But Jake did not escape scot-free. Just as he reached the front line of trees, he felt a sudden whack, as if someone had struck him. He couldn't believe it was a bullet. But reaching down to his thigh, he felt the blood and could feel the metal in his flesh. He had a medic wrap his leg, and went on as if his wound didn't exist.
They huddled there, the trees affording a degree of protection. Jake positioned his team at the periphery, setting up machine guns and bazookas just behind. He utilized a zigzag defense in a general configuration of a triangle. The Japanese who had escaped fire from established points were caught in crossfire as they advanced. Jake’s troops had to repel several attacks. As dawn approached, P-38 Lightnings and F6F Hellcats made several strafing runs on the Japanese positions, which were followed by a sweep of the area by fresh U.S. infantry units. By afternoon, Jake gave the order for his men to commence the task of repairing the airstrip for incoming planes.
In a ceremony several weeks later, Jake was awarded the Silver Star and Distinguished Service Cross for leadership and gallantry in action, plus a Purple Heart for his wounds, and a Presidential Unit Citation for his unit. The following month he was promoted to Major and given command of his battalion.
A freak Jeep accident near Chartres several months later, in September 1944, a month after the joyous liberation of Paris, pinned Joe underneath his vehicle. Despite all the doctors’ efforts, Giuseppe Xavier Sabatini, who had survived twenty four months of grueling combat, died three days later in a Seventh Army field hospital from multiple fractures and extensive internal injuries. He was twenty-nine years old.
In November 1944, Jake was relieved of his command and sent back for duty in the States. Jake, learning that Joe had been buried in the military cemetery in Courville, received permission to return home by way of Europe. As he drove in a Jeep through the devastated countryside, he felt as if he were viewing the aftermath of an apocalypse. Troop carriers and trucks lay on the edges of the roads, on their sides or tires up; tanks sat like so many squat or squashed toads, scorched or scarred. Jake wondered about the agony of the men who had been caught inside. He was impressed that the Germans had also used horses and carts. At one point, he saw a German Messerschmitt fighter plane that had crash-landed in a meadow. Had the pilot escaped.? Or had he died in the crash, or in the ensuing inferno?
Following the directions of the military police, Jake found the well-maintained cemetery three miles west of Courville. A dirt road led into a pasture through an entrance marked by a simple sign. Tidy row upon row of crosses, with an occasional Star of David. The land looked like an undulating sea, several large oaks interrupting the flow of the terrain. After checking the map, Jake finally located the grave.
A silky breeze wafted scented air across the pasture. The fall afternoon was balmy and peaceful, and Jake found it difficult to imagine what this same field must have looked like only a year before. He stood ashen-faced at the foot of the grave, his cap in his hands. Two lines of tears ran down his cheeks. He remained quiet, trying to accept the reality that Joe was gone forever, that they would never again be able to be together, work together, laugh together.
"Joe," he whispered, “you dumb sonofabitch. You were always the one telling me to watch my ass. What a stupid way to do yourself in. After all you went through, a fucking Jeep accident! C’mon, you could drive. There were no broads to look at. “He fell to his knees, edged his body forward onto the grave, arms extended as if he were trying to embrace the small mound. He wept uncontrollably, unashamedly. For several minutes, he struggled to regain his composure. Then, remembering a Jewish custom, he searched the area, found a number of small stones, and placed them in a neat row next to the small wooden cross.
“Okay, Joe,“ he said. “I hear you. ‘Go back to the States and start the business again.’ You’ll see, I'll make it into something, bring your dad in with me. And I'll stay close to your family. Yes, and get Brigitte’s address and write her. Maybe see her. Okay, okay, I’ll see her. “
Jake began to walk back to his Jeep but then turned back. “Joe…I… good-bye, pal.” Again, tears streamed down his face. “I love you, buddy. Never knew just how much, cumpar. Wherever you are, take care of yourself” Jake held himself rigid in a salute for a very long time, then marched stiffly to his Jeep and sat in it, his arms and head on the steering wheel. Then he drove to the nearest airbase and hitched a ride on the first flight back to the United States.
