Gold Coast

by Nelson DeMille

  Lester Remsen looked at me, then went back to his apple pie. Judy spoke to Susan without opening her mouth. “Would you pass the cream?’’ Susan replied without so much as a throat flutter—I think the sound came out of her nose, “Of course, dear.”

  I caught Susan’s eye, and she winked at me, which made me feel better. I didn’t feel sorry for what I’d said, but I wished I had remembered that Lester is a stockbroker.

  The problems were beginning.

  Part II

  The business of America is business.

  —Calvin Coolidge

  Six

  The following week passed without incident. I went to my law office in Locust Valley on Monday, then commuted by train to my Manhattan office on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Friday found me back in Locust Valley. I follow this schedule whenever I can as it gives me just enough of the city to make me a Wall Street lawyer, but not so much as to put me solidly into the commuting class.

  I am a partner in my father’s firm of Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds. The firm is defined as small, old, Wasp, Wall Street, carriage trade, and so on. You get the idea. The Manhattan office is located in the prestigious J. P. Morgan Building at 23 Wall Street, and our clientele are mostly wealthy individuals, not firms. The office’s decor, which has not changed much since the 1920s, is what I call Wasp squalor, reeking of rancid lemon polish, deteriorating leather, pipe tobacco, and respectability.

  The Morgan Building, incidentally, was bombed by the Anarchists in 1920, killing and injuring about four hundred people—I can still see the bomb scars on the stonework—and every year we get a bomb threat on the anniversary of the original bombing. It’s a tradition. Also, after the Crash of ’29, this building chalked up six jumpers, which I think is the record for an individual building. So perhaps along with prestigious, I should add historic and ill-omened.

  The Locust Valley office is less interesting. It’s a nice Victorian house on Birch Hill Road, one of the village’s main streets, and we’ve been there since 1921 without any excitement. Most of the Locust Valley clientele are older people whose legal problems seem to consist mostly of disinheriting nieces and nephews, and endowing shelters for homeless cats.

  The work in the city—stocks, bonds, and taxes—is interesting but meaningless. The country work—wills, house closings, and general advice on life—is more meaningful but not interesting. It’s the best of both worlds.

  Most of the older clientele are friends of my father and of Messrs. Perkins and Reynolds. The first Mr. Perkins on the letterhead, Frederic, was a friend of J. P. Morgan, and was one of the legendary Wall Street movers and shakers of the 1920s, until November 5, 1929, when he became a legendary Wall Street jumper. I suppose the margin calls got on his nerves. My father once said of this incident, “Thank God he didn’t hurt anyone on the sidewalk, or we’d still be in litigation.”

  Anyway, the second Mr. Perkins, Frederic’s son, Eugene, is retired and has moved down to Nags Head, North Carolina. The Carolinas seem to have become a respectable retirement destination, as opposed to Florida, most of which is considered by people around here as unfit for human habitation.

  And the last senior partner, Julian Reynolds, is also retired, in a manner of speaking. He sits in the large corner office down the hall and watches the harbor. I have no idea what he’s looking at or for. Actually, he occupies the same office from which Mr. Frederic Perkins suddenly exited this firm, though I don’t think that has any relevance to Julian’s fascination with the window. My secretary, Louise, interrupts Mr. Reynolds’s vigil every day at five, and a limousine takes him uptown to his Sutton Place apartment, which offers an excellent view of the East River. I think the poor gentleman has old-timers’ disease.

  My father, Joseph Sutter, had the good sense to retire before anyone wanted him to. That was three years ago, and I remember the day with some emotion. He called me into his office, told me to sit in his chair, and left. I thought he had stepped out for a moment, but he never came back.

  My parents are still alive, but not so you’d notice. Southampton is on the eastern end of Long Island, only about sixty miles from Lattingtown and Locust Valley, but my parents have decided to make it further. There is no bad blood between us; their silence is just their way of showing me they are sure I’m doing fine. I guess.

  As you may have gathered or already known, many white Anglo-Saxon Protestants of the upper classes have the same sort of relationship with their one or two offspring as, say, a sockeye salmon has with its one or two million eggs. I probably have the same relationship with my parents as they had with theirs. My relationship with my own children, Carolyn, age nineteen, and Edward, seventeen, is somewhat warmer, as there seems to be a general warming trend in modern relationships of all sorts. But what we lack in warmth, we make up for in security, rules of behavior, and tradition. There are times, however, when I miss my children and wouldn’t even mind hearing from my parents. Actually, Susan and I have a summer house in East Hampton, a few miles from Southampton, and we see my parents each Friday night for dinner during July and August whether we’re all hungry or not.

