The Pride

by Wallace Ford

“Oh, great. I have a scorpion for a partner and a lawyer for a lover. How lucky can a girl get?” I was halfway joking. And Paul knew which half.

  “I am not sure that I heard a compliment there, Diedre. I guess I will have to rely on my own self-esteem to find the punch line.” Paul smiled as he said this, and I smiled as well. He knew exactly what was my concern, and it was certainly not him.

  There was a very long pause. And then it seemed that our eyes danced together. Not with the starlight and the moon, but from feelings that came from within. We both knew that we were writing a new chapter in our lives. And I knew that it would be wonderful. It just had to be this time.

  Paul settled the bill, over my objections. We settled the matter by agreeing that the next tab would be mine. Whenever that might be, and we both knew that it would be soon.

  We rode in Paul’s car and headed back to Gordon’s compound. As we headed west from the easternmost part of the United States we listened to an old jazz standard, Herbie Mann’s “Impression of the Middle East,” a true classic.

  We sat in Gordon’s driveway and enjoyed the stars and the moon and the music. Then, almost suddenly, Paul turned down the volume and turned toward me. I thought he was going to kiss me. He spoke instead.

  “Did I ever tell you the story about the scorpion and the frog?” I was all too familiar with the fact that Paul would tell a story at the drop of a hat. Indeed, if there were no hats around, Paul would tell a story anyway.

  “I can’t say that I do know that story, Paul. But you are going to tell me, aren’t you?”

  “Actually, for a change this is a story that might interest you. You see, once upon a time, a scorpion and a frog met at the bank of a river. The scorpion asked the frog to let him ride on his back so that he could get to the other side too.

  “‘I can’t do that, Mr. Scorpion, as soon as you get on my back, you will sting me and I will die.’The scorpion replied, ‘But Mr. Frog, if I sting you when I get on your back, I will never get to the other side if I sting you in the middle of the river. You would die and I would drown and die too. When we get to the other side, you can get away from me before I can sting you.’

  “The frog considered the logic of the scorpion’s proposition, accepted his unassailable logic and agreed to give the scorpion a ride across the river on his back. The scorpion got on the frog’s back and the frog began to swim across the river. Halfway across, the scorpion began to violently and viciously sting the frog, over and over, until the frog was full of the lethal poison. As the frog started to die, sinking into the river and taking the scorpion with him, he had one last, gasping, dying question.

  “‘Mr. Scorpion. Why would you sting me? Now we are both going to die. Why would you? How could you?’

  “The scorpion replied, ‘Mr. Frog, I am a scorpion. This is what I do.’ And with that they both sank beneath the water and died.”

  At this point Herbie Mann’s flute solo, evocative of jasmine incense floating through the air of the most exquisite hareem just outside of Port Said, drifted through the speakers of Paul’s car. I contemplated his little parable and knew what he was telling me. We all knew the obvious benefits of the Morningstar partnership. Paul was telling me the downside.

  “Diedre, I really don’t know how relevant this story is to Morningstar or our conversation about Gordon. But it occurred to me that, while we know that Gordon must always be watched, he may be working from a script that defies normal logic and reason. After all, he is not normally logical or normally reasonable. We will all need to watch Gordon, day in and day out.”

  “Paul, when you are right, you are right. And I am sure that this is something that we should discuss in the morning. By the way, would you mind holding these until we get back to the guest quarters? They simply won’t fit in my purse.”

  The expression on Paul’s face was priceless. When he realized that I had handed him my panties I saw pleasure, surprise and desire compete for first place. He had never even noticed me taking them off while telling me the story about the goddamned scorpion and that goddamned frog.

  In what seemed like nanoseconds we were back in the guest quarters. All of the romantic good intentions about sipping champagne in some demure, sophisticated fashion went out the window. Buttons were unbuttoned, zippers were unzipped, snaps were unsnapped and clothing was thrown and strewn without care or concern. Love and passion was in the air. We were able to combine lust and caring into another wonderful night that I know that we will both remember forever.

  And there was another reason that we would remember that night. Everything that happened afterward made our prior lives simple and uncomplicated by comparison.

  CHAPTER 83

  Sture

  Don’t tell me I’m dreamin’

  As the manager of Dorothy’s By the Sea, I had been attending Gordon Perkins’s Labor Day parties for the past few years. I always came out late Friday night since the restaurant was closed for the weekend. I stayed at a guest house in South Hampton and watched dawn glide over the sand dunes of Long Island. I knew without knowing that various members of The Pride had various agendas. That was always the case. And that is what would bring them to Gordon’s party that night.

  Over the past six years, Gordon’s party had become the party to attend. People were known to rearrange vacation schedules and international travel plans in order to be there. Part of the attraction was the sheer spectacle of the party itself. Gordon spared no expense—at least two live bands. Veuve Cliquot and Pommery and Cristal were the only brands of champagne that were served—and they were served by the case—at least one hundred by my casual count. The food was catered by Butterbean, of course, and Gordon would supplement that with truffles flown in from France and fresh oysters expressed in from the Nysna coast of South Africa.

