Chief Executive Officer

By Mark Hanson

Having a bad day at the office? How would you like to be CEO of a rapidly failing, 16 billion-dollar insurance corporation and you haven't a clue about what to do? Why? Because you are there by mistake. Your real life has been that of an angry, over-the-edge labor leader with a history of battling copper mine owners with unconventional skills learned in Vietnam. What about the urbane, Madison Avenue business fellow who is supposed to be CEO of the corporation? He is up in Montana trying to do your job running a large miners' union filled with thugs, torpedoes, and other assorted knuckle-breakers.

CHIEF EXECUTIVE OFFICER is the story of these two men, disillusioned with their own lives, making a stealthy switch and trying to run organizations for which they have neither training nor experience. In alien environments they battle to hold their jobs and keep their secret while facing hostile challenges ranging from computer crime to investigative reporters. Finally, an unexpected series of explosive events pit the two men against each other across the bargaining table in a struggle that can have only one victor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 29, 2000
• ISBN: 9781469771243

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All Rights Reserved © 2001 by Mark Hanson

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Contents

1

The Diner

2

The Interamerican Insurance Corporation

3

Lulu’s Place

4

Resignation

5

The Community Center

6

The Bank

7

The Dance

8

Chicago

9

The Encounter

10

The Negotiation

1

The Diner

Leo’s Diner, with food that shared the same ignoble reputation as the hazardous, winding county road it flanked, was the only dry spot open for fifty miles in any direction. The crackle of spitting grease on a hot griddle, pungent odor of over fried beef, pop of beer cans, and constant pinging of three pinball machines made up the unorchestrated sounds and smells that greeted each new arrival. A few crumpled newspapers with headlines announcing President Reagan’s new tax policies lay discarded in various corners of the room.

The cloistered truckers, with minds dulled by the late hour, were unhappy with the thought that the summer storm would be drenching the region at least until dawn. There was, however, one individual who remained alert. The cook and owner of the establishment drew the smoldering cigar butt from between his teeth and jammed it into a crust of burnt toast laying loosely on the worn butcher block.

The cook was vigilant, as always, because that is the way he had survived the dark years of the cold war. His real name was Boris Rhykov, but two generations of espionage agents in the CIA and INTERPOL knew him simply as, the Wolf. This identity had been given to the former colonel of the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti early in his career when it was discovered by the Russian Committee for State Security that Boris Rhykov was an individual of extraordinary skill. Few men could track and dispatch other men with equal prowess.

When the KGB was disbanded with the breakup of the Soviet Union, Colonel Rhykov did what the entire Russian nation was trying to do, he privatized. The Serbs, the Iranians, the Hezbollah, it didn’t matter who paid him; he was a professional who practiced his skill without showing favorites.

The ex KGB agent was now tired of running. For almost three years he had been retired and was now dedicating his energy to hiding. The diner had been acquired quite by accident. One night as he slept, the former Colonel fell off the back of a moving potato truck in central Indiana. Standing up, dusting himself off and taking one look around, the wanted man knew he had found a home. The boarded up diner was not at the end of the world, but it had to be somewhere nearby.

Following a ritual established the day the diner was opened for business, the cook placed an eye to a small hole drilled in the kitchen wall and glanced inquisitively at the gathering on the other side. During the early years his pulse always increased a fraction. Every night he looked for his enemy. More accurately, his enemies. He never knew who might be out there: the FBI, the military police, someone from Costa Mesa seeking revenge for a dead president, a face only vaguely familiar but still etched with traces of anger. More than any other, though, he looked for a face from the MASSADA. The Israeli’s never relented in their search.

For several months now his pulse took no note of this nightly ritual of examining the dining area. He knew his escape was complete. He was forever safe. Looking through the hole was now only a habit—a moment’s respite from the insatiable appetites of drivers ordering hamburger, fries, coffee and beer.

Aside from the full house, which greatly pleased him, nothing unusual could be seen this night. Only the finely sculpted fanny of Mary Lu offered any entertainment value as it would bob-and-weave, then shimmer ever so slightly under the tight fitting skirt as she bent over and stood up with the dirty plates. He wiped the beads of sweat off his forehead and put his eye back to the hole.

