My Man Pendleton(4)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

His father shook his head slowly. “I think the situation being what it is, you’re without question the perfect candidate for the job.”

“But—”

“But nothing,” his father interrupted him. “You handle the temperance people. Now let’s move on.” McClellan, Jr. obviously wanted to say more, but must have decided to do it elsewhere, because he only ground his teeth together and turned back toward the others without a further word.

McClellan, Sr. continued. “We also need to address the asinine new law the boys in Frankfort have enacted against the tobacco companies,” he said, “because I think we can safely assume that those joyless little bastards will be coming after the distillers next. We need to start planning our counter-attack now. I’ve asked Novak and Martin to prepare a presentation, and I understand they’re ready to proceed. Novak? Martin?”

Two men rose from the middle of the massive table, one making his way to a bank of light switches near the boardroom door, the other approaching a laptop at the end of the table on which there was sure to be a nice Powerpoint presentation. The assumption was confirmed when the lights dimmed and a massive viewing screen began to descend on the wall furthest from where Pendleton was sitting.

Oh, yeah, he recalled from some dusty, cobwebbed corner of his mind. The corporate presentation. He’d almost forgotten what those were like. Looked like his first day on the job was going to be a nice, long, boring one indeed. But then, was that really surprising?

The two men launched into an inflated dialogue about cost overrun and capital-intensive, punctuated with excessive use of the words parlay and utilize, and with frequent emphasis on impact as a verb. Pendleton took that as his cue to ignore the pie charts and bell curves and view graphs and study his coworkers instead, quizzing himself in an effort to remember their names. He’d been introduced to each of them during training, and although his memory was exceptional, it never hurt to practice.

Rutledge, he recalled, eyeing the man directly opposite him, was VP in charge of public relations. To Rutledge’s right was Hayes, VP in charge of research and development. Carmichael, the solitary woman at the table, headed up advertising. One by one, Pendleton took in his colleagues, trying to note distinguishing characteristics of each of them that would help him keep names linked to faces.

And that was when it hit him, what had initially bothered him when he first sat down at the table, what it was that seemed so wrong. Except for Carmichael, whose obvious lack of a Y chromosome, not to mention truly spectacular legs, would make her easy to remember, none of Hensley’s VPs had any distinguishing characteristics. Except for McClellan, Jr., who was blond, all the executives looked exactly alike. Like Pendleton, they were all dark-haired and appeared to have brown eyes. Seated as they were, the male contingent seemed to have heights, weights, and builds that were virtually identical. Even Chang, Bahadoori, Redhawk, Washington and Ramirez, whose clear ethnic backgrounds at least offered them some measure of individuality, all bore a marked resemblance in coloring and body type to every man present. Carmichael, too, was a brown-eyed brunette, tall and solidly built.

Good God, Pendleton thought, he was a Stepford Executive.

Certainly dark coloring was dominant over light, he tried to reassure himself, but still… Eleven people of nearly identical appearance kind of skewed the odds a bit. Surely there should be one or two blonds at least in the group. A Knutson or Wilhelm or Johannes or something. Of course, Pendleton was no expert on genetics—hey, who was?—but even he doubted that the odds of this kind of thing occurring were very—

“Pendleton!”

He flinched at the sound of his name thundering from McClellan, Sr.’s end of the table. “Sir?” he responded.

“I asked what you thought about Novak’s suggestion.”

Pendleton bit the inside of his jaw and pretended to give the matter great thought. “I think, sir, that utilizing such a parlay might potentially impact productivity with a dynamic we can’t possibly leverage at this time.”

Oh, now that had been truly inspired, he congratulated himself. Man, it was amazing how this corporate stuff just never left you. One quick flick of a mental switch, and it was all coming back to him.

McClellan, Sr.’s snowy eyebrows shot up at his statement. “Do you?”

Pendleton nodded sagely, steepled his fingers on the table before him, and strove for a grim expression. “Yes, sir, I’m afraid I do. Not only that,” he added, hoping he wasn’t taking the training wheels off too soon, “but channeling such a core strategy that way could decentralize market-driven revenues.” He paused for a meaningful moment before adding, “And if I may speak frankly, sir?”

“By all means, Pendleton. You seem to be on a roll.”

“Thank you, sir. But I wonder if Novak and Martin have fully considered the fact that the implementation of such a trend might rouse the concern of the AFL-CIO, the NLRB and the TUC, not to mention the FCC and ATF. Furthermore, in my opinion, a discussion of P and L, PPI, GNP, and AGI wouldn’t be out of place here.”

Now McClellan, Sr. nodded as he gave lengthy consideration to the weight of Pendleton’s argument. Finally, he said, “Yes, I think I see what you mean. And you may be on to something.”

Pendleton leaned back in his chair. “Of course, sir, ultimately the decision is yours to make.”

“Yes, it is.” He turned to the two men at the front of the room. “Novak, Martin, I think you need to go back and expand your presentation to include all the concerns that Pendleton just raised.”

The two men glared venomously at Pendleton.

“And you can pitch it again on Thursday. That’s three full days. Surely you can implement the data by then.”

A sudden tic assaulted Novak’s eye as he said, “Yes, sir.”

McClellan, Sr. turned back to Pendleton. “I think you’re going to be a fine asset to Hensley’s, Pendleton. A fine asset indeed. Come around to the house tonight, will you?”

This time Pendleton was the one to arch his eyebrows. “Sir?”

“Cherrywood. It’s where I live. In Glenview. See Margie for my address. I’ll expect you for drinks at six. Dinner will be at seven.” Then, without missing a beat, he directed his words once more to the others present. “I don’t think we’re going to have time for Carmichael’s input today, so we’ll postpone that until Thursday, along with anything else anyone wanted to discuss. It’s getting late, and you all have work to do. Now get out.”