New York Echoes 2

by Warren Adler

  The others nodded or mumbled agreement as Dimitri Pappas rose to observe the tradition of answering his hostess’ toast.

  “I thank you, dear Doris,” Dimitri exclaimed, his slim figure swathed in a cummerbund, the knot of his black tie plump against the high winged collar, his gleaming silver sideburns richly contrasting with his jet black hair. In a sonorous voice, his Greek origins clearly accented, he properly returned the toast. “I thank you, dear Doris, for your most loving friendship. We have bonded with strong cement and I am hopeful that such largesse will continue through the coming years. Your friendship and your hospitality have been a most extraordinary asset. I welcome it with an open heart and am proud to call you and Gary true friends.”

  Gary Henderson appeared to be listening, but he was thinking more practical thoughts, not without a hint of impatience.

  “It’s been months of promises,” he had said to Doris as she had arranged the place cards, putting Dimitri’s on the honored position on her right. On his right was Margaret Canfield, a trustee of the Met, an important cog in the visible machine of New York social life who appeared frequently on Joe Cunningham’s charity ball page in the Sunday Times and David Patrick Columbia’s website tracking the doings of New York’s plummy social set. In fact everyone at the dinner party, including Doris and Gary Henderson, appeared regularly in the various media outlets that chronicled the heady socialite class that made up the so-called upper crust of the city.

  Cadging Dimitri Pappas as an “honored guest” at a dinner party was considered a coup for the Hendersons, who had previously spread the word via the golden social virus network that Pappas was a Greek in shipping, a combination certain to stir memories of other celebrity Greeks in the shipping business and their fabulous and well-documented adventures. Reflected glory was a staple of acclaim in the head-of-the-pin social world that the Hendersons inhabited.

  “Beyond mere money,” Doris Henderson described Dimitri in carefully placed whispers at cocktail soirees and intimate ladies’ luncheons. “You simply must meet him.”

  “His profile’s invisible,” Gary told the distaff side at various board meetings of the right non-profits. Such anonymity hinted at vast subterranean activities and fabulous hidden wealth.

  For the Hendersons, both lawyers, getting to the exalted position of attending the best balls, a matter of giving, and the best dinner parties, a matter of notoriety, was an important element of their general business acquisition program. In polite circles, such acquisition was called “rainmaking,” a semi-respectable name for the practice of monetizing contacts and connections. Others of a more cynical bent characterized the effort as “hustling.”

  Whatever it was called, the practice was prevalent and tolerated only when it was not obvious, often a difficult observation to quantify. Nevertheless, in the rarified super-wealthy precincts of the city’s elite, fueled by the fact that New York was the anointed international capital of finance and culture, the covert operation was hand-in-glove. In this charmed tight circle, the possibility of great reward offered predatory temptations to professional fee and commission seekers, like lawyers, real estate, insurance and stock brokers, investment bankers as well as various philanthropic trustees and executives, especially in the arts and disease categories.

  In this exalted environment, the moneyed meritocracy merged with the so-called entitled elite, which included inheritors of name-brand fortunes, descendants of an earlier generation of aristocrats or deceased royalty, political stars of yesteryear, and various living celebrities of the higher arts. To many observers, this was the absolute top of the greasy pole of high society acceptance and often took hard work, people-collecting skills, reciprocal dinner parties and extraordinary outreach and follow-up to ascend to the slippery pinnacle and stay there.

  The Hendersons, both sixty-ish, were charter members of the meritocracy and absolute masters of the business-getting art, totally focused on its various manipulations required to bring home the bacon. “We are what we seem,” was their mantra and they assiduously built this image, brick by translucent brick. They had far more misses than hits but when they did make a score, they provided excellent legal services at exceptional fees, highly profitable to them and, when all was said and done, reasonably effective for their living clients.

