The First End (3 page)

“I got the short version from the taxi
driver.”

“Well, they need to dispose of some highly
sensitive equipment in order to fulfill the President’s order.” He
poked himself in the chest. “I have the contracts, but I need this
strike to end now.”

The limousine pulled to a stop and the driver
opened their doors.

“Come. We can talk it over in the
restaurant.”

The Per Se is one of the best restaurants in New
York that offered its visitors a unique menu, a striking view and
an environment of intimacy.

Bill learned that
Wastend
held most of
the military disposal contracts, and that if the strike didn’t end
soon, the company would lose all of them. The result would be
catastrophic to the company. The only thing that Bill couldn’t
quite understand was why he had been picked by Vellore in the first
place. Every time he broached the subject, the wily CEO just
skirted the subject with a wave of his hand, or muttered some curse
before changing the subject.

Bill did manage to get a dollar amount that the
man was willing to pay for his services. The amount shocked him. It
was easily half his entire year’s wages. He idly wondered if the
man could pay that much, why couldn’t he budge with the union?

Finally, towards the end of the meal, Vellore
slid a piece of paper across the table. Bill looked at the phone
number written in a precise hand. “That is the Union Leader’s
number.” Frank explained. “Her name is Rita Sully.” He added a few
profane and uncomplimentary descriptions of the woman. “The fat cow
is waiting to hear from you.”

Bill raised an eyebrow, letting the ‘fat cow’
comment pass, seeing how Vellore didn’t have much moral ground to
stand on in that department. “She’s expecting me?”

“Yes. I arranged a meeting for two this
afternoon at my offices. Please call her and let her know that you
are coming.”

“Very well. Anything else?”

Frank tugged on one ear. “There might be, Mr.
Gardner, but now is not the time to discuss it. Solve my strike
problem and then we’ll talk.”

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

Before meeting the union representative, Bill
decided to pay a visit to the waste treatment plant and see things
for himself. When he arrived, the sheer ugliness of the plant
immediately caught his attention. The entire place reeked of
shabbiness and ill-maintained equipment.

Only a dozen workers were on the site, men and
women who for whatever reason had refused to join the strike and
continued to work. But they didn’t look pleased, Bill noted. More
than likely, they labored under huge financial pressure and felt
they had no choice. Sweat ran down their faces and they looked to
be in a state of shock or numbed disregard. The machinery that
cleaned the city water from the sewers hummed in discord, and many
of the remaining workers didn’t even wear gloves or masks as they
worked on the filthy machines.

Suddenly, a cry of pain resonated through the
building, blending almost congruently with the sounds of the
machinery. Hurrying over to see what had happened, Bill found one
of the employees holding his sliced hand and staring numbly at a
broken shard of glass, blood staining the jagged edge. Blood seeped
from the man’s fingers and fell to the floor to blend in with the
other discolorations there.

Bill looked around, thinking someone would come
over and see if they could help, but no one did. No one even looked
up from their jobs. Cursing, Bill rushed to the injured man and
shouted for someone to bring a first aid kit. A lady, startled by
the commanding tone, rushed away to return shortly with a bottle of
alcohol and a few small Band-Aids, not enough to cover the wound.
Cursing still, Bill managed to find a somewhat clean piece of
cloth. He ripped off a strip and began cleaning the wound.

“You’ll need to get this looked at,” he told the
man.

The man just nodded.

“What’s your name?”

“Raoul.”

“I’m Bill. This is a real nasty cut buddy, so be
careful.” He finished cleaning it, but the blood still leaked out.
He bound the wound as tightly as he could. "Why do you continue
working here while the others are on strike?"

The man shook his head. "What choice do I have?
If I stop working for even a day, my family will go hungry. We are
not traitors at all, we are not what the strikers think of us
anyway. We just have to keep working.”

"My autistic child also needs to have his
medication, who gonna pay for it? We need to work, that’s it.” the
woman who had helped said softly.

“This is intolerable,” Bill muttered. He
retrieved his cell phone. “Look, I’ll call 911. You need help.”

