Kill and Tell

by William Kienzle

  Martin’s introduction was, and everyone understood it to be, a sort of benediction. It was the corporate equivalent of the clouds parting with a disembodied voice declaring, “This is my beloved employee; hear him!”

  Actually, Chase was somewhat embarrassed by the rather lavish tribute Martin paid him. And Chase would not have confessed to anyone but Louise that he was more than a little nervous. This was his first major presentation to the executive board and his fellow executives. Although he had, with Kirkus and Keely’s contributions and assistance, prepared this presentation most carefully, Chase had butterflies in his stomach. All in all, he thought, the tension he felt was a good thing. Something akin to that felt by even the most experienced actors. Something that aided them in giving good performances.

  Introduction complete. Chase adjusted his bifocals and began his report. He addressed, in detail, each of the two items on the agenda: the forthcoming congressional debate and vote on a “lemon” bill, and The Company’s future demographic target.

  First, he explained why The Company should take the unexpected position of supporting legislation which, if passed, could cripple not only The Company but the entire automotive industry. Lobbyists for The Company had ascertained that the legislation stood no chance of passage. Thus, by taking this harmless stand, The Company would be hailed by consumer groups throughout the country, possibly the world.

  As he progressed, Chase could feel something strange taking place. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something was happening. He could get no hint from the faces of the officers before him. He could not turn to scrutinize the faces of those seated behind him. He could only press on.

  He proceeded to present the Values and Life-Styles demographic theory as it had been projected to the car buyers of the immediate future. He explained why 58 percent of their targeted market would be that steady group of middle-aged, stable, content men and women who would demand the kind of cars they had been buying over the past several years. Going for the fuel-efficient compacts and continuing that phenomenon of an “Escort Family” or a “Cheetah Family.” The sons and daughters buying the same kind of cars their parents had.

  Again, Chase fought off the disquieting feeling that something was wrong. Still, no emotion on the faces of the men before him. But something was up, no doubt about it . . . something with which he was unfamiliar.

  Teachers, professors, preachers, those who frequently speak in public, could have explained the phenomenon. He was losing his audience. Often the audience or congregation lets the speaker know he’s wasting his time—sometimes by coughing, sometimes by shifting in their seats, sometimes by barely audible sounds of distraction. But always, even if undeliberately, one’s audience lets the speaker know.

  Chase proceeded with his revelation of the “Mexican scam,” along with his recommendations to cure the problem. He concluded his presentation to the sounds of shuffling and throat-clearing. An uncomfortable silence followed.

  Finally, Chairman Martin asked for comment. More papers were shuffled. Almost anyone there could have made a comment. Even though the report had been convincingly and unequivocally delivered, most of those present felt there was something wrong with one or another of the points Chase had made. But where were the facts and statistics to refute them?

  In addition, the other executives were well aware that Chase had been personally selected for his prestigious and promising position by the chairman of the board himself. One did not attack the boss’ favorite without being loaded for bear.

  After a short, awkward pause, a hand was raised in the second row. Chairman Martin recognized Frank Hoffman.

  “Mr. Chairman, Mr. President; ladies and gentlemen . . .” Hoffman had almost completely recovered from his cold. The slight nasal quality of his voice, the final vestige of his illness, merely lent his tone a more impressive resonance. No one at The Company, other than Charlie Chase, knew about the tumultuous events in which he’d been involved the previous Saturday evening, nor of his hospitalization, brief as it was. Only Chase could have revealed these events, and gossip was not his style.

  “With all due respect to our general manager,” Hoffman proceeded, “I must beg to differ with him on one or two points he has made so well. And I do so, of course, only with the good of The Company in mind.”

  Nervy! was the consensus. Hoffman was, in effect, putting his future with The Company on the line in publicly challenging the chairman’s fair-haired boy. No one, however, was particularly surprised that it was Hoffman who had flung down the gauntlet.

  “In the matter of the so-called Lemon Laws, we are all well aware, ladies and gentlemen, that Congress has been flirting with this sort of bill for many years. A few states have similar restrictions on us as local legislation. Obviously, everyone in this room, everyone in The Company, every fair-minded citizen opposes such laws. Our public support of this legislation, as proposed by Mr. Chase, would be a bold and utterly unpredictable move that would indeed capture the attention of the world, let alone the media. And it would seem, as Mr. Chase has so convincingly presented, that, in its present form and with nothing else intervening, the legislation hasn’t a chance. Thus, our support of this presently doomed legislation would appear to be a major public relations coup.

  “However, there is another side of this question with which Mr. Chase appears unfamiliar. Undoubtedly, it is no fault of his, since this information has come to light only in the past couple of days.”

  Hoffman’s attempt at exculpating Chase, as everyone, including Hoffman, knew, was spurious. It was Chase’s responsibility to know of important events no matter how recently they might have occurred.

  “Our lobbyists,” Hoffman continued, “went back for another straw vote of both houses asking what the outcome of a vote on the Lemon Laws would be if The Company first endorsed this legislation. The surprising thing they discovered was that such a move on our part would turn the vote around. Our friends in Congress have a tough enough time suppressing this sort of legislation, with the considerable pressure they get from their constituents. Only a completely united front can hope to keep these ridiculous laws off the books. Were we, one of the major automotive firms, to even create the impression of endorsing these bills, the ball game would be over.

