Chapter 15: Angle of Ascent

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 

                                                                          15

     As Jeremy Port stepped to the podium conversations tailed off and eyes shifted to the man with the white hair and the sunny smile stamped on a tanned face. That morning, his smile was less bright for his task. Before him, the sales force was attractive, dressed in expensive suits and smelling of aftershave, hair oil and perfume. Always intense, they looked annoyed at being called to a meeting that likely wouldn’t help them close the next deal, and that made him proud to be their sales manager and sensitive to what he asked of them.

     The company had rented the conference room in a city of Carson hotel to avoid time wasted driving to downtown headquarters. Twenty rows of cushioned chairs radiated from the front. On a long table in back were two large coffee urns, a set-up of cups and saucers and ice water sweating in silver pitchers.

     He linked faces to names and performance. A few climbed at steep angles and exceeded their personal best each quarter, like Dave Forester and Atom Green. They sat toward the front: one, his high forehead capped by sandy brown hair, had the boyish charm. The other had olive skin, black hair parted down the middle and electric vitality. Their camaraderie fascinated him. In the old days competition precluded friendship. Most of the others were still climbing, though their leveling off point had already been prefigured by the angle of ascent: somewhere in the middle. The rest, hunger diminished, were circling as if to land. He put the percentages at five, sixty-five and thirty.

     “I appreciate you being here on such short notice.” Someone hooted, setting off a wave of disgruntled laughter and then a reaction. “Get on with it.” “Shhhh!” “Come on!”

     “For a long time Slade Insurance has operated on the principle that high performers lead the way, and others succeed by emulating them, and then everybody’s fortune rises. Certainly, we have the high flyers…” He nodded toward Forester and Green who affected not to notice. “And we’ve been giving some thought on how to help others break out. To that end, we’re making some changes.” 

     The gathering leaned forward, and he raised his left hand. “What hasn’t changed is that commissions will still be paid according to your annual contracts. These changes are focused more on intangible incentives.” He raised a finger to count off. “One. We’re eliminating the Top Ten Sales Chart for individuals. From now on, the Top Ten will track the top ten sales teams.

     “Two. Teams will be a mix of high and low performers.
     “Three. The company is contracting for team-building services to help those teams succeed.

     “Four. The format of the annual sales conference will now emphasize the teams. Those are the changes. Any questions?” He grasped the podium with both hands, beaming as the sales force paused to take it in.  The hardest part was over no matter what they asked, since he didn’t know much more than what the CEO had scratched on a cocktail napkin. Slade had ordered change, and change there would be.

     A groan came from the back. “Teams, Jeremy. Really?” Laughter precluded the need for response, but the next question was dear to every salesperson’s heart. “Will this affect our territory?” He was careful. “I can’t say it won’t. We’ll have to see how it plays out.” His answer unsettled them, and they looked around as for someone who would know.

     A man he recognized as Patrick Hamel stood up. He wore green-tinged designer glasses and held a smart phone before him like evidence. “Why is this happening now? Sales have been up every quarter against the previous year’s result, and horizontally too.” Someone laughed.
     “You’re right, Pat. Overall, sales are up. With these changes, we hope to mine untapped potential."
     “How will the teams be selected?”

     He improvised an answer. “Randomly…by computer.” More grumbling. Conversations buzzed throughout the room, and then a voice boomed, “Will there be sleepovers?” Laughter ruffled them and Port picked up the vibe. “If it means more sales, we’re for it!”

     “What about SOQ parking?” At the mention of the tangible intangible only the top salesperson possessed, the room became quiet, which served to underscore his words.  “Effective immediately SOQ parking does not exist. Sorry, Atom.” The salesman flinched at the mention of his name, and waved to dismiss the perk. Eyes shifted back to the manager. 

     “We’ll keep you posted on the particulars.” He stepped from the podium to encounter a crush of people who demanded more answers but diminished on learning he had none. Already he had said too much, because from his perspective sales was an individual sport. He wondered what the chairman thought and considered placing a call, but that could wait. When he reached his convertible, he steered toward the flying club near LAX. He had some friends there and could blow off steam.

