Wally had been staring at his drink for several minutes, digesting the information Fallon had given him; skepticism etched across his face. “You really believe that?” he said at length. “You think you’re in the same boat as the rest of us—the dinosaurs?”
“Absolutely,” Fallon said. “Hell, they may even toss me out first. Offer me a buyout, or whatever it takes to get rid of me without a lot of fuss. It would make sense. It would allow the guy who takes my place to get a feel for the organization, then pick his own team; hire the young Turks he wants before they start dumping everyone else.”
“Unless it’s that little shit Gavin.” Wally was nodding now, then fell silent.
Fallon thought of his assistant vice president, Les Gavin, who wore his ambition like a big neon sign. “Hell, if that happens—if Gavin gets my job—then they’ll probably dump us all at once,” Fallon said. “Shit, Lester may already be interviewing replacements.” Fallon turned to face Wally. “So don’t doubt for a minute that I’m on their list,” he added.
Suddenly Wally’s face burst into a broad grin. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “I never thought of you as really being part of all this crap. I always thought you’d escape it. You know? I wasn’t sure how. I just thought you would.” His grin had broadened, and Fallon was both disturbed and amused by the pleasure it seemed to give him.
“I’m glad it’s brought a little sunshine into your life,” he said.
Wally tried to remove the grin, but couldn’t. “Hell, I don’t mean I want it for you, you know? It’s just kind of good seeing somebody as competent as you being part of it all. It makes me feel like less of an asshole failure.” He shook his head. “Shit, I don’t know what I mean.”
The smile suddenly faded. Wally stared at his drink, then turned back to Fallon. All the humor had fled his face. “I gotta tell you, Jack, I’m scared shitless. I don’t know what the hell I’ll do if I lose this job.” He shook his head. “Hell, all this crap about Janice, it’s just a smoke screen to keep me from thinking about all the stuff that makes me wanna wet my pants.”
Fallon stared at his drink, embarrassed by the man’s sudden burst of honesty; by the mirror image it presented. “I hear you, Wally,” he said. “Believe me, I hear you.”
Wally offered a weak smile, then shook his head again. “I know this guy—he used to live next door to me before my divorce, and I still see him from time to time. Anyway, this poor bugger lost his job a little over two years ago. Fifty-one years old and he gets downsized right to the goddamned street—a hundred thirty thou a year gone in a flash.” Wally took a long pull on his drink. “Since that time this poor slob has sent out two thousand two hundred and five résumés.” He laughed. “He’s that kind of guy; keeps track of those things. Just a little anal retentive.” The laughter faded. “And from all that—all two thousand plus of those goddamned résumés—he’s gotten ten interviews and not one job offer.” Wally let out a long breath. “But you know what scares me the most? Other than the fact that if it happens to me I’ll never get another job like the one I have?” He waited, forcing Fallon to look at him. “It’s the lack of control, Jack. The total inability to do anything about it.” He shook his head. “Christ, all this shit, all of it, it all goes back to manufacturing. All these insane problems we’re having with this fiber-optic cable. Jesus, I’ve been there. Right at the plant. We run in-house tests, and everything’s perfect. Then we run the same tests for a potential buyer and everything falls apart. All the tolerances are suddenly off. It’s crazy, and there’s not a goddamned thing anybody in sales can do about it. We’re screwed before we even begin.”
“Tell me about it,” Fallon said. “Christ, my background is engineering, and I’ve looked at it from every angle, and I can’t figure it out.”
“Yeah, but they expect us to—all the geniuses upstairs—that’s what they expect. They say we’re too old, just don’t understand the technology well enough to get past the problem. They insist the problem’s on the customer’s end; that we can’t identify what’s wrong, work it out, and get the orders anyway. Like we’re supposed to be magicians or something.”
“They’re looking for scapegoats,” Fallon said. “We’re convenient. We’re also the people they don’t want anymore.”
