Right on the Money Page 8

  “This is really something, isn’t it?” he greeted Ken.

  “Gardner’s pleased as punch at the way things are going.”

  “You’ve certainly got an eye-catching display.” Ken congratulated him.

  “They’re all interested in our water purifiers. The builders know that most new home buyers will be demanding them. A kitchen just won’t be a kitchen without one.”

  Here was yet another shortcoming in the Nicolls establishment.

  Unwisely Ken remarked that some people did not need a purifier. Before he knew it, he was inundated with a flood of statistics about the growing number of communities with water-contamination problems.

  “Hunnicut did a good job on the background material, didn’t he?” Pepitone concluded.

  “Almost too good,” Ken said unenthusiastically. “You make it sound as if we’re all being poisoned.”

  Pepitone regarded this as a compliment. Nodding vigorously, he lowered his voice. “That’s a buyer from National Hardware taking a look right now.”

  Ken could see Victor Hunnicut huddled with two men brandishing notepads, but the large crowd was around another ASI offering.

  Pepitone had followed his glance.

  “Our instant water heater,” he explained. “Doesn’t have the same market as the purifier but damned useful in certain situations.”

  Today, with everybody grist to his mill, Pepitone was treating Ken as an equal.

  “Energy costs,” he amplified. “If you’ve got a bathroom a long way from the main plumbing, you’re wasting money. A source of hot water on the spot can bring down those bills.”

  Ken nodded sagely.

  He had already abandoned his pretensions as home owner and decided to stick with his proven strength. A profit-and-loss statement would tell him far more about ASI than any amount of puffery from Phil Pepitone.

  Phil Pepitone took to the trade show like a duck to water. Others in the ASI contingent had to get up to speed gradually. There is plenty of hard sell among private label suppliers, but it takes place a long way from the operating divisions.

  To Wiley Quinn, what was going on around him looked a lot like hand-to-hand combat. He was one of many fleshing out the ASI presence, and to begin with, he was almost daunted by the pandemonium. But by the time lunch rolled around, he could see the joys of going head-to-head with customers. Furthermore, his tour of every rival garbage disposal convinced him that he—and ASI—could give them all a run for their money.

  Gradually this satisfaction with the job he was currently doing led him to think about the future. That spelled the Ecker Company to everybody but Victor Hunnicut.

  Wiley Quinn decided to take a look for himself.

  But major shows are designed to discourage single-minded, straight-line courses. Quinn resisted the siren song of major appliances and dazzling countertops, only to fall prey to the gadgeteers. In spite of good intentions he joined a gray-haired man inspecting somebody’s brainchild. It was a twenty-five-dollar attachment for a shop vacuum cleaner and the inventor was plying it over a mess of broken eggs.

  “It’ll never sell,” Quinn’s companion announced.

  “But it seems to work,” Quinn pointed out.

  The gray head shook authoritatively.

  “That doesn’t make any difference. People don’t bring shop vacs into the kitchen.”

  “Why not?”

  “Don’t know,” the oracle replied briefly. “It’s just so.”

  He considered the world at large before offering a generalization.

  “People are funny, but there’s no use fighting them. You’ve got to go along with the way they do things.”

  It was something that ASI should remember, Quinn reflected, now that it was leaving the safety of private labels to deal directly with a quirky, irrational public. And this was a talent that the Ecker Company had already mastered.

  Five minutes later, when Wiley reached his goal, he was unashamedly eavesdropping on nearby conversations.

  “Too bad Conrad hasn’t come up with a new product this time around.”

  “Well, you can’t expect one every year. God knows, when he does bring something out, it’s a winner. We’ve been selling that food processor of his like hotcakes. And restocking isn’t a problem because his delivery dates are reliable.”

  “The only thing we have against him is his advertising budget.”

  The first speaker almost snapped his reply. “Conrad doesn’t have one.”

  In the ensuing exchange Wiley learned that the Ecker Company was notoriously frugal in this matter. Twice a year, during the houseware sales, they cut prices and contributed to newspaper supplements. That was it. Otherwise, the world was expected to trot forth and buy Ecker products without further inducement—and it did.

