Takeover

by Diana Dwayne

  “We don’t need you to let it happen,” Bill Whoever says. “I’ve already had a chance to speak to your board, and they’re leaning in favor of selling. You would all, of course, maintain positions within this company to help with the transition, but you can’t fight this thing, Sam.”

  A look comes over Mr. Waite’s face that I wasn’t expecting. It’s malicious pride. I used to see that look on Mr. McDaniel’s face every single day.

  “I don’t plan to fight it,” he says. “I plan to kill it.”

  “What do you mean by that?” one of the members of the board chimes in.

  “Well,” Mr. Waite continues, “as you may know, during my time with other companies, before I was given the position of COO and now CEO of Opulence International, I acquired quite a bit of personal wealth.”

  “So?” Bill chuckles. “We all have, what’s your point.”

  “You see, where you all went out and bought expensive houses and cars, along with donating money to whichever political candidate would let you continue to rob the cookie jar, I was setting my money aside, investing it in the future.”

  “I know all about your assets, Sam,” Bill says, “but you can’t stop the board from voting to give up the company.”

  “That’s not quite accurate,” Mr. Waite says. “Granted, I may not be able to override their decision. However, I can render it null and void.”

  I take a break from writing and look at my boss. I have no idea what he’s planning, but I have to hear this.

  “You can’t—” one of the board members objects, but Mr. Waite interrupts.

  “As of three o’clock this afternoon, I will hold a majority share in your company, Bill.”

  “That’s impossible,” the man says, laughing loudly. “I hold majority, and there’s no way that you’re going to get my board to flip like yours did.”

  “Consider this your notice,” Mr. Waite says. “I’ve been in touch with your board from the moment I heard of this dumbass move. They seem to think that a merger is, indeed, in the best interest of both companies, but they don’t believe that you are the one to lead it.”

  Bill Whoever looks at the people to his left and right, both assumedly board members. “What are you—”

  “I asked them if I could deliver the news personally for two reasons: One, I will not have Opulence fall under the control of another corporation, not while I’m around. Two, I don’t like you, Bill.”

  Oh shit.

  Mr. Waite continues. “You represent everything about corporate America that is driving this country and its people bankrupt both morally and financially just so you can pad your pocket with other citizens’ salaries, and I will do everything legally within my power to put an end to this travesty that you seem intent on perpetuating.”

  The ex-CEO, Bill Whoever, is silent.

  “Now, my board has every right to depose me as CEO of this corporation, but I would like to remind them that I am willing to do whatever it takes to keep this company running,” Sam Waite, CEO of Opulence and, apparently soon-to-be CEO of Benson, Quaid & McFadden runs his hand through his hair. “Yes, we are in acquisitions. We buy companies, we sell companies, we control companies, but that doesn’t mean that we have to gut the people who work for those companies to do it. As far as I’m concerned, our role in this world is to provide assistance to those companies which can and do move our economy and our country forward in positive ways. You, Bill, your role in the world up until now has been to fatten your wallet. How many people are out of a job because of you? How many people’s salaries are half or a quarter of what they should be because of you? This is not how we do business in a civilized world.”

  Bill Whoever’s face is a deep shade of red. “I don’t know what world you think you’re living in, Waite, but you’re not going to last long in business. This is the business world, Sam, and it sure as hell has nothing to do with civilization! The earmark of capital is doing what you have to do to make sure that you’re the one on top. This isn’t a goddamned church group. This is business,” the old man slams his fist on the table. “You’re going to bankrupt both companies if our two boards don’t see through your idealistic bullshit and put you on the street where you belong.”

  “No Bill,” Mr. Waite says, “I’m going to bankrupt you.” As if he had planned it, Mr. Waite’s cellphone starts to ring. He answers it, but hardly says a word. He hangs up, and I can’t help but wonder if he got a flip phone just for emphasis, because when the phone closes, the room is beyond silent. “It’s done,” he says and stands. “Bill, you can go ahead and show yourself out. My board and I have a few things to discuss, and I don’t think it’s appropriate to have someone who’s not involved in either corporation present.”

