Authors: Nelson DeMille
The Gold Coast (7 page)
“Anyway,’’ I continued, “here’s the kicker. On the back of the certificates, there is the following legend: ‘Attached share for share is an equal number of shares of Amerex Corp.’ ’’ I shrugged to show him I didn’t know what that meant, and I really didn’t.
Lester rose a few inches in his club chair. “Amerex is now American Express, a nothing company then. It says that?”
“Yes.’’ Even I was a little excited by this news.
Lester said, “American Express is thirty-three and a half at today’s close. That means . . .”
I could see the mainframe computer between Lester’s ears blinking, and he said, “That’s one million, six hundred and seventy-five thousand. For American Express. Chase Manhattan was thirty-four and a quarter at the close. . . .’’ Lester closed his eyes, furrowed his brow, and his mouth opened with the news: “That’s one million, seven hundred and twelve thousand, five hundred.”
Lester never says “dollars.’’ No one around here ever says “dollars.’’ I suppose if you worship money, then like an ancient Hebrew who may not pronounce the name of God, no one in this temple will ever pronounce the word
dollars.
I asked, “So these shares are good front and back?”
dollars.
I asked, “So these shares are good front and back?”
“I can’t verify that without examining them, but it sounds as if they are. And, of course, the figures I gave you don’t take into account all the stock splits since 1929. We could be talking about ten, maybe ten point five.”
This means ten or ten and a half million. That means dollars. This was indeed good news to my client who didn’t need the money anyway. I said, “That will make the widow happy.”
“Has she been collecting dividends on these stocks?”
“I don’t know. But I’m handling her deceased husband’s estate, so I’ll know that as I wade through the paperwork.”
Lester nodded thoughtfully and said, “If for some reason Chase or American Express lost touch with these people over the years, there could also be a small fortune in accrued dividends.”
I nodded. “My client is vague. You know how some of these old dowagers are.”
“Indeed, I do,’’ said Lester. “I’d be happy to send the information to my research department for verification. If you’ll just send me photostats of the certificates, front and back, I’ll let you know how many times each company’s shares have split, what they’re worth today, and let you know if Chase or American Express is looking for your client so they can pay her dividends.”
“Would you? That would be very helpful.”
“The shares ought to be examined and authenticated, and they should really be turned in for new certificates. Or better yet, let a brokerage house hold the new certificates in an account. No need to have that kind of money lying around. I’m surprised they’ve survived over sixty years already without mishap.”
“That sounds like good advice. I’d like to open an account with you on behalf of my client.”
“Of course. Why don’t you bring the actual certificates to my office on Monday? And bring your client along if you can. I’ll need her to sign some papers, and I’ll need the pertinent information from the estate establishing her ownership as beneficiary and all that.”
“Better yet, why don’t you come to my office after the close? Monday, four-thirty.”
“Certainly. Where are the shares now?”
“In my vault,’’ I replied, “and I don’t want them there.”
Lester thought a moment, then smiled. “You know, John, as the attorney handling the estate, you could conceivably turn those shares into cash.”
“Now why would I want to do that?”
Lester forced a laugh. “Let me handle the transaction, and we’ll split about ten million.’’ He laughed again to show he was joking. Ha, ha, ha. I replied, “Even by today’s Wall Street standards, that might be construed as unethical.’’ I smiled to show I was sharing Lester’s little joke, and Lester smiled back, but I could see he was thinking about what he’d do with ten million in his vault over the weekend. Lester wouldn’t give it to the cats.
After a few more minutes of this, Randall and Martin joined our conversation, and the subject turned to golf, tennis, shooting, and sailing. In most of America that Friday night, in every pub and saloon, the sports under discussion were football, baseball, and basketball, but to the best of my knowledge no one here has yet had the courage to say, “Hey! How about those Mets?”
Other taboo subjects include the usual—religion, politics, and sex, though it doesn’t say this in the bylaws. And while we’re on the subject of sex, Beryl Carlisle, who was sitting with her pompous ass of a husband, caught my eye and smiled. Lester and Randall saw it but did not say something like, “Hey, Johnny boy, that broad is hot for your tool,’’ as you might expect men to say in a bar. On the contrary, they let the incident pass without even a knowing glance. Lester was going on about the damned skeet shooting again, but my mind was on Beryl Carlisle and the pros and cons of adultery.
