“Yes, sir.”
He looked at me and said, “I discovered why you didn’t want to dine at The Creek tonight, John. You’re the subject of some heated debate over there. That’s very awkward for me.”
And it will get a lot more awkward for you when your friends find out you sold Stanhope Hall to Frank Bellarosa. I said, “Yes, sir. I’m sorry about that.”
He looked at me closely, then said, “I’d like to give you some advice. Don’t get involved with that man.”
“You just sold him Stanhope Hall,’’ I pointed out.
He stopped eating and his yellow eyes narrowed. “That was business.”
“So is my involvement with him, sir. Your daughter handles our social involvements.”
So, there was what you call dead silence for a while, during which time I thought Susan might say something on my behalf. But Susan pays me the compliment of not defending me or speaking for me. I do the same for her.
Charlotte Stanhope finally broke the silence and said, “Poor Ethel. She looked frightful.’’ She turned to me. “Do you think she can manage alone?”
Charlotte has a trilly sort of voice that you think is going to trail off into a series of chirps. She’s well bred, of course, and seems on the surface to be a nice lady, but in her own quiet way, she’s as vicious as her husband.
“John? Do you think poor Ethel can manage alone?”
I replied, “I’ll inquire as soon as a respectable period of time has passed.”
“Of course. The poor dear, she would be so much better situated with her daughter.”
We chatted about this and that while we ate, or at least they did. I was simmering.
William returned to the subject of the sale. He said to my wife, “I’m sorry, Susan, if this sale causes you any inconvenience. But it had to happen. And I don’t think you need worry about houses going up so soon. Now that Bellarosa owns the land, you and I will contribute five or ten thousand to the Preservation Fund, anonymously, of course, so he doesn’t get wind of it. They’ll hold him up in court for years. But meanwhile, Bellarosa assured me that you may continue to use the land in any way you see fit, for riding, gardening, walks, just as if I still owned it. In fact, he’s willing to sign a covenant to that effect.”
“That’s very good of you to think to ask him about that,’’ said Susan to Mr. Thoughtful.
William smiled at his daughter. “It could have been worse, you know. At least you know this fellow. And he speaks well of you.’’ He paused. “He’s quite a character. But not the thug I expected.”
I didn’t think William would find much fault with a man who was about to hand him twenty million dollars. William, of course, was ecstatic in his own shitty little way. What annoyed me, I think, was not his attitude toward me, or the fact that he had just made a fortune, but the fact that he shed not one tear for the passing of Stanhope Hall. Even I, who had come to hate the place, felt some nostalgia for it, and it hadn’t been in my family for generations.
William was still talking to his daughter. “Susan, I’m glad you got the stable moved—”
“I paid for half of the moving of the stable.”
William glanced at me, then turned back to his daughter and continued, “Bellarosa told me he wants to move the love temple to his property. He says this fellow of his, Dominic, who did your stable—”
“You are a schmuck.”
He looked at me in a funny sort of way. “Excuse me?”
“You are an unprincipled asshole, an utterly cynical bastard, a monumental prick, and a conniving fuck.”
Charlotte made a little choking sound. Susan continued eating her raspberries, with no apparent problem. William tried to say something, but only succeeded in going like this: “You . . . you . . . you . . . you . . .”
I stood and poked William in the chest. “You, tightwad, pay for dinner.’’ I touched Susan’s arm. “You come with me.”
She stood without a word and followed me out of the restaurant.
In the car on the way home, she said, “Can the love temple actually be moved?”
“Yes, it’s post and lintel construction. Sort of like building blocks. It has to be done carefully, but it’s possible, and actually easier than the stable.”
“Interesting. I think I’d like to take some courses in building and architecture at Post. That would help me understand more fully what I paint, how it was built, the very soul of the structure, you know, the way Renaissance painters studied skeletons and muscle to paint those fantastic nudes. Perhaps that’s all I’m lacking by way of becoming a great painter. What do you think?”