  “You can’t do this,” Bill Whoever starts, but the board member to his left, a beautiful black woman in a pantsuit puts her hand on his. He looks at her for some kind of hope, but she has none to offer him, and I’m positive that I’m witnessing a miracle. The old man gets up and storms out of the room.

  “As my first duty as CEO of Benson, Quaid & McFadden—I would like to name Mrs. Irene Jones as my successor, effective immediately; pending final board approval, of course.” He leans toward the woman, Irene Jones, and says, “That call was them,” he says. “You have nothing to worry about.”

  “Thank you, Sam,” she says, beaming. “I would just like to say right here that I support your vision, and when board approval goes through, I will be glad to count myself as part of this new movement.” With that, she and her colleague get up and leave the room, their business at Opulence International being fulfilled.

  I’ve got to be dreaming. Not one, but two CEOs are actually going out of their way to make corporate America better, not for old money or the fat-and-useless CEOs, but for everyone. I think I may have just found religion, and its prophet’s name is Sam.

  “Now,” Mr. Waite says, turning to his own board. “I understand that most of you were in favor of being absorbed by Benson, Quaid & McFadden, and I’ve no doubt made a good share of you rather upset by doing what I did, especially without your approval. Even though I performed the acquisition of our worthy competitor myself, and not in the name of Opulence International, I expect that you’re all feeling a bit undercut. I apologize for this, but it was the best way that I could satisfy my conscience in the matter. Therefore, I would like to know whether you wish me to continue as CEO of Opulence International, or if I should start packing my things.”

  The room is still, quiet. I’ve never even heard of something like this happening. The man’s job is in the hands of a room full of people who wanted something a lot different than what he just did, and he couldn’t look more at peace with that decision.

  “Would you give us the room for a few minutes, Sam? This is a lot to digest,” Mr. Fyurek says.

  “I understand,” he says. He taps my shoulder, “Come on, Rose.”

  I stand and I follow him out. I hardly know what to say to the man as we stand here in the hallway, waiting for the board of directors to decide whether he has a job or not. If he leaves, I’m leaving. I would inform the board of this, but I seriously doubt it would make any sort of a difference to them.

  “I hope you know,” he says, “that if they do decide to fire me, you’ll be taken care of. I’ve already put aside a full year’s salary for you.”

  “You didn’t have to do that,” I say.

  “Well, it hardly seems fair to invite you back the same day that your job becomes obsolete. Especially—”

  “No,” I interrupt. “I mean you didn’t have to do any of that. Don’t get me wrong, I love what you did, but are you insane? You’re really willing to give up your spot as CEO just to protect this company from a hostile takeover?”

  He smiles. “Absolutely,” he says. “Listen, Rose. I think we both know—hell, I think the whole world knows that what is happening in corporations here is draining the lifeblood from everyone. People are forced to work in inhumane circumstances
for pennies just so we can have a t-shirt with our favorite brand name on it. Corporate America has literally enslaved the world. Who am I if I can’t do my own part to be its liberator?”

  Either the guy is really certifiable, or he’s the most inspiring person I’ve ever met. “If you do, you know, get fired,” I start.

  “Yeah?” he says, still smiling.

  “Wherever you go next, do you think you might need an assistant?”

  He laughs. “You know, I think I—”

  The door opens. One of the members of the board says, “We’re ready for you, Sam.”

  “Here we go,” he says and we walk back into the room. No matter what happens, I think that Mr. Waite and I are going to be working as a team for a long time to come.

  Chapter Twelve

  An Extension of the Hand

  It’s almost the end of the week and I haven’t been yelled at once. Most of the people on my floor are still too afraid to make eye contact but, to be honest, I can’t say that I’m too upset about that.

