opened by
Florentyna Rosnovski
October 17, 1958
Abel flew on to Cannes. Another splendid hotel, this time overlooking the Mediterranean, but it didn’t help him get Florentyna out of his mind. Another discarded plaque, this one in French. The openings were ashes without her.
Abel was beginning to dread that he might spend the rest of his life without seeing his daughter again. To kill the loneliness, he slept with some very expensive and some rather cheap women. None of them helped. William Kane’s son now possessed the one person Abel Rosnovski truly loved.
France no longer held an excitement for him, and once he had finished his business there, Abel flew on to Bonn, where he completed negotiations for the site on which he would build the first Baron in Germany. He kept in constant touch with George by phone, but Florentyna had not been found and there was some very disturbing news concerning Henry Osborne.
“He’s got himself in heavy debt with the bookmakers again,” said George.
“I warned him last time that I was through bailing him out,” said Abel. “He’s been no damn use to anyone since he lost his seat in Congress. I suppose I’ll have to deal with the problem when I get back.”
“He’s making threats,” said George.
“There’s nothing new about that. I’ve never let them worry me in the past,” said Abel. “Tell him whatever it is he wants, it will have to wait until my return.”
“When do you expect to be back?” asked George.
“Three weeks, four at the most. I want to look at some sites in Turkey and Egypt. Hilton’s already started building there and I’m going to find out why. Which reminds me, George, the experts tell me you’ll never be able to reach me once the plane has landed in the Middle East. The Arabs still haven’t worked out how to find each other, let alone visitors from foreign countries, so I’ll leave you to run everything as usual until you hear from me.”
Abel spent more than three weeks looking for sites for new hotels in the Arab states. His advisors were legion, most of them claiming the title of Prince, each assuring Abel that he had real influence as a very close personal friend of the key minister, a distant cousin, in fact. However, it always turned out to be the wrong minister or too distant a cousin. The only solid conclusion Abel reached, after twenty-three days in the dust, sand and heat with soda but no whiskey, was that if his advisors’ forecasts on the Middle East oil reserves were accurate, the Gulf States were going to want a lot of hotels in the long term and the Baron Group needed to start planning carefully if they were not going to be left behind.
Abel managed to find several sites on which to build hotels, through his several princes, but he did not have the time to discover which of them had the real power to fix the officials. He objected to bribery only when the money reached the wrong hands. At least in America, Henry Osborne had always known which officials needed to be taken care of. Abel set up a small office in Bahrain, leaving his local representatives in no doubt that the Baron Group was looking for hotel sites throughout the Arab world but not for princes or the cousins of ministers.
He flew on to Istanbul, where he almost immediately found the perfect place to build a hotel, overlooking the Bosphorus, only a hundred yards from the old British embassy. He mused as he stood on the barren ground that was his latest acquisition, recalling when he had last been here. He clenched his fist and held the wrist of his right hand. He could hear again the cries of the mob—it still made him feel frightened and sick although more than thirty years had passed.
Exhausted from his travels, Abel flew home to New York. During the interminable journey he thought of little but Florentyna. As always, George was waiting outside the customs gate to meet him. His expression indicated nothing.
“What news?” asked Abel as he climbed into the back of the Cadillac while the chauffeur put his bags in the trunk.
“Some good, some bad,” said George as he pressed a button by the side window. A sheet of glass glided up between the driver and passenger sections of the car. “Florentyna has been in touch with her mother. She’s living in a small apartment in San Francisco.”
“Married?” said Abel.
“Yes,” said George.
Neither spoke for some moments.
“And the Kane boy?” asked Abel.
“He’s found a job in a bank. It seems a lot of people turned him down because word got around that he didn’t finish at the Harvard Business School and his father wouldn’t supply a reference. Not many people will employ him if as a consequence they antagonize his father. He finally was hired as a teller with the Bank of America. Way below what he might have expected with his qualifications.”
“And Florentyna?”
“She’s working as the assistant manager in a fashion shop called ‘Wayout Columbus’ near Golden Gate Park. She’s also been trying to borrow money from several banks.”
“Why? Is she in any sort of trouble?” asked Abel anxiously.
“No, she’s looking for capital to open her own shop.”
“How much is she looking for?”
“She needs thirty-four thousand dollars for the lease on a small building on Nob Hill.”
Abel sat thinking about what George had said, his short fingers tapping at the car window. “See that she gets the money, George. Make it look as if the transaction is an ordinary bank loan and be sure that it’s not traceable back to me.” He continued tapping. “This must always remain simply between the two of us, George.”
“Anything you say, Abel.”
“And keep me informed of every move she makes, however trivial.”
“What about him?”
“I’m not interested in him,” said Abel. “Now, what’s the bad news?”
“Trouble with Henry Osborne again. It seems he owes money everywhere. I’m also fairly certain his only source of income is now you. He’s still making threats—about revealing that you condoned bribes in the early days when you had taken over the group. Says he’s kept all the papers from the first day he met you, when he claims he fixed an extra payment after the fire at the old Richmond in Chicago. Says he now has a file three inches thick.”
