FaceMate

by Steven M. Greenberg

“You’re not thinking of buying the businesses on my account, I hope—the automotive investments, I mean. I haven’t changed my mind about the offer that you made.”

  Ben smiled: A knowing smile, this time. An alluring smile. A manipulative smile as well, Prospero-like. Ben’s manner was so gracious, and at the same time so ingratiating, that you felt like a total ingrate in turning him down, but simultaneously like a rabbit fleeing the hounds in search of a pathway of escape. Ben, still smiling slightly (and knowingly), answered:

  “No, not on your account entirely, Tommy—although I’ll admit to you, it’s kind of been lurking in the back of my mind. But whether you’d consider joining the firm or not, kid, some of these companies up for grabs look like they might be worth the pittance that they’d cost—Hell, whatever we can make a couple million on is a generally worth an ante in—And if the price is low enough and there’s a better than fifty-fifty chance of turning some struggling business around to make it profitable, we might just take the plunge. So anyway, while you’re here, I’m going to try and pick your brain a little on the subject if you’re not too much averse: Would you mind giving us your educated input on some of the entities we’re looking at? Are you totally opposed to doing that?”

  Tommy had his doubts about Ben’s motives, but it was hard to tell him no. After all, what can you say to a guy who’s been great to you, generous to you, who seems to be genuinely interested in you? Some terrific guy who’s confided in you and that you’ve confided just as much in him? How do you respond to a guy who’s offered you a fantastic deal that you’re positive you just don’t want? You turned down his offer last weekend as definitively as you could, but now he asks you something else, a simple little favor, something you can do without the least commitment—or so you think. How could you even dream of turning down a guy that nice, that obviously, selflessly devoted to your welfare? This minor favor that he asks, inextricable quicksand though it might turn out to be—is it even possible to tell him no?

  It isn’t—it wasn’t—so Tommy answered, albeit with a reasonable modicum of concern:

  “I’m no business expert, Ben, but if it’s strictly an academic question related to a field I’ve got some formal knowledge of, then sure, I’d be happy to advise you in any way I can. So yeah, go ahead and run it by me. Tell me about your failing firm.”

  “OK, then, great,” smiled Ben. “There are a bunch of them, actually, but let’s pick out one from the stacks at random. This pile here consists of companies that are destined for the trash; basically on life support, I mean.” Ben pointed to a pile of papers on the surface of the desk to his left. “I can buy any of these guys for a nickel on the buck, tops. The other stack here on my right: These are companies that are risky enough, but a little bit more solvent than the ones on the left. They’re less of a gamble, that is, but they cost a bit more cash. Choose your poison, Tom. Trash or nearly trash: Where would you like to begin?”

  Easy choice—Whew! The worse the company, the less likely Ben was to buy it up and drag him, kicking and screaming, along; so he opted for the trash over the not-quite trash, the cyanide over the arsenic, since arsenic might prove a bit too slow. Ben picked up the topmost paper from the left-hand pile—the ‘total trash’ according to his designation—looked it over briefly, and said:

  “You want to go through the details yourself or you want me to give you a quick capsule summary?”

  “I don’t know. I guess the quicker the better will do. Let’s go for the capsule.”

  But no intimate details were necessary, really. The company in question was a turkey that he knew of all too well; some firm that made power window lifts, door locks, memory seats, that sort of thing, and made them all about as badly as they made those legendary Yugos back in the day.

  “It’s poison,” he told Ben.

  “Why do you say that, Tommy?—You familiar with their products?”

  Was he! Sure he was. How many of the pathetic things had he replaced and tried to doctor up so they would last a little longer than the year-old units that had failed before?

  “How did you doctor them up,” Ben asked, perceptively, expectedly. And so he explained it in simple terms: The window lift, for example, consisted of a plastic pulley turning to raise the widow by a braided metal cord. The pulley was flimsy, the cord was sharp and rough: So? Take a guess: What in the world could possibly go wrong?

  “Well? What did you do to fix the damn things then?”

  “I replaced the plastic wheel with stainless steel—An off-the-shelf part. Heck, I found the stuff I needed in a hardware store.”

