In the past couple of weeks, the whole market was buzzing about the pending lease for the entire building with Standard General. An invitation came from Washington. Steve barged into my office.
‘What do you mean,’ he said indignantly, “you’re going to the
Senate Foreign Affairs dinner. Why didn’t the invitation include me? That money you give is- our money.”
“I don’t know why Senator Dole called me. Maybe because I know him.”
“That helps get us recognition, but Dole said we were mentioned during a committee hearing, and it developed from there. Besides, I’m the guy who goes to all those functions.”
He turned and slammed the door as he left.
Investment bankers had called: Morgan Stanley, Goldman Sachs, and Dillon Read. Venture capitalists Jim Seymour, Christopher Griffin, and Jeremiah Hartnett, among others.
But the call I most cherished was the one from the mayor the previous Wednesday. Dianne buzzed, and in hushed tones, as if afraid my caller might hear her, said, “It’s the Mayor for you, Mr. Martin.”
“The mayor of what? Jericho?”
“Of New York” she whispered.
I picked up the phone. Probably one of the mayor’s flunkies.
“Henry…” I recognized his nasal tone immediately. No flunky. Hizzoner. Himself. “Henry, your people have just given us a grand tour of Three-Fifty-Five. Congratulations! It’s a gem. A real gem. I’d like to discuss a formal ribbon-cutting ceremony sometime later this month. I know it’s short notice, but we can whip up something terrific. Bring in both senators from Washington. What do you say?
I only wished the mayor could see my grin. “Great idea,” I said. “When would you like to meet?”
We set up a date for the following week. When I set the phone back on its cradle I felt my ego growing bigger by the minute. “Jesus, Henry, you have arrived,” I heard myself saying. I couldn’t remember when I’d felt so on top of the world. Well, maybe the night I spent with Michael Allen a couple of months ago.
Allen — Michael Allen III — was a senior partner at Lazard Frères. He had invited me to dinner in their corporate “house.” Again, Steve had not been invited. On purpose, I presumed. On the way there, I reminded myself that the invitation was no accident. Damn right I should have dinner with Allen. A few years back, players like Allen wouldn’t have given me the time of day. Act like you belong, I kept telling myself. You do this all the time. Stay with him. On his level. No matter what, no excuses.
Imagine this: a meticulously restored Colonial house located on Wall Street. These guys had taken one of the original, lower Manhattan pre-Revolutionary houses and placed it on top of their forty-story office building. What a photo story that would have made. But Lazard’s whole style was understated. Sorry, ladies and gentlemen. No publicity. No article in the New York Times or the Wall Street Journal. No photo section m Architectural Digest or House and Garden,
An attractive Stepford-type young woman in a historically accurate recreation of a Pilgrim dress had conducted me from Executive Reception into a small, private elevator to the top floor. I entered through the front door of the house. The decor was perfect Early American. Allen was sitting on the sofa, another period piece from Revolutionary times, I was sure. He put aside some folders and rose to greet me. We were both trustees of the Museum of Modern Art, and on museum matters had for several years taken aggressive positions on finances and acquisitions at meetings. We were usually in the minority, but we had often been persuasive enough to win over the other more conservative trustees. Both of us were in line to become chairman — Allen first, no doubt, with me as vice-chairman before succeeding him. I knew nothing about contemporary art and cared about it even less. But I’d worked my ass off to become a trustee, and it was already paying off.
Allen was short and wiry, with black hair and fair skin. And his eyes, as dark as his hair, fixed you as if you were the total object of his attention. Nothing escaped his notice or memory. His pinstriped suit was impeccably tailored, and he wore, as always, a crisp white shirt with French cuffs. His trademark, a red handkerchief, sat neatly in his breast pocket. Mike traveled continually and was consultant to a number of foreign governments. In the Nixon administration, he had been an assistant secretary of the Treasury and then deputy secretary of commerce under President Ford.
‘What country did you buy or sell on this trip?” I asked as we shook hands.
“Can’t remember there have been so many,’ he replied smiling. “I think we bought England. Or was it France? Scotch on the rocks’ if I remember correctly Henry? Some fifty-year-old single malt. MacDoughton’s. It’s really better neat.”
