Voices

By Thomas Herninko

"Exploring Different Perspectives And Voices New book is a fascinating fiction with a gritty realism that will draw readers in Philadelphia, PA - (September 2010) - The recession has left the economy reeling and many people stranded on the unemployment line. Loren Howell has been a teacher for sixteen years until a union forced him out and left him jobless for a year. His is just one of the Voices that readers will hear in a fascinating novel by Thomas Herninko.
Chris Killens is the warehouse manager of a small supply company. He finds himself caught in the middle of a labor dispute in the recession of 1991. He is the one man in the company who deals with both the workers and the bosses and he struggles to get a settlement but tensions rise, positions harden until a strike is called. The men go out and the strike lasts for weeks. The strike reaches a climax of violence and tragedy before they settle but the hostility and mistrust remain.
Voices is a novel of conflict, confrontation and the human spirit in hard times. It is a story told by many voices; people caught up in a tragedy and they struggle to understand and survive. Some find the way; others do not but each has a unique story to tell with a unique voice."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 22, 2010
• ISBN: 9781453557716

Book preview

1

SPRING 1991

The building was rectangular, five stories high, made of concrete and brick, and built like a fortress. The windows were large and made up of rows of normal-size panes on all four sides of the building and designed to provide natural lighting. Some had been broken and were covered with plywood, or cardboard wrapped in a piece of green heavy-duty plastic garbage bag. They were all caked with dirt and grime. The building was located near the river front, in the warehouse district, in an old part of the city where many empty, gutted shells of once-thriving factories and warehouses stood in ongoing decay; but in the late afternoon sun, they gleamed golden. At night and on weekends, this part of town was deserted except for the homeless who lived and slept in the alleys and doorways.

It was a pleasant, sunny spring day. He walked through the park. The maples and sycamores were sprouting new fresh green leaves. Fragile, fragrant, pale pink flowers bloomed on the chestnut trees. A few insects buzzed about.

The street was littered with trash and, as each vehicle drove by, the tattered, yellowed newspaper pages and the green-and-white-striped computer paper flew about in a random, erratic motion, then settled down, only to be hurled about by the next assault. Beer and soda cans were everywhere, along with bottles—some whole, some flat, some smashed. The lower walls of the building were sprayed with black paint, the blind impulses of ugly antiart. Pools of oil-stained water glistened in false rainbows. Weeds sprouted in the cracks of the pavement and along the foundation of the building. Later he discovered that weeds and grass grew on the roof and supported an ant colony, spiders, and several nesting birds in the maddening, insatiable drive of life to spread itself everywhere.

He paused at the front door. He had been out of work for over a year and in near despair. His wife worked, but she did not earn enough money, and they had a daughter in college. They were steadily, alarmingly spending their life savings that were supposed to insure their comfortable retirement. Worse was the feeling that unemployment had exiled him from the life of the city. He never thought that it would last this long. A forty-two-year-old should be settled into a career and not hustling on the street, desperate for work, one of the many ready to accept any position at any wage.

The parking lot on the side of the building was full with cars, trucks, and several vans. He stood at the entrance and took a deep breath to suppress a gnawing sense of futility. Four men lounged around the gray metal counter, waiting to pick up their goods. They talked quietly. Two smoked cigarettes. The two men behind the counter piled cardboard boxes on the countertop. They all ignored him, and he tried not to appear nervous or impatient. Two of the men carried off the boxes, and one of the workers looked directly at him.

Can I help you?

I’m looking for the plant manager.

The worker was a heavyset man, disheveled with wild, uncombed red hair and a fat reddish freckled face. He wore thick black-rimmed glasses.

Go through that door and ask for Chris Killens, he said as he pointed to the door. The office was small, windowless, and stuffy. Along one wall were shelves piled with books from floor to ceiling. On the top shelf, the books were covered by a thick layer of dust, while the others, lower down, were new and clean. The other walls were bare, except for a Degas poster of ballet dancers. An old battered gray metal desk stood in the corner, cluttered with paper, brochures, samples, except for a bare spot in the middle. The man at the desk was talking on the telephone but motioned for him to sit down. He talked for a few more minutes and then hung up.

You here for the job?

