Hidden Charges

by Ridley Pearson

  “I’ve seen the ads.”

  “—and radio stations from Philadelphia up to Portland and as far west as Buffalo. This month marks our third month in television ads. But ads aren’t our only television exposure. Entertainment Tonight’s going to do a short spot on us because a Hollywood outfit is bidding to shoot a film here in off-hours next month. The ET segment has a potential viewing audience of twenty-five million, nationally.”

  Mann straightened his tie. “I must admit, that is more than the Hillsdale Chamber of Commerce does.” He had a wry smile and, Knorpp thought, a distinguished, educated look. Though he claimed otherwise, Knorpp’s education had stopped with graduation from Menlo Park Junior College.

  “It’s one of those unseen items that makes space here a valuable asset to any retailer,” Haverill added, “especially one as popular as The Hauve.”

  “Perhaps I can save us both time by telling you that I took your latest offer to the board and they turned it down,” Mann said. “It’s just too expensive, Marv. Your square-foot price is good, but the space is larger than we need, which means more money on a per-month basis. We would have to fill that extra space with product, and the added inventory would reduce our cash flow significantly.”

  “Chester, we’ve prepared to offer you something we have never offered another retailer: six months worth of free full-page advertisements in our flyers. We direct-mail flyers twice monthly to all our Hillsdale credit card customers, as well as to anyone who has used a national credit card here in the last thirty days. It’s quite a number of people.”

  “How can you mail to national cardholders?”

  His distraction had worked. The last thing Haverill wanted was Mann thinking about lease costs. “Peter?”

  “The Green’s retailers require ‘for security reasons,’” he said, indicating the quotes with a coy smile, “that all credit cards users include their home addresses on the receipt. At the close of each transaction, clerks check these addresses against the database in the mainframe. If it’s a repeat customer—and fifty-seven percent of our customers are—then nothing need be done. If it’s a first-time user, the address is added to the database. The advertising flyers, unlike our promotional flyers, are sent out to this list, which we call our Retail Intensive List.”

  It took Mann a moment to digest the concept. “Sounds like a lot of added work for the retailer, to me.”

  Haverill spoke up, “Not as bad as you might think, besides which, it has had a phenomenal success rate at flushing out bad cardholders. When the clerk takes that receipt and begins punching in the address—well, you’d be surprised at how many times we’ve caught counterfeits, stolens, and altereds. Cross-checking that address scares the hell out of ’em.”

  “Gentlemen, the advertising benefits sound wonderful. But the fact is, The Hauve could be lost in a place this size. My question is this: Can Yankee Green—even with all the entertainment attractions designed to lure people here—support the Hillsdale Hauve franchise? We have two other franchises in malls, and in all honesty they aren’t doing so well.”

  Knorpp decided to try and steer Mann toward numbers. The Green looked good in numbers. “But your biggest fear would be gross and net, would it not?”

  “Certainly. And foot traffic. We keep careful track of foot traffic. The number of people entering our store each day is as important to us as the number of people who actually purchase goods. One supplies the other. Our fear, quite truthfully, is that with so much else to do and see at the Green, we won’t get the repeat foot traffic and attention we need to sustain growth.”

  “I think there’s some confusion on that point,” said Knorpp. Haverill sat patiently, observing the situation like a moderator at a debate. “Actually the rides, attractions, and variety of retail facilities support each other. The average time spent at the Green—the average, mind you—is three hours. More does not mean less for anyone here, I assure you. If it did, the place would have folded long ago. On the contrary, the entire concept of Yankee Green, and shopping centers in general, is to hold foot traffic longer, giving each retail facility more exposure.”

  He shifted in his chair uneasily.

  “We started out as a single pavilion, don’t forget. When High Star Redevelopment Partners took over, under Marv’s direction, some big changes took place. First, he recognized the need for expansion. At the same time, he saw the need to create something that would help dovetail the expenditure of free time, the customers’ desires to be entertained, and retail shopping. The perfect example of this dovetailing is our stadium. Remember, only Pavilion A existed when High Star took over, and it was eventually completely remodeled, the point being that the Green is conceptually designed to hold the customers and keep them spending. You won’t find that at other shopping centers, and certainly not downtown in a city.

