The Rothman Scandal (4 page)

“It's only me,” he said, stepping quickly into the room. “And did I surprise the great editor saluting the same great editor when she was in her prime?”

“Ha,” she said and laughed her throaty, bubbly laugh. “I'm still in my prime, you stinker.”

“Or were you simply congratulating yourself on the eve of your greatest personal triumph?”

“How did you get up here without being announced?”

“Ah,” he said, “I'm glad you asked that question. It was an arduous adventure, rather like that which my Russian-Polish ancestors underwent when they fled the pogroms of the czar. Border patrols with armed guards and savage dogs had to be outfoxed. Outrageous bribes had to be paid to loutish Cossack noncoms whose only aim was to rob me of my chastity. Thank God for the belt my Yiddishe mama had locked about my tender loins. Finally, there was that last desperate dash through the frozen Ukraine night, with aurora borealis crackling overhead, and a pack of rabid wolves leaping at the wheels of our troika, to where a small but leaky launch was supposed to await us at Odessa, but where, alas, instead we found—” He stepped quickly toward her and kissed her on both cheeks. “Actually, it was quite easy,” he said. “Your doorman was busy in the street—chasing down a cab for, I must say, the most
extraordinary
-looking young, bronzed Adonis—with a pair of buns, my dear, to
die
over—and so I simply slipped into the most secured building in Manhattan, got into the elevator, found your front door off the latch, and here I am! Had I been a cat burglar, instead of dear old Lenny, I could have made off with the family jewels. At first, I thought your house was empty, but then I saw that your entire staff is scurrying about the terrace, preparing for your party. Then I thought I might be able to surprise you in your bath, but now I find you here—bathed and ready for the evening. And aren't you pleased as punch to see me?”

“Dear old Lenny,” she said. “You and your famous verbal concertos.”

“Please—
oratorios
. We must be musically correct.” He lifted his nose into the air and sniffed. “Wait,” he said. “Do I detect the distinct odor of brilliantine? Does that mean that our Miss Lucille Withers has just been here?”

“Lenny, you are amazing. Can you really smell that Lulu was just here? Because she
was
.”

“Well, you know how I love to lie, Alex dear,” he said. “But actually, I saw the lady leaving as I was trying to sneak in. At first, I thought it was someone masquerading as Olive Oyl, or possibly Gertrude Stein after Weight Watchers. Then I realized that it was only the Bob Goulet of model agents.”

“Lenny, you are very naughty.”

“Thank you,” he said, holding her by the shoulders at arm's length. “And may I say that you're looking particularly ravishing tonight, my darling Alex?”

“And you're also very early. My party doesn't start till eight.”

“But aren't you going to offer dear old Lenny a drink, my love? I see you've already begun to fortify yourself for the night ahead—the night when we cheer you for pulling off publishing's grand slam.”

“There's champagne in the cooler, darlin'. You're not getting anything stronger till the bartenders finish setting up.”

He literally skipped toward the drinks cart. “Champagne!” he cried. “Plasma. Just in the nick of time! Just as I was about to expire from lack of liquid sustenance!
Olé!
” He threw his hands in the air, snapped his fingers as though they held castanets, and did a foot-stomping flamenco step in front of the drinks cart. “Blessed Alex! You are the Saint Bernard who has found the half-frozen mountaineer trapped in the glacial crevasse.…”

He poured himself a glass. Then he turned to her and, in a more serious voice, said, “Actually, I wanted to be a few minutes early. I wanted to talk to you. My spies—you know I have spies throughout the Rothman organization—have been very active today. While you've been up here all afternoon, getting ready for your party, the thirtieth floor has been rife with rumors. Something's up, Alex, and I don't like the looks of it.”

“Oh?” she said in a tone that was almost bored. “What's our darling little Herbert up to now?”

He started to speak, but suddenly his finger flew to his lips. Coleman had appeared at the library door. “Seven forty, Alex,” Coleman said.

“Thank you, darlin'.”