  In those circles, wrapped in an aura of affluence and excess, higher fees were expected. This did not mean that the Hendersons were as rich as their counterparts in such heady company. Their predatory lifestyle, constant entertaining and necessary giving kept them on the raw edges of financial insecurity. Thus, they were always on the prowl for business opportunities.

  If the Hendersons took ethical liberties in their practice, they were extraordinarily discreet. While they engaged in general legal work for selective clients as a kind of loss leader, their real specialty was in estate and inheritance law, preferring situations in which the client was of advanced age with no heirs, giving them sole discretion over the deceased’s cash and property dispositions. Of course there were whispers of impropriety, but they remained barely audible, despite rumors from competitors that hinted of less than ethical schemes to enrich themselves from the coffers of their dead clientele.

  To Gary and Doris, Dimitri Pappas was a targeted potential asset. He was a man on the darker side of 60, who when asked, referred vaguely to having shipping interests in the global economy. When googled, nothing came up, and the assumption, shrewdly disseminated by the Hendersons, was that he was paranoid about any revelations about his business or his fortunes.

  “I keep a very low profile,” Dimitri would often tell anybody who was curious, reinforcing the contention. “I don’t want people to know my business.”

  The remark hinted at nefarious doings, which did not deter the Hendersons’ pursuit. In fact, it increased its energy since the lawyering possibilities were multiplied by the implication and there was much gold to be mined in defense litigation. By his demeanor, his discretion and personal presentation, the idea of a Greek in the shipping business, as everyone knew, referenced the late tycoons Onassis and Niarchos.

  Apparently Dimitri spent a great deal of his time on the go and his availability for the social whirl was limited. The Hendersons, however, managed to zero in on these time slots, capturing him exclusively when he arrived in Manhattan and showing him off like a prized racing stallion. He was always sure to call and his presence was, to the Hendersons, a great social enhancement.

  “You do get around,” Gary would say during the usual camaraderie of the greeting. “I guess commerce on the high seas beckons.” Clearly it was a probe which was never embellished by Dimitri.

  “The nature of the business,” Dimitri would comment. Nothing more.

  Dimitri appeared in public, mostly accompanied by his girlfriend, Netta, who was forty-ish and beautifully coifed and always fashionable. She spoke with a lilting accent difficult to identify, but her complexion hinted at Indian antecedents. She and Dimitri were affectionate to each other and well versed in many subjects, including politics and finance. By any measure they were urbane, sophisticated, able to converse on all levels and largely owing to the Hendersons’ assiduous efforts at promotion, were the kind of social companions that inspired envy among their peers.

  Frequently invited to the Hendersons’ country home in the Hamptons, Dimitri and Netta shared a bedroom and throughout the well-programmed weekend activities, the Hendersons subtly probed Dimitri’s legal possibilities.

  “Surely you have an estate plan?” Gary would interject periodically during their private conversations, heavily larded with the usual gossip about people in their circle.

  “Not really,” Dimitri revealed. “I have no children, no wives or ex-wives, no close relatives.”

  “No favorite charities?”

  “None.” Dimitri chuckled.

  “No heirs. No favorite charities. No place to leave your assets when the time c
omes. Dimitri, that is idiotic. Your inheritance will be rifled by predators. And the government will swoop down for their share. Surely you’ve talked about this with your current legal counsel.”

  “I never mix business with personal matters.”

  “I’m not saying you should. But certainly they owe it to you to raise the issue. Apparently you’re not getting the best legal advice, especially on estate matters. What you need is overall legal representation.”

  Gary was cautious, merely raising the question, never making an obviously self-serving direct pitch.

  “I have thought of it, Gary. Often at night when I can’t sleep.”

  “But the world goes on, Dimitri, and money has a life beyond the grave.”

  Dimitri would shrug, smile and grunt.

  “Maybe some day,” he mumbled.

  “We can analyze this, Dimitri,” Gary would answer offhandedly, as if it were a gesture of magnanimity, with an air of indifference. “It is the business of trusted friends.”