  Today, I helped Mr. Waite plan a strategy for dealing with my brother’s company. Apparently, there’s some dissention over at Benson, Quaid & McFadden over the restructuring that’s just taken place. Irene Jones was confirmed as the CEO, but a few of the higher ups quit and their stock price isn’t getting the bump that we’ve gotten.

  The reason I’m so certain about the level of discord over there is that I just received a phone call from Mark, promising me a better job at his company if I can convince my boss to just let the company go back to the way it was. He doesn’t believe me when I tell him that my boss doesn’t have anything to do with their company anymore. It’s when he makes his offer again and I tell him my present salary, he calls me a bitch and hangs up. I guess that means they’re stuck. I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t get a bit of a thrill making life a bit more difficult for that particular sibling of mine.

  There are about fifteen minutes before my shift is over, and I’m already out of work to do. For the very first time, I feel comfortable taking my final few minutes to catch up on some knitting.

  I’m about four rows in my newest scarf when Mr. Fyurek, the board member who was cuckolded by my former boss, approaches my desk.

  “How are you doing today, sweetheart?” he asks, his eyes full of what I can only assume is wishful thinking. I can’t imagine the man could make a dent without a handful of blue pills in his system.

  “Doing fine, Mr. Fyurek,” I respond. “How can I help you?”

  “I was wondering if you had that new proposal for the deal with Sheath-Burton. I missed the meeting this afternoon, and I really need to get my signature on it before I head home for the day.”

  “I’m sure it could wait until tomorrow,” I say, “but I’ll pull that out for you.”

  As I’m going through the stack of papers on my desk, Mr. Fyurek decides to fill the void with conversation. “I’m sure it’d be fine,” he says, “but I want to make sure that I’m kept in the loop on this one. We’re in a pretty volatile position at the moment, and I don’t want anyone to forget that I was a big part of pulling our testicles out of the fire.”

  Now that’s lovely. I find the paper and set it in front of him. “Here you go,” I say. “It looks like it’s a good thing that you came by when you did after all. This is set to go out tonight.”

  “Perfect,” he says and pulls out a maroon fountain-tip pen.

  I love fountain pens, but they’re usually either way too expensive or way too cheap. By cheap, I mean poorly made and have a tendency to explode ink over important documents. That happened with my last fountain pen, and Mr. McDaniel nearly had my head for it.

  This one looks expensive though, and if I play my cards right, I might be able to swindle Mr. Fyurek out of it. “When you’re done with that pen, would you mind if I take a look at it?”

  He looks up at me with evidence of the wrong impression in his eyes. “Sweetheart, after I finish signing this, I’ll let you take a look at anything you want.”

  I chuckle. To be honest, Mr. Fyurek’s flirting and occasional offensive remark is a breath of fresh air after working for Mr. McDaniel. “I think the pen will suffice.”

  He finishes signing his name to the document off in the margin where it’s sure to be noticed. “Here you go, sweetheart,” he says, handing me the pen.

  The pen is beautiful. It looks like there was writing on it at some point, but it’s long worn off, leaving only the lovely maroon underneath. “May I?” I ask, holding the pen over the top page in a stack of the stationery that still has Mr. McDaniel’s name on it. Fyurek nods, and I use a light touch, letting the pen do the real work, and it’s so smooth it gives me a bit of a chill. Okay, I’m a dork, but I love this pen. The thing is in perfect form.

  “Where did you get it?” I ask.

  “Fundraiser,” he says, “a few years ago. Twenty-five hundred dollars per plate and all that they gave us was a pen—well, that and dinner.”

  “I see,” I say.

  “Trust me,” he says. “It’s not worth twenty-five hundred.”

  “Who all went to this fundraiser?” I ask. On the off-chance that he doesn’t just give me the thing, I want to at least weasel some more time with it.

  “Oh,” he says, scratching the back of his head. “I couldn’t possibly remember. It was so long ago. I do remember that Rory was there, but that’s just because he got roaring drunk and called our waitress a whore.”

