Pathway to Glory: A Novel

By Edmund Schiavoni

This first-rate, “page-turning” novel unfolds when the protagonist, Paul Stevens, attempts to take over the giant corporation that he is chief financial executive of by boldly initiating a proxy contest against its incumbent management. This plot teems with high adventure, political intrigue, and the avariciousness that the machinations of Wall Street and lust for power consume him with prior to committing this act…and the havoc he’s encumbered with after its execution. The idea for this story evolved from two phrases: one, “Sorrow is the seed of holiness,” formulated by a now-deceased cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church and the other, “It is in defeat that we become Christian,” coined by Hemingway in his novel, A Farewell to Arms. Thus, this story, with its pathos, comedic moments, as well as high adventure, gives the reader a panoramic view of the American scene and the Machiavellian schemes that its work ethic spawn and is much more than just another narrative about big business or the good and evil that vie within all of us because, besides that, it has a compelling message for everyone living in today’s anxious world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jul 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781645368830

Edmund Schiavoni

Edmund Schiavoni has a degree in business administration from Seton Hall University, an MBA from New York University and many years of experience as a financial executive of a Fortune 500 company. Besides this novel, Mr. Schiavoni is a songwriter, screenwriter, playwright, and in addition to the aforementioned, he is the sole creator of "Georgine," a musical for which he composed the music, lyrics and libretto and is destined to be seen on Broadway.

Book preview

Dedication

This novel is dedicated to those who know where their treasure truly lies.

Copyright Information ©

Edmund Schiavoni (2021)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Schiavoni, Edmund

Pathway to Glory

ISBN 9781645363149 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781645363132 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781645368830 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020909722

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First edition published by Author House Copyright (2006)

Second Edition Published (2021)

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 33rd Floor, Suite 3302

New York, NY 10005

USA

[e-mail]

[phone]

This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to companies and actual persons, living or dead (except as noted below) is purely coincidental.

The following details of the story though are factual: the description of economic conditions in America in 1967 as well as its war sentiments and dilemmas pertaining thereto; reference to a 1964 Securities and Exchange Commission decree pertaining to its surveillance of publicly owned companies; the depiction of living conditions on Manhattan’s Bowery Street and how The New York Times characterized the locale; the existence of the now-deceased Cardinal Antonelli of the Roman Catholic Church, and Ernest Hemingway, and the statements attributed respectively to them; and, finally, the locales of: Cold Spring Harbor, Little Neck, Huntington Station and Manhattan in the state of New York.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the publisher and author.

Wherever your treasure lies, there your heart will be.

– Luke, Chapter 12, Verse 34.

I

It was the summer of 1967. A period of much discontent as well as enthusiasm in the United States. Americans were discontented with the war in Vietnam. Some because of America’s involvement in such a war, others for the country’s inability to end it, either diplomatically or militarily, the same dilemmas faced by this nation in Afghanistan.

Many Americans, however, despite their discontent, had it better than they ever did before. Personal income was at an all-time high, and notwithstanding the fact that the economy hadn’t fared that well the previous year, things were, indeed, looking up again, or so it seemed.

Even the president’s request for a ten-percent surcharge against personal and corporate incomes to help pay for the rising cost of the Vietnam War could not prevent a large segment of the public from believing that there would soon be a sharp upturn in economic activity.

Many of the closely watched economic indices bore witness, sustained, and gave impetus to the dissemination of this belief that summer of 1967. And the optimism that fostered fanned the ardor of this belief into something of a gospel.

Paul Stevens was one of those discontented people, but for a different reason. With two young sons and a wife six months into another pregnancy to support, his seven-year marriage had seen him become increasingly disenchanted with his lot in life. Not that he wasn’t happily married. He considered himself fortunate to have married the girl that he did. It was simply an economic disenchantment arising from his continuous struggle to make ends meet.

His wife, Elaine, was pretty and intelligent. She was also sensitive, opinionated, and, at times, stubborn. She came from a respected New England family, her father being a renowned chemist.

He was a frugal, self-made man who had risen to prominence by a staunch adherence to the ‘nothing succeeds like hard work’ school of thought. His respect of others was reserved to those who were similarly inclined.

Paul Stevens, as he approached forty, was no longer so inclined. He had been for a long time, but with more than two decades of frustrating accounting experience behind him, he had become disillusioned by such a philosophy.

His thinking had been tempered by the three, large companies that had given promotions he felt he had earned to men who were more astute politically than he, but less capable.

Although that hadn’t happened to him at UGP, the company he was presently with, still, he saw no immediate opportunities for advancement there. And UGP was, indeed, another large company, manufacturing quality glass as well as several other diversified products.

