Call Me Crash

By Michael Bronte

Few people would consider the department store business to be a dangerous profession. Similarly, not many people would think that a skinny kid from the streets of D.C. would have any fashion sense.
It’s 1979, Jimmy Carter is president, and Rosenbloom & Starr is a department store empire in which Tom “Crash” Crandall has worked his way up to become floor manager at the flagship store where the wives of congressmen, senators, and power brokers shop. It’s the busiest time of the year and he knows there is something terribly wrong with the way the goods are flowing—or to put it another way, not flowing— into his department. Where were the backup orders? What the heck were those buyers doing up there on the seventh floor?
Crash has no idea that the problem he’s observing is an offshoot of a hostile takeover attempt being perpetrated by Associated Department Stores of America, a villainous outfit that has been swallowing up other department store chains across the country. CEO Gino Starr knows, however, and he isn’t about to let Rosenbloom & Starr be torn apart by ruthless raiders who would destroy what he has built from humble beginnings. Associated stops at nothing to accomplish the takeover, including brutal attacks and grisly murders. What Gino doesn’t know is that Associated’s vicious dealings are tied to an international crime syndicate that has infiltrated our own government. Crash is thrust into the fray simply by being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and to say he earns his shot at promotion into the buying office would be an understatement.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Bronte
• Release date: May 7, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463253557

Michael Bronte

Michael Bronte is a graduate of Union College in Schenectady, New York, and George Washington University in Washington, D.C., and lives with his wife of 38 years in New Jersey. "All of the heroes in my novels are everyday people," says Bronte. "Any of them could by your next door neighbor. None of us really know what we're capable of until the time comes for us to reach beyond the boundaries of our everyday lives. Remarkable feats of courage are performed everyday, by everyday people. It's amazing."​ As a young teenager I remember reading paperback mysteries under a huge oak tree outside my parents’ neighborhood grocery store in Dalton, Massachusetts, a small town located in the heart of the Berkshires. I can recall pulling a book from the rack and getting locked in to those novels as the fragrant summer breeze of Berkshire County tried to turn the page before I was done reading it. I don’t know why, but I was greatly affected by a book titled The Fan Club, by Irving Wallace. When I was done reading it, I can still recall thinking that someday I’d be able to write a book like that on my own; I knew I could do it.Well, the idea stayed dormant for over thirty years while I did what I thought I should have been doing for a living (looking back, it all seems so trivial sometimes) until I rekindled my infatuation with writing novels. Now, many years after that, and many mistakes and many failures later, there are several Michael Bronte novels available for those of you who like mystery, suspense, action-oriented stories with true-to-life characters.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1... Click, Click, Click

Standing with his arms up against the circle rack, Tom Crandall examined the printout for vendor Chaus New York, thinking that the goods weren’t flowing fast enough. He was tired of getting his ass chewed ten times a day because the waterfall racks had broken size runs on them. Chaus was a good line this year, selling like hotcakes, and it was all he could do to maintain the displays. As soon as he set one up, the garments would disappear—sold rather than stolen, hopefully—and he’d have to change it again. The reality was that the backup orders should have been in by now.

Looking down the columns, he was sure he’d find what he already knew: either the arrival dates were too far out or the fill-in orders weren’t even placed yet. Either way, he’d have the same problem: the department would continue to look like crap and he’d have to juggle and schlepp goods all over the place to cover the holes. Making the floor look good right now was like putting lipstick on a pig and he’d had about enough of it. It was time to take the offense. He was determined to get some ammunition to defend himself this time.

He was about to head back up to the merchandising office when he heard the familiar sound: click... click... click. He knew it was her even before she turned the corner. The heels of her conservative black pumps echoed like gunshots off the sparkling marble floor in front of the elevator. Click... click... click... click.... Good, he thought. She’d saved him a trip and now she’d be able to see things for herself. He knew she was close as the rustling of papers and faint scent of perfume announced her arrival. He didn’t turn around and continued to busy himself with the numbers on the printout. She came up right behind him... click... click... click. Vanilla. The perfume smelled like vanilla. He wondered if she’d cooled off at all from the first two arguments they’d already had today, and it wasn’t even noon yet. One look at her face and he knew that wasn’t the case.

Listen Crash, you don’t have to go through those orders to justify what you said this morning. I already told you, the purchase orders have been in for weeks. I did them myself.

