CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Abel returned from a trip to Istanbul in October 1952 immediately upon hearing the news of David Maxton’s fatal heart attack. He attended the funeral in Chicago with George and Florentyna and later told Mrs. Maxton that she could be a guest at any Baron in the world whenever she so pleased for the rest of her life. She did not understand why Abel had made such a generous gesture.
When Abel returned to New York the next day, he was delighted to find on the desk of his forty-second-floor office a report from Henry Osborne indicating that the heat was now off. In Henry’s opinion, the new Eisenhower Administration was unlikely to pursue an inquiry into the Interstate Airways fiasco, especially since the stock had held steady for nearly a year. There therefore had been no further incidents to renew interest in the scandal. Eisenhower’s Vice President, Richard M. Nixon, seemed more involved in chasing the spectral communists whom Joe McCarthy had missed.
Abel spent the next two years concentrating on building his hotels in Europe. Florentyna opened the Paris Baron in 1953 and the London Baron at the end of 1954. Barons were also in various stages of development in Brussels, Rome, Amsterdam, Geneva, Edinburgh, Cannes and Stockholm in a ten-year expansion program.
Abel had become so overworked that he had little time to consider William Kane’s continued prosperity. He had not made any further attempt to buy stock in Lester’s bank or its subsidiary companies, although he had held on to those he already owned in the hope that opportunity would be forthcoming to deal a blow against William Kane from which he would not recover so easily. The next time, Abel promised himself, he’d make sure he didn’t unwittingly break the law.
During Abel’s increasingly frequent absences abroad, George ran the Baron Group. Abel hoped that Florentyna would join them on the board as soon as she left Radcliffe in June of 1955. He had already decided that she should take over responsibility for all the shops in the hotels and consolidate their buying, as they were fast becoming an empire in themselves.
Florentyna was very excited by the prospect but was insistent that she wanted some outside expertise before joining her father’s group. She did not think that her natural gifts for design, color coordination, and organization were any substitute for experience. Abel suggested that she train in Switzerland under M. Maurice at the famed Ecole Hotelière in Lausanne. Florentyna balked at the idea, explaining that she wanted to work for two years in a New York store before she would decide on whether or not to take over the shops. She was determined to be worth employing, “ … and not just as my father’s daughter,” she informed him. Abel thoroughly approved.
“A New York store, that’s easily enough done,” he said, “I’ll ring up Walter Hoving at Tiffany’s and you can start at the top.”
“No,” said Florentyna, revealing that she’d inherited her father’s streak of stubbornness. “What’s the equivalent of a junior waiter at the Plaza Hotel?”
“A salesgirl at a department store,” said Abel, laughing.
“Then that’s exactly what I’m going to be,” she said.
Abel stopped laughing. “Are you serious? With a degree from Radcliffe and all the traveling you’ve done, you want to be an anonymous salesgirl?”
“Being an anonymous waiter at the Plaza didn’t do you any harm when you were building up one of the most successful hotel groups in the world,” replied Florentyna.
Abel knew when he was beaten. He had only to look into the steel gray eyes of his beautiful daughter to realize she had made up her mind and that no amount of persuasion, gentle or otherwise, was going to change it.
After Florentyna had graduated from Radcliffe, she spent a month in Europe with her father, checking progress on the latest Baron hotels. She officially opened the Brussels Baron, where she made a conquest of the handsome young French-speaking managing director whom Abel accused of smelling of garlic. She had to give him up three days later when it reached the kissing stage, but she never admitted to her father that garlic had been the reason.
When Florentyna returned to New York with her father, she immediately applied for the vacant position (the words used in the classified advertisement) of “junior sales assistant” at Bloomingdale’s. When she filled in the application form, she gave her name as Jessie Kovats, well aware that no one would leave her in peace if they thought she was the daughter of the Chicago Baron.
Despite protests from her father, she also left her suite in the New York Baron and started looking for her own place to live. Once again Abel gave in and presented Florentyna with a small but elegant cooperative apartment on Fifty-seventh Street near the East River as a twenty-second birthday present.
