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.