Tom Crash Crandall finally turned away from the printout. What did he have to do to make his point? The floor couldn’t look any worse, and he knew he was walking business because the selections were shot to hell. He was having a hard time making a single complete display. As usual her sassy professional attitude bubbled over.

I know how to do my job, she snapped at him.

Then where the hell is the merchandise? he demanded bravely. He must have demanded a little too bravely, seeing as how a customer looked his way. Screw it. He wasn’t going to take Ramona’s attitude again. You say that, but I don’t see any reorders listed here. How come the POs aren’t in the computer? Hands on hips, he stared at her, expecting an answer as he tried not to get preoccupied by the defiance she was throwing off. Defiance wasn’t a good look on her, and neither was the outfit she was wearing, he thought.

Ramona returned the stare. She, Ramona Kling, Associate Buyer, Ready-To-Wear, Rosenbloom & Starr, wasn’t about to take any more grief on this either. I don’t know where the hell the goods are, she shot coldly. I projected orders three weeks ago like I was supposed to, and I must have put fifty purchase orders for Chaus on Leona’s desk. Maybe she’s sitting on them. Arrogantly, she flipped her shoulder-length brown-black hair. It was all combed to one side this day in a thick curved do. And I don’t have to stand here and listen to any more of your criticism, you know. I’ve paid my dues.

Yeah, right.

"Listen Crash, I was getting coffee and repackaging returns before you even knew what the words ready-to-wear meant. She barked it out and had no trouble feeling that she could act a little sanctimoniously. I’m telling you it’s not my fault."

Crash wasn’t buying it, thinking he was the one taking the blame for the appearance of the department while everyone else played dumb. Fucking buyers. Of course it’s not your fault, it’s nobody’s fault. But while everyone on the seventh floor shuffles paper and tells each other it’s not their fault, I’m the one holding my stones in front of Mercedes and Mister Starr. As soon as he said it, he saw Ramona’s face tighten up even more. She sure could get her ass up on her shoulders sometimes.

Screw you Crash. We do more than shuffle paper.

You’d have a hard time proving that to me, he said with his own brand of contempt. The only thing they did up there was drink coffee and listen to the vendor reps’ dirty jokes. That, and go to lunch—on the reps of course. Why did they need so many people in the buying office anyway? Christ, it was almost 1979. They had the damned computer to project sales and calculate open-to-buy. Anyone could do that job, but he knew he could do it better than most of the people who were doing it now. He had a better eye for the merchandise, and someday he’d get a chance to prove it.

He’d been busting his tail on the floor for three years now, and surely there’d be an opening up there sometime in the foreseeable future, even if it was as a lowly assistant buyer. He just hoped someone didn’t have to die first. It seemed like once you got in there, nothing short of that could get you out. Even Ramona managed to hold on to her job and she was always on Leona’s shit list. It was too bad in a way. She was better than Leona, but while Ramona was just bitchy, Leona was bitchy and an idiot. Crash vowed to himself that if he ever got the chance, he’d never be the kind of buyer Leona was—one that took all the glory while the people on the floor did all the work and took all the blame when something went wrong. It had been that way ever since he started with Rosenbloom & Starr six years earlier as a helper humping furniture on the delivery trucks. There were plenty of times even then when he had to explain things to customers that should have been explained by someone else, usually the salesperson. Customers were nuts sometimes.

What do you mean, why is that knot where it is? he remembered asking of one particularly finicky woman as she looked down her nose at him. The wood on the armoire was full of knots. It was supposed to look that way. It was knotty pine, for God’s sake.

I don’t like that knot there right in the middle of the door panel, she’d said, adjusting her bifocals. The salesman said you could take care of things like that.

Take care of it? How the hell are we going to take care of moving a knot? That wasn’t the right thing to have said back then, and he knew that, but he wasn’t about to haul the three-hundred-pound armoire back to the truck without a fight. The driver, a huge black guy named Duke, didn’t say a word. He knew better. He knew they’d take the blame regardless of what happened. Crash had gotten into hot water over that episode—among others—and this was the same.

You know, I came down here to explain to you that this problem wasn’t your fault either, Ramona said indignantly, but after that last crack all I want to explain to you is how you can kiss my ass!