“Sounds good,’1 said. He sat in a chair, I on the sofa’ which I noticed made me lower than Allen. A clever Lazard device? I was six inches taller than Allen, yet in our respective positions he towered above me. “I never imagined a place like this could still exist,’ I continued. “Thanks for inviting me. Priscilla okay? And how are the twins?”
“AH fine. Dean and Townsend are graduating this year. Both Phi Beta Kappa. And it’s also my thirtieth and Dad’s fifty-fifth reunion. We’re going to have a major celebration.” His pride was evident. I knew him to be a good family man, and devoted father. Nine on a scale often. Which made me what, a one?
“What’s next for them after Princeton?”
He pondered my question. “Both have been accepted at several medical schools, including Harvard and Yale. They say they'll split up, but I know them. They’ll end up at the same place. They always do.” He nodded to the waitress to set the drinks down. Allen seemed far less restrained than usual. “Fascinating to watch them. Ever since they began to walk and talk they’ve functioned better together than alone. It’s as if their two minds doubled their capacities. Priscilla and I used to be concerned about their interdependency, but we long ago stopped trying to separate them.”
“What will happen when one of them wants to get married and the other hasn’t found Miss Right yet?” Was I getting too personal?
Allen laughed. “An interesting thought,’ he said. Then, “Say, enough about my sons.” He lifted his glass. “Here’s to you and your brilliant coup.”
“I assume you’re referring to Three-Fifty-Five,’ I said, hoping to imply I had more than one coup up my sleeve. “Thanks, we’re just about to consummate a lease on the whole building.” I had planned everything so carefully, strategized how I would respond to any hurdle Standard General might come up with. No, it wasn’t signed, but I firmly believed it was a done deal
“Everyone in your industry is saying that it’s one of the most skilful transactions in years. You've outwitted your competition,’ Allen smiled, sharing the victor’s triumph. ‘You could stop after this one, but that doesn’t seem to be your style. You’re quite young, Henry. What, forty-four? There are worlds out there just waiting to be conquered. At least we’re inclined to think so.”
He was obviously probing, but I decided not to respond. It was flattering, and great fun to be entertained by one of the business world’s heavy hitters. I knew his purpose in inviting me would be revealed in due course. The Pilgrim lady entered, curtsied (not just the costume was out of fashion), and announced that dinner was served. ‘We’ll be a few more minutes,’ Allen said, and poured me a second scotch. It was the smoothest I ever remembered, blessed with a flavor those Scots had obviously kept secret from their envious brethren.
We chatted about the state of our fair city, and the economic conditions both regionally and nationally. I began wondering when Mike would get to the point. Lazard never wasted an evening without a purpose. Patience, Henry. In the fullness of time.
We made our way into a small but cozy dining room. I kept feeling I had stepped back two hundred years, and I was about to share a meal with one of the signers of the Constitution. The appetizer was Coquilles Saint-Jacques, followed by a crown of lamb, done to perfection, with new potatoes and asparagus served al dente. The corn muffins wer
e warm and delicious. The linens were spanking, the silver sparkling white, the service impeccable.
I had to remind myself of where I was, especially after an ‘82 white Corton Montrachet, followed by a ‘69 red burgundy, Nuit St. Georges, its bouquet superb. I declined sweet potato pie, a traditional dessert in Colonial days, but said yes to a twentieth-century espresso.
‘What I want to discuss is not a typical Lazard deal,” Allen said as we finished the feast. I knew the point had come. “We have a partners’ investment account. Well, actually, several. Depending on the investment,’ He looked squarely at me, and despite the pleasant wine buzz, I concentrated on his every word. ‘What I recommended to my senior partners at our last meeting,’ Allen said, “was a sizable involvement with The Martin Companies. With you, Henry.” Allen was the kind of man who would gauge my reaction before continuing.
“I really don’t know what to say. I’m honored, of course.”
