Sincerely, Willis Wayde (29 page)

“That's a pretty hot one, a waffle iron,” Mr. Hawley said.

“It was a pretty hot iron for her too,” Willis answered.

“Oh, boy,” Mr. Hawley said, “did you get that one, Pete? I've got to remember that one at the Orono Club.” He cleared his throat. “That's in Cleveland. I get in twice a week to grab a bite of lunch at the Orono.”

“How about another short snort, Chief?” Pete Judkins asked.

Mr. Hawley frowned and handed the second vice president his glass. “Just a light one, Pete. Say, Willis, do you know what I always tell my boys?”

Willis laughed. You always had to get into the spirit of the moment.

“I'd really like to know, Chief,” he said.

“Come here, Pete,” Mr. Hawley said. “Willis, you take a good look at Pete.”

Willis laughed again and took a good look at Mr. Judkins.

“I'll tell you something about Pete confidentially,” Mr. Hawley said, and he lowered his voice elaborately. “Pete's all right except when it comes to women. I practically wet-nursed you, didn't I, Pete, and look where you are today.”

“Still with the old chain gang, Chief,” Mr. Judkins said, and he smiled to indicate it was all good clean fun.

“You know,” Mr. Hawley said, “I've got the finest, most loyal crowd around me that there is in any God-damn organization in this whole beautiful country. My boys make me proud, and seriously, just a little humble too. We're all for one and one for all in Pneumatic Tool, and—well, here's what I tell the boys. Work hard and play hard.”

It was amazing how clearly Willis could remember the scene. He already knew that you should never underestimate anyone like Mr. Hawley. If he sounded fatuous and silly, it was well to remember that he wasn't. None of them were. They were all lions in the cage.

“Personally,” Mr. Hawley said, “I believe in having a lot of fun.”

“Say, Chief,” Mr. Judkins said, “don't you think we ought to be going?”

“Yes,” Mr. Hawley said, “but let me make my point.”

Mr. Rose had returned from the bathroom, and they all waited for Mr. Hawley to make his point, and this was somewhat difficult, because Mr. Hawley appeared to have forgotten just what point he was making.

“Personally,” Mr. Hawley said, “I used to be quite a playboy, but I have to watch the skitches now.”

Everyone laughed sympathetically, and Mr. Hawley cleared his throat.

“The greatest playboy I ever knew in business,” he said, “happens to have one of the finest organizational minds I know, and he is a very dear close personal friend of mine. I don't know how he still keeps it up at his age. His name is Percy L. Nagel, and P.L. is a sweetheart.”

There was a moment's respectful silence. The name came out of the past, but Willis was always good at names.

“Is that Mr. Nagel of Simcoe Rubber Hose and Belting?” Willis asked.

“It certainly is,” Mr. Hawley said. “Were you ever acquainted with P. L. Nagel?”

It all went to prove that it paid to remember names and faces.

“I only just met him,” Willis said. “It was when I was working in a small plant in Massachusetts—the Harcourt Mill. Mr. Nagel wanted to buy the mill.”

“Son,” Mr. Hawley said, “you can shake hands with me again. Any friend of P.L.'s is always a friend of mine.”

“I just happened to meet him,” Willis said. “There isn't any reason why he should remember me.”

“Don't you fool yourself, son,” Mr. Hawley said. “P.L. remembers like an elephant and he's a very dear friend of mine.”

“Say, Chief,” Mr. Judkins began.

Mr. Hawley waved his hand.

“Don't crowd me, boys,” he said. “Let me make my point. I believe in fun, but life isn't all fun either. There are finer things in life.”

Mr. Hawley looked around him sharply, but everyone was listening.

“Life isn't all play,” he said, “and it isn't all work. A well-rounded man makes all sorts of contacts. I like queer people. I like preachers except on Sunday.”

Everyone laughed heartily, but Mr. Hawley raised his hand. “Just a minute, fellows,” he said. “Just a minute—let me make my point. I suppose you think I'm a silly old crock, don't you?”

Everyone laughed gaily.

“Now, for instance,” Mr. Hawley said, “about three years ago we were selling some drills to Rothstein Mining and Development. You remember sitting around the table with those people, don't you, Pete?”

