Topics >  Sales and Marketing >  Sales >  Cold Calling > 

48 Hours with the King of Cold Calls

A little charm goes a long way, too. Piola spends a few minutes with each one he meets, tossing a compliment or two, cracking a few jokes. He smiles a lot, which comes naturally. "You've gotta love people to do this job," he says. "And I sincerely do." In the windowless world of the high-rise receptionist, Piola's presence is like sunshine. That makes an impression.

He's much the same each time he meets a potential client. He looks for something to talk about, some common ground. It can be a picture on the office wall, the view, or failing that, something general -- the traffic, sports, the economy. Rarely is he stumped for a topic. "The salesman's job is to find the hot button," he says. "You have to become real to them, because up to that point you are just a business dude. The ice hasn't melted at all. You can get so fancy on sales techniques that you forget to be a nice, regular guy. But that's what sells."

At Two Logan Square, however, he finds no takers. Not one to gnaw on rejection, Piola cuts into another office building. He wanders into more law offices and securities firms. Then, peeking out of the elevator on the 21st floor, he spots some big game -- Sun Refining and Marketing Co., part of giant Sun Co.

Here he finds no human face out front, only locked doors and a card-key entry system. But there's a phone on the wall, and he manages to lure out Larry DeAngelis, the general credit manager. DeAngelis doesn't have much time to chat, but he and Piola exchange cards. When Piola telephones, the next day, DeAngelis agrees to a meeting two weeks later.

Out on the street at noon, Piola blends in easily with the lunchtime business crowd. He's wearing a cashmere topcoat over a double-breasted, blue pin-striped suit. A quiet paisley tie is knotted crisply on a starched white shirt. He always shines his shoes the night before he cold calls, so his wing tips glisten. He has an expensive leather briefcase, cuff links, and an Omega watch.

His outfit is no accident. Collection agencies suffer from a shabby, Columbo-like reputation. Piola knows that and counters it. Cold calling is both an art and a science, he says. It requires a fluent understanding of body language, the ability to talk to people on all levels of workplace society, and above all, a carefully cultivated image.

Today, working Philly's business elite -- "the suits" -- Piola wants to project a conservative, understated look. "People have to buy you before they'll buy your product," he preaches. "They are buying your polish, your conviction, even your grooming. It helps a lot if you look successful. People have to know immediately that you're not some bimbo."

Over lunch at the Corned Beef Academy, Piola recounts a war story -- his recent cold-calling conquest of Pittsburgh National Bank (PNB). He'd flown to Pittsburgh to service an account at Mellon Bank; NCO collects its delinquent credit-card debts. The appointment ended early, leaving a few hours to kill. So Piola walked into PNB and scanned the directory. He found the name of the VP for credit policy. Let's call him Ted.

"I go up -- I'm now on the top floor of the bank," Piola says. "I ask the receptionist where I can find Ted. I've just missed him, but she buzzes me into the executive area to see his secretary. The glass door opens, and I walk down this hallway with Persian rugs and mahogany paneling, to Ted's office."

It turns out that he's not the person to see. Neither are the next two people Piola is referred to. "Meanwhile," he says, "I'm walking around this place like I own the bank -- you need to feel that way when you cold call. You can't be intimidated."

Finally, he finds the vice-president in charge of the whole recovery department. She won't see him without an appointment, or so he's been told. But after hearing what NCO does, she ushers him into her office. "I was there for an hour," Piola marvels. "We talked about everything, even philosophy. She slaps me on the back when I leave and writes down the name of the guy I needed to call."

The upshot: PNB gives him some $350,000 of sour consumer loans to collect, on a one-third contingency basis. That works out to about $115,000 for NCO.

"It blows my mind," Piola says. "At 11 o'clock I was outside on the street. Five minutes later I'm in the sanctum sanctorum of one of the country's 20 biggest banks. It shows you that this interference thing is just a head trip."

This day in Philadelphia yields no such luck. On the last of 25 calls, he takes a wild stab at the regional headquarters of the Internal Revenue Service. "People owe it money, right?" he says. The commissioner, however, declines to be seen.

* * *

Early the next morning Piola guns his Mercedes back into the city. First stop, a car wash. Part of the "aura" of cold calling, he explains, is feeling good about yourself. And that goes for your car, your socks, and your tie. "You don't want any irritations," he says. "Maybe I'm being picayune, but all these little glitches that bother you during the day can crimp your performance when you get that 30-second shot in front of the right person. If my socks keep falling down or I don't like the tie I'm wearing, I'll go buy new ones."

Maybe clothes are on his mind, for his first call is on Nan Duskin, an upscale women's clothing store on Rittenhouse Square. He already has the account; he just wants to touch base with Larry Gustison, the vice-president and chief financial officer. Gustison is busy, but he waves Piola in.