by Stuart Woods
Laurence came back looking more presentable. “I think I’m going to need a secretary. And I guess I should ask about your legal fees.”
“Oh,” Stone said, handing him a printed sheet of paper. “This is a list of my and my firm’s legal fees. Please look it over when you have a chance.”
Laurence scanned the document, folded it, and put it in his pocket. “I can afford you,” he said.
“Good. I’ll see what I can do about the secretary. Fred is waiting out front with the car. He’ll bring you back when you’re done at Nico’s. You can leave your bag here.”
“I guess I’ll need a hotel room, until I have an apartment.”
“You can bunk here. I’ve got a lot of extra room.”
“Thank you.”
“Get going. I’ll start setting up our day for tomorrow.”
Laurence left and Stone called Herbie Fisher.
“Herbert Fisher.”
“It’s Stone. I have a new client for you.”
“Okay, who?”
“One Laurence B. Hayward of Palm Beach, Florida.”
“What does Mr. Hayward do?”
Stone thought about that. “Let’s call him an investor, which he will be, starting tomorrow. And get us a meeting tomorrow morning at nine, nine-thirty, with Conrad Trilling at Wilmington Trust.”
“Can I mention Mr. Hayward’s net worth?”
“Let’s surprise him. Tell him to go ahead and set up a checking account.” He gave Herbie Laurence’s address in Palm Beach. “The account should be at their North Palm Beach branch. Tell him we’ll be making a large deposit, and ask him to call somebody at American Express and get Mr. Hayward a Centurion card instantly. He’ll need a Visa card from the bank, too, and an ATM card. He’s got a couple of hours before they close.”
“Okay, anything else?”
“Mr. Hayward is going to need a secretary. Anybody we can steal from the firm without putting anyone’s nose out of joint?”
“Funny you should mention that. You remember that one of our senior partners died about three months ago?”
“Frank Penny?”
“Right. His secretary is Margery Mason. They’ve kept her on to clean up Penny’s affairs, and she’s about done.”
“Dark hair, going gray, mid-forties, on the plump side?”
“That’s the one, and they’ve been slow to reassign her. The partners seem to go for the more fashionable-looking women.”
“She’s ideal. Talk to her, will you? Find out what she’s making, so we can top it.”
“Right.”
“Oh, and set up a Florida company for Laurence called the LBH Corporation, to house some assets.”
“Right away.”
“He wants to buy an apartment in the old Fairleigh Hotel, on Park Avenue, that went condo. Get ahold of their prospectus and have a look at their standard contract. We should be ready for a quick closing, if he likes the place.”
“Is he, by any chance, considering the one that was featured in the Times real estate section last Sunday?”
“How’d you guess?”
“Magic. I hear the apartments have gone quickly, but they’re having trouble moving that penthouse. Most of the apartments are two, three bedrooms and three or four to a floor, but the penthouse takes up the whole fifteenth floor. My advice is, haggle.”
“Absolutely. I’ll have Mr. Hayward at Wilmington Trust at nine tomorrow morning. Meet us downstairs.”
“Will do. Are you going to tell me Mr. Hayward’s net worth?”
“I’ll surprise you, too. And he likes to be called Laurence.”
Stone buzzed Joan. “Please call Theresa Crane, a personal shopper at the Ralph Lauren store on Fifth Avenue at, what is it—Fifty-fifth?”
“Close enough.”
“And set up an appointment for Laurence Hayward”—he spelled it for her—“at, say, ten-thirty AM tomorrow.”
“Right. Anything else?”
“Yes, be prepared for anything, and be prepared to handle it fast.”
“What else is new?” she asked.
“Oh, and ask Helene to get the big guest room on three ready. We’ll be dining tonight in my study.”
3
STONE’S PHONE BUZZED.
“Conrad Trilling for you on one,” Joan said.
“How are you, Conrad?”
“Very well, Stone. I understand you’re bringing us a prospective client tomorrow morning—a Mr. Laurence Hayward of Palm Beach?”
“That is correct.”
“I hope you’re sitting down, Stone, because I have some bad news for you—you’ve been had.”
“Oh? How?”
“Mr. Laurence Hayward of Australian Avenue, Palm Beach, died three weeks ago. Didn’t you think we’d check up on him?”
“That was his father.”
“Laurence C. Hayward?”
“The son is Laurence B. Hayward.”
“Well, Laurence C. owned a house at that address, which is valued at three million, and he has less than two million in liquid assets, so where is Mr. Laurence B. getting this large deposit he’s making tomorrow?” The sound of computer keys clicking could be heard on the phone.
“All will be revealed tomorrow morning, Conrad.”
“And I must tell you, Stone, that Mr. Laurence B. Hayward has no credit record to speak of—only a MasterCard, with an okay payment record, and no employer, either.”
“That’s because he’s been living mostly in England since he was eight years old, and he is now thirty. If you’d like to check his credit over there, his employer is Eton College, where he is an assistant master and of which he is an old boy. He came to the States to attend his sick father three or four months ago.”
