Not since Jackie Kennedy’s party in 1961, or was it 1962, had the Villa Sebelloni been given a carte blanche on expenses. Its management had not let such an opportunity pass. Hundreds of lanterns ringed the terrace, swaying gently in the warm breeze coming off Lake Como. The tables, set with seventy-year-old Sèvres dinner service, and fiftyyear-old Baccarat crystal, loaded with gleaming Jetzler silverware, danced in the light of tall white candles which rose out of identical arrangements of pink and blue flowers. Beside each lady’s placecard was a small orchid. The seating arrangements had required the full-time skills of the prince for two successive days. But as the guests took their places, and looked warily at their table partners, the looks of relieved satisfaction indicated that each felt he had been shown the respect due him. At the head table, the Ambassador’s wife sat to the right of the prince. Across from them, Mr. Randolph had been paired with Shireen Firdausi, to his obvious pleasure. Joe Fiore and the mayor’s wife, her husband, and a duchess from Luxembourg, plus a scattered assortment of European aristocracy, none of the same nationality, had been given the remaining places of honor.
Almost immediately the food began to arrive. It is obligatory in Italy that one begins with prosciutto and melon, but tonight was an exception. Artichokes, stuffed with Strasbourg gooseliver mousse, sprinkled with white truffles, were chosen instead. The first wine to arrive: a 1957 Chablis Grand Cru. It was perfect for the dish that followed— grilled Italian scampi, delicately flavored by a mustard sauce which had been miraculously blended with cream from the Swiss Alps. Then came a surprise, one which even produced a subdued wave of applause: a lemon sorbet, but with the added touch of pink champagne which thirty waiters poured almost simultaneously over the icy crystals. The chef of the Villa Sebelloni, Giuseppi Ponti, had decided that this interlude of refreshment was not to be interrupted hurriedly. Only after thirty minutes did the main course arrive, a choice of Paillard di Vitello, with its piquant spices, or a Florentine steak. White Alsacian asparagus were the vegetable. The wine: 1949 Chateau Margaux. Dessert was Surprise Royale, a cassata covered with hot meringue, set aflame in maraschino liqueur. At midnight exactly, coffee, cognac, and cigars were served.
Everyone agreed that the meal had been a masterpiece. In fact, it was with these words that the Honorable Charles Randolph began his speech. He went on to intone that he was proud to see the flag of the United States flying beside those of Italy and Switzerland on this Fourth of July. Actually there were no such flags in view, but he was working from a prepared text. He was proud to be part of this new world where Europe and America were living together in peace and harmony. And he was proud of his wife, Loraine, for insisting that they partake in this memorable occasion, in spite of the fact that as Ambassador to Switzerland, he had received many other invitations. He raised his glass to the success of this wonderful new bank.
All in all, it took one minute. The mayor of Lugano took ten, and would have taken a lot more had his wife not given him a dirty look. The prince ended the formalities by simply thanking his guests in six languages, the sixth being Pharsee which he had picked up from Shireen over dinner. The dancing that followed was enormously popular. Joe Fiore had taken a real shine to the mayor’s wife, and they did not miss a single waltz. Mr. Randolph latched on to a slightly tipsy countess from Brussels, and proved that age and drink was no deterrent to the cha-cha-cha. Doc and Shireen danced almost uninterrupted until three.
Then, with a rather weak rendition of “Arrivederci Roma,” the orchestra signaled that the party was over. It was a happy and contented group that stepped onto the steamer waiting to take them back across Lake Como to the fleet of limousines on the other side. By the morning of July 5, 1967, everyone knew that the International Bank of Sicily and America in Switzerland was a name to be reckoned with. As events later proved, this was a mixed blessing.
Part 2
(1968)
7
THE sixteen members of the Board of Directors of the First National Bank of California met at two o’clock on the third Thursday of each month. The meetings usually lasted one hour, since the bank’s Chairman, George Foreman, disliked gatherings of any type of more than sixty minutes duration. There was also the fact that he had a standing appointment for golf at 4:15 each Thursday afternoon at the Atherton Country Club. Likewise on Tuesdays and Fridays. The Club was a good forty-five minutes from downtown San Francisco.
Therefore at 2:59 on this Thursday, April 19, 1968, he announced that the meeting was adjourned. Most of the men thereupon left the vast boardroom on the thirty-sixth floor, and returned to their menial chores as presidents of oil companies, chief executives of electronics conglomerates, senior partners of exclusive and ludicrously expensive law firms, and, in one case, to finish a drink at Harry’s bar just off Montgomery Street. Although nepotism was definitely frowned on at the First National, the latter case was an exception, for in spite of his being the Chairman’s brother, it was universally felt that Sam Foreman brought a much-needed touch of the common man to the decisionmaking process.
But not everybody left. Foreman—George, not Sam—had motioned to two men that he wished them to remain. They were Sid Chambers, his Vice Chairman, and Donald Luckman, a simple Vice President. Actually, Luckman did not belong at this meeting since he was hardly a member of the Board, nor even of the Senior Management team. After all, the First National had forty-seven Vice Presidents. But the Chairman had asked him to sit—as an exception, it had been noted. So he had sat.
