Lady Joker, Volume 1 Kaoru Takamura (ereader ebook .TXT) 📖

down from the window and wondered if his was the same general perspective as all CEOs, but no doubt in Shirai’s eyes, from this height the scene appeared to him as a line that should function at the highest efficiency in every respect. What stretched out before him was a system—it was neither human nor thing.

On the other hand, Shiroyama moved of his own accord, his body feeling lighter or heavier from day to day, still carrying a sense of having sold goods with his own hands for more than twenty years, and perhaps it was because of this—if he were to let his feelings be known—that his and Shirai’s sensibilities were somewhat incompatible.

Incidentally, there was another EVP at Hinode, Seigo Kurata, who had taken over the beer division after Shiroyama had been promoted. In contrast to Shirai, who continued to push for diversification, Kurata sustained the reality that beer still topped 96 percent of their overall sales. It was clear as day that Shirai was only able to wield his talents because there were men like Kurata who sold beer to the tune of 1.2 trillion, and now that under the current executive structure both Shirai and Kurata had become EVPs, the truth was that the difference in their approaches to corporate strategy divided the board into Shirai and Kurata factions even more than before.

What this difference came down to was whether to focus on a long-range outlook or the concerns of the moment. This disparity was brought to a head two years ago when, confronted by declining sales of their lager, a decision was forced regarding whether or not to proceed with a diversified product strategy. If they were to incite a competition, randomly releasing new products several times a year to counter other brands’ offensives, it would lead to a significant increase in costs to reorder production lines, as well as increased costs for product and sales management, and expanded advertising and promotional fees and so on—all of which would mire them down, essentially putting a noose around their own neck. It was a decision that could weaken the entire beer industry, so Shirai insisted that he could not agree to an excessive diversification of products, but at the core of his logic was an assessment of the managerial efficiency of Hinode’s entire system, which already carried twelve factories.

Meanwhile, on the beer division’s side, Shiroyama and Kurata ensured that if it came to that, Hinode, with its basic and fundamental strength, would be last one standing, an assertion driven by pride in the Hinode brand and the current hard-and-fast numbers. It was a futile clash—each side was correct in their own way but only about their own argument—and ultimately, on the judgment of the current chairman, they agreed to a fair enough compromise—they would issue new products when they needed to, and when they didn’t need to they wouldn’t.

Shortly thereafter, a longer-than-anticipated decline in lager sales precipitated Shiroyama’s promotion from head of the beer division to president, on the consensus of the board who had no choice but to strengthen the beer business, however the fact of the matter was that the need for diversification was more urgent than ever. Shiroyama and Kurata’s beer lines, which had been the backbone of Hinode for so many years, were now the last stand and, more than anyone, Shiroyama was aware of the drastic reform that the division required. He had yet to acknowledge it publicly, though. In these board meetings where various emotionally-charged conflicts, factional manuevering, and backroom deals were the norm, it was important to bide one’s time for the right moment to say anything.

Obviously the real reason Shirai had appeared during the busiest time in Shiroyama’s morning was because he intended to make a deal with him, one that presumably had to do with controlling some kind of move by Kurata. But Shiroyama made a point to devote enough time to ascertain Shirai’s motive for showing up like this, especially since Shiroyama’s sentiments were so clearly aligned with Kurata’s.

The human resources manager Tsukamoto had left after delivering his somewhat absurd story, and now Shirai leaned forward slightly, as if to signal that he was about to begin the real topic of conversation. Here it comes, Shiroyama thought, and glanced at the clock. Eight forty-three.

Shiroyama thought back over Tsukamoto’s explanation, recalling that there were certain problematic details. “I have two questions if you don’t mind,” he said, beating Shirai to it. “First, how did you become involved in a matter that you are not in charge of?”

“Oh, that. Tsukamoto had been looking rather pale in the face these past few days, so I just happened to ask him what was the matter. Not surprisingly he was loath to admit that they’d received an anonymous letter and a tape over trouble with the screening process for new employees,” Shirai responded without any defensiveness. “By the way, Tsukamoto forgot to mention something important. This student, Hatano, he was killed in a car accident on the fifteenth last month. They say he was speeding, but it’s not unthinkable that his father may have lost all sense because of it.”

In the moment Shiroyama took to find the words to respond, Shirai added, “It’s an unfortunate story, sure, but since it was a car accident, I have to say that it’s of no concern to our company.”

“Can I trust nothing took place that would make the other party suspicious of us?”

“I myself was at the second interview, so I can guarantee you that.”

“But I would think rejecting a University of Tokyo student who made it as far as a second interview is out of the ordinary, no matter the reason.”

“You’re absolutely right. Since Hatano left in the middle of his interview on the tenth because he felt sick, the next day the screening committee did in fact get into a minor debate about how to handle his case. Ultimately, we decided that in order to reject a student who came with a recommendation,