“Yes, Chief, I certainly do,” Mr. Judkins said.

“It was a real experience,” Mr. Hawley said. “Everything's a real experience, even down to the socialist sons of bitches in Washington.”

Everyone laughed, but Mr. Hawley raised his hand.

“There were all sorts of experts around that table—mining engineers and geologists and things like that—among whom was a college professor.”

Mr. Hawley cleared his throat again. “I don't recall why the Rothstein people had retained that professor, but he was a real contact. He knew about fishes and red sandstone, and he wrote a book which he presented me with, personally inscribed. His name was Hodges. He's a professor of geology from Harvard University.”

“Chief,” Mr. Judkins said, “we really ought to be going.”

“All right, Pete,” Mr. Hawley said, “but let me make my point. My point is that my acquaintance with this Professor Hodges was a real experience. Get my coat, will you, Rosey?”

It was strange how the name had come up out of nowhere. For a moment Willis was undecided whether or not to say anything, but finally he spoke.

“The fishes were called ganoids, weren't they?”

“Say,” Mr. Hawley asked him, “how the hell did you know that?”

“Why, I happened to know Professor Hodges myself in Cambridge quite a while ago,” Willis answered. It was strange to think that Professor Hodges could be useful to him in a business way.

“Say,” Mr. Hawley said, “I forgot you were a Harvard man.” He looked at Willis suspiciously, and Willis felt out of the group for a moment.

“Not really a Harvard man,” he said quickly, “only Harvard Business School,” and the tension around him relaxed.

“Say,” Mr. Hawley said, “when did you see the old prof last?”

“Oh, not for quite a while,” Willis answered, and he still spoke easily, “but I happened to have tea with his daughter just this afternoon at the Plaza.”

“Well, son,” Mr. Hawley said, “that's a fascinating coincidence. Those contacts never do anyone a bit of harm. That's exactly the point I've been trying to make. Now what was that one about the girl sitting on the waffle iron?”

For a moment Willis could not imagine how he could go through a whole evening with Mr. Hawley and his two employees. He was sure that he was a better man than Mr. Hawley ever had been in his best days. He hoped that he would never be as boring after two drinks as Mr. Nat Hawley. There were, as Mr. Hawley had said, finer things in life, and Willis had a sudden sharp desire for them, and this may have been why his mind went back to Sylvia Hodges.

When they were on the street waiting for the doorman to call a taxi, Mr. Judkins squeezed his arm affectionately.

“The chief is in quite a mood tonight,” Mr. Judkins said. “You made a real hit with the chief upstairs.”

“Thanks,” Willis said. “That makes me very happy.”

It made him happy, but not in the way that he implied. It was dangerous to underestimate anyone, but Willis believed that he could handle anyone like Mr. Hawley. All at once he knew as sure as fate that he could strike Mr. Beakney for a raise to ten thousand dollars a year—and get it—because those unpalatable minutes in that hotel suite had made him harder and shrewder. As a matter of fact he asked Mr. Beakney for exactly that increase in salary on Monday afternoon, after the contract with Hawley Pneumatic Tool was signed.

You never knew that you had been changing until after you had changed. He did not know how much five years in New York had influenced him until he found himself facing Mr. Robert Beakney without nervousness or apprehension, and this would not have been possible a year before. The truth was that he was beginning to know Mr. Beakney rather well, and when you knew someone, your respect might grow, but you were bound to lose your awe.

Willis had been told, and he believed it, that he had a future in Beakney-Graham. He had worked his way from the outer office to the row of cubicles in the inner office set aside for junior executives, and recently he had become one of five who worked across the corridor from the partners. He did not rate a leather-upholstered couch as yet, but his name was on his door as large as the names of the other four men who had space beside him. His office came first, and next to him was Hal Towle, graduate of Cal Tech, next Cliff Schirmer, who handled legal problems, and then came Bud Reed, who had been hired from DuPont, and finally Milton Rouse, who had gained his training with International Paper and Power. Beakney-Graham depended on personality, so that all those juniors were hand-picked for ability and presentable exterior. Though competition was so keen that you learned not to trust anyone completely, still there was a spirit of companionship in the inner offices. As Mr. Beakney had pointed out to Willis when he had been moved there—there were always tempting offers from other firms, and Beakney-Graham must count on loyalty. Ability came first but loyalty was second. There were always young men waiting for your place, but if you stayed, as Mr. Beakney said, there was a real future. Actually Willis had seen two men leave Beakney-Graham in the past year, but he had no desire to follow them, because he was grateful to the firm and devoted to Joe McKitterick, who had placed him where he was. Of course he spoke to Mr. McKitterick first, being careful to explain that he was perfectly happy, with no complaint about anything.

