4 - Chapter Four "The Thirty Percent Solution"

 

"The Thirty Percent Solution" 

Chapter Four

     The afternoon sunlight shined through the blue glass wall and onto the seventeen-foot long Nakashima table. The sun’s brilliance highlighted the complex grain of the slice of oak  – savage yet stunning – and reflected the power of Winshire Associates’ board room, the place where the directors and leading partners met, where the firm’s major decisions were made, and where a sense of mastery and control reigned. Bronze sculpture was spaced along the facing wall, in front of shelving of leather-bound volumes.   

     Gordon Hope knew that he should feel confidence and satisfaction sitting in this room imbued with so much prestige and power. But the contrary was true. With every minute he was forced to wait, he felt resentful and diminished. After all, he was a leader from the very beginning. 

     But his old friend, the buddy he shared years of consulting experience with, Ted Merritt had seized the power years ago when Winshire Associates was founded. In the rush to complete federal and New York state filings, the small group of partners had named Ted Merritt president and CEO on a temporary basis. Back then, Gordy Hope was convinced that Merritt would not cede temporary control but would let the power go to his head. 

      And today, Gordy knew Merritt would make him wait to show who was the boss.  

      Seated at the board table, Gordy felt the heat building up in his muscled body. He could feel his fists start to tighten, he opened and closed them, and he looked for something, anything, to strike and smash. Gordy looked around the room, rose from his seat, paced to the window, and then . . . he felt the rush of fresh air. 

      Merritt waltzed into the room, allowed the entrance door to swish closed behind him, and declared: “Gordy, something came up.” Ted Merritt was a small man, barely making five foot five. His head was bald and polished, and he was never without a suit jacket, a tie and shining elevator shoes. 

      Gordy Hope turned, looked down at his colleague, and said, “No problem.”  

      Both men took seats on opposite sides of the table. 

      “Thanks for taking time from your schedule,” Merritt said. His voice was just a touch high, lacking the resonance of authority. 

     “No problem.”

     Merritt began: “That kid you hired, Mike Stein, the writer, I’m hearing good things about him. Thanks, that was a good hire.” 

      “I have some ideas on how to use him,” said Gordy. “He catches on fast.”    

      “Fine. We’ll use him as long as he helps us move toward our goals. When that ends, we’ll write him a check and say good-bye.”

       Gordy hesitated for an instant, and then said, ”Of course. That’s what you wanted to talk about?”

        Merritt leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and clasped his fine hands together. Then he opened his eyes and let his chair right his small frame. “I want you to think about something, think about it and then give me your ideas, in a memo, of course. I want your best ideas. It’s important.”  He waited for a few seconds. “In a few words, we’re not getting our fair share of the pie. Our clients are getting richer and richer, beyond all reason, and then they’re smiling at us and shaking our hands. Shaking our hands, and it stops there! ” 

      Gordy leaned back in his chair, not in a rush to speak. Then: “I see your point. Sure. But we’ve all seen the studies. Let’s look at the other consultancies. All the big boys, Booz-Allen, Deloitte, you name ‘em, Bain, anyone in our trade, even McKinsey, we’re one of the big payers, as far as comp for partners is concerned. I keep on top of this stuff. I read the studies.”  

      Merritt’s words came fast. “Studies don’t mean shit. I don’t want studies. I want money, more money.”  

      The room fell silent. Both men could hear the clicking of the tall, glass-enclosed international timepiece at the end of the long chamber. To Gordy, the tick, tick, tick seemed to get louder and louder, and with each tick, he sought a way to jump ahead, to gain the initiative of the conversation. 

      Merritt pushed his chair back, stood and began pacing on the marine-blue carpet. Lowering the timbre of his voice, he began speaking slowly. “Just think about it. We do all the work, we got all the ideas, we give them our wisdom, we hold them by the hand, and what do we get? What’s our part? Billable hours. A few fees, not much.” Then his pace sped up. “Oh, yeah, a shake of the hands. Sure, that’s so important. And our clients? They’re put in the top of the best compensated, they’re on the cover of Fortune or . . . Forbes. They make millions and millions, even billions, that they don’t even know how to spend. We have to help them hide it. Me? I can’t even afford a private jet and my own island.”

     More silence. Except for the tick, tick, tick, each one seeming longer and longer. 

     Merritt, pacing, continued: “So what I’m doing is trying to get some ideas, some real creativity, something really new on how we can get a bigger piece of the pie, ‘cause the pie’s getting bigger and bigger.”

      Gordy jumped to his feet and almost shouted, ”I’m your guy. You know you can count on me.” Then he froze, he couldn’t believe what he had just done and said. 

      The two men were now facing each other, just a little more than a foot apart, Gordy towering over Merritt. 

       Merritt spoke. “Just one more thing: You’re not alone. For this I got two guys.” Merritt waited a few seconds. “That’s the best motivation. There’s gonna be two of you working on this, and then we’ll use the best ideas.” 

      Gordy spit out the question: “Who’s the other guy?”

      “The other guy’s called Mister X . . . “

      “What the fuck?”

      “’Cause I want the two of you to feel completely free, completely creative, completely motivated.” Silence, waiting, and Merritt spoke again, ”And it’s kinda my little insurance policy.”

      Gordy was left alone at the Nakashima table, at the seat of power, accompanied only by silence, and the ticking of the international timepiece. Ideas were running through his head:  The bastard, the little piece of shit. How could he? I’m not gonna tell him about the Pfizer contract, the pricing strategy. I’ll announce it. Make him wait. I’ll spring it on him, and I’ll spring the board on him. I’ll open the whole thing up. Wide open.”