The next chapter will be posted by April 26. 
 The characters and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.

Chapter 14: Paralyzed

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 

  
 

                                                                           14

                         

     After securing the checks in the safe, Helen showered and dressed in black designer jeans, white cotton blouse and trim suede jacket with matching boots. Her auburn hair was pulled into a ponytail, and her sole cosmetic was gloss to the lips. She looked like a college coed going around the corner to Starbucks, but on her return she would record and prepare the checks for deposit. Out of mind was the lover she chased away two hours before. 

     The long carpeted hallway always made her feel isolated because she’d hardly ever encountered other occupants, though the leasing company asserted all the condos had been sold. At the door she punched in the code and waited for the click. When it didn’t come, she entered the code again. Still the lock did not release. She entered every digit deliberately and then stood dumbfounded when it wouldn’t open. Her cell phone held the number for Client Services, but feeling vulnerable she took the elevator down.

     Off the opulent lobby, a constricted hallway with bare floors led to the small, bright office; unoccupied. A pair of steel-frame chairs was set before a desk and phone. With practiced motion, she extracted the cell phone from her hip pocket.  After pressing send a shrill ring filled the room, making her feel the fool. But after three rings the line hiccupped and the call was forwarded to someone with a pleasant female voice that said, “Client Services.”
     She learned that Stephen Slade had ordered the code changed during the short while she was away, and only he could convey the new one. She thought it strange he would do so without letting her know. She called his cell and got voicemail. She tried his office and reached his secretary who said he was in but unavailable. Helen told her she’d be right up.

     She waited nearly thirty minutes in executive reception, aware of Betsy Murray’s scrutiny and tormented by speculative questions that set her heart racing. Why did he change it? What did he know? Though lacking any certainty, she regretted bringing Atom over, while at the same time hoping for another, less personal explanation. When told she could go up, she resolved to be strong. 

     The elevator doors opened into his office, and she saw Slade seated behind his desk. Thin-lipped and grim beneath trim dark hair, his hooded eyes tracked her advance. An involuntary shiver rattled her forced smile and words stumbled from her mouth. “Stephen, I can’t get in.” He motioned to a chair and waited for her to settle in.

     “The condo’s where we do the company’s work. Only people I authorize are allowed.”
     “Of course, but---”
     “No exceptions.”
     “But---“

     “None.”

     He was the rational manager with the business plan and list of workplace dos and don’ts to corral the wayward instincts of employees. He fixed his eyes on her and walked around the desk. She looked straight ahead. Circling, he came from behind to wrap his fingers around her head, thumbs behind the ears. He drummed her cheeks and she tried slipping away, but feared her neck would tear. “Stephen!”

     He readjusted his grip. She was paralyzed and whimpering. He touched his head to hers and spoke low and slow. “You’ve made yourself at home, and I like having you near. For me, and no one else.” His right hand clutched her throat. The other cupped her chin then wandered to caress her face. “For me and no one else,” he repeated, like words murmured in a dream. “Understood?”

     Tears streamed down her face. She nodded. He released her and wrote the code on a slip of paper. Sobbing, she flew into the elevator and stabbed at the buttons. Falling back against the wall, she gasped: the doors weren’t closing. Beyond in the office, he was watching.
     He pointed with the index finger of his right hand. “Compose yourself. What goes on between you and me stays between us. Understood?” She wiped her face with the back of her hand and struggled for calm. After some long moments, he made a motion under the desk. The doors closed.

     Her agitation being so obvious to her, she didn’t know how anyone else could miss it as she made her way back, trembling and flushed, to the condo. The unfamiliar numbers seemed like a violation yet they granted access, to a new horror: the bed was undone, the bedspread spilling onto the floor. Dresser drawers lay open, revealing her personal things and lending meaning to his words. The feeling of being violated resurfaced, as did the sense memory of his fingers gripping her head. She pushed in the drawers, trying to restore some semblance of order.
     “Take it all and haul it to my car,” is what she thought she should do, but a small dissenting voice questioned whether she was being too precipitous. “Think of what you have.” 

