It is out of respect for the convictions of these demented few that I shall limit the description of my luncheon with Oliver Whitcomb at Renato’s on Tuesday to a single comment: The salmon parisienne was heavenly. I don’t wish to titillate anyone’s taste buds by extolling the splendor of the brandy Alexanders we drank as dessert. You must seek your own heaven; I found mine.
Of more significance to this magnum opus is the conversation that took place during our feast. Oliver showed up clad in black suit, white shirt, black tie—quite a contrast to my glad rags.
“I have an important funeral to supervise this afternoon,” he explained.
I thought it curious phraseology. I mean,
all
funerals are important—are they not?—and especially to the star.
He wasted little time on small talk: nothing about the weather, sports, or the inflated cost of a good bagel.
“I’m really excited about our expansion to the Naples area,” he said. “I figure if our business—or any business— isn’t growing, then it’s falling behind. Don’t you agree?”
“Perhaps,” I said cautiously. “But there can be dangers in too-rapid expansion. It’s meant taps for a lot of healthy companies.”
He waved my warning aside. “We’ll be able to afford it out of current profits,” he said confidently. “They’re increasing enormously. And opening on Florida’s west coast will be only the first step in establishing the nationwide chain I see as our future. I have a plan all worked out, and believe me, it makes sense.”
Then he was silent as our food was served, and I had an opportunity to observe him more closely. He had inherited his father’s patrician handsomeness, but Horace’s features had a certain craggy strength while son Oliver’s face was softer. I don’t wish to imply it was weak, but there was a discernible fleshiness testifying to a good life that included much rare roast beef and fortified wines.
“Y’see,” he continued, “the mom-and-pops are finished. Bigness is the name of the game. Look at how the giant discount chains have put so many local stores out of business.”
There was no doubting his seriousness. It was obviously a subject to which he had given a lot of thought. What amazed me was that I now saw no evidence of that easy charm he had exhibited at our previous encounters. It made me wonder if that genial warmth was not a natural attribute but a role he played to win what he sought.
That might be true, I reckoned, unless his present performance as an earnest, intent businessman was the facade and he really was the lightweight charmboy I had presumed him to be. People are endlessly fascinating, are they not? I mean, even the dullest are Chinese puzzles. Sometimes they can be solved—but not always.
“I owe it to my father,” he went on solemnly. “As well as my grandfather. They built the family business with a lot of hard work and by taking risks to expand. I want to do the same thing.”
He paused and looked at me expectantly, as if waiting for praise.
“Mmm,” I said, finishing my salmon.
“It’s doable,” he said with conviction. “I want to establish a national network of brand-name funeral homes, either company-owned or franchises. I’ve met with some very smart moneymen, we’ve crunched numbers endlessly, and everyone believes we can swing it.”
My plate was now empty. His was not but he seemed to have little interest in those wonderful viands. I was now convinced he had prepared a business presentation for me, a script, possibly even rehearsed, all to persuade me, to win my acquiescence. It was a selling job he was doing, and doing well. But why he needed my approval I could not have said.
That was when he ordered the brandy Alexanders and continued his spiel.
“The brokers I have selected worked out a three-part program. The first requires start-up or up-front money for fees to get this thing rolling. Those funds will be provided by Whitcomb’s current cash flow without the need of a bank loan. The second step will be a private placement of stock to interested investors. And the third move will be a public offering of stock, probably initially listed on the NASDAQ exchange. How does that sound to you?”
“It appears you have gone into this very thoroughly,” I said diplomatically.
“I have,” he said, slapping a palm down on the tabletop for emphasis. “But there is one rub. A fly in the ointment, so to speak. As I’m sure you know, Whitcomb’s is a privately held corporation. Shares are owned by my mother, father, myself, and small amounts by longtime employees under a profit-sharing plan. But what I hope to accomplish means going public: selling a portion of the company on a stock exchange. My father is dead set against it. He wants the business to remain strictly within the family. I’ve tried to explain to him that a public offering doesn’t mean we’ll lose control; we’ll still hold a majority of voting shares. But he’s a stubborn man.”
