Chapter 13: The Numbers
The conference room at group headquarters had one long walnut table and a wall of windows looking out over Camelback Road. Walter sat at the far end with a stack of reports. He had traded the flannel for a blazer, though the old boots were still under the table.
Howard Pryce walked in at nine sharp, briefcase in hand. Sixty-two, silver-haired, thirty years of turning margins into gospel.
"Walter," he said, sitting down. "I read the CSI numbers on the way over. Not good."
"Not good," Walter agreed.
"Flagship down eleven points in two quarters. Gilbert down nine. Mesa down fourteen." Howard pulled out the same reports Walter had. "And these mystery-shopper summaries. Customers sorted by their shoes?"
Carla brought coffee and left, closing the door.
Walter opened the top folder. "Listen to one. Shopper at the flagship, Tuesday afternoon. The salesman walks past her twice. Asks if she's lost when she mentions the Sovereign."
"Which salesman?"
"Does it matter yet?"
"It matters if we're going to fire him."
Walter looked up. "That's the question."
"I sat on this board when your father ran the company. He wouldn't let a store bleed for two quarters. Cut the problem. Make an example. That's how culture gets fixed."
"You don't fix culture with a guillotine," Walter said quietly. "You fix it with a mirror."
"Poetry. Meanwhile the numbers keep sliding."
"The numbers are the symptom." Walter read. "Shopper number four, a man in work clothes. Told the pre-owned lot was across the street. Sound familiar?"
Howard tapped his pen. "Sounds like one man. Cut him and move on."
"It isn't one man. It's a pattern. Cars demoed only after credit pre-approval. Coffee held for quote unquote qualified buyers. That word came from somewhere, Howard. It didn't start on the floor."
"You saying I created this?"
Walter slid a sheet across the table. "We pay top closers double on gross. We rank them every Monday. What does a young man learn? The customer is a hurdle between him and the check."
"Standard got us eleven points down. Edith Larson walked into our flagship a month ago. Seventy-one. Retired teacher. Wanted a Sovereign for her grandson's graduation. Cash. She was dismissed so thoroughly she wrote me a letter."
"I'll answer her in person." Walter closed the folder. "But Edith isn't why I'm here. Tuesday I walked into my own store in worn clothes and got treated exactly the way she did."
Howard went still. "You went undercover."
"Unannounced. A salesman told me the pre-owned lot was across the street."
"Jesus, Walter."
"A junior named Maya Chen saved the morning. She treated me like a customer. She sold me a Sovereign. I bought it through her, and she earned the commission."
"And the salesman?"
"Elena's dealing with him. He'll earn his future."
"That's it? Paperwork?" Howard's voice rose. "He humiliates the owner and he gets paperwork?"
"He didn't know who I was. That's the point. He does it to strangers every week."
"Then terminate him. Today. The board will back you."
"And hire a replacement who learned the same habits at his last store?" Walter shook his head. "I've fired people. It satisfies the board for a quarter. It doesn't change the floor."
"So what changes it?"
"We do." Walter pushed a folder across the table. "The Old Shoes program. Unannounced owner visits, every store, every quarter. Starting with me. Respect training built by the people who sell with it. Bonus structure changes. Satisfaction carries real weight now."
Howard read the memo without touching his coffee. "Twelve stores in disguise."
"Old boots, old flannel. It worked once."
"And when you catch another Chad?"
"We coach him. Once. Twice, if there's something to work with." Walter folded his hands. "If there isn't, we part ways. But we don't start with the axe. We start with the standard."
Howard leaned back. "The board won't love this. It's soft. It's slow."
"The board loves eleven points down even less." Walter's voice stayed level. "Give me two quarters. If the scores don't move, I'll take your axe and swing it myself."
Howard studied him. The pen stopped tapping.
"Two quarters," he said. "But the first head that needs rolling rolls. No more paperwork for humiliation."
"Agreed. If it's humiliation, not habit. Habit we can change. Humiliation we can't afford."
Howard gathered his papers. At the door he paused. "Your father would have fired the man."
"My father hired me as a lot attendant at nineteen," Walter said. "He gave me the boots before he gave me the office."
Howard left. Walter sat alone with the reports, the coffee cooling in his cup. He read the summary about the man in work clothes again, and this time he smiled, because now he knew exactly how to answer it.