     She liked the flexibility an abundance of free time and money lent, and being close to the CEO made her feel important. If she walked out, she’d have to start all over. Then her mind gamboled over to thoughts of Atom Green. He hadn’t mentioned him by name, and not bringing him to the condo would be an easy condition to meet.

     After straightening the sheets, she lifted the bedspread back onto the bed and pulled on one end and then the other. Done with physical tasks, she had also concluded her deliberation. She would not throw it all away. She’d draw a line and call him out if he transgressed, and meanwhile restore herself in his eyes by doing her job well.

     Resolved, she went to her workstation in a corner of the bedroom. Below the table that held the computer, she reached down to twirl the dial of the safe: a couple of spins right, and then stop on the first number, then left for the second, and right again. Something felt off though and when she pulled down on the handle, it wouldn’t open. When the reality hit, she lowered her head and cried.

      

The next chapter will be posted by April 19. 
 The characters and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.

Chapter 13: Stay

                                                                

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

 

                                                                      13

                        

     Helen felt cold and said to his back, “Stay.” Atom twisted around to train on her his brown eyes and smiled. He fell back into bed where she wrapped arms around him and pressed against his heat.

     She had made the condo her home, though much was in storage, and squirreled personal items into drawers and closets. Maid service helped maintain a tidy, unlived-in look. On her increased salary, she could afford her own place but hated the idea of paying rent when the condo was free. Atom was unaware because he never saw her “at home”. Usually, they made love at his place, but that Sunday night the condo was closer, so he parked his Mercedes coupe in the SOQ spot of the underground garage. The absence of the limousine signaled the all clear.

     Another thing he didn’t know was her intimate relationship with the CEO. Their liaisons often took place after investor parties. Then, Stephen always had someplace to be and left first, which suited her. Even before moving in, she made it clear she’d rather leave in her own car than be dropped off. Now he never offered and she’d sit on the settee in the expansive bathroom, wearing a green silk robe and brushing her auburn hair until he departed. Only then did she prepare for the next day, and sleep.

     But that morning with Atom beside her, she panicked. Monday meant Bill coming over with investor checks. She shook him by the shoulder but he wouldn’t rouse so, bringing knees to her chest, she pressed her soles against his back and thrust. He tumbled to the floor. His head popped up with a look of sleepy astonishment. “You’ve got to go. Hurry!”

     He grabbed his underwear on the way to the bathroom, where he splashed water on his face. He returned to the bedroom to finish dressing as Helen smoothed the zebra-motif bedspread. He tucked a white cotton shirt into pre-faded designer jeans then approached from behind to buss her neck. She pulled away. “Go!”

     Departing with an amused smile and aglow, he thought it just as well: he had calls to make if he were to repeat as Salesman of the Quarter. He ran a hand over his dark hair with the part in the middle. His clean-cut good looks were such that he could have stepped into a business meeting right then but for the clothes. In the garage, he passed the limousine and noticed a thin thread of smoke coming from the window.

     Bill waited for him to drive away before exiting the limo. His eyes winced at the unfamiliar sight of Atom Green leaving early on a workday morning. “From where?” He had an idea and dropped the butt to the ground, adjusted his black tunic, then reached inside the cab for the manila envelope.

     He had gotten used to Helen being in the condo on Mondays, so instead of going in and putting the envelope in the safe, he simply handed it over. The difference was less effort on his part and of no consequence. When she opened the door, he scrutinized her less-than-neat hair, bulging eyes and sweatshirt and jeans.  She took the envelope and shut the door. He thought of the salesman and made the connection. How would Slade take that news, when pilfering a valuable statue didn’t faze him?

     Stephen Slade, seated in a high-backed leather chair, displayed a sneer on his pale angular face. Others did not intrude on his routine. He didn’t offer a chair and gestured with his hand to get on with it. Bill didn’t like what he was feeling so served it raw: “That salesman, Atom Green, is screwing Helen in the condo.”

     “How do you know?”     

     Bill’s black-and-white worldview and the desire to make him squirm erased any doubts he had in the telling. Slade leveled opaque eyes on the chauffeur. His sneer became sinister. “What else?” Bill shook his head and left.

