Weingartner began to learn the business--fast. He became trained in the crucial estimating tool--unit-cost pricing, a standardized system in the contracting trade that assigns a fixed dollar value to the installation of every piece of material --and sharpened his eye to discern which jobs were worth taking and which adjusters were worth courting. Even though adjusters can't assign the work directly, they can suggest a contractor, and since most homeowners and small-business owners have never seen their life's investment destroyed before, they have no idea whom to call. "The adjusters have to avoid any kind of collusion with contractors because it could look like they're conspiring against their clients, the property owners," Weingartner explains. "But the adjusters run the show."
Weingartner also learned that disaster contractors have three types and two fates: There are the lightweight mom-and-pops who do residential drying and small rebuilding, usually making $1,500 to $3,000 a job; then come the middleweights that focus on the $10,000 to $20,000 residential and small corporate jobs; and finally, the bruisers like multinational Belfor and franchiser ServPro, which handle the big corporate jobs. But there is no stasis: You either move up a weight class or one of the big boys will eventually buy you out or drive you out.
So Weingartner quickly expanded to three locations, operating from strength in the areas he knew well: the pricey suburbs of West Chester, Pa.; the dense corporate downtown of Wilmington, Del.; and the wind-lashed beachfronts of Ocean City, Md. In 2004, he convinced a father and son to invest $1 million so he could take the next big step: setting up a catastrophic response team in DeLand, Fla., right on the fringes of the hurricane zone.
He managed to hire some seasoned young hands, like Jamie Moore, a savvy construction salesman who became director of business development, and Barry Hillebrand, who'd worked for years as a stormchaser for one of Dynamic's big rivals (he'd rather not say which).
With his team in place, Weingartner was nicely positioned for the 2004 hurricane season, which thanks to Frances and Jeanne turned out to be a doozy. Dynamic became skilled at working in the eeriness of a dark, dead city, with no traffic lights, people, gas, or food. And it began billing a lot of money--it grew 326% from 2001 to 2004 and earned $11.4 million last year to place No. 434 on this year's Inc. 500--but took some lumps. One of the worst was when Weingartner got overly eager and agreed to rebuild two condo developments for $2.9 million without getting any money up front. One year later, the homeowners' association still hasn't paid. It's now costing Weingartner $300 an hour in legal fees to shake the money out of them.
Catastrophic is the way to go," says Ed Weingartner. "You can earn $12 million to $20 million on one hurricane, easy."
"Still, catastrophic is the way to go," he believes. A good year for one of his regional offices will bring in $2 million--about 40 jobs--so the total for his three locations is less than $6 million. But chasing hurricanes is far more lucrative than that. "I can make 10 times that with catastrophic," he says. "You can earn $12 million to $20 million on one hurricane, easy, and make such a name for yourself, you're either set for work or bought out."
Or you can blow it all. "Man, you read the storm warnings wrong, and you can be too far out of the action or too deep in it," he frets. "You can be dropping thousands of dollars on hotel rooms and be four cities away, or reserve tons of equipment and have nothing to do with it."
By the time the winds started swirling off the Gulf Coast in August, Dynamic Restoration was mobilizing for its biggest test.
Soon after we sneak through the blockade, Hillebrand stops the truck. The three of us stare in awe.
The road is cratered and buckled so badly it could have been pelted by comets. Gigantic dunes of torn timber and crushed appliances rise on either side of the cracked street; what was once a residential neighborhood has been smashed down to its component parts--raw wood, twisted aluminum, shattered cinder block--then shoved by the wall of water into long, tidy heaps, as if the whiskbroom of God would be by presently to sweep up.
Hillebrand creeps the truck down the road, snaking slowly between crevasses so he'll be able to burn rubber if he feels the asphalt collapsing beneath us--or so we hope. We've got the windows up tight, to minimize the stench of raw sewage from the broken sewer main that has been pulled up like a weed and heaved against the snarled trunks of uprooted oaks. Two police on horseback are picking their way slowly over the rubble of a collapsed condo, looking for signs of life. A camouflaged Humvee rumbles along the sandy coastline, while Army Chinook choppers thump by overhead.
This isn't the first firepower Hillebrand has faced in his career, and it won't be the last of the day. Guns seem to be bristling from the rubble. Hundreds of mercenaries have reportedly been choppered into New Orleans to guard evacuated mansions and company headquarters. These aren't standard-issue security guards; for this job, private military companies like Blackwater, which works in Baghdad, and Israeli-trained ISI have been brought in, M16s in hand. In Gulfport, warnings are sprayed everywhere in menacing black paint: "Trespassers Will Be Met at Gunpoint," "This Was My House! The One Thing I Got Left Is My Gun. Stay Away!" "You Loot, We Shoot."
It's easy to see why the government set up a checkpoint. "Way-ull, ah told the man the truth," Hillebrand drawls. "Just depends what you mean by 'emergency response."
He sounds like a wise old hand with his hominy 'n' grits accent and gospel-style exclamations, so it's a surprise to realize he's only 41 and not even showing the stress of hard miles in his lank brown hair and well-tended belly roll. Weingartner, meanwhile, looks like the assistant coach of every high school football team in America, with his dark cropped hair and clean Dynamic polo shirt tucked neatly into his crisp khakis. They're equally intense but pace their energy very differently: Weingartner is all intensity, all the time, while Hillebrand seems to amble along until it's time for action. "Barry lives for the belly of the beast," Weingartner says. "He likes to get into a storm zone when the trees are still flying."
