The Indispensable Man

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"He keeps us on the edge of our seats," says one manager, somewhat out of breath.

If you are going to make a company work," says Burton, "it's a matter of internal spirit." External, too, and that is where Burton has really excelled.

Burton's marketing strategy isn't terribly complicated. A born performer, he gets up in the morning and does what comes naturally. It's usually outrageous, it's often expensive, and it's always something that nobody else would ever think of, much less have the nerve to do.

Burton has used an arsenal of gimmicks to keep the Casablanca name alive in the heads of sales reps and dealers. He once rode into a sales meeting on an elephant. At a company sales meeting in Las Vegas, he pulled up in a flashy sports car, and emerged carrying a large radio, accompanied by two female escorts. Once inside, he ignored the proceedings, grabbed some salesmen, and started up a game of craps.

He was always thinking of ways to sell the fans. To draw attention to his belt-driven models, he asked his lawyer's wife -- we repeat, his lawyer's wife -- to power one by pedaling a bicycle. TV cameras showed up, and the exposure brought in about $60,000 worth of orders. Burton wore out the soles of his sneakers. He went to football games and handed out 100,000 hand fans. He gave away T-shirts printed with that immortal line, "Blow Your Wad, Cool Your Bod."

Even in the early days, he furnished dealers with pub signs, big decals, and van decals. Later, there were neon signs and beautiful catalogs. Sure, the blades were less flimsy and the plating was thicker. But with a 50% higher price tag, Casablanca fans were still a hard sell. "We shoved it down the consumer's throat," says Pondant. "They were promoted into buying the product."

Burton's show never ran out of acts. In 1977, in the midst of a truckers' strike, Burton was forced to spend $20,000 for a trailer. Kirby suggested they might want to paint a company logo on it. Hmm. Find out how much it would cost to paint the whole damn thing, Burton asked. When Kirby came back with the answer, about $4,500, Burton didn't even wince. He already sensed that the scheme he was cooking up was worth twice that price. When the painting job was done, the Casablanca logo, in giant swirling brown letters, completely covered both sides of the truck -- and the nine others that Burton soon added.

They looked like circus trucks, and heads turned as they pulled into town. Soon dealers were competing to have the trucks parked in front of their stores each weekend. They staged mini-carnivals. Dealers would sell hot dogs, balloons, T-shirts -- and truckfuls of ceiling fans. It wasn't unusual for a truck to begin the weekend stuffed with about 700 fans and return to headquarters empty on Monday. By then, it was easy to forget that it had all started with a trucking strike.

Casablanca's sales force never knew what to expect. At one point, reps and dealers started grousing about everything from delivery to quality control. How did Burton answer their complaints? He made a movie. He spent $9,000 on a filmed report about the company's progress. In it, Casablanca's quality-control inspector is blind; the company's "scientific delivery schedule" shows employees throwing darts at maps; the "unique, fail-safe" backup accounting system consists of an abacus. Throughout the movie, Burton mispronounces the name of the company.

But, just as Burton had hoped, the dealers didn't forget the name. They remembered the movie or maybe the trucks. How could they forget the annual bashes Casablanca threw for them? More than any of his single stunts, they simply remembered Burton. "All of the dealers associated Burton with Casablanca. It was his flamboyance and creativity they loved," says Pondant. "With them, he was a legend."

He had an acute sense of what his customers wanted, too. Fan models lasted about as long as Burton's attention span. To keep sales reps and suppliers hopping, Burton insisted on introducing new features every year -- in an industry that had quit innovating around 1900. "It was always exciting to see what he would do," says Priscilla Williamson, owner of a San Antonio fan store. His suppliers had trouble keeping up. "He'd bring out a new model before the old model was off the shelf," says Dan Lane, president of Lansco Die Casting. "He's probably eaten some inventory over the years, but the marketplace loves it."

But nothing -- not the flashy entrances, not the movie, not even the yearly floats -- excited the marketplace as much as the railroad.

It was, simply put, a palace on wheels. Two stainless-steel cars, 1940s relics of the New York Central and the Rock Island Line. Refurbished with rosewood paneling, beveled glass, and custom-designed lighting. Fresh linen tablecloths topped with Baccarat crystal and fine china. It was 1979, and Burton could hear the foreign competition starting to chug toward him. He stubbornly refused to cut prices. He had bought the train for himself. But like most of his interests, he would find a way to make it part of Casablanca. "It's pretty easy to sell a customer if you invite him aboard and take him on a trip. You've got a captive audience," says Burton, whose fascination with trains began as a child. "It's a real different way to do it."

Which makes it perfect for Burton. Anywhere Amtrak would let him, he took the train, inviting major customers aboard. Dallas. Boston. Toronto. Priscilla Williamson will never forget the trip she took from San Antonio to New Orleans. The cars were packed, and the crowd was wildly enthusiastic. At one point, Burton turned to her and asked, "Who are all these people?" In Burton's hometown of Pasadena, he painted a warehouse, had a lawn put down, planted flowers, unfurled a red carpet, and stationed security guards all around. There were popcorn vendors and parking valets. He pulled the train right up beside the warehouse, and the public was invited aboard for two days.

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