“I thought the meeting went well, didn’t you?”
The you was obviously plural, so both Chambers and Luckman agreed. Fine meeting.
“I asked you to stay to follow up on that last item I had on the agenda: Our international program. Sid, as you know, we are simply not keeping up with the competition. Bank of America is all over the world. Wells Fargo has at least ten offices abroad. Even Security Pacific and U.C.B. down in Los Angeles are finally getting set up in both Europe and Asia. We haven’t got a thing outside of this state. Now like I told the Board, that must change. And quickly. You saw the response. Even that stubborn sonofabitch from Analine Chemical agreed with me. That’s the first time in living memory!”
A hearty laugh was enjoyed by all. Yes sir, you could say what you like about the old man, but he sure had a sense of humor.
“So,” continued Foreman, “they gave me a carte blanche. Cost is not an issue. Speed is.” Foreman glanced at his watch. Almost 3:15, only seventy-five minutes this side of tee-off. “I’ve decided to do this. We’re going to have an international committee to implement this Board decision. Three men should be enough. If we have more, we’ll never reach agreement without a lot of unnecessary talk.”
Not a murmur of dissent thus far.
“I’ll chair it. Sid, you’ll be Vice Chairman. I’ll call the meetings. Some of them will probably have to take place abroad. If we want to become bankers to the world, we must know the world.”
The potential burden of having to spend springtime in Rome, summer in Norway, and fall in Hong Kong did not appear to press too hard on Sid’s shoulders. He firmly concurred with the grassroots philosophy of his chief.
“Fine. Now Luckman, you’ll be the third. You’re going to have the day-to-day responsibility for this project. I’m naming you head of the International Department and Senior Vice President. Your salary will be adjusted accordingly.”
Donald Luckman was stunned. He was only forty-two years old. It was unheard of at the First National of California for anyone to be promoted to the giddy heights of Senior Vice President this side of fifty-five.
“Speak up, Luckman. You want the job or not?”
“But of course, sir. It just left me a bit speechless.”
“Let’s hope not for too long.”
With that George Foreman rose abruptly. The two other men were only micro seconds behind. Before leaving, Foreman decided to make one more statement.
“Luckman, we’re going to have to spend more tim
e together. I want your views on how we should go about this. I’d also like you to hear mine. How about joining Mrs. Foreman and myself for dinner this evening? Seven-thirty at the Country Club in Atherton. Bring your wife.”
Donald Luckman normally arrived home at 6:18. After one large martini at the station bar, he always caught the 5:16 Union Pacific which arrived in Palo Alto at 5:47. The run by Volkswagen from the parking lot to his $42,000 bungalow in Los Altos Hills averaged thirty-one minutes. By 6:20 he was into his second martini, since his wife invariably had a pitcher of the same waiting. Or half a pitcher, depending on how thirsty she had been before the dramatic arrival of her hubby.
But on this April afternoon in 1968, Don broke with tradition. First, no martini at the station. Then the 4:06. Finally the run by VW was cut to twenty-six minutes, a time achieved only once before in early 1966 when Debbie had gone to the doctor for a frog test. It had turned out to be gas, produced, it was conjectured, by bad olives in the martinis. So it was 5:03 when he crashed through the door of 2719 Sunrise Lane.
“Honey!” he yelled.
Silence.
“Debbie!”
Still nothing.
“Deborah!”
Then he heard it. The slosh of water from the bathroom. Deborah Luckman was involved in one of her more exciting pastimes: sitting in a bubble bath, dry martini glass beside her, the latest erotica in one hand, while the other was busy below the bubbles. She had just hit a multiple orgasm, compliments of the Grove Press, when the satisfying peace was so rudely broken.
She was still a bit breathless, and peeved, when Don entered the steamy room—until she realized what an opportunity this was for creative improvisation.
“Don. Take off your clothes and jump in. I feel horny.”
“Debbie, don’t be silly.”
“What’s so silly about that. I feel like it. And it’s been . . .”
“Let’s not get involved in one of those conversations again. Look, I’ve got some really great news.”
“The bank burnt down.”
“Stop it.”
“You discovered your secretary is a lesbian.”
Luckman knew this game, and he also knew he never won at it. He opted for an extended period of silence. So his wife simply ignored him as she stepped out of the bath and began to towel herself. For a thirtyeight-year-old woman, her body was in superb condition. The only possible way it might, perhaps, have been faulted was at bust level. She was over-endowed. She knew it, and was proud of it. Her final flourish with the pink towel was to carefully massage her right breast, then her left. Her nipples, also slightly larger than the American norm, as established by Cosmopolitan, responded immediately. Then she left, after dropping the towel at Don’s feet.
“Damn,” he exclaimed.
“Damn, damn, damn!”
Stepping over the towel, he picked up the half empty martini glass from the side of the bathtub, and downed its contents in one go.
“Honey?” She was calling from the bedroom, where she lay sprawled across the bed on her stomach, head propped on both hands.
“Come on in here, Don.” He obeyed.