Crash watched the curved hair bounce wildly as she turned and stomped back toward the elevator. He could hear those shiny black pumps clicking furiously all the way there... click... click... click. As usual, he’d done a masterful job of pissing her off, and, as usual, it was something he’d said to put her over the edge. Normally, he knew what it was. This time, watching her lithe body from behind as she walked away from him, the only words he remembered were ass, crack, and kiss.

* * * * *

Gino Starr looked down the monthly financial statement from Touche Ross, thinking the figures varied substantially from the ones he’d personally reviewed three weeks earlier from Rosenbloom & Starr’s own accounting department. The corporate statement actually showed them making a profit for the month. It was supposed to have shown a loss, and a fairly healthy one at that. He punched down hard on the intercom button of his phone console.

Leila, bring me the R & S financials for September.

Right away, Mister Starr.

A moment later Leila laid the huge folder of printouts on Starr’s desk. Flipping to the summary statement which totaled the individual monthly statements for all thirty-one Rosenbloom & Starr department stores, he compared the in-house figures with the ones that came back from the accounting firm. He was right: the figures were different. Again he smashed a thick finger into the intercom button.

Yes, said Sherman T. Hatcherson, Chief Financial Officer, on the other end of the line.

Sherm, have you seen the detailed financials from Touche?

Yes I have. I think I know what’s on your mind.

The figures are different from what we submitted.

I’m aware of that.

You are?

Yes, there were some changes.

"Some changes! They’re nothing like what we submitted, for Christ’s sake. Did you approve these changes, Sherm?"

Most of them, yes. In reality, Hatcherson had approved every single one of them. He was on top of his figures like green on grass.

This isn’t what I expected, Sherm. Didn’t we talk about this?

It’s not as easy as you think, said Hatcherson. "The volume is simply too high for us to declare a loss for the month. It would be too obvious. We can’t continually use the excuse of accumulated expenses time after time. They’re starting to ask questions, Gino. We had to show a profit. I can explain it to you if you like."

Why don’t you, Sherm? Right now. Starr slammed the phone back into its cradle.

Sherman Hatcherson made the long walk across the seventh floor to the office of Gino Starr, President and CEO of Rosenbloom & Starr. He was beginning to really dislike these walks.

CHAPTER 2... Hook, Line, And Sinker

Morton J. Levine washed his hands and made sure the starched cuffs of his shirt protruded far enough for everyone to notice the diamond cufflinks. They’d cost him two thousand bucks and surely that should earn a couple of comments. He turned in the mirror and tried to stand outside himself, thinking how an uninitiated eye would describe him. He convinced himself quite easily that the words impressive or magnetic were proper adjectives. His thousand-dollar suit was hanging beautifully, and his tie was straight. He hated these damned wide ties. They made sloppy knots. Somehow a thousand-dollar Italian suit didn’t go with a big wide tie and a pointy-collared shirt, but they were all the rage these days and one had to be fashionable. Looking to see that there was no toilet paper stuck to his shoes or any other of the wrong places, he passed his comb through his thinning hair, not noticing the guy next to him who smirked in amusement. He wondered if the red mark at his hairline was the beginning of a zit. It would only attract more attention to his rapidly vanishing follicles. Jesus, that’s all he needed. Oh well, he was as ready as he was going to be.

Swaggering, he slowly made his way back to his table just as the introductory speech was beginning. He recognized the faces. There was Jack Walsh, CEO of Westinghouse; Bobby Wriston, Chairman of Ingersoll-Rand; Ross LeFebre, President of the United Auto Workers Union; and whose hand was that sticking out in front of him? Morty looked up, seeing that the hand belonged to F. Scott Burnside, Chairman of the Board of Craftmark Tire. Morty grabbed the hand good ol’ boy fashion, playfully yanking Burnside’s arm as he slapped him on the back. He ducked down to hear Burnside’s whisper.

"Hey Morty, come on up later if you can shake Myra for a while. We got some entertainment, if ya’ know what I mean." Burnside winked an evil good-ol’-boy wink as he laughingly squeezed Morty’s hand. Burnside behaved just like the glorified grease monkey that he was, one who always made a point of saying the first initial in his name stood for Fucking. Fucking Scott Burnside, he called himself. That’s how you get twenty-two hundred tire stores and repair shops nationwide, you fuck everybody and everything in your way.

Despite Burnside’s rough exterior, he was a powerful man who was able to pull some very long strings, a true power broker whose balance of favors was always to his advantage. Business leaders, politicians, lawyers, entertainers, people of seemingly every profession owed Burnside, but he was slow to collect. Calling in a favor reduced the balance in the favor bank.