  There were always several multicolored tents pitched over the grounds of Gordon’s estate with candles floating in the pool and fountains like luminescent lilies. He usually spent about $20,000 on floral arrangements alone. His landscaping contractor had annual instructions to make sure that the lawns, shrubbery, trees and all living plant life were prepared for a perfect presentation for the last Saturday in August.

  Over the years it was clear to me that Gordon had worked very hard to make sure that this party was more than a social success. I have observed that social events can have tremendous business ramifications if handled properly. Every year Gordon made sure that anyone who he thought could help him or he thought he could use was invited.

  Not all of the members of The Pride could help him or be used, but many were invited anyway. After all, his status within The Pride was important to his overall status—that of being one of the most successful black investment bankers of all time.

  Gordon made sure that many of his white colleagues were invited. For those that came, it might be their only truly integrated social event of the year that was not a fund-raiser for some “worthy” cause.

  Interestingly, I have learned that many of the white attendees never failed to have a good time—actually a surprise to first time guests. I guess, given their limited social experience with blacks by reason of their living in New York City, they just did not know what to expect—perhaps lawyers and bankers break-dancing around a cauldron, flames licking its sides while mumbo jumbo bubbled noisily into the night? One never knew about these things.

  And, I have to hand it to Gordon. He left nothing to chance. He made sure that his wife, Kenitra, used her contacts in the modeling business so that at least fifty of the most gorgeous and successful models in New York City were in attendance in full battle regalia. This, of course, led to an equal number of equally gorgeous wannabees showing up. The result was an unscheduled beauty contest that was amazing to behold.

  I don’t mean to give the impression that the women of The Pride were mere bystanders in this festival of the senses. They had long ago put to rest the hoary notion that brains and beauty could not work together.

  While Kenitra
’s associates had to be gorgeous to earn a living, more than a few members of The Pride could match them black minidress for minidress, stiletto heel for stiletto heel, hip for hip, thigh for thigh … well, you get the idea. For these extremely well-educated and talented and accomplished black women who had to carefully manage their sensuality and sexuality while on the job, events like Gordon’s party, the Black Ski Summit, the Sun Splash Festival in Jamaica or the Congressional Black Caucus Dinner were opportunities for them to display and flaunt their other side of midnight. Romance was sought but fun was mandatory.

  In addition, there were any number of young and not so young men of The Pride who knew the reputation of Gordon’s parties, and they were determined to experience and enjoy the beauty and the wonder of it all. The combustible combination of gorgeous women and successful men was always a recipe for a successful party.

  My experience was that Gordon’s parties always started out as fun events that would get wilder and wilder as the evening wore on. In the years that I have been going, at least a dozen women and that many men would wind up nude in the Jacuzzi or the pool. In the morning after, Gordon’s maintenance people would find underwear, pants, bras and other articles of clothing on the beach. I have heard that they also find condoms, remnants of marijuana joints and pieces of foil and twenty-dollar bills that had been used to hold cocaine.

  Just like the policy that we have at Dorothy’s, drug usage was something that was never mentioned. No one who attended ever asked about it. There is an unspoken code that those who indulge seem to understand. Since I don’t indulge, I haven’t quite cracked the code yet.

  It was seemingly understood that Gordon would not object to the not so discreet use of marijuana and cocaine. And, although no one could ever remember seeing Gordon holding anything stronger than a glass of merlot or champagne, his assent was somehow assumed.

  The use of so-called controlled substances produced some very interesting behavioral twists and turns. Many of the members of The Pride came of age in the late sixties and seventies when marijuana, acid, hashish, mescaline and cocaine were just party favors and refreshments of the day.

  While not all of them may have inhaled, they all accommodated the presence of recreational drugs and really didn’t seem to have a problem with it. But, in the aftermath of the Age of Reagan and the constant drumbeat of the campaign to “just say no”—combined with the very real wreckage of the lives of some who could never say “no”—there was a perceptible change in behavior.

  It was no longer “cool” to publicly and obviously consume so-called controlled substances. I am told that there was a time when people would smoke joints and snort lines in plain view. That was clearly before I came to America.

  By the time I came to the U.S. there seemed to be an unspoken code used by those who did indulge, and they enjoyed their illicit prizes in private and in secret. For some, it was the only way that they could still enjoy the pleasures of their youth.

  I found it truly fascinating during my years of being around The Pride, at a big party like Gordon’s, the secret society would somehow signal each other and they would find a place … a bathroom, an extra bedroom, someplace where they could smoke and sniff until they were where they needed to be. And then they would slip back into the crowd with that secret, guilty feeling, and try and blend in. The only difference was in their mind and it was a big difference at that.

  CHAPTER 84

  Kenitra

  What’s the deal—what’s happenin’?

  Meanwhile, as that day began, I moaned to myself, my body and soul and very spirit bruised and beaten and sore beyond any realistic hope of full and permanent recovery. As I saw the streaks of dawn ease through the bathroom window, I cursed the realization that the drugs and the beatings and the alcohol and the degradation and abuse visited upon me by Gordon had not killed me … again. That meant that there would be more nights like last night. It might even be tonight.