When Coleman disappeared, Lenny went on in a whisper. “No one knows what's up, but something definitely is. He's been closeted in his office with Miss Lincoln all afternoon. That means he's dictating something—some sort of memorandum, or policy statement. My spies are very apprehensive and, frankly, so am I.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “Herb can't touch us now. Herb is only interested in the bottom line, and our bottom line has never been better.”

“I know, I know. But—”

“In fact, we're now the number-one money-maker of all his magazines—five million circulation ad-rate base. Which happens to be what this little party of mine is all about.”

“I know, but—”

“He told me I could never make five million, and I made it—with a few thousand to spare.”

“I know. You proved him wrong. But Herb Rothman isn't a man who enjoys being proven wrong. You can be
right
, but he
can't be wrong
. When Herb is proven wrong, he gets very—unhappy, Alex. He gets very—vindictive. And he is our publisher, after all.”

“Dammit, I wish there had been some way I could have avoided inviting him to the party. But of course I had to ask him.”

“Of course. And of course he's coming. So—I hope you are prepared for fireworks, Alex.”

“Dammit, Lenny—how did you know I was having fireworks tonight? Nobody was supposed to know that. The fireworks are supposed to be my big surprise.”

“Hmm? Oh, you mean you're having real fireworks tonight? I didn't know that. I meant fireworks of the management variety—of the Herbert Rothman variety.”

“Look,” she said quickly, “there is no way Herb Rothman is going to mess with us, Lenny. We've got a winner. You don't shoot a Derby winner. You send him on to the Preakness and the Belmont. Herb Rothman isn't going to mess with the goose that's laying him all these golden eggs. Herb may be an arrogant bastard, but he's not a damn fool. Besides, Ho isn't going to let him stick any fingers in our little pie.”

Lenny's sigh was audible. “That's another thing,” he said. “How long has it been since you've talked to the White House?” The White House was what Lenny called the apartment at 720 Park Avenue, where Ho Rothman and his wife, known to all as Aunt Lily, lived.

“Three, four weeks.”

“Yes,” he said. “I thought perhaps not. But I spoke with Aunt Lily today. There's been a sudden change in the situation there.”

“What sort of change?”

“Ho has become incommunicado. The little pin strokes he's been having. Apparently he had one on Saturday morning that was more severe. Aunt Lily blames the IRS—that huge suit they're bringing against the company for back taxes—you know about all that. But now the doctors say he can see no one, and receive no telephone calls, that anything like that would send his blood pressure shooting up.”

“No one?”

“Not you, not me, not anybody except the doctors, the duty nurses, and of course Aunt Lily. Alex, remember that Ho is ninety-four years old.”

She frowned. “But he's still—” She broke off, biting her lip.

“Do you have insurance, Alex?”

“Insurance? What are you talking about?”

“Nothing. Just thinking aloud. Let me put it this way. Do you know the terms of Ho Rothman's will?”

“I don't think anybody knows that, except Ho himself.”

“And possibly Aunt Lily. But look at it this way. Under New York state law, the widow is required to receive at least one-third of the estate. The remaining two-thirds could be divided any way Ho wished—between Herbert, and Arthur, and Arthur's children, and you, and your son, Joel …”

“Arthur was always Ho's favorite. Ho and Herbert never got along. I'm sure he'd leave a bigger share to Arthur than he would to Herb.”

“Yes. Little Arthur, his ewe lamb. Which was why Arthur was placed in charge of the radio and telecommunications arm of the company, while Herb was given the newspapers and magazines, which show a somewhat smaller amount of black ink at the bottom line. Yes, I, too, figured that Arthur would be favored in any will of Ho's. On the other hand, you yourself possess an asset that Ho wants very much to keep under his control. Or perhaps I should say used to want.”

“Joel, you mean.”

“Exactly. The only male heir in the fourth generation. So you see, there are many variables to take into consideration when we speculate about Ho's will. That is, of course, if there's a will at all.”

“Oh? You mean you think there isn't one?”