Morty knew what Burnside’s entertainment would be, but he had mixed emotions about attending one of Burnside’s little pussy parties with Myra around. His wife’s feelings were secondary, however. One had to keep up appearances. There was always plenty of loose pussy floating around at these affairs. Some of it was professional pussy. Some of it was married pussy looking for some strange. Some of it was political pussy from the favor bank. And then there was the best kind—just plain party pussy looking for a good time.

Buffet, or bring your own? Morty joked as he gazed into the deep cleavage of the bimbo sitting on Burnside’s arm.

It’s all you can eat, Burnside howled crudely.

Morty slapped him on the back and peeled himself away from the table. He didn’t want to seem too chummy with the crass Burnside. He had an image to maintain. Morty walked back to his seat, sucking in his stomach beneath his Armani suit. Constantly adjusting his tie, he glimpsed from side to side to see whose eye he could catch. He waved to Jimmy Conroy, CEO of Burger World. MacDonald’s was kicking his ass. And there was Roger Mulhaney, Chairman of Ray Computer, and Izzy Kaplan of Peterson-Stevens, and Mike Strickland of Mitchelsen Industrial. It was a regular Who’s Who of corporate elite, and Morty meandered through the tables like a parade float, proud of himself for being there. He deserved it.

Excuse me, pardon me, excuse me, he said needlessly, for there was plenty of room, but it made the barons of industry look his way. Hi, Johnny. How are the kids?.... Why Amanda Sugarman, nice to see you again.... Hi Bruce, how’s the golf game?.... Why hello Mrs. Barber, what a pleasant surprise. Nice to see you.... He finally made it back to his ten thousand-dollar-seat just as the introductory speech was concluding. Plenty of people noticed him; he was sure.

And now ladies and gentleman, the man you’ve been so generous to support this evening, the next president of the United States, the honorable Senator Milton D. Hancher. Applause.

Thank you ladies and gentleman, Hancher began. Believe it or not, although it seems as if we’re barely into Jimmy Carter’s term as president, it’s been almost two years now. I don’t know about you, but I’ve already had enough! Applause. It’s not too early to think about the election, if we can make it that far. Applause. Inflation is eating away at our assets, but I’m sure you’re all well aware of that. You are the most respected business leaders this country has to offer, and I promise, with your support, that when I become president.... Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

Morty looked around, waving past Myra to the stunning blonde at the next table, the one with the dress the size of a handkerchief. She was looking at him; he was sure. Everyone was looking at him. He was chairman of the board and CEO of Associated Department Stores of America, and surely he was the most powerful man in the room.

Myra Levine quite easily detected her husband ogling the blonde. Honey, do you want a spot of makeup to cover that pimple on your head? she asked.

* * * * *

Vance MacHune flipped to the last line of the financial statement, which read Profit or (Loss), and saw that finally it showed a figure without parentheses around it: $326,841. That was chickenfeed, he thought, less than one half of one percent net profit before taxes, but it was better than the losses they’d been showing for the last seven months.

MacHune was a bulldog of a man, and he analyzed the statement with sleeves rolled up over burly forearms, his big, weathered face creasing comically as his eyes tried to focus on the small print. He sat hunched over the report as if he were an animal hiding its kill, checking off the various entries of importance with a cheap Bic pen, the end of which he’d almost chewed off. He rolled the pen between fingers that were callused and rough as sandpaper even though he did no manual work as Vice President of Operations for Rosenbloom & Starr. His farm in Leesburg kept the hands rough, as well as keeping him in shape. The next line to be examined was Total Operating Expenses. Everything he did could be evaluated by this one line item. The figure was within twenty thousand dollars of what he’d predicted. He’d held up his end, and he’d been holding it up for a long time. He couldn’t imagine how he could shave expenses any further with sales continuing to climb the way they were. Silently, he wondered how they could have shown losses for the last seven months. It was impossible. What they needed was more margin. He’d been trying to tell that to Mercedes for months, but it was like talking to a wall. Damned bitchy women executives, he thought for perhaps the hundredth time that month. This ERA stuff was starting to get on his nerves. It was one thing to be equal, but these broads were trying to be over-equal. MacHune shook his veiny, almost bald head and loosened his tie. The designer shirt looked like a potato sack on his chunky body, and the long collar looked like part of a clown shirt standing up on his shoulders the way it did. It made it look like his neck had disappeared.

