My Honorable Brother Page 7

  “Listen to me, Pat. The numbers for the first six months of the year were the worst we’ve ever had while I’ve been here. That’s for two reasons. The first is that the Canadian wire plants are bidding everything to our customers at lower prices than what we have to charge just to break even. And the second is that the wire manufacturers in Ohio and Illinois are killing us. Their new facilities are automated. That means low labor costs. And they don’t have the heavy freight expenses we’re stuck with when we ship from Providence to customers in the Midwest and the West Coast.”

  Pat started to say something, but he cut her off.

  “Let me finish. A lot of what’s happening is my fault, and I can’t duck it. I got the employees to throw out the goddam Steelworkers Union. I convinced them they’d have better job security because we could run the place more competitively without a thousand union work rules. It was true, and it would have worked.

  “But then I screwed up everything. I knew the Tarantinos were nervous about buying thirty-five percent of the company from the Platts, and I was anxious to show them they made a good deal for themselves. If they hadn’t come in with that cash when they did, the Platts might have shut the place down to stop the bleeding. I should have been happy just to get control of everything from the union over a one- or two-year period and have the employees doing things my way. Instead, I began pushing for profits right away. It was an ego thing. I know that now. I was just too stupid to see it then. So I cut wages more than I planned over the first couple of years and made everyone on the factory floor start contributing a piece of what the health plan cost. We showed a good profit the first year because sales took a nice jump at the same time I was cutting costs. The year after that wasn’t as good. But I took too much money away from those production people too fast. I might as well have sent out an invitation to the Machinists’ Union to come in and represent them.”

  Caught up in his review of the events that transpired, Brad forgot about the food on his plate. Pat didn’t attempt to interrupt him.

  “You have no idea how much more it costs to run that place after the contract we signed with the Union three years ago. What a mistake that was. It might not have been so bad if we let them go on strike for a while. I was ready to bring in as many new employees as we could hire if the production people walked out. That would have given us much more leverage in the negotiations with the Union. George Ryder, the lawyer the company uses, was all for my doing just that. But the Tarantinos got the right to call the shots on labor matters when they bought in, and they were against our letting a strike get started. Ryder told me off the record that Doug Fiore, the managing partner of his firm, probably pushed the Tarantinos in that direction. Maybe Fiore wasn’t thinking about what was best for Ocean State. Maybe he just didn’t want to take a chance on the strike forcing us to close the plant and costing his firm a good client. I hardly know the guy so I can’t be sure one way or the other. And maybe Ryder’s feeling about Fiore isn’t right either. I just don’t have the answer.”

  Hanley finally paused and took a long drink of his root beer. When he finished, he returned the bottle to the refrigerator and sat down again. “I’m just about done,” he said. “Since I knew we had to avoid a strike, all we could do to keep the Machinists from robbing us blind was talk tough at the bargaining table and threaten to put a lock on the door if our costs went too high. But the employees weren’t afraid of striking, even though they had to worry about losing their jobs if they walked out. They’d had it with me and the company and were ready to risk everything. So they stuck to most of their demands and came away with a hell of a contract. Now, in a couple of months we’ve got to negotiate with them all over again and who knows how much worse things will get?”

  Pat saw the clouds of steam escaping from the kettle and took it off the burner before its whistle began to sound. She brought it to the table and poured a full cup for herself. “I understand everything you said, Brad, but what is it you’re doing at work all the time? Why do you have to be there hour after hour?”

  The question heightened Brad’s frustration, but he took a deep breath and answered as calmly as he could. “I’m there all those hours, Pat, because I’m trying to crack the whip as hard as I can. My presence is important. Hopefully, it makes everyone realize that I’m willing to work at least as hard as what I’m asking them to do. I make sure I’m there when the first shift comes in at seven. Once they get settled, I walk around the plant and observe every one of them at their jobs. I try to have something friendly to say to most of them, but I want them to know I’m watching everything that’s being done.

