by Wallace Ford
I have to hand it to Ray. He was helpless but not hapless. As Paul, Jerome, and Gordon began to notice that there was some interaction between our table and the adjoining one, Ray found a way to ease himself into the consciousness of the birthday table.
“It seems that it’s somebody’s birthday,” he said, his eyes focused on Monique Jefferson like a laser-guided missile. I remember that listening to him that afternoon, the first impression that came to mind was warm maple syrup on hot new waffles.
“As a matter of fact it is,” a voice piped up. It was Summer Spring Winters, a leading gossip columnist for one of New York’s competing tabloids. Her mission in life was to dish the dirt.
She had seen Ray Beard come in as part of a luncheon party. And, as best I could tell, and fortunately for Ray, she immediately succumbed to her overwhelming desire to be an intergalactic matchmaker.
Ray displayed skills that made it clear why he was a star on the rise. He did not “diss” Summer Winters, but he did stay focused on the prize.
“Forgive me for being inquisitive. I was hoping that I could send the birthday girl a drink, perhaps later today, since I can see that she is busy right now.” All the time never taking his eyes off Monique Jefferson.
I may have been born at night. But it wasn’t last night. Ray was praying, really praying, that Summer was not the birthday girl, celebrating her fortieth birthday for the fifteenth time. And then, his prayers were answered.
“It would be my pleasure, Mr….” Monique spoke with a voice that reminded me of peach ice cream on a Georgia farm. When she spoke I could almost taste the cream, the bits and pieces of fresh succulent peaches with just enough sugar to last a lifetime. I can only imagine the effect that it had on Ray Beard.
“Ray, Raymond Beard. Happy birthday, Ms. Jefferson. Even Stevie Wonder would recognize the newest star in New York City. It’s my pleasure.”
His combination of flattery, adoration, and appreciation would be devastating to most women that I know. As I remember, Monique handled his rhetorical charge of the light brigade with a smile and a business card that would precipitate a call later in the day. I knew that call would not be about the latest headlines.
Good fortune was with Ray. All of this happened within a few brief moments. While Gordon, Paul, and Jerome may have noticed the exchange, they paid no attention whatsoever, what with the shuffle of tables and chairs and the to and fro of waiters, busboys and all of that. But I remember. I did not realize the significance of the encounter until much, much later.
And then we were all settled at our luncheon table. And, thankfully, Paul and Jerome were able to keep enough small talk going to prevent Gordon from relaunching into his seemingly infinite series of raunchy jokes. It is hard, even now, to convey my feelings of relief.
Everyone ordered their cocktails, appetizers and luncheon entrées. I somehow remember that Paul ordered a Long Flat Australian wine for the table. The first meeting of The Pride in the post-Winner Tomlinson era was about to be called to order. Paul was presiding.
Just as Paul was getting ready to speak, I caught Ray stealing one last glance at Monique Jefferson who, while getting up from her table with her luncheon companions, boldly (I thought) returned the stare. If one looked closely, you could almost see the beams of psychic energy tracing the path from one soul to another. Then it was time to get to work.
Even at the time, before I knew what Paul had in mind, I had a premonition that this was one of those historical moments. At the time I did not know how right I was. After the appetizers were served, Paul cleared his throat and I can remember most of the conversations of the day as if they were yesterday.
“You know, this is a sad and serious moment. Before we begin we should at least raise a glass in a toast in memory of our friend Winner.”
“Where I come from, we pour a libation for the brothers that can’t be here.”
And then I heard Jerome Hardaway. The voice was unmistakable.
“Paul, you pour your drink on the floor if you want to … I’m going to toast the brother, have a drink and move on.”
If it had been anyone other that Jerome Hardaway no one would have had a second thought. But Jerome chose that moment to reveal a harder edge than most of us knew existed. As things turned out, we all had a lot to learn about each other.
CHAPTER 29
Paul
A journey of a thousand miles begins
As I recall that afternoon, there was no real point in trying to make things too formal. This had to be something more than just another “friendly” luncheon, with nothing accomplished but running up the tab on someone’s Amex card. It was getting quiet in the Water Club, as it was getting toward the end of the weekday lunch hour. I don’t recall that any of us noticed the noise of waiters bustling about, clearing tables and moving dishes.
Jerome, Gordon, Diedre, Ray, and I placed our orders, and there was almost an internal silence that we experienced. It was as if we all realized that there was a real purpose for our coming together that day.
We simply failed to notice the sound of the East River high fiving the moorings of the barge on which the Water Club perched. We barely took note of the appetizers as they were being served. I would imagine that there was something about my tone, demeanor, and my choice of words that made everyone know that somehow, some way, this could be a very special moment. Somehow, on this sunny winter afternoon, it all seemed different. I know that I felt different that day.
I don’t recall exactly what I said that day. But I do know that, even though I had not prepared remarks, there were some points that I had to get across, and I think that I did.