Jake had a three-week leave. It was bittersweet, clouded by Joe’s death. The porch window of the Sabatini home displayed a gold star, as did those of several other neighborhood families whose sons had also given their lives for their country.
Jake was then ordered to report to artillery command headquarters at a base in the Midwest. He and Barbara decided it would be best for her to remain in their apartment near her parents while she awaited the birth of their second child.
Jake was discharged from military service in September 1945, and returned home just in time for the birth of his second son, Henry. Every day for weeks, Jake, Barbara, and the boys made a point of visiting Sal and Angela. On a certain visit Sal drew Jake aside. Jake,” he said awkwardly, "I know you love-a Joe as much as Angela and me. We family. Always family, you know that. You give us two fine boys, due belli bambini, “He embraced Jake in an Italian bear hug. “And the little one,” he said, “do you know? I swear he look just-a like Joe. “
Jake reestablished himself in the construction business and brought in Sal He made him head foreman, which greatly pleased the old man and brought him even closer to his son-in-law. “Build them good, “ Sal would tell Jake as they rode around inspecting their jobs. “Build them good and build them cheap. People will come. We’ll get plenty of work. “
“During the war, you and Joey away, “ Sal said, “it was real tough, tough-a gettin materials. Except when we got the government jobs. “
‘You did your part, Sal,” Jake said. “All those letters and packages from home. Of course, Barbara really kept me going. “Jake laughed.
“What is so funny?” Sal frowned.
“I was thinking about the time I got a package from Barbara. All my men knew I was Jewish. So I opened this package: Genoa salami, crackers, olives in a can, and the smelliest cheese ever. The guys all looked at me like I'd been putting them on. What the hell's all this, Captain? No Jewish mother would ever send her son this stuff. You re not Jewish, Captain! You're fucking Italian!… Sir!”
23
AFTER the funeral and three days of the Jewish mourning period, which my Italian mother respectfully observed, I returned to Long Island. The onslaught began the moment I arrived and didn’t stop. My enemies and detractors seemed to be multiplying exponentially. Federated was cinching its grip tighter and tighter. Around my throat. The foreclosure of 355 Park Avenue seemed more and more imminent.
My nights were bad, sleep erratic, my dreams tormented. I socialized very little, ate alone, usually at home, read, watched a tape, or some inane TV show, fell asleep in the chair, woke up later, went to bed for what remained of the night. Maybe I’d sleep two hours at a time. Getting up to jog, which I had always enjoyed, was becoming a more and more unpleasant chore.
I tried other banks and lenders: G.E. Credit Corporation, Bankers Trust, and the Commercial Credit Corporation. An exercise that led nowhere. No institution was wiling to replace the mortgage without leases in place. The loan, including a month of interest that was in arrears, aggregated to over $65 million. And the harsh reality was that I had guaranteed it personally. Building loan lenders require this because permanent, or takeout, mortgages are rarely available until there are tenants. Even if I wanted to drop the building, and lose the $10 million of our own funds I had invested in the venture, I couldn’t. I was, as they say, on the hook. A meat hook. I was beginning to doubt there was a way out. I was also wondering about myself.
“Not much more you can do, Henry,’ Cal said at a meeting in my office. Grubin and Miller were there, too. �
�At least you've stopped servicing the loan. That'll reduce the drain. You've tried selling the building?”
“Yeah, of course. No one’s interested. The market’s scared. If I had discretionary capital — one of those big vulture funds — I could keep Three-Fifty-Five and also pick up some other prime real estate at a fraction of its replacement costs.”
My private phone rang. Very few people had that number. It was Karen, returning my call from earlier that morning. I told her I’d call back as soon as the meeting was over.
“Overbuilding,” Ken said. “Very simple. Values tumble. A classic recession, this one severe. You lose your building and equity, but perhaps you could effectuate a tax swap — a 1031.” He was referring to trading 355 for another property. The capital gains tax is postponed, because with a trade a taxable event has not taken place. It will, sometime in the future when you sell the second property. “But remember,” he added, “Federated may try to prevent you from doing that on Three-Fifty-Five because you’ve guaranteed the building loan personally, but you will want to create a swap.”
