The Indispensable Man

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By 1975, Casablanca was selling around $1 million in fans. A year later, sales soared to $7 million, and Casablanca was a major player in the industry. Demand became so crushing that Burton had to build a 12,000-square-foot, 24-foot-high warehouse in 90 days. By 1980, with sales at nearly $42 million, Casablanca had spilled into 10 buildings in Pasadena. "We almost fell into the fan business," says Thomas Frampton. "Then sales wouldn't stop climbing."

Frampton was a self-described "16-year-old high-school flunkie" when he answered an ad posted at a local college. He went to the address, which turned out to be next to the train station. Inside, Frampton found "an energetic man" tinkering amidst "a museum of things." That day in 1973, Frampton became Burton's first employee.

Burton never considered himself a businessman, and he did not want to manage the company. To run it, he wanted someone he could talk to and "a person who could get things done." His own interest was mostly in promoting the company. "I guess there's a little P. T. Barnum in all of us," he says.

Burton might very well have hired a lion tamer, given his idiosyncratic way of identifying executive talent. Consider George Watson. Like Burton, Watson had owned a small machine shop. They had known one another for about 25 years, but Watson had recently retired. "There are some opportunities here," Burton told Watson over the phone. "I need a guy up here who I can trust." Sorry, Watson said, my working days are over. "Listen," Burton appealed, "I need a guy with your good instincts and command and respect for people." Watson finally agreed to serve as a consultant three days a week.

After a few months, Burton asked him again. But I'm 70 years old, Watson complained, and my knees hurt so much I can barely walk. Burton bought him an electric golf cart, and Watson "was soon there six days a week. He was the right guy for the moment," says Burton.

Walt Kirby's moment came one day in 1977, although he seemed an unpredictable choice as well. Burton had met Kirby some 20 years back. Now, he called Kirby to ask his advice about a trucking strike that made it difficult to ship Casablanca's fans. Kirby, who once had been a trucker, told Burton to rent an 18-wheel trailer. I'll be there in a few days with a tractor to pull it, he said. He was clearly someone who got things done, so Burton offered him the job of transportation manager.

As he brought managers aboard, Burton had to learn to let them manage. At first, he tended to interfere. He might pull workers off a production line and, using skills honed in the Marine Corps, organize them to clean the grounds. Watson put his foot down. "It's your money and it's your show," the elderly man would declare. "But we have got to talk. Unless we talk, you don't need me." One task Burton absolutely refused to delegate, however, was "mail scrutiny," as he calls it. "The mail," Burton insists, "is the heartbeat of your operation." If something got out of sync, Burton says he could tell by looking at bills, reading letters from customers, or examining invoices.

While not a manager, Burton cherished his role as chief motivator. In Casablanca's early days, he had periodically handed employees $50 bills; he later instituted quarterly profit-based bonuses. He insisted on giving them out himself.

He was also an ardent practitioner of management by walking -- and wheeling -- around. From the start, he walked through the factory twice a day, noticing everything from poorly stacked castings to blocked fire exits. In 1980, the company moved into new quarters just east of Los Angeles. To navigate the 200 yards between the company's two main buildings, Burton bought himself a fat-tire bicycle. He also bought a couple of them for his managers.

As the company grew, Burton's means of motivating took more and more unusual forms. Burton ensured that "there was no such thing as dullsville at Casablanca," says Kirby. One day in 1979, Burton drove in behind the wheel of a 1965 Ford station wagon. Look what I bought, he told Kirby. What are you going to do with that? Kirby asked. Burton wasn't sure, but a minute later he suggested they raffle it off. He wasn't fazed when Kirby collected more than $1,000; he simply added more prizes and $200 in gasoline. The man who won the car "had tears in his eyes," Kirby recalls. Then there were the Thursdays when Burton would decide that the company should host a picnic the following Sunday. "My game is to get everybody to play," says Burton, "to keep their spirits up."

If that means improving the working environment, he'll do that, too. One morning he decided the factory parking lot was "too sterile" and needed trees. Within hours, the concrete cutters were on their way, as were the trees. Burton was off to Europe, but he called in every six hours. How are the trees? Are they getting enough light? Another day, he decided that workers on a new paint line had to walk too far to the bathroom. Since there was no sewer nearby, Burton decided on the spot to spend about $10,000 to buy and install the plumbing and an extrusion pump that would push the sewage 250 feet up, across the ceiling, and to a waiting sewer. He had it done within five days.

Company executives got the Burton Burton treatment as well. Without warning, he grabbed some of his managers and piled them into his car. Where are we going? one passenger asked. To see giant earth movers I noticed on the way to work, Burton replied. Once, on the spur of the moment, he took his managers along on a test ride in a Gulfstream III jet. First, they stopped to pick up an old friend. Then they flew to Seattle to visit a favorite account. When nobody was there, Burton insisted they rent a car and take a ferry to an island he wanted to see. After that, they grabbed a sandwich and returned to Casablanca. Another time, Burton interrupted a meeting to show off the boa constrictor he'd found on his car that morning.

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