chest as she leans forward to shake my hand.
“Hi,” she says, her hand small, warm.
“Hi.”
“I’m putting you two on an account,” says Mr. Stein.
I must be living right. Ten nice Jewish boys and her, and I draw her. I take a seat.
“Mimi,” says Mr. Stein, “Do you remember an Andrew Brice?” Mimi tries to place the name but can’t quite, and Mr. Stein points
with an open hand at the wall. “Go have a look at that frame, you two.” We stand and walk to a gilt-edged frame that holds
an ancient, dignified page of company letterhead. The page has yellowed and the corners have flaked away. The ink is faded
but legible.
“It’s a tax statement,” I say.
“It is indeed. For one Theodore Brice, for the fiscal year 1924. Can you read the figures?”
I step closer to the glass. “One hundred ten thousand dollars?”
“That’s right. More than Babe Ruth made. Theodore Brice served with our founding partner, Fred Hyson, in the Great War. Hyson
came back and founded this firm. Brice came back and went to law school, and then to work for the Rockefellers. How is your
American history?”
I look at Mimi.
“That was the time of Standard Oil,” she says.
“Very good. Come, sit down.” We do. “Brice was a shark lawyer back before these waters were infested with them. A pioneer
of the big deal, and the practice of securing a hefty percentage for the lawyer who closed it.”
“And we did his taxes?” she asks.
“Fred Hyson did them personally. And they developed a custom. Each year on April first, Brice took Hyson to lunch at the Algonquin.
After their meal Brice would order a Rob Roy, spill a drop on his tax sheet for luck, and then sign his name.”
Mimi leans forward, and the camisole parts from her skin again. She raises a hand and presses it to her. “Andrew Brice,” she
says. “I remember now. Last year at this time, at the elevators. You introduced us.” Mr. Stein nods. “So he’s a legacy.” He
nods again.
“And he carries on his father’s custom?” I ask.
“After a fashion. The son didn’t quite inherit the old man’s spark or drive.”
“In financial matters?”
“In all matters.” Mr. Stein leans toward his desk, and I notice for the first time the two account folders on top of it. He
picks up the heavier one. “Theodore Brice died in 1970 a rich man. A month later his only son — Andrew — liquidated all the
assets, except for some property upstate. Preferred to take his inheritance in cash, apparently.” He lays the folder back
on the desk. “After estate taxes and what have you, that inheritance was ten million dollars. And as far as we can tell, he’s
lived off that and nothing else ever since.”
“He doesn’t work?” I ask.
“Not a W-two in thirty years.” He picks up the second folder and opens it. “No record of any income, outside of interest.”
“He made money in the markets, maybe?” says Mimi.
“I’m not sure Brice knows a stock from a bond. He’s never bought either. His investment strategy was to split his ten million
evenly between twenty accounts —five hundred thousand in each.”
“He’s afraid of bank failures?” I ask.
“Or war. Or famine. Or locusts. Brice is not your standard rational investor.”
“But we must have advised him of other options,” says Mimi.
“George Hyson, son of the founder, broached the topic in 1971, at their first lunch. Andrew Brice made it clear that it was
not to be raised again. And it hasn’t been.” Mr. Stein takes off his glasses and wipes them with a soft cloth. “Every firm
has its concessions to company lore. Brice is ours. You know the term for them?” He looks at me.
“Courtesy cases,” I say.
He nods. “Brice’s taxes take an hour a year. Which, by the way, he insists we bill him at staffers’ rates. Thus, his annual
worth to Hyson, Levay is eighty-five dollars.” Mr. Stein replaces his glasses and looks at each of us again.
“Hi,” she says, her hand small, warm.
“Hi.”
“I’m putting you two on an account,” says Mr. Stein.
I must be living right. Ten nice Jewish boys and her, and I draw her. I take a seat.
“Mimi,” says Mr. Stein, “Do you remember an Andrew Brice?” Mimi tries to place the name but can’t quite, and Mr. Stein points
with an open hand at the wall. “Go have a look at that frame, you two.” We stand and walk to a gilt-edged frame that holds
an ancient, dignified page of company letterhead. The page has yellowed and the corners have flaked away. The ink is faded
but legible.
“It’s a tax statement,” I say.
“It is indeed. For one Theodore Brice, for the fiscal year 1924. Can you read the figures?”
I step closer to the glass. “One hundred ten thousand dollars?”
“That’s right. More than Babe Ruth made. Theodore Brice served with our founding partner, Fred Hyson, in the Great War. Hyson
came back and founded this firm. Brice came back and went to law school, and then to work for the Rockefellers. How is your
American history?”
I look at Mimi.
“That was the time of Standard Oil,” she says.
“Very good. Come, sit down.” We do. “Brice was a shark lawyer back before these waters were infested with them. A pioneer
of the big deal, and the practice of securing a hefty percentage for the lawyer who closed it.”
“And we did his taxes?” she asks.
“Fred Hyson did them personally. And they developed a custom. Each year on April first, Brice took Hyson to lunch at the Algonquin.
After their meal Brice would order a Rob Roy, spill a drop on his tax sheet for luck, and then sign his name.”
Mimi leans forward, and the camisole parts from her skin again. She raises a hand and presses it to her. “Andrew Brice,” she
says. “I remember now. Last year at this time, at the elevators. You introduced us.” Mr. Stein nods. “So he’s a legacy.” He
nods again.
“And he carries on his father’s custom?” I ask.
“After a fashion. The son didn’t quite inherit the old man’s spark or drive.”
“In financial matters?”
“In all matters.” Mr. Stein leans toward his desk, and I notice for the first time the two account folders on top of it. He
picks up the heavier one. “Theodore Brice died in 1970 a rich man. A month later his only son — Andrew — liquidated all the
assets, except for some property upstate. Preferred to take his inheritance in cash, apparently.” He lays the folder back
on the desk. “After estate taxes and what have you, that inheritance was ten million dollars. And as far as we can tell, he’s
lived off that and nothing else ever since.”
“He doesn’t work?” I ask.
“Not a W-two in thirty years.” He picks up the second folder and opens it. “No record of any income, outside of interest.”
“He made money in the markets, maybe?” says Mimi.
“I’m not sure Brice knows a stock from a bond. He’s never bought either. His investment strategy was to split his ten million
evenly between twenty accounts —five hundred thousand in each.”
“He’s afraid of bank failures?” I ask.
“Or war. Or famine. Or locusts. Brice is not your standard rational investor.”
“But we must have advised him of other options,” says Mimi.
“George Hyson, son of the founder, broached the topic in 1971, at their first lunch. Andrew Brice made it clear that it was
not to be raised again. And it hasn’t been.” Mr. Stein takes off his glasses and wipes them with a soft cloth. “Every firm
has its concessions to company lore. Brice is ours. You know the term for them?” He looks at me.
“Courtesy cases,” I say.
He nods. “Brice’s taxes take an hour a year. Which, by the way, he insists we bill him at staffers’ rates. Thus, his annual
worth to Hyson, Levay is eighty-five dollars.” Mr. Stein replaces his glasses and looks at each of us again.
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