“I was going to suggest that possibility, Ken,” Cal said, “but I don’t think there’s sufficient time for a 1031. Federated’s moving too fast. However, the partnership could file a Chapter Eleven, which would delay them.”
He looked at me. I had no response.
“Yes,” Ken agreed, “but remember, if you default on the Federated loan, the capital gains tax has to be paid. Federal, New York State, and New York City. And don’t forget about depreciation. A wonderful invention, except whatever you’ve deducted from your taxes in past years must be recaptured when you sell — in this case default. A defaulted mortgage is deemed a sale. Those boys in Congress figured that out. Play the game all you want, fellas," they decided, "but we eventually get ours! "
I had spent the previous few weeks frantically searching for either a buyer or a tax swap. Time, and Federated, were beating down the door.
“If I sold the building or defaulted on the mortgage, what would the capital gains be?” I asked Ken.
"I'd have to figure it out,’ he said.
“Guess. Roughly. To the nearest hundred trillion.”
He looked hard at me. “Well, you've had the building about two years or so. Interest, depreciation, and other deductions we've taken. Let’s see.” He borrowed my calculator and did some fast figuring. He scratched his head, looked up, and said, “Oh, three to four million dollars. And due April fifteenth,’
‘We always extend our returns,” Ari joined in. “To October fifteenth.”
“No, this is different. All of it has to be paid on April fifteenth,” Ken repeated.
“There’s no way in God’s heaven I have, or can raise, that kind of cash,” I said. I searched their faces for an answer, any kind of answer.
“Well,” Ken said slowly, “it would be possible to work out a payment schedule with the 1RS, but you have too many other assets they would grab. After we finish, you, Ari, and I should review your cash position and every other aspect.”
“Henry,” Cal said, “listen to me carefully. Except for the tax consequences, it may be the wisest thing for me to talk to Federated about our giving them the deed in lieu of foreclosure. There’s no point in protracting the inevitable. What do you think?”
“I suppose that makes the most sense, but first I need to assess the entire picture, see what we have left. See if we can revamp and get some other extensions. At least lower some of the carrying costs. Renegotiate other mortgages I haven’t guaranteed. Tell Federated — Cal, tell them we want to work with them. Also, please, reiterate strongly that whatever they’ve been told by Steve is absolutely not true — I did not falsify numbers.” I felt out of breath. Maybe out of energy. And clearly out of ideas.
“Yes, I will, Henry. There’s a good chance they may be wiling to effect a trade-off: withdraw the action for foreclosure plus any other actions. All they want, when they’ve gotten over their anger, is the building and what they can get out of it. They’ve written you off, Henry, but that’s neither here nor there,’ He got up to leave. “Ill be back in my office later. Call me if you need me.”
Written me off? ‘Neither here nor there, my ass! It may take a while, but so help me I'll be back Ring the fucking gongs and clang the goddamn bells. Mauled, maybe, but not crushed. Not this boy.
The three of us went to work assessing every detail of our liquidity and cash needs: accounts payable, payroll, mortgage payments for the vacant land and for tenant vacancies. Then, line by line, everything we could think of to reduce total expenditures. The bottom line was: we had to cut expenses, drastically, wholesale. That meant selling land at virtually any price, just to get rid of it, reducing staff, and finding dozens of ways to spend less.
“Henry,” Ken said, “you’ll have to, uh, reduce your personal expenses as well. Steve’s out, so eliminating his draw will help, but with the way things appear, you’re going to have to cut down. You know what I mean.”
“No, what do you mean?”
“Well, for starters, your helicopter and your pilot. Maybe your plane, too. What is it, a twin Baron?”
I stared hard at him and said, “A Cessna 414 Chancellor.”
“You asked for my help,” Ken said, angry and defensive. “I didn’t insist, remember? I have a number of other things I can be doing right now.”
“Oh, don’t get so pissed. I just don’t like to hear you spell it out.” I glanced over at Ari, who was sporting a worried expression. “Okay, okay. I’ll start slimming down, given all our problems.”