     The CEO in expensive gray suit and burgundy loafers ran his finger on the back wall wainscoting, as though checking for dust. A button triggered the release that revealed the hidden door through which he passed into the corridor leading to the skywalk and the Wayfare Hotel.

     Bearing the confidence of ownership, he punched in the code to enter the condo where the panoramic window admitted a city view. His nose twitched at vapor in the air, which he followed into the bedroom and then the bathroom. Steam still coated the shower walls, but she wasn’t there. He returned to the bedroom and stared at the bed. His mind sketched in the pair of them and he reached to strip away the bedspread. Wrinkled sheets and the thought of another man infected his thoughts. He exploded. “Not on my dime!”

     In a frenzy, he searched for proof of what he didn’t want to believe. What he found was more proof of Helen: silky panties, assorted socks and neatly folded jeans. In the closet hung the dresses she wore to the parties. Though logical her things would be there, the quantity surprised him. To his way of thinking the condo was a workplace but these indicated a private dwelling space --where unwanted people might visit. He had to set her straight.

                    

The next chapter will be posted by March 22. 
 The characters and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.

Chapter 12: Compassion

     

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 

12 

     Bill drove the limo up the curving drive to the mansion with the rose-tinted facade. Two columns framed heavy double doors of the front entrance that did not appear to get much use. He was already pissed that Slade had interrupted his week off to demand a pick-up, now the mansion reminded him of those above-ground shrines in New Orleans cemeteries. His brother recently passed and the family was caught short of money for the burial. That pissed him off too.

     Aching bones he had lain into a tub never rose on their own. Police and EMT arrived and then the coroner to haul dead weight to the mortuary. The ringing in his ears was the register scoring another profit and Bill, who lived on a cash basis without much to pawn, fell back on what he knew. He called in a favor and took possession of a brick. He cut it, dealt it and was in and out before anyone could respond, which was a good thing: the streets were vicious now.

     He switched off the engine and stepped outside where the King County heat swamped him. The sun reflected off his shaved head and his dark suit clung like a winding cloth. At the door, he leaned on the bell but the oversized tomb did not respond. About to blast the bell again, he heard soles slapping hard surfaces. The door swung open to reveal a small gray-haired woman in floor-length white robe: Slade’s mother, Rhea. “Can I help you?” He explained and she invited him in. Two adolescent boys peeked around a corner to scrutinize him before disappearing. “Have a seat in the library. I’ll tell him you’re here.”

     Shelves of books filled the walls around leather armchairs beneath a high ceiling, and on a small round table he spotted a small statue about six inches tall, jade green and female, apparently though not certainly.  Vertical creases in the gown conveyed motion. Two hands held an upturned vessel.

     “That’s Kuan Jin,” said Rhea, handing him a glass of lemonade. “The Bodhisattva of Compassion. Bodhisattvas vow not to enter nirvana until all the other beings of the world do.” She gave him a what-do-you-think-of-that look.
     “I don’t know nothing about bootyfatwas or nervyana.” He sipped the cool beverage. An indulgent smile crossed her face. “Being compassionate is the point. I’ll see what’s keeping Stephen.”
     Alone again, Bill stared at the statue and thought of his other job as bouncer: “Crowds behind the rope line don’t wait to be last. ‘Me first. Damn the rest.’” His stubby finger tapped its head. “Toys for rich people.”

     Heavy footsteps approached as he slipped it into his pocket. He turned to see Stephen Slade dressed in tan slacks and an striped shirt. With blue blazer draped over one arm, he carried a briefcase and Blackberry in the other. “Let’s get going.”

     Down the drive and through the gate that closed remotely behind them, Slade focused his attention on his mobile device until a pothole rocked the limo. He shot a look at Bill who was unapologetic and thinking, “Go to the sticks and this is what you get.” Thirty minutes later they reached the highway leading to the interstate. Bill held up the statue. “Look familiar?”

     Annoyance then mocking scorn flashed on Slade’s face. “Don’t tell me you want to stick it to the dash.”

     “You don’t know everything you own. This was in the library.”

     “What’s it doing here?”

      “Mrs. Slade was telling me about compassion.”

