Paul Erdman - The Billion Dollar Sure Thing

“And if you change your mind?”

“I’ll come back to you. This is not the only idea I’ve got. But it is by far the best one at the moment. Sure, I’ve got a complete alternative program in my briefcase back in the hotel. But let me put something real straight to you fellows. Essentially you’re not buying a plan or a program. You’re buying Stanley Rosen. As simple as that.”

Radazan translated all of this once again for his uncle. Then the two of them entered into a dialogue which lasted a good fifteen minutes. Stanley just sat there on the horsehair couch.

“My uncle agrees to work with you,” stated Radazan. “He wants us to immediately work out the contract.”

Both Arabs rose, and within ten minutes, after an enormous number of handshakes, smiles, and headnodding, Stanley and Radazan were back in the Cadillac.

By early afternoon the next day Rosen was on an airplane, with a power-of-attorney over a portfolio of cats and dogs in New York worth just over $100 million, and the usual management contract appointing him—or rather one of his companies in Bermuda—as an investment advisor to the Commercial Bank of the Trucial States. For a whopping fee, of course.

Stanley was bound for Paris. He planned to spend one night there. His purpose, to use an airline expression: reconfirmation.

THE Air France flight reached Orly at five o’clock local time, and less than an hour later Rosen entered the lobby of the George V. He asked for a suite in the north wing, facing the garden, and the hotel condescended to give him one, at the modest rate of only $135 a night, plus 22 percent service, 15 percent tax, and a $10 surcharge, the latter representing rather good value since it was subject to neither service nor tax.

Step two in Rosen’s check-in procedure was to slip a $20 bill to the head concierge. Stanley also slipped him the name and telephone number of the lady he wanted to contact. Long ago he had learned that it was suicidal to try to take on the French telephone system without the expert aid of local consultants. It went somewhat against Stanley’s grain to pay an average of $10 for each local call, but in this instance he felt it worthwhile in view of the millions which were at stake.

No less than three minutes after he was installed upstairs, the phone rang. It was Jean-Paul, his telecommunications aide. “Monsieur Rosen,” he said, “the young lady is out, but her maid expects her back within the hour. She promised that madame would return your call at that time.”

“Fine, fine,” Stanley said. “Now could you do something else for me?”

“Certainly, Mr. Rosen,” was the oily response.

“I’d like a table at the most expensive restaurant in Paris.”

“The most expensive?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m told that the Tour d’Argent—”

“That sounds fine. And make sure we get the best table. For two. I’ll make it worth your while, Jean-Paul.”

“Ah yes, you can most certainly depend upon me, Mr. Rosen. Rest assured that it will be arranged. For what time, sir?”

“Around eight-thirty would probably be all right.”

“Yes sir, and will you be needing a car?”

“Now that’s an idea. Sure, why not?”

“A Bentley, perhaps?”

“Great. But make sure the driver speaks English.”

“ Certainement , monsieur. The driver is a friend of mine.”

“Now one more thing. I want two—no, make it three bottles of the best champagne you’ve got put on ice and sent up to my suite around, say eleven. I won’t be back then, so just have them leave it. Understand?”

“Of course. Should I make the selection for you, Mr. Rosen?”

“Certainly, Jean-Paul. And merci beaucoup !”

With that linguistic flourish he hung up and went to take a shower.

Just forty-five minutes later the phone rang again. Stanley picked it up cautiously.

“Hello,” was all he ventured.

“Stanley, darling, is that you?”

“Claudine! I’m so glad you could call back.”

“But of course. Now tell me, what brings you back to Paris so quickly?”

“You of course.”

“Oh la la,” she said and sounded pleased.

“Claudine, I’ve arranged a table at the Tour d’Argent for eight-thirty and I’ll pick you up at eight. And I won’t take no for an answer.”

“But Stanley, at such short notice—”

“Claudine, I only have one night in Paris. And somehow, I thought you enjoyed our last evening together.”

“But I did,” she replied with enthusiasm.

“Good. Then let’s make it even better tonight.”

There was only the slightest of pauses. “I’ll come.”

“That I will arrange also.”

“Stanley! We’re on the telephone!”

“I’ll see you at eight. Until then, Claudine.”

“Bye, darling.”

A couple of hours later, as she stepped from the Bentley in front of the Tour d’Argent, Claudine de Beauchamp made a smashing impression. The exquisite pure white mini, and the stunning pair of legs which emerged below, flashed through the dark mink coat, leaving even the doorman somewhat breathless. Her rich red hair flowed from beneath the fur cape, as she swept through the small entrance hall into the elevator. Stanley, a good six inches shorter, trotted behind, and almost gasped when he found himself enclosed in a small red velvet cage, operated by a young person with white hair sitting on a stool beside the controls, a white poodle in his lap. A large red ribbon adorning the poodle rounded out the picture of superb decadence. Claudine chatted gaily with the person of quite indeterminable sex as the lift moved up to the first floor. She was obviously well known there. In fact, when they emerged from the elevator, the head waiter paused hardly a second before coming over to bow before Claudine. Stanley stepped forward to identify himself but was completely ignored as Claudine moved toward the windowed alcove at the far side of the room, with most eyes in the room upon her.

“This is my favourite table,” she said to Stanley, as with great fuss the head waiter removed her mink and eased a chair toward her poised popo, taking most careful note of the target in the process.

The fawning bastard, thought Stanley, as the head waiter disappeared without once acknowledging Rosen’s presence. But his flagging mood was immediately revived when, for the first time, he looked beyond Claudine. There, perfectly framed in the alcove windows, was the Notre Dame, its towers and buttresses glowing in a soft light. Rosen, beneath the veneer a sentimental man, choked up for a fleeting instant, for it felt good, very good, to be near so much beauty. It was, he felt, a moment to be remembered, for it was perhaps symbolic of a new and better life which was now within his grasp.

The arrival of the menus brought Stanley back to reality rather quickly, for not only were they exclusively in French, but no prices were indicated either. To gain time, Stanley ordered two dry martinis on the rocks.

“Chéri,” asked Claudine, “are you hungry?”

“Yes,” he replied, “but frankly I can’t make head or tail out of this goddamned menu.”

“Stanley darling,” said Claudine, reaching out to touch Rosen’s hand, “that is why I liked you so much from the first moment. You are the only honest American I’ve ever met, the only one who would dare admit that he knows very little of the French language, even less about French food, and absolutely nothing about French wine. Would you be terribly hurt if I did the choosing?”

Stanley could not have been more relieved. “Claudine,” he said, now squeezing her hand, “go right to it, baby.”

And she did. The delicate filet de sole cardinal was followed by their famous caneton Tour d’Argent and topped off with soufflé Valtesse. The 1959 white Burgundy was succeeded by an absolutely superb 1949 Haut-Brion. The cognac, from the restaurant’s special reserve, proved to be as golden in flavour as in colour. The only deviation from Claudine’s suggestions upon which Stanley insisted was coffee. He refused to touch the stuff. The memories of Beirut were still too strong.