Читать книгу NO BRIDGE, NO WAY! - Jan Murray - Страница 3

THE MAN FROM UGJECT

The conniving Dwayne B. Slew, the Sales Supremo of Ugject Developments, should be in his small office on the 8th Floor. This Saturday morning, however, he is sneaking around in his boss's lavish executive suite on the 33rd Floor of the CBD tower.

It was the 24-year-old's favourite place to be, these days. It was where he came to dream his big dreams. And to plot.

Before his 25th birthday, he planned to be the boss.

It was his destiny, Slew believed with all his heart. He would be President of Ugject Developments.

Like all men of vision, Dwayne Slew intended to seize control of the company. And it would all be due to this Glencairn Island project, his own baby, which made it so much sweeter.

His commissions on the sale of the resort condos alone would be worth tens of thousands of dollars and then there would be the bargaining power the deal would give him within the company. Ugject’s Board members would be eating out of his hand. He would be on the cover of BRW. The youngest property magnate in the land.

‘Power! Yippee!’ yelled the Sales Supremo as he spun himself around in his boss’s chair.

Nothing was going to stand in his way. Certainly not a bunch of dumb island yokels who thought they owned the place. He checked his watch, an expensive Rolex. It was almost 7.30am. It was time for the executive meeting he had called for this morning.

A ‘power breakfast’ was the way he had positioned it on his memo to his boss; a new concept and one he would be introducing the minute he was in charge of Ugject.

Up and making money while your competitors are still in bed.

He checked the wall clock and headed for the door. He had to make it back down to his own work station.

But why not help himself to a drink first? He glanced across at the executive cocktail cabinet. Why not? Just one long delicious tomato juice spritzer to pump up his metabolism.

He reached for the crystal glass and tumbled in a handful of ice and two thin lemon slices. Amazing. Who came in here and prepared these things, he wondered, already looking forward to giving directions to whoever it was once he was in the top job. He opened the tomato juice, poured it then squirted soda water at it.

A stick of fresh celery sat in the bar fridge. He popped it in and stirred.

Meanwhile, as the juice slid down Slew’s throat, an elevator further down the hall was about to open.

* * *

Sir Conan Digby, AO was a belly-squat man of advanced years. His passion for big Cuban cigars was no doubt to blame for his poor health––the breathing problem that robbed him of oxygen and made every breath a challenge.

Lady Digby, when she was alive, had urged her husband to give up the cigars, retire from Ugject Developments and, in his old age, cultivate his prize camellias.

But then along came his young Sales Supremo and put this spanner in the works, this ridiculous development project. Sir Conan felt he should still be in bed rather than fronting up to a meeting at this ungodly hour on a Saturday morning to meet a young man he did not like. And with his heir apparent in tow.

‘Not that I think you are in the least bit suited to running this empire, you blithering nincompoop,’ Sir Conan barked at his grandson.

Digby Junior was a pale young man with fly-away hair and round spectacles who, at present, was down on all fours trying to gather up spilled documents at his grandfather’s feet and shoving them back in a battered old case. It was a hard, brown cardboard thing with push-down metal locks that Sir Conan Digby had been using since he was a young brickie’s labourer sixty years ago.

Although the old man actually adored his heir, he also despaired of him as his successor and this morning the elderly grandparent felt too irritated by having to get out of bed to come to this meeting to think kindly of anyone, not even his grandson.

Digby Junior, still down on his hands and knees scrounging around for dropped things, suddenly noticed a pair of shiny black shoes whiz by the open elevator.

‘Gramps? That man––’

‘Oh, do be quiet, Junior! Hurry up.’ The Chairman of Ugject Developments, deep in his misery, had failed to observe his Sales Supremo, crystal glass in hand, sneaking into the elevator next door. ‘It is an ungodly hour to have a man up and about on business,’ he grumbled. ‘And my gardening day, at that!’

‘Yes Gramps ... but ... that man who just went––’

'Come along, boy! Get up!'