“Your problems, Henry,” Ken shot back
“What’s bothering you, Ken, getting too hot in the kitchen?”
“No, I’m used to problems. That’s what an accountant is for. But I’m a little distressed by your attitude. The last thing you want to do is alienate your colleagues.”
With that, Ken got up. “I’ll end with this, Martin — you can make it but not without doing what I said. Maybe not even then. And definitely not with that attitude.”
“Hold on a minute,” I said. “I show the stress by lashing out and being sarcastic.” I looked at Ken. “I’m sorry. You’re the last guys I want to offend.”
Ken came over, stuck out his hand, and we shook ‘With that kind of thinking, you'll be better able to deal with our problems,” he said, lingering on the word our. He headed toward the door. “I’ve admired what you've accomplished, Henry. But frankly, you’re not the easiest of clients. I’m glad you said what you finally did,’ He smiled. “See you later.”
I reviewed the figures again with Ari. Ken was right. No question about it: I would have to get rid of some of my favorite possessions.
“No, Henry. Labor Day weekend isn’t good for me,” Karen said. “I’m sorry. Other plans.”
“Maybe you could ‘unmake’ them. We can fly down to Hilton Head or to the Greenbriar. I’ve missed you. And I really want to be with you.”
“Henry, you should understand you’re not the only guy I date. Call me Tuesday afternoon. Maybe we can have dinner Wednesday. I have to go to Boston early on Thursday.”
“Why not Tuesday morning? Won’t you be around?”
“Just a minute,” she said. “First, I don’t like answering that question. And second, I don’t like to feel I’m somebody’s instant gratification.”
“I’m sorry, Karen. I withdraw the question.”
She laughed, a kind of musical flutter that was both charming and enticing.
‘What’s new on the disaster front?” she asked, thankfully changing the subject.
“Worse. Liquidity problems. Federated’s pushing my magnificent Three-Fifty-Five over the brink I told you how my brother sabotaged me.” I hesitated. “I’ll be all right. It’s just that for the first time I have to swim upstream. And avoid the crocodiles.”
“With your drive,” she said, “you’ll figure out a way.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Have a nice weekend. Talk to you Tuesday.”<
br />
Have a lousy weekend, I thought. As for my drive, a bit reined in these days.
*
Karen and I did have dinner Wednesday, at Petrossian, the best place in New York for caviar. Karen devoured the Malassol with obvious relish, accompanied by shots of Russian vodka. I bought an orchid for her before I picked her up.
After dinner, we took a cab back to my place. I tried to be upbeat, but the atmosphere somehow didn’t seem right.
“Have I done something wrong?” I asked her. “You seem a little withdrawn.”
“No, nothing. You've been your usual Prince Charming self” She smiled. “It’s just that being involved with more than one man makes things a bit difficult.”
“Ah,” I said — I hoped calmly. “Well, whoever he is, he couldn’t appreciate you as much as I do.”
I lightly touched the back of her neck, ran my other hand down her back, and gently kissed her ear. “I want you, Karen, I want to make love to you.”
Karen shivered slightly as I ran my fingers across her face, lightly from under her ear, across her cheek, between the bottom of her nose and her lips, and then very lightly across her lips.
She was against me. I pressed her closer, gently crushed her breasts to my chest, spread both hands firmly on her rear. Our kisses were deep and prolonged.
When her breathing became jagged, I said, “Karen, it’s not just the lovemaking. It’s how good just being with you makes me feel.”
“Yes, Henry. Molto bene? she responded.
I remember carrying her through whatever room we were in to my bed, which was king-sized and very comfortable. I began by making love to her, touching, kissing. Karen was more than ready and came first. In fact, second, third, and fourth — a kind of consecutive abandonment.
But something happened. I suddenly lost my erection.
Karen looked at me, surprised. I can’t recall our position, but after we had disentangled, she said, “It’s all right, Henry. Re-ally. It happens. Could it be you’re angry I’m seeing someone else?”
The Ego Makers Page 20
