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Chapter Three - The Scheming Begins |
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Oiler paused
in Silvertongue’s doorway, facing the back
of a talking chair. He was expected,
Kelli (“with-a-K-and-an-I”) had waved him
in.
“Mr. Cooper,”
the chair was saying, “you need to take
this back to the person whom you represent,
Mr.--Hernandez? …Oh, Fernandez, of
course, how inconsiderate of me. Take
back to Mr. Fernandez the simple
statement that NPI feels the Argentine government
is covering its naiveté in this matter with
a cloud of bluster. NPI is perfectly
willing to work out an equitable solution
that will benefit both parties. You
understand, Mr. Cooper, it’s in our mutual
interest to keep our business relationship
cordial. I know I can trust you as
a man of tact and integrity.” A pause,
a glissando laugh. “Now you’re flattering
me, sir! But we know the issue is
serious, and it taxes our professional relationship.”
A brief sigh. “So I’m afraid
that six million, which you or I might consider
reasonable, is simply not workable. Your
government needs to understand there are
benefits to the situation, which an imaginative
mind such as yours would have very little
difficulty presenting … Well, for instance,
there’s recycling, there’s fertilizer. NPI
is already exploring the possibility of
partnering with intelligent and reliable
agencies that recognize the profit potential.
You understand.”
The chair
swung round, revealing the rich voice’s
owner, an elf small even by elfin standards,
jet-black hair parted precisely down the
middle, small squared rimless glasses fastened
above smooth-shaven cheeks, silver pen and
pencil winking from a white monogrammed
shirt pocket. One tiny hand pressed
the green flip phone against an ear, while
the other motioned Oiler to a seat. The
dark eyes rolled and the mouth grinned.
Oiler grinned back.
“Yes, I
can understand that four million might seem
a little low to Mr. Her, sorry, Fernandez,
because of everything he claims you’ve been
through. …Mr. Cooper, please remind
him that adopting an excessively recalcitrant
position now would cause NPI to shut down
the Argentine operations. …Yes, shut
them down. Which might also exclude
you from the preferred delivery routes.”
Silvertongue
smirked to Oiler’s startled expression.
“E-business?” He chuckled. “I
suppose. But I don’t think the Argentine
children are ready to forego receiving their
gifts the conventional way, do you? …I’m
glad we agree. Now, be sure also to
indicate to Mr. Fernandez that the
four million also has some stretch. Yes.
A little extra that might directly
benefit you both. …I know. …I
always try. I’ll wait for your answer.
My best to Mrs. Cooper, and the children.
Good kids, and so smart, too! I
haven’t seen them in ages! Call me
back today, thanks! Goodbye.”
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Scowling,
Silvertongue lowered the phone. “Jackass.
Hang on a minute, Oiler.” He
pressed a speed dial. “Roxy? Hi
love, it’s Silvertongue. Take this
into the Chief. Tell him the Argentines
have accepted four point two five, or eight
and a half in dollars, which I believe was
his target. Got that? Four point
two five. Oh, and I’ll be faxing their
government negotiator the paperwork for
signature this evening. Thanks, sweetie,
bye.”
He switched
off the phone and dropped it in his shirt
pocket. “I hate green, sometimes,”
he murmured. “Red, too.”
“You don’t
have their agreement!”
“They’ll
agree. There’s money in it for Fernandez,
and his lackey Cooper, who’s the only one
I ever see. Plus his family. Nice-
looking wife, but those snot-nosed kids!”
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| “Maybe
you’ve been dealing with too many Coopers
lately. There are good kids in the
world.”
“Oh, I
know what keeps our sales going. Seen
a good kid lately?”
“Nope.”
They both laughed. “Don’t you
have to run this past legal?”
“So? That’s
just Groomer. He’ll be late, by the
way. An acquisition review thing.”
“EI?”
“I would
imagine.”
“I heard
the Chief made a big stink about it at the
meeting today.”
“Word gets
around fast.”
Oiler scratched
an arm. Silvertongue had that way
of pulling small talk out of you. “How
could you threaten to shut down the Argentine
ops that way? You don’t have the authority!”
“What?
Oh, you’re still on the Argentines.
They don’t know I can’t. It’s
the suggestion of ruthlessness that can
be so effective, more so even than the demonstration.
They have more to lose than we do.”
“I guess
that’s true.”
“You don’t
sound convinced.”
“No, I
believe you. What was that comment
about e-business?”
