Texas Gal
by C. Sprite

 

 

Chapter Forty-Four         I Can Fly!

The sun hadn't yet risen when we'd lifted off in Vermont, but it was making its presence felt powerfully by the time we reached Houston. It was hot and humid when we deplaned, but the reserved limo was waiting with the A/C cranked up to full. In minutes we were zipping along in cool comfort on our way to the plant. My troupe consisted of myself, Bob Warren, Bill Marshall, John Fahey, Ralph Sorontos, and Ralph's chief engineer, Vic Tersey. Bob had made arrangements through the holding company for our visit and been told that the plant manager, Lucas Porter, would be expecting us.

The land was mostly flat, with just the slightest hint of rolling in places, as we approached the address provided by the holding company in West Virginia. A dilapidated sign at the entrance to the property proclaimed the existence of 'Lunamatic Business Forms.' But someone had pried off two of the wooden letters on the side facing us. The sign now read 'Luna tic Business Forms.' From the weathered appearance of the sign, the vandalism had occurred some time ago, so I guess company management wasn't overly concerned with outward appearances.

The seven buildings of the complex all shared a similar exterior construction. Dull red brick extended to a height of about five feet, where vertical sections of medium-blue vinyl-covered metal took over and continued up to the roof line. Like many industrial buildings, the roofs appeared to be about twenty-five high. There were two rows of office style windows in the front center of each building, indicating that there were two floors in that area, but the rest of the frosted-glass windows were located very high on the walls. That was no doubt the plant area of the building.

As we approached the one building that seemed occupied, my earlier impression of the company was reinforced. The grounds were reminiscent of the floor in a movie theater after a matinee performance for school-age children; garbage was everywhere. I counted twenty-eight cars in the parking lot, which was about twenty-seven more than I was expecting. We had purchased failing plants before, and staff was usually the first expense to be pared back to the absolute minimum.

John held the front door for me and I entered the office section of the plant where a receptionist sat at a desk calmly filing her nails. As we entered she pressed a button on an intercom box without looking up at us and said, "Billy, that group that corporate called about is heah." When no one replied in thirty or forty seconds she repeated the message, louder.

This time we heard, "Yeah, yeah, yeah. I heard you the first time."

The receptionist scowled at the box and said, "I guess he'll be in shortly. Ya'll can sit down if you like." With that said, she returned to shaping her nails and ignoring our presence.

The reception area was almost as untidy as the outside of the building. I guess it was too much to expect someone to occasionally vacuum the dark grey carpeting. The vinyl covered chairs didn't look much cleaner than the floor so I decided to remain standing. The guys took a similar view.

It was a good twelve minutes according to the clock on the wall before 'Billy' showed up. He was about forty with about two days of beard growth. A black, Houston Oilers tee shirt was trying unsuccessfully to cover the beer belly that protruded over his belt. He looked at us then walked straight to Bob and held out a grease covered hand.

"How ya'll doing today. I'm Billy Biscum."

Bob gestured towards me and said, "This is the boss, Miss Darla Anne Drake."

Mr. Biscum looked at me and said, "The hell you say. I thought she was your sex-retary." Turning towards me he held out his hand and repeated his greeting.

I looked down at that greasy hand knowing that I had no intention of touching it. I guess he got the hint. He shrugged, pulled a cloth from his back pocket and wiped most of the grease off, but didn't extend it again.

"Are you the plant manager, Mr. Biscum?" I asked.

"Me? Hell no. I'm just a printer. The plant manager is Lucas Porter."

"That's what we were told. Is Mr. Porter delayed?"

"No idea. He ain't been around lately."

"I see. Well, apparently we were expected, so the people in West Virginia must have called. Did they inform you of the reason for our visit?"

"Sure. They said that you wanted to look at the place. You're the fifteenth or sixteenth group this year. I kinda lost track a coupla months ago."

"How long have you been with the company?"

"About— oh, eight years and three owners. Or maybe four owners, if you count corporate buying full interest from the Heebs."

"The Heebs?"

"The hotel people. The one time I saw them they was wearing them little velvet beanies that they use to hide their bald spots."

"I see. Well, we'd like to see the business now. Mr. Warren and Mr. Marshall would like to look at your bookkeeping operation. The rest of us would like to see the shop floor."

"Bookkeeping is down the hall there on the left," he said, pointing. "Just tell Candy what you want to see." Turning around, he said, "Follow me to the shop."

While Bob and Bill headed off in search of Candy, the rest of us followed Billy though a maze of corridors until we passed through a steel door into the print shop. The shop area was cavernous, with huge printing presses stretching off towards the far recesses. There were several machines running, so the place wasn't exactly quiet. About a third of the roof seemed to be made from translucent panels so it was almost as bright inside as out.

"I gotta finish setting up a job," Billy said. "Ya'll enjoy yourselves."

He headed towards a large piece of equipment where four other men were lounging. I heard him growl something as he approached. They straightened up and began moving around the machine.

"Okay, John," I said. "You, Ralph, and Vic know what to do."

