Brian Haig - The Capitol Game

Walters narrowed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Well, Dyson, that’s just not likely to happen. Your numbers have been nose-diving for two years without stop.”

“But we’re still profitable. I’ve been cutting costs and laying off people like crazy.”

“Not good enough.”

“I’ve also shut down half the facility. No electricity, no water, no nightly cleanup. Half of the plant is a ghost town with big dustballs blowing through the aisles.”

Walters was staring down at one of the paper slides prepared monthly that detailed the intricacies of the company’s finances. “What about this?” he demanded, thumping a finger on the page.

“What’s that?” Dyson leaned forward and tried to get a better view of whatever Walters was peering at. “The supplier slide?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“What about it?”

“What have you done to squeeze them?”

“They haven’t been neglected, believe me. Six months ago, we brought them all down here, turned the screws, said they’d share our pain or else.”

“That’s the right spirit.”

“They agreed to take a ten percent revenue reduction.”

“That’s it? Only ten percent?” Walters growled, as if that were nothing.

“Christ, Mitch, most are in very low-margin businesses. Ten percent is crushing. It virtually wipes out any chance of profit. They’re all in survival mode.”

Walters peered thoughtfully at the slide for another moment. All told, there were 120 suppliers spread across six slides, but he seemed fixated on this one. “You know what you need to do?” he eventually announced, tapping his broad forehead as if the idea had just come to him.

Yeah, find a new job where I don’t have to answer to a bullying prick like you, Dyson was tempted to say but obviously didn’t. “Not a clue.”

“An example, that’s what we need.” Walters raised a finger, shut his eyes, and brought the digit down on an apparently random target. He opened his eyes and bent down. “Arvan Chemicals,” he whispered slowly, as if sounding it out for the first time.

“What about it?”

“Cancel their contract. Today.”

Dyson gripped the arms of his seat and recoiled backward. “I can’t do that, Mitch. Just can’t.”

“Sure you can. It’s easy.”

“For one thing, it’s a one-year fixed-cost contract. We’ll be sued for everything we’re worth.”

“That right?”

“Yeah, and we won’t have a prayer.”

“Let me worry about that. What’s two?”

“Two, Arvan is our chief chemical supplier. Without those chemicals, we’re screwed. Totally shut down. Bombs and missiles don’t work without high explosives.”

“Is Arvan the only provider on the market?”

“No, there are two or three others. All farther away, not as cheap, not nearly as reliable.”

“So what’s three?”

“Three, Arvan is our best supplier. Perry Arvan runs a tight ship. I’ll show you the quality control reports if you like. Perry’s got the lowest defect rate of any of our suppliers. His on-time delivery is perfect.”

“Is there a four?”

“Only this. If we pull the rug out from under him, Arvan will surely go bankrupt. We’re Perry’s biggest contract. He’s signed up for sixty-three million this year after he willingly took a seven million cut from last year. It will destroy him and a very fine company.”

It seemed to Dyson that Walters was biting back a smile. “You’re about to make me cry, Dyson.”

“Mitch, it’s bad business, and a bad decision.”

Walters snorted and shook his head. “Who pays you?”

Dyson took a deep swallow. “Take it easy, Mitch.”

“Do I pay you to worry about other companies?”

“No.”

“Remember that. In fact, you just convinced me Arvan’s the ideal candidate. What a great message to send to the others. Don’t tell me you don’t see that.”

“I don’t. Explain it.”

“As good a job as Arvan has done, it’s not good enough. It failed to dig deeper, share more of our pain. Provide an even higher level of quality service.”

Dyson felt like he was going to be sick. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing-his best supplier, about to be sacked, totally without cause, all because that’s where Walters’s finger landed on that page. He liked and greatly admired Perry Arvan, considered him a friend, in fact. The idea of kneecapping him, out of the blue, was revolting. He glanced at the cold blue eyes of the man seated to Walters’s right, hoping vainly for support, a mild nod, a squint of disapproval. Come on, his look was screaming, help me out here, tell the big jerk on your left what an outrageously stupid idea this is.

Must be one of Walters’s bloodless lackeys, another of the squad of yes-men at corporate headquarters, he concluded unhappily: the man glanced away and pretended to be studying the white walls.

“You mean, execute your best soldier to make the other soldiers better?” Dyson asked, hoping Walters would see the insanity of this approach.

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. And if we drive it into bankruptcy, all the better.”

“I don’t understand your thinking.”

“ ’Cause it’ll scare the crap out of the rest. The other suppliers will line up at your door begging to offer more concessions.”

Dyson cleared his throat and struggled to clear his conscience. With two kids in college, and nearly two million in CG stock that wouldn’t vest for two more years, there really was no choice. None at all. “Exactly what justification am I supposed to use?” he asked, an abject surrender.

Walters wrinkled his forehead and pretended to ponder this perplexing issue. His corporate counsel at headquarters had studied the contract the night before and cooked up the perfect response. “Failure to perform,” Walters announced, as if the idea had just popped into his brain. “Leave it vague. No particulars, no examples. Don’t give him a legal target. If he decides to sue, leave him punching in the dark.”

“I see.”

Walters stood, as did his younger colleague. An entire half hour, and the younger man had not said a word. Never introduced himself, never so much as acknowledged Dyson.

Walters began easing his way to the door. “I want a call the second it’s done,” he barked on his way out. “Call by close of business, or don’t bother coming into work tomorrow.”

The fax arrived at 4:00 p.m. As death notices go, it was entirely lacking in warmth, detail, or civility. It read simply, “Notice effective upon receipt: For failure to perform, Globalbang hereby tenders cancellation of contract number UA124-990, said contract pertaining to all business arrangements between Globalbang and Arvan Chemicals. All future deliveries will be returned to sender, at sender’s cost.”

Perry’s secretary, Agnes Carruthers, took one long and horrified look and with a shaking hand yanked it out of the tray before scampering in the direction of the cramped conference room where Perry was in his weekly meeting with his section chiefs.

She banged the door open and stood, breathless and terrified.

Perry stopped in midsentence. “What is it, Agnes?”

“I…” It suddenly struck her that perhaps she shouldn’t mention this devastating news in front of everybody. Her face was ashen, her mouth hung open. It was just so horrible. Maybe it was a mistake-yes, that’s what it was, what it had to be. Or maybe somebody was playing a joke, a very rotten one. She clasped the paper to her chest and just stared at her boss, uncertain and speechless.

Perry stood and took a step in her direction. “Are you all right, Agnes?”

“Yes… uh, no,” she stammered. “You and Mr. Belton better join me in the hall.”