Debbie’s game plan had two parts. Phase I was to be oral-genital. In the Grove Press chapter she had just completed, despite over-success in the first stage, a sizable, in fact astonishing, erection had returned almost immediately to the visiting Congolese exchange student; it had subsequently been employed for fucking. Debbie was realistic enough not to plan on such. But at least a Phase I seemed feasible. It required essentially no active cooperation—just free access to a member of the opposite sex, one of which was less than a yard away along her current line of vision. So she reached. But before the reach became a grope, Don managed to back up.
After seventeen years of marriage, Don still did not go for that stuff. He was strictly a Saturday night, in the dark, missionary position fellow. Only about once a year, peculiarly enough around Christmas time, did he ever allow himself to be led into deviate activities. This was April.
“Debbie,” he said firmly, “will you finally cut that stuff out and listen to me?”
There was no choice. She listened.
“I’ve been named Senior Vice President.”
Disappointingly, the walls of the Eichler bungalow, though mere wood, did not tremble. Debbie, however, was moved.
“Don,” she screamed, “we’ve made it!” She scrambled off the bed and caught Don, who stood his ground somewhat uncertainly, in a huge hug.
“Oh, Don, I’m so proud of you.”
“I think you really mean that.”
“I do,” followed by another hug, this time slightly more intimate.
“There’s more. A lot more. Want to hear it?”
She let him go.
“Guess who’s asked us to dinner this evening? At the Atherton Country Club.”
“Don!”
“Yes. Mr. and Mrs. George Foreman have requested the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Donald Luckman at 7:30. Dress will be informal.”
For the briefest of moments she did not know what to say. Then she squinted.
“What’s all this really about, Don?” Her face said there must be something somewhere. It just hadn’t surfaced yet.
“Look, honey, don’t start with those funny looks. Just shut up and listen for a minute.”
The squint went.
“I’ve been put in charge of the international operations of the bank. That means Europe. Perhaps Asia. For months on end. Both of us.”
“When?”
“Soon. We’ll know exactly after this evening. This is Foreman’s personal baby, and I’m going to be Foreman’s personal boy.”
“Don,” said Deborah in a quiet, tense, voice, “this is not just another of your big dreams, is it? If you’re kidding me, I swear, I’ll kill you.” The latter part of the sentence was not spoken nicely. Her husband did not even notice it. Seventeen years of marriage in California does that.
“Debbie, honey, I’ve never been more serious in my life. This is it. So start dressing. We are going to have the biggest evening in our lives!”
To prove it, he took her to bed. But there were no deviations.
Dining at the Atherton Country Club was not everyone’s idea of a big night out. The average age of the members was sixty-five; their concept of exotic eating was to order a sirloin steak rare, instead of well done. The only thing anyone ever did to excess was drink: three large cocktails before dinner were accepted as standard. Often, in fact usually, the main subject of conversation during these sessions of alcoholic intake was the depravity of today’s marijuana-addicted youth.
George Foreman drank nothing but Scotch—Chivas Regal, with two ice cubes and one inch of water. His wife, Marjory, drank gin. Straight. Gordon’s. So when the Luckman’s joined them in the lounge that evening, Donald ordered Scotch, Chivas Regal, with two ice cubes and one inch of water, while Deborah had Gordon’s gin, straight. Mrs. Foreman commented on how remarkable it was that their tastes in drink were so similar. Then Mrs. Foreman said that Debbie should call her Marjory. Mr. Foreman said that Donald should call him George. Because they were going to be seeing a lot of each other in the future, and their difference in age was, after all, not that great. Was it? Of course not. When Marjory and Debbie and Donald and George finally moved on to dinner, Debbie had been fully briefed on the physical condition of Marjory: heart good, kidneys weak, hysterectomy successful. Debbie confided that she had discovered a distinct lump on her left breast last year, but it had turned out to be just fatty tissue, thank God. Thereafter they proceeded to eat.
“Now Donald,” said Foreman, after coffee had arrived, “I think you and Debbie are going to be just perfect for this assignment. And Mama agrees. Don’t you Mama?”
Mama did.
George Foreman then suggested that he and Donald should retire to the smoking room for coffee while the ladies continued their small talk in the lounge. George wanted to hear Donald’s views on the project.
> Actually all that Luckman ever got in during the following half hour was about six questions. Short questions. Because George had already thought things over, and he had come up with a tactical solution to their problem: Donald was to scout out an existing bank in Europe. When he found the right one, they’d buy it. What kind of a bank? One that was growing. One that was profitable. How big? Oh, say, with assets of around a hundred million dollars equivalent. That should cost about ten million, figuring a buck for every ten bucks in deposits more or less, which was what George had always figured when buying banks in the States, and he’d bought lots in his time. Until those left-wing radicals in the Justice Department had blown the antitrust whistle. Which made it all the more necessary for First National to expand abroad, outside the jurisdiction of the know-italls in Washington. Where in Europe? Maybe London. That’s where everybody else went first. Perhaps Amsterdam. Or Zurich. It didn’t matter that much.
A lot of people might think that’s a hell of a way to approach spending $10 million, but then a lot of people don’t run billion-dollar banks. Like the man said, it’s all relative.
The Silver Bears Page 10