While the three engineers headed off to do their job, I wandered around on my own. The shop floor was just as messy as I expected after what we had already seen. There were garbage cans overflowing with trash near every machine. Two men were sweeping the floor, but not accomplishing anything as they simply moved the dirt around a little while they talked baseball. A lot of the machines were partially disassembled, as if being repaired, and a dozen people appeared to be working on them, but I had been around industrious engineers for several years and knew that their efforts were a sham. In a lunch room I found a barrel overflowing with beer bottles and cans. Our cardboard plant in Glens Falls had been messy when we bought it, but nothing like this. The Franklin plant had been bad also, with bird and rat droppings everywhere, but at least the building hadn't been filled with trash because someone was too lazy to take it out to the dumpster.

I heard some voices coming from a storeroom so I followed them. Five men were drinking beer and playing poker on an overturned cardboard box. When one of them spotted me, he belched loudly and said, "Hey, baby, come on in. Have a beer."

As all five faces turned towards me, I immediately took a step backward, turned around, and headed back to the shop floor. No one followed me, so I wandered over to where a machine was printing invoice forms. An operator leaning against the output stacker glanced up at me with a bored expression and then returned his eyes to the output tray. I went to see what else was being produced.

Another machine was producing billing statements for a local doctor's office, while the only other machine operating was printing what looked like ledger pages. Both operators looked at me with dull eyes, but never said anything. The machines looked so filthy that I didn't want to get closer. I wondered how the plant turned out products that weren't contaminated with grease and dirt. Maybe they didn't.

I headed towards the back of the building, intending to evaluate the warehouse area. Opening an unlocked steel door, I found myself in an empty area as large as the printshop. I realized immediately that only half of the enormous building was being used for printing. It took me another ten minutes to find my way to the warehouse and loading docks for the printshop. I could have saved myself the effort; the warehouse was almost empty, and there were no trucks at the dock.

When I absolutely couldn't stand the filth anymore, I went back to the office area. Bob and Bill were busy looking though file cabinets while a middle-aged woman entered information from invoices into a ledger. The large office was the first and only place I'd seen that was neat, orderly, and not filled with trash.

Bob looked up and waved, then returned to what he was doing. I turned and walked back to the receptionist. She had finished filing her nails and was now coating them with nail polish.

"How do I get into the other buildings?" I asked.

"I don't know," she replied.

"Who might have the keys?"

"Probably Luke."

"Where's Luke?"

"I don't know."

"When did you last see him?"

"I don't know."

"Are you talking about Lucas Porter, the plant manager?"

"Yeah, Luke."

Who's in charge when Luke isn't around?"

"Billy handles things when Luke's away."

"Would he know where the keys are?"

"I don't know."

"Would Candy know where the keys are?"

"I don't know."

I decided that I would get no answers from her so I walked back to the bookkeeping office and approached the middle-aged woman making ledger entries.

"Do you know where the keys for the other buildings are kept?" I asked.

She looked up at me and smiled. "Yes, I do. Would you like them?"

"Please," I said, returning her smile.

She stood up, walked to a file cabinet, unlocked it, and opened a drawer. From a small cardboard box she extracted a ring of keys and held them out to me. "Here, you are, Miss Drake. These are the master keys for the complex. Every door here will be opened by one of them if the former tenants haven't changed the locks. Their leases stipulated that they weren't permitted to do that."

"Thank you, Miss…"

"Mrs. Kane, but everyone calls me Candy. That's not my real name of course, it's a nickname. My real name is Cynthia."

"Thank you, Candy. I'll return these to you as soon as I look around."

"Take your time, Miss Drake."

Rather than walk through the shop again, I left by the front door to began my trip around the vast complex. The printing plant was part of a four building cluster arranged in a diamond pattern. A perimeter road ran around the outside of the four plants, with parking lots for employees and visitors across the road from each building. The area at the rear of the four buildings, almost enclosed by the diamond pattern layout, contained the loading docks. I estimated that if the complex was four and half million square feet, the printing plant and the building directly behind it had to be about a million each. The other two appeared to be about half their size.

The first building I entered was dusty and dirty, and as I'd estimated from the outside, probably enclosed about half a million square feet. The walls and roof looked sound, and like the printing plant, it had an office area. When the former tenant had left, someone had taken the time to clean up the offices and vacuum the carpets. As I wondered around I found a stairway that led upstairs to another floor of office space.

The second vacant building was just like the last. The shop area was dusty and dirty, but free of garbage, and the office area was neat and clean.

The third of the four vacant buildings I visited was like the printing plant. It probably contained about a million square feet. What made it the most unusual of the reportedly vacant buildings was that the shop area was filled with boats and travel trailers. They weren't new, and all trailers had current license tags. The two story office area of that building was pristine, as if it had never been occupied.

The remaining three building were slightly more isolated than the buildings in the diamond cluster. Each containing about half a million square feet, they appeared to have been specifically designed to be subdivided to handle smaller businesses. They were broom swept, but dusty.

After my tour of the buildings, I followed the road that circled the entire complex. It was an enormous place. It was far larger than the Franklin complex, which had awed me when I first toured it. The buildings here weren't anything special; just large covered spaces with a small office section, but they appeared sound and did enclose a lot of space.

I wasn't about to going wandering into the fields surrounding the property dressed in a skirt and heels, so I headed back to the printing facility. I gave Candy back the keys and thanked her. Bill and Bob were still occupied, as were John, Ralph, and Vic, so I walked out to the limo and climbed into the back. The driver looked at me expectantly, but I just shook my head. It was the only place on the site where I dared sit down, although the chairs in the bookkeeping office probably would have been clean enough. Closing my eyes, I drifted off to sleep in the cool comfort of the limo.