“Oh, that.”
A dry laugh. “His attempt at
threatening me. Said they’d go the
e-business route, tap into the dotcoms,
get their toys that way. Fine with
me, actually. Fits into the overall
plan. Of course, I couldn’t say
that, same way I can’t say it to the Chief.
I just suggested to Cooper they were
unprepared to make good on it. They
don’t have the infrastructure.”
“You didn’t
say it that way.”
“Didn’t
have to. He knows. That’s the
thing about negotiations. Each sentence
has two or three layers to it. You
didn’t catch the lead-in, so you heard only
the first layer in our little discussion.
Like skimming the surface. Our friend,
though, heard them all. Or should
have, if he’s any good at it. How’d
the cost-cutting meeting go?”
“Not bad.
Most everyone showed up. Shepherd’s
out on assignment, but everyone else-Halter
had some emergency and couldn’t make it.”
“Ah, old
head-in-the-clouds. I heard about
his outburst at the e-commerce meeting.
Talk about making a fool of yourself.
Right in the middle of Sprinter’s
ebusiness presentation on the future of
this company, he stands up and lets loose.
The ‘spirit of Christmas’. If
he didn’t have such a good production head
on his shoulders. I mean, granted,
there’s the miracles. I’ll be the first
one to admit that. But it’s a business
now. A global one, an ‘e’ one,
with mergers and acquisitions to contend
with, outsourcing, the whole bit! He’s
like the Chief that way. He wants
a miracle, let him figure out how Santa
or any of the half-elves can ever have children!”
“Or how
Santa can stay where he is,” Oiler said
quietly.
Silvertongue
looked at him coldly. “You know, the
better part of negotiation is to know what
to say out loud when. Ah, here’s our
friend Groomer! Come on in, and shut
the door behind you.”
Groomer
stumped into the office and settled into
the nearest chair, still worrying a last
bit of hot dog. Oiler would have been
surprised otherwise. Groomer loved
hot dogs. He took hot dog breaks as
frequently as lesser folks had coffee breaks.
For a while, his clothes had tried
to keep up with his advancing girth, but
they gave it up at last. His once-tailored
shirts and neckties were now frayed collections
of tired fabrics held together by old stains
and grease and the occasional new splash.
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Whatever
Groomer decided to do, he did extremely
well. In addition to being a formidable
slob, he was also a highly-regarded counsel.
He’d presided over the IPO, various
product suits, contracts, insurance negotiations,
attempted takeovers, labor disputes, international
treaties, tariffs, and on and on. In an
era which had seen more and more specializing,
he remained the ultimate generalist. Drawing
on centuries of experience, he could win
cases spanning decades, nations and disciplines.
He took
a deep breath, wiped his thick lips with
a puffy hand, and belched. Odor of
pork and ketchup billowed into the room.
Oiler winced,
but Silvertongue didn’t even twitch. “Glad
you could make it. How long do we
have until your next hot dog?”
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“That’s
not very nice.”
“Just want
to keep you happy.” Still smiling,
Silvertongue snapped the Autospeak. “Kelli,
sweetie, no interruptions, no calls, nobody
standing around waiting to get in. Have
the Commissary send up a few hot dogs and
a relish tray.”
“Will do,”
a pert voice answered.
Silvertongue
flipped the button.
“Can she
be trusted?” Oiler asked.
“Kelli?
No problem. She’s smart enough
to know something’s up, but she can’t connect
the dots. And she’s smart enough to
know when to leave things be. I treat
her pretty well.”
“Nobody
can be trusted completely,” Groomer twanged
in a voice that always surprised Oiler,
coming from that jiggling frame. “Let’s
see what you have.”
Silvertongue
unlocked a drawer and pulled out a manila
folder. He distributed a couple of
handwritten pages.
“Nice printing
job.” Groomer squinted.
“What do
you expect? We don’t want this stuff
getting out.”
“Who’s
on board so far?” Oiler asked.
“Sprinter,
for one. From an e-business standpoint,
nothing else. He thinks he’ll save
the world with his new business model.”
“Well,
he’s young.” Groomer took one of Silvertongue’s
business cards from its onyx holder and
used it to pick his teeth. “What about
the operations?”
“Don’t
need them yet,” Oiler said. “They’ll
line up under the new business model, anyway,
and it may be a while before they realize
what’s hit them. The real impact will
be in land holdings and herd management.”
“So I gather.
