The Rothman Scandal

by Stephen Birmingham

  “There’s a lot more that has to go into a new magazine than just money. There’s a lot of thought, a lot of research—”

  “I’d leave that all up to you. I’d make you editor and publisher. You’d be your own boss. I’d let you toss your own party, and all I’d do is write out the checks.”

  “Well, as I say, that is quite an offer,” she said.

  “Damn right,” he said. “Now let me tell you my plan. But first let me tell you what’s going to happen to the Rothmans. Old Man Ho Rothman was a smart old bastard, but he made two mistakes that he’s going to pay for now. A, he never delegated any authority to anybody else in the company. He always ran a one-man show. B, he never really believed in credit. He never really trusted banks. Most of everything he got that wasn’t by hook or by crook, he got for cash. That was a mistake because a man is only as good as his credit line. A man is only worth as much as he can borrow. That’s how I got rich, because I understand credit, I understand leverage. A man’s credit is his credibility. Credit. Credibility. They mean the same thing. Now the old man’s in trouble with the IRS because they’re saying his whole damn empire was always a one-man show, and of course they’re right, it was. And the IRS is going to win their case. This phony senile act he’s pulling now isn’t going to help him.”

  “Phony? What makes you say that?”

  “Hell, Ho Rothman is about as senile as you or I. I know the guys in that Waxman firm that’s working for him. Young Jerry Waxman is a worse shyster than his father. This senile act is all their idea. They want to take him down to Foley Square on a stretcher, and let him put on his cuckoo act for the IRS boys. They want to point to Ho and say, ‘How can you accuse this poor old man, no longer in control of his faculties, of manipulating, et cetera, et cetera.’”

  “Interesting,” she said. “Very interesting.”

  “Why else won’t they let anybody see him except his doctor and his nurses—and of course his wife? They’ll get the doctor and the nurses to testify how sick he is.”

  “Very interesting,” she said.

  “Hell, you don’t think it was real blood that Imelda Marcos coughed up in the courtroom, do you? It was ketchup that her lawyers gave her, and she coughed it up on cue, at just the right point in the trial. It worked for her. It turned the jury around, and they thought—Oh, this poor old sick widow, and all that shit, and they acquitted her. But the same sort of grandstand play isn’t going to work for Ho, and you know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because, A, there’s too much money involved, and, B, because even though Ho’s not senile, he’s still ninety-something years old and he’s gonna croak sometime soon. And if the IRS can establish that Ho’s company has always been a one-man show, which it has, and which they will, the IRS can move in when he croaks and tax the entire company, the whole shebang, as his estate. So what’s going to happen when Ho loses his case? The IRS is talking nine hundred mil—with interest and penalties, over a billion. We’re talking big bucks here. A billion dollars is big bucks—I know, because I’ve got that much in a single brokerage account. So the company’s gonna need cash, right? They got no credit. They’re gonna have to raise that cash by selling off some properties, and one of the properties they’re gonna be selling off is Mode.”

  “Why would they sell Mode?”

  “Because I’m gonna make them an offer they can’t refuse, that’s why. I’m gonna buy it, and then I’m gonna fold it. Meanwhile, I’m gonna have you and your new magazine—right? And you and your magazine will have the field free and clear—no competition. That little ferret won’t snoot me at the Four Seasons anymore. I’m gonna crush Herbert Rothman—crush him like a bug.” He pressed his large thumb hard on the tablecloth as though crushing an ant, and then wiped off the imaginary offending matter on his trouser leg.

  “So I’m faced with a kind of Hobson’s choice,” she said.

  “Eh?”

  “Either I let Herb Rothman destroy my magazine, or I join you and help you destroy it.”

  “That’s the beauty of my plan,” he said.

  “But if you’re going to buy Mode, why not put your money into Mode? Why spend it on the obviously very risky business of starting up a whole new magazine?”