My watch said 5:15 when I was awakened by the return of my team. Since it was still set for Eastern Time, it was only 4:15 locally.

After everyone had climbed in, we headed back toward the airport. With a long flight ahead of us, I asked the limo driver to take us somewhere where we could get some food to go. I didn't know about Ralph and Vic but I knew that Bob, Bill, and John hadn't had breakfast, except for coffee and doughnuts on the plane. And none of us had had lunch.

"What kind of food would you like?"

"What do you suggest?"

"I know a great place if you like shrimp. I eat there at least once a week myself."

I looked around and everyone nodded. "Take us there," I said.

The parking lot was crowded at the restaurant, even though it wasn't quite the dinner hour yet, a good sign. I went in with the driver while the guys relaxed. Following the suggestions of the driver, I told the waiter that I wanted enough food for a party of twelve to go, and a separate order for a party of two to go. When it was packaged up, it was all we could do to carry it to the car.

The double order was for the driver, and the large order was for my guys. Our order had two large tubs of raw peeled shrimp with a small tub of ketchup and horseradish sauce, two buckets of shrimp gumbo, and two of shrimp scampi, plus orders of ribs, corn, coleslaw, and potato fritters.

In addition to the food, I tipped the limo driver twenty dollars. He left very happy. The pilots were aboard the plane when we boarded, but I told them to take their time getting airborne because we wanted to eat while our food was hot. After opening the bags of food and seeing just how much we had, I invited the pilots to come prepare a plate for themselves.

The food was excellent. I would definitely remember the place where we stopped in case I ever came to Houston again. When everyone had eaten their fill, the leftover food was sealed and the mess cleaned up. We settled down in our seats while the plane climbed to altitude, then gathered to discuss the day's work.

"I've never seen a dirtier, messier plant," I said. "There was garbage everywhere. It's a wonder they have any customers at all. I can't believe that completed print jobs don't get smeared with grease and dirt."

Bob and Bill had taken a quick walk through the plant when they had finished their work in the office, so they understood what I was talking about.

"It was pretty bad," John said. "There was no reason for it. Most of the employees didn't do anything the entire time I was there except stand, sit, or lay around talking. The ones supposedly working on the machines, weren't."

"Don't forget the five guys drinking beer and playing poker in the storeroom," I said.

"I didn't see that," John said. "But I saw the garbage can full of empty beer bottles and cans in the break room. I'm amazed the company hasn't been plagued with accidents. Alcohol, and powerful, high-speed machinery don't mix."

"Okay, we know that the employees aren't being properly supervised," I said. "What do we know about the equipment?"

"We know for sure that they're not maintaining it," Vic said. "I'm surprised any of it is still running."

"It's only running because they have enough machines that they can steal parts off the others when it breaks down," John said. "The three presses that were running, and the one that Billy was setting up for a job, are the only ones in the plant that are operational."

"Just four machines in that entire plant?" I asked incredulously.

"Yep," Ralph said. "Nothing else could be operational. Motors, belts, and gears were missing and control panels were pulled apart."

"Didn't the holding company tell you they and their partners had poured a ton of money into this operation, Bob?"

"That they did. They didn't give me a number, but from the way they talked I would have said it was in the millions."

"That's possible," John said.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"The equipment is fairly new. It's dirty and broken, but it's not that old. It just looks old because of the layers of filth and grease on it."

"Define fairly new," I said.

John looked at Ralph and Vic. "What do you say, guys? Three to four years maybe?"

"Yeah," Ralph said. "No more than five. The models are still in production."

"How can new equipment look so old and dilapidated?" I asked.

"Lots of effort," John said.

"Effort? You mean they want it to look old and dilapidated?"

"They have to," Vic said. "There's no other possibility. Nothing that's just a few years old could possibly look that bad unless they were really working at it."

"But why?" I asked rhetorically. "Bob, what did you and Bill find?"

"Nothing much," Bob said. "Candy does the invoicing, and handles the A/R. Another woman, who was out today, handles the purchasing and A/P. A private accounting firm does all the rest, including the payroll. Orders are handled through an 'order desk' run by Biscum's wife at her home."

"Their A/R accounts have the normal amount of delinquency, but the balances are so low as to be laughable," Bill said, "The A/P is equally low, and none appear to be delinquent, so creditors aren't chasing them. It's difficult to believe that they're still keeping the business operational. With that payroll of loafers, they have to be losing a ton of money every month. Biscum said that we were the fifteenth or sixteenth group through this year. I'm sure the place would have sold long ago if it was profitable and didn't look like such a rat hole."

"The appearance is appalling," I said. "Somebody doesn't want the plant to be sold, and it has to be this Lucas Porter that no one has seen for a while. But why? Is he afraid that a new owner would pay closer attention to expenditures? Could he be padding the accounts?"

"The accounting firm is a big CPA outfit," Bill said. "It's extremely doubtful they're in collusion if he's skimming money somehow. We'd have to visit the accounting outfit to see the records, but Porter could be working an angle."

"How much does it cost to store a boat or travel trailer in a protected place?" I asked.

"My brother pays $50 a month to store his small sailboat in a protected storage building during the winter," Bob said. "Why?"