Paul Stevens was that company’s assistant corporate controller and reported in that capacity to Charles Manning, the corporate controller. Manning had gotten that job as a reward for more than thirty years of loyal service shortly before Paul had joined UGP in the spring of 1965.

Despite such seniority, Manning was only in his early fifties. But he looked older, being portly and pallid-looking, with his hair long since having turned gray.

He had risen up the company’s executive ladder by driving himself relentlessly while, at the same time, skillfully manipulating the talents of his subordinates to his advantage. From the former, his health had suffered, from the latter, his esteem, since he wasn’t able to command any genuine respect from those who had been exposed to his tactics.

Paul Stevens, for one, often had seen his own ideas incorporated into Manning’s monthly report to management. That they appeared in such reports didn’t bother him. Some of these ideas, he knew, would save the company money, and he was pleased to see Manning recognize their merit. That he wasn’t given credit for them, however, did bother him. And it gave him food for thought concerning the kind of future he would have if he continued working for this man.

Paul liked to think of himself as being sufficiently independent by nature to be controlled by no one and intrepid enough to tell his boss he was wrong when he thought he was. However, thoughts of Elaine’s present pregnancy, his two young boys, and his growing expenses since having bought a comfortable eight-room house in Cold Spring Harbor, an affluent Long Island suburb, had the power of transforming him more often than not into a ‘yes man’ in Charles Manning’s presence.

Unlike Elaine, he didn’t come from a family of abundant means. Raised in Little Neck, at the time, one of Long Island’s more modest communities, his father, despite him being an only child, had to struggle financially to put him through college.

He had been manager of one of the town’s savings banks. But it was a typical bank in those days in the sense that his salary hadn’t been commensurate with the responsibilities of his job.

Despite these encumbrances, periodically, after the frustrations of his job had accumulated, he would act like the person he envisioned himself to be in Manning’s presence.

The time between these occasions, however, grew longer with each passing day.

II

Paul Stevens was in a gruff mood as he maneuvered his car onto Route 25-A for the short ride home from the railroad station that July evening. It had been one of those days when he had stood up to Manning, and the experience, as usual, left him angry.

What had precipitated this incident between them was Manning’s boss, Roger Griffin, curtly telling him that the proposed expenditures for the fourth quarter were too high when they met by chance in the hallway that afternoon.

Paul wasn’t surprised that a comment like that from the corporate vice president of finance would create havoc in his own department until it could be clarified and resolved, but the abuse he had to take from Manning that day because of it was too much for him to tolerate.

What’s going on up there? he shouted irritably when he got home.

Paul?

What’s all the screaming about?

I’m trying to give Gregory a bath. Obviously, it’s not what he had in mind.

I guess not.

You know what he’s like when he doesn’t get his own way.

Where’s Junior?

Playing with his friend next door.

So when’s this mayhem going to stop?

In a minute. In the meantime, mix yourself a drink and look at the mail.

He did what she said, mixing himself a scotch and water in the kitchen before picking up the mail from the hall table. He took it into the living room, seating himself on the only easy chair in that room, looking bored and tired.

With his thick crop of short, straight, sandy-colored hair, Paul Stevens looked much younger than he was. And his sparkling blue eyes, attractively occluded teeth, and firmly muscled jaw, if anything, accentuated his youthful appearance. Only the slight development of corpulence around his middle aptly indicated the decade of life he would soon be entering.

The mail, now cradled on his lap, came in three envelopes: he examined the monthly telephone bill first, seeing almost twenty dollars added to it by three long-distance calls to his in-laws in Plymouth, Massachusetts, quickly rekindled his anger.

It became more intense when he read the letter he found inside the next envelope. Because of an increase in his town’s assessment rate, the bank holding the mortgage on his house was telling him to deposit an additional one hundred and eighty-five dollars in his escrow account.

That’s just what I need, he muttered sarcastically to himself as he picked up his drink from the arm of his chair and drank its contents in three gulps.

His attention then turned to the engraved letterhead of a ‘Francis W. Flanagan, Attorney At Law,’ that was displayed on the back flap of the third and last envelope. He didn’t know anyone by that name, and the only thing he could think of as he tore this envelope open was that he was being sued, but he couldn’t begin to guess why or by whom.

He had only partially read the contents of the letter enclosed in that envelope when he released a resounding bellow from deep within his diaphragm, then leaped from his chair and headed toward the stairs. He got halfway up in two eager jumps, then somehow tripped, landing quickly on the floor in a befuddled condition.

