Chapter 7. Taking Inventory

“Will Mrs. Pound pick me up today?” Cor asked, already poised to follow his friends into the building of Benjamin Franklin Grammar School.

“Sure. Nothing has changed, Cor. I just work at another place now. I’ll be home as usual.”

“Okay, Papa. Good luck!”

“Have fun!” Tom smiled back, watching his son running away from the curb to where his classmates were already assembled.

He started the engine and left the curb, making a left turn instead of the right turn he had performed ever since he first dropped Cor off at school. Today was his first day at Certus Pharmaceuticals Philadelphia, the former Palmer Street production plant. It was only a short ride from Cor’s school, just eight minutes, and he made it well before half past seven.

The lot was not even half filled and Tom frowned. There had been some slack at the plant in the last weeks, with nobody really in charge and not much to do, and he would have to grip the reins quickly and decisively. Parking his Saab in a free spot he grabbed his satchel bag and made his way over to the main entrance.

This was a production plant, not a headquarters, and there was no grand reception area.

“Good morning Mr. Verkade,” Joshua Walgreen, the watchman, greeted him.

“Good morning, Joshua,” Tom greeted back. They knew each other. “Starting at seven thirty, nobody gets in anymore. Let them wait here until I can greet them properly.”

Walgreen raised his eyebrows. “You’re the boss,” he shrugged.

Tom found his new office easily enough. It was huge and flanked by two lesser offices. A waste of space. One of the smaller rooms would suffice for him. The big one would be converted into a meeting room. This building was entirely his own bailiwick. Peter Salieri worked from the Certus HQ where he had direct contact with the intramural and extramural buyers. It was a huge step for Tom, to be in charge of an entire facility, but it was a chance, too. Now he would finally find out whether his own ideas of how to run such an outfit were worth anything.

A slightly winded woman entered the office.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Verkade,” she panted. Obviously she had run up to the fourth floor. “I was planning to receive you here but I had to take the bus.”

“I just came in myself, Mrs. Finch,” Toom soothed her. She would be his secretary and assistant, a leftover from the Villier days. “I was surprised that you chose to stay here.”

She gave him a lopsided smile. “They could only offer me a pool job. There are cutbacks on all levels at Villier. I thought I’d take my chances here.”

“Good for me. Listen, today will be shock and awe day. I instructed Walgreen to close the doors at seven thirty. Those who arrive later will get a first mark against them. I need you to come with me and take the names. We’ll quietly expunge the marks in a month or two, but in the next weeks I want to weed out anybody who is dragging feet.”

She blanched. “Oh God. I was almost late myself!”

“I’ll give you my cell number. Simply give me a call when you get stuck somewhere. Since you won’t be able to drop everything at four p.m. we can give you a bit more leeway. But those working regular hours are expected to be here at shift start.”

“Yes, Mr. Verkade. My husband needed my car, and he did not come home from the night shift before seven.”

Tom decided that this was enough. In the remaining six minutes until shift start he gave Mrs. Finch instructions to change the office layout. His first idea, to convert the huge manager’s office into a conference room was shot down when Mrs. Finch pointed out that they could not work in two offices separated by a conference room. Tom relented, but he insisted on a meeting table in the room, with only a small corner in which his own desk would sit. After all, he did not plan to sit on his butt all day.

At 7:40, Tom went downstairs. The entrance area was filled with at least twenty people. The noise level went up sharply when Tom showed himself.

“Okay, folks! Quiet now, please! I have something to say.”

Slowly, the babble died down and the people stared at him, some afraid and some with open hostility.

“You folks know why the door was closed at 7:30? Your shift starts at 7:30. Your pay starts at 7:30. At 7:30, I expect you to stand ready at your workplace. That means you have to arrive here at 7:20, 7:25 latest, to make it. Now, obviously this place was not run in the neatest way, and management did not give a good example. That will have to change. Being late without justifiable reasons will not be tolerated.”

The outer door opened and another late arrival entered the entrance hall.

“What the hell’s going on here?” the newcomer complained. Tom knew him. Henry White was a line manager. He was actually the most junior line manager, a recent appointment still made by Hiram Gunderson.

Tom made a point to look at his wristwatch. “Mr. White, you’re fifteen minutes late for shift start. Care to explain?”

White was cautious. “There was a jam on the interstate; I was stuck for almost a half hour.”

“Mr. White, do you have a cellphone?”

“Yes?”

“Did you call to arrange for someone to fill in for you?”

“No. I mean, the guys can see I’m not here, right?”

“Who is in charge when you’re late?”

“Look, my guys know what to do, right?”

Tom shook his head, but he could not suppress a grim smile.

“Well, Mr. White, if that’s the case, then we don’t really need you, do we? Your guys will know what to do without you. Come back in two days for your papers and the final check.”

“You’re firing me over a measly ten minutes?” White squeaked. “Hell, I’ve been the first to arrive most days!”

“If that means fifteen minutes late, it doesn’t speak for you but against the other line managers. You can collect your personals on Wednesday.”

“This isn’t over. I’ll sue!” White snapped angrily.

“It’s your money. Knock yourself out,” Tom answered as calmly as possible. He had to make sure that the security tapes were preserved. He then looked at the other men and women. “Any remarks?”