"One of the supposedly empty buildings is filled from one end to the other with boats and travel trailers. Mr. Porter might be running a little storage business on the side."

"Or maybe they're stolen," John offered.

"It's possible," I said. "Whatever, I bet that the holding company doesn't know about them."

"But they will soon enough if they close down the printing plant and attempt to sell the property," Ralph said.

"Not if Porter is in collusion with whoever is handling the property for the holding company. They must have an agent to manage leasing in the complex."

"Maybe that's why they haven't been able to get any tenants."

"But if the plant closes," Bob said, "their sweet deal could collapse. The holding company will want to divest itself of a property that isn't producing any income. Porter will lose his storage business."

"Then there must be another angle," I said. "Maybe Porter and his accomplices figure to buy the property cheap if it sits on the market for awhile. How long has the holding company been trying to unload it?"

"More than two years," Bob said. "But if the property has been appraised for $8 million, and the holding company isn't desperate for cash, they won't let it go that much cheaper."

"Then perhaps there's another angle," I said. "Who did the appraisal?"

"A local realtor."

"John, Ralph, or Vic, what would the printing equipment be worth on the used market if it was all cleaned up, repainted, and working in top form?"

The three men looked at one another while they thought. Then John said, "You just paid $15 million for Bloomington not too long ago, but that deal included the property and a profitable, fully staffed business as well."

"That's right," I said.

"The equipment here is newer; even newer than Danbury's and just as capable. So probably the question is what is Danbury's equipment worth?"

"Have we done an appraisal recently, Ralph?" I asked.

"For insurance purposes, we estimated that the cost to replace all the equipment with new would be about $16 million. If you assume that used equipment with four years of use is worth half, the value would be $8 million. Since this plant is half again larger than Danbury, then the value should be $12 million. Of course it may cost up to two million dollars to get the machinery operating. That includes both labor and parts.Vic?"

"I'd go along with that."

"So we have a possible motive," I said. "If the holding company shuts down the operation, and Porter can get his hands on the equipment, he stands to make a bundle on the used market."

"Sounds reasonable," Bob said. "$10 million provides a lot of incentive to see the place shut down rather than sold as a business."

"So what do we do?" Bill asked.

"If we're sure that the equipment is worth $10 million," I said, "it's time to play Let's Make a Deal."

It was late when we got back to Vermont and we all headed for home immediately, having had plenty of time to discuss the plant. We had stopped in Danbury to drop off Ralph and Vic so they were probably home before the rest of us.

Tomorrow I'd call the holding company and play the game that I'd played so often before. The question was: Would they be receptive to an offer lower than their appraised value of the property?

I waited until Bob came to my office a little after 9 o'clock before contacting the holding company in West Virginia. The letter offering the property was sent by a man named Gregory Wistan. I reread the letter twice before telling Nancy to place the call.

"Good morning, Mr. Wistan," I said, as Nancy made the connection."

"Good morning, Miss Drake. Have you had an opportunity to visit the property in Houston?"

"Yes, I have. I flew down there yesterday with Bob Warren and a few of my people."

"And what did you think?"

"I think that you must have a large supply of shirts."

"Pardon me?" asked quizzically.

"You must have, because you have to be losing your shirt each and every month, propping up that printing business. Have you visited it personally?"

"Uh, no. But I admit that it is losing a little money each month."

"My people and I discussed your offer on the plane back last night. Thoughts go both ways. In the end, I decided that for the right price I might be able to do something with it."

"I hear that you have the golden touch, Miss Drake. If you buy it, I'm sure you'll make it the paying proposition that we had hoped for."

"Perhaps, Mr. Wistan."

"Call me Greg, please."

"Very well, if you'll call me DD."

"Done. Now, DD, lets talk turkey. What's your offer?"

"I can offer you $6 million, Greg."

"But DD, the property was appraised for $8 million."

"Bob Warren mentioned that, but we had an appraisal of our own done. The appraisal came up as $5.8 million."

"That's more than 25% lower than our figure."

"How long have you been trying to move the property, Greg?"

"Uh, twenty-nine months."

"And how many offers have you had?"

"We've only gotten serious about selling it this year."

"This is July. How many parties have contacted you with an offer after viewing the property this year?"

"Uh, you're the first."

"The first? And yet you've had fourteen or fifteen interested parties tour the facility?"

"Um, I don't know for sure that the number is that high."

"I could be wrong. I'm just using the number quoted to me by one of your people at the plant. He said we were the fifteenth or sixteenth group this year alone."

"I'm sure that the board won't let the property go for $6 million, DD."

"Offers and counteroffers are the bread of butter of business, Greg. What do you think they would find acceptable?"

"$8 million."

"We already knew that, Greg. Are you saying that there's no room for movement in your position?"

"Uh, no. I'm not saying that."

"Okay, so we have the basis for agreement then. I admit that the property is worth at least $6 million, and you admit that it's worth less than $8 million. Where do we go from here? The last move was mine."

"Uh, I'm not sure, DD. I can't make the decision. That's up to the board."

"But you must have some power to negotiate, Greg. Don't you?"

"Okay, DD. I'm empowered to go to $7.5 million, but no lower."

"How often does your board meet, Greg?"

"Every Wednesday night, DD."