Silvertongue, these herd numbers here,
how do they connect with Page Four?”
“They’re
higher here. We keep the RFS units
out of Page Four. Keeps us from explaining
them. There’s an extra forty thousand
here. Perfectly good deer, just won’t
fly.”
“Not that
they’ll need to.” Groomer caressed his huge
belly and surveyed the room. “Any
extra ears in here?”
“What do
you think?”
Groomer
matched Silvertongue’s hard stare. “Let’s
take the plan from the top. Three
big pieces. First, merger and then
restructuring the Board. Next, herd
restructure and selloff. Then land development
and reallocation.”
“There’s
four. You forgot about the santas,”
Oiler said.
“Hell with
the santas,” Groomer retorted. “Thirty,
forty thousand do-gooders running around
bumping into each other. The new recruits
never even bother to ditch the red suits,
they’re so proud. And their support
conventions, the SSC’s! You know what
it’s like trying to keep all those guys
under wraps, finding motivational speakers
who won’t blow the lid off the whole operation
on some talk show? And that was before
we went co-ed. I don’t even want to
go into some of those problems, the after
hours stuff and the guys who get into a
little too much of the Christmas cheer.
No, I’ll be glad to see the whole
program go right into the ditch. We
ought to be able to shovel half of them
out the door, I don’t know, give ‘em an
exit option, Dale Carnegie, the Salvation
Army.”
“But we
need to plan for them,” Oiler said. “So
it’s a fourth point. We’ll need ER.
Is Gardner in?”
“Partway,”
Silvertongue said. “I’ve told her
there’ll be changes. She knows there’s
merger talk. But the other stuff,
no way. She’d have problems with plenty
of it. We need to get her to commit
publicly before she figures out the rest
of it.”
“And now
for the rest of it,” Groomer said. “No
more interruptions. Start with the
merger. I’ve got the essentials of
the agreement worked up. The EI guys
are hot on this, because they can see its
potential, how it’ll drive up shareholder
value. We’ve got the usual nits and
nats to worry about. We both have
underling weasels building their careers
on this one. We trample theirs, they
trample ours. The whole damn thing
is boring. Tinter, their chief counsel,
and I have played this game so long we could
probably wrap the whole thing up in a couple
of hours.”
“No doubt,”
Silvertongue said. “What about the
rabbit?”
“Oh, him!”
Groomer belched again, more pork and
ketchup for atmosphere. “He’s as bad
as the Chief. At odds with the Board,
paper-tiger Chairman, trying to put in policies
from a couple of thousand years ago. Same
old stuff. He’ll get booted when the
merger and the restructure happens, same
as ours. Then we’ll combine the Boards,
soothe some of the bruised feelings, appoint
new Board Chairs, golden parachutes.”
“What if
he goes public? Screams and yells?”
“Who?”
“Santa!”
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“He won’t.” This from Silvertongue. “C’mon,
Oiler. By the time he recovers from
the shock, the firm will have moved on.
If he goes to the press, what does
that do? They’ll treat him like every
other goofball that pops up at Christmas.
You know that’s when he’ll do it.
They’ll give him a couple of stories, somewhere
between the Grinch and the Rose Bowl, and
it’ll be over. If he’s smart, he’ll
realize that beforehand and won’t even bother.
It’s not like we’re going to cut him
off. I mean, this may sound goofy,
or even soft, but if I could figure out
a way to keep him on, I would. I would.
But he’s the Chief. And he’s
either the Chief, or he isn’t anything.
That’s how I see it, and that’s how
he’ll see it. So we’ll cut him the
best deal you can imagine. I don’t
know, call it the ultimate golden parachute.
All expenses paid, forever. House
any size, anywhere he wants. Two,
three, whatever. I’d give him a new
appearance, a new identity, except he can
do it himself.” He paused, thinking.
“I’d give him his old team, too. If
it didn’t break his heart.”
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“Nice sentiment,”
Groomer drawled. “The Board doesn’t
run on sentiment. I like the old guy,
too, but liking somebody and working off
of sentiment doesn’t make it in today’s
world. Never has. If he could see
his way to doing things the right way, there
might be a chance. Might be. But that’s
not going to happen, so why bother? He’s
out, the rabbit’s out, we combine the Boards,
merge our operations, our assembly lines,
our purchasing, supply chain management,
and it’s a win. Shareholders are happy,
we get a good bit of compensation, and it’s
on to the next stage.
