Russell Wiley Is Out to Lunch (3 page)

“I don’t know,” I say. “You probably look about…”

I’m playing with him. I know exactly what he wants to hear.

“Tell me,” he says.

“I guess you could pass for thirty-eight.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. No shit. Could you just sit down and stop touching your stomach?”

Martin, smiling now, does what I ask. “I read that article you gave me,” he says. “That guy made some good points.”

“I told you, Finchley’s one of the best thinkers out there. Gladwell and Bing had better watch out.”

“When he says thirty-eight is the new twenty-five, he’s so right. It’s all about experience. We can’t expect twenty-five-year-olds to have all the answers or know how to run a business.”

“I’m glad you liked the article.”

“It really opened my eyes to what I need to be doing for myself. I’ve decided that thirty-eight is not just a number, it’s a state of mind.”

“That’s cool.”

“I’ll tell you, Russell, I’ve got a whole new attitude. I’ve taken my graduation year off my résumé, and I’m only listing jobs that go back fifteen years.”

“Shit. You’re looking?”

“Not looking. Just opening myself up to new possibilities.”

I peer a little closer at Martin’s wrinkled features. “How long do you think you can keep this thirty-eight thing up?”

“I told you, it’s a state of mind. And it’s working. I bumped into Barney Barnes yesterday. He told me to call him.”

“Shit. Don’t tell Henry you’re talking to Barney.”

“Cross-divisional dialogue, baby,” says Martin, getting back up. “Isn’t that what Connie wants to see more of?”

“OK,” I say. “I’m just looking out for your thirty-eight-year-old ass.”

Martin floats out of my office. I’m glad that the Christopher Finchley article I gave him had such a big effect. But still, knowing how important loyalty is to Henry, I’m worried that Martin’s even talking to Barney Barnes.

Or I
could
be worried. But I don’t have brain space to worry about Martin. Martin is not my problem. Livingston Kidd is my only problem.

Interruption #3: Cindy Lang, Sales Development Manager

“So Roger is going out on medical leave,” says Cindy. She’s the last person I want to see right now. But she knows something I don’t.

“I didn’t realize he had announced it yet.”

A couple of months ago, Roger Jones told me he had finally topped four hundred pounds and was thinking of getting his stomach stapled. But he didn’t mention it again. I assumed he had backed away from the plan.

“He’s telling people he’ll be out for up to six weeks. I’m a little concerned.”

I don’t like being blindsided by internal news, especially from within my own department. But I try not to let it show.

“I’m sure he’ll be OK,” I say. “It’s quite a common procedure these days.”

“I’m concerned we don’t have a plan. Roger and I were working together on a few projects.” Cindy is standing on the other side of my desk, arms folded. She’s that kind of skinny, gym-toned person whose head looks too big for her body. When she tilts it to the side, it puts an alarming strain on her neck muscles.

“Really?” I say. “I thought I asked you and Roger to work on completely separate assignments. Sit down. Let’s take a look.”

Cindy sits and, referring to her leather-bound notebook, reels off a list of projects she and Roger are “collaborating” on. She’s wearing a crisp white blouse with a pearl choker around her neck. I jot down the client names she mentions. Each one falls squarely within the categories Cindy is supposed to be covering by herself. She should have had no need to get Roger involved.

As far as my department goes, I made a big mistake when I hired Cindy four months ago. Right from her first day, I realized she was something less than the hardworking, quick-thinking, creative-yet-analytical, perpetual-motion productivity machine she had claimed to be when I interviewed her.

As the weeks have turned into months, she has done little more than repackage the work produced by my other managers or joined teams that allow her to skate by without making any kind of visible contribution to a project. Cindy’s corporate skill set doesn’t get activated until after a project is completed. That’s when she displays her special talent for presenting herself as the mastermind behind the finished work. While her other team members don’t have the luxury to pause between projects, let alone reflect on their successes, Cindy invests most of her time in making sure management—Henry in particular—is aware of what’s being accomplished. In just a few months, her relentless self-marketing has convinced Henry that she’s the only one on my team who knows how to get anything done. Within the pressure cooker of my department, Cindy has created the kind of simmering resentment that usually takes years to blow the lid off. My whole team hates her. They’re practically begging me to fire her before the end of her six-month probation period. But as long as Henry loves her, my hands are tied.