"So they'll be meeting tonight?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Tell them that I'll sweeten the deal to— $6.5 million."

"They won't go for that. I can tell you that right now."

"I'm already offering more than half a million above the appraised value of the property. Tell you what, take my offer to them and see if they might wish to consider it. Clearing that property off your books will probably save you a million dollars annually."

"Not nearly that much."

"Well, even if it's only half a million a year, it will be a substantial savings."

"Okay, DD. I'll take it to the board, but I don't hold out much hope."

"Greg, it's been a pleasure dealing with you," I said. "If you think we can find some common ground after speaking to your board, give me a call."

"Uh, okay, DD. It's been a pleasure speaking with you as well."

"Bye, Greg."

"Goodbye, DD."

I grinned at Bob's facial expression as I got off the phone.

"$5.8 million?" he said. "When did you have it appraised?"

"I appraised it as I had my first cup of tea this morning."

"I thought it might be something like that."

"Well, if they've had no offers for it during the past twenty-nine months, there might be some willingness to concede their appraisal was a little on the high side. They didn't tell us who they called in to appraise it, so I didn't tell them our source."

"And if they won't come down?"

"Then I'll think it over again and decide if I'm willing to go to $7.5 million. But even at that we're half a mil lower than their reported appraisal for the property alone. They might simply decide to shut the place down to save the expense of operating the plant if they believe that no one is going to buy it as a business. Then their only expense will be for security, annual taxes, and basic maintenance while they try to move it as real estate."

"Let's assume that we can come to an agreement. How do we handle the matter of this unseen Mr. Porter and whoever might be working with him?"

"I'd say that as soon as we have control of the property we send in several security people. Nobody gets near that building full of boats and travel trailers until we know the true situation. In fact, we should change all the locks immediately and call the police in to determine if the stuff is stolen. If people are paying for storage, the payments will now be sent to Piermont.

"The next step after that is to fire those five guys that were drinking beer and playing poker in the storeroom. If Mr. Porter shows up, he's out too. If he doesn't show up, he's at least dropped from the payroll immediately. Then we put every man left in that shop on clean up detail. Get rid of all the garbage and clean every machine until it shines. If they don't want to do it, we hand them their walking papers. The only employee that I'm reasonably sure I want to keep is Candy. She seemed like the only competent one of the bunch.

"Then we'll put together a team of engineers to go down there and get everything working. Since we're dealing with current models there shouldn't be any problem getting parts for the presses. Any incoming work can be sent to Bloomington or Danbury until the machines have been certified ready for production. The order desk at Biscum's home will close and orders will be handled through our normal channels."

"It should take us about a month to get the place organized," Bob said.

"Yes. After that it will simply be a matter of integrating the plant into the Business Forms sub-division. But we're getting pretty far ahead of ourselves. We don't have an agreement yet. We may not even get the plant."

Gregory Wistan didn't call the next day, nor the day after that, but I wasn't concerned. If I got the plant at my price, I would be satisfied, but if the deal fell through, I wouldn't be upset. All we'd be out was a day of lost time and the cost of the plane charter. I hated to furlough employees, and it was a pretty sure bet that many of the employees at Lunamatic were destined for the unemployment line. I have nothing against alcoholic beverages, but they have no place in an industrial environment during working hours. And employees playing poker while they're being paid to work is another good reason for dismissal. The other employees might be retained, but each would have to be evaluated. I certainly wasn't impressed by the receptionist and wouldn't allow her to work there even if she offered her services for free.

On Tuesday I made my solo cross-country trip to Dutchess County without problem. I had a beautiful day and enjoyed the trip thoroughly. The airport is a controlled field with a wide concrete runway a mile in length. It's served by the commuter arm of two major airlines and a regional carrier. I landed, taxied to the ramp of a flight school, and had them sign my logbook. Ten minutes later I was number two for take-off in line behind a Command Airways flight bound for LaGuardia Airport in New York City.

After taking off from Runway 24, I turned north over the Hudson River, enjoying the beautiful view of the wide river and the Hudson Highlands. Growing up I had always heard about the magnificence of the Mississippi River, but to my mind it doesn't hold a candle to the deep-water Hudson as it snakes through the foothills of the Catskill Mountain Range. I kept a careful watch because I had been warned that a lot of pilots like to follow the river north and south to enjoy the majestic views. I reported in to Albany County Airport Approach Control as I neared their traffic area so they'd know who I was, my position, altitude, and destination, and then swung northeast to head for Vermont after passing Mechanicville.

I was extremely pleased with myself when I landed. Mike congratulated me and announced it was time to begin work 'under the hood.' Most private pilots get their license because they enjoy the thrill of flying. The hood removes the thrill. It looks sort of like a welder's mask, but the front is a white translucent material. When the instructor or examiner lowers it, it forms an upside down 'U' shaped tunnel in front of your face. You can see the instrument panel, and everything below it, but nothing above, unless you lay your head way back. The instructor will immediately know if you're cheating. People who have gotten too used to flying 'by the seat of their pants,' an expression that refers to flying solely by outside visual reference, have a difficult time at this point. Flight instructors spend a lot of time training their students on the plane's instruments, and then getting them to use them.