      “Keep it.”
     “What’s it worth?”

      Slade was dismissive. “Ten.”

     Bill slid the base across the dash until the head bumped the windshield. “It don't fit. I don’t want it.” Slade’s eyes narrowed.

     The CEO entered the lobby holding the figurine like a soda bottle. “Worth enough,” Bill thought, “to bury someone but they wouldn’t suffer if it broke.”  Thinking how Mrs. Slade would alert her son to the theft, a laugh rumbled inside him. “Been blamed for worse.”      

    

The next chapter will be posted by February 8. 
 The characters and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.

Chapter 11: Pools

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 

                                                                             11

 

      Rhea Slade lay on turquoise water and gazed into the deep azure sky. In the surrounding distance, the sun burned summer grasses brown between trees that offered sacred shade. The sandstone mansion that was the Slade vacation estate blended columned porticos into the austere landscape, and the poolside luxury put her on top of the world, far from working-class Kansas whose memories lingered despite living three-quarters of a life as corporate spouse. Petite and pewter-haired in a modest one-piece bathing suit, she splashed about the water.
     “What you doing, Grandma?” shouted Gerald.
     “Cooling off,” answered his matter-of-fact brother, Malcolm.

     Paddling the air mattress around, she brought them into view.  The thirteen-year-old hung onto the rim, blond hair flat across his head, looking down after his older sibling who sank to the bottom then propelled himself upwards to breach the surface. Hovering nearby, Delfina sighed, grateful for another tragedy-averting experience. Graham sheltered under an umbrella reading the paper. The monotonous disembodied voice coming from the terrace belonged to Stephen, whose telecom link encroached on the family retreat.
     Drifting to the rim, she splashed a volley that splattered against Graham’s paper. “Ha, ha,” he deadpanned. “Ever a girl at heart.”
     “A girl!” mocked Gerald.

     “Your grandfather’s silly.”
     “She called you silly!”
     Malcolm pounced on his brother and pushed him under. Delfina cried out. When they resurfaced, she cried again on her own behalf as they blitzed her and dragged her in. Rhea paddled to center pool but to no avail; the underwater boys pursued. Water sloshed, the air mattress slipped away and they held her down. Delfina shouted without effect. Graham’s stern “Stop it now!” rescued her. Reaching for his hand, Rhea forgave the boys for not knowing how fragile a grandmother could be, and Delfina for being ineffectual, but not Stephen, who should have been there.
     Inside, the boys donned t-shirts and flip-flops while the women changed into white robes that skirted marble floors, transforming them into temple priestesses. All bore traces of water, except the men. Graham’s gray crew cut was spiky sharp and the imprint of a fine comb lined Stephen’s dark hair. They wore khaki shorts, collared shirts and loafers without socks.
     Around the table they helped themselves to sandwiches, cold pasta and lemonade. Delfina and the boys sat at one end, Rhea at the other with Graham to her right. When Stephen entered, he paused a moment before sliding into the vacant seat beside his father.
     “Stephen, I wish you’d get into the vacation spirit.”

     “You shoulda seen, Dad. We dunked mom, then grandma!”

     “THAT was not a highlight, Gerald,” said his mother. “You should know better. Both of you.”

     “You’re still breathing,” retorted Malcolm.

     “Your attitude, young man,” said Graham. “You don’t roughhouse with them like you do your friends.”
     “Different pools,” said Stephen, surprising them, “would keep the sharks apart.”

     “I’m a shark!” gloated Gerald.

     Rhea shook her head. “Separation?”

    “If you can take it, get in. Everyone should know what to expect.”

    The boys raised hands like dorsal fins, then clashed. “Not at the table, “ Delfina pleaded.
Graham whispered into his son’s ear. “You don’t hide it well, you know. Your game of ‘Keep away, it’s mine’. Quite a performance before the board. They might be intimidated, but I’m not. Devour everything in your pool, then you’ll want to jump into another. Beware bigger and meaner sharks!”