  As for Susan’s parents, I call Hilton Head once a month to deliver a situation report, but I’ve never been down there. Susan flies down once in a while, but rarely calls. The Stanhopes never come up unless they have to attend personally to some business. We do the best we can to keep contact at a minimum, and the fax machine has been a blessing in this regard.

  Susan’s brother, Peter, never married and is traveling around the world trying to find the meaning of life. From the postmarks on his infrequent letters—Sorrento, Monte Carlo, Cannes, Grenoble, and so forth—I think he’s trying the right places.

  I have a sister, Emily, who followed her IBM husband on a corporate odyssey through seven unpleasant American cities over ten years. Last year, Emily, who is a very attractive woman, found the meaning of life on a beach in Galveston, Texas, in the form of a young stud, named Gary, and has filed for divorce.

  Anyway, on Friday afternoon, I left the Locust Valley office early and drove the few miles up to The Creek for a drink. This is a tradition, too, and a lot more pleasant one than some others.

  I drove through the gates of the country club and followed the gravel lane, bordered by magnificent old American elms, toward the clubhouse. I didn’t see Susan’s Jag in the parking field. She sometimes comes up and has a drink on Fridays, then we have dinner at the club or go elsewhere. I pulled my Bronco into an empty slot and headed for the clubhouse.

  One of the nice things about having old money, or having other people think you do, is that you can drive anything you want. In fact, the richest man I know, a Vanderbilt, drives a 1977 Chevy wagon. People around here take it as an eccentricity or a display of supreme confidence. This is not California, where your car accounts for fifty percent of your personality.

  Besides, it’s not what you drive that’s important; it’s what kind of parking stickers you have on your bumper that matters. I have a Locust Valley parking sticker, and a Creek, Seawanhaka Corinthian, and Southampton Tennis Club sticker, and that says it all, sort of like the civilian equivalents of military medals, except you don’t wear them on your clothes.

  So I entered The Creek clubhouse, a large Georgian-style building. Being a former residence, there is nothing commercial looking about the place. It has instead an intimate, yet elegant atmosphere, with a number of large and small rooms used for dining, card playing, and just hiding out. In the rear is the cocktail lounge, which looks out over part of the golf course and the old polo field, and in the distance one can see the Long Island Sound, where The Creek has beach cabanas. There is indoor tennis, platform tennis, possibly skeet shooting, and other diversions for mind and body. It is an oasis of earthly pleasure for about three hundred well-connected families. Someday it will be a housing subdivision and they will call it The Creek Estates.

  Anyway, I went into the lounge, which was filled mostly with men who were in that Frida
y mood that reminds me of grinning idiots at a locker room victory party.

  There were the usual hellos and hi, Johns, a few backslaps, and assorted hail-fellow-well-met rituals. More interestingly, I caught a wink from Beryl Carlisle, whom I would dearly love to pop if I weren’t so faithful.

  I looked around the room, assured once again that there were still so many of us left. An Englishman once said that he found it easier to be a member of a club than of the human race because the bylaws were shorter, and he knew all the members personally. That sounds about right.

  I spotted Lester Remsen sitting at a table near the window with Randall Potter and Martin Vandermeer.

  I thought the best thing to do regarding Lester, whom I hadn’t heard from since Sunday, was to just go over and sit down, so I did. Lester greeted me a bit coolly, and I had the impression the other two had just gotten a negative evaluation report on me. The cocktail waitress came by, and I ordered a gin martini, straight up.

  Regarding bylaws, the rules of this club, like those of many others, prohibit the talking of business, the original purpose being to provide an atmosphere of forced relaxation. These days we like to pretend that this bylaw precludes members from having an unfair business advantage over people who are not allowed in the club. Americans take their economic rights very seriously, and so do the courts. But the business of America is business, so Randall and Martin went back to their business discussion, and I took the opportunity to address a question to Lester Remsen. “I have a client,’’ I said, “a woman in her seventies, with fifty thousand shares of Chase National Bank stock. The stock was issued in 1928 and 1929—”

  Lester leaned toward me. “You mean she has the actual certificates?”

  “Yes. She lugged them into my Locust Valley office in a valise. They were left to her by her husband, who died last month.”

  “My Lord,’’ Lester exclaimed. “I’ve never seen Chase National certificates. That’s Chase Manhattan now, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know. That’s what I wanted to speak to you about.’’ Of course I did know, but I could see Lester’s feathers getting smoother and shinier.

  Lester asked, “What did they look like?”

  Some men get excited by Hustler; Lester apparently got excited by old stock certificates. Whatever turns you on, I say. I replied, “They were a light-green tint with ornate black letters and an engraving of a bank building.’’ I described the certificates as best I could, and you would have thought by the way Lester’s eyes brightened that I’d said they had big tits.

  “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?”

  “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.