Wally stared at his drink again; shook his head and laughed softly. “Shit. So you figure you’re a scapegoat, too, huh? A goddamned dinosaur. Hell, we oughta form a club. You know? All the dinosaurs. Get together and find a way to screw them back.”
Fallon smiled; shook his head, then thought about what Wally had said. “That’s not a bad idea,” he said. “All of us getting together, I mean. It might give us a small edge if they start going after us one at a time. Kind of tip us off about how they’re going about it. Maybe even give us time to force them into a better deal.”
It was as though a lightbulb had gone off over Wally’s head. He started nodding rapidly. “Hell, if it came down to the nitty-gritty, maybe we could even hire a lawyer to help us.” He was already infatuated with the newly born idea. “We might even have a shot at some kind of class-action lawsuit. Or at least the threat of one.” He was getting excited now. Ready to run with the idea before he’d even worked it through. But that was Wally, and Fallon saw no reason to throw water on his fantasies.
Fallon thought about it some more; inclined his head to one side. “Why don’t you contact some of the guys, sort of feel them out,” he suggested. “It wouldn’t hurt to meet and talk to each other.”
“Hey, I’ll do it,” Wally said. “I’ll start first thing tomorrow. We can even meet at my place. And I’ll even contact some of the guys in the other district offices. I know they’re all shitting bricks out there.”
“Just do it quietly, and make sure everybody keeps their mouths shut.” Fallon lowered his voice to emphasize the point. “If the geniuses behind this downsizing crap think there’s any organized resistance, they might decide to push the timing up a bit.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Wally said. “Mum’s the goddamned word.” He was grinning again, and again gave Fallon a light punch on the arm. “Now let’s do some bouncing,” he said. “Just to celebrate the formation of the Dinosaur Club.”
Fallon smiled at the term, and the idea. “No. Not me, Tiger. Tonight I’ll leave the ladies to you.” He glanced to his right, where the woman who had inspired Wally’s lust was still dusting a bar stool with her well-tailored slacks. He envisioned Wally sliding up to her using his best salesman’s lines. He had seen the man charm women before—this fat, balding, red-faced man, whose self-deprecating wit seemed to exude an irresistible charm. It was probably what made him such a successful salesman. He turned back to his friend and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Just play it safe if it gets that far. I want you to live to be a big, grown-up dinosaur.”
3
SAMANTHA MOORE STARED ACROSS THE ROOM, WATCHING him as he spoke on the phone. Everything about the man exuded confidence; a sense of power still untapped. She studied his body language. Each gesture, each inclination of his head, each smile was offered with deliberate charm, even when he was speaking to someone miles away. She crossed one leg, rearranged the legal pad on her lap, and continued to consider the man. Carter Bennett had all the moves, derived from breeding, education, and family conditioning. He was the son of a successful investment banker and a socially prominent mother. Doors were open to him on Wall Street and in all the city’s better clubs thanks to his family’s reputation. And it was a family known to back its progeny to the hilt, although Carter insisted that was not true in his case. Added to that were Princeton, class of 1980, The Wharton School of Finance, 1982, and his own considerable talents.
Now, with all paths properly paved, and at the tender age of thirty-five, he was already near the top. In short, he had every opportunity she wanted for herself and in most cases would never have. In five years, perhaps less, he’d be CEO of this company, or some other. And Samantha had no doubt he’d run it co
mpetently. She tapped her Mont Blanc pen against the pad. And ruthlessly, she added to herself. She wondered which of Bennett’s attributes had made her climb so willingly into his bed during a brief and ultimately unsatisfying affair. Or was it curiosity, the need to find some cracks in that all too perfect veneer? She, too, wanted to ride her career as high as it would go, though she was fully aware she could never reach as high as he. Her lack of suitable contacts, not to mention a penis, would keep her from being taken seriously enough for that. The best she could hope for was to become general counsel for this or some other corporation. But if that was the best she could do, she wanted it.