“For the
next stage, I’m already exploring that with
some of the larger outfits. We can
get some of the initial RFS deer pushed
into food with very little difficulty. Some
of our potential partners tell me they already
know what to say to the labeling folks,
especially the American FDA. They
figure they can start quietly. If
we keep a tight eye on PR, there shouldn’t
be any problem. Plus, it’ll help the
Sami.”
“The who?”
“Lapplanders,
Oiler. I’m trying to be politically correct.”
Groomer chuckled mirthlessly.
“We’ll
take the ones we cull from the traditional
herds and drive them into north Sweden.
That helps the local economy. We thin
the others from all over, gradually. When
we go non-RFS, we’ll speed up. Then
we’ll close down whole sites. Silvertongue
will have his work cut out for him if we
close Argentina.”
Oiler picked
at his arm. “I thought we were going
to try other things before we went into
food,” he said. “Like theme parks.”
“We did.”
Silvertongue sighed. “It’s too
expensive. And it only works as a
solution for RFS. Since our long-term
goal is a fifty percent reduction in herds,
you’ve got another hundred and fifty thousand
or so to get rid of. That’s a lot
of theme parks. Plus you’re guaranteed
that one of them would take it into his
head to fly, and there you’d be--tabloids,
press, the whole bit. Especially if
the poor kid fell off midway through the
flight. The Sami would take them on,
but they can’t pay for them. We’d
end up losing out big time. This is
the only way it works.”
“I see
that now. And eventually, we’ll have
cut the acreage in half too.” Oiler
scanned the page. “You know, to do
this right, to get the land redeveloped,
we need to do it through a subsidiary. Where
people can’t see the connection between
land development and NPI.”
“Way ahead
of you,” Groomer drawled. “I’ve got
the incorporation papers going for GSO Investments.
That’s our names in the title, so
it’s a nothing label. The Street will
see the connection, unless we separate.
But they don’t give a hoot as long as returns
are there.”
A
knock. “Food service.”
“Just a
minute.” Silvertongue nodded to Oiler.
A nondescript,
narrow-featured elf entered, pushing a cart
laden with hot dogs and condiments. She
squeezed between Oiler and Groomer, who
irritably moved out of her way. When she
picked up the food service order and turned
to leave, her foot caught on Oiler’s chair.
She fell, knocking the paper from
Oiler’s hand. She struggled to her
feet, grabbed the food order and Oiler’s
paper, and handed the food order to him.
“Not that
one!” he snapped. “This is yours,
can’t you read? The other one!”
“I’m sorry,”
she mumbled, exchanging papers. She
hurried out.
“Illiterate,”
Oiler grumbled.
Groomer
was already three bites into the first dog,
relish spattering his embattled shirt front.
“So,” he said between bites, “who
can stop the deal?”
“Traditionalists,”
Oiler said. “Maybe we should avoid
using their lines. At least for starters.
Somebody like Halter would be a real
pain.”
“Not if
we set them up for failure,” Silvertongue
said. “Especially if we need their
facilities. We could adjust the targets
for impossible quality or quantity, cost
reductions. Some combination that sounds
plausible enough but really means they kill
themselves and still don’t make it.”
“Then there’s
the Board.” Groomer belched. “Here’s
how I see them lining up.” He swallowed
with an effort. “Torvalds is easy. She’s
solidly behind the EI thing, has had the
strategy gang, Hatcher and his guys, working
up the what-ifs and the simulations. I
hear Beamer’s new software package is really
something. Shows product fluctuation
impacts up and down the value chain, from
suppliers to operations to distributors.”
“Ah yes,
Beamer. We’ll need our friends from
IT,” Silvertongue said. “What about
the others?”
“Donaldson
will be tough.” Groomer reached for
the second dog. “He’s a good-hearted
traditionalist, and he’s great with the
numbers. But he wants to keep a single
focus on the product line. Parcell
runs a direct ship company, so he’s salivating
over the whole thing. And then there’s
Baylor, the new one. He’s Torvalds’
pick. Since she heads up the Nominating
Committee, it was easy for her to bring
him in.”
“I thought
the shareholders had to approve it.”
“That’s
the form, Oiler, not the function.
Oh, he’s in. Way in. He
came from one of the big automotives, and
he’s got it all--operations experience,
global reach, brand management, growth mentality,
supply chain expertise, design knowledge.
He’ll do an excellent job.”
“What job?”