“John?”
I looked at Randall Potter. “Huh?”
“I said, Lester tells me you actually met Frank Bellarosa.”
Apparently someone had changed the subject during my mental absence. I cleared my throat. “Yes . . . I did. Very briefly. At Hicks’ Nursery.”
“Nice chap?”
I glanced at Lester, who refused to look me in the eye and acknowledge that he had a big mouth.
I replied to Randall Potter, “‘Polite’ might be a better word.”
Martin Vandermeer leaned toward me. Martin is a direct descendant of an original old Knickerbocker family and is the type of man who would like to remind us Anglo-Saxons that his ancestors greeted the first boatload of Englishmen in New Amsterdam Harbor with cannon fire. Martin asked, “Polite in what way, John?”
“Well, perhaps, ‘respectful’ is a better word,’’ I replied, searching my mental thesaurus and stretching my credibility.
Martin Vandermeer nodded in his ponderous Dutch manner.
I don’t want to give the impression that I’m cowed by these people; in fact, they’re often cowed by me. It’s just that when you make a faux pas, I mean really blow it, like saying a Mafia don is a nice chap and suggesting that you would rather have him as a neighbor than a hundred Lester Remsens, well then, you’ve got to clarify what you meant. Politicians do it all the time. Anyway, I didn’t know what these three were so unhappy about; I was the one who had to live next door to Frank Bellarosa.
Randall asked me, with real interest, “Did he have any bodyguards with him?”
“Actually, now that you mention it, he had a driver who put his purchases in the trunk. Black Cadillac,’’ I added with a little smirk to show what I thought of black Cadillacs.
Martin wondered aloud, “Do these people go about armed?”
I think I had become the club expert on the Mafia, so I answered, “Not the dons. Not usually. They don’t want trouble with the police.”
Randall said, “But didn’t Bellarosa kill a Colombian drug dealer some months ago?”
On the other hand, I didn’t want to sound like a Mafia groupie, so I shrugged. “I don’t know.’’ But in fact I recall the news stories back in January, I think, because it struck me at the time that a man as highly placed as Bellarosa would have to be insane to personally commit a murder.
Lester wanted to know, “What do you suppose he was doing at Hicks’?”
“Maybe he works there on weekends,’’ I suggested. This got a little chuckle out of everyone, and we ordered another round. I wanted desperately to turn my head toward Beryl Carlisle again, but I knew I couldn’t get away with it a second time.
Martin’s wife, Pauline, showed up and stood at the door near the bar, trying to get his attention by flapping her arms like a windmill. Martin finally noticed and lifted his great roast beef of a body, then ambled over to his wife.
Randall then excused himself to talk to his son-in-law. Lester Remsen and I sat in silence a moment, then I said, “Susan tells me I made an unfortunate remark last Sunday, and if I did, I want you to know it was unintentional.’’ This is the Wasp equivalent of an apology. If it’s worded just right, it leaves some doubt that you think
any
apology is required.
any
apology is required.
Lester waved his hand in dismissal. “Never mind that. Did you get a chance to look at Meudon?”
This is the Wasp equivalent of “I fully accept your halfhearted apology.’’ I replied to Lester, “Yes, I took the Bronco over the acreage just this morning. I haven’t seen it in years, and it’s quite overgrown, but the specimen trees are in remarkably good shape.”
We spoke about Meudon for a while. Lester, you should understand, is no nature nut in the true sense, and neither are most of his friends and my neighbors. But, as I said, they’ve discovered that nature nuts can be useful to achieve their own ends, which is to preserve their lifestyle. This has resulted in an odd coalition of gentry and students, rich estate owners, and middle-class people. I am both gentry and nature nut and am therefore invaluable.
Lester proclaimed, “I don’t want fifty two-million-dollar tractor sheds in my backyard.”
That’s what Lester calls contemporary homes: tractor sheds. I nodded in sympathy.
