The Pride

by Wallace Ford

  Nevertheless, some serious progress was made. And some six weeks after the Water Club luncheon, we were close enough to an agreement that it made sense to have the dinner at my place that we had originally agreed upon. We were all pretty sure that we had the basis for making an agreement.

  And then, just like that, it was the day of the scheduled dinner at my house. Thursday had been chosen because of the President’s Day weekend. The Black Ski Summit was going to be in Vail, Colorado, that year and I know that I was planning to head out by noon on Friday.

  The Black Ski Summit was an interesting manifestation of a number of forces, trends and foibles. In some ways it represented a national convention of The Pride, unintentional though it might be. The Pride was not limited to New York. Members of The Pride lived in Baldwin Hills and Shaker Heights and Buckhead in Atlanta and on the Gold Coast of Chicago. While New York City might be the capital of The Pride, the constituency was national.

  Whether it was Sag Harbor or Martha’s Vineyard or Vail or Washington, during the Congressional Black Caucus Weekend, the members of The Pride found new and innovative ways to get together and to network. And it was a network with awesome potential if it were ever truly harnessed and focused. But, at the moment, like a lot of the people who were going to the Summit, I was simply looking forward to having a good time in Vail.

  The previous year the Summit was held in Lake Tahoe. I missed it, but I heard that by the time all of the participants had departed, there was literally not a liquor bottle left in the entire town. The Pride could be incredibly thorough on occasion.

  I am hardly one of those Martha Stewart types who obsesses over every detail of an event at my home. But I do have standards. Very high standards.

  While I enjoy cooking, I was not even going to pretend to cook for a gathering like this one in the middle of the week. I called Butterbean.

  Butterbean is a truly elite catering service that had been started by a former Broadway star, Chiquita Henry, who had been a star several years ago, singing and dancing and acting her way into a niche of fame and a little bit of fortune. Broadway and Hollywood had never been particularly kind to Chiquita, however, so she was smart enough to have come up with a Plan B long before her entertainment career came to a denouement.

  Butterbean was not just a catering service. Chiquita also arranged for the best waiters and waitresses to serve her excellent fare. For the harried host or hostess who wanted to do things right, Butterbean was a godsend.

  The Butterbean staff scurried around setting the table, chilling the wine and preparing the bar in my 5,000-square-foot SoHo loft. It was a loft in a building that was a converted factory space. I had worked with a very eclectic interior decorator to maintain the illusion and reality of space while creating different living environments with as few walls as possible.

  While areas like the kitchen, exercise area and bedroom were partitioned off and the bathrooms, Jacuzzi and wardrobe were demarcated by walls, the rest of the space was wide open, with the dining area, living room, entertainment area and study spread throughout the rest of the sprawling space that was my urban hideaway.

  With track lights, ceiling fans and hidden speakers, my interior decorator and I had created my own personal refuge in the middle of the busiest city in the world. It was my refuge and my home.

  I found myself worrying and fussing over every detail like some kind of diva hostess. Jerome arrived on time, promptly at seven. Paul arrived a few moments later. And I could have sworn that I heard the Butter-bean staffers sigh with relief because I could no longer bother them.

  Greetings between Paul and me had been comfortable for years. We had come to an understanding and moved on with our lives. But the warmth and comfort that we had experienced recently was puzzling. I just did not know what to make of it. It was not unpleasant, just unsettling.

  “Paul, I’m surprised that you are late. You, of all people.”

  “Late? Wasn’t dinner scheduled for seven?”

  “But Paul, aren’t you the one that is always ten minutes early?”

  I made this last remark with a smile to let Paul know that I was just jerking his chain. I meant my smile to convey something more than politeness. What that was, even I didn’t know. We looked at each other, continued to smile, and entered the living room area where Jerome was already seated.

  The three of us had cocktails and made small talk while waiting for Gordon. During the weeks since the luncheon we had communicated by e-mail, fax and conference calls. As a result there was no real news to report as we chatted.

  We had already understood that the plan that night was for Paul to review the key elements of the merger of the three firms and to outline the steps that would need to be taken in order to actually complete this deal. Additionally, Gordon, Jerome, and I were to report on the three projects that could be the basis for cooperative efforts that we had mentioned at our first luncheon meeting.

  The plan was to finish dinner by ten as everyone had something to do the next day. Paul was going to St. Lucia, I was going to Vail, and Jerome was going to the Finger Lakes region in upstate New York. We were all there to take care of business. This made Gordon’s lateness all the more noticeable and annoying.

  Gordon could be crude, surly and undeniably offensive, but when it came to business, he was as reliable as the sun coming up in the morning. He was never a no-show when it came to business. But by seven thirty, with no Gordon Perkins, I thought it best to ask the Butterbean staff to start serving the appetizers. No one commented on Gordon’s absence.

  And then the doorbell rang.

  It was Gordon, of course.