  “OK so why didn’t the company that made the unit do that in the first place?”

  “Why? They saved a nickel maybe. Cut a quarter of an ounce in weight to give the car a hundred-millionth of an extra mile per gallon. Who knows why supposedly well-trained engineers do really stupid things?”

  “So let me ask you this, then: Say I bought the company; let’s say I anted in—just hypothetically—Could you make it profitable again if you made the changes you recommend?”

  What could he say? He couldn’t lie. Sure he could; anyone with half a brain could make the products functional, durable—saleable, and therefore competitive at a somewhat lower price, seeing that the cost of defective returns would be subtracted from the loss side of the ledger.

  And from there—for there were lots more companies in the stacks atop Ben’s desk—Same answer, essentially, with the second supplier, and the third, and so on through almost every one of the losing businesses up for sale on the cheap. Sure he could tell Ben how to fix them. A no-brainer, a slam-dunk.

  “OK, so let’s do it then. I’ll buy ‘em, and you run ‘em.”

  Tommy was at a loss for appropriate words of refusal, something Ben could clearly see. And while Tommy searched for a proper way of telling Ben thanks, but no thanks, a kindly way of turning down a generous gift without offending the generous giver, Ben retreated to his own thoughts, which were:

  Good God! The kid’s incredible!—Incredible! He knows cars, sure, better than anybody around, but more than that: He knows everything about every damn component of a car. In the same way that he himself knew investments at Tommy’s age, not just stocks and commodities alone, but bonds, precious metals, currency fluctuations—In that selfsame way this amazing kid knew engines and paints and window glass—and metallurgy, for God’s sake! And physics! And petrochemistry. And…..

  And what Ben said at last to seal the deal—for he was smart like Tommy, true enough, but had him beat by thirty years in practical experience and negotiation—What he said to rope him in and pull the lasso tight was:

  “Look, Tommy—just take on the project for a while as a favor to me. Run, let’s say, the window-motor company on your terms to get it going, then once it’s sound, you can bail right out whenever you like. Get it solvent for me, just as a personal favor, then we’ll bring on a different management team and turn you loose. Put in whatever time you can spare, make some decent money, help out your family. It’s a no-lose proposition, Tommy. Tell me what you want or need to do the job and I’ll close the deal today. Will you do it? I’m asking for your help. Are you mean enough to turn me down?”

  “Geez, I don’t know, Ben. When you put it that way, I’m…. I mean….” The kid was doubly reluctant, that you could tell, reluctant about taking on the burden, first of all, but equally—or maybe more—reluctant to offend.

  “Well, look: would you be kind enough to at least consider it? It’s a great opportunity for both of us, and I’d hate to lose out on something this opportune, and frankly this good.”

  “Umm, I’m not sure, Ben…. I’m not happy with the idea, but as far as helping you out … well, I guess it would depend.”

  “Depend on what, Tom? Name your terms.”

  Tommy shook his head, weighing the options, more unwilling than compliant. But it was Ben who was asking, and it was a hard slog, bordering on the impossible, to tell this fabulously nice guy
no.

  “Umm,” said Tommy, after a lengthy pensive pause, “OK, let me ask you this then: That company we talked about first—the power window supplier—is it an American company? Are the parts made here? I wouldn’t want to do any work for a foreign entity.”

  “Good question. I’ll read the fine print for you just as it’s written: The prospectus says … OK, it says right here the management is based in California, the components for their products are made in—let me see—looks like they’re machined and cast in Korea and Viet Nam; their design and engineering is handled … um, I’d say mostly in Japan; and the warehousing and shipping seems to be based in Texas. Does that answer your question thoroughly enough? The auto parts business is pretty globally dispersed, I guess.”

  “Dispersed, right; that it is. I get the picture, though; a pretty typical arrangement nowadays, I’d imagine. That’s why us mechanics have tons and tons of work—Well, OK, let me toss this out then, Ben, and you consider it. Let’s say I’d maybe be willing to do this: Let’s say you were to buy the company for as cheap a price as you say you can get it for, which would give us plenty of latitude on transition expenses and initial costs of operation—does that sound about right?”

  “Right on the money, kid, that’s a hundred percent correct.”