During their brief relationship she also had discovered she really didn’t like Carter all that much. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but there was something … hollow about him. She smiled at the idea, recognizing that whatever that something was, it was definitely not visible on the surface. The man appeared oh, so solid. He even smelled like success. Carter had definitely intrigued her at first. She also recognized she had never thought of him as a marriageable man. More as a handsome and interesting dalliance, who, if willing, could teach her some things that would help her career. And she fully understood that she, too, had been little more than a flirtation to Bennett—albeit a useful and usable one. His highly affluent, WASP background would never permit anything more. Like the rest of his ilk, Carter had been taught from birth that like people—read superior—should marry and mate. The idea disgusted her intellectually, but she couldn’t dismiss it. It was simply there—very much a part of the real world—and the people of Carter’s class, together with their money, set the rules for admission. And Samantha Moore, daughter of a Pennsylvania grocer, did not qualify, and never would. Law degree or no law degree.
Carter placed the phone back in its cradle, seemed to think something over, then turned his smile on her. It was quite a smile—beautiful really—but it also had a recognizable touch of self-regard to it, and she wondered if he knew that it did. No, she thought. That would be something he’d view as a liability, and he’d correct it. He’d stand in front of a mirror and practice until it was just right. She had seen him do it, sculpting and refining the Carter Bennett that the world was allowed to see. It was one reason their affair had ended almost before it began. Carter had let her catch a glimpse of the man behind the facade. It disturbed him that he had. And what she had seen had disturbed Samantha as well.
Bennett stood, stretching his tall, well-toned body to full height, back as straight as a tombstone. He was jacketless, projecting the image of a man who preferred to work in shirtsleeves. But the shirt he wore was custom-made and fit perfectly. It was all part of his performance: Here I am, bringing myself down to your level, even though I’ll never truly be there. She smiled at the thought. Yes, she decided, that would be the image Carter would seek.
“The pension boys have finally crunched all the numbers,” he said. His smile had widened.
“And?” Samantha asked.
“What can I say?” He spread his arms as if accepting warranted adulation; the candlepower of his smile intensified. “They fit my projections perfectly.”
Samantha uncrossed, then recrossed, her legs, and Bennett admired their perfection. She was a beautiful woman with short, dark hair that seemed to flow along the finely etched lines of her face, accenting her delicate nose, the slight swell of her lips, the high cheekbones and almond-shaped brown eyes. Even in a severely cut business suit she couldn’t mask the beauty, or the enticing body she carried on a moderately tall frame. Carter recalled the pleasure he had taken from that body. It had been almost three months now since their affair had ended, but he still marveled at the blatant sensuality of the woman. He had never anticipated such passion from so competent a lawyer.
“Have you factored in the possible costs of a class-action suit?” Samantha asked, almost as though she had read his final thought.
“If it ultimately comes to litigation, you mean.” Bennett smiled down at her. There was nothing patronizing about the smile, it was friendly enough, but somehow she instantly hated it. “Why don’t you throw those figures at me?” he said.
Her jaw tightened imperceptibly. She was annoyed but really didn’t understand why. After all, it was a legitimate business question. “If we’re faced with a class-action suit charging age discrimination—and if we lose that suit—we could be talking about an award of several hundred thousand dollars. Per individual, on average,” she said.
“Define several.” There was a hint of challenge in his voice, but his eyes were still friendly.
Samantha let out a breath. “All right, Carter, let’s say two, maybe two hundred and fifty thousand for each person we force out the door.”
“Would that include punitive damages, if any?”
“No. But I see nothing right now that would warrant punitive damages. Not if we offer a reasonable buyout package with the appropriate counseling and other perks. And providing we mask any flagrant age discrimination built into the plan. That figure, of course, would be over and above the original buyout and pension benefits. It would be an add-on. However, if we are hit with a credible class-action suit—one that could sustain a charge of blatant discrimination, we’d probably be wise to settle. Being found in flagrant violation of the federal Age Discrimination in Employment Act, as well as the New York City statute, which in some respects is even tougher than the federal law, could prove very expensive. So, either way, I think that two-fifty figure is a very real possibility.” She saw the skepticism on his face and added, “Let’s not forget what happened to the American Can Company a few years back.”
