The Indispensable Man

 

In total, Burton spent about $1 million refurbishing the railroad cars and some $300,000 on the trips -- at a time when the company's annual sales hovered at around $40 million. "It had a lot more value than a major advertising campaign that comes and goes," he maintains. "You might consider the train a distraction or self-serving, but we got a lot of mileage out of it in terms of publicity." Consumers read the write-ups in their local papers. Dealers, he says, still remember him as "the guy who took us aboard the train."

With the train parked, Burton's ride had come to an end in more ways than one. One colleague suggests that Burton feared he could not top himself. In any case, he began to think that "I had accomplished a lot of the goals I had hoped for." In 1981, the company generated revenues of nearly $50 million, with aftertax profits of 21%. Casablanca was sitting on about $6 million in cash, around $15 million in receivables, no debt, and no payables.

Burton started entertaining buyout offers. The most promising one came from a Milwaukee-based holding company. Executives from Farm House Foods Corp. met Burton and gasped when they saw the financials. You can actually maintain these margins making fans against the Taiwanese? In August of that year, the company paid Burton $30 million cash for Casablanca Fan -- roughly twice its net book value. Like consumers who bought Casablanca fans, Farm House was paying a premium for Burton's style. "No matter where the fan business went, Burton's ability in home furnishings was virtually a sure thing," says Richard Fisher, who cofounded Farm House in 1970.

The day before the sale was official, Casablanca hosted a Halloween party for dealers in its new Dallas warehouse. During the evening, Elaine Pondant, who was then regional sales manager, walked into her office and found Burton sitting at her desk. He looked glum. "I feel like my bady's all grown up, and now it's gone," he moaned. Why did I sell it? Was it the right thing to do? Then he got up and walked over to her. He slipped a check into her palm. Pondant felt dizzy. The check was made out in her name, and there were six figures on it. Thanks for all your help, Burton said.

Not long after, Burton invited George Watson to lunch. When Watson sat down, he found the appetizer most appealing: a check for $1 million was resting on his plate.

A bit later, Burton stopped by the desk of Max Van Dordrecht, Casablanca's president and chief negotiator of the deal. You type? Burton asked. Well, why don't you type out a check for yourself?

Make it . . . oh . . . why don't you make it for $2 million?

I'll be forever grateful to the man," says Van Dordrecht. It's understandable if Burton does not reciprocate those feelings. About a year after the sale, Van Dordrecht asked Farm House to name him chairman of Casablanca. Though Farm House had paid dearly for Burton's marketing magic, it agreed. Burton, who had planned to remain actively involved after the sale, didn't mind stepping aside. "I wanted to see if it could run without me," he says. Burton kept the title of chairman emeritus but did little more than open the mail. Missing center stage, he turned his creative energy to building Villa Casablanca, a $5-million mansion with its own railroad and 18 differently shaped rooms.

Casablanca did run without Burton -- right off the track. "Under Max's direction, it was just another company," says Frampton. "It didn't have the flavor and character that it had had." As soon as he could, Van Dordrecht sold the train. "It had served its purpose," he says sternly. Many of Burton's publicity schemes -- like his annual Rose Bowl floats -- were shunted aside because, Van Dordrecht claims, "they had outlived their usefulness." Van Dordrecht replaced them with routine promotions, like truckload sales and T-shirts. Burton's suggestions were, by and large, ignored.

Burton's nonconformity had spawned and fueled Casablanca's unconventional strategy. Van Dordrecht paid lip service to keeping the company innovative and "setting up first-class dealerships across the country." But he didn't add value to the fans the way Burton had. "One fan is a very much like another," says Peter Wulff, editor of Home Lighting & Accessories magazine. "But with Casablanca, you've got the perception of quality." Under Van Dordrecht, that perception grew fuzzy. It didn't seem as if there were any reason for dealers to push the high-priced fans or for consumers to buy them. The company's aura dissolved quickly. "Things got pretty quiet and really, pretty dull," admits Fisher. Employees started leaving. "With all the employees, it was 'Burton Burton," recalls Von Dordrecht. "If they think about Casablanca, people always think about Burton Burton. I am who I am."

Dealers and suppliers also grew alienated. "They brought a few new things out, but not with the flair and style that Burton brings to it," says Lane. It wasn't just a question of promotion. Van Dordrecht didn't share Burton's eye for new products, either. There was, for instance, a new five-speed fan nicknamed "The Boomerang" because it came back for repairs so often. And then there was the "Liberty Fan," a model tied to the Statue of Liberty anniversary. That was scrapped, but only after Van Dordrecht spent about $200,000 on tooling. Some dealers considered dropping Casablanca entirely. "When Burton stepped away, it was all over," says Pondant. "The dealers started feeling that there was nothing left." What was missing? "Burton's personality wasn't showing up as much," offers Kirby. Without him, Casablanca had nothing distinctive to offer. It wasn't an entertainment company anymore, just another light manufacturer. Farm House didn't seem to understand that difference.

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