Paradise (34 page)

He'd been much harsher than he'd ordinarily have been, which owed itself more to that picture of Meredith than to Eleanor Stern's attitude, but she didn't mind in the least. In fact she seemed to prefer the sort of working arrangement he'd described. "I find that completely agreeable," she announced.

"When can you start?"

"Now."

He'd never regretted his decision. Within a week, he'd realized that like him, Eleanor Stern could work at a ceaseless, killing pace without ever wearing out or wearing down. The more responsibility he gave her, the more she accomplished. They never bridged the barrier that had been erected between them when she expressed alarm over his intentions. At first they had simply been too absorbed in their mutual work to give it thought. Later it didn't seem to matter, they had fallen into a routine, and it worked magnificently for both of them. Matt had made it all the way to the top, and she had worked day and night beside him, without complaint. In fact, she was a nearly indispensable asset to his business life, and, true to his word, he had rewarded her loyalty and efforts liberally: Miss Stern's salary was $65,000 a year—more than many of
Intercorp's
mid-level executives were paid.

Now, she followed him into his office and waited as he laid his briefcase on the polished rosewood desk that had been delivered recently. Normally he handed her at least one
microcassette
filled with instructions and dictation for her to transcribe. "There's no dictation," Matt explained, unlatching his briefcase and handing her a stack of files. "And I didn't have a chance to go over the Simpson contract on the plane. The Lear had an engine problem, so I had to take a commercial flight here. The baby in front of me was evidently having problems with his ears, and he screamed for the entire flight."

Because he'd opened the conversation, Miss Stern evidently felt required to participate. "Someone should have done something for him."

"The man beside me volunteered to smother him," Matt said, "but the baby's mother was no more amenable to that solution than she'd been to mine."

"What was your solution?"

"A shot of vodka with a brandy chaser." Closing his briefcase, he said, "How good is the clerical staff up here?"

"Some of them are very conscientious. However, Joanna Simons, whom you passed on your way in here, is barely adequate. Rumor has it that she was more than a secretary to Mr. Morrissey, which I am inclined to believe. Since her skills are nonexistent, it stands to reason her talents lie in some other area."

Matt barely noticed her sniff of prim disapproval. Tipping his head toward the conference room that adjoined his office, he said, "Is everybody in there?"

"Of course."

"Do they all have copies of the agenda?"

"Of course."

"I'm expecting a call from
Brussels sometime during the next hour," Matt said, already starting for the conference room. "Put that one through to me right away, but hold any others."

Six of
Intercorp's
most talented vice presidents were seated on a pair of long burgundy suede sofas that faced each other across a large glass and marble coffee table in the conference room. The men stood up as Matt came forward, each of them shaking his hand, each of them studying his features for some indication of the outcome of his trip to Greece. "It's good to have you back, Matt," the last man said as Matt shook his hand. "Well, don't keep us in suspense," Tom Anderson added. "How was
Athens?"

"Extremely pleasant," Matt replied as they all moved over to the conference table. "
Intercorp
now owns a fleet of tankers."

Triumph, full-bodied and sweet, swept through the room, and then voices rose as everyone began discussing plans to utilize
Intercorp's
newest "family branch."

Leaning back in his chair, Matt observed the six high-powered executives who were seated before him. All of them were dynamic, dedicated men, the best in their individual fields. Five of them had come from Harvard,
Princeton, and Yale; from UCLA and MIT, with degrees in fields ranging from international banking to marketing. Five of them were wearing $800 custom-tailored business suits, discreetly monogrammed Egyptian cotton shirts, and carefully chosen silk ties. Grouped together, as they were now, they looked like a four-color ad for Brooks Brothers—something headed: When you've reached the pinnacle, only the best is good enough. In contrast to them, the sixth man, Tom Anderson, was a jarringly discordant figure in his green-and-brown-plaid jacket, green trousers, and paisley tie.
Anderson's passion for loud clothes was a source of great amusement among the other impeccably dressed men on the takeover team, but they rarely jibed him about it. For one thing, it was difficult to sneer at a man who stood six feet four and weighed 245 pounds.

Anderson
had a high school equivalency degree, no college at all, and he was aggressively proud of it. "My degree is from the school of life," he would announce whenever he was asked about his education. What he left unsaid was that he possessed an uncanny talent no school could provide: He was instinctively, intuitively sensitive to the nuances of human nature. He knew within minutes of talking to a man what motivated him and made him tick, whether it was vanity, greed, ambition, or something much different.

On the surface he was a plain-spoken, giant bear of a man who liked to work in his shirt-sleeves. Beneath that unpolished surface, Tom Anderson had a gift for negotiating—and a knack for getting to the crux of a problem that was invaluable, especially when he was dealing with the unions on
Intercorp's
behalf.

But of all his attributes, Matt prized one the most:
Anderson was loyal. He was, in fact, the only man in the room whose talents were not for sale to the highest bidder. He'd worked for the first company that Matt had bought. When he sold it, Tom elected to take his chances with
Matt rather than the new owners who'd offered him an excellent position and a better salary.

Matt paid the other men on the acquisition team enough to ensure they would not be tempted to sell out to a rival corporation; he paid
Anderson even more because he was completely dedicated to Matt and to
Intercorp
. He never regretted what they cost him because, as a team, they were the best—but it was Matt himself who channeled their energies in the right direction. The master plan for
Intercorp's
growth was his alone, and he altered it as he saw fit. "Gentlemen," he said, interrupting their discussion about the tankers. "We'll talk about the tankers another time. Let's talk about Haskell's problems."