“I’ll deal with Henry in the morning,” said Abel.
George spent the remainder of the drive into Manhattan bringing Abel up to date on the rest of the group’s affairs. Everything was satisfactory, except that there had been a takeover of the Baron in Lagos after yet another coup. That never worried Abel.
The next morning Abel saw Henry Osborne. He looked old and tired, and the once smooth and handsome face was now heavily lined. He made no mention of the three-inch-thick file.
“I need a little money to get me through a tricky period,” said Henry. “I’ve been a bit unlucky.”
“Again, Henry? You should know better at your age. You’re a born loser with horses and women. How much do you need this time?”
“Ten thousand would see me through,” said Henry.
“Ten thousand!” said Abel, spitting out the words. “What do you think I am, a gold mine? It was only five thousand last time.”
“Inflation,” said Henry, trying to laugh.
“This is the last time, do you understand me?” said Abel as he took out his checkbook. “Come begging once more, Henry, and I’ll remove you from the board as a director and turn you out without a penny.”
“You’re a real friend, Abel. I swear I’ll never come back again—I promise you that. Never again.” Henry plucked a Romeo y Julieta from the humidor on the table in front of Abel and lit it. “Thanks, Abel. You’ll never regret this.”
Henry left, puffing away at the cigar, as George came in. George waited for the door to be closed.
“What happened with Henry?”
“I gave in for the last time,” said Abel. “I don’t know why—it cost me ten thousand.”
“Jesus, I feel like the brother of the prodigal son,” said George. “He’ll be back again. I’d be willing to put money
on that.”
“He’d better not,” said Abel, “because I’m through with him. Whatever he’s done for me in the past, it’s now quits. Anything new about my girl?”
“Florentyna’s fine, but it looks as though you were right about Zaphia. She’s been making regular monthly trips to the Coast to see them both.”
“Bloody woman,” said Abel.
“Mrs. Kane had been out a couple of times as well,” added George.
“And Kane?”
“No sign that he’s relenting.”
“That’s one thing we have in common,” said Abel.
“I’ve set up a facility for Florentyna with the Crocker National Bank of San Francisco,” continued George. “She made an approach to the loan officer there less than a week ago. The agreement will appear to her as one of the bank’s ordinary loan transactions, with no special favors. In fact, they’re charging her half a percent more than usual so there can be no reason for her to be suspicious. What she doesn’t know is that the loan is covered by your guarantee.”
“Thanks, George, that’s perfect. I’ll bet you ten dollars she pays off the loan within two years and never needs to go back for another.”
“I’d want odds of five to one on that,” said George. “Why don’t you try Henry; he’s more of a sucker.”
Abel laughed. “Keep me briefed, George, on everything she’s up to. Everything.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
William felt he had been briefed on everything as he studied Thaddeus Cohen’s quarterly report, and only one thing now worried him. Why was Abel Rosnovski still doing nothing with his vast holdings in Lester’s? William couldn’t help remembering that Rosnovski still owned six percent of the bank and with two more percent he could invoke Article Seven of Lester’s bylaws. It was hard to believe that Rosnovski still feared S.E.C. regulations, especially as the Eisenhower Administration was settled into its second term and had never shown any interest in pursuing the original inquiry.
William was fascinated to read that Henry Osborne was once again in financial trouble and that Rosnovski still kept bailing him out. William wondered for how much longer that would go on, and what Henry had on Rosnovski. Was it possible that Rosnovski had enough problems of his own, leaving him no time to worry further about the downfall of William Kane? Cohen’s report reviewed progress on the eight new hotels Rosnovski was building across the world. The London Baron was losing money and the Lagos Baron was out of commission; otherwise, he continued to grow in strength. William reread the attached clipping from the Sunday Express, reporting that Florentyna Rosnovski had not opened the Edinburgh Baron, and he thought about his son. Then he closed the report and locked the file in his safe, convinced there was nothing in it of importance to concern himself with.
William regretted his earlier loss of temper with Richard. Although he did not want the Rosnovski girl in his life, he wished he had not turned his back so irrevocably on his only son. Kate had pleaded on Richard’s behalf and she and William had had a long and bitter argument—so rare in their married life—which they had been unable to resolve. Kate tried every tactic from gentle persuasion to tears, but nothing seemed to move William. Virginia and Lucy also missed their brother. “There’s no one who will be critical of my paintings,” said Virginia. “Don’t you mean rude?” asked Kate.
Virginia tried to smile.
Lucy began locking herself in the bathroom, turning on the water and writing secret letters to Richard, who could never figure out why they always gave the appearance of being damp. No one dared to mention Richard’s name in the house in front of William, and the strain was creating a sad rift within the family.
William had tried spending more time at the bank, even working late into the night, in the hope that it might help. It didn’t. The bank was once again making heavy demands on his energies at the very time when he most felt like a rest. He had appointed six new vice presidents during the previous two years, hoping they would take some of the load off his shoulders. The reverse had turned out to be the case. They had created more work and more decisions for him to make, and the brightest of them, Jake Thomas, already looked like the most likely candidate to take William’s place as chairman if Richard did not give up the Rosnovski girl. Although the profits of the bank continued to rise each year, William found he was no longer interested in making money for money’s sake. Perhaps he now faced the same problem that Charles Lester had encountered: he had no son to leave his fortune and the chairmanship to. William had cut Richard out of his life, rewritten his will and dismantled Richard’s trust.