  “Yeah, I thought of that. The answer is, A, I like risk. I always have. And, B, Mode is an old product—I mean, Mode is something like a hundred and twenty years old. It’s like fixing up an old car. It’s like you can take an old Dusenberg or a Pierce-Arrow, or even a Model T, and fix it all up like new, and the result is pretty cute, pretty snappy. That’s what you did with Mode. You restored a classic car. But what have you got when you’re done? You’ve still got an old car. What I want to do is build something entirely new. I want to build a DeLorean, only even better. That’s what I want to attach my name to in New York, something that’s never been done before. And I want to attach your name to it, too—yours and mine. So what do you say? Are we partners? Is it a handshake? I’ve never done a deal in my life that wasn’t done on a handshake.”

  “Let me think about this,” she said.

  “Don’t think too long,” he said. “We don’t have too much time. The IRS trial’s coming up. And if you do go along with me, there’s only one thing I’d ask in return.”

  “Oho,” she said with a little smile. “So there is a little string attached.”

  “Just a little quid pro quo. Isn’t everything in business a little quid pro quo? It’s a personal thing. It isn’t much.”

  “Okay, Rodney. Tell me what it is.”

  He stared down at his plate, and he was definitely blushing. He seemed embarrassed to tell her what his condition was. Waiting for him to answer, she glanced around the restaurant to see if there were any familiar faces. She saw none, but that didn’t matter, for she couldn’t help but imagine what Herb Rothman’s reaction would be when he learned—as he certainly would learn, in this small world that was New York, and in this even smaller world that was the magazine business—that she had lunched with the man the family considered its enemy, and when he found out—as he certainly would—what this man had just proposed to her.

  She was still smiling, “Come on, Rodney,” she said pleasantly. “Tell me what it is. I can assure you that after twenty years in this business nothing you say would surprise me. You’ve made your proposal. Now give me the rest of the terms.”

  “It’s—it’s Maudie.”

  “Maudie?”

  “My wife, Maudie. I just thought that—maybe—well, with the kind of people you know, the kind of people we read were at your party the other night, I thought maybe you could help Maudie get into New York high society.”

  “Oh,” she said, sounding almost disappointed.

  “These rich New York women, they’ve been snooting Maudie. They’re just as bad as the boys at the Bay Street Club and their snooty wives. Worse, even. She’s tried to do her best, to get them to like her, but they still snoot her. It hurts her—real bad. But I thought, with the kind of people you know, maybe you could introduce her around—to the people she reads about, Mrs. Peabody, Mrs. Buckley, Mrs. Astor, and this Mona—”

  “Potter?”

  “Is that her last name? The one that writes the column? Maudie loves that column. And it would mean everything in the world to Maudie if she could just see her name in this Mona’s column.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Could you help her? Is it too much to ask? Me, I don’t give a shit. I know I’m no gent. But Maudie is a real lady. Like you. And I really love my Maudie.”

  Her smile was a little wistful now, thinking of the touching innocence and fatuity of Maudie’s ambitions, and of her husband’s sweet eagerness to help her fulfill them. And knowing that one of the great disillusioning disappointments of such aspirations was always the ridiculous ease with which they could be achieved.

  “Lenny Liebling,” she said slowly. “He could do it even more quickly and easily than I could. He knows all sorts of interesting peopl
e.”

  “But he couldn’t do it and still work for Rothman, could he? If Herb Rothman knew Liebling was doing me favors, he’d can him just like that. Liebling’s an old pansy. He needs the Rothmans. You don’t.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

  “The ferret wouldn’t stand for you working for me and him, either. So, you see, my two propositions to you sort of hinge on one another, don’t they? That’s the beauty of it.”

  “Well, let me think about all of this,” Alex said at last. “You’ve got to admit you’ve given me a lot to think about.”

  “Do me one favor,” he said. “Come by for a drink tomorrow night and meet Maudie. Get to know her a little bit. Then you can tell us what can be done with her.”

  “That would be very nice. I’d like that.”