  “Before the first shift is through for the day, I go back and check each guy out. They keep their production figures in a notebook next to the machine. I look and see how he’s done for the day. If the numbers are on target or even better, I can wave the flag and say a few words. But if they stink, I’ve got to find out why and make sure the problem gets corrected.”

  Brad picked at some of the food on his plate. “I hope you’re beginning to get the picture,” he said. He put down his fork and continued. “Let me tell you the rest. The night shift foremen come in about twenty minutes before their men start work. When they show up, we meet with the first shift foremen to plan production for that night and the next day. We look at the delivery dates that the customers were promised, figure out how long it will take to ship to Chicago or Dallas or Seattle, and decide which orders get pushed to the head of the line.

  “When that’s done, I go back on the floor and check the night shift guys who are out there. I used to do it only once, but now they know I’ll be around a second time before I go home. That keeps them on their toes. It’s no secret to them when I’m in the plant. They can see the Buick parked outside in my space.”

  The words came faster as Brad kept talking. “And when I’m not keeping an eye on production, I’m on the phone to the salesmen in the field who are trying to bring in some new accounts, or I’m listening to our in-house guys call their regular customers. I want to make sure they’re pushing as hard as they can for orders. I don’t want to see us lose out to the competition for two or three cents a ton. Some of those so-called super salesmen can’t seem to learn how to offer a discount on the wire we make fast and cheap in exchange for getting a foot in the door on something the customer has been buying from someone else.”

  “Please, Brad,” Pat interjected at last, “I didn’t have to hear all this. Stop and eat your dinner before it gets cold.”

  “You asked a question,” he said. “I’m almost through answering it. I’ll heat this stuff up a little if I have to.”

  He leaned back in the chair and continued. “Other than what I’ve already covered, I’ve got to memorize pretty nearly every number on the production printouts. When someone from Platt calls or sends a fax, the answer has to be ready. I sit down with Rusty in accounting almost every day to see what checks came in. We have to decide whether or not it’s time to give the customer a call and push for a payment. He and I also figure out what bills to pay, at least in part, so the suppliers don’t cut us off. As you can imagine, those sessions are a lot of fun.”

  Brad stopped, took another deep breath, and looked up at the ceiling. “Oh, yeah,” he said, “I still manage to find time for about ten cups of coffee a day and a sandwich at my desk at lunch while I speed read my way through the Wall Street Journal.”

  Pat looked at her husband and didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t sure whether it was some sort of a welcome release for him to be able to detail his time at the plant as he did, or whether it just added more tension and strain to what had clearly become a very difficult and trying situation for him. She retrieved the kettle from the stove and poured some more hot water over the same tea bag.

  “Do you want some?” she asked.

  “No thanks.” He emptied a little more fried rice on his dish.

  She hoped she wasn’t about to upset him with the wrong question. “When will it e
nd, Brad?”

  “Good question, my love. Maybe a month from now, when Platt gets to see the final figures for the year. Color them deep red. If we get past that, maybe when the union negotiations are over, if we give them anything close to what we did last time. Or if the recession keeps dragging on the way it is, maybe anytime.”

  “I didn’t mean for Ocean State Wire,” Pat answered. “I meant for you. When will you stop working so many hours and coming home so late every night?”

  Brad felt his wife’s compassion. He saw the mist form in her eyes while she waited for him to answer. How lucky I was to have married her, he thought. What would my life have been like without her?

  “Soon, Pat,” he said. “As soon as we ship the last product in December. After that I’ve decided to limit myself to just Tuesday and Thursday nights.” He wasn’t about to tell her that those were the nights he normally left the plant at six-thirty, drove to Cranston and spent several hours betting on blackjack or craps at a private club run by the Tarantino family.

  8

  SAL TARANTINO USED THE intercom to call his son into his office. The shades on the windows close to his desk were pulled all the way down, always a sign that he wanted nothing on Atwells Avenue to divert his attention from what he was doing.