  “Take our Saturdays during football season. The men come to the stadium to see the Patriots play. But, unlike when the Pats were in Foxboro, now the women come along too. For three hours, while their husbands are screaming for first downs, an average of twenty-two thousand former football widows wander our concourses and shop our stores. Twenty-two thousand. During the play-offs that average soared to thirty-nine thousand! Saturday business, always our best day, is up a staggering two hundred and fifteen percent during stadium use. The stadium can be converted for tennis in the summer, and High Star is negotiating for a major NBA franchise.”

  “The Celtics?” Mann wondered aloud.

  Silence. Mann looked to Haverill, who said, “The point being that downtown Boston, just like downtown anywhere, is becoming an office center. Retailers are moving out to the suburbs, closer to their clientele. I’m sure that isn’t news to you, Chester.”

  “Of course not. Why do you think we’re considering the Green at all?” Mann was obviously under a great deal of stress. “We’ve seen your figures. But will your foot traffic translate to foot traffic at The Hauve? I realize that at the moment downtown Hillsdale is suffering. Our sales are off, as you are well aware; however, we’re still well above the norm. One reason we’re able to hold our share is lack of competition. You already have your share of department stores, gentlemen. The Hauve would hardly be alone here.”

  “What I was going to say a few minutes earlier,” said Haverill, “and I wouldn’t want it to go beyond this room, is that we’re willing to reduce our base lease square-footage costs by twenty percent for your first year in order to give you a chance to see how the Green’s customers respond to The Hauve.”

  “Well, well,” Mann said with more than a little interest in his voice. “Twenty percent from what Peter and I discussed?”

  “For the first year,” Haverill repeated.

  “That’s an attractive offer.”

  “We think so,” added Knorpp. “You’re going to love the Green, Mr. Mann. There’s never been anything like it. We’re still expanding. What other location can guarantee you—guarantee you—two hundred thirty-three thousand in foot traffic per week? Answer me that.”

  Mann took on a serious expression. “As you are well aware, one of our biggest concerns is the image here. I don’t mean to be condescending, but you generate a kind of carnival air that grates on upper-middle-class values. Many of our customers are upper middle class. I think it’s a legitimate complaint.”

  “Overexaggerated.”

  “I wonder. This mall has changed the face of this area forever. The words Yankee Green mean only one thing anymore: the largest mall in the United States. We just spoke about the publicity. Your people have done an admirable job. A super job. But look at what you’ve done to downtown Hillsdale. Now, granted, it was never a Park Avenue or Cambridge, but it serviced a huge rural market. I don’t have to tell you that. I’m sure your people did ample studies before choosing this site. Obviously, the greater Hillsdale area supported the kind of demographics your people deemed necessary to support a retail complex of this scope and size. But as I said, we know for a fact that a large porti
on of Hillsdale’s upper middle class would not go within five miles of the Hillsdale Mall. That’s a problem for us. Those are our people.”

  Knorpp studied Haverill. What was the big man thinking? He seemed lost in thought.

  Haverill suddenly countered. “Well, space in the new pavilion is going quickly. Since you and Peter last talked, we have had a query from another large retailer. They too would like that anchor space. Between you and me, I don’t like their store and I don’t like their management. Another Northern Lights I don’t need. I would like to gather some additional information for your consideration. Perhaps you and I could have lunch together tomorrow.”

  “I’m sure we can arrange something.”

  Both men rose simultaneously. Knorpp was a beat behind.

  “And I’d love to get out on the links with you one of these days. Did you know that one thing planned for Phase Four is an exact replica of St. Andrews? We borrowed the idea from the West Edmonton Mall. An eighteen-hole mini-golf course complete with sand and water hazards.”

  Mann smiled genuinely. “My word. Will there be a Phase Four? There’s a rumor all over town that if there is a Phase Four it will be an office center. Any truth to that?”

  Haverill shrugged. “I never pay much attention to rumors, myself.”

  Very seriously, Mann said, “It would cripple downtown. I suppose you’re well aware of that.”