  CHAPTER 59

  Diedre

  Dinner is served

  I remember thinking that it was bad enough that Gordon was a total sleaze, actually the word asshole came to mind. I was also thinking that it was also bad enough that I was planning on working with him. I didn’t think that it would be too much to expect that he would be on time! It took me awhile to catch on to the real deal when it came to Gordon.

  As soon as he came in and got settled and apologies were dispensed, Gordon was constructive, positive and insightful in his comments. In other words, he was acting totally out of character. He was also a little jumpy and not the least bit hungry.

  It actually seemed to me that he had to force every morsel of the catfish with watermelon relish into his mouth with a supreme effort. And he was certainly drinking more than a little of the champagne that I was serving.

  Now that Gordon had completed the dinner party, we made small talk while the Butterbean staff unobtrusively removed the appetizer plates and replaced them with entrées featuring Chiquita’s signature dish of Afro Cuban Black Beans and Broiled Salmon à la Negril. I had chosen a very nice Riesling to accompany the meal, and with the exception of Gordon we all enjoyed the food, the wine and the ambience before getting down to business.

  When we had finished with dinner, coffee and dessert was served. It was time for Paul to deal with the business of the day. As Paul began to speak, I couldn’t help but notice that Gordon seemed distracted, as if there was some other plan on his mind, a plan other than the one that we were discussing.

  “I know that all of you have read the latest version of the documents that would put this merger together. Lord knows I have received enough comments,” said Paul.

  “All that is left is for the three of you to commit to a confidentiality agreement. I would also suggest a six month time frame to get this deal done, and, of course, the standard due diligence provisions.

  “If the three of you sign this Letter of Intent, none of you are bound to do this deal. But it is a hell of a big step. Like I said at the Water Club, this could be very big. If the three of you can work together you will make all of Wall Street sit up and take notice.”

  “Paul, are you going to be our lawyer or our P.R. man?” It was Jerome, providing some useful levity. We all laughed although I remember that Gordon, whose nose seemed to
be running incessantly, was rather halfhearted in his laughter.

  “Jerome, I am sure that you pay your P.R. people better than you pay your lawyers. That’s just a cross we poor lawyers have to bear. But, if that was an offer, I may take you up on it. But I have to tell you that I hear that you are a hard, hard man to work for.”

  “You must have heard that from Ray Beard.” I couldn’t resist. No one had mentioned his absence, and his pompous nature deserved his being the butt of a joke or two. A brief laugh passed like the wind riffling the leaves of the forest, and then we proceeded to get serious again.

  “There is not a whole lot more to do with the document tonight. If it makes sense to all of you, all of you should sign it and we can move on. If there is anything new to cover with the Letter of Intent itself, we should talk about it now.” Paul continued to try and keep us on course.

  The ensuing silence was a blessing. I could see that it was a relief to Paul as well. We were a strong-minded group. No one had been unreasonable, and now the Letter of Intent was essentially a done deal.

  In the moment or two of silence I had to really hand it to Paul. From a seemingly spontaneous luncheon at the Water Club to now, he had taken a bright idea and turned it into a real, live deal with the clear possibility of success.

  He had been able to persuade some of the strongest-willed and aggressive people that I know to work together and not for just a little while. If everything went as planned, this would be a permanent life-changing arrangement.

  I couldn’t help but think about the fact that Paul had always been a student of history. More than most, Paul realized that the history of black people in America was complicated and complex in texture. I had heard Paul speak on many occasions about the fact that despite the passage of civil rights bills and the election of black mayors across the country there still remained a chasm between black America and white America. We all knew without saying that this chasm would not be bridged and could not be bridged, as long as there was such a tremendous disparity between black and white in the financial sector.

  This was not a matter of personal income. All you had to do was to look around the dinner table for confirmation of the many Urban League studies that found that the gap between black and white family median income was shrinking at a rapid rate.

  But the key to power in America was access to capital. The key to real power in America was the ability to raise money, large sums of money, in order to advance various business objectives. That was the key to real power. We all knew that if Bill Gates were black, there simply would never have been a Microsoft. If Steve Jobs were black there would be no Apple.

  More to the point—even being white, the fact that Bill Gates’s father was a partner with a prominent Washington State law firm that represented venture capital companies made the real difference in Bill Gates becoming the wealthiest man in the world. It was common knowledge in the world of corporate finance that Bill Gates’s original strategy was to build Microsoft to a point where he could sell it to IBM. IBM didn’t buy and Bill Gates raised the necessary capital, through contacts that included his father’s network and became the leader of the Corporate Free World. Being white and utilizing strategies that most certainly included priceless paternal counsel certainly made all the difference in the world of one Bill Gates.

  This was the reality that Paul was looking to change. In our own way, we had all been looking to change this implacable reality. And we all believed that it could be changed if a black controlled firm on Wall Street had power, capital and influence.

  CHAPTER 60

  Diedre

  Getting down to business

  “From where I sit, I would think that the three of you will be working together sooner than later.”

  “Brother Paul, I think that you got it right this time and you can count me in. All the way.” I would not have guessed that Gordon would be the first to formally get on board. But Gordon was always full of surprises.

