“Everybody’s buzzing about Ecker,” he said conversationally. “But Wade Sullivan seems worried about the old man’s age.”
The derision was almost automatic.
“What choice do we have? ASI’s got to have some new products, and Sam Bradley’s operation hasn’t come up with a single one in five years.”
“I suppose that’s what’s tipped the balance,” Hunnicut agreed. “But Ecker must be close to retirement, isn’t he?”
“He’s still more productive than Sam Bradley’s ever been,” Pepitone’s ally snarled.
As he dried his hands, Hunnicut grew more thoughtful. Until now he had not even known there was an anti-Bradley faction. Surely, an astute young man could find some way to exploit these latent animosities. At midafternoon he got a sharp reminder of how important this might be.
Two other assistant division managers waylaid him in the hallway to present their own conclusions about the Ecker merger.
“. . . a real break for one of us,” said the tubby extrovert. “Too bad it can’t be you or me, Vic.”
This cheerful acceptance of the undeniable grated on Hunnicut, particularly since he knew that tubby’s companion was likely to be in the running.
“It’s early days to talk about any opening,” he replied with a smile. “Don’t get your hopes up, Pete.”
Pete had learned to be circ*mspect with good old Vic.
“Sure,” he said amiably. “They could get an outsider or stick with whatever they’ve got in Bridgeport now. But then”—he paused—“that wouldn’t make much sense, would it? Not if the idea is to bring Ecker into line with us.”
Tubby threw in another possibility. “For that matter, Stan is betting the whole deal’ll fall through. What does Fred think?”
Hunnicut’s boss was out of town, he told them. Later that day he was saying the same thing to Philip Pepitone.
“I’m sorry, but Fred’s in California. Is there anything I can do?”
The phone delivered fulminations from Pepitone. Then Hunnicut, as if he had been planning it for a week, said, “The trouble is, we’re not expecting him back until next Friday. Of course I’d be glad to stand in for him.”
After getting just the orders he wanted, Hunnicut took them straight to ASI’s research division.
“. . . so you see, I thought I’d better talk to you.”
Sam Bradley, a tall, lean southerner, had created his own atmospherics at ASI. As befitted a scientist, he was in flannels and a tweed jacket.
“. . . with Fred out of town, Phil Pepitone wants me to go along on this inspection tour,” Hunnicut continued soberly, before going on to cast himself as a novice in need of guidance.
This flattery was wasted on a man sensitive to institutional slights. If Pepitone wanted anybody to assess the Ecker Company, he should have come to the director of research before he went to any assistant division manager.
“Phil’s the expert about Ecker, not me,” Bradley drawled. “I’ve never even met Conrad Ecker.”
“They say he’s a remarkable man,” said Hunnicut. “Of course he’s pretty old by now.”
“Yes, I know,” said Bradley indifferently.
When Hunnicut left, he was still not altogether sure where Sam Bradley stood.
Chapter 3
PROFIT AND LOSS
John Thatcher was just beginning his own quest for information. After lunch with Tom Robichaux, he lingered by his secretary’s desk.
“The Ecker Company, Miss Corsa. Will you find out who’s taken over from Milo Thompson?”
Although the Sloan held thousands of business accounts, Miss Corsa had the name at her fingertips.
“Mr. Nicolls,” she replied promptly.
Thatcher accepted this as yet another instance of her inhuman competence until she added, “Mr. Nicolls wants to talk to you about Ecker when you have the time.”
“Shoot him in,” said Thatcher breezily. He was less schedule-minded than she was.
Furthermore, he was in a hurry. If the Ecker Company was envisaging a major transformation, Ken Nicolls was not senior enough to represent the Sloan’s interest. No doubt, the Eckers felt the same way.
Ken Nicolls himself entertained doubts.
“I don’t want to come running to you every time there’s something complicated,” he apologized. “But I talked it over with Charlie”—Charles F. Trinkham was Thatcher’s second-in-command and, while the idea would have horrified him, an all-purpose mentor to the younger staff—“and he said I’d better check with you.”