  “OK, here’s my offer then: If you really think I’m qualified—which, in all honesty, I sincerely doubt—I’ll get the operation going for you—in my spare time, though—it’s got to be a spare time job till I finish up my PhD, OK?”

  “OK, sure. Agreed. We’ll bring on some assistants to take care of the basic day-to-day.”

  “OK, but wait, though. I’ve got some other conditions too. You’d better hear them all before you say we’ve got a deal.”

  “I’m listening, Tom. Shoot.”

  “Well, the way I figure it is this: The only way I’d have full control of production is if it’s in my own backyard. One of my dreams has always been to make things in America again the way they used to before this inefficient global foolishness got launched. So what I’ll agree to do is this, Ben, if you can live with it: I’ll fix your company—the window lift entity, I mean, which is the easiest one to fix—to the best of my ability, if you’ll locate the whole operation in Arizona where I can be there at least part of the time—Which means weekends mostly till I finish my degree. But it’s got to be in Arizona, all of it: Parts, assembly, design and engineering, shipping, the whole nine yards—all near Phoenix, in the good old USA. Is that economically feasible? If not, I’m definitely opting out.”

  “Not only feasible, Tommy boy, but economical when you figure what’s entailed in all the time and cost involved in shipping stuff from place to place—The agents a company’s got to hire, the intermediaries, the scheduling, boxing, crating, insurance—all that stuff is nonproductive work—busy work. Consolidation of production isn’t only feasible, Tommy; it’s beneficial in every way. I’ll buy the damn company immediately—like today, I’m saying—if you’re willing to take the project on. It’ll take Cindy maybe a month or two to rustle up a work force and locate some vacant land—Hey, desert property outside of Phoenix should be pretty cheap. All the factory equipment from Asia can be carted up and sent here by the time the plant and workers are arranged and ready to go, I bet, and if we can find an existing building that meets our specs—we can start production within three months or maybe four—Sound acceptable?”

  “Yeah, sure, Ben—I guess. Man, I can’t believe how you snookered me into taking on this crazy thing. You’re good, I’ll hand you that. You’re a tough guy to say no to—OK, but one thing more to say, though. You and I are friends, remember, and I’m doing this for you and not for any financial recompense, remember—so I won’t agree to take a salary for my work.”

  “Fair enough, kid; fair enough. No salary if you insist. But I insist on something too. My insistence is: you’re getting fifty-one percent of the company stock. So do your best to make the damn thing a success.”

  37

  Well that was it. Tom was bound to AthCorp now; bound at least managerially, with a strong financial tie as well if the venture turned out to be a success. And, of course, it would turn out to be a success. Even if it wasn’t that successful, Ben could jigger the books to make damn sure it came out profitable in the end. Meaning Tom would have a pretty decent income, win or lose. He was on his way to the affluent future Ben was picking out for him.

  But that future Ben was picking out—was it the best one possible for such a phenomenally gifted kid? Some of the ideas Tom had tossed out at random in their conversation today were truly astounding, truly breathtaking in their visionary depth. A mind, a soul, a genius of that type—and here, in all humility, Ben recognized his own undoubted gifts at Tommy’s age—Was such a talent as Tommy’s to be relegated to the post of CEO, chief cook and bottle-washer to a company selling bit parts to the major players who ran the show? He wasn’t, and once Ben concluded that he wasn’t, he made a solemn resolution to rectify that.

  But how?—Ben mulled it over in the limo as Luther drove him and Tommy to the Athertons’ regal home—Well, first thing on the agenda would be to determine what Tommy wanted ultimately to be and what he ultimately hoped to do. Not the superficial things people think of in an offhand way—You know: Nice house, sharp car, good marriage, plus or minus kids, satisfying work—those kinds of things, unspecific, nondescript kinds of things: Those are universals, generalities, not the sorts of fundamental goals young men long for in their inmost hearts.

  No, what Ben needed to discover were the boy’s fondest hopes and aspirations—his fantasies, his dreams. What would he want out of life, what would he want to do with his life if the opportunities were limitless? Because, well, they could be limitless; Ben had the wherewithal to make them limitless. And once he pried deep enough into Tommy’s mind and heart and soul, he knew he could make all this happen at will.

