Page 39 of The List
The security guard at the main gate provided a printed map with directions to Bozin’s cottage, informing him that it sat at the end of a paved lane bearing the owner’s name.
Before heading that way he took advantage of the opportunity and drove around the entire complex, admiring the rustic opulence.
Finally, just before seven, he found the house.
Long shadows from the surrounding trees stretched across a cut lawn littered with straw.
Two peacocks with full plumage meandered about.
The exterior was a mixture of brick, limestone, and mortar.
On one end a stone chimney arched high, thick with ivy.
Like a French manor house had been transported across the Atlantic and deposited in the Georgia woods.
He parked in the drive beside a familiar crimson pickup.
The same sticker that had been attached to the bumper for years was still there.
AIN’T MAD AT NOBODY. Hank Reed’s truck. Now he realized why he’d been ignored.
His old friend was trolling for bigger fish.
The front bell announced his presence in the soft chime of church bells. A moment later the door opened.
“Please, come in,” Bozin said. “Did you find your way all right?”
“Nothing to it.”
He entered the elegant foyer, the room ringed with lovely walnut furniture. “Hank’s here?”
“He’s waiting in the living room.”
Bozin gestured toward a short hall that led to a spacious den with a high, arched cathedral ceiling.
His eyes were drawn to the rear wall, which rose nearly all in plate glass.
Outside, a patio was rimmed with bright marigolds.
Beyond rose tall pines, then a shimmer of a lake. It felt like they were outside.
“I didn’t know you were on the guest list for tonight,” Hank said, standing by a wall bar.
Bozin moved toward the sofa. “I have to confess, I arranged this dinner and didn’t tell either of you about inviting the other. I hope you don’t mind.”
Neither he nor Hank said anything. What could they say? Bozin was the boss. But he wondered what the old man was up to.
“Have a seat. Dinner will be served shortly. Can I get either of you anything to drink?”
He and Hank declined, saying they would wait until dinner.
“It’s a lovely house,” he said.
“My home in Atlanta is mostly Italian. My office English. So I decided to make this place decidedly French.”
They chitchatted for a few minutes about nonsense. Finally, Bozin asked Hank, “How do you think the negotiations are going?”
“So far, so good.”
“What about after tomorrow? We’re going to change our offer from three to five years in the morning. The unions ready?”
“They don’t like it, but they’re expecting the shift. I already have my counteroffer ready. So do the other locals. It wasn’t easy. Everyone is greedy as hell, but everything so far is within the arranged deal.”
Bozin smiled. “Efficient as always, Hank. I knew you could pull it off. But it’s a good deal for the employees. Three percent on wages is generous, considering all the extras we provide. Our people have the best health care and retirement program around. Name one mill with anything better.”
“You’re preachin’ to the choir on that one,” Hank said. “I have no complaints.”
“We did the right thing, years ago, going self-insured. It’s allowed great flexibility in dealing with a changing marketplace.
I don’t mind telling you it scared the hell out of me at first, but internalizing health care and retirement has proven a sound move.
Which really paid off when the Affordable Care Act was passed.
It didn’t take much to match our plan to its mandates.
We are one of the few companies to do that successfully,” Bozin continued, pointing a finger, “without breaking the bank. I hope we can keep that up. Times are getting rough.”
The comment was strange, so Brent asked, “How so?”
“The domestic paper industry is not in one of its strongest cycles. Foreign competition is driving our prices below production costs. Most companies are expanding overseas, taking advantage of cheap labor, but we haven’t.
Southern Republic has committed itself to being one hundred percent American.
Perhaps a foolish decision, but our employees should certainly appreciate it. ”
Brent couldn’t help but wonder if the information was true or just another ploy used in bargaining, perhaps like the dinner invitation itself.
“Thankfully, we’re sufficiently diversified into lumber and building products. As the price of paper plummets, selling building products can buoy our bottom line, and has for years now.”
The older man seemed genuinely pleased.
“Caution is the word,” Bozin said. “Hank, the deal you and Hamilton hammered out is a good one. It’ll allow us to keep moving forward.