     Stephen’s eyes glazed over. Aware that the table had gone quiet, he pointed at his sons. “Respect your elders. Someday you’ll demand the same.” He grabbed a sandwich and spooned some pasta onto his plate.
     “I think,” said Rhea, “we should be happy together as one like at the wedding which is a celebration of coming together for two people and, in the larger sense, everybody. All of us, together, at Dave Forester’s.”
     “Were you counting on going?”

     “If it concerns Slade Insurance, we are,” Graham said.

     “It’ll be sales and the management team.”

     “And other interests?”

     “Possibly.”

      Delfina cleared her throat. “The Palisades mansion must be beautiful.”

      “I bet there’s a pool!”

      “Sharks!”

      Stephen set down his fork. “It’s primarily business, but as long as everyone knows what to expect.”
     Back outside, the boys splashed as their mother watched. Graham and Rhea sat beneath the umbrella and Stephen was back on the telephone. “Childhood is so simple,” she thought gazing into the gem-like water and then into the infinite sky. She closed her eyes.

                      

     

              

The next chapter will be posted by December 28. 
 The characters and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.

Chapter 10: Hands Up

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 

                                                        

                                                          10

At just past the hour, the board of directors sat around the oblong table waiting for the chairman to call the meeting to order. The CEO was not present despite their invitation, and his absence made them uneasy. Graham Slade, chairman, company founder and former CEO, had dominated for nearly thirty years when no differences separated guiding and operating principles. The board rubber-stamped his wishes and the company prospered. But when Stephen Slade became CEO, it faced a new reality –conflict-- and found trying to satisfy both like bending backwards till shoulders touched the ground then springing into forward somersaults.

Jeff Simmons, managing partner of a law firm, had boyish charm which had encouraged strangers to ruffle his hair and, later, colleagues to beam favorably. Now his hair was lacquered black but that charm still showed through. He avoided declaring the absence a slight without further evidence and tried to mollify the chairman with conversation about his grand kids.

Peter Morgan, owner of a string of banks, was the oldest member and started life with a different name. His manner suggested an Old World background, often alluded to but without details. “Past is past,” he liked to say, which was a nod to the prosperous present that afforded rich suits to clothe his expansive figure. His mane of silvery hair and self-satisfied demeanor suggested everything would work out.     

Life insurance was Joseph Parker’s business and his faith in actuarial tables the foundation of a backslapping nature: the tables delivered the hard news, allowing him to focus on the sunny side. Height and weight corresponding to recommended guidelines, he believed he’d age the prescribed 82.57 years. Only infrequently did worry fret a chevron between his brows.

Mark Storts, the newest member, was the younger Slade’s college buddy and an ally in wanting to take the company public, which he sought to underwrite. Stephen’s failure at communication concerned him, as he believed perfect information best served the marketplace.  He checked his watch and at fifteen after punched a number on his cell --voice mail. When he stood, his dark, curly hair was a statement in the room. “I’ll see what’s keeping him.”

He made his way through the C-suite hallway to executive reception, where Betsy Murray greeted him professionally then frowned at his request. “He went up this morning and hasn’t been down since.”  She pantomimed summoning the elevator: the button refused to light. She pushed the intercom button on the phone, which did light and flash until pushed again. He returned to the meeting where they listened to his report. Simmons said, “I don’t like the idea of locking it from upstairs. What if he’s injured?”

“The code requires another exit.” piped up Parker who, on considering the CEO’s age and good health, reasoned it wasn’t time. “He must have gone another way.”

“Of course, he’s okay,” said Morgan, waving a sagacious hand.

Irritation tweaked the chairman’s granite face. “Let’s get started. Mark Pointer is the company’s long-time claims manager, and I’m advised that his impending retirement is not entirely voluntary. Assertions have been made of unsatisfactory performance, and the inability of adjusters to handle the volume of claims. At the same time, his requests to expand staffing have been denied. I’ve known Mark a long time. He gets the job done, if allowed to. Slade Insurance will suffer for losing him.”

The room lapsed into silence, until Storts spoke up. “According to the numbers, Slade would be better off.”

“Numbers?” The chairman glared.

“Mister chairman, certainly the claims manager is worthy of your support, and I don’t argue against him as a person but as a kind: a high-salaried manager. Through retirement and other means we can reduce expenses and increase our profit margin.”

