stuck.”
“Besides,” John Feinstein, Kendall’s CFO, offered, “we’d have to spend nearly all of what remains of our cash reserves to do it. In this economy, I don’t recommend that.”
Fitzgerald expected as much. Feinstein’s idea of a gamble was eating an unrefrigerated cheese sandwich. He sat forward. “I like the idea. It’s bold. It lets everyone know that Kendall is confident about its future. Let’s get the word out to all of our media contacts. I want the financial world to know that Kendall is preparing for the holidays.”
“This is an all-or-nothing play, Malcolm,” Dean said.
Fitzgerald nodded. “If Bolelli wants to play chicken, let’s play chicken and see who flinches first.”
U.S. HIGHWAY 12
SOUTHERN WASHINGTON
SLOANE GLANCED FROM the road to the manila file on the edge of the passenger seat and wondered if Kyle Horgan had hit upon the next “It” toy. If he had, Horgan’s scribbled drawings could be as valuable as a Rembrandt, according to Stroud. And that changed everything.
Money always did.
The letter in Horgan’s file indicated he had sold his design to Kendall. If that were true, it could not have come at a more opportune time for the toy company. Just that morning The Seattle Times had run an article reporting that, despite apparent financial difficulties, Kendall had rejected overtures from Galaxy Toys, the second-largest toy manufacturer in the world. Speculation was that Galaxy would now make a play to obtain the company through a hostile run on its stock. Analysts were criticizing Kendall’s declination as a poor business decision, but Seattleites applauded the move by a local institution and employer of thousands in the region.
Following the directions Sloane had plugged into the car’s GPS system, he made a right turn on State Street and drove through the heart of town, no more than a couple of square blocks of stucco buildings that looked to have been built in the 1950s. On the outskirts he drove past manufactured homes, well spaced, with metal barnlike structures in the yard and freestanding canopies under which the occupants had parked tractors and other pieces of equipment. Barbed wire on wooden fence poles pastured horses and cattle. But what caught Sloane’s attention was a large metal building that loomed over the town like Mount Rainier over Seattle. Intrigued, he decided to find out what it was.
At aT in the road he turned and drove to a gated entrance. A ten-foot Cyclone fence with three strands of barbed wire enclosed the building and a parking area surrounding it, a white sign fastened to the chain link.
KENDALL TOYS
Now this was getting interesting.
A car passed Sloane and stopped at the gated entrance, the driver talking to a guard in the booth before the gate pulled aside to allow entry. Sloane saw few cars inside the fence. Most of them were parked in a large paved area outside the compound with a footpath leading to a pedestrian entrance.
He made a U-turn and the GPS directed him to one of the cookie-cutter manufactured homes, plain beige, with an older model Volkswagen Jetta parked in the gravel driveway. A four-foot-high Cyclone fence enclosed a simple yard with a swing set on a neatly mowed grass lawn.
It was warmer than it had been in Seattle, but Sloane slipped on his sport coat as he walked to a small porch littered with shoes: work boots that would fit a grown man, women’s tennis shoes, children’s shoes, and rubber boots. He knocked twice. A Hispanic woman pulled open the door and gave him a curious look.
“Good morning,” Sloane said. “I’m sorry to bother you. Are you Mrs. Gallegos?”
The woman looked past Sloane to his Jeep parked along the road. “Yes.”
Sloane offered a business card, which the woman accepted tentatively. “My name is David Sloane. I’m an attorney from Seattle and I was hoping for a moment of your time?”
The woman looked up from the card, suspicious. “What is this about?” She had a
“Besides,” John Feinstein, Kendall’s CFO, offered, “we’d have to spend nearly all of what remains of our cash reserves to do it. In this economy, I don’t recommend that.”
Fitzgerald expected as much. Feinstein’s idea of a gamble was eating an unrefrigerated cheese sandwich. He sat forward. “I like the idea. It’s bold. It lets everyone know that Kendall is confident about its future. Let’s get the word out to all of our media contacts. I want the financial world to know that Kendall is preparing for the holidays.”
“This is an all-or-nothing play, Malcolm,” Dean said.
Fitzgerald nodded. “If Bolelli wants to play chicken, let’s play chicken and see who flinches first.”
U.S. HIGHWAY 12
SOUTHERN WASHINGTON
SLOANE GLANCED FROM the road to the manila file on the edge of the passenger seat and wondered if Kyle Horgan had hit upon the next “It” toy. If he had, Horgan’s scribbled drawings could be as valuable as a Rembrandt, according to Stroud. And that changed everything.
Money always did.
The letter in Horgan’s file indicated he had sold his design to Kendall. If that were true, it could not have come at a more opportune time for the toy company. Just that morning The Seattle Times had run an article reporting that, despite apparent financial difficulties, Kendall had rejected overtures from Galaxy Toys, the second-largest toy manufacturer in the world. Speculation was that Galaxy would now make a play to obtain the company through a hostile run on its stock. Analysts were criticizing Kendall’s declination as a poor business decision, but Seattleites applauded the move by a local institution and employer of thousands in the region.
Following the directions Sloane had plugged into the car’s GPS system, he made a right turn on State Street and drove through the heart of town, no more than a couple of square blocks of stucco buildings that looked to have been built in the 1950s. On the outskirts he drove past manufactured homes, well spaced, with metal barnlike structures in the yard and freestanding canopies under which the occupants had parked tractors and other pieces of equipment. Barbed wire on wooden fence poles pastured horses and cattle. But what caught Sloane’s attention was a large metal building that loomed over the town like Mount Rainier over Seattle. Intrigued, he decided to find out what it was.
At aT in the road he turned and drove to a gated entrance. A ten-foot Cyclone fence with three strands of barbed wire enclosed the building and a parking area surrounding it, a white sign fastened to the chain link.
KENDALL TOYS
Now this was getting interesting.
A car passed Sloane and stopped at the gated entrance, the driver talking to a guard in the booth before the gate pulled aside to allow entry. Sloane saw few cars inside the fence. Most of them were parked in a large paved area outside the compound with a footpath leading to a pedestrian entrance.
He made a U-turn and the GPS directed him to one of the cookie-cutter manufactured homes, plain beige, with an older model Volkswagen Jetta parked in the gravel driveway. A four-foot-high Cyclone fence enclosed a simple yard with a swing set on a neatly mowed grass lawn.
It was warmer than it had been in Seattle, but Sloane slipped on his sport coat as he walked to a small porch littered with shoes: work boots that would fit a grown man, women’s tennis shoes, children’s shoes, and rubber boots. He knocked twice. A Hispanic woman pulled open the door and gave him a curious look.
“Good morning,” Sloane said. “I’m sorry to bother you. Are you Mrs. Gallegos?”
The woman looked past Sloane to his Jeep parked along the road. “Yes.”
Sloane offered a business card, which the woman accepted tentatively. “My name is David Sloane. I’m an attorney from Seattle and I was hoping for a moment of your time?”
The woman looked up from the card, suspicious. “What is this about?” She had a
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