  “Salvy,” he began, as soon as Sandy walked into his office, “I was looking at the numbers for Ocean State Wire & Cable, what we’ve got through last month. We’re taking a bad beating there this year, the worst since we invested in them. Maybe it’s time for us to try and get what we can for our thirty-five percent. I don’t trust the Platt brothers, especially the older one. We could wake up tomorrow and find out they filed for bankruptcy without warning us. They’re going to do what’s best for them and not worry about the Tarantino family.”

  Sandy did not sit down. “I saw the latest profit and loss statement from Ocean State when it came in, Pop. I called Fiore about it, and even told him we were thinking about selling our interest. I let him know it’s the worst performing company we’ve put money into. He told me to sit tight while he tried to get some answers for us. When he called back, he said the company still looks good for the long run, that most of the problem has to do with the recession. He said he asked three different brokers to research the wire industry, and what they told him is that all the producers are hurting, not just Ocean State.”

  “Have they all got unions?” Sal asked.

  “I don’t know, Pop.”

  “Because Ocean State’s contract with the goddam Machinists is coming up soon and I don’t see where the company’s got any room to give the union anything. That could mean a strike if we can’t get to the right people, and then the Platts might just say ‘Screw it’ and shut the place down. Salvy, I want you to stay on top of this situation because it worries me. And see if there are any potential buyers for our shares in the company in case we decide to get out quick.”

  “Okay, I will.”

  “And speaking of Fiore, what’s with the group you’ve been trying to put together? Are we getting support from the names on that list?”

  “We definitely are. So far, it’s looking real good.”

  “Have you got that campaign manager yet, the one you told me about?”

  “Not signed on the dotted line, but we’re pretty close. I’ve still got to work out a few more details. I should know something definite soon.”

  “Is he expensive?”

  “He knows what he’s worth.”

  “How much up front?”

  “Forty percent in our case, but that’s because Fiore’s an absolute nobody right now. This guy likes getting paid, but winning means more to him than the money. Doug will be in good hands if we can wrap him up.”

  “Good. Okay, I’m taking the rest of the day off.”

  9

  “COME ON IN, JENNA. Shut the door.”

  Jenna Richardson returned to the newsroom at four o’clock to file a story before her deadline. Getting the facts kept her on the road overnight at Charlestown Beach in the southernmost part of the State. The four inches of snow that fell that morning on the towns facing Block Island Sound made the driving difficult on her way back to Providence. She was tired and grumpy. She was also disgusted with the fact that the heater in her Toyota Corolla couldn’t stand up to a twenty-eight degree day.

  The message Richardson found stuck to her telephone was from Dan McMurphy, the Herald’s News Editor. “See me ASAP,” it said. She intended to drop in on her Toyota dealer and complain like crazy about the eighty-five dollars she paid them a week earlier to make sure she had heat when she needed it. On reflection, Jenna figured it was probably better to go in the morning. The service manager, not yet mentally fatigued by the problems of a new day, might be easier to deal with. McMurphy’s summons settled the matter.

  “Sit down,” Dan told her. “You look pooped. Go stretch out on the couch if you want.”

  McMurphy’s office was enormous. Three chairs faced his desk. Behind it, four large bookcases were filled to overflowing. Books on every shelf lay horizontally on top of those already standing squeezed together. A table on one side of the room comfortably accommodated eight people for a conference. On the opposite wall, two leather sofas sat end to end. An oriental rug, worn in several spots, sat on top of the room’s green wall-to-wall carpeting in the area encompassed by McMurphy’s desk and the chairs in front of it.

  Colleagues sometimes found it difficult to describe Jenna Richardson. Although not beautiful, she was more than simply attractive. Her face usually appeared pale, a fact accentuated by her dyed blonde hair and reluctance to wear lipstick. It seemed too thin when you looked directly at her, but from an angle her high cheekbones gave it an unusual character. It was often said that she reminded them of a certain European movie actress whose name they couldn’t quite recall. She wore her hair long, always unfettered by ribbons or barrettes, with no apology for the dark roots that were visible.