Yes.

Fill this out, said Chris Killens. He handed him an application and a ballpoint pen.

The ad in the paper was simple: Warehouse person wanted, steady work, decent pay, apply at . . . , and the seekers came all day long—a flood of tired, discouraged, hungry people. It had been a long, busy day and now, yet another one.

Here is my resume, he replied and handed back both pieces of paper. The resume was typed neat and clean.

Your name is Loren Howell, and you’re a teacher, or you were a teacher. Ummm. Why did you give it up after sixteen years? he said with a frown.

Loren Howell was an average-looking guy with thick black hair and black horn-rimmed glasses. He had a neatly trimmed beard with a few faint streaks of gray. He wore a dark blue suit, red tie, and a plain white dress shirt. He shifted his legs nervously.

I needed the money, his voice trembled.

Our starting salary will be less than what you were making.

Well, in the long term . . .

Oh, come on, what the hell are you doing here? Why did you quit teaching after all those years? Howell stared hard at Killens.

I was frustrated. I quit because conditions became intolerable. It tore me up, and I had to get out.

What subject did you teach?

Huh?

What subject?

Oh! Uh! Science, mainly physics, some chemistry, some biology.

You went to Temple?

Yes.

So did I, graduated in ’69. I was a history major. I taught school for a year, and I hated it. I love history. But teaching, forget it. Strange but let’s get back to business. You graduated in ’72 and took a job at West Park High School teaching science where you stayed until a year ago.

Yes, I wanted to do some original research, but it just, well, never worked out. I guess I lacked a certain err . . . imagination, and teaching was as close as I ever would get to it, and so I took the job.

Get to what?

You know, get to real science. My greatest interest in life has always been astronomy. I even worked in an observatory for one summer.

You married?

Yes, with a daughter in college.

You still haven’t told me what really made you quit.

It was a teacher’s strike. I knew that I was underpaid, but I still didn’t want any part of any damn union, if you must know. I considered myself a professional. Then we had this election and, you know, majority rules, democracy they call it, and the union was certified, and I was forced to join. He paused and wiped his hands on his pants.

When the union reached an impasse with the school board, they called for a strike. Damn them, I had a wife who was sick and a kid, and there was no way that I could afford to strike. Besides I didn’t believe that we had that right. So I crossed their stupid, pathetic picket line. People whom I had known for years, friends—my best friends in fact—threatened me. I couldn’t believe it. They smelled the bucks, and I was just a dirty, lousy scab. After the strike ended, they wouldn’t speak to me; and things began to happen, little things, petty things, like my umbrella disappearing, ink spilled on my papers, memos vanishing, air mysteriously leaking from my tires, stuff like that. Nobody knew or seen anything, and I didn’t make any trouble because I figured that they would soon tire of these childish pranks.

But they didn’t.

"No. I even formed an astronomy club at the school for the kids who were interested. I bought this really good telescope with my own money, and after school on the clear nights, we set up. We could see craters on the moon, Mars, the rings around Saturn, things like that. The kids were great.

One morning, I came to school and found my telescope smashed. I mean it was totaled, flat, like a car had run over it. They did a real job on it. Nobody saw or heard anything. I never found out exactly who, but I know it was a teacher because nothing else in the room had been touched. That’s when I called the cops.

Do any good?

No. The dirty barbarians. I got no sympathy. The school board refused to investigate, and the cops just laughed. That’s when I decided to quit. I told my wife when the school year ends, I would leave. We argued for days. Transfer to another district, she said, but I had made the decision. That was well over a year ago, and I never dreamed that I’d be out of work for so long. There are no jobs out there, none. My wife is working, and I’m collecting, but it’s not enough.

Maybe you ought to reconsider your decision to quit teaching.

NO! I can’t teach anymore. I got to find something else. I’m out there every day, but nobody will give me a chance. I’m either underqualified or overqualified, too smart, too dumb, too whatever. I’m tired of explaining, and I’m desperate.

The kind of work we do here is not very stimulating. It’s mostly physical, some mental, and you don’t have any product knowledge, and so you would have to be trained.

I’m a quick learner, and the physical work would be a welcome relief. I’ll work hard, I will, and I won’t take days off. I won’t let you down. Please! I need the job.