Matt's post-acquisition methods were unique and effective. Rather than wasting months trying to sort out the company's problems, find the causes and cures, and weed out the executives who weren't performing to
Intercorp's
standards, Matt did something much different: He sent in the group of men gathered in the conference room to work side by side with the existing vice presidents of the acquired company. Each of the six men was an expert in a particular corporate area, and in a matter of weeks they could familiarize themselves completely with their individual division, assess the talents of the vice president of that division, and locate the weaknesses and strong points of that division.

"Elliott," Matt said to Elliott Jamison, "let's start with you. Overall, how does Haskell's marketing division look?"

"Not bad, but not great either. They have too many managers here, as well as in the regional offices, and too few sales reps out in the field selling the products. Their existing customers get lavished with attention, but the reps don't have time to open up new accounts. Considering the high quality of Haskell's products, Haskell should have three or four times the number of customers they have now. At this point I'd tentatively suggest adding fifty reps to their sales force. Once you have the
Southville
plant constructed and operating, I'd suggest adding fifty more."

Matt jotted a note on the yellow legal pad on the table in front of him and returned his attention to Jamison. "What else?"

"Paul
Cranshaw
, the marketing vice president, will have to go, Matt. He's been with Haskell for twenty-eight years and his marketing philosophy is antiquated and foolish. He's also inflexible and unwilling to change his ways."

"How old is he?"

"His file says fifty-six."

"Will he take an early retirement if we offer it to him?"

"Possibly. He's not going to quit on his own, that's for sure. He's an arrogant son of a bitch and openly hostile about
Intercorp's
takeover."

Tom Anderson lifted his gaze from an admiring study of his paisley tie. "That's not surprising. He's a distant cousin of old Haskell's."

Elliott looked at him in surprise. "Really?" he said, reluctantly fascinated with
Tom's ability to ferret out information without ever seeming to try. "That fact wasn't in his personnel file. How did you find it out?"

"I had a delightful conversation with a charming old gal down in the records section. She's been here longer than anyone else, and she's a walking diary of information."

"No wonder
Cranshaw
was so damned abrasive. He'll definitely have to go—he's a tremendous morale problem, among other things. That's it for generalities, Matt. I'll meet with you next week and we can go over specifics."

Matt turned to John Lambert for financial information.

Taking his cue, Lambert glanced at his notes and said, "Their profits are good, we knew that before, but there's plenty of room for streamlining and cutting down on expenses. Also, they do a lousy job of collecting their own receivables. Half their accounts take six months to pay, and it's because Haskell hasn't made it a policy to be more aggressive with their collections."

"Are we going to have to replace the controller, then?"

Lambert hesitated. "That's a tough call to make. The controller claims that Haskell was the one who didn't want the customers urged to pay up any quicker. He says he's tried for years to implement a more aggressive procedure, but old man Haskell wouldn't hear of it. Putting that aside, he runs a pretty tight ship. Morale is very high in his division and he's a good
delegator
. He has just enough supervisors to get the job done, and they do it well. His department is lean."

"How did he react to your invading his realm? Did he seem willing to adapt to change?"

"He's a follower, not a leader, but he's conscientious. Tell him what you want done, and it'll be done. On the other hand, if you want innovations and aggressive accounting procedures, he's not likely to come up with them on his own."

"Get him straightened out and on the right track," Matt said after a moment's hesitation. "When we name a president here, he can keep an eye on him. Finance is a big division; it seems to be in good shape. If morale is high there, I'd like to keep it that way."

"I agree. By next month I'll be ready to discuss a new budget and pricing structure with you."

"Fine." Matt turned to the short blond man who specialized in all matters pertaining to personnel and personnel policies. "David, what's the story in human resources?"

"It's not bad. Pretty good, actually. The percentage of minority employees is a little low, but not low enough to get us in the headlines or lose us government contracts," David Talbot replied. "Human resources has done a good job of establishing and maintaining sound hiring and promotion practices, and so forth. Lloyd
Waldrup
, the vice president who heads that division, is sharp and well-qualified for his job."

"He's a closet bigot," Tom Anderson argued, leaning forward to pour himself a cup of coffee from the sterling silver coffee service in the center of the table.

"That's a ridiculous allegation," Talbot said irritably. "Lloyd
Waldrup
gave me the reports showing the number of women and minorities within the various job categories, and there's a fair percentage of them with management titles."

"I don't believe the reports."

"Jesus, what is it with you, Tom!" he snapped, turning in his chair to glower at Tom's imperturbable features. "Every time we acquire a company, you start in on the human resources managers. What is it, specifically, that makes you nearly always dislike them?"

"I guess it's that they are
nearly always
power hungry ass kissers."

"Including
Waldrup
?"

"Especially
Waldrup
."

"And which of your acclaimed instincts leads you to believe that of him?"

"He complimented my clothes two days in a row. I never trust anyone who compliments my clothes, particularly if he's wearing a conservative gray suit."

Muted chuckles broke the tension building in the room, and even David relaxed. "Is there any other reason to believe he's a liar about his hiring and promotion practices?"

"Yep, there is," Tom said, carefully keeping the plaid sleeve of his jacket out of his coffee as he reached for the sugar bowl. "I've been wandering around this building for a couple of weeks now, while you've been busy doing your job down in human resources, and I couldn't help noticing one little thing." He paused to stir the sugar in his coffee, which annoyed everyone in the room except Matt, who continued to regard him with calm interest, then Tom leaned back and propped his ankle atop his opposite knee, the coffee cup in his hand.