  “By actual count, were we to make the move Mr. Chase has recommended, our advantage in the House would slip from two-to-one against the legislation to three-to-one in favor; and in the Senate from three-to-one against to four-to-one in favor.

  “In short, we would be solely responsible for the first national passage of Lemon Laws. Laws that would not only virtually hamstring us but also the entire automotive industry.”

  Hoffman paused. A murmur spread through the room. Something akin to the sound probably made by the judges at Inquisition trials.

  Charles Chase was devastated. He could feel the blood rising to the surface of his face as Hoffman began his refutation. And the longer Hoffman went on, and the more inevitable became his conclusion, the worse Chase felt. He was in no position to say anything. All he could do was sit there and take it. And the end, he felt, was nowhere in sight.

  “Secondly,” Hoffman resumed, “we come to the matter of our future demographic targets. Mr. Chase’s citation of the VALS conclusions presents an interesting series of speculative statistics. But, I’m afraid, ladies and gentlemen, that’s all they are: speculative statistics.

  “Out there in the real world of car sales, in recent years, the average age of a person who buys a car from The Company has been nearly fifty. Whereas the average age of those who buy cars from our major competitors and especially foreign cars, is about thirty-five.

  “I submit, ladies and gentlemen, that’s our demographic target: the younger buyers. And they want the European look, the high performance version of the basic family car. A very reliable source at GM tells me their defined principal target market is going to be the affluent twenty-five to forty-four-year-old customer. They expect this market to
account for over 50 percent of all new car purchases over the next few years.

  “We must face the facts, ladies and gentlemen: What we’re looking for is the incremental dollar. And that can’t be found in the compact or subcompact models. The incremental buck lies in the limited-production, high-performance cars with fat price tags and substantial profit margins.

  “Once upon a time,” Hoffman glanced significantly at Chase as if to identify him with a fairy tale of the past, “young people traditionally drove the kind of car their parents favored. There were such things as ‘Chevy Families.’ That doesn’t happen anymore. The son no longer automatically buys what his father drove. And keep this old made-in-Detroit adage in mind, ladies and gentlemen: You can sell an older man a young man’s car, but you can’t sell a young man an old man’s car.

  “The younger buyer is our prime demographic target market. The young buyer is going to want the car that will return us to Detroit’s essence. The big car that is going to mean big profit margins. And that’s where The Company has to be.”

  Again, Hoffman paused to indicate that he had finished his second argument but that he had not completed his rebuttal. He gathered his sheaf of papers and placed them at the upper right corner of his table.

  Once again, there was the soft murmur of voices. Never had these executives witnessed anything like this. Never had a junior executive shredded a major presentation of a senior executive. But what would become known as the Wednesday Morning Massacre was not yet over. Almost all present could now predict what was to follow.

  “Finally, Mr. Chairman, Mr. President; ladies and gentlemen,” Hoffman swung into his peroration: “I feel certain that Mr. Chase’s charge,” he gave the word a sarcastic inflection, “that there is some hanky-panky at work in our Mexican imports is due to nothing more than our esteemed colleague’s newness to The Company. Most of us are well aware that there is no ‘scam’ going on. But, for the benefit of those,” again a significant glance at the back of Chase’s head, where the bulging and reddening of his neck told its own story, “who are unfamiliar with the peculiar and tight import-export laws of Mexico, I’ll explain. Briefly!

  “We are not permitted to import any more from Mexico than we export to Mexico. In effect, we are hurting because of that limitation on our exporting materials that our factories down there need in order to build our cars with cost efficiency. So, the idea is to load up the cars made in Mexico that we import for sale in the States. The more we can build up the Mexican content of those cars, the greater the import credits we achieve, and the added export value they will have when we import them—and the more we are able to export.

  “Therefore, while we buy Mexican glass for our cars instead of using our own glass, the benefit in the added value of the cars imported far surpasses the slight saving in expense were we to import the lower-valued cars from Mexico for the sole purpose of outfitting them here in the States.

  “Thus,” an expansive gesture, “no collusion, no conspiracy, no crime—just good heads-up business.”

  At no time in his life, not even while undergoing the tortures of adolescence, had Charles Chase felt a like embarrassment. What could he say? Explanation was neither possible nor expected. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that he had been the, victim of some outrageously bad advice. But part of the responsibility of a top executive is to ensure against the possibility of receiving faulty information or having poor advisers.

  There was no doubting where the buck stopped when it came to a person whose position was general manager of The Company.

  Chase could not bring himself to glance up at Frank Martin. Chase could imagine the chairman did not feel all that much better than he himself did at this very moment.

  He was correct. Ordinarily, Martin did not allow himself much emotional demonstration. But there was no doubt that his face was crinkled into a definite scowl. Instead of conducting the remainder of the business and closing the meeting, Martin quietly requested the president to carry on.

