by Peter Ralph
“If it’s not a guilt rap, what is it?”
“You’re a smart man. I thought you would’ve worked it out. I want your resignation,” Dwyer said, sliding a single sheet of paper across the desk.
Aspine picked it up and quickly skim-read it. He had prepared many similar documents for others to sign, but never suffered the indignity of having one prepared for him. It was simple in content, and by resigning and accepting the sum of one hundred thousand dollars he waived all of his rights, past, present and future, against the company. “I’m not signing. Christ, I’ve been here nearly three years, I’m forty-five years old and it might take me six months to find another position,” he lied, thinking that it fitted perfectly with the Mercury job, which he was sure was his.
“Then I’ll sack you and pay you the minimum. Would you prefer to show that on your CV, or take the hundred thousand and we’ll agree it was a resignation?”
“You’ve got a short memory. Don’t you remember what I did to the unions in the Federal Court, and how persistent I was? Would you like some of the same and the accompanying publicity?”
A vein in Dwyer’s neck started to throb furiously and he partially lifted himself out of his chair. “Don’t threaten me,” he yelled. “You beat the unions because they had no money for legal fees. I’ve got plenty and if you take me on I’ll tie you up in the courts for years.”
“Bullshit! If you sack me and try to get away with paying the minimum, you’ll lose. It could set you back half a million plus legal fees, and you’ll need to spend hours, maybe days, maybe weeks, with your lawyers. Do you really want that?”
“How much would you like, Doug?” Dwyer asked, not trying to hide his sarcasm.
“I’ll settle for one year’s salary.”
“You want four hundred thousand. You’re mad! I’ll never pay it!”
“I have three kids at school, a bloody big mortgage and no job. It’s a fair figure.”
Dwyer hit a button on the intercom and said, “Don, I’m with Douglas Aspine. Change the amount on his resignation to two hundred thousand. Get it retyped and bring it down with a cheque, including any holiday pay and whatever else is owed in respect of this month. Yes, straight-away.”
“I didn’t agree to two hundred thousand. What are you talking about?”
“Here’s the deal, Doug. Take it or leave it. The negotiations are over. I’m a good judge of human nature and I’m guessing you’re going to sign, take the money and leave us in peace. Only a fool would leave two hundred on the table and go to the courts, and you’re not a fool,” Dwyer said, the corners of his mouth turned up in a sly smile.
“You smug bastard! I ought to tell you to you where to shove your cheque, because we both know I’ll get more if I bring my lawyers in.”
“No we don’t. You’re sitting there trying to work out how much you’ll have to pay your legal sharks. Our lawyers are going to be arguing for a lot less than two hundred in court and, even if you partially win, there’s no certainty you’ll get costs as well. And don’t forget what I said. We’ll drag the litigation out and it’ll be years before you see any money, but your lawyers will be billing you every month. Do you really want to take me on that badly and, more importantly, can you afford to?”
Aspine knew everything Dwyer said was true, and he knew he was going to sign and take the cheque. Despite this he scowled, thrust his jaw out and said, “I don’t know. If you were to increase the amount to two hundred and fifty we could shake hands and walk away, both knowing we’d struck a fair compromise.”
Dwyer burst out laughing. “You must have a hearing problem. I told you the negotiations are over, and I’m already being more than fair. Oh, and Doug, I don’t give a fuck if I never shake your hand or set eyes on you again. I want you to pack up your personal belongings and get off the premises. ”
As Dwyer was talking, Don Terret, the company’s financial controller, came in with the retyped letter of resignation and cheque. Dwyer quickly perused it and pushed it across his desk to Aspine. “Sign it. Don will witness your signature and then you can have this,” he said, holding up the cheque.
“I’ll sign, but it’s not right.”
“Good-bye, Douglas. Don will accompany you to your office, and then escort you from the building.”