Florentyna already knew her way around New York and enjoyed a full social life, but she had long before resolved not to let her friends know that she was going to work at Bloomingdale’s. She feared they would all want to visit her and her cover would be blown in days, making it impossible to be treated like any other trainee.
When her friends did inquire, she merely told them that she was helping to run some shops in her father’s hotels. None of them gave her reply a second thought.
Jessie Kovats—it took her some time to get used to the name—started in cosmetics. After six months, she was ready to run her own cosmetics shop. The girls in Bloomingdale’s worked in pairs, which Florentyna immediately turned to her advantage by choosing to work with the laziest girl in the department. This arrangement suited both girls as Florentyna’s choice was a gorgeous, unenlightened blonde named Maisie who had only two interests in life: the clock when it pointed to six and men. The former happened once a day, the latter all the time.
The two girls soon became comrades without exactly being friends. Florentyna learned a lot from her partner about how to avoid work without being spotted by the floor manager, and also how to get picked up by a man.
The cosmetic counter’s profits were well up after the girls’ first six months together even though Maisie had spent most of her time trying out the products rather than selling them. She could take two hours just to repaint her fingernails. Florentyna, in contrast, had found that she had a natural gift for selling—and that she thoroughly enjoyed it. This combination worked well for her, and after only a few weeks her manager considered her as knowing as some employees who had been around for years.
The partnership with Maisie suited Florentyna ideally, and when they moved her to Better Dresses, Maisie went along by mutual agreement and passed much of her time trying on dresses while Florentyna sold them. Maisie would have been able to attract men—in tow with their wives or sweethearts—no matter what the quality of the merchandise simply by looking at them. Once they were ensnared, Florentyna could move in and sell them something. It seemed hardly possible that the combination could work in Better Dresses, but Florentyna nearly always coaxed Maisie’s victims into a purchase. Few escaped with untapped wallets.
The profits for the first six months in the department were up by 30 percent and the floor supervisor decided that the two girls obviously worked well together. Florentyna said nothing to contradict that impression. While other assistants in the shop were always complaining about how little work their partners did, Florentyna continually praised Maisie as the ideal workmate, who had taught her so much about how a big store operated. She didn’t mention the useful advice that Maisie also imparted on how to deal with overamorous men.
The greatest compliment an assistant can receive at Bloomingdale’s is to be put on one of the counters facing a Lexington Avenue entrance, one of the first persons to be seen by customers coming in through the main doors. To be moved to one of these counters was considered as a small promotion and it was rare for a girl to be invited to sell there until she had been with the store at least five years. Maisie had been with Bloomingdale’s since she was seventeen, a full five years, while Florentyna had only just completed her first. But because their sales record together had been so impressive, the manager decided to try the two girls out on the g
round floor in the stationery department. Maisie was unable to derive any personal advantage from the stationery department, for although she didn’t care much for reading she cared even less for writing. Florentyna wasn’t sure after a year with her that she could read or write. Nevertheless, the new post pleased Maisie greatly because she adored attention. So the two girls continued their perfect partnership.
Abel admitted to George that he had once gone to Bloomingdale’s and covertly watched Florentyna at work and he had to confess that she was damned good. He assured his vice president that he was looking forward to her finishing the two years’ training so that he could employ her himself. They had both agreed that when Florentyna left Bloomingdale’s, she would be made a vice president of the group with special responsibility for the hotel stores. Florentyna was a chip off a formidable old block, and Abel had no doubt that she would have few problems taking on the responsibilities he was planning for her.
Florentyna spent her last six months at Bloomingdale’s on the ground floor in charge of six counters with the new title of Junior Supervisor. Her duties now included stock checking, the cash desks and overall supervision of eighteen sales clerks. Bloomingdale’s had already decided that Jessie Kovats was an ideal candidate to be a buyer.
