When Abel came into the kitchen to join Zaphia for breakfast Florentyna was sitting in her high chair smearing a bowlful of cereal enthusiastically around her mouth and biting at most things that remained within arms’ reach—even if they weren’t food. When he had finished his waffles, dripping with maple syrup, Abel rose from his chair and told Zaphia that he would be having lunch with Henry Osborne.
“I don’t like that man,” said Zaphia, with feeling.
“I’m not crazy about him myself,” replied Abel. “But never forget he’s well placed in City Hall to be able to do us a lot of favors.”
“And a lot of harm.”
“Don’t lose any sleep over that. You can leave the handling of Alderman Osborne to me,” said Abel as he brushed his wife’s cheek and turned to leave.
“Presidunk,” said a voice, and both parents turned to stare at Florentyna, who was gesticulating at the floor where the eight-month-old Franklin D. Roosevelt lay on his furry face.
Abel laughed, picked up the much-loved teddy bear and placed him in the space Florentyna had left for him on the high chair.
“Pres-i-dent,” said Abel slowly and firmly.
“Presidunk,” insisted Florentyna.
Abel laughed again and patted Franklin D. Roosevelt on the head. So FDR was responsible not only for the New Deal but also for Florentyna’s first political utterance.
Abel left the house, to find his chauffeur waiting for him beside the new Cadillac. Abel’s driving had become worse as the cars he could afford improved. When he bought the Cadillac, George had advised a driver to go with it. That morning he asked the chauffeur to drive slowly as they approached the Gold Coast. Abel stared up at the gleaming glass of the Chicago Baron and marveled that there was no place on earth where a man could achieve so much so quickly. What the Chinese would have been happy to strive for in ten generations, he had achieved in less than fifteen years.
He leaped out of the car before his chauffeur could run around to open the door, walked briskly into the hotel and took the private express elevator to the forty-second floor, where he spent the morning checking over every problem with which the new hotel was faced. One of the passenger elevators wasn’t functioning properly. Two waiters had been involved in a knife fight in the kitchen and had been sacked by George even before Abel had arrived, and the list of damages after the opening looked suspiciously high: Abel would have to check into the possibility that thefts by waiters were being recorded in the books as breakage. He left nothing to chance in any of his hotels, from who was staying in the Presidential Suite to the price of the eight thousand fresh rolls the hotel needed every week. He spent the morning dealing with queries, problems and decisions, stopping only when Alderman Osborne was ushered into Abel’s office by his secretary.
“Good morning, Baron,” said Henry, patronizingly referring to the Roznovski family title.
In Abel’s younger days as a junior waiter at the Plaza in New York the title had been scornfully mimicked to his face. At the Richmond Continental when he was assistant manager it had figured in whispered jokes behind his back. Lately everyone mouthed the prefix with respect.
“Good morning, Alderman,” said Abel, glancing at the clock on his desk. It was five past one. “Shall we have lunch?”
Abel guided Henry into the adjoining private dining room. To a casual observer, Henry Osborne would hardly have seemed a natural soulmate for Abel. Educated at Choate and then Harvard, as he continually reminded Abel, he had later served as a young lieutenant with the Marines in the World War. At six feet, with a full head of black hair lightly sprinkled with gray, he looked younger than his history insisted he had to be.
The two men had first met as a result of the fire at the old Richmond Continental. Henry was then working for the Great Western Casualty Insurance Company, which had, for as long as anyone could remember, insured the Richmond Group. Abel had been taken aback when Henry had suggested that a small cash payment would ensure a swifter flow of the claim papers through the head office. Abel did not possess a “small cash payment” in those days—although the claim eventually found its way through because Henry also believed in Abel’s future.
Abel had learned for the first time about men who could be bought.
By the time Henry Osborne was elected to the Chicago City Council as an alderman, Abel could afford a small cash payment, and the building permit for the new Baron proceeded through City Hall as though on roller skates. When Henry later announced that he would be running for the Ninth District of the House of Representatives in Illinois, Abel was among the first to send a sizable check for his campaign fund. While Abel remained wary of his new ally personally, he recognized that a tame politician could be of great help to the Baron Group. Abel took care to ensure that none of the small cash payments—he did not think of them as bribes, even to himself—was on the record and felt confident that he could terminate their relationship as and when it suited him.
The dining room was decorated in the same delicate shades of green as the rest of the hotel, but there was no sign of the embossed B anywhere in the room. The furniture was nineteenth century, entirely in oak. Around the walls hung oil portraits from the same period, almost all imported. With the door closed, it was possible to imagine that one was in another world far away from the hectic pace of a modern hotel.
Abel took his place at the head of an ornate table that could have comfortably seated eight guests but that day was laid only for two.
“It’s like being in a bit of old England,” said Henry, taking in the room.
“Not to mention Poland,” replied Abel, as a uniformed waiter served smoked salmon while another poured them both a glass of Bouchard Chablis.
Henry stared down at the full plate in front of him. “Now I can see why you’re putting on so much weight, Baron.”
Abel frowned and quickly changed the subject. “Are you going to the Cubs’s game tomorrow?”
“What’s the point? They have a worse home record than the Republicans. Not that my absence will discourage the Tribune from describing the match as a close-fought battle bearing no relation to the score and that if a totally different set of circumstances had taken place, the Cubs would have pulled off a famous victory.”
Abel laughed.
“One thing’s for sure,” continued Henry, “you’ll never see a night game at Wrigley Field. Playing under floodlights w
on’t catch on in Chicago.”
“That’s what you said about beer cans last year.”
It was Henry’s turn to frown. “You didn’t ask me to lunch to hear my views on baseball or beer cans, Abel, so what little plan can I assist you with this time?”
“Simple. I want to ask your advice on what I should do about William Kane.”
Henry seemed to choke. I must speak to the chef: there shouldn’t be any bones in smoked salmon, thought Abel before he continued.
“You once told me, Henry, in graphic detail what had happened when your path crossed Mr. Kane’s and how he ended up defrauding you of money. Well, Kane did far worse than that to me. During the Depression he put the squeeze on Davis Leroy, my partner and closest friend, and was the direct cause of Leroy’s suicide. To make matters worse, Kane refused to support me when I wanted to take over the management of the hotels and try to put the group on a sound financial footing.”
“Who did back you in the end?” asked Henry.
“A private investor with the Continental Trust. The manager has never told me in so many words, but I’ve always suspected it was David Maxton.”
“The owner of the Stevens Hotel?”
“The same.”
“What makes you think it was him?”
“When I had the reception for my wedding and again for Florentyna’s christening at the Stevens, the bill was covered by my backer.”
“That’s hardly conclusive.”
“Agreed, but I’m certain it’s Maxton, because he once offered me the chance to run the Stevens. I told him I was more interested in finding a backer for the Richmond Group, and within a week his bank in Chicago came up with the money from someone who could not reveal their identity because it would clash with their day-to-day business interests.”
“That’s a little more convincing. But tell me what you have in mind for William Kane,” said Henry as he toyed with his wineglass and waited for Abel to continue.
“Something that shouldn’t take up a lot of your time, Henry, but might well prove to be rewarding for you both financially and, as you hold Kane in the same high regard as I do, personally.”