“No! Please don’t do that!”

“You need to see a doctor."

"Please don’t call! I will be fine."

“I have to.”

“Please don’t!”
"Why?"
"I'm illegal in the country."

Bill struggled with what to do. He knew he
should call, though the wound wasn’t life threatening and should
heal fine—though it no doubt would leave a nasty scar. "Are you
sure you don’t want to see a doctor? Your injury could get
worse."

“I will be fine, sir. I will be just fine.”

Bill had heard enough. He had seen enough. For
him, the employees of Wastend deserved more than a pay raise. They
needed a place where they could work and retain their dignity. Bill
left the factory with a sense of bitterness, and a firm conviction
to push the company Wastend to make concessions.

At exactly two that afternoon, the “fat cow”
Vellore mentioned walked into the conference room at
Wastend
Corporate Headquarters. She was anything but fat. Her slim figure
was tantalizing in a tailor-made business suit. Her auburn hair was
rolled into a tight bun that allowed her high cheekbones to be
displayed more prominently.

Bill rose and offered his hand. “Miss.
Sully.”

She took it, her grip firm and strong. “Mr.
Gardner. A pleasure.”

Bill chuckled. “Well, we’ll see about that after
our negotiations are concluded.”

Rita allowed herself a slight smile. She noted
the absence of anyone else. “So, Mr. Vellore really did want just
us to meet.”

“He felt that we would be more amicable to an
agreement if neither of us were surrounded by a scowling team of
representatives.”

Rita’s smile broadened slightly. “We’ll see.”
She gestured to a chair. “Shall we?”

“We shall.”

They talked for three hours. Bill reiterated his
client’s position and Vellore’s fears of bankruptcy. Rita countered
by showing profit figures, and describing current employee working
conditions. Bill explained that the profit figures were bloated and
did not portray the true nature of the company’s earnings,
especially when factoring in sizable loans. He conceded that the
employees were entitled to a better standard of living, and she
grudgingly let the profit figures go as a bargaining chip.

In the end, Bill agreed to try to get Mr.
Vellore to agree to a 5% pay raise across the board. If he could
secure that concession, Rita felt she could get the union to sign
off on it for a year—with the understanding that negotiations would
continue under the new agreement for the duration of that year.

“I think that in a year’s time, things will be
clearer,” she said, rising to her feet. “The union will expect
something more substantial by then.”

“It gives everyone time to make adjustments,”
Bill agreed, also standing. “Perhaps an improved economy and
renegotiated contracts will solve everyone’s problems.”

“Let’s hope so.” She extended her hand. “I must
say, I was surprised to find a lawyer working for Mr. Vellore
so…easy going.”

“It’s all a facade,” he said, winking.
“Underneath, I’m a ravening lion.” They shook hands. Bill said,
“I’ll present this to Mr. Vellore immediately, and contact you with
the results.”

“Let’s hope for something favorable. I think I
can get my side to agree to this.” She sighed. “It will be good to
have the trash removed.”

“Yes it will.”

Vellore’s house sat back from the main road by a
good quarter mile. The long driveway was lined with trees,
perfectly manicured to match the lush green lawn that swept out
into the distance on all sides. One of the bays of the five car
garage was open to reveal a luxury car inside. Another one was
parked outside.

Bill climbed up a few steps towards the gigantic
doors, when one opened and Frank himself stepped outside.

“About time you got here. Did you set them
straight?” A hopeful gleam glinted in his eye.

“Let’s talk inside,” Bill suggested.

“Yes. That would be best.”

Once inside, Frank began pointing out expensive
pieces of art, bragging as to how he had come to collect them.
Bill's gaze stopped on a picture in a small frame of bronze
deposited on the edge of an antique piano. The girl pictured within
looked to be in her twenties. She was smiling at the camera and
proudly wore a green t-shirt with a large inscription. "This is my
daughter, Lisa,” Frank said, noting his gaze. “My one and only
daughter. I’m very fortunate to have a daughter like her, a
brilliant student at Harvard University and an engaging person. She
is chairperson of the organization
Eco-Waste
, the non-profit
organization."

