Particularly high in prestige is a directorship of any major bank. For a businessman to be invited to serve on a top-flight bank board is roughly equivalent to being knighted by the British Queen; therefore the accolade is widely sought. First Mercantile American, as befitting a bank among the nation's top twenty, possessed a board of directors appropriately impressive. Or so they thought.
Alex Vandervoort, surveying the other directors as they took seats around the long, elliptical boardroom table, decided there was a high percentage of deadwood. There were also conflicts of interest since some directors, or their companies, were major borrowers of bank money. Among his long-term objective if he became president would be to make the FMA board more representative and less like a cozy club. But would he be president? Or would Heyward?
Both of them were candidates today. Both, in a short time, like any seeker after office, would expound their views. Jerome Patterton, vice-chairman of the board, who would preside at today's meeting, had approached Alex two days earlier. "You know as well as the rest of us, our decision's between you and Roscoe. You're both good men; making a choice isn't easy. So help us. Tell us your feelings about FMA, in any way you like; the what and how, I leave to you."
Roscoe Heyward, Alex was aware, had been similarly briefed.
Heyward, typically, had armed himself with a prepared text. Seated directly across from Alex, he was studying it now, his aquiline face set seriously, the gray eyes behind rimless glasses unwaveringly focused on the typewritten words. Among Heyward's abilities was intense concentration of his scalpel-sharp mind, especially on figures. A colleague once observed, "Roscoe can read a profit and loss statement the way a symphony conductor reads a score sensing nuances, awkward notes, incomplete passages, crescendos, and potentialities which others miss." Without doubt, figures would be included in whatever Heyward had to say today.
Alex was unsure whether he would use numbers in his own remarks or not. If they were used, they would have to be from memory since he had brought no materials. He had deliberated far into last night and decided eventually to wait until the moment came, then speak instinctively, as seemed appropriate, letting thoughts and words fall into place themselves.
He reminded himself that in this same room, so short a time ago, Ben had announced, "I'm dying. My doctors tell me I don't have long." The words had been, still were, an affirmation that all in life was finite. They mocked ambition his own, Roscoe Heyward's, others.
Yet whether ambition was futile in the end or not, he wanted very much the presidency of this bank. He longed for an opportunity just as Ben in his time had to determine directions, decide philosophy, allot priorities and, through the sum of all decisions, leave behind a worthwhile contribution. And whether, viewed across a larger span of years, whatever was accomplished mattered much or little, the zest itself would be rewarding the doing, leading, striving, and competing, here and now.
Across the boardroom table to the right, the Honorable Harold Austin slipped into his accustomed seat. He wore a windowpane check Cerruti suit, with a classic button-down shirt and hounds-tooth pattern tie, and looked like a pacesetting model from the pages of Playboy. He held a fat cigar, ready to be lighted. Alex saw Austin and nodded. The nod was returned, but with noticeable coolness.
A week ago the Honorable Harold had dropped by to protest Alex's veto of Keycharge credit-card advertising prepared by the Austin agency. "Keycharge marketing expansion was approved by the board of directors," the Honorable Harold had objected. 'What's more, the department heads at Keycharge had already okayed that particular ad campaign before it got to you. I'm of two minds whether to bring your high-handed action to the attention of the board or not."
Alex was blunt, '`To begin with, I know exactly what the directors decided about Keycharge because I was there. What they did not agree to was that marketing expansion would include advertising which is sleasy, misleading, half-truthful and discreditable to the bank. Your creative people can do better than that, Harold. In fact, they already have I've seen and approved the revised versions. As for being high-handed, I made an Executive management decision well within my authority, and any time necessary I'll do the same again. So if you choose to bring the subject before the board, you can. If you want my opinion, they won't thank you for it they're more likely to thank me."
Harold Austin had glowered, but apparently decided to drop the subject, perhaps wisely because Austin Advertising was going to do just as well financially with the revised Keycharge campaign. But Alex knew he had created an antagonist. He doubted, though, if it would make any difference today since the Honorable Harold obviously preferred Roscoe Heyward and was lately to support him anyway.
One of his own strong supporters, Alex knew, was Leonard L. Kingswood, outspoken, energetic chairman of Northam Steel, now seated near the head of the table, conversing intently with his neighbor. It was Len Kingswood who had telephoned Alex several weeks ago to advise him that Roscoe Heyward was actively canvassing directors for support as president. "I'm not saying you should do the same, Alex. That's for you to decide. But I'm warning you that what Roscoe's doing can be effective. He doesn't fool me. He's not a leader and I've told him so. But he has a persuasive way which is a hook that some may swallow."
Alex had thanked Len Kingswood for the information but made no attempt to copy Heyward's tactics. Solicitation might help in some cases but could antagonize others who objected to personal pressure in such matters. Besides, Alex had an aversion to campaigning actively for Ben's job while the old man remained alive.
But Alex accepted the necessity for today's meeting and decisions to be made here.
A hum of conversation in the boardroom quietened. Two late arrivals who had just come in were settling down. Jerome Patterton, at the table's head, tapped lightly with a gavel and announced, "Gentlemen, the board will come to order."
Patterton, projected into prominence today, was normally self-effacing and, in the management echelon of the bank, something of a timeserver. Now in his sixties and near retirement, he had been acquired as part of a merger with another, smaller bank several years ago; since then his responsibilities had quietly, and by mutual agreement, diminished. Currently he concerned himself almost equally with trust department matters and playing golf with clients. The golf took priority, to the extent that on any working day Jerome Patterton was seldom in his office after 2:30 P.M. His title of vice-chairman of the board was largely honorary.
In appearance he resembled a gentleman farmer. Mostly bald, except for a white, halo-fringe of hair, he had a pointed pink head uncannily like the narrow end of an egg. Paradoxically, his eyebrows were matted and fiercely sprouting; the eyes beneath were gray, bulbous, and becoming rheumy. Adding to the farmer image, he dressed tweedily. Alex Vandervoort's assessment of Patterton was that the vice-chairman had an excellent brain which in recent years he had used minimally, like an idling motor.
Predictably, Jerome Patterton began by paying tribute to Ben Rosselli, after which he read aloud the latest hospital bulletin which reported "diminishing strength and eroding consciousness." Among the directors, lips were pursed, heads shaken. "But the life of our community goes on." The vice-chairman enumerated reasons for the present meeting, principally the need to name, speedily, a new chief executive for First Mercantile American Bank.
"Most of you gentlemen are aware of procedures which have been agreed on." He then announced what everyone knew that Roscoe Heyward and Alex Vandervoort would address the board, after which both would leave the meeting while their candidacies were discussed.
"As to the order of speaking, we'll employ that ancient chance which all of us were born under alphabetical precedence." Jerome Patterton's eyes twinkled toward Alex. "I've paid a penalty sometimes for being a 'P.' I hope that 'V' of yours hasn't been too burdensome."
"Not often, Mr. Chairman," Alex said. "On some ocasions it gives me the last word."
A ripple of laughter, the first today, ran around the table. Roscoe Heyward shared in it, though his smile seemed forced.
"Roscoe," Jerome Patterton instructed, "at your convenience, please begin."
'Thank you, Mr. Chairman." Heyward rose to his feet, moved his chair well back and calmly surveyed the nineteen other men around the table. He took a sip of water from a glass in front of him, cleared his throat, and began speaking in a precise and even voice.