  “Now if you all will excuse me for a moment, I have to go to the little boy’s room.” As Gordon rose from the table and headed down the hall to the guest bathroom I could hear myself thinking on another, subconscious channel: Jesus Christ. I can’t believe that Gordon showed up late and high. I knew he had his bad points, but what the hell are we going to do with him if drugs are part of his package (no pun intended). Clearly we are all going to have to keep an eye on him.

  As Gordon disappeared down the hall toward the bathroom for what seemed like the tenth time, it seemed that everyone was thinking the same thing. This was one of these times when no one wanted to say anything. The fact was, to say anything at all could have been tantamount to blowing the whole deal sky high. We had invested a lot of time and hope in this project and we were all used to overcoming obstacles. Gordon’s obvious problem was just going to be one more obstacle for us all to overcome.

  Of course this was not a meeting of church deacons. None of us were saints when it came to our pleasures. Whether it was wine, Cuban cigars, reefer, vodka, coke or gin, we all knew about and enjoyed many of the vices of life. And, of course, this was also the case for so many other members of The Pride.

  The Pride is most definitely not a bunch of drug ridden, alcoholic bacchanalians. The members of The Pride are people who are just like other Americans trying to make it in this hard world. We have our weakness and our vices and foibles, so what is new?

  Of course, there is a time and place for everything, and you can’t try to succeed in the United States of America as a black man or woman if you don’t know that. The question was whether Gordon knew about the right time and place for his various vices.

  And just then, as we started to engage in some more small talk about plans for the long weekend Gordon returned to the table. Amazingly, it was the same Gordon that we all knew, not the disoriented impostor who had come to dinner earlier. He was just a little more subdued than usual.

  “I really have to apologize to all of you, especially you, Diedre, since you are our hostess.” I could hardly believe my ears. This simply was not the Gordon Perkins I had come to know and loathe.

  “I should tell you that I have been taking this sinus medication and sometimes it really throws me for a loop. I guess I seemed to be pretty out of it, but I think I’m O.K. now.”

  To say that we were stunned would be like saying some people like fried chicken on Sunday. I was floored at being introduced to this almost human side of Gordon. Under the circumstances I really had to give him the benefit of the doubt regarding my suspicions as to what really “threw him for a loop.”

  I may have been born at night, but it wasn’t last night, and I was not prepared to accept his excuse completely. After all, knowing Gordon, his story was probably bullshit. But the Gordon Perkins I knew and loathed usually didn’t care what people thought. So for him, this was progress, however slow, on the road to humanity and decency.

  In any event I had enough to worry about without wondering about whether Gordon was sober or not. He was a big boy and he had done pretty well without any of us looking after him. Frankly, I figured that whatever the case, as long as it didn’t interfere with our business, I didn’t care and didn’t want to know.

  And, looking at Jerome and Paul, I could see that Gordon’s mea culpa certainly put them at ease. At least they were sufficiently at ease that they were not ready to bolt from the table and crash the deal.

  The Butterbean staff cleared the table and cleaned up the kitchen and I saw them to the door. I do recall thinking that being able to host a catered dinner was truly a blessed luxury. I returned to the dining room with four glasses of some thirty-year-old port wine that a client had brought back from the town of Porto, Portugal.

  Johnny Hodges was playing a solo on a Duke Ellington album that I had put on my sound system and the rapture of his music seemingly came from a galaxy far, far away. Despite the rapturous melody that oozed comfort and relaxation, I knew that Paul would make sure that we got down to business. A
nd he did.

  CHAPTER 61

  Diedre

  We’re on the right track now

  “I think that the best thing that we can do for the rest of the evening is to see how each of you can provide support or assistance to the three projects that are supposed to get the merged firm off the ground. Diedre, would you mind starting the progress reports?” Paul got things started, which was exactly what he should have done under the circumstances.

  We were all at ease, but not so relaxed that we had lost sight of the reason why we had gotten together. Butterbean had provided us with an excellent meal and the Gordon contretemps was seemingly resolved, at least for the moment. As I took a sip of the port wine and looked around the table at my future partners, I had the feeling that I was moving down a road that made sense, even if I couldn’t see all the way to the end.

  I have never thought of myself as one of those overly intuitive women. I need hard facts, data and information in as much detail as possible. But every now and then I have to trust my inner voice, and this time my inner voice was saying that this was the right time and place.

  “I have been able to get some real movement with a couple of the public employee unions and the managers of their pension funds. I am supposed to make a special presentation to them—they are going to fly into New York to meet at my offices in about a month. I am looking at about five billion dollars in assets that I will be managing if everything goes according to plan.”

  “Diedre, here is a list with the names and phone numbers of the chief financial officers of six Fortune 500 companies that we do work for.” It was Jerome. And as well as I thought I knew him and despite my high expectations that evening, I was still momentarily taken aback. He was handing me pure gold.

  “Call them next week. They are expecting your call and of course they all have huge pension funds. They have each already told me that they want you to make a presentation to their investment committees.”