“How are the people handling all this?” Wilson asked.
“Like victims, just as you’d expect,” he said, laughing. “But don’t get me wrong, they’re definitely survivors. We pick our people well and they don’t disappoint us when times get tough.”
“Anyone planning to leave?”
“Everyone’s planning to leave sooner or later, that’s the nature of our business. Five to ten years on the Fielder amp; Company learning curve and they’re ready for a cushy senior executive position with a client company.”
Wilson smiled, but only slightly. He didn’t want to encourage Spivey too much. “Are there any personnel issues I should know about?”
“Nothing pressing,” Spivey said.
“What about the vice presidents?”
“You’ve probably already heard complaints about Malouf and Ashford,” he said.
“Malouf, yes, but nothing about Ashford,” Wilson said.
“They’ve been trying to take charge in your father’s absence.”
“Anything I should be worried about?”
“Only mutiny,” he said, grinning.
Wilson forced a smile. He asked Spivey to tell him about the firm’s website and how it was used in recruiting staff and marketing services. For the next twenty minutes, Spivey took Wilson through a brief demonstration on the computer, explaining that all the programming and design work had been done by Fielder employees. When he finished, Wilson was convinced that Fielder amp; Company’s website not only represented state-of-the-art interactive programming, but the work of an in-house IT team capable of anything.
As Spivey left, he answered one of Wilson’s lingering questions. “The technology nerds report to Ashford, and believe me, you don’t want them against you.”
Wilson took another bathroom break before meeting with the last of the vice presidents, Bob Throckmorton, who headed the operational redesign practice. He was short, stocky, curly headed, and had eyes that seemed ready to burrow into anything. But as soon as Wilson asked him what he was working on, Throckmorton became oblivious to everything outside his area of responsibility.
“We’re re-engineering one of GE’s appliance businesses, but Immelt’s decision to sell the division has everyone covering their rear ends, which is unusual for GE. They all know fifteen percent of them will get the axe from Immelt, that’s normal operating procedure from the Welch era. But now they’re expected to cut another fifteen percent, before the sale. It’s produced a victim-hunting culture that’s not only compromising productivity but also creating more victims. I’m going to the company’s management training center at Crotonville to discuss the issue with a group of business heads. It’ll be fine in the end, because GE prides itself in firing those managers who make people feel like victims. Anyway, we’re trying to minimize the trauma so we can get the re-engineering completed.”
“Is GE concerned?”
“Are you kidding? GE couldn’t be happier. Immelt’s attitude is if GE can’t whip a person or a business into shape, then no place can. He’s not a screamer like Welch, but he’s more determined to make changes than most people realize.”
Before Throckmorton could continue, Anne opened the door and stuck her head in to remind Wilson, as he had requested, about his 6:30 p.m. dinner reservation.
“Good to have you on board,” Throckmorton said, as he stood up from the black wing chair and extended his hand.
Throckmorton could have gone on for another hour about his project with General Electric, Wilson thought, but his focus had already turned to anticipating an evening with Emily.
27
Quinn — Lake Forest, IL
David Quinn stepped to the front of the cavernous living room overlooking the water at Musselman’s secluded mansion on Lake Michigan. More than sixty senior executives, middle managers, staff from corporate headquarters, and advertising executives from Boggs amp; Saggett were rejoicing euphorically. It was the first Musselman celebration party in almost two years. Quinn raised his glass of champagne above his head.
“This has been a glorious week for the J. B. Musselman Company. Our stock price has finally reached thirty dollars,” he said to whoops and hollers and rowdy applause. “And the best is yet to come. Next weekend we roll out America’s Warehouse.” The room erupted with more shouts, noise-makers, and applause.
The stately thirty-six room Lake House-traditional English brick and stucco with half timbers, cedar shake shingles, abundant ivy, beautiful heated gardens, antique furniture, and layers of nineteenth-century craftsmanship-was the perfect place for a party. The house was designed by well-known Chicago architect Arthur Heun in 1896 for the son of John V. Farwell, the dry goods magnate who launched Marshal Field’s and was a founding member of the controversial Commercial Club of Chicago. It stood on several acres of secluded lakefront property in Lake Forest, Illinois, about forty minutes north of downtown Chicago via Lake Shore Drive and Sheridan Road. The house was maintained by a discreet property management firm that employed the latest security surveillance systems and guaranteed absolute privacy.
Quinn had purchased the Lake House property several years earlier for the purpose of entertaining preferred customers and suppliers. No one gained entrance without his personal authorization, and the property management firm reported only to him. But even with such exclusive control, Quinn had rarely used the Lake House for personal pleasure. Tonight, however, would be an exception, he thought to himself. All week long, while fretting about newspaper articles, takeover bids, and stock positions, he’d secretly fantasized about being with Andrea Vargas. Then, when his ninety-five million shares of Musselman stock were cashed out at half a billion dollars in profit, his fantasies turned into a call for celebration.
As the increasingly raucous crowd quieted down momentarily, Quinn thanked them for their tireless efforts in preparation for next week’s grand opening of America’s Warehouse and challenged them to keep the momentum building in the weeks ahead. There was another burst of applause and catcalls as Quinn raised his arms to quiet them down.
“I want all of you to know that none of this would be possible without each and every one of you. So enjoy yourselves tonight and stay as long as you like.” The crowd noisily expressed its pleasure while Quinn waved gleefully and then removed himself to the soundproof library where he called his wife Margaret. When she answered, Quinn asked, “Did you see where the stock closed?”
“Yes, Jenny and Bob came over. Everyone’s been calling,” Margaret said enthusiastically, referring to the Quinn’s’ oldest daughter and son-in-law who also lived in Hinsdale.
“Next week’s grand opening will take it even higher. It’s all coming together, Maggie.”
“No one deserves it more than you, David.”
The comment brought pangs of guilt, but only for a moment, as he looked up to see Vargas opening the door to the library. He knew she’d sensed his craving for her. “Hang on a minute Maggie,” Quinn said before pushing the hold button.
Vargas sashayed up to him in her tight-fitting black evening dress, placed her hand on his neck, and began kissing his ear. “I’ll be in the hot tub in the master suite, if you’d like to join me.”
Quinn was melting inside as he watched Vargas’ body swaying back and forth before she disappeared through the door. Raw ecstasy, he thought. “Hey, I’m back,” Quinn said into the phone. “We still have miles to go before the grand opening, but we’re almost there.”
“Everyone wants to know when you’re coming home to celebrate,” Margaret said.
“I know,” Quinn said as a pang of conscience returned momentarily. “We’ve got a long weekend of warehouse visits, making sure everything’s ready for the grand opening. I should be back by the middle of next week. Tell the kids we can celebrate then.”
“Don’t push yourself too hard, dear. You’re not the young buck you used to be, but I love you more than ever.”