  “As for that bottle warmer of his, people get one before the baby comes.”

  Quinn took due note of these opinions. Unlike little Victor, the people in closest association with Ecker didn’t think it was a troubled company. Quite the contrary. Production, delivery, and quality control were all fine.

  “Anything I can help you with?” said a large man who noticed Quinn’s immobility. “Alan Frayne’s my name.”

  Quinn introduced himself, then added, “They say your food processor’s something special.”

  Frayne grinned. “Never seen one? Here, let me show you.”

  Guiding Quinn to the stack of boxes behind the stall, Frayne continued, “I’ll bet they’re disappointed that there’s nothing new for the show this year. The thing is, Conrad’s never short on ideas, but he’s such a damned perfectionist, and you can’t blame him. We’ve spent a lot of years building the Ecker name.”

  To illustrate, he produced the famous processor. “Look at this. Everybody else has a slew of separate cutters. Conrad built them all in, so they move in relationship to each other. You just punch in the configuration you want. Nothing to store, nothing to lose.”

  Quinn remembered a frustrated search for the tiny wrench that unjammed the disposal he himself produced.

  “Of course, there’s concern about Conrad’s age,” Frayne conceded, “and we all know he won’t be around forever. But he’s still got plenty of surprises for the trade up his sleeve.”

  Absently Quinn nodded. Taking shape in his mind was a new ASI division managed by someone with engineering skills just like his own. Contributions from Conrad Ecker would be gratefully accepted, but they would not be essential. This rosy picture evaporated at the sound of an all-too-familiar voice.

  “Hello, Wiley. This is Ken Nicolls from the Sloan. We thought we’d like to see the Ecker exhibit.”

  As Victor Hunnicut nodded to Alan Frayne, Wiley braced himself.

  “Nice display you’ve got here,” Hunnicut commented. “ASI’s got a lot to learn about this sort of thing.”

  Frayne sounded more wary than gratified. “Well, Ecker’s been doing it a long time. It’s not that hard.”

  “Oh, when you’ve licked a problem, it always looks easy.”

  Smoothly Frayne passed on to salesmanship. “Have you seen the Ecker toaster? This one went like clockwork from inception to production.”

  The toaster featured four normal slots that could be transformed into two extra-wide slots.

  “It’s amazing what people want to put into these things nowadays. Scones, muffins, croissants, you name it.”

  Ken, who harbored a passion for thick raisin muffins, momentarily forgot his vow to add nothing to the Nicolls kitchen for at least five years.

  “We’ve been using a toaster oven,” he said, leaning forward in interest.

  Frayne smiled. “There’s a war on for countertop space. Now that everybody has a microwave, Conrad says the toaster oven is on its way out. And speaking of Conrad, there he is and he’s signaling. You’ll have to excuse me.”

  Watching Frayne cross the hall’s main concourse, Quinn saw with a shock that he was joining the elderly oracle about shop vac’s.

 
“Boy, Ecker’s really something,” he said unguardedly.

  “Are you crazy, Wiley?” Hunnicut said without bothering to lower his voice. “So they can mount a fancy display booth! What about the rest of it? Maybe ASI could make something of their operation, but is it worth the effort? Look at what we’d have to do just for starters—throw out that wimp of a production manager, make everybody else start to toe the line and keep a pretty sharp eye on that bitch who’s in charge of the books. Don’t be fooled by all the glitzy gimmicks you see here. The way you learn about Ecker is by hanging around Bridgeport like I did. And I found out plenty.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t find out you’re not up to the job?” Quinn retorted.

  “Use your head. That isn’t a company they’ve got up there, it’s an old man’s hobby. And ever since the son left, it’s been ripe for the plucking. Ten to one, somebody’s got their hand in the cookie jar. Why the hell do you think all their records were burned up?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, so they had a fire. We’ve had a couple at ASI. These things just happen.”

  Hunnicut was openly contemptuous.

