48 Hours with the King of Cold Calls  By: Jay Finegan

A salesman par excellence talks about the rewards of cold calls.

The marketing sophisticates say cold calling is dead -- that it's too
expensive, too untargeted, and too ineffective to pay off. Chuck Piola,
15,000 cold calls and one fast-growing company later, disagrees
Center City Philadelphia on a raw winter morning. Chuck Piola bursts out of
his black Mercedes singing in full throat (this time it's the Drifters tune
"Under the Boardwalk," handled off-key but with feeling) and scans a cluster
of skyscrapers. He points to a building with particularly striking
architecture. "Let's try that one," he says.

It's the Bell Atlantic Tower, 52 stories tall. He strides quickly through
the lobby, carefully avoiding eye contact with the security guards. In the
elevator he glances at the buttons and pushes 40, a shot in the dark. The
elevator rises, and Piola pops out. Straight ahead is a law firm he's never
heard of before.

"I wonder if you could help me out?" he asks the receptionist, opening with
his favorite line. "I represent NCO Financial Systems. We specialize in
discreet recovery work for companies having trouble collecting receivables.
Our clients include Bell Atlantic, a lot of doctors and hospitals, and even
the Philadelphia 76ers. I happened to be in your building, and I wondered if
I might see whichever partner handles your finances." His tone is upbeat and
cordial.

The receptionist, polite but skeptical of unannounced visitors, gives him
the once-over. He seems to pass. "That would be Mr. L.," she says. She
points to an inside line. "You can use the phone back there." Alas, Mr. L.
is not available. Piola thanks the receptionist and leaves a business card.
By the elevator, a tall gentleman is meticulously fitting wraparound glasses
behind his ears. A detail man, notes Piola as he strikes up a conversation.
"Beautiful offices," he remarks. "Are you with the firm?" The man is.
"Arthur Newbold," he says, extending his hand.

At a glance, Piola notices that Newbold's shoes are unshined and his slacks
pressed carelessly if at all. Either a nobody, Piola thinks, or someone so
high up that he's past the $900 suits, all the show. Piola decides it's the
latter and again makes his familiar pitch. At the end he mentions Mr. L.
"No, no," says Newbold. "The person you want is Rich Rizzo. He'd handle
that."

Piola thanks him and returns to the front desk with the new information.
Newbold, it turns out, is a partner, and the receptionist sits up a little
straighter at the mention of his name. She cheerfully provides Rizzo's
number and again offers the inside phone. Rizzo picks up, and, yes, he is
interested in learning about NCO Financial. But today is impossible, he
tells Piola. They agree to an appointment two days hence.
"Bingo!" says Piola. The first cold call of the day, and already things are
looking good. The 400-lawyer firm has millions of dollars' worth of
outstanding fees, and Rizzo is the partner who handles finance.
* * *

True cold calling -- the face-to-face pursuit of unqualified prospects --
has long carried a whiff of the unseemly. But today it is in complete
disrepute. By some estimates, a single industrial sales call now costs $400
or more, what with travel expenses, support costs, pay, and benefits. Few
companies want to risk that outlay on a crapshoot, so they equip their reps
with leads generated by telemarketing, direct mail, and trade shows.
"The days of sending a foot soldier out in the field to randomly call to
qualify are over," says Gary Hultgren, director of sales training at Moore
Business Forms, a $2.5-billion company in Lake Forest, Ill. "Cold calling
has almost become a dirty word because of the economics. I don't see how
anybody does it anymore."

Gary Hultgren, meet Chuck Piola. In a 15-year sales career dating back to
when he sold phone-directory advertising door-to-door, the former high
school history teacher estimates he's made some 15,000 cold calls. He
thrives on "going in raw," as he puts it, taking the business to the street.
In 1986 he teamed up with Michael Barrist to revive NCO Financial Systems
Inc., a collection agency started by Barrist's grandfather in 1926. Today,
with 63 employees, they operate from a sprawling suite of offices in Blue
Bell, Pa., near Philadelphia. Their client base -- 64 when Piola started --
has reached 1,700. Their computer-directed machines generate some 120,000
collection letters each month. And NCO's billings have reached $3.5 million
a year, growing so fast that the company has made the Inc. 500 three years
running.

Piola, the executive vice-president, heads a sales staff of six. And he
credits the company's rapid rise not to some highfalutin marketing system
but to old-fashioned shoe leather -- walking in doors and telling his story.
Sure, he's heard that cold calls aren't cost-effective; he just doesn't
believe it. "Some accounting operation crunched those numbers," he says,
dismissing the point as though waving away the merest gnat. What the bean
counters ignore, he contends, is the multiplier effect. "When you cold call,
you maximize your opportunities. You meet people. You can thread a sale from
one person to another, and you never know where it's going to lead."
On this day -- the first of two he's set aside to work Philadelphia's
high-rent district -- it has already led to Rich Rizzo. Piola says he never
would have reached him through direct mail or telemarketing. Rizzo took the
call, Piola says, because he mentioned Arthur Newbold.
"You've got to put yourself in a position to meet somebody who'll be
receptive, and that won't happen unless you see people," he explains. "The
goal of the cold call is to get the appointment. You have to at least get up
to bat."

