Undo, Joe Hutsko [e reading malayalam books .TXT] 📗
- Author: Joe Hutsko
- Performer: -
Book online «Undo, Joe Hutsko [e reading malayalam books .TXT] 📗». Author Joe Hutsko
“All right, who’s next?” Peter said, his voice bordering on hysteria. “Let’s see. Denise. You. Just a simple yes if you think Matthew should have final power. No drama, please, we’ve all got a lot of work to do today.”
Denise Campbell had started her career with Wallaby as a financial analyst. Young and bright and a genius with numbers, Denise’s long record of successes had recently been rewarded by Peter, who had promoted her to the role of CFO. With anguished eyes, she faced Peter. “As a publicly held company, our first obligation is to our shareholders.”
Peter held up his hand again, stopping her before she could go into a long-winded justification. “No verbosity, please, just a yes or no.” His eyes blazed.
She looked into her lap. “Yes,” she said. “But Peter, you have to stay on as - “
Eyes closed, he turned away from her with a disgusted expression and a quick shake of his head.
Paul Crane, executive vice president of sales and marketing, was regarded by everyone for his no-bullshit manner, which he now demonstrated with a simple nod of his head.
Matthew stood off to the side, watching the process without expression. It went on like this until the entire executive staff was polled. Then Peter queried each of the visiting directors, who had flown in from different parts of the country to attend the meeting. Not a single no was spoken. When Matthew counted all but the final response, he stiffened, awaiting the finale.
Peter knelt before Hank Towers.
“Hank,” Peter said, his voice a desperate croak. “You, more than anyone else in this room, know what Wallaby means to me.” He drummed his chest with his palm. “You and I, Hank, we made Wallaby everything it is today. Didn’t I agree with you a few years ago that we needed someone to run the company? And wasn’t I supportive when we hired Matthew? We made a mistake is all, and no one gets it. But you do. I know you do.”
Hank sat perfectly still, but Matthew could see that Peter’s words were having an effect on him. And on some of the others. Sounds of sniffing and little coughs, throats clearing, filled the room.
Matthew’s pulse quickened. Although everyone else in the room had voted in his favor, Hank could essentially persuade them all to compromise in Peter’s favor, dissolving Matthew’s ultimatum. If Hank did that, the plan would be off.
“Hank, you have to trust me on this one,” Peter implored. “Matthew isn’t right for Wallaby. If you let him have this, he’ll turn Wallaby into a second-rate company. All I want is for us to be number one, Hank. It’s all we’ve ever wanted, right?”
Matthew sweated to read Hank’s expression. Had he been kidding himself into thinking he could lure Hank’s loyalty away from Peter.
“Damn it, Hank, look at me. Don’t you see what he really wants? He wants us, the renegades, to connect to IC-fucking-P’s computers! If that’s not selling out, man, what is?”
Matthew held his breath, for Peter’s assessment was ultimately the motivation behind his entire secret plan. And if this revelation, however ridiculous it may have sounded, caused Hank to waver, to trust Peter’s instincts, then Matthew had not a single grain of hope of ever succeeding with his monumental plan. He heard the sound of his own heartbeat squishing wildly in his ears.
Hank looked Peter in the eye, and slowly shook his head.
Peter grunted. It was a wrenching, painful sound.
“Hank, no. No, Hank. No.” He spoke very slowly, pausing with every few words to catch his breath. “We did it before. And we can do it again.” He planted his hands on Hank’s shoulders and gave him the sort of shake one gives a drunkard. “We can run Wallaby. Until we find someone who can cut it. Hank.”
Hank gently removed Peter’s hands from his shoulders.
“No, Peter,” Hank whispered. “No.”
“Hank, this is my life we’re talking about, here. You will kill me if you don’t save me.” Tears spilled down Peter’s cheeks. “You’re my only hope.”
Hank rested his hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Petey, we’re a big company now, at probably the most critical point in all our history. You are too unfocused to manage Wallaby. Matthew can.” He punctuated this last line with a squeeze. “But you’ve got to stay on and be the innovator. We only want you to let Matthew do his job. You’ll think this is all bad for awhile, but then you’ll understand. You’ll be a lot happier focusing on future products.” He let out a huge, exasperated sigh. “For Chrissake, Peter, we love you.”
Peter slowly rose to his feet. Matthew was rounding the table, coming toward him.
“And if I don’t agree to all this?” Peter said to Hank.
“I’m afraid it’s the only option you’ve got.”
Peter could think of a few others. For example, he thought with morbid pleasure, he could pummel Matthew with punches, that was one option, or he could choke him until he turned red, then blue, then black and begged for his life while everyone sat there as they had through the whole meeting, staring at their fucking yellow pads, just dying to lift their pens, Wallaby logo pens, and begin calculating what their stock options would be worth after today’s news got out.