In the year of their silver wedding anniversary, William decided to take Kate and the girls for a long vacation to Europe in the hope that it might help to put Richard out of their minds. They flew to London for the first time in a jet, a Boeing 707, and stayed at the Ritz. The hotel brought back many happy memories of William’s first trip to Europe with Kate. They made a sentimental journey to Oxford and showed Virginia and Lucy the university city and then went to Stratford-on-Avon to see a Shakespeare play: Richard III with Laurence Olivier. They could have wished for a king with another name.
On the return journey from Stratford they stopped at the church in Henley on Thames where William and Kate had been married. They would have stayed at the Bell Inn again, but it still had only one vacant room. An argument started between William and Kate in the car on the way back to London as to whether it had been the Reverend Tukesbury or the Reverend Dukesbury who had married them. They came to no satisfactory conclusion before reaching the Ritz. On one thing they had been able to agree; the new roof on the parish church had worn well. William kissed Kate gently when he climbed into bed that night.
“Best five hundred pounds I ever invested,” he said.
They flew on to Italy a week later, having seen every English sight any self-respecting American tourist is meant to visit and many they usually miss. In Rome the girls drank too much bad Italian wine and made themselves ill on the night of Virginia’s birthday, while William ate too much good pasta and put on seven pounds. All of them would have been so much happier if they could have talked of Richard. Virginia cried that night and Kate tried to comfort her. “Why doesn’t someone tell Daddy that some things are more important than pride?” Virginia kept asking. Kate had no reply.
When they returned to New York, William was refreshed and eager once again to plunge back into his work at the bank. He lost the seven pounds in seven days.
As the months passed by, he felt things were becoming quite routine again. Routine disappeared from his mind when Virginia, just out of Sweet Briar, announced she was going to marry a student from the University of Virginia Law School. The news shook William.
“She’s not old enough,” he said.
“Virginia’s twenty-two,” said Kate. “She’s not a child any longer, William. How do you feel about becoming a grandfather?” she added, regretting the sequence of her words as soon as she had spoken them.
“What do you mean?” said William, horrified. “Virginia isn’t pregnant, is she?”
“Good gracious, no,” said Kate, and then she spoke more softly, as if she had been found out. “Richard and Florentyna have had a baby.”
“How do you know?”
“Richard wrote to tell me the good news,” replied Kate. “Hasn’t the time come for you to forgive him, William?”
“Never,” said William, and he marched out of the room in anger.
Kate sighed wearily. He had not even asked if his grandchild was a boy or a girl.
Virginia’s wedding took place in Trinity Church, Boston, on a beautiful spring afternoon in late March of the following year. William thoroughly approved of David Telford, the young lawyer with whom Virginia had chosen to spend the rest of her life.
Virginia had wanted Richard to be an usher and Kate had begged William to invite him to the wedding, but he had steadfastly refused. Although it was meant to be the happiest day in Virginia’s life, she would have giv
en back all her presents to have her father and Richard standing together in the photograph that was taken outside the church. William had wanted to say yes, but he knew that Richard would never agree to coming without the Rosnovski girl, though William had been proud when he learned that Richard had been promoted to assistant manager at the bank. On the day of the wedding, Richard sent a present and a telegram to his sister. William put the present in the trunk of Virginia’s car and would not allow the telegram to be read at the reception afterward.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Abel was sitting alone in his office in the New York Baron, waiting to see a fund-raiser for the Kennedy campaign. The man was already twenty minutes late. Abel was tapping his fingers impatiently on his desk when his secretary came in.
“Mr. Vincent Hogan to see you, sir.”
Abel sprang out of his chair. “Come in, Mr. Hogan,” he said, slapping the good-looking young man on the back. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, Mr. Rosnovski. I’m sorry I’m a little late,” said the unmistakably Bostonian voice.
“I didn’t notice,” said Abel. “Would you care for a drink, Mr. Hogan?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Rosnovski. I try not to drink when I have to see many people in one day.”
“Absolutely right. I hope you won’t mind if I have one,” said Abel. “I’m not planning on seeing many people today.”
Hogan laughed like a man who knew he was in for a day of other people’s jokes. Abel poured a whiskey.
“Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Hogan?”
“Well, Mr. Rosnovski, we were hoping the Party could once again count on your support.”
“I’ve always been a Democrat, as you know, Mr. Hogan. I supported Franklin D. Roosevelt, Harry Truman and Adlai Stevenson, although I couldn’t understand what Adlai was talking about half the time.”
Both men laughed falsely.
“I also helped my old friend, Dick Daley, in Chicago and I’ve been backing young Ed Muskie—the son of a Polish immigrant, you know—since his campaign for governor of Maine back in fifty-four.”
Kane and Abel/Sons of Fortune Page 50