  Haverill bristled. “I warned downtown what direction they should take. In five years they’ve accomplished nothing. Nothing. Hillsdale is in a ripe location for divisions of national companies. Somebody’s going to do something about it sooner or later. If everybody wasn’t so busy taking money out of each other’s pockets, they might get something done. Sorry,” he offered, lowering his voice. “As you can tell, I’m a bit frustrated with the political structure of Hillsdale. We provide several thousand jobs, hundreds of years of construction man-hours, we do over half a billion gross a year, and all we get is bad-mouthed cracks behind our backs. Yankee Green’s been the best thing that ever happened to this town. One of these days the people of Hillsdale are going to wake up to that fact. In this country, you either get on the leading edge or you fall quickly behind. There’s no in-between. I hope you’ll think seriously about joining up with us, Chester. I think we’d be good for each other.”

  Mann said cautiously, “You’ve done one hell of a job here, Marv. No one can argue that. My office’ll be in touch.”

  Haverill and Knorpp shook hands with Mann and saw him to the door. “Timing is critical for us, Chester,” Haverill reminded him. “This is a sweet deal for The Hauve. By Monday, it won’t be as sweet.”

  Mann nodded and bit his lip, annoyed by the pressure. “I’ll see what I can do. Can’t make any promises.”

  When he was out of earshot Haverill said to Knorpp, “Bastard. He’s trying to string us along. Contact Alex Macdonald. Tell him I want to speak with him.” He paused and looked out into the office space, where five women and two men were busy at computer terminals. “It’s time to turn up the heat,” he muttered.

  8

  Les Civichek’s strong, confident voice boomed into the quickly developing crowd. “Each and every day we are all victims of violent crime. Oh, we may not feel the actual blows on our bodies, we may not feel the blades open our skin, we may not feel the bullets pierce our skulls, but they penetrate even so.

  “The scum and filth that walk our streets do so by our own consent. Whose cities are these, anyway? They are yours and mine. Well, aren’t they? Or do those dirt balls own our cities—the same dirt balls we spend forty thousand dollars a year, per man, just to lock up? Do they own our cities, or do we? What do we want? Is this life of ten locks on the front door and screaming sirens under the hood what we want? Is this what we’ve come all this way for?”

  Civichek hid the pleasure he felt from seeing the crowd collect so quickly. Five minutes ago, no one. Now, a hundred and fifty and growing. The people nodded where they were supposed to nod and shook their heads where they were supposed to shake their heads. It was at spontaneous times like this that Les Civichek knew he had what it takes. People wanted to hear what he had to say—and he said it better than most. They didn’t care that he wore a blue jean jacket, a T-shirt, and blue jeans. They didn’t care that his hair was slicked back or that he wore the cross of Jesus Christ around his neck. They saw the symbol of the Flock, a green neckerchief, hanging loosely at his neck. They saw the intent in his eyes. They heard the conviction in his voice. And they felt his charisma.

  He had it.

  “We are sick and tired of the crime and filth that stalk our streets. We are sick and tired of the liberal lawyers and their concern for these barbarians who rape our daughters and feed chemicals to our teenagers. Who cares what happens to this filth? Should they be locked up in government-sanctioned clubs, complete with TV, steak dinners, and volleyball? Is this what our tax dollars are for? Not mine, people. Not mine.”

  Now the crowd applauded him. It surged closer and people in back strained to hear him more clearly. He was not using a bullhorn or an amplifying system; those, he knew, would defeat his purpose. His image was that of a man from the streets who has had enough. This alone would be responsible for his success. He turned slightly to give the newscam a better angle. His people had notified three of the local stations. Only one had showed up so far. Some print media people had just arrived. A photographer was changing flashguns over by the entrance to the McDonald’s.

  “What do I do? Who am I? I can see questions on your faces. I can see doubt.” He ran his hand over the crowd like a preacher addressing a congregation. And he laughed, to show his own humility. Many in the crowd laughed nervously.

  “You’re sexy as hell!” one housewife yelled out. And the crowd roared as he looked himself over.