Florentyna had not yet informed her employees that she would be leaving shortly to join her father as a vice president of the Baron Group. As the six months were drawing to their conclusion, she began to wonder what would happen to poor Maisie after she had left. Maisie assumed that Jessie was at Bloomingdale’s for life—wasn’t everybody?—and never gave the question a second thought. Florentyna even considered offering her a job at one of the shops in the New York Baron. As long as it was behind a counter at which men spent money, Maisie was an asset.
One afternoon when Maisie was waiting on a customer—she was now in gloves, scarves and woolly hats—she pulled Florentyna aside and pointed to a young man who was loitering over the mittens.
“What do you think of him?” she asked, giggling.
Florentyna glanced up at Maisie’s latest desire with her customary uninterest, but on this occasion she had to admit that the man was rather attractive. For once she was almost envious of Maisie.
“They only want one thing, Maisie,” said Florentyna.
“I know,” she said, “and he can have it.”
“I’m sure he’ll be pleased to hear that,” said Florentyna, laughing as she turned to wait on a customer who was becoming impatient at Maisie’s indifference to her presence. Maisie took advantage of Florentyna’s move and rushed off to serve the gloveless young man. Florentyna watched them both out of the corner of her eye. She was amused that he kept glancing nervously toward her, checking that Maisie wasn’t being spied on by her supervisor. Maisie giggled away and the young man departed with a pair of dark blue leather gloves.
“Well, how did he measure up to your hopes?” asked Florentyna, conscious she felt a little jealous of Maisie’s new conquest.
“He didn’t,” replied Maisie. “But I’m sure he’ll be back,” she added, grinning.
Maisie’s prediction turned out to be accurate, for the next day the young man was there again, thumbing among the gloves, looking even more uncomfortable than before.
“I suppose you had better go and wait on him,” said Florentyna.
Maisie hurried obediently away. Florentyna nearly laughed out loud when, a few minutes later, the young man departed with another pair of dark blue gloves.
“Two pairs,” declared Florentyna. “On behalf of Bloomingdale’s I think I can say he deserves you.”
“But he still didn’t ask me out,” said Maisie.
“What?” said Florentyna in mock disbelief. “He must have a glove fetish.”
“It’s very disappointing,” said Maisie, “because I think he’s neat.”
“Yes, he’s not bad,” said Florentyna.
The next day when the young man arrived, Maisie leaped forward, leaving an old lady in midsentence. Florentyna quickly replaced her and once again watched Maisie out of the corner of her eye. This time customer and salesgirl appeared to be in deep conversation and the young man finally departed with yet another pair of dark blue leather gloves.
“It must be the real thing,” ventured Florentyna.
“Yes, I think it is,” replied Maisie, “but he still hasn’t suggested a date.”
Florentyna was flabbergasted.
“Listen,” said Maisie desperately, “if he comes in tomorrow could you serve him? I think he’s scared to ask me directly. He might find it easier to make a date through you.”
Florentyna laughed. “A Viola to your Orsino.”
“What?” said Maisie.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Florentyna. “I wonder if I’ll be able to sell him a pair of gloves.”
As the young man pushed his way through the doors at exactly the same time the next day, and immediately headed toward the glove counter, she thought that if he was anything, he was consistent.
Maisie dug Florentyna in the ribs, and Florentyna decided the time had come to enjoy herself.
“Good afternoon, sir.”
“Oh, good afternoon,” said the young man, looking surprised—or was it disappointment.
“Can I help you?” offered Florentyna.
“No. I mean, yes. I would like a pair of gloves,” he added unconvincingly.
“Yes, sir. Have you considered dark blue? In leather? I’m sure we have your size—unless we’re all sold out.”
The young man looked at her suspiciously as she handed him the gloves. He tried them on. They were a little too big. Florentyna offered him another pair; they were a little too tight. He looked toward Maisie. She was almost surrounded by a sea of male customers, but she wasn’t sinking because she glanced toward the young man and grinned. He grinned back nervously. Florentyna handed him another pair of gloves. They fitted perfectly.