And wasn’t that what it all came down to in the end, he asked himself. Wasn’t that what he’d used to lure each and every one of them there? The bottom line. Didn’t they understand that for him, it wasn’t the money. His life’s happiness was the bottom line. And he had just lost it. With this thought a deep dread coursed through his chest. He thought of last night, and he felt a shudder, as though an ice-cold fear had poked its finger into his rectum. He felt as if he were about to defecate, right there for all of them to witness, his grand exit. He was coming apart from the inside out.
With every last ounce of strength he willed himself to stop shaking, to compose himself as best he could. He lifted his chin. “Wallaby is my life,” he said, his voice high and distraught. “But as you’ve all determined for me, that doesn’t matter anymore.”
Matthew came closer. “It doesn’t have to end like this,” he said. “I want you to stay with me. I want you to make our future while I manage the present.” He reached out to Peter.
“Don’t you come near me!” Peter screamed, flinging his hands into the air. Several of the people in the room jumped in their seats, groaning in agony at what they were being forced to witness.
Their eyes linked for the last time. “You’ve stolen my life, Matthew.” He faced the people seated at he table. But he had nothing more to say. He turned and charged for the door.
Martin Cohn leapt from his chair and started after him.
“Leave him,” Hank ordered, fixing his eyes sharply on Matthew.
The door slowly and silently swung inward, sealing the new team together inside the room for the first time without Peter Jones.
Matthew couldn’t see Hank’s gaze. He was facing the sunlit window, staring down at his clenched fists. He willed them to relax. And as he watched them uncurl, he felt his guilt slip away. And in its place he grasped a new feeling.
Power.
William Harrell worked through his morning in the usual fashion, attending three meetings, then moving on to his daily correspondence.
After eleven o’clock he left the ICP headquarters building for a ten-block ride to an exclusive men’s athletic club whose clientele consisted entirely of high-level executives. Typically, the club arranged rotating squash and racquetball matches between executives in similar positions from different companies and industries. A president of an insurance company, for example, might be paired with a CEO from an advertising agency; a TV executive with a restaurant magnate…or the chairman of the world’s largest computer manufacturer with chairman of the world’s largest food manufacturer.
Waiting for his technical and business advisers to arrive for their two o’clock meeting, William stretched and considered the soreness in his arms. They felt now as they had after his match with Rolland Worthy, chairman and CEO of International Foods, a little over two years ago. During that match, he mused, he had felt as though he’d been punched in the stomach midway through the game.
“What do you know about Wallaby?” Worthy had asked him.
The hard rubber ball struck the wall with solid force and rebounded toward William.
His concentration and judgment were wrecked by Rolland’s question; his racquet overextended. The ball hurtled past him.
“What, I hit a nerve?” Worthy laughed, arming his sweating wrinkled forehead with his shirtsleeve.
William crouched. “Wallaby is a small company in Silicon Valley that manufactures portable computers and those new small wonders referred to as PIAs, which stands for personal interactive assistant,” William said flatly. He bounced on the balls of his feet, anticipating Worthy’s serve.
Worthy tossed the ball in the air and pounded it with his racquet, then dropped to a defensive footing, his actions fluid and youthful.
William smashed the ball and they played out the serve, and he ultimately gained the ball after Worthy crashed into the wall.
“You okay?” William huffed.
Worthy gave his shoulder a quick squeeze where it had connected with the wall. “Serve,” he ordered.
William served and the game continued.
Before the match, William had started the day in his imperturbable business-as-usual mood. He remembered the pleasure he felt upon reading his business adviser’s latest market-share report, announcing that ICP had nearly doubled its total unit sales of the BP computer, compared to Wallaby’s estimated total sales of its Mate all-in-one portable computer. But though sales of the BP were greater than those of the Mate, William Harrell’s consummate business sense counseled against feeling triumphant. He rationalized that Wallaby was presumably up to something big; Peter Jones, Wallaby’s eminent founder, had been too quiet as far as the press was concerned. Normally the capricious spokesman of the portable computer industry, Jones had not granted a public interview in more than a year, and that concerned William. Jones had something up his sleeve. Something really big. The only thing that kept William’s fear of Jones and Wallaby from growing beyond a mild concern to an actual loss of sleep was the fact that Jones was a poor chief; though he was capable of creating innovative miniature computers, he was incapable of running the company. Without proper guidance and leadership, Wallaby would sooner or later fold.
As they headed from the court to the showers, William wiped his face with a towel and asked, “All right, Rolland, fess up. Why all the interest in Wallaby?”
“This is off the record, my friend. They called one of my best guys, Matthew Locke. They’re flying him to California to interview for a job as president.”
William felt the color drain from his face.
“Locke, as you know, is who I’m thinking about advancing into my slot when I retire in a few years,” Worthy said.
“Anyway, he stopped by my house last night and told me that he had gotten a call from a headhunter and was a candidate to take the lead at Wallaby, working with some kid named Peter Jones.”
William remained silent, praying that Worthy would go on and spill everything he knew about Wallaby and its interest in Locke.
“I think Matthew wanted me to tell him he was guaranteed my job when I retire. When I told him I couldn’t do that, not
Comments (0)