by Peter Israel
“But suppose we could get past all that. I’m not saying we can, but suppose we could. Suppose the Council sent a letter to every Stark and Thompson it could find, saying, We’re tired of being responsible for all this money, we’re going to break it up over time and distribute it as fairly as we can. We estimate your eventual share to be x dollars.
“And suppose—a big suppose—but suppose nobody squawked? Would you still be home free? Hell, no. Because the minute the word got around—and it certainly would get around—somebody you’ve never heard of would show up from Texas and somehow prove he’s a bona fide Thompson. Or say he could prove it, with a smart lawyer on a contingency fee. You’re a lawyer yourself. Would you go to court over it, or settle? Probably you’d settle, or try to, but the minute you settled, up would pop another one from Oregon, another from Timbuktu, another from Outer Mongolia, and by the time you were done trying to sort out the Thompsons from the Thompsons—though who’s to say you’d ever be done—it’d be the lawyers who’d walk away with the lion’s share.”
According to Corky, then, a form of perpetual trust had, in some very practical sense, come into being. He said every new generation on the Council had faced the issue, tried to tackle it, and in the end had given up. And the longer it went unresolved, the more the dollars grew and grew.
“Of course, we’ve tried to get around it every which way,” Corky said. “The stipend, for one. We’ve upped it steadily. We’ve declared dividends, too. In a real sense, the Funds finances how we all live. Your house, for instance. And the Trustee does well, too … very well in a good year. Also, we have our philanthropic endowments. Even so, I’m afraid there’s no way we could come close to spending it all, even if we wanted to.”
I already knew the current Council members’ stipend. It would pay me more annually than I had ever taken home in my days at the firm, this for four meetings a year plus some committee work. I still had no idea how much the Trustee made. I assumed this would be his next topic.
“If I read you right,” he said, “you’re thinking, one, When does this old fart stop talking? Two, When do I take over? Three, How much am I going to make at it? Is that right?”
We both laughed, Corky’s eyes dancing under his heavy lids until he started to cough, hacking sounds and shoulders shaking. He apologized with a wave, at the same time waving off my offer of help, and picking up a table napkin, coughed into it and wiped his mouth.
“Jesus Christ,” he said when he’d recovered. “I’ll give you one free piece of advice, young man. Don’t grow old. Now where was I? Oh, yes. Well, I wouldn’t blame you for a minute if that’s what you’re thinking. Don’t forget, I was in your shoes once. How old are you now?”
“Forty-two,” I said.
“I became a member at almost your age, a little older, but it took me another ten years to become Trustee. Don’t worry, you’re not going to have to wait that long! But I can’t help asking myself, What’s the rush? I know, I know, suddenly everybody’s in a hurry. Suddenly Corky’s too old, he’s senile, he’s costing us money, and so on. And I agree with them! Not that I’m senile, but I’m eighty-three, my health isn’t a hundred percent. I could live another ten years, or ten days, who knows? Plus the markets are booming and we haven’t kept pace, that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? And all my fault? Well, it’s a terrific responsibility, let me tell you. The Trustee has a very wide latitude with the money—too wide, I’ve always said, but nobody else wants to be bothered. And there’s something else, too. I have no children, I lost my wife to cancer almost twenty years ago—this is the only work I have left. Maybe I should give it up, but maybe I shouldn’t. Hell, why should I? Last year—an off year, mind you—it earned me personally almost three million dollars. Did you earn three million dollars last year? Maybe you did, and more power to you, but why should I be in a rush to give up an income of three million dollars a year?”
His tone, as I’ve tried to convey, was a peculiar mix of belligerence, as though I was the enemy, and wheedling, as though he was looking to me for some kind of approval. His real argument, it seemed to me, was with the Council. They’d appointed me his heir apparent, so to speak, and clearly he wanted no part of an heir apparent.
Under other circumstances, I might simply have gotten up and left, but there was too much at stake. Somehow, without quite having realized it beforehand, I’d already committed myself.