Brown-suit, a stranger to these parts, was surveyed as he sat at a corner table staring blankly over a steaming bowl of onion soup. Given his appearance, he fit like a Cadillac mixed in with a bunch of Ford tractors. The slightly crumpled slip of yellow paper lying on the table appeared to have him deep in thought.

The door suddenly flew open with a crash against the sterile green wall. The cook didn’t even have to look to know who would be walking in. Show time, he whispered softly with slight anticipation to the upcoming break in the incessant boredom.

Two drivers, one tall and thick with shaggy black hair, heavy eyebrows, and a two-day growth; the other, short with a powerful chest and bulging biceps displayed in a red muscle tee shirt, strode into the room like Ghengis Khan and Atilla the Hun. Please don’t bother to stand up you assholes! the thickset driver called out in a mocking voice. It’s only Yosemite Sam and Tony the Tiger who have dropped in to spread a bit of love and cheer.

The two mean-looking men, known only by their CB handles, were familiar to everyone on the Chicago to Miami run. Wherever they were, their sick and abusive chatter filled the airways. Their rig was known as the ugliest pig this side of Stalingrad and easily identifiable by the cloud of blue smoke, the smell of oil, and the rusted-out body that assaulted the senses whenever it was on your side of the horizon.

No one invited the two newcomers to sit at their table. Not so much because of their insufferable personalities, as truckers are typically very tolerant people; but because the two were thought to keep their rig on the road by stealing parts from other trucks. A few drivers had openly accused them of theft only to end up in the hospital with multiple fractures. The two were never mistaken for God’s gift to humanity.

The cook popped the top off a cold can of beer and took several gulps. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he resumed looking at the developing scene. Everyone in the room, except the man in the brown suit, realized that Yosemite and Tony were about to put on their show. The audience was in place. The only doubt was who would be made part of the act.

The door of the diner opened once again and a man, partially hidden by the two drivers, entered the room. Yosemite and Tony smiled as they glanced at each other and then the newcomer. The cook didn’t smile. Something was wrong. The wrong set of signals was going off in his body. It was as if an alarm, long since dormant and almost forgot-ten—for over two years—suddenly began to ring softly. Boris was confused. He had checked the dining area and there was no threat out there. But yet that alarm was getting louder. Adrenaline began to pulse through his body. Quickly, he repeated his search of the faces.

The newcomer, another stranger to these parts, was dressed in offthe-rack blue denims, a faded plaid shirt, and worn to the ragged-edge cowboy boots. He set off toward the corner of the room where the only empty chair could be found—across the table from brown-suit. To the few that bothered to look up, the newcomer looked more like a local farmer than a driver.

Excitement could almost be seen building on the faces of Yosemite Sam and Tony the Tiger as they eagerly waited to take the stage. Mary Lu screamed. Tony had grabbed a handful of that much admired ass of Mary Lu’s, and she took profound exception to the liberty. The piercing cry of protest captured everyone’s attention thus making a surprise attack that much easier.

The cook paid no attention to Mary Lu’s protest, just as he ignored the adolescent actions of Yosemite and Tony. He had to find the source of danger to himself.

Suddenly, the realization hit and it almost took his breath away. A diversion. It was absolutely brilliant. The target was not out front but in the kitchen. He was the target. The Russian, heart racing, nerves bracing for a crushing blow from behind, picked up a twelve-inch knife in a practiced move and spun around.

The hanging rows of dented pots and pans dangling like dismembered skulls and bones mocked his fears. Except for the ghosts of his past, the kitchen was empty. Even the help had gone out front to watch the fight. He was alone except for his tiny warning bell.

Tony, the redhead, sporting a broken nose, two missing front teeth and a humorless smile, grasped brown-suit by the necktie and jerked the startled man out of his chair. Thanks for the seat, he said with a casual sweetness, not unlike a waiter asking you if you enjoyed your meal. Tony’s breath seemed to stagger the man almost as much as the necktie garroting. Brown-suit’s face began to turn blue as his eyes bulged. Tony loved the emotion of terror.