Back on the street now, he darts into Two Logan Square, another tower.
In an hour he works his way down the building, hitting 10 companies -- law
firms, insurance outfits, ad agencies, investment banks. At each stop, of
course, receptionists protect the entrance. Getting past them on the phone
can be tough -- that's their power base. But face-to-face cold calls are
rare enough now that this defensive perimeter is easily penetrated. "Nobody
knows how to handle cold calls anymore," Piola says. "I get through because
there's no system to stop me."

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.
"Chuck can always see me," Gustison says. "But as a rule I hate cold calls.
It's rude to think you can just come in and take time, especially if you
don't know the person."

Piola chews on those words as he drives across town to Wills Eye Hospital.
"Larry's right," he says. "You don't want to fight people, you want to sell
them. And he's very busy, which is unusual. I think most people go to work
wondering what they're going to do for lunch. So I don't buy this business
that nobody can see you without an appointment."

On a good day, Piola can make 30 cold calls, do three or four presentations,
and schedule an appointment or two. He operates on "the assumptive." His
attitude is that people want to see him -- or would if only they knew his
business. "We're talking about management of accounts receivable, which can
be a nightmare."

Cold calling his way through the hospital now, leaving cards everywhere, he
encounters, by chance, Ruth Humm. She's been in the medical management field
for 15 years, and Piola has worked with her before. She's glad to see him.
"Chuck always has some good jokes," she says.

Humm is new to her job managing an ocular-oncology practice, and assumed
Piola had a contract with it already -- 70% of NCO's client base is medical.
Since he's here, however, she does have one thing: a New Jersey man, already
reimbursed by his insurer, has stubbornly refused to pay the eye surgeon.
Piola warms to the challenge. "After four or five months in our system he's
going to get 45 or 50 attempts," he says. "We'll send letters; we'll do
skip-tracing; we'll get a neighbor to tell us where he works and go after
him there." Humm seems pleased. "Our secretary here is the first bulldog,"
she says, "but Chuck is the Great Dane with the louder bark." She hands him
the file and signs a contingency contract. It's a $2,800 account.

That's small beer compared with his final quarry of the day -- Independence
Blue Cross, a monster insurance company. Like most, it has unpaid premiums,
overpaid claims, and the like. A few months earlier Piola had left an NCO
brochure for John Foos, the chief financial officer. Now, driving over, he
gets on the car phone to a secretary he met that day. It's not Foos he
wants, she says. It's someone named Tom Ford, the manager of corporate cash.
"Manager of corporate cash," Piola muses over the phone. "Nice title." The
secretary chuckles.
Minutes later, he's on the 40th floor, executive real estate at the Blue
Cross headquarters. Tom is not the guy to see, either, Piola learns, and he
gets another name. He hits one blind alley and then another. Eventually,
he's directed to Rosemary Park, senior VP of the risk-management division,
down on 41. Yes, indeed, Park says, she is very interested in a
presentation. They set a date.

What probably influenced her, Piola reflects later over a Dewar's and water,
is that he had started at the top, with John Foos. "His name counts
everywhere in that building. The fact that I had never even talked to him
didn't matter. I'd paid my dues because I had tried to see him, and then
using his name was like hard currency around there."
* * *

In the end, however, Rosemary Park canceled the meeting, saying something
had come up. Rich Rizzo at the law firm kept his appointment, but nothing
came of it. Oddly enough, it was Larry DeAngelis at Sun Refining and
Marketing who provided the most promising breakthrough of those two days.
"Chuck is the only person who has ever made a personal call on me for that
kind of service," DeAngelis says. "I was impressed."

The business he gave NCO wasn't large -- two corporate collection accounts
totaling less than $10,000. But as Piola sees it, it could be the start of
something big. "What turns me on is that a small company like mine was
actually able to go in and do a deal with a Fortune 50 company like Sun," he
says. "And it happened on a cold call."

TIPS FROM A MASTER
After 15 years of 'going in raw,' Chuck Piola shares his thoughts
The best time to reach a decision maker is early in the morning or late in
the day. "Try to catch people on their way into the office, before the
secretary arrives. That minimizes interference."

Piola's favorite opening line: "I wonder if you can help me out?" "
Everybody likes to help," says Piola. "Put people in that posture right
away."

Almost any business could successfully use cold calls. "If I had a cleaning
business, I'd cold call apartment houses, industrial complexes. You don't
know what won't work if you don't try it."

The multiplier effect: "Cold calling maximizes your contacts. You meet
people -- in the elevator, the hallway, the reception area. Everybody you
see is a resource."

Multiplier-effect corollary: "Never assume the person you're talking to
isn't the decision maker."

How do you get people to see you? "If you walk in the door and are a breath
of fresh air for them, you're not an infringement on their time. They'll
make room for you."
Even in slow times, stay consistent. "You might cold call for three weeks
with no results, but you'd better make your calls that fourth week as good
as when you started. If you don't, prospects will feel it."
"You can't take rejection personally. Nothing should bother you."
"You have to come up with a reason for someone to see you, and you usually
have 20 or 30 seconds to do it, so be ready to think fast. If you're getting
shot down, find something that will go 'click' and get a 'yeah, maybe'
response. Then ask for the appointment right away: 'Would Tuesday be OK, or
would Wednesday be better?' Go on the assumptive."

Published June 1991