“Don’t
be dense, Oiler. The Chief’s being
replaced.”
“But you
can’t just take someone from the Board,
and--”
“Most companies,”
Silvertongue said. “Not NPI.”
“Bethitdth,
idth temprary,” Groomer hotdogged.
Silvertongue
frowned. “What do you mean?”
Groomer
swallowed, a flabby mountain with popping
eyes. “We’re not stopping there.”
He returned the half-eaten dog to the tray
and leaned forward, an impressive feat.
“This company won’t be run only by
humans,” he growled. “I don’t care
how smart they think they are. It’s
unthinkable that elves aren’t on that Board.
Several elves. And one that
calls the shots.”
In the
long silence, Oiler watched Groomer’s eyes
follow a fruitfly’s lazy track and waited
for this toad of an elf to whisk out a long
tongue and snap the bug in mid flight.
“I agree
in principle,” Silvertongue murmured at
last. “But how?”
“UEU. It
won’t be easy, but I’ve got some of it in
motion already. There’ll be an accident,
of the industrial variety. Don’t worry
Oiler--” Groomer waved a stubby hand “--nobody
will get hurt. Not if it goes according
to plan. That’ll get the union going.
They’ll strike right at peak production.
Then they get a spot on the Board.
And that’s how we start. Humans.
How many years do they have before
they retire or die? Ten, twenty? We
have hundreds. Hundreds. It’ll
change.”
“I thought
you hated the union.”
“I do,
Oiler. What better way to control
them than by giving them the illusion of
power? Do you really think we’d let
one of their reactionaries onto the Board?
Don’t worry, it’ll be somebody who
thinks our way.”
“Where
will this accident happen? And when?”
Silvertongue asked. “I might need
to dust off a statement.”
“Soon.
I can’t say exactly when. But
first things first. The Board restructuring
and the Chief business have to happen ahead
of it. As for where, we have a couple
of options.
We’ve got a deteriorating
situation in one of the furnaces, the metal
toy casting area. And we have the
new solvent we’ve put into Halter’s area,
the flammable one.”
“We?”
“Don’t
ask, Silvertongue. I’ll take care
of you both. This--” he rubbed his
huge belly “--keeps them off guard. The
less said, the better. When the time
is right, they’ll find out who they’re dealing
with. Then we’re in the clear. One
of us becomes the Chief. I should
say one of you. CEO. The other,
COO. I stay Counsel. Nicely
done.”
Oiler’s
eyes widened. “COO? What’s happening
to Racer?”
Groomer
gave him an odd look. “With his health
problems? He’ll retire. Willingly.
He’s a paper COO, anyway. You
think he’s calling the shots?”
A slight
smile twisted one side of Silvertongue’s
mouth. “Chief Executive Officer, Chief
Operating Officer. You’re aiming us
high,” he said quietly. “Why not you?”
Groomer
smiled under hard eyes. “I like where
I am.” He dusted some crumbs from
his shirt. “Is this over?” He
struggled mightily to his feet. “Where’s
your shredder?”
“I’ll take
them,” Silvertongue retrieved the copies.
His hand disappeared under the desk,
which made a few digesting sounds. “Sounds
a little like you, Groomer.”
“Words
unbecoming a future officer,” Groomer drawled,
smiling. “We’ll meet again in a couple
of weeks, after step one.”
They headed
out, Silvertongue opening the door. “Do
I know you?” he asked the pretty young elf
sitting at Kelli’s desk.
She jumped
up. “I’m Peanut,” she said. “From
down the hall. Kelli had to use the
ladies’ room, and she told me you didn’t
want to be disturbed. So I stood guard.”
She smiled brightly.
Groomer
looked her up and down. “A good job.
Thank you, Peanut.”
Oiler scowled.
Must Groomer devour everything? He
left Groomer there, for Silvertongue to
handle. His head was abuzz. The
plans had leapt ahead, far beyond where
his initial thoughts had taken him. The
restructure and merger, yes. The transformation
of the business from direct-ship reindeer-and-human-intensive
to e-business, yes. The herd selloffs,
yes. The food agreements, no. Industrial
accident, no. Succession planning,
no. He shook his head. And he was
a part of it, too. Groomer. Was
he always one step ahead of everyone else?
Deep in
thought, he rounded a corner, passing Kelli
and the elf from food service. This
was exciting, dangerous, interesting, disturbing.
He had to get to his office, to calm
the swirl.
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© 2004 David Soubly |
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