At the same time, Yosemite stepped into his part with a passion. Don’t you see this here table is reserved? he said as he jammed his palm into the farmer’s chest and shoved him forcefully away from the table. The farmer, caught by surprise, first tried to step aside. Yosemite wouldn’t let that happen. The show must go on. At six foot, seven inches and 260 pounds, Yosemite was accustomed to deference.

You tried to take my chair! Yosemite said, turning up the volume and shoving even harder. Now ya little shit, the huge driver almost shouted, that’s a sign of disrespect! We don’t take that from assholes like you! Yosemite turned and winked at Tony who was too busy throttling brown-suit to take notice.

None of the drivers did anything to intervene. It might only be an act to Yosemite and Tony, but if someone tried to interrupt their routine, he would pay dearly. In any case, who cared? They were two strangers. From here the performance was routine. The two bullies would perform a couple of body slams, being sure to break a respectable number of plates and glasses. Then a quick toss out the door and the show would be over. Everyone could return to scratching, eating or sleeping or whatever was their choice at this hour. Then came the surprise.

Probably very little could be said about Yosemite Sam’s mother that wasn’t true, but coming in a loud, angry voice from a farmer in front of the audience was beyond belief. What happened next was the subject of much sparkling conversation on the CB channels through the central corridor for the next few days. Everyone who was there was much in demand to tell what had happened. It had all happened so fast that everyone seemed to tell a somewhat different story. The convergence of flying soup, crashing fists, painful cries, and crumpling bodies got considerably mixed with reality and perceptions of reality. Only the cook clearly saw what happened.

Boris Rykov’s warning bell had been silenced. A man of extraordinary skill was in his establishment, but the former KGB agent knew he was not the target. Perhaps it was the way the stranger held himself or looked around the room keeping his body in just the right position. Maybe it was his eyes—dark, cold, ominous, aware. Whatever it was, Rhykov now knew that the man who had entered the room was no farmer. The man was a younger image of himself. Not a physical image. In appearance, the new arrival looked more like brown-suit than himself.

Predators, that’s what the two of them were. In different times and places, but nonetheless predators. Probably the very best among a small group of wolves. These special few could recognize each other. Who could say how.

The new arrival tried to avoid what was coming until several hard shoves in his chest pushed him an inch too far. Yosemite didn’t see or even sense it coming. Like a twenty-pound sledge swung with blinding speed, the stranger’s knee struck him square in the groin. Yosemite first appeared bolted to the floor with a sour lemon expression on his face, but only for the time necessary for brain to connect to body. A searing pain exploded in his bowels and ripped through every organ of his body. Writhing in agony, the huge driver dropped to his knees clutching his vital parts as if trying to hold together the shards of a shattered light bulb. Then came two crunching fists in rapid order; the first lifted the trucker off his feet, and the second knocked him crashing down on a table of startled drivers. Chivalry was obviously not the stranger’s strongest quality.

The cook saw that the stranger was momentarily out of position. Know your enemy is rule number one, and there was no way the new arrival could know how quick Tony was. With a bit of training, Tony the Tiger could have been a real tiger.

A fraction of a second too late the stranger shifted to dodge a viciously swung bottle of ketchup. At the last instant, however, a scalding bowl of soup tossed directly into Tony’s face disrupted his aim. The Russian scratched the itching stubble on his face and had to admit that brown-suit was not as impotent as he looked.

Still unable to straighten up, Yosemite was collected enough to realize that the excruciating pain in his bowels and face had been joined by a near splintering pain in his hand. Gaining some capacity to consider his situation, he saw that the man he thought was a farmer had a full-fisted grip on his little finger as well as Tony’s. The stranger’s face was intense and angry.

The cook could see that the newcomer was trying to keep his emotions from gaining control of his acts. The hold he had on the two little fingers was a good one. Rykov had used it many times himself in the old days to make people tell everything they knew. It could simultaneously paralyze and create great fear without leaving marks on the body. That is, unless it became necessary to rip off the finger.

But, there was one problem with this particular hold. Everyone in the diner knew that when the stranger released Yosemite and Tony, nothing short of the Indiana National Guard would hold them back.

