I look at my watch. It is straight up ten o’clock: the time for my appointment. The secretary’s perfunctory permission is automatic; she requires no notification from the office she so judiciously guards.
The dapper little Japanese, Hiro Tsunamoto, looks lost behind his large, executive desk. I wondered if they have imported him from The Land Of The Rising Sun.
"Good Morning, Mr. O'Brien, please have a seat."
No, his English is too good, unaccented and filled with California's neutral, flat tones—a Los Angeles local.
He blinks behind the latest modern affectation of too-small wire-rimmed glasses and fails to smile as I pull out the straight-backed chair in front of the desk.
The rumor mill has run rampant since long before the merger. I should have a good idea why I am here, but the word on the street is that they will keep many of the bank’s employees so that they don’t lose the Anglo customer base they have acquired. I’m hoping that I will be one of those saved. I have experience, skills and banking knowledge, which would help any bank.
Tsunamoto's quiet officiousness makes me nervous. He avoids eye contact as assiduously as the girl outside and flips through a folder in front of him.
"You have been with California State Bank for twenty-one years..." he begins.
"And Sakura National for a month," I add needlessly, reminding us both about the recent acquisition of my long-term employer.
He nods. "Yes, of course. Since the merger."
I fail to correct him. It hadn't really been a merger. A merger is a combination of equals. Sakura's takeover of California State was an acquisition, a completely different animal, especially when it comes to who is left in charge.
Tsunamoto buries his head in the file for a few silent moments as if he might discover something in there he doesn’t already know.
"Mr. O'Brien—“ The black eyes are out of the file and fixed on my own. "I’m sorry we have to meet like this." His words have no relationship to his steady, practiced gaze. But they are as chilling.
We both know that he isn’t sorry; no more so than the chairman of the board who sits behind his desk in Tokyo, setting policy for his new amalgamated bank in America.
"As you are aware—" Tsunamoto continues what sounds like a familiar spiel. "When Sakura National bought California State, it was understood that there would be some downsizing and a number of branches would be culled from the flock. Not only does it make good business sense, but the State Banking Department and Justice Department made that a condition of the merger. A matter of competition, you know."
"No, I didn't know."
Like hell I didn't!
I stare blankly at my judge, jury, and executioner.
Don't give him anything, I think. Don't let him see you sweat. Don't agree to or acknowledge anything. Make this as hard for him as it is for you.
Tsunamoto smiles.
I am suffused with his artificial sincerity.
"Unfortunately, your branch has been targeted to close." He rushes on, afraid that I might fill any void with embarrassing and ineffectual protest. "And of course this will require a certain number of job eliminations."
Of course!
Although I have had my suspicions about why I've been called down to the hallowed halls of Japanese power, I had hoped the news might be otherwise. Now I am not prepared to interrupt this small, all-too commonplace murder of careers and hopes.
"Your branch will be closed in ninety days, after the minimum regulatory posting to the general public. Of course, we'd like you to stay on until that time. If you do, you will qualify for a very liberal severance package.
Beggars can't be choosers, I think. How much would my ninety-day care taking and twenty-one years, three months and fourteen days of service be worth? What is the going rate of exchange for two decades of hard work and loyalty?
I nod, noncommittal as I absorb this offer.
"We would also expect you to assist the branch manager and an officer from the personnel department in informing the other employees regarding the decision to close the branch."
Ah, so we will all share the same knife! By the time my turn comes, it will be hara-kiri and the blade will be sufficiently dull to reward me for my complicity in the massacre.
"It's going to be difficult," I point out, "to operate the branch properly as people start to bail out. And they will leave as soon as they get another job."
"Our experience has been that most employees want their severance packages so they hang on." With great morale, no doubt. "And then they find new employment concurrent with the end of their tenure. It's human nature to want to eat your cake and have it too."
I don't comment on his cynical corporate opinion of greedy underlings. As it is, I am already trying to figure how to work the system to my best advantage, last long enough to get my severance package and step immediately into another job.
"We expect any employee," Tsunamoto continues, "who is getting paid by Sakura National Bank to continue to dedicate all of his efforts to the company with no diminution of responsibility or energy. One can be fired just as easily now as at any other time during employment. And, of course, there will be no severance package if that happens. In short, we don't want or expect any attitude problems. The example you set will establish the temperament of the entire staff. We are relying on you and your maturity Mr. O'Brien."
I look around the office during this little speech, the majority of which is delivered by Tsunamoto with his head buried in the file before him. Evidently, constant eye contact with the victim of eventual joblessness is not a prerequisite for his job.
The small room is cold and impersonal. Sterile Japanese landscapes hang on the walls, their colors so muted and contained that even in the direct beam of morning sunlight they bleed boredom into flat, white walls.
The desk behind which Tsunamoto sits contains only a nameplate: “Mr. Tsunamoto.” No first name, title, initial; just the surname—and a small stack of file folders—potential victims, I assume, isolated from the paperwork of their peers for sessions similar to mine. Tsunamoto’s desk is totally unlike my own work station, which is littered with the detritus of years in banking: silly gadgets, office supplies, in and out boxes, computer reports and a small shrine of family pictures to remind me why I have put up with so many years of corporate indifference.