“You’ve proven you possess a high level of competence, Henry. But more important to us than any deal is people we invest in, how trustworthy they are. Their integrity, their probity.” He smiled. “You couldn’t have known it, but you were subjected to a very thorough investigation. We checked every place you lived, your friends and acquaintances, records at prep school, college, the military. The report covered your relationships, past as well as current. By the way, I’m the only one who has read it. I’m telling you this — and perhaps I shouldn’t — because, all things considered, you’re exactly the man we want to get involved with.”
A compliment, sure, but holy shit, what didn’t he know? I kept my voice level: “You had no right to investigate me without my permission.”
“Understand something, Henry,” he said in reassuring tones, as if he had anticipated my reaction. “I’m being completely open with you because I want you to know. I didn’t have to tell you. Investigations like that must be made. If we’re going to get deeply involved with someone, it’s essential we know exactly whom we’re dealing with. I apologize, but not really. I couldn’t ask you first. If the report had come out less than sterling, there would have been no need to go any further.”
I supposed I could understand that. But hell, I didn’t want the whole goddamned world to know the details of my private life. I wondered about the “sterling” part. Clearly Allen had missed a few of the darker details — or maybe he didn’t want to mention them. Professionally, I’d give myself an A to A+. But personally — I had to admit I did not rank very high.
“Let me add, Henry, I make no judgments about a man’s personal behavior or habits,” Allen said, as though reading my mind. “What interests me is whether he’s a straight-shooter. Will he act coolly in a crisis? You meet both criteria,’ He lifted his glass — he was now serving a delightful Beaume de Venise — took a sip, and said, “Henry, Fm really terribly sorry about Nancy. It must have been a very difficult period,’
My ex-wife, Nancy. Nancy MacAllister. The memory of her slow, agonizing final months brought back a flood of emotions and, I suspect, a flush to my face that Allen couldn’t fail to notice. Hell, if that bothered him, then I wouldn’t want to be involved with the guy.
‘We tried everything the doctors recommended,” I said. “Everything. And then some.”
Allen left the room to take a phone call. His remark about Nancy made me realize to what degree I had been forcing myself not to think about her death. The worst was that she was only thirty-seven, and she died alone, without me. Feeling so helpless while she withered away, wasted by the cancer. For the first time in my life, I had been unable to keep something I desperately wanted to keep.
What made her death so wrenching was that I believed, until the very end, that there might have been time, time to reestablish our relationship, time to share intimacies I had not previously been able to share. I had married Nancy because I believed she would be my counterpart, the woman with whom I could share my hopes, anxieties, and fears. No, it wasn’t Hollywood romantic. Nan was very sweet, perhaps a little naïve at times. She loved me in ways that other women hadn’t. I also felt some guilt because, despite all my efforts, I couldn’t completely stop fooling around after we were married. We never did become as close as I had hoped and wanted. After four years, we divorced. As much Nancy’s idea as mine. She told me she realized it was a mistake. I wasn’t a villain; we just weren’t right for each other. The divorce was amicable, and we remained friendly. I regretted I didn’t have more insight.
Allen returned, led me back into the living room, and poured me some very old brandy. “What Fm offering you is this,” he said when we were seated. “A partnership, with you receiving thirty-three percent. You would be responsible for overhead costs. Well furnish the capital, say fifty million to start and another tranche of fifty million when the first is well invested. You create income properties. We’ve concluded that New York is overdeveloped, or soon will be. We like other cities, like Atlanta, San Francisco, Seattle. We also believe that the future will be in the underdeveloped countries: Mexico, Central, South America. Plus the Pacific Rim nations, Malaysia, Korea, maybe Thailand. No one can break into Japan, so we can’t go there.”
“You’ve forgotten Yemen,” I quipped, “not to mention Bulgaria and Morocco.”
“With your new building leased to Standard General,” he went on, ignoring my remarks, “you’ll have considerably reduced your vacancies. The balance of space you’ll lease. You’ll make it happen. That’s your style.”
“I still own a considerable amount of vacant land in Montvale and Heightstown, New Jersey, and in Newburgh and Greenwich. Also a little in Florida and Vermont. Would these properties be included in the partnership?”