Mr. Howell, everybody who applied here needs the job. I must pick the best qualified from the company’s point of view. And another thing, this is a union shop, and the last thing I need is a problem with the union over a new employee taking a ‘moral stand’ against them. I don’t need that.

I understand. The situation here is completely different, and I have no objection to joining this union. None at all. I’ll do a good job for you, and I won’t ever give you cause to regret your decision.

Thank you, Mr. Howell, I shall consider you very carefully, but there are many other applicants, so don’t get your hopes up too high. Howell slumped back in his chair. I haven’t said no, Mr. Howell. I just need more time to think about it.

Yeah, sure. Well, thank you for your trouble. Howell shook Killens’s hand. After he left, Curly Edwards poked his head into the office.

You gonna hire that dude?

Don’t know. He’s a schoolteacher.

You gotta hire somebody!

He’s too old, and he has no experience.

OLD! What the hell do you mean OLD! He’s younger than me and about your age. Besides all them young bucks you hired don’t ever wanna work. All they want is to blow that fuckin’ weed and collect their damn pay. Older man’ll work harder—no doubt about it.

You think so, huh.

Besides if he fucks up, you can get rid of him like that last, lazy ass punk, said Curly with a grin that showed his one gold tooth. Curly was a black man, in his midfifties, with curly gray tufts of hair. He had worked twenty-five years for the company. He had dark brown skin, huge leathery hands, and a big potbelly. He had an easy manner and was patient with the customers. He was strong, steady, and dependable. Killens never saw him lose his temper and valued his opinion.

You serious about this schoolteacher?

Can’t hurt, best of the lot, too old—bullshit!

Killens sat back in his chair. He listened to Curly and Patrick Downey talking to a customer. They were good men, especially Curly. Downey was crazy, weird, paranoid; and he wore funky clothes, but he worked hard. Howell would be another oddball.

Seventeen years ago, Killens had moved from New York to New Orleans because he was in love, ready for adventure, and foolishly captivated by the idea of Faulkner’s south. He went with five hundred dollars in his pocket and a brand-new wife who had grown up in New Orleans. A few weeks later, he began a desperate search for work, and he applied at an old warehouse near the river. The old crag-face foreman took a hard drag on his no-filter Camel cigarette, looked disdainfully at him, and sneered,

You, Yankee boy, you call yourself a worker, hmm, don’t reckon so. Old Richards laughed. Come back tomorrow, seven sharp. He came back the next day—at exactly seven—and Old Richards looked surprised. It was a hot, humid day with the sun, an evil, unblinking eye, cursing the land and him in particular. They put him in a boxcar, and he unloaded galvanized garbage cans nested eighteen high inside each other to the baking roof. It was about 130 degrees inside that oven. He was soaked with sweat, and he kept running to the watercooler. He was teamed with a young black guy named John who was younger and in perfect physical condition, and he too sweated and gulped down the water. Killens wondered if John was also being tested and expected to quit before lunch. He wanted to quit, to get out of that hellish boxcar; but he had little choice with less than fifty dollars, a wife, and skeptical in-laws. So he stayed and yanked down those nested stacks of silver-shiny, zinc-coated cans and restacked them, six high, on rolling carts. He stacked and stacked until that damn boxcar was empty, then he found a push broom and swept it out.

Old Richards just chuckled. He later told Killens that he expected him to quit within the hour but that he wanted to give the soft Yankee boy his chance. Killens soon admired then loved Old Richards and, years later, cried when he heard that Richards had died of cancer. And so with the growling, gruff, gravely voice of Richards loud in his mind, he decided to give the oddball ex-science teacher his chance.

2

Chris Killens sat at his desk in the windowless cubbyhole he called his office. He sipped hot coffee and munched on his blueberry muffin. A soaking rain fell, and the clouds were a heavy oppressive gray. A steady stream of employees passed by his door. Curly arrived first. He usually ate breakfast at the diner, on Spring Garden Street, near the elevated station. Howell passed by. He was wearing a trench coat, carrying a black umbrella, and wearing black rubber boots. It was his second day on the job.

Hey, Professor! yelled Curly.