He asked, “Can’t we get Meudon rezoned for twenty-acre plots?”
“Maybe. We have to wait until the developer files his environmental impact statement.”
“All right. We’ll keep an eye on that. What’s the story with your place?”
Stanhope Hall, as you know, is not my place, but Lester was being both polite and nosey. I replied, “There are no takers for the whole two hundred acres with the house as a single estate, and no takers for the house with ten surrounding acres. I’ve advertised it both ways.”
Lester nodded in understanding. The future of Stanhope Hall, the main house, is uncertain. A house that size, you understand, may be someone’s dream palace, but even an Arab sheik at today’s crude oil prices would have a hard time maintaining and staffing a place that’s as big as a medium-size hotel.
Lester said, “It’s such a beautiful house. Got an award, didn’t it?”
“Several.
Town & Country
noted it best American house of the year when it was built in 1906. But times change.’’ The other option was to tear the place down, as Meudon Palace had been torn down. This would force the tax authorities to reassess the property as undeveloped land. The guesthouse is Susan’s, and we pay separate tax rates on that, and the gatehouse where the Allards live is theoretically protected by Grandfather Stanhope’s will.
Town & Country
noted it best American house of the year when it was built in 1906. But times change.’’ The other option was to tear the place down, as Meudon Palace had been torn down. This would force the tax authorities to reassess the property as undeveloped land. The guesthouse is Susan’s, and we pay separate tax rates on that, and the gatehouse where the Allards live is theoretically protected by Grandfather Stanhope’s will.
Lester said, “What sort of people seem interested in the house?”
“The sort who think five hundred thousand sounds good for a fifty-room house.’’ That’s what I’m trying to get for it with ten acres attached. The irony is that it cost five million dollars in 1906 to construct. That’s about twenty-five million of today’s dollars. Aside from any aesthetic considerations about tearing down Stanhope Hall, my frugal father-in-law, William Stanhope, would have to consider the cost of knocking down a granite structure built to last a millennium and then trucking the debris someplace as per the new environmental laws. The granite and marble used to build Stanhope Hall came here to Long Island by railroad from Vermont. Maybe Vermont wants the rubble back.
Susan, incidentally, does not care about the main house or the other structures—except the stables and tennis courts—which I find interesting. Whatever memories are attached to the house, the gazebo, and the love temple are apparently not important or good. She
was
upset the night that vandals burned down her playhouse. It was a sort of Hansel and Gretel gingerbread house, as big as a small cottage, but made of wood and in bad repair. One can only imagine a lonely little rich girl with her dolls playing lonely games in a house all her own.
was
upset the night that vandals burned down her playhouse. It was a sort of Hansel and Gretel gingerbread house, as big as a small cottage, but made of wood and in bad repair. One can only imagine a lonely little rich girl with her dolls playing lonely games in a house all her own.
Lester inquired, “Did you hear from the county park people yet?”
“Yes,’’ I replied. “A fellow named Pinelli at the park commissioner’s office. He said he thought the county owned enough Gold Coast mansions for the time being. But that might only be their opening gambit, because Pinelli asked me if the house had any architectural or historical significance.”
“Well,’’ said Lester, “it certainly has architectural significance. Who was the architect?”
“McKim, Mead, White,’’ I replied. Neither history nor architecture is Lester’s strong point, but in addition to becoming a nature nut, he’s becoming an authority on the social and architectural history of the Gold Coast. I added, “As for historical significance, I know that Teddy Roosevelt used to pop over from Oyster Bay now and then, and Lindbergh dined there while he was staying with the Guggenheims. There were other noteworthy guests, but I think the county is looking for something more significant than dinner. I’ll have to research it.”
“How about making something up?’’ Lester suggested half jokingly. “Like maybe Teddy Roosevelt drafted a treaty or a speech at Stanhope Hall.”
I ignored that and continued, “One of the problems with selling the estate to the county as a museum and park is that Grace Lane is still private, as you know, and that doesn’t sit well with the county bureaucrats. Nor would I be very popular on Grace Lane if a thousand cars full of people from Brooklyn and Queens showed up every weekend to gawk.”
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