“Have you talked to him about Mark Pointer?”

                 “Not in particular, but he endorses the strategy.”         

 “Strategy requires vision, and I don’t see it. Mark is a leader who has nurtured many fine claims adjusters who interface with our customers and contribute to a robust company. Financial statements don’t capture the whole picture.”

“Wall Street doesn’t care about that.”

“Good reason, then, to avoid it.”

Around the table gasps and body language urged restraint.

“If you’re not in the market, you’re not anywhere. It’s just the way things are. Slade’s value will increase on the exchange, which we can maximize by getting our financials into shape.”

The chairman looked ahead at no one in particular.  “Thank you for your insight. I only wish Stephen had the grace to argue for himself. His absence, I think, supports my position that figures on a page are well and good, but don’t compel like a flesh-and-blood leader. I’m not convinced about ending Mark’s career.”

“That’s not on us. He can go someplace else!”

The chairman raised his hand. “Enough. I move that we re-issue our request to the CEO.”

“I second that,” said Simmons.

“In favor?” Hands shot up as the door opened. “The motion is carried--“

“Unanimously.” Stephen Slade stood within the door frame and watched the raised hands fall. He took a seat at the farthest end from the chairman. His dark gray suit enveloped him neatly and the satin blue of his tie reflected off a pale neck. Smooth dark hair and narrow-set eyes contrasted with the chairman’s crew cut and visionary gaze. “Here I am.”

At one end, Simmons sat to the right of the chairman who had Morgan on his left, and then Parker. Storts was on the other side between Simmons and the CEO. They waited for someone to reset the meeting. 

“Thank you for attending,” said Simmons. “We had just finished discussing Mark Pointer’s situation. The chairman expressed that he contributes necessary leadership, which would be missed and impact customer service. Director Storts pointed out that high-salaried managers inflate expenses and reduce profits. The board desires your input.”

“That’s a fair recap,” said the banker with a salute to the attorney.

“Thank you,” said the CEO.  “Mark Pointer has served Slade long and well, but salaries like his are a burden. Human Resources has identified areas of high cost where the company can seek advantage through attrition.”

“Mark Pointer doesn’t want to retire,” growled the chairman.

“At my direction, HR has presented available options to certain managers. Retirement would be their choice. If enough accept, we won’t have to take other measures.”

“If this is about expenses,” the chairman said, “I don’t see how it squares with those in other areas, such as the private elevator, the limousine and the chauffeur.” The chairman leaned forward. The CEO did not blink.

“I hope you will grant that the company is well run and profitable. Pay attention to the numbers that matter, and you will see the proof. It’s easy and tempting to grasp at the odd figure or expense and make of it something more than it is. Easy and hurtful. I am hurt at the lack of trust. I seek to make of Slade something more. The chairman founded and made a success of the company that provides for his retirement. If Slade is to grow and provide for others, changes must be made.

“Since the company’s founding, jet travel for business and pleasure became the norm, the Concorde came and went, and hijacked jets brought down the Twin Towers. Does it make sense that Slade should remain static while the world shifts?

“If I aim higher and step quicker, it’s because I want Slade to succeed. Everything I do benefits the company. See it in the results.

“The board owes me the same trust and support it gave my predecessor. Don’t fracture or snipe. Stand united. If you do, the sky’s the limit.”

 Without awaiting a response, he stood and vanished as suddenly as he had appeared, having silenced them though the chairman still glowered and the directors still yearned for consensus. Once again, the meeting needed resetting.

“He did show up,” said Simmons. Parker added, “I knew he was okay.”

“A flesh-and-blood statement,” chuckled Morgan.

“Leading where?” asked the chairman.
                  Nothing remained but to schedule the next meeting and close. The board went through the motions, the while aware of the quirk in its DNA: impotence against an aggressive CEO.  

The next chapter will be posted by October 26. 
 The characters and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.