In most small planes, all instruments and controls are below shoulder level. In the Cherokee 140's I was flying, the elevator trim control was a crank, located on the ceiling between the pilot and passenger. That crank gave me my only problem when I started work under the hood. With the hood in place, you have to find it by feel when you need it. Eventually, I could just raise my arm and place my hand on the crank, but initially I would be feeling around looking for it while flying the plane and dealing with the partial loss of my vision.

Two weeks after I'd spoken to Gregory Wistan, I received a phone call from him. I decided that he hadn't wanted to appear too anxious, and perhaps the board had told him to wait to see if I called back. They'd had two meetings since I'd made an offer. Since it was Wednesday, he might have decided to call so he could report on the situation at their weekly meeting.

"Hello, Greg," I said, as I heard Nancy make the connection.

"Hi, DD. How have you been?"

"Wonderful," I said. "I'm working on getting my pilot's license and I've been flying at every opportunity. It's incredible."

"A pilot's license? But don't you have pilots?"

"We have pilots for the jet, but I want to fly a small plane. It's exhilarating to fly just several thousand feet up."

"If you say so. I'm a nervous flyer myself. I avoid flying as much as possible."

"The accident statistics prove that it's much safer than driving."

"But if the engine quits, I just pull over and step out. You don't do that in a plane."

I giggled. "Okay, Greg. Flyers and non-flyers will debate the issues every time they get together. Let's agree to disagree on them. What can I do for you today?"

"The Board has discussed your offer, but as I thought, they rejected it."

"Oh, that's too bad," I said. "I guess you'll have to continue to pour money into that Houston sinkhole."

"They made a suggestion that might prove acceptable to you. Since your appraisal was for $5.8 million, and you offered 6.5 million, they'll sell you the business and all the equipment for the difference, $.7 million, and lease the space to you at a very favorable figure."

I leaned back into my chair. I hadn't considered this because I thought the company wanted to dump the property, not become a landlord again. But they might simply be looking to eliminate the red ink while searching for a buyer for the property. Having a stable tenant keeps the property from appearing abandoned and keeps down both vandalism and the dumping of trash on the property.

"I have an alternate proposal also, Greg."

"I'm listening, DD."

"I'll pay you $4.2 million for a 60% share of the real property, and full ownership of the printing business and equipment. We'll sign a 20-year lease at the prevailing rate for the area, and manage the property. By management of the property I mean that we'll lease the other buildings and maintain the property in good condition. Management and maintenance expense will be deducted from collected rents at our cost."

"You'll take full responsibility for the real property and pay us 40% of lease monies after management expenses, maintenance expense, and taxes?"

"Yes. Payment will be quarterly and the books will be open to inspection by your auditors at any time. Improvements to the property will have to be approved by both your board and my executive council."

"That's a very interesting proposal," he said after a few seconds of thought. "We could sell our interest at any time?"

"Subject to the proviso that the buyer be bound by the same terms of the covenant."

"The Board is meeting tonight. Let me present it to them and see what they think?"

"Okay, Greg. Give me a call when they've thought it over."

A huge weight was lifted off my shoulders when the MoPacs began to ship at the beginning of August. So far we had made enough to fill almost ninety percent of the orders calling for delivery by mid-August. We were already two months into the hurricane season, but none had made landfall, except over Southern Florida which seems to be a hurricane magnet because of prevailing winds and water temperatures in the Gulf. Having the product in the delivery pipeline meant that a serious flooding problem couldn't prevent us from fulfilling all the orders. As long as any one of the three plants producing notebooks remained open, we would deliver every order. Even better, orders for the eye-catching atypical notebooks, while nowhere near the tidal wave we had experienced in June, remained fairly steady, with reorders arriving even before the first orders had shipped. We had again begun to accept orders calling for September delivery once the new binding machines were fully operational.

I had finished my 'under the hood' work with Mike and was approaching the requisite forty hours of flight time when he made an appointment for me to take the exam. I was nervous, but confident. Mike said there was no question but that I was ready. I filled the final hours by practicing touch and goes, precision turn and banks, and navigation work using the omni-directional nav-com radios.

On exam day I flew alone from the small field where I had trained, to the Rutland airport where I would meet the FAA examiner. I arrived a few minutes early and spent the time walking nervously around the plane until the examiner arrived. He was all business and we wasted no time getting into the air. When we had flown a decent distance from normal traffic areas, my testing began. Of course my testing had actually begun the second I shook hands with the examiner.

Over the next half hour the examiner put me through my paces. I had practiced everything required of me numerous times and completed the tasks with ease. Even the hood work went like clockwork. The only thing he didn't ask me do was perform an emergency landing, but I was prepared if he did. Several times during my dual time with Mike, he had cut the power and told me to land the plane in a particular spot on the ground. Once he was sure that I would either make it or not make it, he would apply full power again and we would take off without landing, except once when he knew it was safe to land the plane there. That instruction taught me how to 'dump air' quickly, a very useful technique to know. You rock the plane from side to side, and each time you swing back in the other direction the lowered wing slices through the air flow and drops you quickly to a lower altitude. You can sometimes see the same kind of rocking motion by dropping a light feather when there isn't any wind.

I was feeling good when the examiner told me to head back to the airport. The plane touched down so lightly that you could hardly tell we were on the ground until I applied the brakes. After taxiing to the ramp where I had picked him up, I shut the engine off, and applied the parking brake.

"Good job," he said as he lifted his briefcase to his lap. "Mike's students are always well prepared, and you're no exception."