“OK,” I say. “Anything else you’re working on?”

Cindy starts running through a second list of projects. These are assignments I know are being handled by either Meg Wilson or Pete Hughes. Clearly, Cindy is preparing to attach her name to as many projects as possible over the next couple of months. There’s an impressive amount of work going on. I remind myself that I—as the boss to Cindy, Meg, Pete and Roger—should be receiving more credit for it all.

“Wow,” I say. “You’ve taken on a hell of a lot. Tell you what, though. While Roger’s out, why don’t you just devote yourself a hundred percent to that first list? I’ll crack the whip with Meg and Pete on the rest. Clearly, I need to do a better job supervising everyone’s workload. Make sure everyone’s doing their fair share.”

I notice a flash of fear in Cindy’s eyes. But then she steadies herself. “OK,” she says, then nods, clenches her jaw, and gets up to leave.

“Hey, Cindy,” I say. “Thanks so much for bringing this to my attention. Could you pull the door closed behind you till you hear it click?”

It’s only ten fifteen. But it’s already been a three-interruption morning. I look over at Lucky Cat. He’s smiling inscrutably at the closed door, challenging me to put him to the test.

I stare at the papers spread out on my desk.

Focus, Russell.

But what if Lucky Cat lets me down again? If I lose faith in him, what will I have left to believe in?

At 10:17, I gather up my files and head to the small conference room. It’s a quiet spot where I can hide out undisturbed till lunchtime.

CHAPTER THREE

Fabrice is Henry’s favorite hangout. It’s the signature restaurant of New York chef du jour Fabrice de Monbrison, the gathering place for the power people in the media industry. Along with its food, Fabrice offers an appropriately sumptuous setting in which relationships can be nurtured, alliances formed and deals struck.

Henry surveys the room as we’re led through. Connie Darwin, the CEO of Burke-Hart Publishing, is at a window table with her boss—the boss of us all—Larry Ghosh.

Ghosh looks several years older than the pointillized version of his face that still appears frequently in the
Wall Street Journal
. The drawing dates back to the days when he made his first billion in the grocery cart business, with the infamous Ghosh Guarantee. The plan was simple. Its execution inspired shock and awe. Under cover of night, a network of sales reps dispersed. At first light they descended on the purchasing departments of major retailers to promote Ghosh Carts with an unprecedented lifetime wheel-alignment warranty. The orders flooded in. Ghosh’s competitors never knew what hit them.

Larry Ghosh was hailed as a business genius. And he didn’t stop there. After winning the grocery cart wars, he really went shopping. Within twelve months, Ghosh Corporation established a significant presence in media and entertainment, acquiring a host of second-tier radio, film, TV and music assets. Another year later, drowning in debt, he sold the original Ghosh Cart business.

Just in time. Ghosh got out of grocery carts right before his cheap wheels began seizing up and his old customers started hurling lawsuits.

Ghosh was condemned as a charlatan and a con artist. But luckily for him, the general public was less outraged by unsteerable grocery carts than they were by the Enron, World-com and Martha Stewart scandals.

By the time it was all over and settlements had been reached, Ghosh was ready for his next big act. Murdoch beat him to MySpace. The Google guys beat him to YouTube. So Ghosh did something different. Instead of paying a premium price for a company with a big future, he looked back in time and bought a business that was priced to sell: Burke-Hart Publishing.

Not the most exciting acquisition, perhaps. It didn’t even make our own front page. But it signaled Ghosh’s quest for legitimacy as well as profits. And it made the
Daily Business Chronicle
the jewel in his media crown.

Henry tips his head as we pass Ghosh’s table, but he and Connie are engrossed in conversation. Neither gives any sign they’ve noticed us. I can’t quite understand why, after all the company’s recent belt-tightening, Henry thinks it’s a good idea to be seen in the same restaurant as Connie Darwin, let alone Larry Ghosh.