It was lunchtime and the city streets were crowded with office workers enjoying the warm weather. Aspine walked to the nearest branch of the Federal Bank, deposited the cheque for a little over one hundred and eighty thousand, after tax had been deducted, and paid the bank fee to ensure quick clearance. His immediate money problems were over and he’d be on the internet later in the day paying his old bills. He wondered if the day could get any better and smiled when he thought about the two hundred he had screwed out of Dwyer. If the silly old goat had waited for a few more weeks, he wouldn’t have had to pay anything. As he mused about this his mobile rang and he looked at the screen. “Hello, Jeremy.”
“Good afternoon, Douglas. Things must have gone very well this morning, because Mercury’s principals have asked me to make an offer on their behalf.”
“Go on,” he said, taking a deep breath.
“Well, needless to say they wish to offer you the position. The commencing salary is eight hundred thousand, plus an incentive bonus that will allow you to more than double the salary component, plus options, a generous expense account, and a car allowance. What do you think?” Jeremy said, his voice filled with pleasure in anticipation of receiving profuse thanks.
“They’re only offering eight hundred thousand? That’s fucking dreadful. Christ, you’ve been screwed. My predecessor was getting more than two million.”
“Settle down, Douglas. Sir Edwin was your only supporter on the board and he had to use all his influence to get them to agree to make you any offer. They wanted to appoint the company’s financial controller, Neil Widge. It seems the former CEO, Harry Denton, was pissed off with your claim that you could increase profit by fifty per cent. Let me tell you the basis of your incentive bonus. If you increase operating profit by twenty-five per cent you’ll get one hundred thousand, and for each five per cent thereafter you’ll get another one hundred thousand, but, and this is a big but, if you can increase it by fifty per cent, they’ll pay you a bonus of one million dollars. It seems Harry Denton said you have no chance of doing it. I lie − I believe his exact words were that you must be living in cloud cuckoo land.” Jeremy sniggered.
“Yes. I understand the politics. I can force myself to live with the eight hundred to start with, and I’ll enjoy asking Harry to countersign my cheque for a mil at the end of the year. What about the options and car?”
“Mercury’s shares are languishing at $1.80. They propose issuing you two million free options, exercisable after you’ve been with the company for a year. You’ll have a window of two further years thereafter to exercise them at a price of $2.50. Your car allowance is fifty thousand per annum − you can choose any car you like but you’ll have to meet any additional expenses yourself.”
“Lousy pricks! I have to increase the share price by more than twenty-five per cent before the options are worth anything. I’ve seen public companies issue options to executives to acquire shares at a figure less than current market price.”
“Isn’t it clear to you? Sir Edwin used your comment about increasing profits by fifty per cent to extract this offer. If you can do it, by the end of the year Mercury’s shares could be trading at $4.00, which will make your options worth three million. That makes a total package of about five million in the first year.” Jeremy sighed in exasperation. “Contrast this with the four hundred thousand that Biotech’s paying you.”
“Yeah, okay Jeremy, you’re right. I can live with their offer,” Aspine said, now chuckling at his own greed.
“Sir Edwin wants you to start as soon as you can, and wondered if you could convince Biotech to let you go without having to work out your notice. I told him that was unlikely and it’d probably be at least a
month before you could commence.”
“Go back and tell him I can start this Monday.”
“What? Biotech isn’t going let you go on three days’ notice!”
“Just do it and let me worry about Biotech,” Aspine said, smiling about what Jeremy didn’t know. “Oh, and Jeremy, make sure the offer is couriered to me tomorrow, and I’ll accept and fax it to Sir Edwin. I want to make sure there are no loop-holes.”
Aspine was still on a high when he phoned Charlie. “Hi, darling,” she answered. “I’m glad you phoned. I thought you might still be in a shitty mood about yesterday.”
“I’ll see you in half an hour,” he responded, ignoring what she had said. “I’m bringing a bottle of Dom Perignon, so chill a couple of glasses.”
“What are we celebrating?”
“I’ll tell you when I get there.”
“Doug, I can’t do anything. I’m sorry, but I’m really sore.”