  “Okay,” he said gruffly, avoiding her eyes. “Six o’clock. We live at the Lombardy. And take your time thinking about my other proposition. I guess I didn’t expect a yes-or-no answer today at lunch. But don’t take too much time. Timing is everything in this business.”

  “There’s just one thing I’m not too happy about,” she said.

  “Eh? What’s that?”

  “Your comparing my editing of Mode to driving a used car!”

  “That’s what it is, dammit! That book’s been around the block more than a few times. It’s sat on a lot of lots. It’s had a lot of different people in the driver’s seat, and they weren’t just little old ladies who took it out once a week to go to church! It’s had its odometer turned back more than once. Hell, you didn’t create Mode. You inherited it from your husband. You took it over because your husband didn’t know how to run it. He couldn’t keep up the payments!”

  “Correction. Steven edited Mode very well, but he just wasn’t happy doing it. I was. Steven felt uncomfortable editing a woman’s magazine, but his father—”

  “What the hell. It was only a figure of speech. I’m giving you a chance to create something brand new, something nobody’s ever seen before, something with your personal signature on it—yours and mine. Newness is everything in this game, lady. Wanna know how I made my first million? It was babies’ pacifiers, yeah, and pacifiers had been around a long time, but my pacifiers had a difference. They had flavors. McCulloch’s Yummies came in orange, strawberry, raspberry, apple, chocolate, marshmallow, and vanilla. Wild cherry and plum didn’t sell, for some damn reason. But McCulloch’s Yummies were new, and I knew they’d be a hit because I tested ’em on my own kiddies and my kiddies loved ’em. I paid that guy ten thousand for his patent, and made forty million! So let’s send old Mode out to the used-car graveyard.”

  The image was so grotesque that she had to laugh. “All right,” she said. “As I said, I’ll think about all this.”

  “Take your time, but not too much time, and meanwhile give my regards to the ferret. Ha-ha-ha. And Maudie and me will see you tomorrow night.”

  Now he attacked what remained on his plate, managing a quick glance at the big gold Rolex watch on his wrist in the same motion. Rodney McCulloch’s business-of-the-moment was completed. There was nothing left to do with the lunch now except to finish it. Now the fabled cuisine of Gilbert Coze, Le Barnardin’s legendary chef, was just something to be packed away as quickly and efficiently as possible between now and his next appointment. For all the enjoyment he seemed to be getting from this meal, Alex thought, they could just as well have been eating at McDonald’s.

  “The tuna carpaccio was delicious,” she said.

  “Yeah, it was okay,” he said with a shrug. “For fish.”

  She decided that Rodney McCulloch was one of the most extraordinary men she had ever met.

  “Waiter!” he bellowed. “Lah-dee-shawn, see voo play!”

  She also thought: I must find some way to get to Ho Rothman!

  23

  “What’s the matter?” Alexandra asked her mother. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s nothing … nothing.” They had been about to order ice-cream cones at Mr. Standish’s store on what was somewhat grandly called Main Street in Paradise. It was the only street in town and when residents of Paradise referred to Main Street it was always called “downstreet.” “I’m going downstreet to the store,” they would say when they needed something from Mr. Standish’s, or “I’m going downstreet to the post office” when they needed to mail a letter. And, believe it or not, Mr. Standish’s first name was Miles. “How was your trip on the Mayflower, Miles Standish?” her mother would sometimes joke with him. “Pretty rough, Mrs. Lane,” he would answer. “Nothing but a buncha seasick Pilgrims.”

  That particular muggy afternoon in August, when Alex was eleven, her mother had said, “Let’s go downstreet and get ourselves some ice-cream cones,” and they had got into the black 1949 Plymouth coupe that her mother drove in those days, and headed for the little village, and Mr. Standish’s. Alex had already decided on the flavor she wanted—a double scoop of chocolate chip—and they were standing at Mr. Standish’s counter, waiting to be served, when suddenly a strange man, tall, with blond hair, turned from the magazine rack where he had been looking at paperbacks, and gave Alex and her mother a startled, questioning look. Then he started to move toward them, and the word Lois seemed to be forming on his lips. Alex could still remember the wide, appraising look in his blue eyes.