I watched as he filled out a small form and signed it. Then he signed my logbook. As he held out both to me he smiled and said, "Congratulations. You'll get your printed license in the mail, but you can fly with all the privileges of a private pilot effective immediately. Your rating is 'single engine, land."

I beamed at him, took my logbook and the temporary license, and shook the hand he held out.

When I arrived back at the flight school Mike knew I'd passed.

"I can tell from the look on your face," he said. "And right now you're airborne without a plane."

I laughed and nodded. "Now I want to arrange some time in the 206." I had followed his advice and stayed with the Cherokee 140 until I got my ticket, but now I was anxious to learn to fly the Cessna. Since it was the same model as Auntie's plane, I'd be qualified to fly hers when I arrived home in a week.

I'd begun to think that I wasn't going to hear from Gregory Wistan before I returned home to attend Auntie's barbeque, but he called on the Wednesday before I was due to leave.

"Hi, DD," he said as soon as Nancy made the connection.

"Hi Greg, how's everything in West Virginia?"

"Beautiful. Have you ever been here?"

"Oh, sure. Ameri-Moore has several plants down there. Before founding the paper division, I was an inspector of forest lands, sawmills, and lumber plants."

"Wow! An inspector."

A short, sort of awkward pause ensued. I decided that Greg was trying to figure out how to open a subject so I asked, "Has the Board considered my offer?" I knew that they must have if he had presented it last week when he was supposed to.

"Yes, but they've received another offer."

"Really? Should I assume that their other offer is better than mine?"

"Slightly. They're offering to purchase the property outright. Several of the Board members liked your offer because it limited our liability and relieved us of the responsibility for management while providing a steady income and considerable ownership of the tangible property. I think that if you rephrase the offer, and make us a partner in the forms business as well, they'll be favorably disposed to accept your offer."

I leaned back and thought. While I had no problems having a partner in the real property, I didn't want a partner in the business. I'd heard that silent partners, despite what they claim in the beginning, frequently try to exert some level of control if they begin to disagree with management directives. I knew that Grandma wouldn't approve, and neither did I.

"I'm sorry, Greg. It would get too complicated. My division performs like a large living entity. With partial ownership of one plant, we'd have to keep it separate from all the others and that would create an accounting nightmare."

"I understand," he said calmly. "But the Board will probably go with the other bidder if you don't."

"C'est la vie," I said. "I hope that you and I can still remain friends. Might I inquire as to the identity of the other bidder?"

"I suppose it's all right. They haven't requested anonymity. It's one of your competitors, South-Core."

That got my attention. How had South-Core gotten involved? Then I remembered Mr. Wells' warning about a spy in our midst. Usually I wrapped up negotiations too quickly for anyone to get involved, but this discussion had dragged on over weeks. Of course, it could be all a bargaining ploy on Greg's part. It was possible that the involvement of South-Core was all a fabrication. Everyone in the industry knew South-Core was my arch nemesis.

"I hate bidding against myself," I said.

"I beg your pardon," Greg said, so I repeated what I said. "I don't understand," he said.

"I'm the largest stockholder of South-Core with almost 40% of all outstanding common stock," I said. "I own 3.845 million shares."

"I didn't know that."

"So I'll immediately own almost forty percent of the property as soon as you close the deal, if you accept their offer."

"The management of South-Core didn't inform you that they were bidding against you?"

"I'm not currently involved with their acquisition program."

"Then you won't be modifying your offer?"

"No, I'm afraid not," I said.

"Uh, how about this. As I said, several of the Board members were interested in your offer, but South-Core offer represented a little better return. If you could raise your offer to $4.5 million, I'm pretty sure they'll accept your offer."

"Pretty sure?"

"I'm sure, unless South-Core makes a counter offer."

Without calculating it again, I knew that $4.5 million was equal to 60% of $7.5 million, the amount that Greg had originally said was the minimum they would accept. If an additional $300,000 bought me the deal, it was well worth it, but if South Core was genuinely involved, they wouldn't let me take the prize for just that piddling amount.

"That's what I was saying before. I hate bidding against myself, which is what I'd be doing if I sweeten the deal. Perhaps we'll be talking again if the Board decides it likes my offer better than South-Cores'. Goodbye, Greg."

"Goodbye, DD."

I decided to assume that South-Core was really involved. And knowing that I no intention of getting into a bidding war with them, the deal was probably dead. I had other things to occupy my mind right now. I called down to Earl's hideaway and told him that I would be ready to leave for the airport in ten minutes. It had been four days since I got my pilot's license and I was going up in the 206 with Mike for my first lesson.

As Mike had alerted me when I first began taking lessons, the Cessna handled differently than the Piper Cherokee when it was on the ground. The higher wing let a mild cross-wind breeze set it to shaking. Mike showed me that proper use of the ailerons made it steadier by allowing the wind to push the plane down towards the ground like the spoiler on the rear of a racecar. I'd never been concerned with the positions of the ailerons in the Cherokee when we were on the ground. A Cessna can also spin out when you're aloft, where that's just about an impossibility in a Cherokee, so a pilot must know how to recover. But the Cessna offers a much greater view of the ground if sightseeing is your passion.