“Fuck, what’s wrong with you?”
“I had a Brazilian this morning and I lost more than intended. I’m going to be tender for the next few days. I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay. You didn’t go to the dentist as well did you?”
“I’m not with you,” she said, and then giggled. “Oh, you dirty bastard.”
“I’ll see you soon, Charlie.”
- 3 -
HARRY DENTON WAS born and bred in the country town of Wangaratta. He had come to the big smoke forty years earlier and joined Mercury as an apprentice carpenter, when it was still owned by brothers, Les and Patrick Dalton. The Daltons were real gentlemen and good bosses, and had pushed Harry into doing a civil engineering diploma at night school − a task that took nearly ten years and which was testimony to his determination. Harry was a dedicated, loyal, hard-working employee and a natural leader, so it was no surprise when the Daltons appointed him CEO of the company. Unfortunately, after they passed away, their children showed no interest in owning the business. Harry with the help of the company’s accountants and lawyers had floated Mercury as a public company, allowing the Dalton children to sell their shares without affecting the company’s management or future. Harry reluctantly accepted the additional role as chairman. Many loyal employees had taken up shares, including Harry, and the two per cent he still owned was now worth twelve million dollars.
Under Harry, Mercury had been run like a large family with the utmost respect being paid to its members. There was no such thing as downsizing or retrenchments and, in the absence of gross incompetence; a job at Mercury was a job for life. Sackings were few and far between and usually related to marriage breakdowns or alcoholism. In many instances Harry picked up the cost of marriage counselors out of his own pocket and made large donations to Alcoholics Anonymous. Long before make-up pay came in, Harry paid any worker injured on the job, in full, and introduced superannuation for every employee, twenty years before it was legislated. Employees who were sick were treated with the same benevolence and there were no limitations on the payment of sick leave. Many employees had been with the company for decades and, in thirty years as CEO, Harry had only had two PAs.
Harry didn’t believe in borrowing to fund expansion and didn’t like or trust the banks, having watched them sell up many farmers and primary producers when they had fallen on hard times. He’d watched Mercury’s competitors increase their sales by selling off-the-plan, and then later by accepting bonds from insurance companies, and it had made him sick. The marketing methods of Chris Skase, Alan Bond and Bill Farrow were not for Harry Denton. Mercury had grown steadily under his stewardship and the credit squeezes and recessions that had killed companies in their thousands were little more than speed humps in an otherwise smooth road. As the company grew, insurance companies and banks had started paying attention to it and buying large tranches of shares. After which they agitated for higher profits and larger dividends. Harry’s focus had always been on the long-term, but these institutions looked no further than the next profit report or dividend. There had been a time when institutions had been loyal long-term shareholders of public companies but now they would sell their shares at the first hint of bad news, and would salivate at the thought of a takeover bid. Harry didn’t like them, but they controlled more than fifty per cent of Mercury so, when they had come to him seeking his resignation as chairman on the basis of good corporate governance, and the appointment of Sir Edwin Philby, he hadn’t objected. Harry thought that corporate governance for a company run as honestly as Mercury was a waste of resources, but was glad to be no longer chairing meetings where shareholders were far more aggressive, greedy, and noisy than they had been in bygone years.
Harry had married his childhood sweet-heart, Mary, and they had three children, and were now the proud grandparents of five grandchildren. Every Sunday morning the family met at the Presbyterian Church in Melbourne to worship. He never swore or blasphemed, either at home or at the company. He drove a six-year-old Holden, and insisted Mercury buy only Australian-made vehicles. He and Mary had lived in Armadale for thirty-five years, in the marital home that he had built.
It was 8am and Harry and his friend, company lawyer and co-director, Stan Pettit, waited in Mercury’s offices on the upper level of a two-level building that fronted a large warehouse. Harry was a small man with strong features, many wrinkles, a jutting jaw, a full head of curly grey hair and bright blue, piercing eyes. He was dressed in an ill-fitting dark suit, and the collar and sleeves of his once-white shirt were frayed. “I thought he’d be here by now, Stan,” Harry said, to the slightly younger man with a polished bald head and large horn-rimmed glasses.