  “I will consider this, Gary. You make perfect sense. Yes, I will definitely consider this.”

  The statement, offered at various times on numerous occasions, appeared to keep the idea alive in Dimitri’s mind. It was encouraging enough, as well, to keep the hospitality spigot open and encourage the Hendersons to continue to invest their time and money in pursuit.

  Doris concentrated on developing a bonding relationship with Netta, burrowing in on intimacy, invoking the gender alliance. Netta had reiterated the fact that she and Dimitri had been companions for a dozen years, although she confessed that they kept separate residences. The Hendersons had not been to any of them. On the infrequent occasions when Dimitri and Netta entertained, it was often at a Greek restaurant on First Avenue where Dimitri, considering all the hugs and kisses of the proprietor, had celebrity status with the owner providing a traditional Greek feast fueled by vast amounts of Greek wine and yogurt.

  “Why don’t you get married?” Doris would ask.

  “Dimitri does not believe in marriage.”

  “And you?”

  “I married once long ago. It was not fruitful.”

  “Meaning no kids?”

  “No kids. No chemistry. A disaster. I have wiped the experience from my mind.”

  “Many of my clients have accepted that kind of arrangement you have with Dimitri.” She would lower her voice. “With strings.” Then after a pause. “Has he provided?”

  When Netta hesitated, Doris nodded knowingly, her voice offered at a lower decibel.

  “We see things in our practice. The woman gets short shrift. You should urge him to think about it.”

  “Believe me, I have. Dimitri promises to be generous.”

  “Verbally or on paper?”

  “He says his word is his bond.”

  “Isn’t that naïve, Netta? He has no heirs and made no provisions. Apparently, as he told Gary, not for anyone. You should urge him to codify any bequests, especially to you.”

  Netta looked confused.

  “It’s all over my head.”

  “You have got to protect yourself.”

  “The problem, you see, is that Greek men do not want to appear to be dominated by their women. It’s a macho thing, part of the masculine culture. I have to be discreet.”

  “Are you…?” Doris hesitated. She had waited patiently for the right moment to inject the idea. Netta was ahead of her.

  “Exclusive?” Netta said. “I have no reason to think otherwise.” She hesitated. “Of course, if he has sudden needs, you know what I mean. As long as he brings me no trouble and returns without scars.”

  “How generous. I would not stand for it with Gary. Marriage, you see, creates legal boundaries. There are consequences, especially monetarily. That is why a legal framework is essential.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Then really, Netta, you should be directing him to the nearest lawyer, those you can trust. Believe me, Netta, as friends we are ready to help. Just remember we are here for you, Netta dear. For you and Dimitri.”

  “I feel that in my heart.”

  “We have more than enough on our plates. Nevertheless, we stand ready to help either of you if you should need us.” She paused, then added, “God put us on earth to help each other.”

  “Yes. I believe that implicitly.”

  “You really owe it to yourself, if you get my drift. Believe me I am making these suggestions out of real affection,” Doris persisted.

  “I know.”

  When they compared notes, Gary and Doris were encouraged, but impatient. Both agreed that the man was a natural client. But they instinctively knew the limits of persuasion and they carefully chose intimate moments to make their pitches.

  “The man’s a fool,” Gary told Doris. “He needs us more than he knows.”

  “She’s a bigger fool. She relies on his promises.”

  “Is she of independent means?”

  “It doesn’t sound like it. She seemed completely dependent on him and invokes the image of Greek men who need to feel dominant.”

  “Not like us pussy-whipped American males,” Gary snickered.

  “That’s a laugh.”

  “Is it? Remember, Doris baby, you’re a Johnny-come-lately to this business. I’ve been in it from the get-go.”