We’re talking about building a massive new plant to handle recycled paper, a $100 million investment, which will probably be located here in Woods County, or nearby. Think of the jobs.”
A steward appeared in the doorway and informed them dinner was ready.
“Shall we, gentlemen,” Bozin said, gesturing.
6:00 P.M.
B RENT SAT AT THE TABLE.
Dinner was served in a formal dining room, opulent with a polished black marble floor and oversized gateleg table lined with eight high-backed upholstered chairs.
A carved chest acted as a server, a seventeenth-century oil painting Bozin called Portrait of a Young Girl hung above it.
The main course was a bass fillet that their host explained came from the lake behind the house.
A baked potato, corn soufflé, and citrus salad rounded out the meal.
Everything was served on bone china that bore the gold-embossed Hickory Row emblem.
Wine was offered but he and Hank both declined, having iced tea instead.
“Hank, exactly how long have you worked at the mill?” Bozin asked, while they ate.
“Thirty-seven years this October.”
“Have you liked it?”
“Southern Republic provides an excellent living.”
“Brent, your father worked at the mill, didn’t he?”
“Over forty years. Started with Republic Board. He helped build the plant, then was hired on as a machinist.”
“I never knew him, but there’ve been a lot of men like your father through our years in business. They’ve been good to us.”
They certainly have, Brent thought, looking around the room again.
“Concord survived thanks to Southern Republic,” Hank said.
“For the better?” Bozin asked.
“I’d say so. Paved roads. New schools. Water and sewer system. The hospital. Convalescent center. We couldn’t have afforded any of those improvements if not for Southern Republic. Republic Board changed us some, but that company didn’t invest in the area like you have.”
Brent thought back to when Southern Republic arrived.
He was still in Cub Scouts but Hank was right, the changes even during his lifetime were profound.
Car dealerships opened, banks sprouted, businesses flourished, two shopping centers were constructed.
Franchise food places arrived. Cable television became available.
Natural gas lines came their way. And with one small but convenient substitution, rural routes were abolished and addresses assigned that allowed home delivery of mail.
In the span of a few decades, things were altered forever.
A lot like his own life, which during the past few weeks had irrevocably changed too.
“I remember coming here just before we bought the company,” Bozin said.
“The mill was in bad shape, ready to close. Republic Board was on the verge of bankruptcy. Concord was just a small agricultural community, a world unto itself. I knew it was going to take a lot of work and a lot of money to make things go. And it did. But I think we now have a town and county that’s a good place to live.
In our favor, I’d say we’ve been a good corporate citizen.
Always paying our taxes, as assessed, on time. ”
But Brent knew how things worked. Company employees perennially filled seats on the board of tax assessors, city council, and county commission. Not to mention Hank’s long tenure as mayor. Friends in high places never hurt when it came to decision time.
Bozin looked at Hank. “Would you say Concord is a company town?”
“I used to hear that all the time. Out-of-town reporters wanted to know if Southern Republic controlled everything. I told folks, to my knowledge, there’s no company store where employees spend their whole paycheck trying to keep accounts current.
The company doesn’t dictate city or county policy.
We have franchise operations and small businesses owned and operated by a bunch of folks that don’t have anything to do with Southern Republic. ”
Listening to Hank’s description brought to mind what Brent always equated with a company town .
Were they still around? Barely. Look at the decline of the American steel industry, the problems with U.S.
automobile manufacturers, and, just like Bozin said earlier, don’t forget about overseas competition, which was driving the price of everything to rock-bottom lows.
It was hard enough to just survive. But survive and control everything?
Nearly impossible.
“It really insulted me when people thought the company ran everything here,” Hank said. “I always thought I did.”
Brent smiled. “You didn’t?”
The sarcasm in his voice was clear.
“Believe it or not, it was a democracy.”
“Until the council, or anyone else, disagreed with you.”
Bozin chuckled. “He’s got you there, Hank.”
Dessert was served in the living room, a delicious key lime pie topped with real whipped cream. Brent could have actually eaten another piece, but wasn’t offered seconds.
“How long do you think it’ll take to finish the negotiations?” Bozin asked Hank.
“Probably by Monday or Tuesday of next week.”
“No chance of anything sooner?”