After one hour, Mike declared me proficient enough to handle the 206 by myself. After dropping him off in front of the flight school I went for a short trip over by Glens Falls and back. I shot three takeoffs and landings so I'd be qualified to take passengers in the plane, then taxied it to our tie-down and secured the plane. When Bob wasn't using it, it was mine to enjoy.

Susan phoned when she was still an hour out so I had plenty of time to get to the airport. I had packed the few things I intended to bring with me and waited in the limo until she arrived. Since I would only be gone for two days, Earl would stay in Vermont.

As the Gulfstream II climbed into the heavens, Susan asked, "Well, how many businesses have you bought so far this summer?"

"Not a one," I said.

"Not one?"

"Nope. I was too busy."

"Busy with what?"

"First it was with the MoPacs problem. Then I was busy getting my pilot's license."

"You got it? Already?"

"Yep. And I'm checked out in Piermont's Cessna. It's just like Auntie's."

"But that was so fast!"

"I already knew all the written stuff, and I kept all my dual time and solo flights close together. You only need forty hours to take your exam." **

"That is so cool. I wonder if Auntie will let you use her plane."

"I'm sure she will, when she's not using it."

I never got a chance to tell my family that I had earned my wings. Susan screamed it at the top of her lungs to Mother, Auntie, Mary, Rosa, and Ricardo while she was still climbing down the steps of the plane after we arrived at the ranch. Of course, making any such announcements at lower volume would have been useless since the starboard engine of the plane was still running. At least I might get to tell Judy, who hadn't arrived home yet.

Everyone naturally wanted to hear all about my getting my license, so I began telling the story as we walked to the house, and concluded it over dinner. I had wondered which of my licenses I would get first, and now I knew. I probably would have worked to get my driver's license first if I'd been home over the summer because I'm sure it will prove a lot more useful in the years ahead, but I was ecstatic that I could fly on my own now.

"You must have kept your flight time close together," Auntie said, "to have completed your requirements so quickly."

"I did," I said. "I flew almost every day that we had nice weather. I loved it. I was instructed in a Piper Cherokee 140, and after I got my license I was checked out in our company 206. "

"Which do you like better?"

"I like them both, for different reasons. I suppose it depends on the type of flying intended. To simply go from point A to point B, I like the stability of the low wing. To sightsee, or view forestlands, you can't beat the high wing. And with the 206, I can take five passengers. We need something more powerful for the company though."

"Faster?" Auntie asked.

"Faster, larger, and with greater range."

"You have the Ameri-Moore jet."

"But it's not always available when I need it. You know how I operate. I learn of an available business and swoop down to get it before anyone can learn of my interest and bid up the price, or even cut me out as I've done to South-Core. A month ago I needed to go to Houston with my team and I had to charter a plane. A local airport had a Gulfstream I available for charter, so we traveled in that, but I'd like to have something at my disposal all the time."

"Is the Gulfstream I like Grandma's jet?" Mary asked.

"Very similar. It was designed in the mid 50's and went into production in 1959 as a turboprop aircraft. In the mid 60's they redesigned the plane as a biz-jet and renamed it the Gulfstream II. The new plane was certified and they began production in 1968. The interior can be configured to carry as many as 24, but I'd like an arrangement like Grandma's plane. Fourteen is enough for our purposes."

"Why not just get a Gulfstream II?" Auntie asked.

"Several reasons. A jet requires greater maintenance than a prop. I don't know if we'd use it enough to justify the greater expense. Then there's the fact that a prop plane can land on non-paved fields, where a jet can't. Lastly, I won't have to have two pilots sitting around waiting for me to call them to the airfield. I can fly myself."

"But isn't a Gulfstream I a multi-engine plane?" Susan asked.

"Yes, but that's just a simple rating upgrade. You have two engines instead of one, variable pitch props, and retractable gear. It cruises at almost 300 mph, and has a service ceiling of 30,000 feet."

"It sounds like you've made up your mind," Mother said.

"I've been giving it a lot of thought since we chartered the Gulfstream I in Rutland. I spoke to the pilots about it for quite a while. They love the plane."

"But it's only half the speed of the jet," Susan said.

"That's true, but most our hops are short distance. And the speed isn't that bad. You can travel from coast to coast in ten hours with one stop to refuel. And being able to land at almost any airfield with a long enough runway gives it greater versatility than a jet that requires a paved field. Look how many times we've had to land at an airport much further away from an inspection site than one that Pete Sloan can get into, and then travel by car or small plane. That consumes all the time you saved by traveling in the jet. If I was just traveling between major cities, like a lot of business executives, then a jet would be preferable."

There'll be a lot of business people flying in this weekend," Auntie said. "Ask around and you might get a lead on a Gulfstream I at a good price, unless you have your heart set on picking up a new one."

"Grumman discontinued the model in 1969 to concentrate on the jet version. I'll have to buy a used one if I want that particular model."

"Even better. A lot of executives who purchased them a few years ago might be ready to move up to a jet now. Biz-jets are all the rage among the oil wealthy in Texas tight now. You might find more than a couple owned by the crowd I invited."

  

** Note to readers of this story: I'm aware that the number of hours required to take the flight test for a private pilot's license has changed since 1971. Additional hours and instruction are presently required.

 

(continued in part 45 )

Many thanks to Bob M. for his excellent proofreading efforts on Chapters 36-45.

 

 

 

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