You know, you look just like a schoolteacher, said Killens after Howell removed his wet coat, how did it go?

There’s much to learn.

First day’s always the toughest, and you’ve survived that.

Curly is a good teacher, said Howell as he wiped the rain from his glasses.

You should know, anyway, just sell the stuff and, no seminars please, joked Killens. He sipped some coffee and pulled a purchase-order form from his desk drawer. He wrote his PO’s early before the phones started ringing.

Can I talk to you for a minute? Killens glanced up. A heavy, dark-skinned, black man named Billy stood there, smoking a huge smelly cigar and wearing the light blue uniform furnished to the truck drivers.

Oh no, groaned Killens, not this morning . . .

It will only take a minute, said Billy who squeezed into the chair beside the desk.

That’s what you always say.

It’s about Zeke and Wilder and those damn pallets.

I thought that was all settled.

Apparently not because they’re at it again.

Aw, man, I don’t need this shit. They’re all paid by the hour. I’m sick and tired of hearing people say, ‘It’s not my job.’ Ya’ know there’s plenty of people out there who would be happy to work, without any fuss.

Don’t tell me—tell your man. I’m not here to fight you on this. Maybe you should talk to Wilder and explain it to him again. I told Zeke that only you and Rush give orders in the warehouse.

Okay, I’ll get this straightened out once and for all today just as soon as I get the chance.

The company was a wholesale warehouse of hardware and electrical items whose main customer was a major chain of household and garden supply stores in the greater metropolitan area. Most of the stores were in the suburban shopping malls. They would transmit their orders directly into the company’s computer, which would then print the order to be filled by Curly, Downey, Howell, or a young black kid named Maurice, who was called Cake. They would pack the material into boxes, stack them onto rolling carts, and push them to the loading dock at the rear of the building for next-day delivery.

Besides the chain, they had numerous other smaller individual stores and customers, mainly in center city. They would call in their orders which Downey, but sometimes Curly and even Killens, took for a same-day pickup or next-day delivery. By afternoon, depending on volume, chain orders would be completed; so Cake and Howell would stock shelves, while Downey and Curly worked the pickup counter.

Chain deliveries were on a strict schedule as all their stores had to be fully stocked for weekends, especially the advertised items.

Killens started as an order filler and stockman with the company seven years ago, the very same job that he had just given to Howell. When George Bland, the new owner, took over some two years ago, the old manager was fired; and Sam Ingram was moved upstairs. Killens was offered the entire warehouse operation. He liked Jerry, the old manager, and his first impulse was to refuse, but Sam talked to him about the opportunity he would lose if an outsider was hired. Bland called him into the office and explained that Jerry was let go because he would not embrace the new computerized operating system.

His mind is set in concrete, declared Bland. Killens accepted the job. Even Jerry told him he was a fool not to take the promotion.

Killens was forty-two years old and lived alone in a small one-bedroom apartment. He was divorced for six years and had not seen his ex-wife for eight years now. He lived frugally and spent most of his extra money on books, CDs, and travel. Most days, he brought his lunch to work. On payday, Friday, he would walk to the bank, cash his check, then eat his lunch at Roy Rodgers. He took his time, read the newspaper, and sometimes browsed at the bookstore. Friday was a slow day, so he wasn’t overly concerned about taking a little extra time.

He was eating in the small lunchroom, which was nothing more than a room with a table, chairs, refrigerator, microwave oven, and a trash bin.

Killens, can I talk to you for a minute? asked a young man wearing a dark blue pinstriped suit with a red tie. He was in his late twenties, well groomed with blown-dry brown hair and brown eyes. He smoothed his tie, a quick gesture, like a man who wanted nothing out of place. He was a good-looking man, and he knew it. He had this slightly overbearing, arrogant manner.

Robert Simon was the sales manager and was eager to make some money, and trade in his Honda for a BMW. He had graduated from Temple University Business School. The company was a stepping stone perhaps into the chain where he had a better opportunity to make mega bucks. He was one of the new guys, the bright, young, aggressive, ambitious, flexible people that Bland brought into the company. Simon was not shy about reminding the older people about why he was hired, only a few years out of business school, as the sales manager. When Simon first met Killens, he was impressed that Killens had also graduated from Temple and had even spent a year in graduate school in New York City until he learned the degree was in history.