Digby Junior grabbed the bag and caught up with his grandfather who was already out the door and striding down the hall in an angry huff.

‘Gramps. It was––'

‘You know what?’ said Sir Conan, taking a long draw on his cigar and blowing the smoke into Junior’s face. ‘I intend giving this Clew clown just one more week to prove he can get this project underway. If he can’t, then Ugject gives him the boot. Whatever happens, I will be retiring and appointing you Chairman at next month’s Annual General Meeting. Are you clear on that? Humph! Well, are you, son?’

‘But Gramps, I’m––?’

‘What?’ growled the surly old developer as he paused with his hand on the door to his office suite. ‘What in tarnation’s wrong with you?’

‘I’m studying to be a vet, remember? First Year Veterinary Science? Sydney Uni?’

‘So?’

Conan Digby Junior did not bother with any further responses, although the dejected look on his face would have signaled to a more sensitive person than his grandfather that the young vet student was not happy about being handed the chairmanship of Ugject.

He held his tongue and walked beside the old man through the doors and into the executive suite.

‘One week. That’s all the time he’s got,’ barked the old knight. ‘One week to prove he can do it then he’s out. And I’m about to tell him so right now! No room for losers, son. Remember that when you’re at the head of the table. No room for losers! It’s that philosophy that’s made Ugject great!’

* * *

Dwayne Slew, having managed to slide into the other elevator undetected by Sir Conan, had pressed number Eight. But immediately the lift had reached the eighth floor, he pressed number Thirty Three and rode the lift strait back up again.

The elevator mirrors were smoky coloured affairs, but Slew was pleased to note that his hair still looked blonde and shiny when he examined his appearance in all three mirrors. He figured, by anyone’s reckoning, he had been blessed with extreme good looks and good looks were never a handicap in business.

He was grinning when he stepped out into the big wide world of commercial possibilities onto the 33rd Floor and headed for the Presidential Suite.

This Glencairn thing would mark a turning point in his life, Dwayne Slew believed.

No one knew who had inherited the prime piece of land over on Glencairn Island. No one knew who the original occupiers of the old house had been, either. And from his investigations, the Sales Supremo gathered that the island yokels weren’t aware of this handy situation. No title deeds had ever been registered and therefore the ownership of the land and the house were up for grabs. And the local yokels would soon know that he, Dwayne B. Slew, was about to grab it!

Passing the fire escape, Slew opened the door and tossed in the crystal glass, giggling when he heard it bounce down the cement steps.

The sound of breaking crystal conjured up visions of the glass that would be smashing once his bulldozers moved in on the ugly old house on Lindquist Hill. It was a vision that stayed with him all the way down the hall to the door of Chairman Digby’s suite.

‘Dwayne, baby,’ he said as he faced the big mahogany doors just before swinging them open with both hands and announcing his presence, ‘... you are magnificentl!’

‘We are on track!’ he declared as he burst into the room with a flourish of hand-clapping.

‘What in tarnation––?’ said Sir Conan Digby, in danger of swallowing his cigar.

‘The project is just about shovel-ready!’ Slew said as he took his seat and opened his briefcase. ‘No problemo!

‘No what-o?’ Sir Conan Digby looked murderously angry.

‘Except for one possible irritation,’ continued Dwayne B. Slew. ‘An irritation which I will soon have totally under control. Totally. Absolutely. Under control. Yes, shovel-ready! Any day now we send in the bulldozers. And then it’s farewell, goodbye, adios to a bunch of brats who think––’

‘What the devil are you talking about, Clew?’ the irritable old knight barked.

‘Slew.’

‘What?’

‘Never mind. Really not a problem at all, Sir. Just a bunch of hick kids who think they can sabotage my ... our ... development. Don’t worry. I have the matter fully in hand. Under complete control. I’ve got them thrashed before they even start. Here’s what we do going forward, okay?’

The Sales Supremo spread his marketing plan out on the boardroom table.

Sir Conan Digby sighed and reached for another cigar.

Conan Digby Jnr sighed and reached for his iPod.