A Man of Affairs Read Online Free Page B

hollow. I knew that, in one sense, he had more at stake than I did. If Dean plowed up our pea patch, I could find another slot. It wouldn’t be easy for Al. It might be impossible. And if Dean wrecked the operation, there wouldn’t be anything left in the retirement account.
    I managed to prop Al Dolson up again, and realized I was getting tired of that particular ritual.
    Alice and I worked until midnight Monday night and until after ten on Tuesday night. I took a longer than usual lunch hour on Tuesday and picked up some “play clothes.” I packed a bag Tuesday night and took a cab out to the airport on Wednesday morning. Dean’s ship was in when I got there, parked on the apron a hundred yards from the terminal.
    It was a C-46. On the rudder assembly was the CAA number and the name Culver Chemical Corporation. I remembered that several years ago Mike Dean had taken over the small corporation and, through stock transfers and mergers, had built it into a big outfit. He was still on the Board of Directors. A slim young man who looked oriental was standing on a wheeled platform loading the luggage into the compartment high on the ship just behind the cockpit. The McGanns and the Dodges stood in the shadow of the wing, chatting with two young men who were evidently the pilot and co-pilot, or, as they like to call themselves, the captain and the pilot.
    I went and handed my bag up to the man doing the loading. He smiled his thanks, dogged the hatch, jumped down lightly and started toward the terminal building, pushing the wheeled cart. Louise greeted me warmly and introduced me to our crew. She had a bright look of holiday about her. Tommy McGann was equally cordial. Puss McGann was elaborately friendly. Warren Dodge gave me a half smile, a remote glance, a slack hand to shake for a half second.
    We went aboard. It was outfitted more like a lounge than an airliner. Wall to wall carpeting, wicker armchairs, tables, ash trays, magazines, a little kitchenette and bar. The steward came aboard and the drop door was pulled up and lugged shut.
    Moran, the pilot, said, “The weather looks clear and bright all the way, folks. Becky will fix lunch en route. Well make a gas stop at Atlanta, and then stop at West Palm Beach Airport for clearance. From there it will be another half hour to West End on Grand Bahama Island. You’ll go the rest of the way by boat. We should put you down on Grand Bahama at four o’clock, and that means you should be at Dubloon Cay in time for the cocktail hour. In the meanwhile, if you’d like an eye-opener to start the day, Becky will be glad to fix you up.”
    Warren Dodge waited until we were airborne before demanding a whisky sour, easy on the sugar, boy. Tom and Puss both thought that sounded fine. Louise said she’d wait a while. I asked if there was cold beer. There was and it was imported and delicious.
    I was the guest who had invited himself, and I did not feel at ease. Perhaps, with that quartet, I wouldn’t have felt at ease under the very best of circumstances. I’d come from mill people. Three generations of Gliddens had worked at the Harrison Corporation. I had, in the last seven years, acquired a certain amount of ease and polish, but it was acquired. These people had grown up with the certain knowledge that if they wanted anything badly enough, it would be given to them. Spiritually, I was closer to Mike Dean. If I wanted anything, I had to go get it.
    But the stratification wasn’t that simple. It could not be called the case of the noble working man versus the idle and decadent rich. Certainly damn little nobility in the working man at Harrison in the past few years. Not the way work standards were set. I am no bloated capitalistic exploiter, but some of the situations in our shop sickened me. The way standards were set, on some operations, a man could perform in two hours what we had to pay for on the basis of an eight-hour day. They were running bridge tournaments in the employee