Yeah, sure, what can I do for you?

Jimmy Wilder and those pallets around his station . . . he tells me that you told him that he has to get his returns and bring them back down when they’re ready. You got all those guys in shipping, doing nothing, while he’s got to stop his work and move those pallets, which is not his job to begin with. It doesn’t make any sense for him to waste his time on manual labor, especially when you got all those niggers down there to do that work. It’s a matter of priorities.

"Those men do what I tell them, not Wilder, and I don’t want them wandering around on the floors, and they all know that. Wilder knows it too, and besides he’s not that damn busy. Listen to me, for two years I’ve battled the union over this job-specialization question, and those men are paid by the hour to do what needs to be done—all of them, including Wilder. I move them when and wherever I need them.

They do as they’re told. None of this was explicit in the last contract because back then, we didn’t have the demands of the chain or Bland, who wants things done his way. They accept it now, and I won’t destroy years of effort for that idiot Wilder. So he’s gonna move his own stuff, and that’s that!

Wilder is a good man, and I don’t want to lose him. You should bend a little on this issue. Those union guys can’t help your career, so why protect them. We’ve got to think and act as one.

I’ll tell you what, you stick to your guys and leave mine alone. Wilder is no better than anybody else, and I don’t need any bullshit from him or you. If he doesn’t like it, he can quit, and you can kindly stop meddling.

You’re being stubborn. You should think about it. Simon patted his hair and smoothed his tie.

I have to get back to work now, said Killens, who threw his crumpled trash bag past Simon and into the trash bin. Simon glared at him with disdain.

Jimmy Wilder had an acne-scarred, pockmarked face; a scraggly red beard; and light brown, almost blond, hair cut real short. He had soft brown eyes and a small nose. He was skinny with thin, sticklike arms. He never spoke to anyone unless asked a question, and then only with a yes, no, or don’t know. He had no friends at work. He was married, but he never talked about his wife, and he had no kids. He worked alone, handling the returned and defective goods, and kept track of special projects. He had an enclave on the third floor and seemed content until he started this war with the shipping crew. Killens didn’t know what triggered this dispute, but Zeke had complained to the shop steward, Billy, about the orders he was getting from Wilder, who called him whenever he wanted something moved. Billy went to Killens who brought them all together in his office. Wilder insisted it was not his job. He was the return-goods manager and not an ordinary laborer.

Killens had just settled a dispute with the union over the truck drivers who argued, because they were paid to drive, they should not have to stock shelves or fill orders late in the afternoon when their runs were over or on days when their routes were cancelled. Killens insisted that they could not just sit around and bullshit, so he gave them work. The drivers complained to the union, and they took it to arbitration. The arbitrator ruled that it was implied in the contract that management had the right to transfer workers from one job to another, only they were obliged to pay the wage of the higher-ranked job. The drivers accepted the ruling, except for one who loudly refused to put away stock, so Killens fired him in front of the entire shipping crew. The fired driver appealed to the union. The appeal was heading toward arbitration when a compromise was reached. The driver was reinstated with no back pay, a letter of reprimand in his file, and the union agreed to these temporary transfers. Killens had won.

Given those circumstances, Killens ruled that Wilder was responsible for getting and moving his material and that no such position as return-goods manager existed, and he was just an ordinary worker. That was two months ago.

Late that afternoon after his talk with Simon, Killens climbed the concrete steps to the third floor, which contained rows of stored material and, in one corner, Wilder’s section. Wilder was sitting at his table, staring at the wall. Killens crept down the aisle, careful not to get his shirt dirty. After he became the plant manager, he began wearing dress shirts and a tie with dress pants. Dress for success, he joked to Sam. He wanted to separate himself from the workers and to enhance his authority.

Wilder! he snapped loudly. Wilder jumped with a start. What is your problem?

Me? I got none. What’s yours?

YOU! I thought I had made myself clear in this business of moving pallets. So listen again, it’s your responsibility and yours alone, so don’t call anybody.

Why should I have to do what you got a gang of niggers to do. They don’t do nothing but give me a hard time.