“It only seems to me that I'm worth more than I'm getting,” he said, “but stop me if you don't agree.”

Mr. McKitterick looked pained, of course, as anyone would who had to deal with such requests.

“All right,” he said, “go in and see Beakney, but Bob isn't going to like it. I thought you were perfectly happy.”

“I am,” Willis said, “perfectly happy, Joe.”

“Then who's been making you unhappy?” Mr. McKitterick asked.

“No one, Joe,” Willis said. “I just feel I'm worth more than I'm getting.”

Mr. McKitterick drummed his fingers on his desk.

“Willis,” he said, “there's such a thing as pushing too hard.”

“If that's what you really think,” Willis said, “I won't push this any more.”

“No,” Mr. McKitterick said. “Frankly, I told Beakney the other day he ought to do something about you. I don't want you walking out of here just when I've got you into shape. Go ahead in and see him. He's alone right now.”

There was no wonder that Willis had a warm spot in his heart for Joe McKitterick, because Willis never could forget that Joe McKitterick got him in there at the beginning of the depression, but at the same time it was due to his own ability that he had stayed.

“Well, thanks, Joe,” he said, “I guess I will go in and see him,” and was surprised at the matter-of-fact way he said it.

“You've certainly moved on since I saw you there in Massachusetts,” Mr. McKitterick said. “I never thought you'd get hard to handle.”

“Don't say that, Joe,” Willis told him. “You know I'd do anything for you.”

“I didn't mean it that way,” Mr. McKitterick said. “Actually I'm rather proud you're getting hard to handle.”

In his own thoughts, the few yards Willis walked to Mr. Beakney's corner office was a highly symbolic journey. Willis remembered his curiosity and confusion when he had first been called to Mr. Beakney's office with a set of organizational blueprints, but now he was near the end of that long walk. Miss Harrison was typing in the small reception room. The typewriter had the sound of rustling leaves stirred by a gentle wind.

“Hello, May,” Willis said, because he could call her May now. “Do you think the boss could see me for a minute?”

She pressed a button on the interoffice telephone. “Mr. Wayde,” she said, “wonders if you might give him a few moments, Mr. Beakney.” Then she smiled at Willis. “Yes, you can go right in.”

Mr. Beakney's corner office afforded a fine view of the Hudson and the Jersey shore. An office, Mr. Beakney often said, should be a place for thought and work, and the man who occupied it ought to be man enough to stand out by himself without the assistance of interior decoration. At any rate, in Willis's opinion Mr. Beakney was one of the best salesmen he had ever known. Mr. Beakney, when you came to think of it, was manipulating a collection of brains he had gathered around him, and also such invisible things as integrity, confidence, and experience. You had to be good to explain those to a customer, and they all had to be inherent in yourself as an individual, expressed and subtly emphasized. On entering his office you had an impression of the hazy city and then of two or three college diplomas, one of them honorary, which were the only decorations. You always saw Mr. Beakney first, a carefully tailored man, gray at the temples, with aquiline, mobile features, who without the slightest effort could shift himself from mood to mood. Like other young men in the office, Willis must have unconsciously imitated parts of Mr. Beakney's manner until he had become proficient.

“Well, well, Willis,” Mr. Beakney said, “the day is nearly over and night is drawing nigh. Sit down and let's look at the view. It's a city of stone and steel, isn't it?”

“Yes, sir,” Willis said, “it looks beautiful from here.”

“Stone and steel,” Mr. Beakney said. “That was a phrase I used when I was addressing the chemists' convention the other night. Have you seen a copy of my speech yet?”

“Yes, sir,” Willis said, “I read it.”