It strikes me that this office is an impersonal battlefield: Advantage to Tsunamoto; it is his turf. He and the others like him with the burden of laying off people and downsizing the new consolidated corporate giant probably share the office, take turns as they each confront their case-load of victims.
I wonder if they get together over a beer at the end of the day—or would it be corporately warmed Saki—and commiserate with each other about the difficulties of eliminating positions and displacing so many people. Do they feel sorry for themselves because it is stressful, confronting the desperate faces of so many who are suddenly aware that soon they will have no paycheck or benefits?
"Just exactly what does comprise the severance package?" I ask, hoping that the practicality of my question will mask my sudden fear about the future.
"Of course, it varies, depending on title and length of service. As an Operations Officer—"
"Operations Manager. Vice President and Operations Manager," I correct.
"—You are entitled to four weeks salary, plus a week's salary for every year of service—"
Mentally I add it up: twenty-five weeks, a little over six months of salary continuation—half a year.
"Needless to say, your benefits, such as health insurance will continue until the severance package runs out."
Not "needless to say" at all. Say everything! I want to hear it all, every straw of survival I might eventually have to grasp.
No! This isn't the right mental attitude. I’m not going to let desperation become a factor in my life. It’s inconceivable that I won't find another job with
in a twenty-five week time frame, especially with my many years of banking experience. Perhaps, if I play my cards right, I’ll be able to get a little paid vacation out of this whole experience, save a little of the severance, and cap it all off with another job in a higher position at a larger salary.
One way or another, I intend to turn this to my advantage. How many times have I heard it: when one door closes another opens.
IN HOPES OF HEAVEN
Adam Blake, an easy-going stockbroker, living with his girlfriend, Yvonne, in Venice, California, wakes on his 30th birthday to find he has suddenly acquired the ability to perform miracles. After unrewarding research, Adam attends a Pentecostal revival to observe the laying on of hands. Aimee Lee Blaize, who dances in the services with wild religious abandon, fascinates him. He returns night after night, riveted by the apparent miracles he witnesses--and Aimee Lee's voluptuous dance. After they meet and Aimee Lee seduces him, she promises endless delights if Adam were only part of her father's ministry. Hooked, Adam resigns his job and abandons Yvonne to become the Reverend Billy Blaize's investment advisor. But the Reverend is determined to use all of Adam's talents. Justifying it for the furtherance of his ministry and the glory of God, he talks Adam into performing small private healings for sizable donations and Adam's descent into moral bankruptcy has begun. [Explicit material]
IN HOPES OF HEAVEN (CHAPTER ONE)
Adam limped up the stairs of the front porch. He tried to open the door without smearing it with sweat and blood. He looked around the neighborhood, fearing he would alarm anyone who might see him entering the house.
All he wanted now was to find his way quietly to the shower and clean up. But he wasn't going to be so lucky.
Earlier that morning, as Adam Blake woke on the morning of his 30th birthday, little did he realize that his life would never be the same.
He glanced sleepily at the clock. With a start he began to throw the covers off, and then sighed contentedly as he remembered it was Saturday morning. No work. Nothing to do but whatever he wanted to do.
He rolled over, pulled the covers around his shoulders and about his neck in the chilly room and slipped back down into the warm valley of the old swayback mattress. He smiled at the sleeping girl next to him, her hair sprayed across their pillows like a golden sunrise. Adam was sure the real dawn, still an hour off, wouldn't be half as lovely.
His smile slid easily into a huge grin as he remembered last night's lovemaking. He and Yvonne Johnson had known each other for nine months and been living together for the last three. He supposed that the six-month courting period was sufficient for a late-nineties romance to legitimize the arrangement.
Their intellectual compatibility was as well-suited as the meeting of their supple bodies. They enjoyed each other's company and relished experimenting and finding different ways to give and take delight in the act of sex.
Adam snuggled into the small of Yvie's back, enjoying the morning's warm lethargy. He knew that his jogging compulsion wouldn't let him linger too much longer. But he could enjoy the warmth for now, before guilt nuzzled away at his consciousness like a pig rooting for truffles.
He woke an hour later to find that Yvonne hadn't moved. The lazy, early light of a gray, foggy dawn filtered across the dark corners of the room. This time Adam swung his feet over the side of the bed. The cool air caressed his naked legs. Reluctantly, he unfolded his lanky, six-foot-two body from the side of the sleeping girl. He regretted leaving her soft, warm vulnerability, but he refused to deny himself his other most favorite sensual pleasure, the one reserved for most evenings and every weekend morning: running.
In the bathroom, Adam ran his hands through what he was afraid might be thinning brown hair, indulged in a great, jaw-aching yawn, and brushed his teeth. He ignored Yvonne's scale in the corner, knowing he'd be the same 180 pounds he had been since high school. Starring at himself in the mirror, Adam shook his head in amazement. Just an ordinary-looking guy. Nothing special. He couldn't believe how lucky he was. Everything was going his way. His career was perking right along, and he was working at something he really enjoyed. Yvonne was a never-ending source of wonder and delight. He had his health and wasn't hurting financially. God was in His heaven, and all was right with the world!