“You may be right.”
We pulled into the gates at Stanhope Hall. The gatehouse was dark, as Ethel was staying with her daughter awhile. Susan said, “I’m going to miss George very much.”
“Me, too.’’ I didn’t bother to get out of the car and close the gates, since I intended to pass through them again in about five minutes. Susan, of course, noticed this and remained silent all the way to our house. I brought the Jag to the front door, and Susan looked at me.
A few seconds passed, then I said, “I’m not coming inside. I’ll be back for my things tomorrow.”
“Where are you going?”
“That is really not your concern.”
She began to get out of the car, then turned back and said, “Please don’t leave me tonight.’’ She added, “But if you do, take your own car.’’ She put out her hand and smiled. “Keys, please.”
I shut off the Jag and gave her the keys. Susan unlocked the front door and we both went inside—I to the kitchen to get my own keys, she upstairs to go to bed. As I headed for the front door again, the phone rang and she answered it upstairs. I heard her say, “Yes, Dad, I’m fine.”
I opened the door to leave, then heard her saying, “Well, but that must be what he thinks of you or he wouldn’t have said it. John is very precise in his choice of words.”
Though I don’t like eavesdropping, I paused at the front door and heard her go on, “No, he will not apologize, and I won’t apologize for him.’’ Silence, then, “I’m sorry Mother is upset. Actually, I think John would have said more if she weren’t there.’’ Silence again, then, “All right, Dad, I’ll speak to you tomorrow. Yes, Dad. . . .”
I called up the stairs, “Tell the son of a bitch to find another free lawyer.”
I heard Susan say, “Hold on, Dad. John just said, and I quote, ‘Tell the son of a bitch to find another free lawyer.’ Yes . . .’’ She called down to me, “Father says you’re an ambulance chaser, an embarrassment to your father, and an incompetent.”
“Tell him he’s not half the man his father was, and the best part of him ran down Augustus’s leg.”
Susan said, “Dad, John says he disagrees with that. Good night.’’ I heard her hang up. She called down to me, “Good night, John.”
I headed up the stairs. “I need my overnight bag.”
I went into our bedroom to get my bag out of the closet, and Susan, who must have been undressing as she spoke on the phone, was lying on top of the sheets, her legs crossed and reading a magazine, stark naked.
Well, I mean, there’s something about a naked woman, you know, and I was really feeling my oats and all, having just told William Stanhope what I thought of him, and there was his bitchy daughter, lying there stark naked. In some instinctive sort of way, I knew I had to ravish her to complete my victory. So I did. She seemed to enjoy it.
Now, a real primitive would have left afterward, to show his contempt for her and her whole clan. But I was pretty tired, and it was late, so I watched some TV and fell asleep.
Part V
The public be damned.
—William Henry Vanderbilt
Reply to a newspaper reporter, 1882
Twenty-five
Despite my announcement that I was leaving home, or perhaps because of it, Susan and I were getting along better. We both agreed that I had been under some financial and pr
ofessional strain, and that George’s death had caused us both some emotional trauma, and even the sale of Stanhope Hall had probably contributed to my outburst in the restaurant and my announcement when we got home. I assured Susan, however, that I still thought her father was a monumental prick. She seemed willing to let it go at that.
Anyway, toward the end of July, Mr. Melzer called me at home to inform me that he had worked out a deal with the Internal Revenue Service. To wit: I would pay them $215,000 within sixty days and they would consider the obligation fulfilled. Mr. Melzer seemed pleased with his work. He said, “That is a savings to you of $99,513.”
“But then I would owe you about fifty thousand dollars, Mr. Melzer, and I’ve already paid you twenty thousand. So really, Mr. Melzer, if you do a little arithmetic, you have saved me only about thirty thousand dollars. I could have done as well myself.”