Thatcher did not affect omniscience for its own sake. “Robichaux and Devane’s representing ASI,” he explained. “I understand formal negotiations haven’t begun, but as a matter of courtesy they informed me. Unfortunately I seem to know precious little about the Ecker Company.”
“Me, too,” Nicolls confessed.
His commendable forthrightness was not altogether accurate. Nicolls had arrived with bulging files of Ecker statements profiling a medium-sized firm of two-thousand-plus employees, located in Connecticut and Texas. Compared to giants in the field, Ecker was small, but in certain niche products it was the market leader. On paper, the Ecker Company was healthy as a horse.
As Thatcher had feared, Ken Nicolls could not flesh out these arid records. The recently retired Milo Thompson was the one who knew where the bodies, if any, were buried.
“Of course, Milo took me up to Bridgeport and introduced me around,” said Nicolls. “But that’s not the same as working with them for years and years.”
“No, it isn’t,” Thatcher agreed.
Clearly, the Ecker Company was going to require some heavyweight Sloan attention in the near future. Deciding how to provide it would have to wait.
“Miss Corsa,” he said, stabbing a button. “See if you can put me in touch with Milo Thompson, will you?”
Since the Sloan Guaranty Trust was still sending monthly payments to Thompson, this did not prove insuperably difficult. It was not even necessary to break into the golden sunset of Hobe Sound. Milo Thompson, on the brink of a European vacation, was staying at the St. Regis. He was delighted to leave the packing to his wife, and come downstairs.
“It’s hell,” he said jauntily in response to a civil inquiry about life after the Sloan. “How much golf can one man play? And I’m not crazy about cathedrals and museums, either.”
Nicolls, serious-minded to a fault, assumed an expression of sympathy. Thatcher, taking in the tassels on Thompson’s shoes, was less gullible.
“Itching to come back to work, eh?”
“Like a shot,” said Thompson with a straight face. “Only Muriel won’t let me. What’s the story on Ecker?”
Thatcher filled him in, reflecting that they were in luck. Some redoubtable Sloan stalwarts underwent personality changes when they surrendered to time. Thompson had put off pinstripes; otherwise he was unaltered.
“A merger? Well, I suppose I should have seen it coming. It makes a lot of sense.”
“Not to me, it doesn’t,” said Thatcher. “Nicolls and I have been over the Ecker financials and they look rock-solid.”
“The financials don’t really tell the story,” said Thompson. “Let me give you some background . . .”
When Conrad Ecker started out, he had ambition, shrewdness, and vitality. But his working capital consisted only of his meager savings and the twenty thousand dollars provided by his sister’s husband. No bank, including the Sloan, would touch him.
“So much for our contribution to American enterprise,” Thatcher observed. “When did we join forces?”
“When Ecker got its act together,” Thompson replied, looking back at one of his own prouder achievements. “That was when Doug Ecker came of age.”
After years of struggling from crisis to crisis, the Ecker Company had tasted its first real management. Doug lacked his father’s ability to churn out objects that captured the fancy of the American housewife, but he had a talent for marketing, organizing, and budget
ing. Almost overnight, the Ecker Company became one of the most tightly run outfits in the business. Conrad retreated to his workbench and everybody was happy.
“Then came the son’s first heart attack,” said Thompson, shaking his head dolefully. “That floored them, especially Conrad, but everybody thought Doug would recover. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out like that. When he came back, he collapsed again and they barely pulled him through. So, on doctor’s orders, he’s taken early retirement. It’s been painful for the family.”
“And the company as well,” said Thatcher.
Douglas Ecker’s systems and organization were, according to Thompson, still running well. But sooner or later they would require refurbishing, particularly when Conrad Ecker’s contributions dried up. Change of some sort was inevitable.
In a family-owned firm, however, selling out was not the only option.
“Isn’t there anybody else who can step in and take over?” Thatcher inquired.
“Apparently Conrad doesn’t think so,” said Thompson. “And he calls the tune because he hasn’t ever parted with a single share of stock. The only other holder is his widowed sister with her twenty percent. It’s her son, Bob, who’s production manager in Bridgeport. He’s been running the show, insofar as anybody has.”