“Aren’t you the least bit curious as to how I do it?” Corky said, narrowing his eyes. “What’s the matter, Tommy? Cat got your tongue?”
“Look,” I said, trying to keep calm. “I find myself in a very awkward situation. Maybe there’s been some kind of misunderstanding. I thought the job had been offered to me, not that—”
“Oh it is, it is!” he interrupted, waving me off. “It’s going to be all yours, Tommy! It’s just a question of the timing, that’s all, and some details we have to clear up. I’m just griping out loud, that’s all. For Christ’s sake, that’s what old people do, they gripe all the time, didn’t you know that? Can’t you put up with a little griping in exchange for three million a year?”
He started jotting numbers quickly, if shakily, on a legal-size pad, talking as he wrote. Corcoran Stark was an accountant by background and the founder, years before, of a firm that, after several mergers, had emerged as part of one of the accounting Big Eight. He’d retired young, already a rich man. The system of compensation he described, which would pass on to the new Trustee, resembled the one I’d used with my own clients in that it provided for an escalating percentage of profits. Smaller percentages, yes, but of a vastly bigger pie. According to Corky, the system dated back to just after the war, which coincided with the period when the Funds had really taken off.
“Nothing like the old greed factor, is there? To motivate somebody? The smartest thing the Council ever did. For my sake, sure, and I made a lot more than three million in my heyday. But so did everybody else, at least on paper!”
He excused himself then, saying he stiffened up if he sat too long in one place, and when he stood I could hear his joints crack like knuckles. He kept on talking as, steadying himself on the backs of chairs, he made his way out from under the umbrellas into the bright sun and, stooping over on his spindly legs, gazed down into the pool. Something about how he’d like another swim, though he wasn’t supposed to overdo it. Maybe he’d wait till afternoon. Then something more pointed, about how he knew I was impatient, and why was it, did I suppose, that old people, who had no time left at all, had all the patience in the world, while young people, who had none of the patience, had all the time?
And then, coming back to the table and, with a sigh, easing his body into his chair, he hit me, as it were, right between the eyes. Or, more accurately, blindsided me, for I’d had no idea what was coming.
“Well,” he said, “let’s get to a small matter we’ve got to clear up. How carefully did you read the bylaws?”
“I’m not sure I could recite them by heart,” I answered, “but pretty carefully.”
“The provisions about the loans?” he asked.
“Yes, of course.”
“And what do they say, in substance?”
“In substance? That upon suitable application, the Trustee can make loans to family members, subject to approval by the Council, if I remember correctly.”
“That’s right,” Corky said. “And what happens to the loans?”
“I don’t get what you mean: What happens to them?”
“Well, if they’re not paid back. In default. You have a loan, for instance, don’t you? On that house of yours?” Yes, I thought in irritation, and I’ve been paying it off for as long as I can remember. “What happens to it if you die?”
“Well,” I said, not recalling anything specific, “I imagine it would become an obligation of my estate, wouldn’t it?”
“Wrong!” he said, clearly pleased to have caught me. “You have a son, don’t you?”
“Yes, that’s right.�
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“Then it would become his. His obligation.”
“But that’s illegal!” I exclaimed. “You don’t inherit debts like that. You wouldn’t stand a chance of collecting in a court of law.”
“I doubt it would ever go that far,” he answered mildly. “Not if he wanted your seat on the Council.”
Irritated as I was, I still, however obtusely, failed to see what he was driving at.
On the table near him was one of those accordion-type gray file folders, the kind you rarely see anymore, which are tied with a ribbon. I’d noticed it earlier, had assumed it contained details of his operations and that in due course, after he’d put me through his hoops a few more times, we would get to it. Now he patted it absentmindedly, saying meanwhile:
“This is the Senator’s loan file, Tommy. Now answer me honestly: Do you know anything about it?”
“No,” I said, feeling myself stiffen. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He stared at me a moment, eyes lidded, as though satisfying himself that I was telling the truth. Then:
“I guess I’m not surprised after all. He’s an old friend, Tommy, a man of great qualities and certainly the most illustrious member of the clan alive today. But when it comes to finances? Finances and women? Zero. Absolutely zero.”