Yeah, and I just saw how busy you are. Look, you don’t have to like the way I do things, but I’m the boss, and you’re gonna do it my way, period.

NO. No, I ain’t, and I ain’t gonna take any shit from you or those asshole black bastards.

Really! If you don’t like it here, you can always leave and get a better job.

Yeah, maybe I will. I can always get another chicken shit job like this one. He grabbed up a pile of papers, flung them across the room, and they fluttered down like huge snowflakes.

Fuck you, and fuck your lousy job, he hissed.

Good luck in finding another one. You might find it’s not so easy . . .

Don’t give me any fucking speech. I’m outta here. I quit, He grabbed his jacket and his bag, and Killens followed him downstairs. He told Rush and Curly to see him out; and he pulled his time card; wrote the date, the time, and that he had resigned. He took it to Andrea who did the payroll. The word spread quickly. It was not the outcome he had expected, but he was not sorry to lose him. He planned to put Howell on it, part-time, in the afternoon.

Late in the quiet of the night at home, Killens lay in bed, and the radio played the rock music he loved. He sipped from a bottle of beer. A book lay open by his side, but both mind and body were weary, and he was ready for sleep. The faint lamplight cast a yellowish glow on the Canaletto print of Venice on one wall and the Sienese print that he had bought at the Met in New York on the other. He placed the empty green beer bottle on the end table next to his book on Ancient Greece. His languid mind wandered aimlessly from Athens, the Aegean, Crete to Wilder, and why, why . . . Racial thing, intense, angry Trojan women, something happened, had too, but what? What idea grew in vacuum skull, lame brain, mute Delphic oracle, riddle, moved them for years and then, no warning Athenian fleet on the horizon, no hard times, what time, no big deal, soft parade sack of Troy, no who-why? Simon? Simple preppie ass, simple Simon says quit, no compromise, conspiracy but what the prissy pussy yuppie to do with morose, mute man in wilderness, great black Prometheus stealing fire racial yes, suicide-quit, connect dots-doors somewhere all link chain, racial . . .

He fell asleep.

The next day was again gray, rainy, listless. He got his coffee and corn muffin at the diner where Curly was eating his breakfast of eggs, grits, and bacon all mixed on the plate. Killens sat with him, and they talked about Wilder. Everybody was glad that he was gone. Curly knew of no personal animosity against Wilder, but Killens knew he would never admit to it if he did know. Nobody said anything about it, not even Rush, his assistant, who arrived at ten. The work went on as if Wilder had never existed.

Around three, Sam Ingram came down to talk. Ingram had been with the company for over thirty-five years and originally hired Killens. He was in his late sixties with short-cut gray hair. He chain-smoked cigarettes. He was the purchasing agent and the oldest employee in the company. Rumor was that Bland wanted him to retire and had offered him a nice package to get him out. His children were grown, and his wife died of cancer four years ago. All he had was the job; he loved to meet and chat with the salesmen and his co-workers. He sat down and lit a cigarette.

Gold wants all the department heads upstairs at four. I think it might have something to do with this Wilder thing. Simon seems to have a bug up his ass about it. What a fuckin’ jerkoff. He cries to Bland every chance he gets.

Fuck him, but why is he so interested in Wilder?

Don’t know. You just keep your cool—and be careful.

Don’t worry. I’ll stay calm, but this is just so stupid.

You’re right.

Gold must have better things to do than this.

He likes to have a hand in everything, you know that, but I think that Simon wants your job. He thinks it would look good on his resume, you know, managerial AND sales experience.

You got to be kidding.

No, I’m serious. He wants your job. You’re his only competition for number three, behind Gold, and Wilder may be his weapon against you.

He’s an idiot!

Don’t underestimate him. He wants the big bucks, fast.

Leonard Gold was a man in his late sixties with deep brown tanned skin, which he kept summer and winter. His eyes were dark brown, almost black, large and bulging, like they were popping out of that smooth tanned executive face. He wore an impeccably tailored charcoal suit with a blue tie and a diamond tie pin. Even on Saturdays when everybody dressed casually, his jeans were brand new and carefully pressed, and his athletic shoes were spotless white. The man looked and acted the executive, a role he loved. He drove a black Lincoln with a car phone that he loved to use. He played tennis twice weekly to stay in shape, and he played golf with customers for business. He was a trim man, robust, alert, cunning, and smart. He had owned a business, which Bland had bought, and he hired him to handle the daily operation of the company. He also serviced a few select customers and was, officially, the vice president.