The stranger relaxed his grip just enough for the intermittent pleading and threatening to cease. He fixed his eyes on the two drivers who had accosted him and whispered something, as if revealing a deep secret. Everyone in the vicinity tried to listen in. The voice didn’t carry beyond the intended audience of two. The room was silent as a tomb. No one ate, drank, or even shuffled his feet. Yosemite and Tony finally had the complete attention of the audience.

Brown-suit, sitting nervously at his table, watched with the bewildered expression of a man who was in somebody else’s bad dream. The crumpled telegram, now dampened by the soup, was no longer the center of his thoughts. He unconsciously swallowed the two times the farmer motioned with his head and eyes toward his table, now littered with the remains of scattered noodles. Brown-suit ardently hoped he wasn’t being included in anybody’s battle plan.

Yosemite for the first time looked into the face of his enemy. Only then did the big trucker realize his mistake as he stared into the black, searing eyes of a cold blooded killer.

Suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, the two drivers were released. The silence in the room was complete. Everyone waited for Yosemite and Tony to attack unmercifully. Everyone, that is, but the cook. He knew. He knew before anyone else what was going to happen. The actual words the stranger had whispered to the two truckers were unknown, but the cook saw it in the changing expressions of the two drivers. The hunter had somehow put the fear of God in them.

Glancing neither right nor left, Tony ran for the door and into the blackness and cold rain. Yosemite shuffled quickly behind still hunched over as if holding himself together. Everyone in Leo’s Diner watched in disbelief. Of all the possible endings to this little drama, no one had considered this one. The cook withdrew his eye from the small hole in the wall, stuck a cigar between his smiling lips and lit up.

The diner filled with puzzled conversation. No one asked the stranger what he had said. That would be against the code, like asking a poker player what he held after forcing everyone at the table to fold.

Applause and good-natured cheering enveloped the dining area as the assembled truckers signaled their appreciation of a good performance. To brown-suit’s apparent surprise, he too was included in the respectful praise delivered by the appreciative audience and felt somewhat embarrassed. The stranger ignored them all.

William Henderson, whom most people in the diner correctly assumed to be some type of business executive, brushed a few flecks of soup off his brown suit and stood up to greet his benefactor, or perhaps companion at arms if the truckers’ definition was accepted. But the executive knew better. His heart was still pounding the congo in several simultaneous rhythms, and sweat soaked his collar. What he had just witnessed, and briefly participated in, just didn’t happen to someone like himself. People from his world were immune from this sort of thing. Harvard graduates lived at another level. A level where people didn’t have bad breath, had all their teeth, and no one touched your clothes.

A close look at the man approaching the table told William Henderson that his unpleasant experience in this god forsaken diner was not yet over. The executive knew instinctively that he would feel exceptionally uncomfortable with the man about to join him.

It wasn’t the way the man looked, for he did indeed look like a farmer somewhere in his late thirties, about his own age, dressed in faded clothes bleached in the sun rather than a modern dryer. The scuffed and worn cowboy boots could easily have spent the better part of their existence trudging through manure in a barn or pushing the pedals of a huge grain combine. Even his hands fit the setting. Hardened and calloused, they were no strangers to work. Clean nails.

The man’s face was rough-hewn, with a broad forehead topped by thick unruly black hair showing a hint of a part on the left side. The slightly crushed nose, sun darkened cheeks, stubborn and unshaven chin fit a face that had been around the block—no doubt several times. The thin lines beginning to form on his forehead might have come from standing in the fields over the years anxiously searching the horizon for rain clouds to come, or perhaps go away. But this wasn’t the case.

His eyes were dark blue, almost black, and possessed a commanding quality that seemed to assault what they examined. The executive forced himself to return the stare. The man in the brown suit knew he was about to meet someone with a past. His stomach was tied in such a knot that he began asking questions without introducing himself.

What on earth did you say to them? Being a bridge player, he did-n’t know the code.

Back home folks call me, Billy, the newcomer said with a coarse good-old-boy twang as he eased himself into the chair. Somehow the executive wasn’t surprised. No words of thanks came from the stranger regarding that very important toss of the soup. It was as though the man assumed everyone would carry his own weight in a scrap, and no thanks were necessary. Then, like a man with a big thirst, the newcomer took a long swig of beer and slowly returned the bottle to the table, as if that would help prolong the refreshing feeling.

