“I’m not the assistant manager any longer, Mr. Pacey. I’m the manager, so get out before I throw you out.”
“You fucking Polack,” said the ex-manager, realizing he had played his last card and lost. “You had better keep your eyes wide open, Polack, because I’m going to cut you down to size.”
He left. By lunch he had been joined on the street by the headwaiter, head chef, senior housekeeper, chief desk clerk, head porter and 17 other members of the Richmond staff who Abel felt were past redemption. In the afternoon, he called a meeting of the remainder of the employees, explained to them in detail why he had done what he had done and assured them that their jobs were not in any danger.
“But if I can find one,” said Abel, “I repeat, one dollar misplaced, the person involved will be fired without references there and then. Am I understood?”
No one spoke.
Several other members of the staff left the Richmond during the next few weeks when they realized that Abel did not intend to continue Desmond Pacey’s system on his own behalf. They were quickly replaced.
By the end of March, Abel had invited four employees from the Plaza to join him at the Richmond. They had three things in common: they were young, ambitious and honest. Within six months, only 37 of the original staff of 110 were still employed at the Richmond. At the end of the first year, Abel cracked a large bottle of champagne with Davis Leroy to celebrate the year’s figures for the Chicago Richmond. They had shown a profit of $3,468. Small, but the first profit the hotel had shown in the thirty years of its existence. Abel was projecting a profit of more than $25,000 in 1929.
Davis Leroy was mightily impressed. He visited Chicago once a month and began to rely heavily on Abel’s judgment. He even came around to admitting that what had been true of the Chicago Richmond might well be true of the other hotels in the group. Abel wanted to see the Chicago hotel running smoothly as an honest, profitable enterprise before he considered tackling the others. Leroy agreed—then talked of a partnership for Abel if he could do for the rest of the group what he had done for Chicago.
They started going to baseball games and the races together whenever Davis was in Chicago. On one occasion, when Davis had lost $700 without coming close in any of the six races, he threw up his arms in disgust and said, “Why do I bother with horses, Abel? You’re the best bet I’ve ever made.”
Melanie Leroy always dined with her father on his visits. Cool, pretty, with a slim figure and long legs that attracted many a stare from the hotel guests, she treated Abel with a slight degree of hauteur that gave him no encouragement for the aspirations he had begun to formulate for her, nor did she invite him to substitute “Melanie” for “Miss Leroy” until she discovered he was the holder of an economics degree from Columbia and knew more about discounted cash flow than she did herself. After that, she had softened a little and from time to time came to dine with Abel alone in the hotel and seek assistance with the work she was doing for her Liberal Arts degree at the University of Chicago. Emboldened, he occasionally escorted her to concerts and the theater and began to feel a proprietorial jealousy whenever she brought other men to dine at the hotel, though she never came with the same escort twice.
So greatly had the cuisine improved under Abel’s iron fist that people who had lived in Chicago for thirty years and scarcely realized the hotel existed were making dinner reservations every Saturday evening. Abel had the whole hotel redecorated—for the first time in twenty years—and dressed the staff in smart new green-and-gold uniforms. One guest, who had stayed at the Richmond for one week every year over a decade actually retreated out of the front door on arrival, thinking he had walked into the wrong establishment. When Al Capone booked a dinner party for sixteen in a private room to celebrate his thirtieth birthday, Abel knew he had arrived.
Abel’s personal wealth grew during this period while the stock market flourished. He had left the Plaza with $8,000 eighteen months before; his brokerage account now stood at more than $30,000. He was confident that the market would continue to rise, and so he always reinvested his profits. His personal requirements were still fairly modest. He had acquired two new suits and his first pair of brown shoes. His rooms and food were provided by the hotel and he had few out-of-pocket expenses. There seemed to be nothing but a bright future for him. The Continental Trust had handled the Richmond account for more than thirty years, so Abel had transferred his own account to that bank when he first came to Chicago. Every day he would go to the bank and deposit the hotel’s previous day’s receipts. He was taken by surprise one Friday morning by a message that the manager was asking to see him. He knew his personal account was never overdrawn, so he presumed the meeting must have something to do with the Richmond. The bank could hardly be about to complain that the hotel’s account was solvent for the first time in thirty years. A junior clerk guided Abel through a tangle of corridors until he reached a handsome wooden door. A gentle knock and he was ushered in to meet the manager.