  Jenna chose the chair directly opposite McMurphy. She noticed that there were only a handful of cigarette butts in his ashtray. She knew he would never quit smoking, but felt better about the fact that he was cutting down. He must be pretty close to sixty, she thought. Did that make it time to listen to the doctor’s orders, or was it already too late for help?

  Richardson had a deep regard for this man who had been her boss for four years. He knew the news business from top to bottom and needed only seconds to zero in on the most a story had to offer. Best of all, he always found a way for a young reporter to hone her skills when sent to investigate a story and write up what she found. Although the word never passed between them, she considered McMurphy her mentor.

  “Pooped doesn’t quite do it,” she said. “It’s some combination of being fatigued, frustrated, exhausted, enervated, weary and worn out. How’s that for being a wordsmith?”

  McMurphy smiled at her. He had a round, handsome face, with a lot of pink color on his nose and cheeks. His hair was white, rather thin, and brushed straight back without a part on either side. He longed to light up a cigarette at that moment but knew that Jenna would be all over him if he did.

  “For me, pooped was always as far as you could go,” he answered. “Did you finish the story?”

  “Yes, I left it with Milt,” she said. “What’s cooking?”

  McMurphy preferred to have more small talk before getting to the reason for the meeting. He suspected he’d have a fight on his hands and was reluctant to start it so soon. As if anticipating a verbal tug-of-war, he pushed his chair back and set both palms firmly against the front of his desk.

  “Jenna, after a good deal of thought, and I don’t mean that facetiously, I’ve decided to change your assignment.” He watched her eyes narrow, her face tighten up a little, and waited for any kind of a response.

  “Am I going to have to stop and get drunk on the way home today?” she asked, “or is this so bad I’ll have to tell the publisher you’ve been grabbing at my body.”

  McMurph
y chuckled at the question but wasn’t surprised by it. He knew and often said that Jenna had the best sense of humor in the newsroom.

  “Before you ask,” he said, “let me make it clear that I don’t have a single complaint about your work. You’ve been turning out great stuff. Hell, if you weren’t, you’d have heard from me about it. But I want you to switch gears and do something else.”

  Jenna cut him off. “Maybe I never told you, but I’ve sworn an oath against going into mens’ locker rooms. I know I’d never be able to control myself. So no sports beat for me, Dan, no way.” She spoke the words with a straight face, not even the hint of a smile. That told him she was concerned and was trying to deflect the blow without yet knowing what it was.

  McMurphy wanted the conversation to be akin to a father-daughter discussion. With three grown-up daughters of his own, he had a lot of experience. “It’s time for you to sit back and listen, young lady.” He talked softly and gave the words a few seconds to do their job. “I’ll go right to the bottom line,” he said, rocking his chair slightly behind the desk. “This is a political year coming up in Rhode Island and I want you to cover it. Between now and November there could be some big stories happening, a lot of surprises. We need a good investigative reporter out there. Jim Callum’s going on a sabbatical as of March first. That means he won’t be around for the primaries or the election. I considered everyone in the newsroom for this assignment, I really did. But I decided you’re the best person to handle it.”

  “Why me?” she interrupted loudly, throwing her arms out to the side.

  McMurphy remained calm. “I’m getting to that,” he said. “Let me finish.” He took a deep breath but kept eye contact with Jenna. “I want Jim to show you the ropes for three or four weeks or however long it takes. Then you’ll be on your own, but you can pick his brains as long as he’s here.” Dan paused. “I chose you because I know you’re the persistent type. That’s what it takes to find out what’s really going on in the Statehouse before our revered leaders are ready to go public with the news. You’re the best there is at not taking ‘No’ for an answer. If there’s a story, I know you’ll find it.”