing blank slate quality. He needed to know more...

      


The next chapter will be posted by November 2 already posted. Navigate to Chapter Two.

The characters and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.

More of Something More, a story to come

Starting October 20, I will post the rewrite of my story. I'm calling it "More of Something More". It's about a salesman trying to establish himself; a CEO scheming to buy out his father's influence and the woman important to each.  Check in that day and every other Sunday for subsequent chapters.

Also, I invite everyone to "like" my Facebook author page. Thanks in advance.