“Listen, I know that you probably have been trying to figure out exactly why I asked all of you to lunch today …”
“Not really. A free lunch on your tab is good enough for me.” Of course that would be Gordon.
“You look like you haven’t missed too many meals without my help, that’s for sure.”
“Don’t be so mean, Paul. You’re about to make me cry!”
“Gordon, Paul—I am sure that we would all love the full length version of your Amos ’n Andy routine, but I think we all might have something better to do.” I knew that I could count on Diedre to keep us somewhat focused.
“When you are right, you are right, Diedre. Gordon, with your permission, let me get to the point.”
“I thought you would never get around to it. Carry on, my brother, carry on.”
It was at about this point that the waiters brought the entrées and the wine was served. This all took a few minutes which provided the perfect break before getting to the serious part of the discussion.
After the various sorting out of condiments, sipping of wine, tasting of entrées and savoring of the various components of the meal, I knew that it was time to get the discussion back on course. I took a few bites from my plate and tried to resume. My meal could wait.
I am used to articulating my thoughts using the spoken word. I have spoken before thousands at bar association meetings (both the American Bar Association, which used to have an absolute ban against black lawyers, and the National Bar Association, which was formed by black lawyers in response). I have spoken in boardrooms and courtrooms and I truly believe in my ability to explain and persuade. But this time was going to be different—challenging and interesting.
I remember that as I cleared my throat I wished that I could somehow read the minds of some of my closest friends and colleagues. I felt like I was sprinting through a familiar room while blindfolded—and with the furniture having been moved, if only slightly. One false move and I might break a toe, or worse.
“I have a plan that I want all of you to think about. I think I know all of you well enough to ask you to consider what I am going to say with your minds, not your feelings.
“All of you will probably think that what I am about to say is making no sense—at least at first. But I am telling you, this plan can make history, and a lot of money, for
all of us.”
“How much money, Paul?” It was Gordon again. Of course.
“I’m going to get to that, Gordon. Give me a minute.”
“I’m listening too.” It was Jerome. It was good to know that I had his attention. It was time to press on.
“Gordon, Diedre, Jerome—we are all friends and colleagues at this table, and we can be honest. We all have a pretty good idea as to how well each of you and all of you are doing in business these days. Ray, your contribution to Jerome’s business is well known, so we can move on.
“I happen to know that each of you receives a couple of offers to sell or merge every year. If you had taken any one of these offers, you would never have to work again. And neither would your grandchildren.”
At this point in the luncheon I really wished that I could have read minds. Glances flashed across the table like invisible lasers. Everyone’s mind was working in overdrive. If I had to guess, my bet would have been that the unspoken thoughts of my guests went something like this:
Diedre: I haven’t seen Paul like this in years … maybe ever. What does he have on his mind? I just can’t figure out where he’s going with this …
Gordon: What is this motherfucker talking about now? If it was so fucking important, why the fuck is he telling all of us, including that faggot Ray Beard? … Damn, that Jefferson bitch is fine … great set of lips too; I bet she gives great head.
Jerome: As usual, my best bet is to be quiet. I am not quite sure what Paul is getting at, but I would bet that he wants all of us to work together on something…. what? He is going through a whole lot just to get us to support somebody’s campaign. It’s got to be more than that. But what crazy scheme could involve him, Diedre, me, and Gordon. Jesus, what a lowlife son of a bitch! I will never understand how someone who is so successful and smart can be such an asshole. Amazing!
Raymond: I guess it’s a good thing that Jerome wanted me at this luncheon—actually, I’m damn glad, since I got to meet Monique over there. Damn, that’s one fine female! And why is Gordon looking at me like that? I can’t stand that motherfucker, and I guess the feeling is mutual. What the hell is Paul talking about? I just cannot follow where he is going with a luncheon speech to an audience of four.
* * *
“As I was saying, I don’t want to make a luncheon speech. Not that any of you would let me. But I need to get a few things on the table for all of you to consider. After all, and please excuse me for getting a little dramatic, but it’s rare that you know that history is being made while it is being made …”
“A little dramatic?” I knew that I could count on Diedre to keep all of this in perspective. And, I have to believe that the look on my face let her know that this was not a time to play around. An apology would have been too much to expect and unnecessary as well, but the look on her face told me that her full arsenal of smart remarks would be retired, at least for the moment.
“As I said before, and I will not belabor the point—all of you are doing well as individuals and through your respective companies. Whether you stay independent or sell to one of the larger white firms, no one will be holding a benefit for any of you any time soon.”
I took a moment to take a sip of my wine and let my words sink in. A small smile made its way around the table. It was not what I would call a “dramatic pause,” especially since the moment came and went quickly. But as I recall, there was enough time for everyone’s thoughts to shift focus from personal agendas to the subject of the luncheon and the reason for my invitation.
In a few moments Jerome would understand why Ray Beard was not a part of the original invitation list and Gordon would know that I was not wasting his time. Diedre would know that there was a good reason why I wanted her to join a private luncheon at which Gordon Perkins was a guest.