  “Boy, are you living in a dreamworld. You don’t even see that their great genius is past it, and Frayne’s main job is holding his hand and covering up the fact that he hasn’t brought out anything new. Apart from all the other troubles, ASI would have to mount a major R and D effort to take over from the old man. And Sam Bradley’s already proved how good he is at that. We’d end up trying to use Conrad Ecker’s rejects. Phil Pepitone is way off base on this one.”

  “I thought we’d get around to that.” Over Hunnicut’s head, Quinn shot Ken Nicolls a rueful smile. “Vic here’s putting on a full court press to scuttle this deal. He’s got everybody buzzing. Hell, the other night they were tearing Phil and Sam Bradley into little pieces. You’d better watch it, Vic. If the big boys find out what you’re up to, they’re not going to like it.”

  Hunnicut was stung. “Now wait a minute,” he protested. “Everything I said was the absolute truth. I’m not responsible for what other people say.”

  But Wiley Quinn, almost without knowing it, had reached a decision. The Ecker Company represented a golden opportunity. There were better ways to fight for it than trading digs with a nothingball like Hunnicut.

  “Do you think I don’t know how you operate, Victor? Sure, you never accuse anybody outright. Instead you run around with a bunch of insinuations.” Suddenly Quinn’s voice lowered into a parody of Hunnicut’s earnest tones. “‘Isn’t it amazing how many great ideas have floated through that lab and how little has come out?’ Then, inch by inch, you start zeroing in. ‘Of course, all we know is what the company gets or, more accurately, what it doesn’t get.’ That way we can figure out for ourselves that those great ideas may have been sold on the open market so someone could line his own pockets. That’s always been your style. Getting other people to put it into words for you.”

  Hunnicut was shaken by this assault, and by the corrosive dislike it revealed. Before he could collect his wits he was attacked from another quarter. While he and Quinn had been lobbing shots at each other behind the Ecker booth, the man demonstrating products had left by the front, to be replaced by a newcomer.

  “Will you two shut up and get out of here,” Bob Laverdiere snarled. “We don’t need you sounding off in front of our buyers. And who the hell do you think you are, anyway? You talk big about turning Ecker upside down and throwing us all out. Where do you get off thinking you can do better? Look at your own record. You haven’t established a name, you’ve never sold in the consumer market, you can’t develop anything. In fact, you haven’t done squat. From where I sit, you’re a bunch of amateurs with big mouths.”

  Laverdiere’s eyes were flaming with uncustomary pugnacity and his shoulders were hunched around his ears. This bellicose posture was wildly at odds with the barbecue apron that he was wearing and the skewer—already embellished with one perfect mushroom—that he clutched.

  “You’re absolutely right, Ecker’s a great operation,” said Wiley, hastily distancing himself from his colleague. “This bastard’s poor-mouthing you because he’s jealous.”

  Bob Laverdiere was not placated.

  “And you can keep your filthy tongue off my wife! She’s already told me how she flattened you in Princeton. I’ll see you in hell before you get one foot in my plant. As for our fire—”

  He might have gone on forever but he was interrupted.

  “I’ve been looking for you two,” said Sam Bradley, peering around a stack of boxes. “You’ve got some people from True Value at your place, Wiley, and there’s a crowd looking at the purifier. We’re trying to make an impact here today.”

  Hunnicut was only too happy to seize on this excuse and even Quinn preferred not to bandy words with Laverdiere in his present mood. When the two had hurried away, Ken Nicolls tried to pacify Laverdiere.

  “Don’t take this too seriously, Bob,” he said. “The two of them are competing with each other, and they say more than they mean.”

  He received no help from Sam Bradley.

  “It sounded like more than that to me,” he drawled.

  Laverdiere was not even willing to listen. “I don’t give a damn what games they play over at ASI,” he snapped, coming down the steps. “But it’s time someone told Conrad what’s going on over there, before the trouble spreads to us.”

  Bradley grimaced as he watched Laverdiere stamp off.

  “Oh, that’s just great. Now the old man’ll be on the warpath, too.”

  “What’s all the fuss about anyway?” Ken replied. “Hunnicut isn’t important and Conrad must know it.”