  That was true. Gary had been the estate expert with a major law firm until forced retirement at sixty caused him to retire. Planning for this eventuality, Doris had gone to law school, passing the bar at the first try after a career in fashion. They had become Henderson and Henderson and discovered the social scene as the golden path to new clients. Their marriage, second for each, had morphed into more of a business arrangement than a loving cohabitation. But they had found that they made a good team of rainmakers and were cautious to keep any personal hostility between them a private matter. Both were well aware of the monetary boundaries of their marriage. When an argument ensued, Doris’ response to any conflict was invariably the same.

  “Let’s stay focused on the matter at hand.”

  That had a calming effect on Gary.

  “I’m trying to, Doris. Dimitri is a tough nut to crack.”

  “I think I’ve planted a seed in his squeeze. She’s naïve and not very smart about these things. Besides, she thinks she’s his one and only. I have my doubts. He’s quite sexy.”

  “Now there’s an idea,” Gary said. “Call it Plan B.”

  “It had occurred to me,” Doris replied.

  “Might even stoke the dying embers,” Gary muttered. Sex had not been part of their marriage agenda for years.

  “Fire needs oxygen,” Doris shot back. It was a familiar back and forth verbal sparring.

  “It’s a hairsbreadth separation between frigid and rigid.”

  “It takes two to tango.”

  “Sometimes. But there’s a lot to say for soloing.”

  They had learned in their rainmaking the essence of obliqueness.

  “Never mind all that,” Doris scolded. “What now in the case of Monsieur Pappas?”

  “We let it simmer,” Gary said with some conviction. “At least the seeds are planted.”

  “In her, as well,” Doris assured him.

  They persevered in their pursuit. When Dimitri was in town they swooped over him like vultures on carrion.

  Then, unannounced, Netta appeared in their office. She seemed greatly upset, her usual well-groomed exterior badly flawed, her voice agitated.

  “You said you will help when I need you,” she told Doris, who was the first to see her. Doris double-kissed her, summoned her secretary to offer coffee, which she refused, then she excused herself and looked in on Gary in the adjoining office.

  “Pay dirt,” she whispered, winking, waving him to follow her. He rose quickly and soon t
hey were sitting at the small conference table in Doris’s office. Netta’s skin looked a shade darker than usual and her eyes seemed fired with anger.

  “The bastard.” She spit out the words through pursed lips.

  “Who?” Gary asked.

  “Him. Pappas. Sumbitch.”

  Gary and Doris exchanged glances. This did not augur well for their overall plan.

  “I told him.” Netta waved a finger in the air. “I warned him.” She made a slicing motion with her hands. “He threw me out. You can’t do that, I told him. The stupid fool.”

  “Just like that?” Gary asked.

  She was starting to calm, suddenly taking a mirror out of her purse and peering into it.

  “Good God, look at me.” She fixed her hair.

  “Can’t say I didn’t warn you, Netta,” Doris said. Like Gary, she knew the implications of this visit and was less than comforting. Apparently, Netta had not noticed the subtle change in attitude.

  “Believe me, I didn’t take this lightly. I told him. Okay, you have a new heartthrob, so what do I get out of all those years? He told me and I laughed in his face.”

  “He made you an offer?” Doris asked.

  “Ten,” Netta said. “Actually, he wrote out a check. I told him to go eff himself. That’s why I’m here. I told him I would. He threatened me. The bastard threatened me. I ran like hell. Believe me he’s capable. He once beat me black and blue. You don’t know him like I do.”

  “And the check?”

  “I deposited it. What else? What I want is what I deserve. That’s why I’m here.”

  Again Gary and Doris exchanged glances. Gary shrugged. He was thinking that ten million was a nice settlement for a mistress being sent out to pasture. Of course, he was thinking, we could go for more and get a tidy fee to the bargain, thinking in terms of tax consequences and percentages of any future sums they could obtain from Dimitri. There was, of course, a risk in that. Representing Netta would certainly mean that they would probably have to forgo any hope of handling Dimitri’s estate, which might net them a much higher number than what they would get out of representing Netta.