This was the first disparaging note in Thompson’s account.
“Is the nephew a washout?” Thatcher demanded.
“You can’t say that. He’s a perfectly competent production manager. But otherwise he’s just been coasting on Doug’s decisions.”
“A sure prescription for trouble in the future,” Thatcher commented.
Thompson agreed. “Particularly since the other two are real specialists. Tina, Bob’s wife, is smart as a whip. She’s a CPA who just knows the financial end. A handson person she isn’t. And Alan Frayne—he was married to Conrad’s daughter for a while—he’s a backroom boy. He’s into design and testing and working with the pattern makers. His job is over when Bob Laverdiere’s starts. My guess is that Conrad doesn’t think any of them can step into Doug’s shoes.”
“Is that how you see it?”
It took a moment for Thompson to formulate his reply.
“Between Doug and Conrad, none of the others was given much scope. They’re all good at what they do—Doug wouldn’t have kept them on otherwise. But with the clock ticking the way it is, I’m not so sure I’d bet the farm on finding out if they’ve got what it takes.”
Then, with the best intentions in the world, Thompson flattened his successor.
“Isn’t that your impression, Nicolls?”
Momentarily Ken Nicolls, who had really formed no impressions at all, looked foolish.
“Don’t worry,” Thatcher advised him kindly. “After we’ve sent you up to Bridgeport to nose around, you’ll know as much as Milo, if not more. In the meantime, what can either of you tell me about ASI?”
He had put them back on a level playing field. Both Thompson and Ken Nicolls drew blanks on ASI.
“Well, Robichaux should be able to fill me in,” said Thatcher, although his expectations lay elsewhere.
Walter Bowman and the Sloan’s indefatigable research staff would be getting an emergency assignment. And even though ASI banked elsewhere, Thatcher had well-merited confidence that Bowman would lay bare the truth.
At ASI, almost everybody was trying to camouflage it.
CNBC buttonholed Gardner Ives in the parking lot.
“No, there is no foundation to these rumors,” he said, twirling his car keys from one aristocratic finger. “While ASI always considers new opportunities, at present we are not contemplating or actively pursuing any merger possibilities. Now, if you will excuse me . . .”
Like diplomats, CEO’s are good men sent abroad to lie for their country. Victor Hunnicut was only a would-be CEO.
“So I’m going up to Ecker tomorrow with an absolutely open mind,” he said. “Sam Bradley gave me some good tips on what to look for.”
“Be careful about anything you get from Sam,” his companion warned. “If ASI really does acquire Ecker, we won’t have to waste money on more of Bradley’s screw-ups. He’s twisting in the wind.”
“I’ll watch it,” said Victor Hunnicut.
Philip R. Pepitone and Dr. Samuel Bradley were leaving work at the same time.
“Hi, Phil!”
“Hi, Sam!”
After a companionable pause Bradley inquired, “Anything doing up in the front office?”
“Not a damn thing,” said Pepitone heartily. “We’re just plugging along.”
Sam Bradley smiled benignly. “Good. There’s nothing better than a quiet life.”
Chapter 4
YIELD COMPARISON
The next morning, Phil Pepitone made Bridgeport ten minutes early. Nevertheless when he arrived, he found Victor Hunnicut already gazing at the massive old mill that housed the Ecker Company.
“I’m glad you’re here, Vic,” he said, putting the extra time to good use. “Now before we go in, remember the drill. I’m going to press the flesh a little while you keep your eyes on the physical layout. Just get an idea how up-to-date they are.”
“Right,” said Hunnicut, following him into a small modern room that defied its grim surroundings.
They were still too early. Alan Frayne, full of apologies, bustled out to explain that Bob Laverdiere was on the way over.
“Let’s get settled while we’re waiting for him,” he said, ushering them through a door that still read “Douglas Ecker.”
Pepitone had been expecting Conrad Ecker.
“You’ll be joining him for lunch,” Frayne continued. “But Bob’s in charge these days. Anyway, as far as showing you around, Conrad would be the worst choice. He doesn’t put in a lot of time over here.”