Back in the bedroom, sitting on the side of the bed, Adam laced up his favorite Nikes. He glanced over his shoulder at the sleeping form. Even with his coming and going, Yvonne hadn't stirred. With a kiss on the back of her neck, to which she responded, "Umm," he stepped into the living room of the small rented house and picked his way through the welter of furniture. His and hers.
Too much, Adam thought for the umpteenth time. He smiled. It was okay. What the hell was a little additional clutter, when Yvonne came along with it.
Outside, the barely risen sun had yet to burn off the morning fog. Living in Venice, between Santa Monica and Marina Del Rey, Adam had learned to appreciate the puppy-tongues of moist air during his morning runs; it was refreshing.
Being a weekend, the beach walk was already teeming with morning exercisers, running, walking, skating, bicycling, or just sitting on the sporadically spaced benches. Later, the crowds would grow even larger as Venice Beach's colorful informal carnival came to full life and both tourists and residents flooded the area with their cacophony and teeming excitement.
Adam turned from the street onto the beach walk, trotting slowly north, allowing his muscles to gently warm and lubricate themselves before he began the serious heart-pounding effort of his normal pace.
He synchronized his breathing with the rhythm of his legs in counterpoint to the slap of his shoes against the sandy cement concourse and reached the limit of his stride. Arms bent at the elbows, he swung lightly clenched fists back and forth easily until his whole body was a smooth-moving machine.
On good days like this, Adam felt he could run forever. As the automatic rhythm and pulse of his body replaced the analysis and logic of his brain, the day was as close to perfect as he could wish. If there were only some way of combining the endorphin rush of running with the adrenaline rush of sex he thought he could bottle it and make a fortune!
He ran past Rose Avenue and resented having to break the cadence he'd developed to swing around and head back on the lap going south. With the return trip, he noted that the traffic on the walk had already increased measurably.
With luck, he'd do fourteen laps, a good seven miles. Not bad, he thought, considering his current life style! Who said sex depleted athletic energies?
Although Adam had a wonderful faculty for putting his brain into neutral while running, it continued to function on an autopilot awareness that allowed him to assess his physical performance and continually monitor his surroundings. And a great part of those surroundings was girls. One of the definite advantages of jogging at the beach was the female population—California's special treasure.
Adam's relationship with Yvonne had not yet solidified into what he could call love. But he was very fond of her. And faithful. It was never a practice of his, regardless of how active a sex life he pursued, to be unfaithful. Basically, he was monogamous. One at a time. Start a relationship and end it before beginning another one. This philosophy, however, did not prevent him from looking at other women, enjoying them and allowing them small roles in his active fantasies. While Adam ran, he appreciated the live scenery. It was innocent and harmless.
Ahead of him, running in his direction in the rapidly clearing mist, he could see a jogger, who stood out from the rest. Even from this distance, while the figure was still small and blurry, he could tell it was an attractive girl.
He ran toward her in appreciative anticipation, relishing the sight of her tall form and smooth-running litheness as her figure grew larger and clearer, their combined speeds rapidly decreasing the distance between them.
She wore a tight, bright red sports halter, displaying an expanse of tanned tummy between it and bla
ck Speedos. The tight shorts looked spray painted on her body. As she came closer, Adam could see the highlights of her hips and thighs through the thin material of the spandex.
The girl passed, and Adam fought the urge to turn and chauvinistically watch her backside, knowing it would be spectacular. It wasn't so much a matter of self-control, as a desire not to break stride, tinged with just a little guilt as a picture of the lovely, willing girl, even now in his own bed, flashed across his conscience.
Suddenly, behind him there was a loud noise, followed immediately by a scream. The sound brought Adam to a halt as he whirled around to see what had happened.
In the middle of the path, the girl, who had just passed, lay tangled in a bicycle. The bike rider was sprawled on the side of the cement, half in the sand. Evidently someone had zigged when he or she should have zagged.
Brushing the sweat out of his eyes, Adam ran back to the scene of the accident.
The frame of the light aluminum bicycle was bent and a wheel still rotated in the air with a clicking noise that seemed louder than either the nearby surf or the flock of gulls circling a nearby trash can, looking for their breakfast.
Somehow the girl's leg had become entangled in the spokes of the other wheel. The sharp wire rods appeared to have sliced deeply into her calf where her Speedos failed to reach with their protection.
She was sitting up, whimpering and crying, tears pouring down her cheeks as she tried to push the bike off her body. She was unable to shove the machine away and pull her injured leg from the tangled metal. Her calf was pushed so far through the spokes of the wheel, that every move caused one of them to dig deeper into her wound. The bicycle rider was struggling up to his elbows in the sand, apparently too stunned to help.
Immediately, Adam dropped to his knees next to the girl. He grabbed her hands, which had been scrabbling ineffectively at the wheel with the cutting spokes. Her hands were covered in bright red blood.
"No! No! Stop! Don't! You're only making it worse." Adam pulled her hands away from the bicycle, pushing them down into her lap. "It'll be okay," he reassured her.