“Dear Alex, I have no idea. But I do mean that men like Ho Rothman, who have come to believe in the myth of their infallibility, also begin to believe that they're immortal, and never make a will because the very thought of making a will reminds them of life's cruelest reality. It's utter idiocy, of course, but it's been known to happen. If Ho should die intestate, the situation would change considerably. His widow would still receive one-third, but the remainder would be divided equally between his living children, Arthur and Herbert. The estate of a person who dies intestate cannot provide anything to the deceased's grandchildren, or great-grandchildren. That means—”

“Me. And Joel.”

“Yes. I see you are following my train of thought, Alex. If there is no will, and we have no way of knowing whether there is one or not, the Rothman fortune, and the companies, will be inherited by a threesome—Aunt Lily, Herbert, and Arthur. A troika—a vehicle which, if my Yiddishe mama was to be believed, was always a damnably difficult thing to control. And one to which, alas, neither you nor Joel would be given a single pair of reins.”

“But what about Steven's trust? There was a trust fund that Steven left that was to take care of Joel and me.”

“Ah, the elusive so-called Steven trust,” he said.

“Elusive? Why do you say that?”

“Have you ever seen it, Alex? Have you ever seen this alleged trust instrument? Has it ever paid you any income?”

“I've left it untouched on purpose. As a matter of pride, and also so that it could go intact to Joel.”

“I wonder if it really exists,” he said. He took a sip of his drink. “Perhaps this is the moment to ask your lawyers to take a look at the terms of Steven's trust. It would be interesting to see what they turn up, if anything.”

She shivered suddenly. “Lenny, you're frightening me,” she said. “Of course the trust exists! They've talked about it for years.”

His smile was quick and bright. “To frighten you was not my intention, Alex dear,” he said. “My real point was simply this. In either scenario—whether Ho has a will, or hasn't—Aunt Lily is soon going to find herself with a much larger share of control of the company than she's ever had before. And if we do end up with a troika situation—remembering that Herbert and baby brother Arthur rarely agree on anything—Aunt Lily's could be the swing vote in any major decision. In other words, I think it is going to behoove us all to pay special attention to Aunt Lily from now on.”

She said nothing for a moment. Then she said, “And I think you're also saying that there's a connection between Ho's declining health and what Herb and Miss Lincoln have been up to behind locked doors in his office today.”

“Precisely, smart Alex. I think Herb may have decided that this is the moment to seize control of the company—before a probate court steps in to tell everybody who gets what, and who gets to tell whom what to do. I think the camel may be trying to stick his nose into our little tent, Alex. Or, I should say,
your
little tent.”

In the silence that followed, Coleman appeared at the door again. “Seven fifty-five, Alex,” he said. “Everything is ready on the terrace.”

“Thank you, Coleman.”

“Anyway,” Lenny said when Coleman was gone, “I've told you everything I know, everything that's been on my mind, everything that's been worrying me. Meanwhile, my spies will be busy—particularly in the corridors of executive power, in the Ministry of Fear, on the thirtieth floor.”

She drained her champagne glass quickly. “Well, we're not going to let any of this spoil my little victory party, are we?” she said.

He looked briefly doubtful. “I hope not,” he said. Then he brightened. “I mean, certainly not!
Mais non!
Meanwhile, I'm quite cross with you, Alex. I've told you that
you
look ravishing. But you haven't told me how
I
look tonight.”

She laughed. “Dear old Lenny. You always look the same—terrific.”

“And speaking of bottom lines—” He did a quick little dance kick-step and turn, flipped up the double vent of his blue silk Brioni blazer, and wiggled his behind at her. “I may be getting old,” he said, “but I still have the cutest little ass in the magazine biz, don't you agree?”

“Dear old Lenny. You may be getting older, but you'll never grow up.”

Once more Coleman was at the library door, and this time his tone was urgent. “Four guests just announced from the lobby, Alex!”

She tucked the fingers of her right hand into the crook of Lenny's left elbow. “Come on,” she said. “I want to greet people on the terrace.”

“I can never understand why you let your butler call you by your first name,” he whispered. “It sounds common.”

“But I
am
common. Just as common as you are, Lenny dear.”

“You are not. You are
extraordinaire
. For instance, every other hostess in New York, with her first guests arriving, would right now be being zipped into her dress and checking her makeup in the mirror. You look as though you've been ready for this party for at least an hour.”