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352 pages, Paperback
First published January 21, 2004
Like [Clark] Clifford, my father continued on as if age, and the collapse of the [influence-peddling] networks in which he’d been so influential, could be denied. Also like Clifford, he’d added traffic in other people’s money to his repertoire: he’d become an investor of clients’ and friends’ savings, pooling these resources for greater leverage in making deals. For a while he managed them with a decent return, but in the 1970s he began to falter. The more he did, the less he could admit to himself what was happening. Large amounts of these clients’ investments vaporized. So simultaneously did most of his. He engineered increasingly stretched credit arrangements with obscure banks....
My parents still entertained in style. The townhouse on East 80th Street remained a living monument to their professional achievement, if you didn’t check the underpinnings and back bills. “Vienna,” my brother called it, suggesting the charade-like effort to hang on to the great days. ...
But [dad] was no longer smiling ironically as he toiled at the pulling of strings. He was fighting for solvency and new toeholds and, as the debts mounted, he was losing. The mortgages on the townhouse grew in number and amount. The chauffeured Cadillac was long gone. ... [M]anaging the grand 80th Street townhouse has become too much. My brother covers the astounding debts....
Henry Luce, in his inarticulate way, was perhaps worrying about power corrupting, or at least about it coming apart, in remarking to my mother in 1946 that “Eliot knows too much.” But for years the point about my father seemed defined by performance, energy, tour de force: how uncannily [my father] found his way to centers of power and deployed his instruments of influence upon them; on the side, offering up thrilling, or chilling, accounts of how it works there.
“Other people’s money” was one of Justice Brandeis’s great phrases, appropriated by Roosevelt and the young New Dealers in their rhetoric. It referred to unconstrained license and greed on the part of capitalist financiers. Fortas’s, Douglas’s, and Corcoran’s ends smacked of such excess. Then, at the start of the 1990s, came the catastrophic ruination of Clark Clifford, a power broker who made the others look like pikers, in an international banking scandal. None of these Rooseveltians, men who had once had such enormous influence, seemed to know how to leave their active association with power. The Rooseveltians’ great chain of dealing had become its own end. Lyndon Johnson, more or less willing the end of his life on his ranch, was the perverse exception.