After licking his lips, he assessed the situation. People like them two goddamned, sons-a-bitches got no class, he said, and then proceeded to drain the bottle. For pitch and pentameter, Henderson gave the belch that followed about a nine on the execution scale and a four on the Richter Scale. He bit down on a quiet smile. This was one man he did-n’t wish to aggravate.

Placing a long cigar between his teeth, the newcomer fished a wooden match from his shirt pocket and snapped a thumbnail across the tiny red top. It instantly burst into a thick, red flame that was then slowly sucked into the end of the cigar. Had it not been for one small thing, Henderson might of thought he was watching Bogart do that same trick at the bar in Casablanca. Only Bogie’s hand hadn’t had a slight shake as he held the match.

After blowing a plume of gray smoke into the air, the stranger seemed settled. Not much to tell. Actually, it wasn’t me that made them assholes run out of here, he said matter-of-factly. It was you. The man’s voice was cold and emotionless. Henderson involuntarily coughed several times to clear his windpipe. His puzzled look demanded an explanation. Frankly, it weren’t no big deal, the stranger began as if he really didn’t want to spend time on something that didn’t matter anymore.

After I got their attention, I pointed you out as Migelangelo Buonarroti, consigliere of the Chicago Bertoldo family here to check some truckloads of recently liberated television sets. And, the last time a couple of truckers screwed around with you they were found cremated in their trucks discovered at the bottom of a lake six months later. I suspect they’re still out there somewhere hauling ass on some country road looking for cover. Henderson’s coarse table partner permitted himself a thin smile with that last thought.

The executive’s mind mulled the explanation for a brief second before he broke into spontaneous laughter. The fact that the explanation behind the quick departure of the two ignoble truck drivers was such a ludicrous fabrication was in itself funny, but to William Henderson the choice of the two Chicago family members—Michelangelo Buonarroti and Bertoldo—was even funnier. The fifteenth-century Florentine sculptor and his famous teacher were many things, but killers they were not. His assessment of Billy changed to some extent. The evil looking man across the table was by no means uneducated. Maybe not in school, but he had learned something somewhere.

The business executive was by nature a curious person. He couldn’t remember ever having met someone like Billy except at the bargaining table arguing with union officials. Were you afraid? he asked, wondering what went through the mind of someone in the face of real danger.

After waiting a few seconds to down another half bottle of beer, his companion replied. Yeah. Henderson suspected that wasn’t the entire answer. The reflective expression on the other man’s face suggested something else was coming. I don’t suppose I was all that afraid of them pukes. More like I was afraid of me. His hands were still shaking slightly as he toyed with the bottle in front of him. I was afraid I’d lose it. Like, lose control of me. Maybe do some real fuckin’ damage. I do that sometimes. Billy’s eyes had now changed; they were no longer hard and cold. They were tired and burdened.

Where did you learn… Henderson tried to find just the right inoffensive term, your skills?

The stranger’s eyes, which were constantly monitoring the room as if looking for someone, finally met the executive’s eyes. You go to Vietnam? he asked as if the very question would provide the answer.

Henderson knew the truth to the question would not be pleasant, but he had always been honest about it. Canada, he said blankly.

It figures, came the reply, along with a sigh. I shoulda knowed. People like you didn’t… The thought went unfinished. But Henderson knew how it would have ended. Neither could add anything to a debate nobody cared about anymore, so why push it.

Several minutes passed before another word was spoken. Neither man much cared for the company of the other, but there was nowhere else to sit. When Billy next spoke he was back in Vietnam, as he frequently was at this late hour. He spoke about it, mostly to himself, recalling other rainstorms as if to pass the time. "A hundred nights I sat out in the jungle, under a tree in the dark, in the rain on a night like this. M-16 on my lap. Claymores spread out on a trail in front. I remember every minute of every one of those nights. A Claymore would sometimes go off and I’d lay down as much goddamned lead as any man could.

