Chapter 95 - For Sale #3
"They still order."
"Do they pay?"
"Eventually."
"That's not a customer. That's financing."
Rina coughed.
Probably hiding a laugh.
I ignored her.
Then another account.
Ninety days.
Another.
One hundred twenty.
No standardized credit policy.
No deposits for some large corporate jobs because "suki."
Pricing weak.
Collections weaker.
Inventory messy.
Production scheduling apparently done through one whiteboard and memory.
Staff competent enough to keep it alive despite the system.
Oh no.
I knew what was wrong.
I stood.
Immediately.
"Let's inspect the cutter."
Rina looked at me.
She knew.
I could tell she knew.
Do not.
We walked back into production.
Hydraulic cutter.
Older.
Solid.
Well-maintained enough.
Good blade.
Safety features functioning.
I should have been thinking about whether we needed it.
Instead I was looking at the shop.
Four production operators.
Two finishing staff.
Customer service at front.
One admin.
Owner approving almost everything.
Jobs physically transferred through paper folders.
No centralized tracking.
No capacity planning.
No proper receivables discipline.
No SKU-level stock tracking.
No profitability by product.
No formal job costing.
And somehow—
clients.
Actual clients.
Equipment.
Employees who knew the work.
Twenty-plus years of operating history.
Not dead.
Just badly managed.
Fuck.
Rina leaned closer.
"Ma'am."
"No."
"I didn't say anything."
"No."
She looked away.
Smart woman.
Mr. Villanueva joined us.
"If you buy the second printer and cutter, we can give package price."
Good.
Equipment.
Focus.
"How much?"
He told me.
Reasonable.
I negotiated.
Lower.
He countered.
Fine.
Then—
"If you take the binder too—"
"Maybe."
"And if you take the whole shop—"
"No."
He laughed.
"You keep saying no."
"Because I'm here for machines."
"You ask business questions."
That was rude.
Accurate.
Still rude.
"I ask because I'm curious."
Rina looked at the ceiling.
Traitor.
Before leaving, Mr. Villanueva handed me a folder.
"I know you said no."
"I did."
"Take it anyway."
"What is it?"
"Basic numbers. Sales. Expenses. Assets. Client list without confidential details."
I stared.
"No."
"Just look."
"No."
"Then throw it away."
I should have refused.
Instead I took it.
Mistake.
In the car, I put the folder on the back seat.
Far away.
Symbolic.
Rina drove silence for approximately forty seconds.
Then—
"You're going to read it."
"No."
"Okay."
"I want the second printer."
"Okay."
"And maybe the cutter."
"Yes."
"Binder depends."
"Okay."
"That's all."
"Okay."
I looked at her.
"Stop agreeing like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you don't believe me."
She smiled.
"I didn't say anything."
Terrible employee.
At home, I left the folder inside my bag.
Did not open it.
Ate dinner.
Talked to Mama.
Answered one message.
Checked tomorrow's production schedule.
Did not open it.
Showered.
Did not open it.
Got into bed.
Did not open it.
Turned off the light.
Closed my eyes.
Opened them.
Fuck.
Ten minutes later, I was at my desk.
Folder open.
Sales by month.
Payroll.
Rent.
Utilities.
Loan obligations.
Machine list.
Basic payables.
Receivables.
Major client concentration.
Rough material purchases.
Not enough for due diligence.
Enough for a pattern.
I started calculating.
Adjusted bad receivables.
Removed owner withdrawals.
Reconstructed approximate gross margins.
Estimated underpricing.
Estimated wasted purchasing.
Equipment utilization.
Possible staff productivity.
Lease burden.
Debt service.
I made assumptions.
Marked them.
Conservative.
Then—
there it was.
The business was not good.
Important.
It was not secretly brilliant.
Not a hidden gold mine.
It had real problems.
Real debt.
Real operational weakness.
Some equipment was old.
Some clients were bad.
Margins were thin.
Cash flow was ugly.
But underneath—
revenue still existed.
The customer base still existed.
The equipment still produced.
The staff still knew how to print.
The location still had value.
And most of the damage came from things I knew how to change.
Pricing.
Collections.
Job costing.
Scheduling.
Inventory.
Client selection.
Capacity.
Management.
Systems.
I stared at the numbers.
No.
Absolutely not.
I had one healthy company.
Growing fast.
New machines.
Good team.
No reason to absorb someone else's problems.
I closed the folder.
Then opened it again.
Fuck.
At the bottom of my notes, without intending to, I had written:
Fixable.
I stared at the word.
That should not have meant anything.
Plenty of things were fixable.
That did not mean I needed to own them.
Very mature thought.
Correct thought.
Excellent thought.
I underlined it.
Then, beneath it, wrote—
I am not buying this company.
Good.
Clear.
Strong boundary.
I closed the notebook.
Went to bed.
Then spent the next twenty minutes thinking about their receivables policy.
Oh no.