Webber studied the form Neale had completed. “You’re asking for a candidate with both a CPA and extensive technical knowledge in computers. And management experience. You’re tossing me a tough one, Mr. Neale.”
Neale was a large man with grey hair. He talked with his hands. “Perhaps, but those are my requirements. The computer industry is changing so rapidly that technical expertise is essential. Naturally, cost is no problem if you deliver and deliver fast. There will be a nice bonus added to your standard fee if you can produce within a week. Relocation is no problem either, if he’s the right man.”
Webber nodded. That would make an impossible task slightly less difficult. Some corporations balked at repotting an executive from the East Coast because of the moving expense and other perk demands. “Well, that widens the playing field a bit, but still—”
Neale got up and smiled. “I have confidence in you, Webber. I appreciate what you’ve done for me in the past and I like the way you’ve kept your operation small and personal. If there’s a better body snatcher on the Coast, I don’t know who it is.”
Webber forced a return smile, shuddering inside. Body snatcher, head hunter — phrases coined by bitter employers who had lost key people when better opportunities had been presented to them. But it was a matter of perspective, Webber knew — whether your corporation was victim or beneficiary.
He slipped out of Neale’s handshake after the first squeeze. A wiry, natty man half Neale’s size, he had learned the hard way that Neale didn’t mind showing off his knuckle-crunching grip.
“I hope to get back to you in about three days,” he said.
Neale winked. “Think bonus, Webber. Forty-eight hours would be appreciated.”
Webber struck out locally and got on the phone. He had a loose working relationship with similar small firms in most major markets. It was a necessary symbiosis if he was to survive against the increasing number of large operations in the field. Perhaps Neale’s “small and personal” grated him even more than the “body snatcher” remark. Blair Webber did not want to remain small and personal forever. He would prefer to become ponderous and wealthy. But his income was about the same as it had been when he had resigned his position as a corporate personnel manager to hang out his shingle; his was no overnight-success saga.
He wished he could have sold Neale on a generic comptroller. There were literally thousands of them pounding the bricks, Wall Street Journals tucked under their arms. But an accountant who was also an engineer-scientist-manager? Webber wasn’t exactly sure why Neale had demanded this combination, since he had no knowledge of computers himself, but, as they said, the customer is always right.
Twelve working hours and a $700 deficit to Ma Bell later, Webber had gleaned a sum total of two prospects. The first held a high-level position in Philadelphia and seemed, if anything, overqualified. He must have thought his talents and experience put him in the same rare category as Julius Erving — his salary demand was twice Neale’s limit. The second, a younger man from Denver, had the proper education — an electronics-engineering degree with a minor in accounting, and he was studying for his CPA — but he was ground-floor management with a concern much smaller than DataAid. A tad shaky, but he was Webber’s only possibility.
Webber called Neale and gave him a thumbnail description of the Denver man, coming down heavily on his potential and Neale’s chance to sign on a moldable commodity cheap. Neale was only mildly enthusiastic, but he agreed to an interview. Webber set up a conference call to Denver while Neale’s secretary scouted airline schedules. The conversation was brief, but it went well and Neale wired the prospect a ticket.
Webber was uneasy. If it worked out, it would be too simple. Five-digit fees did not normally materialize after a day or two on the telephone. Usually it required a lengthy and complex series of meetings and dinners, a good deal of hand-holding, and intense sales talks to two parties whose needs and desires were not always compatible.
He was right.
“You shipped me a goddamn space cadet,” Neale bellowed into the receiver.
“Settle down, Evan. What’s wrong?” Webber had never been comfortable with Neale on a first-name basis, but he hoped it would have a soothing effect.
“For starters, he’s just a kid. He probably shaves with whipped cream and a cat’s tongue. And the first thing he wants to know is my relationship with the community and whether we have an affirmative action program that’s meaningful! I thought he was going to ask if we dumped our garbage in the river! He didn’t even get to salary and fringies before I’d booked him back to Denver. I’m very disappointed, Webber.”
“There’s a limit to what we can learn in a hurry, Evan. Your case is my first priority, I assure you. I recognize your urgency. But you must realize that what we’re trying to accomplish is slightly more difficult than sending a warm body out of the union hall with a slip of paper.”
Neale lowered his voice. “I know, I know. But things are coming down around my head here ever since Jerry... Well, just do your best, Webber.”
“I’ll be back to you soon,” Webber promised, knowing it was probably a lie. He hated to lose a good fee, but with his limited resources he couldn’t search indefinitely for a two-legged Holy Grail.
The next morning a weedy little man in a checkered suit and horn-rimmed glasses walked into Webber’s office. Since his secretary had gone out for coffee, Webber was stuck with him.
“May I apply for a job here?” the man asked.
Webber lacked the heart to explain that he dealt primarily with employers, not people off the street, and at a level somewhat higher than this fellow’s appearance indicated. There were scores of employment agencies in town, but evidently this man’s delusions had led his fingers to walk the yellow pages from EMPLOYMENT AGENCIES to EXECUTIVE SEARCH CONSULTANTS. Webber gave him an application, which the man — Walter J. Heupel — completed quickly.
Webber glanced at it. “We’ll keep you in mind if anything turns up.”
Later, sorting through miscellaneous papers on his desk, Webber came across Walter J. Heupel’s application. It had been a slow day, so he studied it.
Walter J. Heupel not only had a degree in electronics engineering, he also had an MBA and a CPA. He had management experience too, at a company like DataAid. His past three years were unaccounted for, but Webber was so excited he didn’t worry about it. That gap could be filled in later. He didn’t see bright sunlight at the end of the tunnel, but he could distinguish shadows and fuzzy images. He called Neale, then Heupel, and arranged dinner for the three of them at a plush restaurant. He would ride shotgun and hoped Heupel was what he claimed, instead of what he seemed.
The veal was young, the wine old, the service slow and haughty. But Webber already had so much invested in the project that a larcenous dinner check wouldn’t make much difference.
Heupel showed up looking just as seedy as before.
Neale glared at him, then at Webber, who closed his eyes and prayed for a miracle.
The miracle was granted. He didn’t have a chance to say more than twenty words all evening. Heupel and Neale hit it off spectacularly, bubbling on and on about debits, credits, analogs, esoteric circuitry, and market penetration. Webber leaned back, nibbled at escargots, and sipped fine bourbon.