“But I did the work for you, Mr. Sutter.’’ He cleared his throat over the phone. “And there was the matter of the criminal charges. That alone is worth—”
“Get them down another ten or shave your commission.”
“But—”
I hung up. After a decent interval of an hour or so, Mr. Melzer called back. “They will take two hundred and ten thousand dollars, Mr. Sutter. That is the best I can do. I will make up the other five to you. Considering they could still bring criminal charges against you, I suggest you settle.”
“I never understood, Mr. Melzer, why the IRS and the Mafia haven’t merged.”
Mr. Melzer chuckled and replied, “Professional jealousy.’’ He added, “Can you have the check ready within sixty days?”
“Yes.”
“Fine. I’ll hand-deliver the check to the IRS and see that it is properly credited. That is part of my service.”
There was a not-too-subtle subtext there. I said, “And I suppose you’d like to pick up your check at the same time.”
“That would be very convenient.”
“All right. Call me in thirty days.”
“Fine. And thank you, Mr. Sutter. It has been a delight working with a man of such refinement.”
I couldn’t say the same, so I said, “It’s been educational.”
“That only adds to my delight.”
“By the way, Mr. Melzer, did you happen to hear anything regarding how the IRS discovered this oversight on my part?”
“I did make some inquiries regarding that very question. I did not receive any direct answers, but we can assume this was not a random examination of your past tax returns.”
“Can we then assume that someone was out to make difficulties for me?”
“Mr. Sutter, I told you, you are not popular with the IRS.”
“But I have not been popular with the IRS since I began beating them at their game twenty years ago. Why would they examine my return now?”
“Oh, I think they knew about this oversight of yours for years, Mr. Sutter. They like to see the interest and penalties accumulate.”
“I see.’’ But I found that hard to believe, even of the Internal Revenue Service. They were tough but generally honest, even going so far as to return money that you didn’t know you overpaid them.
“However,’’ Mr. Melzer continued, “I would not pursue that if I were you.’’ He added, “Or you will be needing me again.”
“Mr. Melzer, I will never need you again. And I am not intimidated by any agency of my government. If I believe I’ve been singled out for persecution, I will certainly pursue the matter.”
Mr. Melzer let a moment pass, then said, “Mr. Sutter, if I may be blunt, your type of man is nearly extinct. Accept your loss, swallow your pride, and go live your life, my friend. No good will come of your trying to take on forces more powerful than yourself.”
“I enjoy fighting the good fight.”
“As you wish.’’ He added, “By the way, I would still like to call on you for your professional advice if I may. Your work for me would be strictly confidential, of course.”
“Better yet, it will be nonexistent. Good day.”
• • •
Well, things always seem to work out, don’t they? The very next day, on one of my rare appearances in my Wall Street office, there was a phone call for me. It was from a Mr. Weber, a realtor in East Hampton, informing me that he had good news. He had, in fact, a bid of $390,000 for my little summer cottage. “That is not good news at all,’’ I informed him.
“Mr. Sutter, the market has fallen to pieces. This is the only serious offer we’ve had, and this guy’s looking around at other houses right now.”
“I’ll call you back.’’ I then phoned every other realtor who had the house listed and listened to an earful of bad news and excuses. I called Susan, since she is joint owner of the house, but as usual, she wasn’t in. That woman needs a pager, a car phone, a CB radio for her horse, and a cowbell. I called Weber back. “I’ll split the difference between asking and bid. Get him up to four hundred and forty-five.”
“I’ll try.”
Mr. Weber called me back in a half hour, making me wonder if his customer wasn’t actually sitting in his office. Weber said, “The prospective buyer will split the difference with you again, making his final offer $417,500. I suggest you take that, Mr. Sutter, because—”
“The housing market is soft, the summer is waning, and the stock market is down sixteen and a quarter today. Thank you, Mr. Weber.”
“Well, I just want you to know the facts.”