“One moment.” More computer keys. “Good news, Stone, the fellow exists! He also has an account at Coutts Bank, which speaks well of him, but it’s small potatoes.”
“Conrad, would you prefer it if I took him elsewhere?”
“I would prefer it if I knew more about him before I press American Express to deliver a Centurion card instantly.”
“Conrad, have I ever brought you a client who didn’t meet or exceed your wealth standards?”
“Well, no . . .”
“Then have a little faith, and tell American Express to, as well. See you tomorrow at nine.” Stone hung up.
Joan buzzed. “Herb Fisher on two.”
“Yes, Herb?”
“Have you done any checking into Mr. Hayward? I mean, Laurence?”
“No, but Wilmington Trust has, and he’s real.”
“Okay. You have an appointment at three PM tomorrow to view the penthouse at the Fairleigh. It’s apartment 15, and the agent is a Ms. Cassandra Gotham—veddy British—and she will meet you there.”
“Thank you, Herb. See you tomorrow morning.”
—
IT WAS HALF PAST SIX when Laurence returned from his barbering. He walked into Stone’s office and stopped. “Is this any better?”
He looked quite handsome, Stone thought. “I almost didn’t recognize you. Let’s go upstairs and find you a room, then we’ll have some dinner.”
Laurence grabbed his bag and followed Stone to the elevator. Stone led him into the large room and showed him where things were. “Do you want to freshen up?” he asked.
“I don’t get any fresher than after a couple of hours at Nico’s,” he replied.
“Then let’s go down to my study.” They got back on the elevator and got off at the living room.
“This is a very beautiful house,” Laurence said. He stopped before a grouping of pictures. “And these are very beautiful, too.”
“Thank you. They were painted by my mother, Matilda Stone. She has a few other things hanging in the American collection at the Metropolitan
Museum.”
“That will be one of my first stops in New York,” Laurence said. They went into the study.
“Would you like a drink?”
“Yes, thank you, scotch, a single malt, if you have it.”
“I have a Macallan 12, a Talisker, and a Laphroaig.”
“I don’t know the Talisker.”
“Try it, you’ll find it spicy and smoky. Ice?”
“A little.”
Stone handed him the drink and poured himself a Knob Creek bourbon, and they sat down.
“This is superb whiskey,” Laurence said.
“I’m glad you like it.”
Laurence sighed. “You must think I’m crazy.”
“No crazier than any other thirty-year-old who has just come into more than half a billion dollars.”
“Has anything like this ever happened to you?”
“Yes, I inherited a large sum from my late wife—not as large as your sum, but enough.”
“And what did you do with it?”
“I invested it, just as you are planning to do.”
“You must have bought some nice things.”
“Real estate, mostly. I bought a house in Maine, one in Paris, and a country place in England. I also bought the house next door, where my staff live.”
“Where is the place in England?”
“On the Beaulieu River, in Hampshire.”
“Which side?”
“West.”
“I know the area. I’ve done quite a lot of sailing around there. Do you have a boat?”
“An American motor yacht, a Hinckley 43.”
“I’ve seen Hinckleys—very traditional-looking.”
“They are, but under the deck, they’re very modern. You said you had taken some flying lessons at Palm Beach Airport?”
“Yes, I got a multiengine rating and a 525, single-pilot jet type rating there. My father flew a Beech Baron, a rather old one. I sold it.”
“Where did you do your private and instrument ratings?”
“At Oxford airport, in England, and at Flight Safety, in Vero Beach.”
“Are you going to buy an airplane?”
“Yes, I think I am. I didn’t mention it because I thought you’d think I was really crazy.”
“No, I fly myself. I have a CitationJet 3 Plus.”
“I know the airplane. What’s the plus?”
“Garmin 3000 avionics, mostly. What kind of airplane do you want?”
“Something I can fly myself—maybe a Citation Mustang.”
“My first jet. My son is flying it now.”
“Would you recommend it?”
“Yes, but perhaps not to you. You can afford something more capable, and believe me, after a few months in the Mustang, you’d want something more capable, like an M2 or the CJ 3 Plus.”
“How much training is involved for the CJ 3?”
“You’ll need a 525 type rating, which takes sixteen days but applies to all the CJ line. There’s only one simulator, and that’s at Flight Safety in Wichita.”
“Then I could fly it myself?”
“You’d be legal to fly the airplane, but your insurance company would want you to build some time, before they’d insure you for single-pilot operations. But . . .”
“But I don’t need an insurance company, do I? I could self-insure.”
“Yes, you could, but you’d want to put in some time with a mentor pilot until you feel comfortable flying alone. How much total time do you have?”
“About twelve hundred hours. Four hundred of that in a King Air. My stepfather owns that, and I began making business trips with him and his pilot, who was an excellent instructor. Eventually, I moved to the left seat, and I guess I’ve got a little over a hundred hours single pilot.”
“If you’re comfortable in the King Air, you’ll be fine in the CJ 3.”
