"Sit down, Sewell," he said. Mr. Stace is a big florid man who started with grease on his hands. Along the way he cultivated ersatz British mannerisms, a look of spurious stupidity, a bumbling jolly manner. He delights in being underestimated. He's as sharp as a Chicago ice pick
Not for me the window dressing, the mannerisms, the jolly bumbling. For me the cold eye, glacial, unearthed somewhere in Greenland and imported frozen in a block of mercury.
I sat.
"What kind of an outrage is going on out there? Exactly what the hell are we taking on these days? Playboys? Sex maniacs? Since when does a responsible position with C.P.P.
become- window dressing for a night-life career, Sewell?
You young social lions sicken me. What kind of stupid God damn reason can you think of to convince me that I ought to keep you on the payroll, even to scrub washrooms?"
It worked like an air injection system. It turned on the blower under my banked fire. I stopped sitting. I stood up and slammed both fists down on his desk top.
"What makes you think I want to stay on your damn payroll?"
He came right up to meet me, nose to nose.
"People like you are a dime a dozen, Sewell."
"Don't classify me, damn it."
"I suppose you're unique!" He bawled that with the monstrous arrogance of a rhino.
"Yes!"
"Irreplaceable?"
"Yes!" I hit his desk again.
"I don't have to work for this outfit. I can work for anybody. I'll do all right."
We glared at each other. His voice changed.
"Sit down, damn it," he said softly. We both sat down. He made a quarter turn on his big chair, took a mint out of his desk drawer, tossed it into his mouth, turned a bit further and looked out his special window. I looked at the back of his thick stubborn neck.
Finally he grunted to his feet, crossed to the corner of the office, opened a cabinet and took out a bottle of Irish whisky, half full. He raised it and one eyebrow.
"With water," I said.
He took the ice from a small gas refrigerator with a walnut finish.
"He made two generous drinks and brought them back, gave me one, spat what was left of his mint into a leather wastebasket.
"Skoal."
"Skoal."
He took his sweet time, never looking directly at me.
Finally he said, "Sewell, what do you think happens to the young men who are so obviously perfect C.P.P. material?"
"They get to be president some day. The hell with them."
He took another sip.
"Bad guess. They do all right. They get to be plant managers. And they head up various sections.
They retire with pleasant pensions and have charming grandchildren."
"So?"
"Now what happens to the mavericks?"
"You fire them personally."
He nodded.
"I fire a lot of them. A lot of them leave and go with other outfits. We manage to keep a very few. We have to."
"Why? For comic relief?"
"Because we eventually need them for top management.
To lean on the plant managers, the section heads and all the other 'almosts." Something is wrong with our system, Sewell, with the whole system throughout industry of selecting men and promoting them for those very traits which prevent their reaching the real top-the peak of the hill where it's damn cold, tough and lonely. For our future success we need to retain, nurture, cherish a few of the offbeat types. Like you."
"I beg your pardon."
"You aren't going to get much chance to rest, Sewell.
I'm personally going to drive hell out of you. If I make it too rough you can leave, and the hell with you."
"Look, I..."
"Shut up a 'minute. In five years, if you last, I'm bringing you in here. Then it will really get rugged. You'll go back there into Raymond's job."
"Thanks."
He looked at me sourly.
"Do you mean that?"
"Not entirely. I earned it."
"You also earned having the can tied to you."
"I know that too."
"Finish your drink."
I finished it and stood up. We shook hands. He had a smug satisfied gleam in his eye. I realized with surprise that I could even get to like the bastard.
When I reached his office door I looked back. He was looking out his window.
"By the way, I'm marrying my secretary."
He didn't move or turn.
"I don't care if you marry a cretin cleaning woman. All I want out of you is fourteen hours a day."
I shut the door harder than I had to. Tory had waited. I gave him the full report. We got drunk. He put me on a midnight plane. I was at the plant at eight-twenty on Tuesday morning. I married Mac Rae the following Saturday. We're going to live at Brookways until they move us to the next town.
The End
John D MacDonald - You Live Once Page 17