Carter regained his chair, eased back, and steepled his fingers. He knew the American Can case, as anyone in his position would. The executives there had lacked any subtlety at all. They had literally flagged employees whose pensions were about to vest, then laid them off prior to that date. And they had left the evidence sitting in their records.
“They were careless,” Bennett offered.
“Careless and arrogant,” Samantha countered. “It happens. Even in companies that are well run.” She decided to soften the rebuke. “I’m not being critical, Carter. It’s my job to warn you about the pitfalls you face when you’re considering an action that might be ruled illegal. And to advise you how to avoid the penalties if you choose to go ahead.”
Bennett offered her another killer smile that spoke volumes. “So two-fifty per would be the max—if, of course, they have the resources and the inclination to fight us in court.”
He had dismissed what she had said. She wasn’t surprised. “Yes, that’s my best guess, based on the facts I have at hand.” She watched him mentally calculate the figures.
Bennett brought his chair forward and spread his hands. “Then we’d still come out well ahead. By nearly ten million the first year, and over a hundred million after that.” He leaned back, steepled his fingers again, and seemed to think about what he had just said. “This is a young company—twenty-three years old. And its major growth has been over the last ten years—so many of our people don’t have vested pension rights. That cuts long-term costs considerably. When you add the salaries that will be eliminated into that.” He raised his hands, then let them drop.
Samantha tapped her pen against the legal pad and decided to inject one final point. “We’ll still have to offer them buyout money—much less than the older employees, of course, but something. You have to remember that none of this is going to be pleasant. Not for anyone in the company.”
“Yes, I know.” He let out a heavy breath. “And I feel for those people. But I can’t allow that to be a consideration. What I have to do is factor in the effect this type of downsizing will have on the market. That’s my job. And for starters, the company will see an immediate jump on the big board.” He rocked back in his chair, another small, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. “Layoffs have become a corporate asset.” Another heavy breath. “And rightly or wrongly, investors
love downsizing, especially when they see a company unloading enough senior people to get out from under the benefit packages they’re tied into. They’re quite astute about those things today. They know our pension costs go up one and a half percent a year—every year—for employees between ages fifty and sixty-two. When you add what we’ll save in life, disability, and health insurance costs, then factor in the lower salaries we’ll pay replacement personnel, you are talking about some serious money.” He offered up both hands in a fait accompli gesture. “Throw in enough younger employees and it convinces everyone you’re getting rid of deadwood as well, and investors love to see deadwood jettisoned. They know it leads to increased profitability.”
“Are you sure we’re talking deadwood? In every instance?”
Bennett shook his head, as though saddened by her naïveté. “Whether we are or not, it doesn’t matter. That will be the perception. And perception is what counts. That, and saving money. It’s sad but true.” He waved a hand before his face. It was the gesture of someone trying to brush aside irrelevancies, and Samantha wondered if it was defensive, if he was trying to avoid thinking about the lives he would devastate.
“You certainly can’t argue that some of these people aren’t excess baggage,” he continued. “Any company, no matter how well run, has its share of corporate fat. It’s why they need people like me.” He allowed a hint of solemnity to enter his eyes—placed it there. He’s missed his calling, she thought. He should have been an actor on a TV soap.
“Hell, Samantha, I’m just a reluctant surgeon, cutting away an economic cancer that’s devouring an otherwise sound company.” Solemnity faded into a faint smile. He apparently liked the metaphor, she decided. “It’s just not called surgery.” The smile grew. “The people we disemploy might take offense at that. So, instead, we call it ‘a workforce imbalance correction.’” He chuckled over the terminology.
The Dinosaur Club Page 5