“I think that’s what you’re looking for,” said Florentyna.
“No, it’s not really,” replied the customer, now visibly embarrassed.
Florentyna decided the time had come to help the poor man off the hook. Lowering her voice, she said, “I’ll go and rescue Maisie. Why don’t you ask her out? I’m sure she’ll say yes.”
“Oh no,” said the young man. “You don’t understand. It’s not her I want to take out—it’s you.”
Florentyna was speechless. The young man seemed to muster courage.
“Will you have dinner with me tonight?”
She heard herself saying yes.
“Shall I pick you up at your home?”
“No,” said Florentyna, perhaps a little too firmly, but the last thing she wanted was to be met at her apartment where it would be obvious to anyone that she was something more than a salesgirl. “Let’s meet at a restaurant,” she added quickly.
“Where would you like to go?”
Florentyna tried to think quickly of a place that would not be too ostentatious.
“Allen’s at Seventy-third and Third?” he ventured.
“Yes, fine,” said Florentyna, thinking how much better Maisie would have been at handling the whole situation.
“Around eight o’clock suit you?”
“Around eight,” replied Florentyna.
The young man left with a smile on his face. As Florentyna watched him disappear onto the street, she suddenly realized he had left without buying a pair of gloves.
Florentyna took a long time choosing which dress she should wear that evening. She wanted to be certain that the outfit didn’t scream Bergdorf Goodman. She had acquired a small wardrobe especially for Bloomingdale’s, but it was strictly for business use and she had never worn anything from that selection in the evening. If her date—heavens she didn’t even know his name—thought she was a salesgirl she mustn’t disillusion him. She couldn’t help feeling that she was actually looking forward to the evening more than she ought to.
She left her apartment on East Fift
y-seventh Street a little before eight and had to wait several minutes before she managed to hail a taxi.
“Allen’s, please,” she said to the taxi driver.
“On Third Avenue?”
“Yes.”
“Sure thing, miss.”
When Florentyna arrived at the restaurant, she was a few minutes late. Her eyes began to search for the young man. He was standing at the bar, waving. He had changed into a pair of gray flannel slacks and a blue blazer. Very Ivy League, thought Florentyna, and very good-looking.
“I’m sorry to be late,” began Florentyna.
“It’s not important. What’s important is that you came.”
“You thought I wouldn’t?” said Florentyna.
“I wasn’t sure.” He smiled. “I’m sorry I don’t know your name.”
“Jessie Kovats,” said Florentyna, determined to retain her alias. “And yours?”
“Richard Kane,” said the young man, thrusting out his hand.
She took it and he held on to it a little longer than she had expected.
“And what do you do when you’re not buying gloves at Bloomingdale’s?” she teased.
“I’m at Harvard Business School.”
“I’m surprised they didn’t teach you that most people only have two hands.”
He laughed and smiled in such a relaxed and friendly way that she wished she could start again and tell him they might have met in Cambridge when she was at Radcliffe.
“Shall we sit down?” he said, taking her arm and leading her to a table.
Florentyna looked up at the menu on the blackboard.
“Salisbury steak?” she queried.
“A hamburger by any other name,” said Richard.
They both laughed in the way two people do when they don’t know each other but want to. She could see he was surprised that she might have known his out-of-context quote.
Florentyna had rarely enjoyed anyone’s company more. Richard chatted about New York, the theater and music—so obviously his first love—with such grace and charm that she was soon fully at ease. He might have thought she was a salesgirl, but he was treating her as if she’d come from one of the oldest Brahmin families. He hoped he didn’t seem too surprised that she shared his interests. When he inquired, she told him nothing more than that she was Polish and lived in New York with her parents. As the evening progressed she found the deception becoming increasingly intolerable. Still, she thought, we may never see each other again after tonight and then it will all be irrelevant.
Kane and Abel/Sons of Fortune Page 47