His office was spacious. The walls were painted in what the interior decorators would call peach. He had a modern black desk with a black leather swivel chair. Three chairs made of highly polished, lacquered black wood with purple cushions were spaced in front of the massive desk. On the walls were two abstract paintings picked out by a decorator, and behind the desk against the wall was a black bookcase, which contained catalogues, and on the top were pictures of his wife and two kids, a son who was a dentist and a married daughter.

Simon and Ingram were already waiting when Killens arrived. Gold was leaning back in his chair and talking on the phone. He hung up and buzzed Marcy, the secretary, and told her to hold all his calls.

I’ve called you here, first to discuss this Wilder incident and second to get your input on this union question. Gentlemen, as you well know, our contract will expire in less than a year, and we must be prepared. Times are tough, sales are better, but profits are down, while our overhead goes up and up. This recession has really hurt, and we’re not even close to recovery. So far we haven’t laid anybody off, but it could come. Meanwhile we must control overhead . . . , he spoke smoothly, softly. He was playing the role he loved.

Now as for Wilder, it was my impression, Mr. Killens, that you fired him yesterday.

No, sir. The fact is, he quit yesterday of his own free will. He was NOT fired or even forced to resign.

He informed me last night that he was fired, said Simon, and that he wishes to be reinstated, and we ought to take him back.

The guy lied, pure and simple, said Killens with a steady voice, forcing himself to keep his temper under control and to remain professional.

I spoke to him, and I told him what I wanted, and he took strong objection to it and resigned. He quit, and I will not take him back under any circumstances. Let him go to the union with this. I’m glad to be rid of him. He was more trouble than he was worth. Look . . . He paused and leaned forward and stared into Gold’s eyes. Gold used this in your face stare as an intimidation tactic, and Killens hoped to annoy him with it. He kept his voice calm.

I’m the one who manages the union people, not you, not Simon. I’m the one who fought those guys on this ‘it’s not my job’ attitude and all those other rules. Bland wanted it, and you all backed my efforts. I won the battle. Grievances and problems are way down because I’ve been firm and consistent, and now you want me to throw all of that away, all that work, for that complaining clown. Is that what you want? He watched Gold.

No.

And another thing, he snapped, I resent this interference in my department. If you have any questions or complaints, you can come to me directly. I don’t appreciate this meddling. Gold’s face reddened, but he remained calm.

I have no problem with the job you have done, and nobody has interfered. We’re a team here, and we’re all on the same side, working for the same ends.

I take it then that the Wilder affair is now closed.

There was a long pause of utter silence.

Yes, said Gold. Killens knew that the cunning fox liked to play the department heads off against each other and that he knew when to drop a losing issue, but why had he even bothered? Just to gauge his reaction?

Good, said Killens, and he gave a wicked victory grin to Simon.

Mr. Killens, as you are the one who deals with the union most directly, what kind of input can you give us about the new contract.

Get it over with quick so we can avoid the uncertainties, the anger, the hostility, and the disruptions sure to come with even the threat of a strike. As for the specifics, the rule of job flexibility must be clearly written into the contract. I would also like the overtime policy explicitly stated and the discipline rules spelled out in minute detail.

What about the possibility of breaking the union, wouldn’t that make your job easier? asked Gold.

It would be a terrible mistake. It would hurt the company. We would lose customers, and there would be a strike, no doubt about it.

I agree with Killens. A prolonged battle with the union would damage both the union and the company, said Sam Ingram.

In the long run, couldn’t we create a smoother, leaner operation with higher profits? asked Gold.

At what price? These things can get messy, said Sam, and we could lose the chain if we don’t make the deliveries. How long do you think they would wait for us?

I hate unions, said Simon, but I don’t know. Could we afford it?

Wouldn’t the chain stand with us if we could promise and provide better service and even cheaper prices?

"NO! The cardinal