My introduction to chemical processing had left me dumbfounded. The plant seemed so menacing; the work shocked me. I'm not sure why PMS got to me more than any of the other horrid little places where I had fought against the employees. Maybe it was the obscene contrast between the PMS factory and my Gates Mills estate, which was growing more luxurious by the day. Maybe my increasingly heavy drinking made me more vulnerable emotionally to the sufferings of the PMS crew. Or maybe it worked the other way around: maybe I started drinking more and more during the PMS campaign partly to dull the pangs of guilt about the people I had been hired to beat. I don't know. What I do know is that I found myself feeling sorry for the PMS workers. Every time I saw someone from the factory floor—which I made sure was rarely—felt vaguely sick inside. I had to fight the impulse to tell Timm that it looked to me like the place could use a good union. Yet I never considered throwing the PMS fight; my ego and my lust for money would not allow that. Instead I used my misgivings the way I always used the law, to help me devise a cunning antiunion game plan. It looked as if I were going to have to be especially clever in this one. It seemed to be just a matter of time before the union would be successful.