  Anthony, who filled in for Patrick every other weekend, showed Tommy to his room—In Ben’s house, rather than Eddie’s; they’d have more time to talk that way—It was a suite, actually, that Tommy got assigned; one of ten or twelve on the second floor—some were suites, some just bedroom-bathroom-balconies; Ben never could keep track of just how many of each there were, especially since no one ever actually slept up there till now. Carole knew, of course, which part of the house was which, and she was the one who made sure that Tommy got the best.

  Carole, predictably, went crazy for the boy. What else would you expect? No kids of their own, although she might have wanted one or more of them if Ben had been the least bit willing in that regard. But here was a boy of exactly the age her own boy would have been if she’d borne one. And the most amazing thing about this handsome, gifted kid she’d never had, was that he was a dead-on carbon copy of her darling husband Ben when she’d known him at that exact same juncture of his life. She’d been enthralled when she’d first seen Tom a week before (no less than she’d been enthralled when she’d first seen Ben in ‘82). But after that amazing first glimpse of the boy last week, and now, sitting with him in the living room before they left for an evening supper out: My God! she must have thought; just listen to the kid, just watch him: His words, his voice, his manner—It was Ben reborn unquestionably. If she’d had her own boy, she would have wanted him to be like Ben. And here he was, alive and in the flesh: Ben’s clone, his identical duplicate in almost every way. It was incredible!

  So Carole was sold at once, and, as for the others:

  Well, the instant they stepped into Albert’s, and Tommy got seated next to Charlotte—wouldn’t you know it, but she went crazy too, much as her husband Eddie had a week before. All the attention, all the conversation at the table was focused on Tom and Tom alone. What was he studying? Where? Steady girlfriend? No. Here: Try the veal ravioli. No, thanks. Your burger done OK? Uh-huh, it’s great…. So, Charlotte asked him, finally, after a forkful of cherry pie: So? what do you want to do with your life, Tommy?

 
Aha! Ben’s ears perked up, but no dramatic revelations ensued: Which was fine for the present. He’d get back to the subject the moment they got home.

  And that he did:

  “Well? How was your meal, Tommy? Did you like the place we went?” That was the first thing out the gate, once they made it back home and got comfortably seated in Ben’s walnut-paneled den. Ben put Tommy on the sofa and set himself in the chair in front, turned halfway around, so they were sitting face-to-face. Chair and sofa, patient and analyst: Time to do some subtle probing, Ben thought.

  “Yeah, the burger was great, just like Mom’s; fresh-ground beef, I think. Hey, by the way, that waiter is a hoot, isn’t he?”

  “Greg? Yeah, Greg is special, no doubt there. You’ve got to be careful with him.”

  That was for sure, smiled Ben. Greg had gotten a little rambunctious when the five of them went to leave, dragging Tommy in the kitchen for a selfie to post on the Internet for his many ‘special friends’, then coming out only to plop down on a chair and plop the boy down onto his lap for another final selfie shot. Tom had handled it well, though, not complying outwardly, yet not rejecting Greg’s impertinence in a condemnatory way. Great composure, exemplary empathy: The straight-A graduate of an all-male charm school couldn’t have done a better job. Greg gave him a bear-hug and a great big kiss on the cheek on their way out the door, which was the reason for Tommy’s mild complaint.

  “No, he’s alright. I wasn’t all that crazy about him hugging me the way he did when I left—Did you see what happened?”

  “Did I! Sure—I started over to rescue you, but you got out of it pretty well all by yourself. And you were nice about it too. Greg’s a good guy, and I’d hate to see somebody get mean and hurt his feelings.”

  “Me too. He is nice, and I wouldn’t want to hurt his feelings either; not for the world. There’s always a way to handle that kind of situation, though, so nobody gets offended. First thing is, you’ve got to keep your sense of humor and kind of laugh with the people coming onto you and not at them—That’s essential. I’ve kind of learned the stuff to say and do when that happens without offending anyone. That wasn’t the first time I’ve been in a dicey situation like that, and it probably won’t be the last.”