There were a lot of loose ends to tie up. It was time to get busy. While I had not planned on Ray Beard being present, I decided to speak as if he were not there or as if I always had anticipated his presence.
“As professionals and as friends, I have the greatest respect for all of you. As individuals and as people who have accomplished so much, particularly as black people, you are history makers.
“But you know, and I know, that in the big picture, it’s all minor league. At least up to now. You know it and I know it. You know that I am speaking the truth.”
As I looked around the table I could see that I now had everyone’s attention. I would never describe Jerome, Gordon, or Diedre as being vain. They all had their personal sense of self-esteem, and they certainly did not need me for any validation of their achievements. Yet, no one could enjoy hearing their life’s work being described as “minor league.”
I was now tap dancing on thin ice. And it was exactly where I wanted to be. Now they were truly listening to what I was saying. Personal dislikes and estimates of the length of Monique Jefferson’s skirt and considerations of her other talents would have to wait.
“The folks at Merrill Lynch and Blackstone and Wasserstein Perella do not wake up in the morning wondering what any of you are going to do. That’s just the facts of life—today. We all know it.
“The next merger that changes an industry, the next financing that bails out a country, the next acquisition that makes the front page of the Wall Street Journal, we may hear about it before Joe and Moe Shmoe, but we read about it just like everyone else.”
I paused for a moment to look around the table again. I was off into uncharted territory. Either this was going to work or it was going down in flames. There was nothing to do but to keep on keeping on. There was simply no time to hesitate or reconsider.
“Obviously I did not ask you to come to lunch just to present you with the realities of the world at the end of the twentieth century. You don’t need me to tell any of you what you already know.
“But everything that I have told you gave me an idea the other day, and I wanted to see what each of you thinks about it. So bear with me for just a few more minutes.”
“A few minutes is about all you’ve got, brother.” It was Gordon. No surprise there.
“Your patience is going to get you into heaven, Gordon,” Diedre spoke with a smile that wasn’t really a smile at all.
I am sure that a perfunctory “fuck you” was on the tip of Gordon’s tongue. But it seemed that for some reason Gordon just did not feel like getting into it with Diedre that afternoon. It was a consideration for which I was extremely grateful at the time.
“Jerome, you are the scientist at the table, could you please …”
“Former scientist,” Jerome corrected. He had been physics major in college, going to business school instead of pursuing an engineering doctorate. His correction was gentle, however, with a smile on his face that was as puzzled as that of every other guest at the table.
“Duly noted, Jerome. Now, could you please explain to everyone the difference between a physical reaction and a chemical reaction?”
Jerome could not possibly have anticipated where this discussion was heading. Nevertheless, he carefully put his fork down and fastidiously dabbed at the corner of his mouth with his napkin. Then, having considered what he would say, he spoke quietly and gently and with overwhelming intelligence despite the simplicity of the question.
“A physical reaction involves the combination of several items, but the items themselves remain essentially unchanged. Sugar in water for example—the sugar and the water remain separate and distinct even though they are mixed together.
“A chemical reaction, on the other hand, involves the combining of two or more items to create a new and different substance. For example—a piece of iron, some water and some oxygen, mixed together, creates rust, the result of a chemical reaction. Striking a match, the spark of energy caused by friction combined with the sulfur and phosphorus in the match head, causes a chemical reaction, energy is released and we get fire.”
Jerome had pointed us in the right direction. He couldn’t have
done any better if we had rehearsed his lines beforehand. Now was the time.
“The match and the fire is exactly what I am talking about, Jerome. I am suggesting that we start a fire, right here, right now, at this table!”
“Paul, what on earth are you talking about?” This time it was Diedre. She was probably speaking for Jerome and Gordon as well. Everyone was more than a little curious as well as being anxious for me to get to the point before they started feeling like they were on some rhetorical ride to nowhere.
“Diedre, Gordon, Jerome—I want you all to think about a chemical reaction involving your respective firms. As three separate entities, you will all almost certainly continue to do well and make money.
“But, if your firms merged, the synergy would be absolutely incredible. And if you think about it for a moment, all of you know that I am right. The combination of the resources of your firms, together with your collective energy, drives and smarts … it would be a chemical reaction. It would be big, hell, it would be huge.
“If your three firms merged, on day one you will not only be co-owners of the largest black-owned investment banking firm in the world, it will also be one of the hottest new firms on Wall Street.
“Everyone, and I mean everyone will want to know what you are doing and what you are going to do. The folks from Merrill, Blackstone, Goldman—all of them, will be calling you every day. The three of you can create a chemical reaction in the world of finance. I am not exaggerating one bit when I say that the three of you will be in the center of a virtual business tsunami that you will create, control, and direct.”
I paused and let my words sink in. They were all very quiet. I looked at the faces around the table. Whatever it was that Gordon, Diedre, Jerome, and even Raymond thought I was going to say, merging their three firms was not it. My idea was from another galaxy of thought, another universe of perspective. They could not have been more stunned if I had started speaking in Urdu.