John Hammond, another member of the board, said, “He’s Italian, isn’t he? We don’t need any dagos in this club, Bill.”
The banker looked at him. “Are you going to blackball him?”
“You’re damn right I am.”
“Okay, then we’ll pass on him. Next…”
The meeting continued.
Two weeks later Paul Martin was having lunch with the banker again. “I’ve been practicing my golf,” Paul joked.
Bill Rohan was embarrassed. “There’s been a slight hitch, Paul.”
“A hitch?”
“I did propose you for membership. But I’m afraid one of the members of the board blackballed you.”
“Oh? Why?”
“Don’t take this personally. He’s a bigot. He doesn’t like Italians.”
Paul smiled. “That doesn’t bother me, Bill. A lot of people don’t like Italians. This Mr…”
“Hammond. John Hammond.”
“The meat-packer?”
“Yes. He’ll change his mind. I’ll talk to him again.”
Paul shook his head. “Don’t bother. To tell you the truth, I’m really not that crazy about golf anyway.”
Six months later, in the middle of July, four Hammond Meat Packing Company refrigerated trucks loaded with pork loins, strip steaks, and pork butts, headed from the packinghouse in Minnesota to supermarkets in Buffalo and New Jersey, pulled off the road. The drivers opened the back doors of the trucks and walked away.
When John Hammond heard the news, he was furious. He called in his manager.
“What the hell is going on?” he demanded. “A million and a half dollars’ worth of meat spoiled in the sun. How could that happen?”
“The union called a strike,” the supervisor said.
“Without telling us? What are they striking about? More money?”
The supervisor shrugged. “I don’t know. They didn’t say anything to me. They just walked.”
“Tell the local union guy to come in and see me. I’ll settle it,” Hammond said.
That afternoon the union representative was ushered into Hammond’s office.
“Why wasn’t I told there was going to be a strike?” Hammond demanded.
The representative said, apologetically, “I didn’t know it myself, Mr. Hammond. The men just got mad and walked out. It happened very suddenly.”
“You know I’ve always been a reasonable man to deal with. What is it they want? A raise?”
“No sir. It’s soap.”
Hammond stared at him. “Did you say soap?”
“That’s right. They don’t like the soap you’re using in their bathrooms. It’s too strong.”
Hammond could not believe what he was hearing. “The soap was too strong? And that’s why I lost a million and a half dollars?”
“Don’t blame me,” the foreman said. “It’s the men.”
“Jesus,” Hammond said. “I can’t believe this. What kind of soap would they like—fairy soap?” He slammed his fist on the desk. “The next time the men have any problem, you come to me first. You hear me?”
“Yes, Mr. Hammond.”
“You tell them to get back to work. There will be the best soap money can buy in those washrooms by six o’clock tonight. Is that clear?”
“I’ll tell them, Mr. Hammond.”
John Hammond sat there for a long time fuming. No wonder this country is going to hell, he thought. Soap!
Two weeks later, at noon on a hot day in August, five Hammond Meat packing trucks on their way to deliver meat to Syracuse and Boston pulled off the road. The drivers opened the back doors of the refrigerated trucks and left.
John Hammond got the news at six o’clock that evening.
“What the hell are you talking about?” he screamed. “Didn’t you put in the new soap?”
“I did,” his manager said, “the same day you told me to.”
“Then what the hell is it this time?”
The manager said helplessly, “I don’t know. There haven’t been any complaints. No one said a word to me.”
“Get the goddamned union representative in here.”
At seven o’clock that evening Hammond was talking to the union representative.
“Two million dollars’ worth of meat was ruined this afternoon because of your men,” Hammond screamed. “Have they gone crazy?”
“Do you want me to tell the president of the union you asked that, Mr. Hammond?”
“No, no,” Hammond said quickly. “Look, I’ve never had any problem with you fellows before. If the men want more money, just come to me and we’ll discuss it like reasonable people. How much are they asking for?”