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Authors: Kevin J. Anderson
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immediately. I’ll be going now.”
The remaining directors expressed their surprise and disappointment, but not too convincingly. The tenor of the overlapping conversations sounded more like relief and farewell rather than any attempt to persuade Drayling to change his mind. The old man didn’t seem to hear any of it as he turned and left the meeting room with pride and dignity.
Disturbed, Bruce pocketed Drayling’s letter of resignation. He would read it in detail later. Right now, he studied the reactions of the other board members, and he learned from them.
“We should get back to business,” Henning said into the awkward silence, glancing down at the agenda, as if resignations were a weekly occurrence.
“The dinosaurs are finally extinct,” someone muttered with a snicker; Bruce couldn’t tell who had spoken.
“We should get him a retirement gift,” added Frank Miles, one of the research VPs, to a chorus of muttered approval.
“We have prepared the annual report for you, Mr. Wayne,” said Terrence McDonnell, the chief financial officer, with a smile. He proudly handed over a glossy report that boasted impressive color photographs and a specially commissioned painting on the cover: a handsome Bruce Wayne standing in front of the monolithic Wayne Tower. The design and printing of this one report had probably cost enough to feed Gotham’s poor for almost a year.
He remembered to remain aloof, despite his troubled thoughts. “Thank you. I’ll glance at it when I get a chance.”
“We’re very pleased you’ve decided to devote your energies to charity work,” said Shawn Norlander, VP of pharmaceuticals and medical applications. “Not only does it put the best public face on all our activities, it’s also closely in line with what your father would have wanted.”
Norlander sounded sincere, but Bruce knew that most of the directors looked upon his charity work, extravagant society functions, and huge donations as a ball and chain, despite the tax deductions—unnecessary expenditures that could have been better used to build new factories, make more extensive investments, or provide bonuses to management. Nevertheless, the directors let Bruce manage his charities without complaint, as if they were throwing him a bone.
Bruce slipped the flashy report into his briefcase. “I have to cut this short today, gentlemen. I’m holding an important charity gala at the manor tonight with quite a few celebrities. We expect to raise hundreds of thousands of dollars for polio research, and Eleanor Roosevelt has promised to come. Marilyn Monroe and Arthur Miller may even be there.”
“Interesting. I’ll try to make it,” Buchheim said, but Bruce knew the directors usually made excuses.
“I’ll expect to see some of you there,” Bruce added with an undertone of warning, which he then turned to a flippant suggestion. “Draw straws if you have to.”
“You know you have our full support for your humanitarian activities,” Thomson said in an irritatingly sycophantic tone, trying to mollify him. “In any case, you are the best spokesman for the company, Mr. Wayne.”
“I suppose I am,” Bruce answered, lifting his chin. “And it’s quite a full-time job. Please be sure to show me a list of candidates for Mr. Drayling’s replacement. Thank you again for the report, and”—he gestured gravely toward the easels—“let’s try a little harder on those logos for next week.”
AS THE CHAUFFEUR DROVE HIM HOME FROM WAYNE TOWER, Bruce went over the flashy report the directors had given him. None of the information was new to him. Though they believed Bruce to be an indifferent manager—an impression he had actively cultivated—he familiarized himself with every department, scrutinized every project, analyzed every budget.
Two questions continued to weigh on him: Why had Drayling resigned? And why now ? Bruce had tried to intercept the man to talk to him before he left Wayne Tower, but
The remaining directors expressed their surprise and disappointment, but not too convincingly. The tenor of the overlapping conversations sounded more like relief and farewell rather than any attempt to persuade Drayling to change his mind. The old man didn’t seem to hear any of it as he turned and left the meeting room with pride and dignity.
Disturbed, Bruce pocketed Drayling’s letter of resignation. He would read it in detail later. Right now, he studied the reactions of the other board members, and he learned from them.
“We should get back to business,” Henning said into the awkward silence, glancing down at the agenda, as if resignations were a weekly occurrence.
“The dinosaurs are finally extinct,” someone muttered with a snicker; Bruce couldn’t tell who had spoken.
“We should get him a retirement gift,” added Frank Miles, one of the research VPs, to a chorus of muttered approval.
“We have prepared the annual report for you, Mr. Wayne,” said Terrence McDonnell, the chief financial officer, with a smile. He proudly handed over a glossy report that boasted impressive color photographs and a specially commissioned painting on the cover: a handsome Bruce Wayne standing in front of the monolithic Wayne Tower. The design and printing of this one report had probably cost enough to feed Gotham’s poor for almost a year.
He remembered to remain aloof, despite his troubled thoughts. “Thank you. I’ll glance at it when I get a chance.”
“We’re very pleased you’ve decided to devote your energies to charity work,” said Shawn Norlander, VP of pharmaceuticals and medical applications. “Not only does it put the best public face on all our activities, it’s also closely in line with what your father would have wanted.”
Norlander sounded sincere, but Bruce knew that most of the directors looked upon his charity work, extravagant society functions, and huge donations as a ball and chain, despite the tax deductions—unnecessary expenditures that could have been better used to build new factories, make more extensive investments, or provide bonuses to management. Nevertheless, the directors let Bruce manage his charities without complaint, as if they were throwing him a bone.
Bruce slipped the flashy report into his briefcase. “I have to cut this short today, gentlemen. I’m holding an important charity gala at the manor tonight with quite a few celebrities. We expect to raise hundreds of thousands of dollars for polio research, and Eleanor Roosevelt has promised to come. Marilyn Monroe and Arthur Miller may even be there.”
“Interesting. I’ll try to make it,” Buchheim said, but Bruce knew the directors usually made excuses.
“I’ll expect to see some of you there,” Bruce added with an undertone of warning, which he then turned to a flippant suggestion. “Draw straws if you have to.”
“You know you have our full support for your humanitarian activities,” Thomson said in an irritatingly sycophantic tone, trying to mollify him. “In any case, you are the best spokesman for the company, Mr. Wayne.”
“I suppose I am,” Bruce answered, lifting his chin. “And it’s quite a full-time job. Please be sure to show me a list of candidates for Mr. Drayling’s replacement. Thank you again for the report, and”—he gestured gravely toward the easels—“let’s try a little harder on those logos for next week.”
AS THE CHAUFFEUR DROVE HIM HOME FROM WAYNE TOWER, Bruce went over the flashy report the directors had given him. None of the information was new to him. Though they believed Bruce to be an indifferent manager—an impression he had actively cultivated—he familiarized himself with every department, scrutinized every project, analyzed every budget.
Two questions continued to weigh on him: Why had Drayling resigned? And why now ? Bruce had tried to intercept the man to talk to him before he left Wayne Tower, but
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