One night I was sitting in the rain blowing the hell out of a bunch of people in black suits that I couldn’t see, and then twenty-four hours later I was back in Albuquerque drinking beer in a bar in Old Town. Some of those bodies were still out in that field, and I was in Albuquerque. How do you explain that? Billy’s hands were shaking even more noticeably as he continued talking about the war, and life after the war, as if words would purge his soul of some kind of evil spirit that visited him on nights like this.

Sometime earlier the two had ordered. The executive stared down at the meal just delivered and wondered what it was. He remembered ordering veal cutlets, but the two tough slabs of meat sitting defiantly on his plate reminded him of nothing he had ever seen before. While the food might be a paleontologist’s dream, Henderson wasn’t ready for a gastronomic adventure this night, so he pushed the plate aside and reached for the bread. His dining companion didn’t seem to take exception to whatever it was he was eating.

When I finally got a regular job, Billy continued as he cut, chewed and talked simultaneously, it was something I was trained to do.

Labor union, right? the executive asked. He knew the type. For years union leaders had been monumental pains in the ass to him.

Yeah, how’d ya know? the man got out between swallows.

Lucky guess. Go on.

In my early days I worked in the copper mines in northern New Mexico. He went on to explain how his father had been killed in a mine cave-in. At fifteen he had been forced to leave school and go into the mines himself in order to provide for his mother and himself.

As a kid I never swung a bat…I swung a hammer. I never ran for touchdowns…I ran for my fuckin’ life down a tunnel yelling ‘fire in the hole’ after lighting the fuses. His eyes fixed on the bottle in front of him as if it were a crystal replaying scenes long since repressed.

Outside the rain still fell. As truckers entered the diner they would one by one stamp their feet and shake out their coats. The labor leader continued rummaging through his past as if trying to make some sense out of it for himself. A guy oughta have good memories of growing up. For the first time Henderson noted some emotion creeping into the voice of his table companion.

The two men were now drinking hard liquor. The biting liquid fire seemed to open doors long since closed in the labor leader’s mind. Talking to a stranger didn’t cost anything. On a rainy night like this one, a stranger is like your local bartender. They don’t really count.

To make a few bucks I went back into the mines, Billy continued. My first day back…no, my first ten minutes back…I remembered how much I hated it and why. Those mines were death traps in hell holes. He explained how he began to organize the workers. Others had tried to organize the miners but when that happened the owners bought them off, got them plush jobs in other states, or fired them. If all else failed, the owners just got them thrown into jail on some trumped-up charge long enough for them to get the message. They usually did, and in a hurry.

Billy knew that the big difference between himself and the others was that he didn’t care if he ended up with his head on a pole. First he had tried to work in secret, but when discovered, he was fired. That didn’t stop him. The labor leader drained another glass. I finally realized that if we were going to win anything, we would have to go on the offensive and put the kind of pressure on them that they had been putting on us. For me it was like going back to the war. Mostly I worked with plastic explosives. I’d put on black clothes, charcoal my face, and go to work. I caved in mine shafts, blew the shit out of railway equipment, wrecked power generators, trucks, cars…damn near everything that pulled, pushed or dug. I don’t think I ever killed anyone, but a lot of guys got tore up.

Both men took another drink. Like the copper miner he once was, Billy kept digging deeper and deeper into his memories. I knew I was in trouble…I mean it was as if I’d never left Nam. When you are out there on the thin edge, you gotta hold on.

What did you hold onto?

I read a lot of stuff—poetry, history, even geography. In fact, I am a proud past president of the Jules Verne Study Club.

The Jules Verne Study Club? the executive asked almost involuntarily, as he tried to stifle a laugh.

Yeah. It’s located in the pastor’s study of the First Baptist Church in Santa Fe. Mostly it’s made up of about seven or eight guys like me who, for one reason or another, took a wrong turn somewhere down the road. We read about big events and ideas, and then discuss them at our meetings. It’s kinda like the AA, but at the other end of the scale.

Billy’s tough facial features relaxed momentarily as if recalling a pleasant memory.One of the highlights of my life,he continued,obviously enjoying the thought, was the night I gave a long report on the dismemberment of the Ottoman Empire following World War I. Those seven guys grilled me like they was Supreme Court justices. You would-n’t think that a butcher, two cab drivers, a preacher, a bartender, a baseball coach and a policeman would give a shit, but they did. They really made me earn my Jules Verne Achievement Award.