  “Everybody knows it except Victor himself.”

  Mindful of his duties to the Sloan, Nicolls shook off his curiosity about the steel edge to Bradley’s remark.

  “Well, Ecker is our client. I’d better get over there and find out what the damage is. But I still don’t see what Hunnicut is up to.”

  “I don’t know and I don’t give a damn.” Bradley’s gaze drifted across the hall in the direction of the ASI display. “But I do know that he’s playing way out of his league. Victor doesn’t have a clue how rough things can get.”

  Chapter 11

  WORKING STIFF

  Blundering across the main aisle, Bob Laverdiere scattered everybody unlucky enough to be in his path. All he could see with any clarity was the whole structure of his life crashing down in ruins.

  Before overhearing Victor Hunnicut, Bob had tepidly accepted the ASI merger as a necessary evil. There would be inconvenient summonses to New Jersey. There would be directives over unknown signatures. But basically Ecker would continue unchanged—safe, reassuring, comfortable.

  Victor Hunnicut had just given Laverdiere a glimpse of hell—a hell with Hunnicut installed in Bridgeport, exercising absolute authority over everything and everyone.

  By the time Laverdiere broke in on Conrad and Alan Frayne, he was incoherent with rage.

  “What’s going on?” Frayne demanded of Ken Nicolls five minutes later. “I’ve never seen Bob worked up like this.”

  After one look at Laverdiere’s face, Ken sank Hunnicut’s remarks about Tina and the plans for her husband’s future.

  “Hunnicut was shooting his mouth off about how Ecker would have to be reorganized,” he said vaguely.

  Mild as this rendition was, it made Conrad stiffen and sent Laverdiere into orbit.

  “Reorganized!” he choked. “He’s going to toss me out and make everyone else toe the line. Not to mention that Tina doesn’t measure up to his high standards.”

  “Look, Bob,” Alan Frayne urged, trying to stem the tide, “we don’t even know that Hunnicut is going to have anything to do with us.”

  “He sure as hell thinks he will. And that other one who was with him—the big one—he was—”

  “You mean Wiley Quinn?” Frayne interrupted with a puzzled frown. “But he liked what he saw.”

  “He did
n’t agree with everything Hunnicut said, but he was taking it seriously. And they both know more about their company’s plans than we do. Why should ASI tell us a damn thing? They’re not interested in Ecker. They just want to buy Conrad’s ideas. Hell, they’re so hard up they’ll even use his rejects. But the rest of the package is expendable.”

  “Now wait a minute. Maybe—”

  But the more Frayne tried to act the peacemaker, the more he activated Bob’s memory.

  “You haven’t heard the half of it. We’re all has-beens as far as that little shit is concerned. Conrad, you’re already on the shelf, and Alan’s no good for anything except being your nursemaid.”

  Conrad Ecker emitted a slow hiss that reminded Ken of a kettle coming to the boil.

  “Oh, is that so?”

  “Hell, he didn’t stop there. He was even taking potshots at his own people.” As Laverdiere continued to ride the waves of his fury, he brandished his skewer as if he were beating time. “Phil Pepitone has rocks in his head for choosing Ecker and, oh, you’ll love this one. As soon as ASI was going to inspect our books, we burned them to the ground.”

  “We did what?” Conrad growled menacingly.

  But for once Bob was paying no attention to his uncle’s reaction. He swept on:

  “You wouldn’t believe the things Hunnicut came up with. According to him, he saw plenty of dirt hanging around Bridgeport after that inspection trip.”

  “You mean he didn’t go back with Pepitone?” Frayne demanded. “He wasn’t anywhere in the compound. What the hell was he doing?”

  Ken felt bound to make his contribution.

  “Well, he was having a drink with me, for one thing.”

  Three accusing glares instantly fastened on him.

  “He was the one who did all the talking,” Ken added hastily. “I admit he was poor-mouthing Ecker, but I thought he was just sour because he saw his ASI competition would have the edge.”

  “Then where did he find all this so-called dirt?” Ecker rumbled.