AFTER LUNCH, NICK SENT KATHY to research Hamilton Helicopters stories at The Bridgeport Post where she found dozens of articles about the company that she summarized for Nick — its government contracts, work force and local influence. From the early 40s until the Hamilton’s takeover in ’52, pay had been fair, layoffs rare, business cyclical. It had a foundry, which aged men years before their time—most working until 62. It hired whole families, workers complained little and, although lines between management and workers had been razor sharp, workers had a job for life.
When Trent took over in the early 50s, the first casualty was the friendly atmosphere between workers and management. The end of the Korean War collapsed the spare parts business and the company downsized. A ’53 Wall Street Journal analyst wrote that the company needed, “A cultural sea change” to stay competitive. Two years after his return from the war, Trent Hamilton had installed management loyalists, including Jack O’Conner, who assumed a middle management role half-heartedly. He ran a less than tight ship — far from meeting Trent’s expectation of affording no quarter to foot-draggers — but Trent did little to change Jack’s work ethic, figuring he achieved his objective: keeping Jack close and beholden.
Hamilton’s management philosophy was described by a Bridgeport Post editorial as:
“... a biological determinism, where the success of the company (Hamilton Helicopters) depends not on innovation or product integrity as much as on forced ranking bottom up, where the lower ten percent are routinely replaced by better prospects on the theory that evolution produces the best management team. Hamilton divided competition into two kinds, those prepared to lose it all in taking what they wanted and those who refused to risk it all and falling short. Hamilton’s attitude, ‘Take what you want, pay for it, say thanks and move on.’ The attitude a hunter takes. No sentimentality.”
Beginning in ’65, Hamilton started recapturing the technology that had been stolen by renegade ex-licensees setting up competition throughout the world. Hamilton’s lawyers sued, bribed and put a heavy hand on U.S. embassies for help. With that mission accomplished, Hamilton regained dominant positions in Brazil, Congo and India.
Nick did not know what to make of the information on Hamilton Helicopters. His concerns were more immediate: if O’Conner were linked to Roger in some way, and O’Conner and Hamilton were linked in wartime, was it possible that Hamilton knew Roger, too? Nick wondered what Hamilton would say if he were asked outright, “Did you know Roger Girardin?” Rather than cold call, he asked John Santos, the ex-FBI agent he used from time to time, to make contact. Santos met Nick that night at the law office.
“John, see if he remembers Girardin. It’s a long shot, but maybe we’ll get lucky. If Hamilton knew what happened to Roger, we could get to the bottom of this pretty quick.”
Santos went to Hamilton’s office the next morning, flashed his old F.B.I. badge at the coiffed receptionist, and asked for Hamilton. In the next instant he was greeted by a sentinel in stilettos and a tailored suit, who put the ex-cop under the lamp rather than the other way around. “Who are you, and what do you want with Mr. Hamilton? If you need answers, put it in writing, address it to our lawyers Kramer and Fish.” But John did not come away empty handed, he learned that Hamilton was on a trip, and was not expected back for two weeks. He asked where. “We don’t give out that information. Please leave, now.”
When Santos gave Nick the news, he replied. “While we’re waiting for him, get some G-2 on his non-public activities.” Santos lined up a few people willing to talk. One described Hamilton as the “alpha male,” another as, “cunning and careful.”
A so-called friend from the country club met Santos at a diner before tee-time, while it was still dark. Surprisingly, he said, “His father taught him how to con people.”
“Con? Strong word. How’s that?”
“Guy creates the illusion that you’re like him, ambitious, high-spirited. Gets you to identify with him, his cause. Keeps that billfold just out of reach. Gets you to believe your fortunes are tied to him.”
“Are they?”
The man did not answer.
An executive fired three months earlier spoke by phone, breathing hard. “Rude, scrapped with the foreman, the union, even the workers, if he saw something he didn’t like. When he felt he’d won, he’d rub your nose in it... . ”
“Why did you quit?”
“I didn’t. Had a heart attack. Retired me, what they used to call ‘fired.’”
“Do you know anything about Hamilton’s overseas operations?”
“Not much—a division in Brazil, India, has ties in Washington. Don’t know much more than that.” The man added, “He visits the plants a few times a year.”
“Why is he successful?”
“Man lives on the edge, a gambler.”
“Gambles what?”
“Against getting caught, always tryin’ to slip through, skirting the edge.”
“Like?”
The man exhaled into the phone. “Mister, I think I’ve said enough.”
“Well, doesn’t sound like anybody I want to be friends with, not an ounce of some redeeming quality.”
“Except for the orphanage.”
“The orphanage? What’s that?”
“He started an orphanage and some kind of adoption service for Chinese and Korean kids sent to the states by some overseas missionaries.”
“What’s his role?”
“Chairman and a big, big donor. I mean seven-figures big.”
The two men were silent until the man remarked, “Hear he may run for governor.”