"Is waste a family issue or something?” asked
Bill.

"A family issue? Yes, I guess so and also a
business," Frank replied.

"Or you are using the issue for the
business."

"I like you Bill. I really do," Frank muttered
unconvincingly. “Come. We go to my office.”

In Mr. Vellore’s office, a bit later, Bill
outlined the proposed agreement that he and Rita had hashed out. “I
was under the impression that it is essential that the employees
return to work,” he explained. “So I proposed a stopgap, something
that would give you time to work out your differences, but at the
same time getting your workforce back on the job. They have agreed
to suspend things for a year.”

“That’s great news!” Frank exclaimed, rubbing
his hands. He froze, his eyes tightening. “So what’s the
catch?”

“They want a marginal increase in pay
immediately.”

“How much?”

“5%.”

Vellore’s face tightened. “Impossible. I can’t
afford that. That would be millions of dollars.”

Bill could hardly credit his ears. He had been
so sure that Frank would agree. It seemed so simple. “It might
strain you for the interim. But, after you had the chance to
renegotiate some of your contracts—”

“I said, no!” Frank cut in. “Impossible. It
won’t work.”

“But—”

“Look, Mr. Gardner. Your job wasn’t to
compromise. Your job was to get my employees back to work.”

“If you don’t give them something, Mr. Vellore,
they will just continue the strike.”

“That is unacceptable!”

“It is a fact!” Bill calmed himself down. “Sir,
I talked at length with the Union Leader. She was absolutely firm
on this point. Without you giving them something, they will just
continue the strike. I understand that it is not what you wanted,
but I believe that it will be the closest you get. If you fight
them here, I fear they will just demand it all even if you change
your mind later.”

“Mr. Gardner, please understand me. I won’t
change my mind. This company can’t afford a 5% pay raise. It would
seriously undermine our ability to function. I am not in business
to placate some disgruntled employees, I am in business to make
money! This is my company! I built it from the ground up! I won’t
let a few measly, third rate, middle class scumbags dictate how I
run my business!”

Bill sat across from the CEO, fuming. Finally he
looked up. “Is this your last word on the subject?”

“It is.”

“Then I will inform Miss Sully.”

For several days, Bill hadn’t seen his
girlfriend Karen. Finding time in both of their busy schedules
proved problematic at times. Bill had many cases to deal with and
Karen was just busy with her advertising projects.

Feeling despondent over the day’s events, Bill
decided to break away and make a surprise visit to see Karen. He
took a taxi and headed to Brooklyn where Karen rented a rather
modest apartment. When he arrived, he used the intercom to buzz her
rooms, but got no answer.

He stood there, scowling, unsure what to do
next. An old lady arrived and immediately recognized Bill. “You
need to get in, aren’t you?” She asked.

“It would be great, Ms. Carson.” he replied.

“If there is no answer, you can come over and
wait, Gardner.”

“You bet, Ms. Carson.”

The old lady let him in the building and Bill
took the elevator to the third floor. He knocked on the door
several times, but still got no answer.

Bill finally sat down on a step of the stairs
and waited. He needed the time to think anyway. Shortly after,
Karen arrived, shopping bags in hand. She looked tired, but her
eyes brightened the instant she saw him.

"Bill! What the heck are you doing sitting on
the stairs?"

Bill got up immediately and removed the bags
from Karen’s hands. He kissed her on the cheek and let her open the
door. Karen seemed having trouble to open the door.

“Hiff the key, Karen.” Bill asked.

“What did you say?”

“Turn the key in the other way…‘hiffing the key’
like showing the upper teeth…you know what I am saying?”

Karen smiled, while introducing the key in the
right position and the door opened.

“Maybe I should make a copy of the keys,” she
said brightly, moving into the apartment.

“Only if you think I will have need of it,” he
teased.

They both entered the apartment. Once inside,
Karen helped him put the groceries away and then they retired to
the living room with a pair of glasses filled with brandy and some
ice. Karen turned on her computer and started some soft music
playing.