“My name is Curtis Fenton,” said the man behind the desk, offering Abel his hand before motioning him into a green leather button chair. He was a neat, rotund man who wore half-moon spectacles and an impeccable white collar and black tie to go with his three-piece banker’s suit.
“Thank you,” said Abel nervously. The circumstances brought back to him memories he associated only with the fear of being uncertain of what was going to happen next.
“I would have invited you to lunch, Mr. Rosnovski …”
Abel’s heartbeat steadied a little. He was only too aware that bank managers do not dispense free meals when they have unpleasant messages to deliver.
“ … but something has arisen that requires immediate action and so I hope you won’t mind if I discuss the problem with you without delay. I’ll come straight to the point, Mr. Rosnovski. One of my most respected customers, an elderly lady, Miss Amy Leroy”—the name made Abel sit up instantly—“is in possession of twenty-five percent of the Richmond Group stock. She has offered this holding to her brother, Mr. Davis Leroy, several times in the past, but he has shown absolutely no interest in purchasing Miss Amy’s shares. I can understand Mr. Leroy’s reasoning. He already owns seventy-five percent of the company and I daresay he feels he has no need to worry about the other twenty-five percent, which, incidentally, was a legacy from their late father. However, Miss Amy Leroy is still keen on disposing of her stock, as it has never paid a dividend.”
Abel was not surprised to hear this.
“Mr. Leroy has indicated that he has no objection to her selling the stock and she feels that at her age she would rather have a little cash to spend now than wait in the hope that the group may one day prove profitable. With that in mind, Mr. Rosnovski, I thought I would apprise you of the situation in case you might know of someone with an interest in the hotel trade and, therefore, interested in the purchase of my client’s shares.”
“How much is Miss Leroy hoping to realize from her stock?” asked Abel.
“Oh, I feel she’d be happy to let them go for as little as sixty-five thousand dollars.”
“Sixty-five thousand dollars is rather high for a stock that has never paid a dividend,” said Abel. “And has no hope of doing so for some years to come,” he added.
“Ah,” said Curtis Fenton, “but you must remember that the value of the eleven hotels should also be taken into consideration.”
“But control of the company would still remain in the hands of Mr. Leroy, which makes Miss Leroy’s twenty-five percent holding nothing but pieces of paper.”
“Come, come, Mr. Rosnovski, twenty-five percent of eleven hotels would be a very valuable holding for only sixty-five thousand dollars.”
“Not while Davis Leroy has overall control. Offer Miss Leroy forty thousand dollars, Mr. Fenton, and I may be able to find you someone who is interested.”
“You don’t think that person might go a little higher, do you?” Mr. Fenton’s eyebrows raised on the word higher.
&nb
sp; “Not a penny more, Mr. Fenton.”
The bank manager brought his fingertips delicately together, pleased with his appraisal of Abel.
“In the circumstances, I can only ask Miss Amy what her attitude would be to such an offer. I will contact you again as soon as she has instructed me.”
After he left Curtis Fenton’s office, Abel’s heart was beating as rapidly as when he had entered. He hurried back to the hotel to double-check on his own personal holdings. His brokerage account stood at $33,112 and his personal checking account at $3,008. Abel then tried to carry out a normal day’s work. He found it difficult to concentrate, wondering how Miss Amy Leroy would react to the bid and daydreaming about what he would do if he held a 25 percent interest in the Richmond Group.