The Jules Verne Achievement Award? Henderson asked politely.

Yeah, the labor leader replied. It ain’t no Nobel Prize, but it’s about as close as eight guys in the preacher’s study of the First Baptist Church in Santa Fe are ever going to get.

The more the coarse and unpolished labor leader spoke, the more aware the business executive became that there was a real person underneath that rough exterior. Certainly, he wasn’t a predictable, or even a likeable individual, but clearly the man had some human virtues.

The labor leader now seemed almost relaxed as he turned to the events of the past few years. Union organization in the mine fields was finally accepted by the owners, and Billy turned himself into a first-rate labor negotiator at the bargaining table for many different types of organizations. The instincts he had sharpened in this years of operating outside the law, skill at alternating pressure and bluff, and the willingness to risk everything if the stakes were great enough, had served him well. But it didn’t make him happy. He still had to lead demonstrations, which at times became riots, and bare knuckle his way out of desperate situations.

In my line of work I do a hell of a lot of damage. I fight against guys like you. It’s guys like you that try to screw the working man every day of his life.

The business executive swallowed, but took the challenge. Are you fighting guys like me, or are we filling in for the Viet Cong?

At three in the morning, the truckers began filing out of the diner. The rain had reduced to a light drizzle. Most of the drivers of company trucks now felt that the margin of safety was sufficient to pull onto the road with their loads. Those drivers who owned their rigs stayed in the diner for about another hour. The two strangers at the corner table did-n’t appear to notice.

You know what really scares the shit outa me? Billy asked brown-suit. Not waiting, he answered his own question. What scares the shit out of me is that I can’t hardly separate right from wrong no more. It hardly occurs to me that maybe the other guy’s got a point, too. Sometimes I just punch them out so I don’t have to listen ‘cause it’s easier that way. Billy took out a bright red handkerchief and wiped his face. The pitch of his voice dropped slightly and the cadence slowed. Earlier tonight I looked into the face of that asshole, Yosemite Sam. He took a deep breath. I saw me.

As if in a confessional, William Henderson listened to the labor union leader reveal the sorrowful script of his life. The periodic crash of a plate to the floor or the tipping over of a chair did not disrupt the flow of words. As he listened, the business executive reflected on his own life and tried to fathom where it had gone wrong. Few people could have asked for a better beginning than his. Four years at Harvard College followed by two postgraduate years in business finance at Yale had opened all the doors any young man had the right to dream about.

William Henderson knew what he wanted, and that was to be a corporate executive. Not just any corporate executive. He would be a mover and shaker of an entire industry.

While in graduate school he studied hard, as well as searched for an industry that was about to blossom in the financial world. Seeing the inner core of cities beginning to die throughout America, Henderson finally placed his bet on suburban shopping centers. With a Phi Beta Kappa key and an honors thesis in hand, he had put away his baseball glove and picked up a silver-trimmed briefcase as the solid symbol of his existence.

For the next seventeen years, Henderson had been a hard-driving corporate executive who, through applied intelligence and long hours, had risen almost to the top of a large Florida-based corporation specializing in the design and development of the mushrooming shopping center industry. However, the incessant drive to reach the top, the years of putting the needs of the company before the needs of the human condition, and an immense fear of failure, had made a casualty of him. If the corporate climb up had been like ascending a great hill, the road down had been like falling off a cliff.

At some point in the evening, he wasn’t sure when, the executive realized he was telling his story and not just thinking it. His table companion was patiently listening, drinking and slurping spaghetti. The executive began to whisper as if he were entering a tomb of his mind that he had tried to keep sealed from himself and the world.

"My company was a big outfit that developed and sold shopping centers—package deals, the land, architecture, construction, promotion—the whole works. Most of the time, especially in the beginning, we did well for ourselves and the people who bought what we had to offer. But then the company began to get greedy. Being a VIP in the company, I was expected to support policy like everyone else…and I did. I wasn’t about to