  As the meeting wound to a merciful conclusion, Martin shrugged. Too bad. It was a damn pity. But the die had been cast. This was hardball, and, by damn, to the victor go the spoils. Chase would never be effective in The Company after this morning’s humiliation. His fate was sealed.

  On the other hand, there was Hoffman. Martin had had his eye on Hoffman for some time. He had shown promise. Definitely high pot. And this morning’s showing put him up a couple more rungs on the ladder. If Charlie can’t make it, maybe Hoffman can. The Company would go on. The king is dead; long live the king.

  Martin’s thoughts were not far different from those of the other executives as they closed briefcases, mingled a bit while ignoring Chase, then filed out.

  There is a scene near the end of the musical comedy How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying, when the blame for a catastrophe at World Wide Wickets is shifted back and forth between two executives. As the blame falls upon the shoulders of one, the entire cast moves to the opposite side of the stage. And vice versa.

  In a metaphorical sense that was now happening at The Company.

  Before the meeting, Chase had been not only a very important person; he’d also been a very popular person. Everyone knew that his presentation was on today’s agenda as well as the fact that he was the chairman’s personal selection to be his own successor. Many executives had stopped to pat Chase on the back or merely offer a word of greeting or encouragement.

  Now, it was as if Chase had suddenly contracted a communicable disease.

  It wasn’t that he’d been forgotten. On the contrary, everyone was talking about him or about Hoffman’s destruction of him. However, no one was talking to him.

  It was just as well. Chase wouldn’t have heard. His chagrin was so intense that he was physically affected. His heart rate was up. He was certain his blood pressure must be sky-high. His stomach was acidic. His face was flushed. And the pounding in his ears would have made it impossible for him to hear a normal speaking tone. He was forced to try deliberately to maintain his equilibrium and not faint outright.

  Returning to his office, he was unaware of seeing anyone or hearing anything. He concentrated on putting one foot after the other in order to find some sanctuary somewhere.

  “Of course I don’t like to see his blood pressure this high. But he’s got a good strong constitution and that should help.” The Chases’ family physician was speaking to Louise. They stood just outside the bedroom door. The doctor did not normally make house calls. But for the Chases he would.

  “Get these prescriptions filled, Louise. The Lasix is a diuretic. Have him take just one a day. The Slow K will replace the potassium he’ll lose from the extra urination caused by the diuretic. Two Slow K twice a day, after meals. And Louise: No alcohol while he’s on Lasix . . . might cause the pressure to go too far the other way.

  “If there are any other problems, be sure and call me.”

  Louise thanked him and saw him to the door. She gave the prescriptions and the car keys to the maid and returned to Charles.

  Wearing flannel pajamas, he was propped by several pillows. A bright sun streaming through the windows reminded him, if he needed a reminder, that he was not well. Why else would one go to bed in the daytime except when one is ill?

  “How are you feeling, dear?” She sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Tired. But better.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  He turned to look out the window. He was wearing his glasses although he did not intend to read—or even to see anything, for that matter. “Not much more to say. After Frank Hoffman refuted every point I made, all the senators gave the thumbs-down sign.”

  “I don’t understand. What went wrong? Was all the advice those two gave you incorrect?”

  “Kirkus and Keely? Not incorrect so much as deliberate untruths. They’re Hoffman’s men. I knew that all along and was a bit leery about them from the start. But everything they advised me on up to now has not
only been correct, it’s been insightful, brilliant advice. So I had no reason to suspect or doubt them in this.” He shook his head. “I should have listened to my secretary. She told me she thought there was something ersatz about those two. And she was right. It was all a set-up. They were setting me up for the kill. All that they told me in preparation for today’s meeting made sense—as far as it went. And insofar as I was able to check it out, it appeared to be right on target.”

  “Those horrid men! What will happen to them now?” She knew what she would like to have happen to them . . . something involving boiling oil.

  He smiled sardonically. “They were waiting for me when I returned to my office after the meeting. I was so angry and felt so rotten I couldn’t bring myself to say a word to them. Kirkus said he’d heard what happened and he wanted to apologize; that they had given me the best advice they could. But I could see in his eyes he didn’t mean a word of it.”

  “Isn’t there some way of punishing them?”

  “They won’t be reporting to me anymore—if you can call that a punishment. But they’ll end up on their feet. They’ll go back to Hoffman, unless I miss my guess. They were in his camp all along anyway.”

  “Frank Martin would know! He’d understand!” Louise thought she had stumbled on a solution. “If he doesn’t know yet . . . if he hasn’t figured it out—you can tell him: It was all a plot to undermine your position!”

  Chase shook his head sadly. “You don’t understand, Lou. It doesn’t matter whether Frank knows or not. To allow myself to be put in a position like I was in is the unforgivable sin. Not why I got into it. It’s like . . . like . . . well, it’s like war: Once you lose, it doesn’t matter how or why you lost—except maybe to historians. As far as The Company is concerned, the reason I lost is of speculative interest at best.”

  After a brief discouraged silence, Louise resumed. “I guess my final question has to be why . . . why did they do it? That Kirkus and Keely, they were already working for the man who would one day become chairman of the board. What did they have to gain by sabotaging you? They were already on the winning team. Why would they do something to make it the losing team?”