Tireless at thirty, he was tireless at seventy.
Up in the morning at six or seven, he often made breakfast for his wife and brought it to her in bed. In the evenings, at the far side of twelve or fourteen hours of unbroken toil, he would head not for home but for the swimming pool. One weekend, he invited Ingraham to Babylon and told the reporter to come up to Randall's Island Friday evening and drive out with him. Arriving at five o'clock, Ingraham found Moses in
conference, and settled down in the Commissioner's waiting room. An hour later, he was still waiting; the conference was still on. When it broke up around six-thirty, Ingraham was invited in, and Moses told him he still had a few things to attend to. He was still attending to them at seven o'clock and eight o'clock, and nine o'clock and ten. Rising finally, he said, "Let's stop off at Earle Andrews' place on the way out." The "place" turned out to be Andrews' glass-enclosed swimming pool in Huntington. Letting himself in with his own key, Moses changed, plunged into the water and began swimming. Watching the muscular arms windmilling endlessly up and down the pool, the drowsy reporter dozed off. Some time later, he awoke. The windmill was still turning; if anything, Ingraham realized with a start, Moses was swimming faster than before. It was, he says, "late" when the Commissioner clambered out of the water, looking as fresh as a youth, and very late indeed when the two men finally arrived at Thompson Avenue. As Ingraham climbed the stairs to the guest room, he saw the Commissioner's broad back disappearing not into his bedroom but into his study, yellow legal note pad in hand. When Ingraham fell asleep, he knew his host was still working. And what awakened the reporter the next morning—"at some ungodly early hour"— was the smell of bacon and eggs. Hearing him stirring, Mary called up the stairs: "Come on down. Bob's cooking breakfast."
His physical strength was awesome to his associates. Concerned as he grew older for his safety during the swims he took far out into the ocean off Jones Beach or Gilgo, they agreed among themselves that, whenever possible, as Latham puts it, "as long as he was in the water, one of us was with him . . . without making it obvious." But they had to perform this chore in relays; in his sixties and seventies, Robert Moses could tumble around in the surf, diving through and riding the South Shore's big breakers, far longer even than the tall, broad-shouldered Latham, twenty years his junior and himself an exceptionally strong swimmer.
The racing pen seemingly could not brake itself. For money or to get his views into print, he was constantly indulging in the "fugitive scribbling" of commissioned magazine articles; he was the author of a total of 51 articles for The Atlantic, Harper's, Saturday Review and other national magazines; of 32 more for The New York Times Magazine of an additional 19 for the Herald Tribune Sunday Magazine —and of several score more for other newspaper Sunday supplements. It had "always been his ambition to write cheap pulp stuff," Moses Man Arnold Vollmer recalls; in the mid-1950's, short on cash as usual, he announced to aides that he was going to write "a trashy piece of pulp" that he was sure would sell. Ironically, when he finished it—a reportedly sex-filled novel titled From Palms to Pines — and sent it to various publishing houses under a pseudonym, not one would publish it. He had, however, managed to write a full-length novel while simultaneously holding down eight full-time executive jobs. Letters—not only the mimeographed daily broadsides but graceful personal notes of condolence or congratulations—poured from his pen in the thousands, each to be delivered by hand by one of a battalion of liveried Triborough messengers, and they were letters graceful enough to be treasured by their
recipients. One to Newbold Morris, delivered on the death of his father-in-law, Judge Learned Hand, said:
... To millions who knew little of his profession but had become familiar with his leonine head and brow of Jove, he was the embodiment of righteousness in a mad world. Today beyond the Straight Gate and along the aisle on the other side are massed thousands of cheering lovers of justice as this great exemplar of Law comes marching in.
He giveth His beloved sleep.
(Anyone who thought it strange that the condolence note was addressed not to Mrs. Morris, the late judge's daughter, whom Moses also knew, but to her husband, didn't understand Moses; Moses didn't need the daughter.) Said one man who didn't meet Moses until he was sixty years old and who worked with him frequently for twenty years thereafter: "He never got tired. Never that I saw. He seemed to relax when he was working the hardest. He'd come out of a meeting or conference that had high tension and be completely relaxed, where the ordinary person would be exhausted. Work seemed to make him stronger."
In 1950, Hetty Green, an eccentric millionairess who had long felt grateful to Moses for building the Hutchinson River Parkway, which gave her "such pleasure" driving to and from her homes in Manhattan and Greenwich, Connecticut, died, and, on the reading of her will, it was discovered that her gratitude had taken practical form: a $10,000 bequest to Robert Moses. Not a year later, however, one of the large, unexpected expenses that were continually bedeviling Moses arose—this time a needed re-roofing of his Babylon house—and he discovered that he again had no money in the bank. It had all been spent, and, Moses confessed to Jack Madigan, he didn't know on what. It wasn't that Moses didn't want money, of course. He wanted it desperately, as is proven by the commissions he continually accepted from magazines for articles he loathed writing, and by the eagerness with which he accepted $100,000 fees for arterial highway plans for other cities. But he had the Moses prodigality with money, the prodigality that had helped make his brother a pauper. He always accepted the $100,000 commissions with an idea of keeping a substantial portion for himself, but he always ended up using the money to buy other men who could help him in his New York work. Detractors who knew the amounts of these commissions and who judged Moses by the standards they applied to other public officials, assumed —understandably—that he was becoming a rich man from them. This conclusion was natural—but it was wrong.