  “Not me, lady,” he yelled back. “I’m Les Civichek. And I’ll tell you who I am, because you’re gonna hear anyway. I’m part of a group called the Flock”—he tried to avoid using the word ‘leader’ in public—“and we think that law enforcement needs a little assistance in making our streets safe.” Applause again, right on cue. Brilliant light from the TV crew flooded him, and everyone suddenly paid more attention because television was here. “I’m no saint. I’m the first to admit that. I’ve seen our prison system from the inside out. I paid for my mistakes. And I’ll tell you something. The people inside the criminal institutions in this country would scare the bejesus out of you! They did me. I realized these people want to hurt us. They want to steal from us. They want to rape our girls and addict our boys. I don’t mind telling you, that scares the hell out of me. I don’t mind telling you, we ain’t gonna catch them by driving around our cities in brightly painted cars with bubble gum machines on the roof. We ain’t gonna catch them by talking at lunches to the Rotary Club, like half our police chiefs do. We ain’t gonna catch them by cutting budgets. Hell, no. The only way we’re gonna catch them is to get out in the streets with them, catch them in the act, and throw their ugly you-know-whats behind bars!”

  The crowd exploded into a roar. Civichek grinned and turned again for the cameras.

  “Now some of you may be thinking about the Guardian Angels and wondering, Why do we need the Flock when we’ve already got the Guardian Angels? Well, let me ask you this: Do you see the Angels around here? Seen any Angels in Hillsdale, in Springfield, in Newton, in Providence? No way. You only see Angels in New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, big cities like that. Why? Mr. Sliwa will have to answer that for you. I can only guess.” He paused for effect and repeated, “Safety in the streets. That’s what the Flock is going to bring to Hillsdale, just the way we have to twelve other medium-sized cities and suburbs around New England.

  “Is crime limited to New York, Chicago, and LA? No way! So it’s time we get organized and get the slime out of the streets and put them behind bars and keep them there.

  “This ain’t no small task, folks. Hey, if you don’t want to work for the better welfar
e of your children, walk away. Go ahead”—he pointed—“pick up your cute little shopping bags and go buy more knickknacks for Grandma…. No one leaving? That’s good. Because if we don’t organize, if we don’t get the slime off the streets, if we don’t put them behind bars and keep them there, then what the hell is going to be left for our kids?” He raised his voice. “Think about that. What is going to be left for our kids?”

  Jacobs pushed his way through the crowd and found himself face-to-face with five green-neckerchiefed young men who had formed a body wall around the display case Civichek was using for a podium. They wore T-shirts spelling out The Flock in bold green letters. They looked ghetto-tough, like most other members of the Flock. “Move aside, please,” Jacobs requested.

  The boys didn’t move.

  “Read right here,” Jacobs said, pointing to his identification tag. “Director of Security and Safety. That’s me.” One of the tougher-looking boys nudged him. Jacobs moved to within an inch of this boy’s face and said, “Back off!” The boy seemed frozen.

  “He’ll only be a few more minutes,” said a young man to Jacob’s left.

  “Sorry,” said Jacobs. “His time is up.” He pushed the tough boy aside without resistance and shouted up to Civichek, “You’ve got to come down from there. Now.”

  Civichek stopped in mid-sentence.

  Jacobs added, “You a lawbreaker or law abider?”

  “Ahhh…. Ladies and gentlemen, there’s a man down here who looks like Indiana Jones in a three-piece suit saying something about obeying the law. He tells me I have to stop.”

  “No…!” complained the crowd in unison.

  “Do you want me to stop?”

  “No…!”

  “Well, I don’t want to stop! We haven’t even started, have we?”

  Applause.

  Jacobs hollered up, “It’s your choice how you come down from there, Civichek. You drag this out, you’ll face criminal charges.”

  Civichek glared and for a brief moment looked as if he might lose control. He clearly loved being in the limelight. “I’m told I’ll face criminal charges,” Civichek informed the growing crowd. “Hey, do I looked scared? I’ve faced criminal charges before, and I’ll face them again. Truth is, some people don’t like the Flock. They don’t like the Guardian Angels either. Know why? Because they’re scared of us.”