Chapter Nine: Conquest

       

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 

                                                        

                                                          9

      Basking in the glow of conquest, Atom walked arm in arm with Helen down the Manhattan Beach pier. The day was bright, and the air rich with the delighted cries of sun worshippers and volleyball players, which overlay their quiet satisfaction as between them smoldered the passion of the night before. After much persistence she had yielded fully, so much so his intuition gave pause to consider who was the winner and whom the won over before sinking into lovemaking’s sensory overload. On waking they fell onto each other before dozing to wake again to growling stomachs. They dressed quickly: he in shorts, polo shirt and sneakers, while she was compelled to re-wear her sleeveless burgundy dress with sandals and his oversized windbreaker.

     Once hunger was satisfied, Atom played the guide, pointing out the stately pier with globe lights atop concrete stanchions every 12 paces, and the Spanish tile roof of the bulky Aquarium & Café near the end, and the hill that hunched like a wrong-way wave where the main street and overbuilt neighborhoods ran laterally. “The town’s a mix of older homeowners and younger condo-dwellers,” he said. “None of whom I have time to meet.”

     He turned to kiss her and a strand of hair flicked his eyelash, causing him to draw back. She brushed it away then he tried again, eliciting her deep-throated laugh. Believing Helen had greater meaning than just the physical, he wanted to possess her completely, and had no doubt he would since he had overcome her resistance to a date.
     With Lola’s help, he happened on her in break room, at lunch in nearby restaurants and in the underground garage, where always she declined his invitations, until the last one. Their date was Saturday, when at twilight they met at her apartment in Palms and then drove to a restaurant for dinner and, after, dancing.

     Wearing ivory-colored slacks, azure blue shirt and tan sports coat, his gestures had crackled with intensity of wooing. Her auburn hair fell onto the shoulders of the burgundy dress, which matched her high heels. A delicate gold chain accentuated her thin wrists.  Throughout the evening, each echoed the other’s appreciation of venue, food and entertainment, as their wariness gave way to heightened anticipation. He noted that a new gravity weighed on her youthful enthusiasm to pleasing effect.

     He did not know about the break up with her boyfriend, or the investor parties that had made her the center of attention in men’s eyes, exciting Slade’s possessive nature. She would have had difficulty describing the experience since her role seemed more to do with what she was instead of who.

     Rolling waves beneath the pier rocked the pilings, gusts delivered salty spray and the high sun whitewashed their features. Going round the Café, they were for the moment separate and alone, where westward was the open sea, and to the north and south the purple hills stretched out. A tanker crossed their view cruising to the refinery with the orange-striped smokestack. They leaned against the railing.

      “Slade’s lucky he’s got you.”
     “I wouldn’t put it like that.”
     “I’d hate to think he is a barrier, for us.”

     "Hoo, hoo! Ha, ha!” The girlish laughter pierced him and he twisted a painful smile, and then from nowhere a sense-defying fog blanked out the sun, the sea and every sound except her laughter. He snaked an arm around her waist, but she pulled away, and they stood silent and apart until he felt compelled to fill in the white nothingness.
     “You know, I envy Slade’s relationship with his father; things passing from father to son. It’s like someone saving your place in line, giving a foothold in life. Things are different then.”
     “What about yours?”

     “Divorced before I was five. I have some pictures, and don’t miss him, because how could I when I never had it? Only when I see others with theirs do I wonder.”

     “Mine is big on sports and fishing. When I think of him I think of fishing. Sorry.”
     “Sorry for laughing?”

     “Don’t take it personal, but men always make more of something than it is.”

      “Slade?”

     “I’m not talking about him--”

     “I’ll protect you, if you let me.” His resolute face was blurred in the mist.
     “You just proved my point and I’m trying not to laugh. He doesn’t affect what I do. I wouldn’t want to cross him, though. He likes fresh starts, clean sweeps and loyalty, and has a different take on the father thing. The condo’s about sweeping him away.”
     He pulled at her again and she relented. He nuzzled her marble cheek and held her as if clutching a world he would scale and occupy.

                                                                           * * *

      The idea of Helen and Slade festered in Atom's mind. She wouldn't admit him to the condo saying, "Stephen wouldn't like it," the first name familiarity salting the wound. Meanwhile, the CEO's arrangement had repercussions within and without the company.

  
The next chapter will be posted by August 17. 
 The characters and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.