Paul! Are you all right?

I think so, he said unconvincingly as he looked up at his concerned wife hurrying toward him.

What happened?

Ouch! he moaned as he felt a sharp, piercing pain in the back of his head as he tried to get up.

You want me to call the doctor?

No! he wheezed through a hardy laugh.

What’s so funny?

You’ll never believe it.

Believe what?

Think back to late last fall.

Why?

That’s when my Aunt Mae died.

Why bring that up?

Because that’s why I’m so happy.

I don’t understand! she said in an exasperated voice. Here, you’ve fallen down the stairs, damn near breaking your neck, and what do you do but tell me how happy you are that your Aunt Mae’s dead. Now stop talking in riddles and tell me what’s going on. I mean it!

Okay. Don’t get excited. I just learned she’s left me thirty-thousand dollars.

You’re kidding.

Would I kid about something like that? Here’s the letter from her lawyer.

She suddenly became as giddy as he had been. You’re right. I can’t believe it. I didn’t even know she had money or that you were that close to her.

I wasn’t. Don’t forget she lived in Milwaukee and rarely traveled east, but she was very fond of my father. His death was an awful shock to her. She carried on terribly at his wake. Besides, now that I think about it, she didn’t have too many living relatives that she could have left her money to. Her husband died several years ago. He was French and, as I recall, none of his people lived in this country. She had no children of her own, and, according to Dad, she never got along well with my Uncle John, her other brother.

Her face took on a somber look while she pondered what her husband had just said. However, it didn’t last long.

Darling, this is too good to be true! she blurted, filled with enthusiasm. Do you realize what we can do with that money?

Well, I really hadn’t given it much thought.

The first thing we’re going to do is furnish the living room. I’m tired of looking at half-furnished rooms. You might have been right about buying this house even though we can’t afford its carrying charges. But it’s certainly not livable the way it is now.

We’ll talk about it. There’s a lot of things we can do with that money.

What’s that supposed to mean?

It means, it’s about time we put some money away for a rainy day. We could use a new car and a second one for that matter. You won’t be tied down forever. Remember, Paul, Junior will be going to school in a couple of years.

And what about Gregory, and the one I’m carrying now, or had you forgotten?

He looked at his wife sheepishly before saying, Not at all. I just think it would be good for you to get out of the house once in a while.

That’s easy to do with the kids, she said cynically.

You can take them with you.

Listen, Paul, she said, her voice rising just enough to convey an unyielding tone, We don’t need another car. And as for the one we have now, it should last at least another year or two.

How will you continue get around?

When I need a car, I’ll drive you to the station as I have been doing. Look, first things first. And to me, that means furnishing this place comfortably so that it’s really a home – not just a house!

Oh, so you don’t consider living here home, is that it?

You know very well I didn’t mean it that way.

He was anxious to change the subject, being in no mood or condition now for an argument. He rationalized that she was obviously irritable from her ordeal with Gregory, and he knew he was, primarily from his quarrel with Manning, but also from how his head now ached.

As he reached for the banister, his headache got worse.

Boy, I really did a job on myself, he whined, rubbing the back of his head.

Go up and lie down. I’ll make you an ice pack.

I guess I better.

The pain slowly subsided after he applied that ice to where he had hit his head.

Paul Stevens stared at the ceiling for a long time from his prone position in bed, thinking about money and how much of it he would soon have.

III

Tom! The authoritative sound of the voice kept Paul from his daily reading of The Wall Street Journal. The distinguished-looking man it belonged to was walking toward where he and the recipient of this greeting were standing on the platform of the Cold Spring Harbor Railroad Station the following morning.

Good to see you, Norm.

It’s funny how things happen. Only last evening Alice was saying how long it’s been since we’ve gotten together with you and Janet.

How is Alice?

I don’t know where she gets her energy from.

When did you two get back?

Last week. It was a good change of pace, but I’m glad to be doing something again.

You must’ve had a ball.

Actually, she enjoyed it more than I did.

I’m surprised. I thought you liked Europe.

Not anymore. I guess I’m getting old. If I’m going to take it easy now I’d rather stay put and play golf.

You’re not doing that this morning.

No, but this morning is—

The sound of his voice suddenly was stifled by the roar from the rapidly approaching train they had been awaiting. The two men used an exchange of smiles to acknowledge that any further talk between them now would be futile until after they boarded this train.

As it ground to a halt, Paul scrambled for a seat in the first coach. Finding them all taken, he quickly joined the crowd who were rushing into the next coach. He breathed a sigh of relief when, to his surprise, he spotted one near its forward door that