“How much is involved?” I heard myself say.
By way of answer, he untied the ribbon, reached into the folder, extracted a summary sheet, and handed it to me.
I couldn’t believe what I saw. In principal and interest, my father’s indebtedness to the Funds came to just under five million dollars.
“My God,” I think I said. “How did this happen?”
“It happened over a long period of time,” Corky replied. “And because, where the Senator was concerned, I was too soft a touch.”
I could think of nothing to say.
“For the last few years,” Corky went on, “we’ve been withholding his stipend, but that doesn’t even match the outstanding interest payments.” It did explain, though, I realized with mounting bitterness, why the Senator had been so willing to hand me down his seat on the Council. “You know, not so long ago—maybe it was last year—he came to me. It was very embarrassing for him, for me as well. He said, ‘Corky, my old friend, all I need to tide me over is sixty thou. That’s all, sixty thousand dollars. What possible difference will sixty thousand dollars make to you?’ And he was right, you know? It wouldn’t have made the slightest difference to the trust. But I’d been to the well with him too many times, Tommy. I had to turn him down.”
Yes, I thought, and the sixty had become eighty by the time he talked to me. But still too much of a pittance, he’d said, for him to bother the Council about.
“But what does all this have to do with me?” I asked once Corky had finished.
“I’m afraid it’s become your obligation.”
“Why is that? He’s still alive and kicking. As far as I know, he hasn’t declared bankruptcy.”
“That may be, but he’s mortgaged to the hilt. There’s no way he’s going to pay us back.”
“So because you were too soft a touch, you’re telling me I’m stuck?”
He took the accusation with apparent aplomb.
“That’s about it,” he replied. “But I don’t see why you’re getting so worked up about it. Once you’re Trustee, you’ll make it back within a couple of years. Sooner, if you’re smart about it.”
“Does the Council know about this?”
“Yes, of course. It was my duty to so inform them before the Senator stepped down and you were named a member.”
“And what did they say?”
“Everybody was embarrassed about it, but we all assumed you would make the Senator whole. We understand you’ve been doing very well on your own—”
“But nobody saw fit to talk to me about it beforehand?”
“We assumed the Senator had.”
“Well, he didn’t.”
Maybe it was a tactical mistake to show such filial … what? Disloyalty?… But I couldn’t help myself. I was choked and enraged inside. At my father certainly, that most illustrious member of the clan, and the blithe and lying insouciance with which he’d dealt with me. But angry, too, at Corky and the rest of them, who now, in a totally unforeseen way, seemed to hold my fate in their hands. It was all very well for them to understand how well I’d been doing, but I knew the numbers, knew how much I’d drawn against my eventual profit share on my accounts, knew that I couldn’t put my hands on anything like five million dollars.
“Let me see if I understand this,” I said. “According to the bylaws, the indebtedness of the father becomes, upon his death, the obligation of the son. The last I heard, my father was very much alive. Yet you still expect me to make good?”
“That’s correct.”
“And supposing I don’t?”
“Well, I’d say your future participation in the Council would be jeopardized. I for one would take a dim view of it, and I doubt I’d be alone.”
“And the Trusteeship?”
“Well, that of course would be out of the question.”
“Then let’s turn the question around. Supposing I do make good, five million dollars give or take. Then what?”
“Then everything proceeds as before,” he answered.
“And the Trusteeship?”
“All in due course,” he said. “I’ve already indicated to you that it’s going to be yours. It’s just a question of timing.”
“But no guarantee on your part?”
“No more than what I’ve just said.”
“In other words, I’m supposed to write out a check for five million dollars and then take everything on faith?”
“Oh, I didn’t say it had to be all in cash,” he said. “I could accept a goodly portion in cash—say, half—and the rest in a promissory note. That would satisfy me.”
Yes, and with interest on the note, I was sure.
“And the Council approves this?”