If he created an empire, he roamed it in imperial style.
His car, the most luxurious Detroit could provide (the richness of its leather upholstery gave one guest the feeling that he was not in a motor vehicle but the library of a fine men's club, an illusion reinforced by the
placement of the limousine's side windows so far forward that occupants of its deep rear seat could see out only by leaning forward—"There was a feeling of isolation; normally when you ride in the back of a car people are able to look in and you're able to look out, but here it was as if you were insulated from the outside world"), rushed to him by Detroit at his command ("I remember when air-conditioned cars were first coming out and it was a big thing to get one," says an O'Dwyer aide. "The Mayor couldn't get one. But Moses had one"), stood at his call day and night; to insure that it would, he had not one but three personal chauffeurs. Of the tens of thousands of cars that passed daily through the empire's toll booths, that car alone did not stop. (When a new Director of Public Safety was appointed for the empire, he was briefed by Sid Shapiro: everyone else granted free passage—Governor, Mayor, even police cars and the cars of Moses' top aides—was required to swerve out of line and outside the booths so as not to complicate the treadle count; "only one car goes through.") And when the big black limousine with the row of shields on its bumper and the license plate "2000" roared through a booth, not even slowing down, the uniformed officer inside jumping to salute and then staring after it, straining vainly to catch a glimpse of the living legend riding in the rear seat, the lieutenant or captain in charge at the toll plaza would hastily pick up his telephone—as hastily as the commission trooper, miles down the road, seeing the long black limousine looming out of the distance, would reach for his radio microphone—to keep the empire's capital on Randall's Island apprised, minute by minute and mile by mile, of its ruler's progress, so that urgent messages could be delivered to him at the next toll plaza. If, in reply, he wanted to make a call—he would not allow a telephone in his car so that he could work in it uninterrupted—his chauffeur would
pull in to the next police barracks, troopers springing up to escort him to a phone.
The empire's gleaming white flagship—and one of its captains—stood at his call. Even on days on which there was no real possibility that he would be able to get out on the bay, the Sea-Ef, kept constantly gassed and provisioned, would be held ready at the dock near his Babylon house, just on the off chance that his schedule might change. The captain on duty on Sunday could not relax just because there had been no call for his services in the morning or afternoon or early evening. He was under orders never to be out of earshot of his telephone—just in case RM should call— until 10 p.m. Was it RM's wish to swim? There was a network of swimming pools at his disposal. Keys to Earle Andrews' pool in Huntington, and to the luxuriously decorated, glass-enclosed pleasure dome of commission member and millionaire Landon Thorne in Bay Shore—among others—had been pressed upon him so that he could use these facilities at any time without even having to greet their owners. Did an emperor employ generals and admirals? Moses did, too; Farrell of the Burma Road was not the only one who upon retirement took up service under the flag of Triborough. And Moses could promote men over generals. In the United States Army, Farrell had been William Chapin's commanding officer; in Triborough's, Chapin was Farrell's.
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Even as a youth, he had been anxious—eager—to entertain, insistent on picking up checks even for wealthy friends. Now, as the silver stream pouring into the empire's coffers swelled, and swelled, and swelled again, he diverted enough of it to entertain on a truly imperial scale.
At three of his offices Randall's Island, Belmont Lake State Park and 270 Broadway—complete, separate staffs of chefs and waiters were on hand daily so that, wherever he might be, he could serve lunch to invited guests.
I here was a ceremonial to even the smallest lunches.
Waiting to lunch with Robert Moses, a guest would be ushered at Randall's Island into an anteroom lined with pictures of Robert Moses' bridges, Robert Moses' parks, Robert Moses' parkways, of Robert Moses posing with Hoover, of Robert Moses posing with Roosevelt, of Robert Moses posing with Truman, with Eisenhower (and, later, with Kennedy and Johnson—and Pope John); at Belmont Lake into an anteroom with walls covered, literally from wall to ceiling, with Robert Moses' plaques and trophies. There might be a gleaming white scale model or two, of past or future achievements, lying carelessly about. And to insure against the guest's not being sufficiently reminded of his host's achievements, as he was being served drinks by a white-coated waiter, he would probably be joined —by design—by one of Moses' aides who would regale him with anecdotes about RM's triumphs. Finally, RM himself would appear—at the head of a procession of eight or ten aides, for if emperors had courts, so, of course, did he. (If by chance he was called out of the room to take a telephone call, when he returned his aides would jump to their feet, and would not sit down until he sat down.) The doors to the dining room—Randall's Island's lined with more pictures of Moses achievements; Belmont Lake's, a sun-filled, airy room fifty feet long atop a wing of the new Belmont Mansion Moses had built, lined, on all sides, with windows overlooking the lake and stands of magnificent trees—would be thrown open, and Moses would lead the guest inside, with his aides filing after them. Moses sat at the head, his aides—after Moses had sat down—on his right, in seats preassigned in order of rank and favor in his eyes, so that an observer who attended several meals could judge, by how far away from Moses Shapiro or Chapin or Latham was sitting that day, their current standing in Moses' organization. The food at lunches at Randall's Island—not special luncheons, just the typical lunch served by white-coated waiters to groups ranging in size from half a dozen to half a hundred perhaps 150 times a year—was spoken of by guests in tones of awe. At Belmont Lake, they were more informal— but culinary standards were just as high.
