Nelson Demille - Gold Coast

Regarding bylaws, the rules of this club, like those of many others, prohibit the talking of business, the original purpose being to provide an atmosphere of forced relaxation. These days we like to pretend that this bylaw precludes members from having an unfair business advantage over people who are not allowed in the club. Americans take their economic rights very seriously, and so do the courts. But the business of America is business, so Randall and Martin went back to their business discussion, and I took the opportunity to address a question to Lester Remsen. "I have a client," I said, "a woman in her seventies, with fifty thousand shares of Chase National Bank stock. The stock was issued in 1928 and 1929 -" Lester leaned toward me. "You mean she has the actual certificates?" "Yes. She lugged them into my Locust Valley office in a valise. They were left to her by her husband, who died last month."

"My Lord," Lester exclaimed. "I've never seen Chase National certificates.

That's Chase Manhattan now, you know."

"No, I didn't know. That's what I wanted to speak to you about." Of course I did know, but I could see Lester's feathers getting smoother and shinier. Lester asked, "What did they look like?"

Some men get excited by Hustler; Lester apparently got excited by old stock certificates. Whatever turns you on, I say. I replied, "They were a light-green tint with ornate black letters and an engraving of a bank building." I described the certificates as best I could, and you would have thought by the way Lester's eyes brightened that I'd said they had big tits.

"Anyway," I continued, "here's the kicker. On the back of the certificates, there is the following legend: 'Attached share for share is an equal number of shares of Amerex Corp.'" I shrugged to show him I didn't know what that meant, and I really didn't.

Lester rose a few inches in his club chair. "Amerex is now American Express, a nothing company then. It says that?"

"Yes." Even I was a little excited by this news.

Lester said, "American Express is thirty-three and a half at today's close. That means…" I could see the mainframe computer between Lester's ears blinking, and he said, "That's one million, six hundred and seventy-five thousand. For American Express. Chase Manhattan was thirty-four and a quarter at the close…" Lester closed his eyes, furrowed his brow, and his mouth opened with the news: "That's one million, seven hundred and twelve thousand, five hundred." Lester never says 'dollars'. No one around here ever says 'dollars'. I suppose if you worship money, then like an ancient Hebrew who may not pronounce the name of God, no one in this temple will ever pronounce the word dollars. I asked, "So these shares are good front and back?"

"I can't verify that without examining them, but it sounds as if they are. And, of course, the figures I gave you don't take into account all the stock splits since 1929. We could be talking about ten, maybe ten point five." This means ten or ten and a half million. That means dollars. This was indeed good news to my client who didn't need the money anyway. I said, "That will make the widow happy."

"Has she been collecting dividends on these stocks?"

"I don't know. But I'm handling her deceased husband's estate, so I'll know that as I wade through the paperwork."

Lester nodded thoughtfully and said, "If for some reason Chase or American Express lost touch with these people over the years, there could also be a small fortune in accrued dividends."

I nodded. "My client is vague. You know how some of these old dowagers are." "Indeed, I do," said Lester. "I'd be happy to send the information to my research department for verification. If you'll just send me photostats of the certificates, front and back, I'll let you know how many times each company's shares have split, what they're worth today, and let you know if Chase or American Express is looking for your client so they can pay her dividends." "Would you? That would be very helpful."

"The shares ought to be examined and authenticated, and they should really be turned in for new certificates. Or better yet, let a brokerage house hold the new certificates in an account. No need to have that kind of money lying around. I'm surprised they've survived over sixty years already without mishap." "That sounds like good advice. I'd like to open an account with you on behalf of my client."

"Of course. Why don't you bring me the actual certificates to my office on Monday? And bring your client along if you can. I'll need her to sign some papers, and I'll need the pertinent information from the estate establishing her ownership as beneficiary and all that."

"Better yet, why don't you come to my office after the close? Monday, four-thirty."

"Certainly. Where are the shares now?"

"In my vault," I replied, "and I don't want them there." Lester thought a moment, then smiled. "You know, John, as the attorney handling the estate, you could conceivably turn those shares into cash." "Now why would I want to do that?"

Lester forced a laugh. "Let me handle the transaction, and we'll split about ten million." He laughed again to show he was joking. Ha, ha, ha. I replied, "Even by today's Wall Street standards, that might be construed as unethical." I smiled to show I was sharing Lester's little joke, and Lester smiled back, but I could see he was thinking about what he'd do with ten million in his vault over the weekend. Lester wouldn't give it to the cats.

After a few more minutes of this, Randall and Martin joined our conversation, and the subject turned to golf, tennis, shooting, and sailing. In most of America that Friday night, in every pub and saloon, the sports under discussion were football, baseball, and basketball, but to the best of my knowledge no one here has yet had the courage to say. "Hey! How about those Mets?" Other taboo subjects include the usual – religion, politics, and sex, though it doesn't say this in the bylaws. And while we're on the subject of sex, Beryl Carlisle, who was sitting with her pompous ass of a husband, caught my eye and smiled. Lester and Randall saw it but did not say something like, "Hey, Johnny boy, that broad is hot for your tool," as you might expect men to say in a bar. On the contrary, they let the incident pass without even a knowing glance. Lester was going on about the damned skeet shooting again, but my mind was on Beryl Carlisle and the pros and cons of adultery.

"John?"

I looked at Randall Potter. "Huh?"

"I said, Lester tells me you actually met Frank Bellarosa." Apparently someone had changed the subject during my mental absence. I cleared my throat. "Yes… I did. Very briefly. At Hicks' Nursery." "Nice chap?"

I glanced at Lester, who refused to look me in the eye and acknowledge that he had a big mouth.

I replied to Randall Potter, "'Polite' might be a better word." Martin Vandermeer leaned toward me. Martin is a direct descendent of an original old Knickerbocker family and is the type of man who would like to remind us Anglo-Saxons that his ancestors greeted the first boatload of Englishmen in New Amsterdam Harbor with cannon fire. Martin asked, "Polite in what way, John?" "Well, perhaps "respectful" is a better word," I replied, searching my mental thesaurus and stretching my credibility.

Martin Vandermeer nodded in his ponderous Dutch manner. I don't want to give the impression that I'm cowed by these people; in fact, they're often cowed by me. It's just that when you make a faux pas, I mean really blow it, like saying a Mafia don is a nice chap and suggesting that you would rather have him as a neighbour than a hundred Lester Remsens, well then, you've got to clarify what you meant. Politicians do it all the time. Anyway, I didn't know what these three were so unhappy about; I was the one who had to live next door to Frank Bellarosa.