We’re seated at an inconspicuous table against the back wall. I take a slice of rosemary-infused sourdough from the selection of breads I’m offered. Henry waves the bread away. He’s still freaked out by carbs. He tries to limit them in solid form in order to justify a more unrestricted approach to consuming them via beer and wine. Henry’s rules regarding liquid carbs: When alone, personal consumption is allowed only after five o’clock. When in the company of clients, liquid carbs may be taken at any time the client deems appropriate.

“You see that?” says Henry. “Larry Ghosh wants people to see him with Connie. It’s a clear signal.”

“Right.”

“A public acknowledgement of the trust he has in her.”

“Or maybe he wants to show how hands-on he’s being,” I say. “That it’s really him who’s calling the shots.”

Henry looks disturbed. But the waiter appears before he can speak again. He orders mineral water for the table and asks for “the usual.” The waiter nods and makes a note. I ask for the hamburger with fries. It’s the restaurant’s signature dish. A sixty-dollar concoction perfected by Fabrice de Monbrison himself using imported beef and specially grown organic herbs. It has been taste tested on national TV and photographed exotically in several magazines.

Henry spreads his napkin across his lap and surveys the restaurant one more time in a faux-casual way.

“That’s Patrick Moncur,” he says. “In the corner, in the hat, that’s Anna Scrupski.”

I nod as if I’m impressed, though the names mean nothing to me. The maître d’ appears at Henry’s side, whispering in his ear, apologizing for the fact that the waiter is new, asking him to clarify his order.

“Cobb salad, no avocado,” says Henry.

We sip our mineral water. Henry is acting in a self-conscious way, as if he feels people’s eyes on him from all over the room. In reality, no one has given us more than a passing look since we came in. It’s obvious to everyone else that we’re only minnows in this pond. The only eyes on Henry are mine. I’m wondering why he brought me here, what it is he wants to discuss. He seems slightly more coherent in person than he did on the phone.

“How long have we worked together?” Henry asks, leaning toward me.

“Four years and a couple of months.”

“We’re a good team, Russell. I can trust you, can’t I?”

“Absolutely.”

“I can tell you things in confidence.”

“Anything you tell me, Henry, goes straight into the vault.”

“Loyalty’s important.”

“I know that.”

It’s true. Henry is one of those executives who values loyalty even ahead of competence. It’s a trait that becomes more dangerous the higher he moves up the food chain, dragging deadwood like Jeanie Tusa, our finance director, with him. Like all of Henry’s loyal lieutenants, Jeanie’s now in a position where she can really screw things up.

Henry sips his mineral water and dabs his lips with his napkin in a slightly effeminate way. A thought flashes through my mind that he’s about to confess something of a personal nature. The chatter at the other tables seems artificially loud.

“Just between you and me, Connie’s planning a major restructuring within the next six months.” He pauses to allow the significance of this revelation to sink in.

“Makes sense,” I say, reaching for Fabrice’s famous unsalted, hand-churned butter.

“She has to get everything done within twelve months of the merger. The voluntary retirement program came first. Next we’ll have the first round of layoffs. After that, a company-wide restructure.”

“Why so fast?” I say, biting into a chunk of buttered bread.

“Wall Street,” says Henry. “In the first twelve months, all merger-related costs can get rolled up into a single accounting charge. Won’t affect earnings. Connie’s set herself a BHAG of reducing expenses by two hundred million.”

I’m chewing, but I nod to show him I understand. Connie’s built her career by adapting the best ideas from business books and making them her own. She’s a big believer in the BHAG concept—the setting of Big Hairy Audacious Goals.

“My guess is she’ll merge the business and lifestyle groups. Why does a company our size need two separate print divisions?” Henry leans forward again, even further this time. “If she does that, Jack’s out and Yolanda will be running things. You and I could end up working for Barney Barnes.” Henry can’t say Barney’s name without his lip curling in a sneer. Years ago Barney worked for Henry in the business group before quitting to join Yolanda Pew—Jack Tennant’s counterpart—who heads the lifestyle group.

My first thought is it would make far more sense to keep the business and lifestyle groups separate and get rid of the dopey Mark Sand, who heads Burke-Hart Online. That way Jack and Yolanda would get full control of their respective brands both in print and online. And the
Chronicle
would have at least a chance to shape its multimedia destiny.