No aspect of lunch with Moses was more imperial than the attitude of the host. There was little conversation at these lunches; there was, instead, a dramatic monologue, anecdotes about his struggles, about political infighting in which he had engaged, about the Mayors and Governors and Presidents he had known, about his plans for the future. And these were usually not brief monologues. Once, when Moses was attempting to persuade Newsday to investigate another state agency with whose cooperation he was not pleased, he invited to lunch reporter Bob Greene and the paper's bull-
voiced managing editor, Alan Hathway, possessor of considerable raconteurial •ability in his own right and a man accustomed to holding the center of whatever stage he happened to find himself on. During the appetizer, Moses began relating anecdotes about himself. ("He told us that one of the favorite ones that had ever been written about him was: 'Nothing he has ever done has been tainted by legality.' He chortled at that. He obviously relished it.") Greene was an investigative reporter who never lost his presence of mind; when the main course arrived and Moses was still going strong, Greene glanced at his watch, and, upon returning to the city room, was able to report that Moses had talked nonstop for an hour and twenty minutes. "Alan," he told unbelieving colleagues, "couldn't get a word in edgewise."
Moses' court completed the aura. No emperor's was more simpering.
When the calls from the toll booths and the troopers out on the parkways indicated that Moses was heading toward one of his offices, that office would erupt into frenzied excitement. Grown men—men who were themselves in positions of authority over hundreds of men, men who were making forty or fifty or sixty thousand dollars a year—would shout to each other: "RM is twenty-four minutes away!" "He's twelve minutes away!" "The boss will be here in one minute!" They would hurriedly recheck one last time to make sure that any map or blueprint for which he might ask was ready for his perusal. Scurrying back and forth, secretaries would put a dozen freshly sharpened pencils in the pencil holder on his desk, straighten the pile of letters there, dust his office one last time. "Worst of all," says one, was when he headed first from his Babylon home to Belmont Lake, for that trip took only about five minutes. "Everyone would start shouting: 'The boss is coming! The boss is coming! He's on his way over from Thompson Avenue!' And everyone would start rushing around in little circles as if they were crazy." A reporter who arrived early at an auditorium in which Moses was to give a speech listened to his aides "refer to him as if he was God. T hope RM likes the podium.' T hope RM likes the lighting.' 'How do you think RM will be feeling this morning?' " At luncheons, their role was limited to laughing at his bons mots, scowling along with him when he mentioned his enemies, and occasionally uttering an affirmative "Yes" or "Definitely." Generally they uttered a complete sentence only in answer to a direct question he put to them—and generally that question was only to elicit their confirmation of some point he was making. If some guest was not sufficiently reverent, they quietly took him aside. Henry Barnes' first face-to-face encounter with Moses on coming to New York as Traffic Commissioner in 1962 was at a lunch in Moses' new office at the World's Fair site. "He was telling a story about Grover Whalen and the first fair, how Grover had always had a bunch of cuties around him and how one would say, 'Grover, we ought to have a dress shop' and there'd be a dress shop at the fair, and another would say, 'We ought to have . . .' Moses said something about how he didn't want 'no goddamn babes around me.' Just as a joke I said, T think that's a very narrow-minded viewpoint.' He looked very startled. His head jerked around in complete amazement. All the others sort of gasped. After the meeting, Stuart Constable [Park
Department executive officer] came up to me and he said, 'You know, Mr. Moses is a very busy and a very important person and it isn't proper to be facetious with him.' " Says reporter Joe Kahn: "He used to crack jokes; he had a great pride in his sense of humor, and these guys would watch him, waiting for their cue, and laugh. It was a regular Greek chorus, like a choral g r0U p—they nodded when he wanted them to nod, they laughed when he wanted them to laugh. Watching them, you got disgusted with your fellow
It was not at Randall's Island that Moses entertained most lavishly. For his empire had a summer capital.
At Jones Beach, on that sand bar he had filled with bathing pavilions and deck games and solariums and boat basins and dance floors and restaurants (restaurants operated by concessionaires to whom he had granted franchises so lucrative that their liquor cabinets and wine closets and larders, and their chefs and waiters and bartenders, were at his command); that sand bar operated by a consortium of agencies and authorities with a budget of $12,000,000 for whose spending he did not have to account, and with more than 3,000 employees he could allocate to whatever duties he chose; on that sand bar governed by laws he had written himself, policed by troopers in his pay and responsible only to him, Robert Moses could entertain as Robert Moses had always wanted to entertain.
The power broker : Robert Moses and the fall of New York Page 125