  I looked over to the other side of the bed that had been my entire universe of humiliation and agony only a few hours ago, and had to smile to myself. It was only six o’clock in the morning, and Gordon, ever the manic control freak, determined to be the perfect host, was already awake, showered, shaved, dressed, and downstairs harrying and hurrying the household staff. I was very glad of this development.

  It meant that there would be no more beatings or degrading descents into hell during this day. The night would be another matter. At least for now there would be no forced ingestion of drugs and alcohol and there would be no bondage and scarring and scaring. And this was enough for me to be thankful.

  As I tried to ease out of bed without aggravating the bruises and lumps that now proliferated about my body, I had to struggle to remember that it was only a few years ago that men begged to be with me. Even Gordon. There was a time, not that long ago, when I believed myself to be beautiful, inside and out. And there was a time in my life when I believed in me.

  Of course, Gordon had tried to take all of that from me. He had given me wealth and status and prestige and furs and diamonds and a front row seat in hell. And now, as I tried not to stagger to the bathroom, I knew that all I really had in life were drugs and a will to live.

  I took a couple of those little yellow pills and summoned my will once more. The warm feeling I felt on my way back to bed let me know that it was going to be a good day.

  I knew from experience that Gordon would send a maid to wake me around noon. That way I would be recovered and presentable by the time guests started to arrive and that was important for the moment.

  CHAPTER 85

  Diedre

  As we stroll along together …

  In another part of the mansion I worked on persuading Paul that there were other ways that he could keep his commitment to regular aerobic workouts in the morning without putting on sneakers and running all over Long Island.

  I can’t remember exactly what it was that I did that changed his mind, but eventually he did come to see things my way. This was one time that I was the one who was right when I was right.

  CHAPTER 86

  Jerome

  Keep your eyes on the prize

  At the other end of Sag Harbor, Charmaine and I rose for the morning. Neither of us ever slept late. First, our sons were human alarm clocks, and the first lights of dawn seemed to hurl them from their beds. But I have to admit, Charmaine and I have always been driven—driven to succeed, driven to accomplish, driven to make the world different.

  So this Saturday was no different in that regard. We both stirred in our bedroom, getting ready to greet the day. We went over our plans for the rest of the day.

  “Okay. I’ll take the boys horseback riding while you get your hair done this morning.”

  “Fine. You know we’re going to have lunch early in the afternoon, I’ve fixed something special for us.” After all this time, her smile could captivate me like that first night at Yale.

  “That will leave us plenty of time to get ready for the evening. Anything else we have to do?”

  “No, Jerome. I think we have the evening covered. Consuelo is staying through the weekend so the boys will have company until they go to sleep.”

  “Not much longer for that. By next year they will want to start running the streets.”

  “Don’t remind me. But Jerome, before I forget …”

  “Yes?”

  “I know that you have told me every detail about this merger that you are doing with Diedre and Gordon.”

  “And …?” For the moment I had no idea what was on her mind. Then I knew. It was the same thing that had been on my mind for months.

  “There is something about this that gives me a … well, a funny feeling. I know that this is a fantastic, historic, wonderful, once in a lifetime event for you, and for us … but there is something about Gordon … the only way I can describe it is as ‘a funny feeling.’”

  In reality, she didn’t have to say another word. Gordon was beyond being a
wild card. He was heaven as an asset and hell as a partner.

  “It’s not something that I can really express or put into words. There is just something about all of this that gives me pause. And every road leads to Gordon.”

  And then the doorbell rang. Everything should have been as clear as glass. But that was when things were starting to get interesting. I found that out as I answered the door and greeted the Federal Express messenger.

  I guess I must have had a slightly dazed expression on my face when I came back into the kitchen. I know that it took me more than a moment to absorb and understand the letter that was in the delivery package. Frankly, I may never understand it.

  The stationery on which the letter was written was some of the most expensive vellum bond that I had ever seen. It was typed in a curious script.

  Je rome:

  By the time you read this letter, the Wall Street Journal will have received a press release announcing my resignation from your firm, effective yesterday. I really would have preferred to tell you this in person, but time and circumstances simply did not permit it to take place that way. I did not, however, think that it would be right for you to hear this from anyone else. Not after all that we have been through.

  An opportunity has arisen, and just as you have taught me, and would have done yourself, I had to take that opportunity. The release to which I referred will announce the formation of R.R. Beard & Company, a venture capital and asset management firm. My partner for domestic work will be Merrill Lynch. Merrill is providing me with much of my start-up capital as well as the initial infrastructure resources. I will be the majority shareholder.

  You should also know that five members of your asset management group and three members of your firm’s financial advisory group will be joining me along with five secretaries. I have attached a list of their names.

  I truly wish that things could have turned out differently. I have learned so much in working with you. The most important lesson that I have learned is that business is business, and every opportunity must be seized at the right time. I think that is exactly what I am doing right now.