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About fifty minutes later, Julian entered a bright, spotless conference room.
Roughly twenty people sat around a long rectangular table.
Julian walked straight to the empty seat at the head.
Behind him, Saul closed the door, cleared his throat, and announced in a full, practiced voice, “Ladies and gentlemen, Mr.
Julian Moretti has arrived.”
No one applauded.
Only a collection of quiet, assessing stares met him.
The one exception was the man seated to Julian’s right, who stood.
William Tiberi was enormous in every practical sense.
Six foot six, over two hundred fifty pounds, in a custom black suit that did little to soften the impression of a human wall.
His head was shaved clean, and in rooms full of conservative executives, some men mistook him for security.
They rarely made that mistake twice.
A Duke graduate with a background in public policy and management, William was methodical, disciplined, and exacting.
Julian had helped him through school; after graduation, William joined Haven Home Financial and became one of his most trusted operators.
He had been the first person to know Julian intended to buy Playboy.
Only after Julian sat did William sit again and begin introductions.
“Across from me is Richard Rosenzweig, former executive vice president.
He primarily managed the magazine and related businesses.”
Richard Rosenzweig looked over sixty.
He wore heavy gold-rimmed glasses, and the thin hair on his scalp did little to hide the shine beneath.
“Julian Moretti.
Welcome.”
Richard extended a hand.
“Mr.
Rosenzweig,” Julian said, taking it.
“I have read your file.
Employee number twenty-three.
More than forty years with the company.
You watched the magazine rise.”
“I did.
Back then, the company was only a few offices.
Every night, we gathered to talk through the next issue, next month’s theme, which girl in a stack of calendar photos had the right magic, or sometimes nothing more serious than drinks and conversation.
It was a beautiful time.
It feels like yesterday.”
Richard’s gaze sharpened with memory.
“Do you know who was in those rooms?
Arthur Paul, the first art director, the man who designed the rabbit-head logo.
Vince Tajiri, our photo editor.
Charlaine Karalus, one of the first girl-next-door Playmates.
Ray Russell, a second-rate science-fiction writer until Hugh saw something in him and made him an editor.”
“And most important of all, Hugh Hefner.
He was a true genius.
He saw where society was moving and led the culture toward it.
He could work more than twelve hours a day.
He built the first issue himself with scissors, paste, and sheer obsession.
The articles, party jokes, cartoons, essays, the foldout, all of it began with him.
He created the machine.”
Richard leaned forward.
“And you?
A credit man from Utah?
A devout Mormon dreaming about ten wives?
What can you do, Mr.
Moretti?
I do not know.
In my eyes, you are a three-year-old child who found a magazine by accident and started fantasizing about living like Hefner.”
“Yes, you are lucky.
You seized the chance and got control of a company with hundreds of employees.
But beyond arithmetic, you can do nothing.
You do not understand art.
You do not understand life.
You do not understand fashion.”
“I had a sliver of hope for you.
Then Nashville showed us exactly who you are.
Abandoning the company to chase women.
Assaulting reporters.
Do you know press groups are already blacklisting us?”
“So this is our first meeting, and it can be our last.
You do not need to pretend to come here and work.
Put all of this aside.
Go home, lie in some mansion, and spend the night with this month’s Playmate.
In return, you will receive dividends every year and the nominal loyalty of everyone in this room.”
Richard glanced toward William.
“And take Mr.
William here with you.
And this…”
“Saul,” Saul supplied.
“Yes.
Lawyer Saul.
Forgive my memory.
Take them both.
We do not need a takeover here.
Now, do you have any questions?”
Richard folded his hands and looked at Julian.
Julian turned to Saul.
“This is what you called a normal transition?”
The middle-aged lawyer rubbed his hands, embarrassed.
After thinking for a long moment, he managed:
“At least we are all sitting down and discussing it.”
“Good job,” Julian said dryly.
He looked around the table.
“Who else believes I should withdraw from day-to-day management?
Raise your hand.”
First, he needed to know who stood with the old guard.
Richard raised his hand immediately.
Beside him, the magazine’s executive editor, art director, photography director, printing head, sales head, advertising chief, and several others followed.
Nine in all.
The CFO, head of administration, media director, HR director, events director, online director, and former legal head did not move.
This matched William’s report.
As executive vice president, Rosenzweig controlled the company’s core business.
Since the magazine still produced the overwhelming majority of profit, Julian could not take over the company without dealing with him.
“Thank you.
You can lower your hands.”
Julian rested both palms on the table.
“I know many of you dislike me.
You see me as a man who wandered down the street one day and found a badge with a rabbit head on it.”
“To be honest, I have no desire to work with stubborn men who still live in the last century.
But I came here because this company needs me.
Let me guess.
The magazine’s real subscriber count is under two million.”
He looked at the CFO, not Richard.
She had the operating numbers, and she was not in Richard’s camp.
Sure enough, she nodded.
“You are correct, Mr.
Moretti.”
She was a brown-haired woman of about fifty.
“Give me the number.”
“One point two three million.
Last fiscal year.
It may be lower now.”
“And the year before?”
“Two point one million.
Subscriptions have been falling for years, and the decline has accelerated sharply over the last two.”
“How long before subscribers disappear entirely?” Julian asked, taking out his phone.
“Conservatively, 2011.
Less conservatively, the magazine business may not survive two more years.”
“Nonsense,” Richard snapped.
“We have loyal readers in the South.
Some have subscribed for more than thirty years, since they were boys.
They have made this magazine part of their lives.
They will take it to the grave.”
“Is that right?” Julian said.
He raised his phone for the room to see.
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Stick around, because there’s still a lot waiting just ahead.