Although she didn’t look anything like him, Mercedes Flores, General Merchandise Manager, was like Vance MacHune in many ways, and it would have killed her to admit it. At the end of the day she could take off her Jones of New York suit and one wouldn’t even have known she’d been wearing it. She was a walking mannequin, perfectly accessorized, never overdone, simple, smooth, neat, precise. Fads and radical styles never seemed to infiltrate her size-eight wardrobe. Her face always looked perfect, no matter what time of day or night, her skin perfectly smooth, hair always neatly coifed in soft feminine waves, never threateningly radical. She needed nothing artificial to maintain her business-like image, her steely determination coming through quite naturally on its own. She actually had to be careful not to intimidate people. That’s why she made a point of never interrupting people when they spoke, and she always maintained the right blend of tone, pause, emphasis, and inflection in her words so as not to come across like the bitchy she-wolf many thought her to be. She hated that image with a passionate hate, along with the fact that many thought she was the token Hispanic minority plant.

Like MacHune, she flipped immediately to the last page of the financial statement, looking at the same Profit or (Loss) line, breathing an audible sigh of relief. The second line she examined was Total Gross Profit, seeing that the figure was $29.8 million dollars, representing a 44.7% overall gross margin. Tremendous, she thought. Like MacHune, but from a different perspective, she couldn’t understand how Rosenbloom & Starr could have declared losses for the last seven months. Thank God this month’s statement was in the black, although it was pretty measly. She’d argued with MacHune to cut payroll until she was blue in the face. With $29.8 million in gross profit, there should have been more on the bottom line. She pondered briefly that surely there was room to cut somewhere, but MacHune was stubborn as a mule. The gross margin couldn’t go any higher, not if they wanted their prices to remain competitive.

Gino Starr made his entrance and dropped his folders on the huge rosewood and ebony conference table. Finally there was no cat fighting as there had been during the last four senior staff meetings. Amazing what a little taste of success could do. Inside, the guilt ate at him like acid eating through tin foil. He noticed immediately that Sherman Hatcherson was glaringly absent, and he didn’t want to do this without him. He decided to wait a bit before beginning the meeting as Skip Antonucci, Director of Marketing and Advertising, and Mindi Blakemore, Director of Human Resources, also had not yet arrived. Skip and Mindi made quite a pair. Gino was sure they were getting it on with each other, which normally he would have frowned upon, but they were good at what they did and their departments seldom came into direct contact.

He unbuttoned the jacket of his Hickey-Freeman suit, swaying back and forth in his chair at the head of the conference table. He looked upward, daydreaming aimlessly, it seemed. Like Mercedes, the fad stylings of 1978 never seemed to show themselves on his body. Very much the traditionalist, he had an eye for style, a gift he discovered while working up displays in the Rhode Island Avenue store after the war in the late forties. He’d draped and accessorized blue and khaki work clothes, dungarees, and other everyday attire in the windows with fishing line in those days, and indeed many of the poor but hard-working men in the neighborhood bought the work uniforms, put a tie with them and wore them to church on Sundays. Gino knew that style was distinctly different than fashion, with fashion being the shorter lived of the two, and he always picked his own wardrobe with an eye for clothing that withstood the test of time. Style was never out of fashion, but fashion could go out of style almost overnight. Gino had style.

He was awakened from his daydream by the arrival of the rest of the staff members. Hatcherson, Skip, and Mindi all came in together, followed by Leila, his executive secretary of ten years, who carried a tray with two decanters of coffee and a stack of assorted donuts. Skip looked and dressed like John Travolta, but he was creative and had a good sense of what worked in advertising. Mindi was sort of an airhead, but she’d been with the company for twelve years and she knew exactly what combination of traits and experience made good retail managers and good salespeople. Momentarily, Gino wondered if he’d lose Mindi when he fired Skip, something he’d determined he had to do in order to execute his plan.