“It’s not a Council matter,” he said. “Not yet, in any case. It’s up to you and me to work out, between ourselves.”
I wondered about that. I wondered how much the Council knew, and whether they knew that Corky was stonewalling me on the succession.
If I’d antagonized him meanwhile, he didn’t show it. His tone was benign, matter-of-fact, almost as though he didn’t care one way or the other. He stood up then, abruptly ending the meeting, but saying in a conciliatory manner that he hadn’t intended our conversation to dwell on this one issue. It was only a detail, he said, something we had to clean up, to be sure, but not right then and there.
“In any case,” he said, “it’s time for my nap. You’re welcome to stay if you want to. Make yourself at home. Have a swim, stay for lunch, we could talk some more this afternoon. There’s a great deal for us to talk about. But meanwhile, if you’d be so kind, would you help an old man to his bedroom?”
I said I couldn’t stay, but with his arm around my shoulder, mine around his waist, I accompanied him into the house. His body seemed surprisingly light to me, brittle-boned. The ploy—that he needed help to get to his bedroom—struck me as another move on his part, not for approval but for sympathy. Sympathy wasn’t my strong suit right then, but I walked him through the cool interiors downstairs and up to his room, a darkened place of massive furniture, with curtains and drapes pulled against the sunlight and an aromatic, vaguely musty odor.
“I’m all in,” he said quietly. “I get up with the birds. Sometimes I wake them up.”
Then, before dismissing me:
“A word of advice, Tommy. Be patient with us old codgers. And don’t be too hard on the Senator. I wish we all had his qualities.”
I couldn’t find my father at first. Then, when I did (at the summer home in Rhode Island of a former U.S. Secretary of State), he was off on some sailing trip. Finally, after repeated calls from me, he called back. If it was so urgent, he said, why didn�
��t I come up there? Otherwise, the best he could do was see me the latter part of August. He wouldn’t be in New York before then.
I settled for the latter part of August, in my office.
I won’t describe the interview in all its details. This is not because of any embarrassment on my part or, for that matter, on his. In fact, he seemed to think I’d summoned him because he’d missed the last payment on the eighty-thousand-dollar loan, which he promised to forward after the first of the month, when he would have a positive cash flow. (He never did.) But the rancor I’d felt toward him upon learning the truth from Corky Stark had given way in the interim to more practical considerations, such as how to keep him from poisoning the atmosphere with Corky or other members of the Council.
I asked him simply to verify what Corky had told me.
Yes, he was in debt to the Funds.
The amount—almost five million dollars—sounded on the high side to him, but he hadn’t looked recently and he trusted Corky when it came to arithmetic.
Yes, he was aware that the indebtedness might devolve on me, even though he was still alive. Why hadn’t he told me about it, then? Well, probably he should have. It must have slipped his mind. He’d been more focused on the eighty-thousand-dollar loan when we’d last met, because he’d absolutely had to have it. All in all, though, he thought he’d done me a favor, even with the debt question, by stepping down from the Council before he had to.
I let that pass, also that he’d lied to me about not having applied to Corky first before he’d hit me up. I asked him instead to review his finances for me. His problem, he said, was that he was cash poor. Well, he’d always been cash poor. He’d had too many dependents, myself included. Some poor investments, in addition, that hadn’t panned out because he hadn’t had the time to devote to them. He’d probably have done better to give all his money to somebody like Corky and pay him to deal with it. But he’d always managed to scrape through, and he would again.
“How?” I asked him. From what I could gather, he was already functionally bankrupt.
Well, he didn’t know. He said he’d been counting on his share of the firm’s profits (having forgotten apparently that he’d already told me his share had been greatly reduced), but from what he’d heard the firm’s profits this year were going to end up in one mammoth lawsuit, partner against partner, and maybe even in breakup and bankruptcy. Mac Coombs was tearing his hair out. Had I heard? Yes, something of the sort. Well, he said, he was glad to be out of it. He’d be damned if he was going to ruin his golden years worrying about things like that.