Oliver shook his head sorrowfully and finished his dessert. He drew a deep breath, and I anticipated the “hook”: the final closing of his eloquent and well-reasoned sales pitch.
“What I’m hoping you might do,” he said carefully, “is help me out. I’m sure my father will discuss my project with your father. It would be dad’s way to ask his attorney for advice. I’d like to think I could depend on your understanding and cooperation if your father brings up the subject.”
I gave him a rueful smile. “My father rarely asks my opinion on legal counsel he gives to clients.”
“I know,” Oliver said, “but he
might.
And if he does, I’d like to think you’re in my corner.”
He said no more while he called for a check, paid the bill with plastic, and we moved outside. I thanked him for a splendid luncheon, but I don’t think he was listening.
“By the way,” he said, not looking at me, “when it comes time for our private placement—shares of stock sold to a limited number of investors—I’ll be happy to put your name on our preferred list. After we go public you could make a mint.”
“Thank you,” I said, trying to keep any trace of sarcasm out of my voice. “That’s very kind of you.”
We shook hands and he departed for the “important funeral” he was to supervise. I stood there a moment realizing I had just been the object of an attempted bribe. I wasn’t insulted. Amused really, because I knew what little effect I could have on the decisions of Horace Whitcomb or my papa.
Oliver’s pitch to me, I decided, revealed a woeful ignorance of my influence, which was practically nil. Either he was misinformed or he had become aware of my investigation into Whitcomb’s recent unexplained prosperity and was essaying a measure of damage control.
Whatever his motive, I had learned he was a very determined chap, much deeper than I had originally thought. And that he was intensely ambitious I now had no doubt whatsoever. But as we all know, ambition is a two-edged sword.
I drove away with the conviction that I had just lunched with a three-dimensional man, not the cartoon of a lint-headed, high-living prodigal I had first believed him to be. And what bewildered me most about his chameleonic personality was his marriage to Mitzi, that panther. Was it love that drove him to such an unlikely union or could it have been a deliberate desire to offend his conservative father and by so doing declare his independence?
An intriguing enigma—and I loved it.
If you’ve devoured previous tales of my adventures, I’m sure you’re aware that occasionally I dabble in stocks. Nothing enormous, I assure you; just a hundred shares here and a hundred there.
Pour le sport,
you might say. I mean, I don’t go to Las Vegas, and everyone knows Wall Street is the biggest casino in the world.
My broker is a jolly chap of Chinese ancestry named Wang Lo. I’ve tried to convince him that if he expects to succeed as a stockbroker he should change his name to Wang Hi, but he won’t hear of it. He’s a popular member of the Pelican Club, and it was he who taught me how to bolt tequila straight with a lick of salt and a bite of fresh lime.
I’m sure my account is Wang’s tiniest, but he’s unfailingly polite and willing to spend time shooting the breeze even if it means no commissions for him. Anyway, when I arrived back at my office I phoned him and, after an exchange of pleasantries and genial insults, I requested his advice.
I outlined Oliver Whitcomb’s business plan, without mentioning any names of course. I merely told Wang an acquaintance of mine was trying to get a new project moving and wanted me to invest. Should I or shouldn’t I?
“That three-step plan is fairly conventional,” Wang told me. “A lot of new companies get started that way. Some make it, some don’t. Very chancy, but there’s always the possibility of a new McDonald’s or a new Xerox. This pal of yours—is he asking for up-front money?”
“No, he says he can manage that himself. He’s just asking if I’d be interested in the private offering.”
“Well, that sounds a little better, Archy; the risk is somewhat reduced. If he’s got his start-up funds, it shows he’s probably not peddling emu ranches or rhinestone mines. I really can’t tell you what to do unless I know more about it. It’s not another new chain of pizza joints, is it?”
“No, Wang, it’s a chain of noodle palaces.”
“Hey,” he said, “I might put a few bucks into that myself. But only if they promise to serve curried rice stick noodles, my favorite.”
“I’ll tell him that,” I promised, and we hung up laughing.
About all I had learned from that consultation was that Oliver Whitcomb had a viable business plan and was apparently not running an out-and-out swindle. I’m no financial wizard, but I could see that what Oliver termed “a rub, a fly in the ointment”—id est, his father’s objections—might doom the project before it got off the ground.