He paused, for he had no idea how he was going to start the meeting, and deliberated whether or not he should reveal his plan. Quickly, he decided that wasn’t a good idea. First of all, it was illegal. Mercedes and MacHune might keep their mouths shut, but there was no way Skip and Mindi could be part of it. Leila was good as gold, but Gino was beginning to have doubts about Hatcherson, who was already beginning to crack under the pressure. Everyone got their coffee and donuts, two for MacHune, as usual, and settled into their respective chairs. Gino chuckled inwardly, amused at how everyone always sat in the same chair. He concluded they were all creatures of habit. He looked up to see everyone staring at him, waiting for him to start the meeting, and for a moment he visualized the six faces spinning around and merging into each other as if they were inside a kaleidoscope. MacHune had a little white sugar mustache from his jelly donut. Mercedes slid her fingers down the shaft of a pencil, then put the other end on the table and did it again, then again, and again. Say something, Gino thought to himself. Skip and Mindi were playing handsees. Unexpectedly, Hatcherson broke Gino’s self-induced trance.

We’re being audited. It was a rude awakening. Everyone immediately shifted their attention to Hatcherson, sensing that his blockbuster announcement superseded anything on Gino’s agenda. Gino’s icy stare indicated his expectation as well. I just got off the phone with the folks over at the SEC and with Boraski’s office over at Associated.

The Securities and Exchange Commission? MacHune asked, adding immediately, Who’s Boraski?

Gino answered instead of Hatcherson. "He’s the CFO at Associated. What do you mean Boraski’s office, Sherm? Did you talk to Boraski himself?"

"No, his assistant comptroller called. He said the audit was the direct result of a complaint by Levine himself." Hatcherson’s scowl indicated his distaste for the situation. Something of this importance called for direct communication from someone higher up the food chain than some lowly assistant comptroller.

What else did he say? Gino asked, his blood pumping little tidal waves inside his veins. Did he say if the audit was going to be executed by SEC auditors or by an independent firm?

"He didn’t get into a lot of detail except that his office would be in touch. He said if we had any questions we should call back and talk directly to Boraski or Levine."

No one spoke for some time as the room took on a smog of concern that hung in the air like bug spray.

Those bastards, Gino cursed. His tone was stinging and defiant, his façade of sophistication crumbling like a smashed windshield to reveal his street fighter instincts. He took on a sickly sallow color, his narrowed eyes reflecting his obvious anger. No one dared speak.

Mercedes looked concerned, yet confident, but she was confident about everything. MacHune looked like a puppy that had just been slapped for making a doody in the wrong place. Skip and Mindi were totally disconnected, oblivious as to what Hatcherson’s announcement meant. Leila knew her boss well after ten years and took the initiative to suggest that in view of Mister Hatcherson’s unexpected news, perhaps the senior staff meeting should be postponed.

Good idea, Gino concluded for all of them. Sherm, Mercedes, Mac, you three stay, he added when everyone got up to leave. He’d hand-picked the three of them to be the core of his company, a company doing in excess of $850,000,000 million dollars in annual sales; a company thirty-one stores strong; a company he had personally built into a retailing colossus. Now, those ruthless bastards were trying everything they could to take it over so they could carve it up like a turkey at Thanksgiving, probably to sell off the unwanted wings and drumsticks to keep the white meat for themselves.

When the door was closed, Gino turned. What’s it mean Sherm, an investigation coming out of the blue like this?

Well, it could mean several things. First and foremost, it means that the SEC has reason to believe that someone is manipulating the stock to take an unfair trading advantage; or secondarily, perhaps a stockholder has made allegations of irresponsibility or fraud. Thirdly, there might be a reason we don’t know about.

Dumbfounded, Like what? MacHune asked.

Like maybe someone pulled some strings with the SEC, Gino snarled. Maybe greased a few palms, maybe called in a few favors just to give us a hard time.

MacHune persisted. But how would the SEC even become aware of something like that?

There are any number of ways, Hatcherson answered. My guess is that Levine is charging that we’re manipulating the price of the stock, or that we’re attempting to dilute his holdings by constantly issuing additional shares and preventing him from establishing a majority position.

Damn it, Sherm, that’s legal! Gino said venomously. His brushes with Morty Levine and Associated Department Stores of America flashed in his mind’s eye.

Associated owned or had major interests in eleven department store chains across the country including some very prestigious companies like Bernard’s in San Francisco, Crane’s in St. Louis, Janzen & Moore in Boston, and R. Metzger in Dallas. In 1975, Dalton’s in Baltimore declared Chapter 11. Gino had always wanted to move into the Baltimore market, and with seven magnificent stores Dalton’s was his opportunity to increase the size of his company by almost fifty percent with one strategic stroke. The problem was that he didn’t have