“Off in his own private space, huh?” Pepitone responded. “Well, as long as he keeps churning out winners, that’s the best place for him.”
These preliminaries were interrupted by the arrival of Bob Laverdiere. After greeting his guests, he settled behind the desk and addressed Pepitone.
“Glad to have you up here. Conrad and I want you to see the whole operation.”
Before Pepitone could reply suitably, Laverdiere continued, “I hope you don’t mind company. We’ve got a new man at the Sloan and he wants to get up to speed. I told Tina to bring him along and join the tour, if that’s all right with you.”
“We go months without anybody,” Frayne remarked, “and all of a sudden we’ve got a crowd.”
Their trip to the production floor was occupied by sorting out the newcomers and establishing a pecking order. By the time they arrived, Phil Pepitone was flanked by Bob and Alan Frayne. Bringing up the rear, Tina escorted Ken Nicolls and Hunnicut.
Laverdiere had decided to start with geography. Taking them into his command post, he produced a diagram. Aside from assorted sheds and modest outbuildings, the Ecker plant consisted of one vast L-shaped structure. The longer wing still boasted the original brick-walled caverns, now home to all the manufacturing operations. Everything else had been shoehorned into the shorter arm, which was a hodgepodge of offices, packing rooms, and storage facilities. The old railroad siding was still a shipping dock, but these days the Dickensian windows were sparkling clean.
Laverdiere’s quarters were also a mixture of old and new. A battered desk overflowed with printouts, makeshift shelves were crammed with folders—but the communication system was state-of-the-art. Obviously this was where he really lived and worked, not at that bare mahogany surface over which he greeted the company’s more distinguished guests.
“We’ll start upstairs,” Laverdiere announced.
Upstairs came as an eye-opener to Victor Hunnicut.
“Will you look at this!” he exclaimed. “You’ve got some really advanced stuff here.”
Tina laughed. “Everybody’s always surprised. After the outside, they expect the dark ages.”
Ken Nicolls hazarded a guess. “You don�
��t believe in cosmetics?”
“Oh, yes, we do,” Tina replied. “Just wait until ASI takes a look at what we’ve got in Texas. It’s beautiful.”
Up ahead, Phil Pepitone was discovering that Bob Laverdiere was an enthusiast. As the perfections of one mechanical marvel after another washed over him, he let his attention wander long enough to overhear Vic Hunnicut’s next remark.
“I expect Ecker’s already considered closing down here and moving everything to Texas.”
While Tina gathered her thoughts, Pepitone hurriedly intervened.
“Vic, come on up here, will you?” Turning to Laverdiere, he added, “Hunnicut’s the one who’ll understand you, Bob. I’m just a paper pusher myself.”
Allowing the two younger men to proceed, he informed the others, “Vic’s one of ASI’s coming hopefuls. These days they’ve all got the technical stuff as well as the M.B.A.’s.”
“Sounds like a high-powered bunch,” Alan Frayne commented.
“Our recruiters don’t settle for second best.”
Ken Nicolls knew little about Ecker and less about ASI. But he knew something about people and that something told him that Phil Pepitone was frightening the natives. If cogs in the machine like Victor Hunnicut were so sharp, what was the rest of ASI like?
Startled or not, Tina did her duty by Phil Pepitone. While her husband and Hunnicut continued their unintelligible dialogue, she fielded questions about labor turnover, shipping costs, and energy consumption.
But even after they had covered three floors, the two tigers were still going strong.
“Of course, that’s just a run-through, Vic,” said Bob. “Why don’t you come back to my office and let me show you some spreadsheets?”
“Great!”
Pepitone had had enough. “Later,” he said decisively. “We don’t want to overdo on our first go-round and—”
“Besides, it’s time for lunch,” Frayne interjected. “The driver’s already waiting for you, Phil.”
The tour resumed that afternoon with a diminished cast. Phil Pepitone was still being wined and dined by Conrad Ecker; Bob Laverdiere and Alan Frayne had discovered other calls on their time. This left Tina showing Ken Nicolls and Hunnicut the lesser nooks and crannies at Ecker. In her contained fashion, she was as thorough as her husband.