“Did you tell him you were going to be here to meet him?” Pettit asked, slumping into the closest chair.
“No. I’ve never met or spoken to him. Ed said we had to get him, as he was about to accept another offer, and I went for it. I’ve got a nasty feeling I might have been snowed. I know if I’d been starting a new job I’d have been here at seven.”
“Yes, but that was in the good old days.” Pettit gasped.
“Stan, you need to be careful, because you’re really putting on weight. I thought your doctor put you on a diet because of your blood pressure. You need to be careful,” Harry said, his concern obvious.
“He did, but I’ve got clients always wanting to discuss deals over lunch or dinner. I’ll have to get out of the law if I’m ever going to lose any weight,” Pettit chuckled.
“It’s not funny. I’m finding the air conditioning a bit cold in here, but your face is red, and you’re sweating. Are you sure you’re all right? Why don’t you undo the top button of your shirt and loosen your tie? Would you like a glass of water?” Before Pettit could respond, Harry pressed the intercom for his former PA. “Shirley, please bring me in a glass of chilled water.”
“Certainly, Harry.”
“I’m alright. I just can’t stand for long periods of time, but now I’ve got a chair, I’m okay. How much longer do you think our man might be?”
“Don’t know,” Harry frowned. “If you want to go to your office, then do so. There’s no need for both of us to wait.”
“I cleared my appointments. I don’t have anything on until after ten. I’ll wait. You don’t think he’s changed his mind do you?” Pettit said, grinning.
“No, I don’t,” Harry responded, without mirth.
“Oh, would you like a glass of water too, Stan?” Shirley asked, as she entered the office.
“It’s for him,” Harry said. “I don’t want one.”
“Thanks, Shirley.”
After she’d gone, Stan said, “She’s a great PA. How long has she been with you?”
“Over twenty years and yet it seems like I only hired her yesterday. Where’d the time go, Stan?”
Aspine sat stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic in his new pre-owned Ferrari Maranello which could go from 0 to100 kph in only 4.2 seconds, and had a top speed of 325 kph. It had set him back six hundred thousand dollars, and his fifty thousand per annum c
ar allowance wouldn’t even cover the insurance and servicing. But he was about to earn five million so the costs paled into insignificance, and it had taken him just five minutes to make the decision to buy it on credit. The upholstery was black and the duco was Ferrari red and he enjoyed the many admiring, and envious glances he received on the short drive to Richmond. The traffic cleared for a second and he hit the accelerator; the Ferrari responded as he smoothly went through the lower gears using the F1 Paddle Shift. Finally he could see Mercury’s offices and he gunned the powerful red car through the gates, pausing in the middle of the car-park, looking for a vacant space. Harry looked out the window. “Stan, come over here. I think Satan’s just arrived.”
They watched as the Ferrari reversed across the car-park, to the far fence, where it was parked on a rough strip of gravel. The man who got out was tall and strongly built. “He doesn’t look happy, Harry.”
“Mercury’s never allocated parking spaces for its executives, and it’s not about to start now.”
Aspine was annoyed about having to park his new toy so far away and he took the stairs to reception two at a time. He knew, from the photos in the annual report, that the poorly dressed little guy was Harry Denton and the bald, fat, sweaty man was Stan Pettit. “Well this is a surprise,” he said, shaking Harry’s hand before addressing Stan. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Stan. I take it you both know who I am.” He smirked.
“Yes, Douglas, we know who you are. Welcome to the company,” Harry said. “We thought we’d brief you about the business and then introduce you to the people you’re going to be working with.”
“That’s nice of you, Harry, but I already know more than enough about the business and I’ll introduce myself when I’m ready. Just point me in the direction of my office, and let me know how I can get some signwriting done.”
