Paper Doll

chapter thirty-four

LEONARD BEALE HAD an office in Exchange Place, a huge black glass skyscraper that had been built behind the dwarfed faзade of the old Boston Stock Exchange on State Street. Keeping the faзade had been trumpeted by the developer as a concern for preservation. It resulted in a vast tax break for him.

“Loudon lost almost everything in October 1987, when the market took a header,” Beale said. “I wouldn’t, under normal circumstances, speak so frankly about a client’s situation. But Loudon…” Beale shook his head.

“He’s in trouble, isn’t he?” I said.

“Bad,” Beale said. “And it’s not just money.

“I didn’t know brokers said things like `it’s not just money.”‘

Beale grinned.

“Being a good broker is taking care of the whole client,” he said. “It’s a service business.” Beale was square-built and shiny with a clean bald head, and a good suit. He looked like he probably played a lot of handball.

“He lost his money in ‘87?” I said.

“Yeah. In truth, I didn’t help. I was one of a lot of people who couldn’t read the spin right. I didn’t think the market was going to dive. But mostly he lost it through inattention. He always insisted on managing the money himself. Gave him something to do, I suppose. Let him go to the office at nine in the morning, come home at five in the afternoon, have a cocktail, dine with the family. You know? Like Norman Rockwell. But he wasn’t much of a manager, and when the bottom fell out he was mostly on margin.”

“And had to come up with the cash,” I said.

“Yes.”

“Why was he on margin?” I said. “I thought the Tripp fortune was exhaustive.”

Beale shrugged and gazed out the window, across the Back Bay, toward the river. The sky was bright blue and patchy with white clouds. In the middle distance I could see Fenway Park, idiosyncratic, empty, and green.

“Are the Rockefellers on margin?” I said. “Harvard University?”

Beale’s gaze came slowly back to me. “None of them was married to Olivia,” he said.

“She spent that much?”

“Somebody did. More than the capital generated.”

“So he began to erode the capital,” I said.

Beale nodded.

“The first sure sign of disaster for rich people,” he said. “Rich people don’t earn money. Their capital earns money. If they start snacking on the capital, there’s less income earned, and then, because they have less income, they take a bigger bite of capital, and there’s even less income, and, like that.”

“He tell you this?”

“No,” Beale said. “He wouldn’t say shit if he had a mouthful. As far as he was concerned, she was perfect. The kids were perfect. Christ, the son is an arrogant little thug, but Loudon acts like he’s fucking Tom Sawyer. Buys the kid out of every consequence his behavior entails. Or did.”

“And the daughter?”

“Don’t know. No news is probably good news. Loudon never had much to say about her, so she probably didn’t get in much trouble.”

“And he’s been economically strapped since 1987?”

“Broke,” Beale said. “Getting broker.”

“What are they living on?” I said. “They’ve got two kids in college, a mansion on the Hill, fancy office. How are they doing that?”

Beale shook his head.

“Margin.” he said.