He hesitated before informing Davis Leroy of his bid, fearful that the genial Texan might view his ambitions as a threat. But after a couple of days, during which he considered the matter carefully, he decided the fairest thing to do would be to call Davis and acquaint him with his intentions.
“I want you to know why I am doing this, Davis. I believe the Richmond Group has a great future and you can be sure that I shall work all the harder if I know my own money is also involved.” He paused. “But if you want to take up that twenty-five percent yourself, I shall naturally understand.”
To his surprise, the escape ladder was not grasped.
“Well, see here, Abel, if you have that much confidence in the group, go ahead, son, and buy Amy out. I’d be proud to have you for a partner. You’ve earned it. By the way, I’ll be up next week for the Reds-Cubs game. See you then.”
Abel was jubilant. “Thank you, Davis—you’ll never have course to regret your decision.”
“I’m sure I won’t, pardner.”
Abel returned to the bank a week later. This time it was he who asked to see the manager. Once again he sat in the green leather button chair and waited for Mr. Fenton to speak.
“I am surprised to find,” began Curtis Fenton, not looking at all surprised, “that Miss Leroy will accept the bid of forty thousand dollars for her twenty-five percent holding in the Richmond Group.” He paused before looking up at Abel. “As I have now secured her agreement, I must ask if you are in a position to disclose your buyer?”
“Yes,” said Abel confidently. “I will be the principal.”
“I see, Mr. Rosnovski”—again not showing any surprise. “May I ask how you propose to find the forty thousand dollars?”
“I shall liquidate my stock holdings and release the spare cash in my personal account, which will leave me a shortfall of about four thousand dollars. I hoped that you would be willing to loan me that sum—since you are so confident that the Richmond Group stock is undervalued. In any case, the four thousand dollars probably represents nothing more than the bank’s commission on the deal.”
Curtis Fenton blinked and frowned. Gentlemen did not make that sort of remark in his office; it stung all the more because Abel had the sum exactly right. “Will you give me a little more time to consider your proposal, Mr. Rosnovski, and then I will come back to you?”
“If you wait long enough, I won’t need a loan,” said Abel. “The way the market is moving at the moment, my other investments will soon be worth the full forty thousand.”
Abel had to wait a further week to be told that Continental Trust was willing to back him. He immediately cleared both his accounts and borrowed a little under $4,000 to make up the shortfall on the 40 thousand.
Within six months, Abel had paid off his $4,000 loan by careful buying and selling of stock from March to August 1929, some of the best days the stock market was ever to know.
By September both his accounts were slightly ahead again and he even had enough over to buy a new Buick as well as being the owner of 25 percent of the Richmond Group of Hotels. Abel was pleased to have acquired such a firm holding in Davis Leroy’s empire. It gave him the confidence to pursue his daughter and the other 75 percent.
Early in October he invited Melanie to a program of Mozart at the Chicago Symphony Hall. Donning his smartest suit, which only emphasized that he was gaining some weight, and wearing his first silk tie, he felt certain as he glanced in the mirror that the evening would be a success. After the concert was over Abel avoided the Richmond, excellent though its food had become, and took Melanie to the Loop for dinner. He was particularly careful to talk only of economics and politics, two subjects about which she knew he was greatly the more knowledgeable. Finally, he asked her to his rooms for a drink. It was the first time she had seen them and she was both piqued and surprised by their smartness.
Abel poured the Coca-Cola she requested, dropped two cubes of ice into it and felt new confidence from the smile that rewarded him as he passed her the glass. He couldn’t help staring briefly at her slim, crossed legs. He poured himself a bourbon.
“Thank you, Abel, for a wonderful evening.”
He sat down beside her and reflectively swirled the drink in his glass. “For many years I heard no music. When I did, Mozart spoke to my heart as no other composer has done.”
“How very middle-European you sound sometimes, Abel.” She pulled free the edge of her silk dress, which Abel was sitting on. “Who would have thought a hotel manager would give a damn for Mozart?”