“No,” he said quickly. ‘We’re not sanguine about the New York Metropolitan area. And that goes for Boston and Chicago, too. It used to be that Washington was thought to be recession-proof, the assumption being that government never stops expanding. But now it’s our contention that for the time being the whole Washington area is overbuilt.”
I declined more brandy. My head was already spinning, both from the alcohol — which was considerably more than I usually imbibed — and from Allen’s proposal. I wanted to explore another possibility, although the one he had outlined was certainly appealing. Except that I would lose my independence. Making a giant out of my company was appealing, but the prospect of losing control was not.
“What you describe, Mike —- even though it’s sketchy — sounds very interesting, but there may be another way to accomplish what we both seem to want — raising funds in the capital markets. Do you think my company could go public? Either conventionally or as a real estate investment trust?”
“REITs are too limiting,” Mike said, shaking his head. “I gave considerable thought to that idea. We could take you public. We’d take a large position in your company.” He smiled. “But we wanted something different for our personal accounts. When a company is public, it’s forever having to answer to the SEC, all the regulators, and to stockholders. It’s quite a nuisance. Staying private has its advantages.”
It was true. I would have even less freedom if The Martin Companies were public. Unlikely that I would be the largest stockholder. I wouldn’t settle for anything less than being listed on the New York Stock Exchange. Public, I might not be able to maintain full control. Yet, were Lazard my partner, I would have even less.
“I’ve given you a lot to mull over, Henry,” he said, as if sensing my thoughts. “Finalize the Standard General lease. Well have lunch afterward and continue our explorations.” As if by magic, another Pilgrim-clad woman appeared to conduct us down to our limos.
Outside, he added, “I’m sure you know that one of Lazard’s essential requirements is absolute discretion. It’s important that all this remain completely confidential.”
“I understand, Mike. For me, too. I really appreciate your interest. It’s quite a compliment.”
“Yes” — he smiled — “it is.” No false modesty there.
“Wei talk soon, Henry.”
Partners. Would Allen be a good one? God knows. Steve and I were brothers, and he sure wasn’t your ideal partner. Dad had always warned us about partners. “Stay away from them, boys,” he had told Steve and me on countless occasions. “They start out okay, but if you begin having problems and they’re supplying the money, you could lose everything. Like that!” He snapped his fingers. Both hands. He liked doing that. “It’s not worth it, believe me.” When we reminded him how good he always said his partnership had been with Uncle Joe, he would respond that that was very different because they had started out from scratch. However different their backgrounds, they had grown up together in the same neighborhood, with similar values. Jake and Joe. Joe and Jake…
New Hyde Park 1939
After he graduated, Jake Martin, who with a civil engineering degree aspired to better, couldn’t land the right job. In those days, just finding work was considered success. Finally, Jake found a day laborer s job with Prestige Construction, a struggling Long Island builder. There he met Joe Sabatini, a young Italian with whom he immediately struck up a friendship.
Over a beer at Bernie’s Beer Joint on Hempstead Turnpike, Jake turned to Joe and said: “Haven’t you had enough of this stupid job? Bust our asses to take home a few lousy bucks? Times are getting better, Joe. That damn war in Europe’s going to bring in a lot of work for this country, you 11 see. What say we start our own construction company?”
‘You crazy?”
“No, I'm serious!”
Then Joe broke out laughing, and put his hand on Jake’s shoulder. ‘You know, you dumb walyone, I've been thinking the same damn thing. “
There was something animal-like about Joe, something primitive and basic. His hands hung down at his sides like big mitts except when he reacted instinctively to something he didn t like, at which point they balled up into menacing fists. He was five foot eleven inches, with a build like a Mack truck, had an olive complexion, deep blue eyes, and dirty blond hair that was rarely combed. His ears stuck out a little too far from a craggy face. A large roman nose bespoke his Italian ancestry. In a fight, you wanted Joe on your side. But despite his rugged appearance, he was essentially a gentleman, strong principled, and slow to anger. His speech was rough and raw, but he possessed a keen analytical mind. Like his sister, he was constantly struggling to bridge Sicily, where he was born, and the new world to which he had come when he was one year old.
The Ego Makers Page 3