  That’s my old boss.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason,” I say. “I just thought it looked pretty.” Here we go. He’s either going to offer me the pen or not. This is the moment of truth, and I definitely need to find myself a hobby.

  He smiles at me, making no effort to hide the fact that he’s looking at this as an opportunity to get into Penthouse Forum. “Well, how about you keep it?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that,” I say, handing the pen back to him and thereby sealing the deal.

  “Please,” he responds, holding the pen out to me. “The only memory this pen holds is that I paid twenty-five hundred dollars for a plate of undercooked sea bass.”

  I smile and take the pen from him. “Thank you,” I say. “It’s been a long time since I was given such a pleasant gift.”

  “Think nothing of it,” he says. “You do great work around here, and I don’t care what anyone else thinks. I’ve always considered you an asset to our company.” It almost sounds like a genuine compliment, but the wink he’s giving me now effectively shoots down that theory.

  He walks away, and I look over the pen. It’s so finely crafted. The nib is exposed, so I go to pull the cap off of the back, but it’s screwed on. The cap now unscrewed, I replace it over the nib and set it on my desk.

  The door behind me opens, and Mr. Waite asks, “Are you still here, Miss Pearson?”

  “Yes, sir,” I answer. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “No,” he says, waving me off. “I think we’re about done here for the day. I just have that meeting with your brother this evening, so unless there are any more suggestions that you have in regard to dealing with him, I think you can head on home.”

  “All right,” I say, brandishing my new pen. “Look at what Mr. Fyurek gave me.”

  “Wow,” he says. I can’t tell if he’s surprised or just really unimpressed. “That’s one of the pens from the fundraiser for ALS a couple of years back, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know. He said it was for a fundraiser, but he didn’t say what it was for.”

  “That’s the one,” he responds, tapping the door. “I got one too. You’d think for as much money as they were charging for each plate that they would have bothered to cook the sea bass properly.”

  I chuckle nervously. I’m out of my mind on this one, I know it, but I can’t seem to help myself. “So, I’m assuming that you got one of these too.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Damn thing broke though. To be honest, I t
hink they’re pretty cheaply made.” He holds up his hands, and the bandage catches my eye. “I don’t mean to impugn your gift,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

  “No worries,” I say. “You can probably remove that bandage. I’m sure your cut has healed by now.” I tap the pen against my bottom lip, and I can’t stop staring at that bandage. “How did you break yours?”

  He cocks his head at me. “Why?”

  “I just want to make sure that I’m not going to do the same thing with this one. Well-made or no, it’s about the nicest pen I’ve ever had, and I’ve had a lot of them.”

  “Oh,” he says. “I don’t think that you’re going to have that problem. Just don’t put too much pressure on the tip and you’ll be fine.”

  “Thanks,” I say, setting the cap of the pen against my bottom lip and keeping it there. “Are you sure there isn’t anything else that you need?”

  He raises an eyebrow, and I quickly realize that between my body language and my last question, it probably looks like I’m hitting on him. “That’s all right, Miss Pearson,” he says, “I think I can take it from here.”

  He walks back into his office, and I get my things together. I want to get my hands on his pen. He’s probably thrown it away already though. Stop it, Rose. You’re finally working for someone who doesn’t treat you like crap, keep your pen-lust in your pants. There’s not even a coherent plan in my head just yet, but he did seem to react rather strangely when he saw the pen.

  I’m walking toward the elevator, chastising myself when Melissa steps into my path.

  “What are you doing here?” she asks.

  Doesn’t this company ever fire anyone? “I work here,” I answer.

  “You killed our boss.”

  “No,” I sigh, rolling my eyes, “I didn’t. You made that up, remember? Or can you tell the difference between reality and your sick little fantasy world?” I wasn’t aware of it before, but apparently, I’m holding onto some really negative feelings about this woman.