Fred came in and set a table, then brought up dinner. They talked for another couple of hours before Laurence began to look drowsy.
“You’d better get some sleep,” Stone said. “You’ve had a big day, and we’ve got a busy day tomorrow. Fred will wake you at seven, and we’ll leave at eight forty-five. First stop, your new bank.”
“Don’t forget my check,” Laurence said.
“I won’t.”
4
THEY ARRIVED at Woodman & Weld’s offices in the Seagram Building at nine, and Herbie was there to meet them. They took an elevator and got off at the bank’s offices. The receptionist sent them into Conrad Trilling’s office, and introductions were made.
“Now,” Trilling said, waving them to seats, “if my information is correct, Mr. Hayward wishes to open both a personal checking account and an investment account.”
“That is correct,” Laurence said.
Stone took the check from his pocket and handed it to Trilling. “And this is Mr. Hayward’s initial deposit.”
Trilling looked at the check, then did a double take. “Stone,” he said, “are you funning me?”
“I am not, Conrad.”
“Will you excuse me for a moment?” he said.
Stone turned to Laurence and Herbie. “Conrad will be telephoning the lottery office in West Palm.”
Herbie used the time to grill Laurence about himself. Ten minutes later, Conrad returned and sat down. “Mr. Hayward, the lottery office would like to get your permission to wire-transfer these funds to your new account. I’ve already given them the account number, you just need to identify yourself and approve the transfer.” He handed Laurence the phone and pressed a button.
“Of course,” Laurence said.
“I have Mr. Hayward for you.”
Laurence gave his name, address, date of birth, and Social Security number, then his driver’s license and passport numbers. He was asked and answered personal questions based on information that he had given them when he had picked up their check.
“Mr. Hayward, do you wish us to transfer the entire amount of your prize to the account number Mr. Trilling gave us?”
“I do.”
“Very well, the transfer will take place within the hour, and we will cancel the check we gave you.”
“Thank you.” He handed the phone back to Trilling.
“Now,” the banker said, pushing a stack of documents across the desk with a pen, “please fill out the personal information requested on the first document, then sign each of them at the places indicated.”
Laurence began signing, handing each completed sheet to Trilling. As he was signing the final page, Trilling’s phone rang.
“Conrad Trilling. Yes. I understand. And that amount?” He made a note and hung up. “Mr. Hayward, your funds have been transferred to your new account. I regret that they have deducted thirty dollars from the total for the wire-transfer fee.”
“I can handle that,” Laurence said.
“Now, it remains only to transfer funds to your investment account. How much do you wish to invest?”
“First,” Laurence said, “I want to retain thirty million dollars in my checking account, as I expect to purchase some property quite soon. Second, I wish to purchase thirty million pounds sterling and transfer that amount to my checking account at Coutts & Company in London. Here is a blank check with the account number.”
“Laurence,” Stone said, “may I ask, how do you intend those funds to be used?”
“I want to make gifts of ten million pounds each to Eton College and Magdalen College, Oxford. The rest is what you might call walking-around money. I may wish to purchase some property in England at a later date.”
“We’ll discuss this with your new accountant, later, but I should tell you that if you send money directly to your bank account in London, the British Inland Revenue Service will become aware of that almost immediately, and th
ey will regard those sums as income, on which the highest rate of tax will be levied.”
“Oops,” Laurence said, “how should I handle this?”
“After we have discussed this with your accountant, you may wish to establish a trust, then make those payments directly to the colleges from that trust, without sending them through your London bank account.”
“Stone,” Laurence said, “you have just earned your legal fee.”
“Thank you. Conrad, are we done?”
“Not quite.” He reached into a desk drawer, fumbled with something, then came up with an alligator-bound wallet. “Mr. Hayward, this is your checkbook. The cover is a personal gift from the M&T Bank.” He handed him an envelope. “And this is your new American Express card.”
Laurence removed the card from the envelope. “Why is it black?” he said. “I thought they were green or gold.”
“The Centurion card is American Express’s highest level.” He handed Laurence a thick, leather-bound document. “Here is an outline of the AmEx services to which you are entitled at that level.”
“I see.”
Trilling handed him two more cards. “And here is our bank’s Visa and a separate debit card. Please enter a four-digit PIN and sign this document.”
Laurence did so.
“And now,” Stone said, “if our business here is concluded, Laurence has another appointment.”
“I think Mr. Hayward should come back and see us at his earliest convenience to discuss an investment strategy we will have prepared for him, and meet the team of professionals who will be serving him. Would tomorrow morning be satisfactory? Nine o’clock?”
“May we make it ten o’clock?” Laurence replied.
“Of course.”
Everyone shook hands and the meeting ended.
—
DOWNSTAIRS, Stone said, “You take my car. Fred will drive you. You have an appointment at the Ralph Lauren store at ten-thirty. Your personal shopper’s name is on the card.” He handed it over. “You may have them send your purchases to my house, if you wish. And we have a meeting with the sales agent at the Fairleigh at three PM.”