Mr. Weber, by now, could smell his commission, which I figured at six percent to be about twenty-five thousand dollars. I said, “I want four and a quarter for me, so you’ll give me the difference from your commission.”
There was silence on the phone as Mr. Weber, who had been smelling prime ribs, realized he was being offered T-bone or nothing. He cleared his throat as Mr. Melzer had done and said, “That’s do-able.”
“Then do it.’’ Normally, I would be more aggressive in real estate deals and also with the IRS. But I didn’t have much strength from which to bargain. In fact, unbeknownst to Mr. Weber, I had none, and time was running out.
Mr. Weber said, “It’s done. Did I tell you that the buyer wants to rent the house starting immediately? No? Well, he does. He wants to use it for all of August. He’s offering a hundred a day until closing. I know you could get more now in high season, but it’s part of the deal, so I suggest—”
“His name isn’t Melzer, is it?”
“No. Name’s Carleton. Dr. Carleton. He’s a psychiatrist in the city. Park Avenue. They don’t see patients in August, you know, and he has a wife and two kids, so he wants—”
“My family wants to use the house in August, Mr. Weber.”
“It’s a deal breaker, Mr. Sutter. He insists.”
“Well, in that case, I had better make new summer plans, hadn’t I? Perhaps I’ll go down to the town dump and slug rats with a rake.”
“Actually, I could find you another rental out here—”
“Never mind. Do it your way and Dr. Carleton’s way.”
“Yes, sir. Dr. Carleton really likes the house. The furniture, too.”
“How much?”
“Another ten. Cash.”
“Fine. Did he see the picture of my wife and kids in the den?”
Mr. Weber chuckled. Making deals was fun. I said, “If this bonzo is trying to pull off a cheap summer rental, I’ll hang his balls over my mantel.”
“Sir?”
“Get a one percent binder, now. Today. And I want to go to contract in a week with twenty percent down.”
“A week? But—”
“I’ll fax you a contract this afternoon. You get this guy in high gear, Mr. Weber. If there are any problems, get back to me pronto.”
“Yes, sir.’’ He asked, “Are you looking to buy any other property out east?”
“What do you have east of Montauk Point?”
“Ocean.”
“How much?”
“It’s free, Mr. Sut
ter.”
“I’ll take it.’’ I hung up. Madonn’, when the shit happens, it happens. Well, I thought, I broke even today. Not bad for a man who’s only in his mid-forties.
• • •
I took the train home that evening and met Susan at McGlade’s for dinner, as we’d planned that morning. I explained the deal to her and said, “I tried to call you to get your approval.’’ Which was more than Frank Bellarosa did when he bought Alhambra without mentioning it to his wife.
Susan didn’t seem to care about the sale. But you never know with women. To paraphrase what Churchill said about the Germans, “Women are either at your feet or at your throat.”
Anyway, I had my calculator out and I was doing some number-crunching over my third gin and tonic. “So, we pay the IRS, we pay Melzer, we pay the real estate commission, we satisfy the existing mortgage, we damned sure put money aside for the capital gains tax since we’re not buying another house, and we add in the ten thousand for the furniture and about three thousand for rent, and deduct the taxes on that as though it were income to play it safe . . . then, let’s see, we factor in some out-of-pocket expenses. . . .”
Susan was yawning. The rich are bored by money talk.
I scratched some figures on my place mat. “Well, I think we cleared ninety-three bucks.’’ I thought a moment, then said, “A potential half-million-dollar asset wiped out.’’ I looked at Susan, “What does the government do with all my money?”
“Can we order dinner?”
“I can’t afford it. I’ll drink.’’ I played around with the numbers again, but I still couldn’t afford solid food, so I ordered another gin and tonic.
Susan said, “Oh, by the way, are you figuring in the twenty thousand dollars you owe me?”
I looked up at her. “Excuse me, Mrs. Sutter, this is a joint liability.”
“Well, I know that, John. But it wasn’t my fault.”
The Gold Coast Page 39