They had watched White being fired, and none of them thought it prudent to raise an objection save for a youngish Black woman.

“Mr. Royce allowed me to be fifteen minutes late. My daycare doesn’t open before seven-thirty. I stay an extra fifteen minutes after shift end to shut down the line.”

“You are?”

“Barbara Prince,” the woman answered with defiance.

“Okay, Mrs. Prince, you tell that to Mrs. Finch when she takes your name. If you’re cleared to arrive later, then that’s okay. Does anybody else have such a pass from Mr. Royce or similar needs?”

Nobody spoke up.

“Okay then. Give your name to Mrs. Finch and get to work! Those marks will be expunged if there is no repeat in the next six months.”

———

“This can’t be right!”

Tom was inspecting a blister packing machine. It should have been less than three years old, but it was at least eleven years old to guess from the design and the signs of wear.

The machine operator, an elderly Hispanic man by the name of Santiago Rochas, carefully cleared his throat.

“Look, Mr. Verkade. I don’t want any trouble, but this one was installed two weeks ago by a Kellerman team as replacement for the original machine. They said the other one was broken, but it had worked the evening before when I shut it down.”

Tom stared at the man. Could it be? Had Gunderson switched equipment after the sale of the plant?

“Thanks, Mr. Rochas. I’ll look into it.”

Walking briskly, Tom headed for his office. He found the inventory list and headed back to the packaging floor. Comparing the inventory numbers he found no discrepancies. However, the type plate from the manufacturer that was bolted onto the lower right housing showed a different serial number compared with the inventory list. Tom whistled softly. This was not a misunderstanding. He went to the next machine, and again he found that while the inventory numbers were matching the list, the type plates were not. He pulled his cell phone.

“Pete? Tom here. I found something you won’t like.”

———

Trevor Charles looked grave when he entered Iris’s office three days later. She looked at him and pointed at a chair.

“What’s up? Trouble?”

Charles nodded grimly. “Afraid so. I was just served a complaint for fraud and theft.”

“Fraud and theft? By whom?”

“Certus Holdings. They purchased the Palmer Street plant.”

Suddenly, Iris felt a little sickness. Tom had told her to tread carefully around Certus. They were mob owned after all.

“What ... what is their complaint about?”

“They claim that a part of the inventoried machinery in the plant was replaced after the sale against much older used equipment. They claim that inventory stickers were falsified, hence the fraud charges.”

“How do they figure that?”

“Serial numbers on the manufacturers’s type plates did not match the inventory lists, but our own inventory stickers matched. It looks bad. They already obtained testimony from the manufacturer proving that the production years of the machines did not match the inventory lists.”

“Shit! Listen, call them immediately! Ask them for an interview, just you and me! Tell them we are shocked by the accusations and promise them an immediate audit to recover their property. Can you do that?”

“I don’t know. I would need board approval.”

“No. No time. Besides, this is my bailiwick. We must act quickly to contain the fallout.”

Charles sighed. “I’ll do it.”

“Call in an auditing firm immediately to trace the equipment!”

“For that I’ll need approval from Moran.”

“Not in this case. Finance might be involved. Listen, I don’t want you to get in trouble. I’ll poll the board members to get approval.”

“Thank you. I’m a bit too old to look for a new job.”

“Let’s get to the bottom of this, and quickly! That’s really the best course to save our jobs,” Iris answered grimly.

Charles nodded and left in a hurry. Iris already punched the number pad of her phone.

“Verkade,” she heard Tom’s voice.

“Jesus, Tom! What the hell did you think!”

Tom sighed. “They served you?”

“Yes, and it would have been very nice to be forewarned, don’t you think?”

“You expect me to act against my employer?” Tom asked back. “I’m upper management here. My contract stipulates confidentiality.”

“You shouldn’t have started working for them in the first place!”

“Iris, Iris! Easy! All we want is the equipment back. I told my bosses that you have no control over production. They know it wasn’t you.”

“Oh, that’s just great! Do you have any idea how this makes me look like?”

“Like the president of a cheating outfit?” Tom offered in a not-too-nice tone of voice. “Do you think I liked it? The first report I have to send to my bosses states that my wife’s company stole our equipment! Great start for me!”

“You’re embarrassed by me?”

“Why, yes. A little. Look, we can’t talk this through on the phone. What say we have dinner somewhere tonight?”

“What’s there to talk? You have picked a side, haven’t you?”

“Really, Iris? This is how you see it? What about the sale of Palmer Street? You knew of Moran’s plans. Did you tell me? Did you give me a brief call to warn me?”

“I wasn’t in a position to warn you.”

“Okay, I understand that. Why can’t you understand that I wasn’t in a position either? You’re steamed right now. Take some time to think it through, and when you’re done thinking it through, then maybe we can talk about it rationally.”

“So I’m irrational?”

“Iris, you had a bad surprise. I’m sorry for that. All I did was to point out the differences in the inventory list with what we have sitting on the clean room floor. Damn it, Iris! I have to work with those machines!”

Against her will, she had to concede the conflict for Tom. He was trying to prove himself after years of being under Gunderson’s thumb.

“Okay, Tom. I’ll try to see your point. So tell me. What happened?”

Tom calmed a bit and told her the entire story, including a testimony by the machine operator stating that he had seen the techies from Kellerman make the swap.