  Her mother had immediately seized her elbow and whispered, “Quick! We’ve got to go!” Still clutching Alex’s elbow, she had hurried Alex toward the door of the store, then out the door and down the steps and into the Plymouth.

  “What’s the matter, Mother? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing … nothing.”

  She turned the key in the ignition, and they had sped away from Mr. Standish’s, kicking up a fine spray of gravel behind them as they turned out of the parking space into Main Street.

  “But what about my ice cream?” Alex had wailed.

  “Never mind. Not now. We’ll get that later. Or somewhere else.” And she kept glancing in the rearview mirror, as though the strange blond man might be following them.

  But there was no place else in town to buy ice-cream cones—no place between here and Kansas City, except for Mr. Standish’s, and Alex knew that as well as her mother must have known it.

  “It was that man, wasn’t it? He acted like he knew us. He wanted to speak to us.”

  “What man?” her mother said. “I didn’t see any man. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But her mother’s face was pale, and her knuckles, gripping the steering wheel, were white, and they were driving toward home down the narrow country road, bouncing over potholes, much faster than her mother ever drove before.

  “That man in the store,” Alex said.

  “Never mind. Never mind.”

  “Mother, who was that man?” What did he want?”

  “Mind your own business!” her mother had snapped. “Besides, there wasn’t any man.”

  But of course there had been, and now, inexplicably, her mother was angry with her. They drove homeward in silence.

  It was a strange experience, Alex often thought, growing up in the little town of Paradise, Missouri. She and Lenny often laughed about it, because the small-town background was something they had in common—she, with her memories of Paradise, and he, from farther south, really the Deep South, with his tales of childhood in Onward, Mississippi.

  “Onward was worse,” he insisted.

  “No. Nothing could have been worse than Paradise.”

  “We were the only Jewish family in town. We were considered very peculiar.”

  “We considered ourselves intellectuals. That made us even more peculiar.”

  Paradise—to the nineteenth-century settlers who founded the place, on a slight rise just east of the flood level of the Platte River, it may have seemed just that. In fact, it wasn’t all that bad. Tall stands of sycamore and willow trees lined the riverbank. The river, as its name implied, flowed flat and smooth and pewter-colored in a graceful
series of oxbow bends. Beyond the river, the land extended flat for as far as the eye could see, an infinite horizon. Widely spaced and neatly kept farmhouses, mostly of white-painted clapboard with dark green shutters, each flanked by its sturdy barn, stocky silo, and cluster of domed corncribs, dotted this endless prairie landscape, each farm seeming to comprise a little duchy of its own.

  Here farmers raised principally feed corn, and by mid-July the cornfields became dangerous places for children to enter. Alex’s mother had warned her never to walk into a field of tall corn, because a child could easily become lost between the rows, where there were no sights and sounds to guide you out, only the rustle of cornstalks whispering in the wind. The bodies of children lost in a cornfield were often not found until harvest-time. Later, Alex learned the rule: always follow a single row; every row of corn ended somewhere.

  Other farmers raised oats and wheat and sorghum and soybeans and barley and tobacco. Still other farmers raised beef and dairy cattle, sheep and hogs and—at the bottom of the unwritten status scale—poultry. Deep beneath the fields of a few lucky farmers, another cash commodity had been discovered—natural gas.

  But Alex’s family house, out on Old State Road 27, was not like the others. It was not a farm, and it had no barn, silo, or corncribs. It stood on a mere acre and a half, surrounded on three sides by hundreds of acres of neighbors’ cornfields. It was not built of white-painted clapboard, but of locally quarried stone. The Lanes, with the help of a G.I. loan, had built the house themselves in a style that would soon become known as California Ranch. The house looked out of place, and neighbors used it in giving directions: “You’ll come to a funny-looking modern house on your left, and we’re a mile and three-tenths after that, on the right.”