“One of my ancestors, the first Baron Rosnovski,” said Abel, “once met the maestro and he became a close friend of the family, so I have always felt he was part of my life.”
Melanie’s smile was unfathomable. Abel leaned sideways and kissed her cheek above the ear, where her fair hair was drawn back from her face. She continued the conversation without giving the slightest indication that she had even been aware of his action.
“Frederick Stock captured the mood of the third movement to perfection, wouldn’t you say?”
Abel tried a kiss again. This time she turned her face toward him and allowed herself to be kissed on the lips. Then she drew away.
“I think I ought to be getting back to the university.”
“But you’ve only just arrived,” said Abel, dismayed.
“Yes, I know, but I have to be up early in the morning. I have a heavy day ahead.”
Abel kissed her again. She fell back on the couch and Abel tried to move his hand onto her breast. She broke quickly from the kiss and pushed him away.
“I must be going, Abel,” she insisted.
“Oh, come on,” he said, “you don’t have to go yet,” and once again he tried to kiss her.
This time she stopped him by pushing him away more firmly.
“Abel, what do you think you are doing? Because you give me an occasional meal and take me to a concert doesn’t mean you have the right to maul me.”
“But we’ve been going out together for months,” said Abel. “I didn’t think you would mind.”
“We have not been going out together for months, Abel. I eat with you occasionally in my father’s dining room, but you should not construe that to mean we have been going out together for months.”
“I’m sorry,” said Abel. “The last thing I wanted you to think was that I was mauling you. I only wanted to touch you.”
“I would never allow a man to touch me,” she said, “unless I was going to marry him.”
“But I want to marry you,” said Abel quietly.
Melanie burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny about that?” Abel asked, reddening.
“Don’t be silly, Abel, I could never marry you.”
“Why not?” demanded Abel, shocked by the vehemence in her voice.
“It would never do for a southern lady to marry a first generation Polish immigrant,” she replied, sitting up very straight and pushing her silk dress back into place.
“But I am a Baron,” said Abel, a little haughtily.
Melanie burst out laughing again. “You don’t think anybody believes that, do you, Abel? Don’t you realize the whole staff laughs behind your back whenever you mention your title?”
He was stunned and felt sick, his face draining now of all color. “They all laugh at me behind my back?” His normally slight accent had become pronounced.
“Yes,” she said. “Surely you know what your nickname in the hotel is: The Chicago Baron.”
Abel was speechless.
“Now don’t be silly and get all self-conscious about it, I think you’ve done a wonderful job for Daddy, and I know he admires you, but I could never marry you.”
Abel sat quietly, “I could never marry you,” he repeated.
“Of course not. Daddy likes you, but he would never agree to have you as a son-in-law.”
“I’m sorry to have offended you,” said Abel.
“You haven’t, Abel. I’m flattered. Now, let’s forget you ever mentioned the subject. Perhaps you would be kind enough to take me home?”
She rose and strode toward the door while Abel remained seated, still stunned. Somehow he managed to push himself up slowly and help Melanie on with her cloak. He became conscious of his limp as they walked along the corridor together. They went down in the elevator and as he took her home in a cab neither spoke. While the taxi waited, he accompanied her to the front gate of her dormitory. He kissed her hand.
“I do hope this doesn’t mean we can’t still be friends,” said Melanie.
“Of course not,” he managed.
“Thank you for taking me to the concert, Abel. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble in finding a nice Polish girl to marry you. Good night.”
“Good-bye,” said Abel.
Abel did not think there would be any real trouble on the New York stock market until one of his guests asked if he might settle his hotel bill with stock. Abel held only a small amount of stock himself, since nearly all his money was now tied up in the Richmond Group, but he took his broker’s advice and sold off his remaining shares at a small loss, relieved that the bulk of his assets was secure in bricks and mortar. He had not taken as close an interest in the day-to-day movement of the Dow Jones as he would have if most of his capital had still been in the market.
Kane and Abel/Sons of Fortune Page 26