Just to make certain, I phoned Mrs. Trelawney and asked if our honcho was present and could grant me an audience of no more than five minutes.
“Oh Archy,” she said, “I doubt that; he’s so busy.”
“Inspecting his briefs again, is he? Be a luv and ask, will you?”
She came back on me line and told me I could have five minutes, no more.
I went leaping up the back stairs to poppa’s office and found him seated at his antique rolltop desk reviewing a humongous stack of legal documents.
“Yes, yes, Archy,” he said irritably, “what is it now?”
“Sir,” I said, “something curious has come up concerning the Whitcomb Funeral Homes investigation, and I need to know who actually owns the business. I presume Horace Whitcomb holds a controlling majority of me stock.”
He stared at me. “This is important to the successful conclusion of your inquiry?”
“Yes, father, it is.”
He paused a moment, then drew a deep breath. “In that case I shall reveal that you presume incorrectly. The majority of shares are held by Mrs. Sarah Whitcomb.”
I was astonished. “How can that be?”
“Very easily,” he said testily. “The shares were legally transferred to his wife’s name by Horace Whitcomb for tax purposes. Of course her shares are always voted as her husband recommends since she has little knowledge of or interest in the business affairs of their privately held corporation.”
“I see,” I said, beginning to get a glimpse of what was going on. “Thank you for the information.”
He thawed briefly. “Making any progress, Archy?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. A little.”
He nodded. “Keep at it,” he commanded and went back to his bumf.
I returned to my office just long enough to pick up my panama and then set off for home. I decided an ocean swim was needed to soothe the day’s rigors I had endured, to say nothing of restoring me to fighting trim for my meeting that evening with Sunny Fogarty.
My slow wallow had the desired effect, and the family cocktail hour followed by a light dinner of veal marsala completed my rejuvenation. I dashed upstairs to make entries in my journal concerning recent events. I was about to close up shop and prepare for my tête-à-tête with Ms. Fogarty when a phone call stopped me.
“Archy,” Sunny said, “I’m glad I caught you before you left. Could we make it ten o’clock instead of nine?”
“Of course,” I said manfully. “No problem. But would you prefer another night?”
“No, no,” she said hurriedly. “I want to see you tonight. It’s important. But a neighbor asked to stop by for a while to ask me about her investments, and I couldn’t very well refuse. I hope our meeting an hour later won’t inconvenience you.”
“Not at all,” I said. “I’ll be there.”
“Thank you, Archy,” she said gratefully.
I hung up absolutely certain the female neighbor seeking investment advice was a fabrication. Sunny’s voice had taken on the deeper, more solemn and intent tone prevaricators use, thinking it will convince the listener of their honesty and sincerity.
I had no doubt the lady was lying.
I
MAKE NO CLAIMS
to possess ESP and I trust you don’t either. But have you ever entered a room and had the definite impression it was recently occupied by a visitor now departed?
That was the feeling I had when Sunny Fogarty led me into her condo. She had told me she expected the visit of a female neighbor, but I had a distinct notion that her guest had been male. Later that night, when I analyzed my reaction, I realized there were rational reasons for it: the down cushion of an armchair was still deeply depressed and, although I am no supernose, I did detect an ever-so-faint odor of cigar smoke plus another scent difficult to identify. My best guess was that I had sniffed a man’s rather spicy cologne.
Naturally I made no mention of my suspicions to Sunny. She had welcomed me graciously and almost immediately supplied me with a tot of iced vodka, for which I was thankful.
She was dressed smartly, as usual, wearing a loose charmeuse T-shirt and silk jeans dyed to resemble denim. I thought the latter amusing. Similar to people who install gold bathroom fixtures but insist they must be tarnished. There are such odd creatures, you know.
“Sorry for the delay, Archy,” she said. “But I really couldn’t help it.”
“No problem,” I assured her again. “You’re looking mighty perky this evening, Sunny.”
“Am I?” she said, genuinely surprised. “Thank you. I wish I felt perky, but I don’t. The deeper we get into this mess, the more depressed I become. And frightened.”