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corporation had a highly profitable real estate holding company with numerous properties in key retail locations all over the world. This particular enterprise charged exorbitant rents to its tenants, thus providing a large and predictable enough cash flow to offset any losses by the subsidiary firms.
    The point is: It was all a giant fraud. The high-rent tenants were the selfsame, money-losing subsidiaries, which, if they hadn’t had to pay such steep rents, might have been able to turn small profits. The holding company owned the land under all the corporation’s factories, office buildings, and shops. This was a closely held secret, known really only to four people: Owen; his attorney, David de Menuil; Gil Garrett, the president of Panther Automobiles; and me, although I’m sure he didn’t think I had the sophistication to understand what was going on. It was a high-wire act like nothing you could imagine. His composure and sangfroid were astounding. He worked autonomously. I never once heard him consult a board member, although he had several. I don’t know how he took the pressure.
    Initially, I was outraged by how he operated, putting our beloved company in an even more precarious position. I couldn’t understand why he would want to own Ballantine & Company, but then I saw how it could work. An auction house, a successful one at any rate, generates a huge amount of cash flow, much of which can go straight to the bottom line. Brace International and Ballantine’s were each other’s last hope. And I had a front-row seat.
    I succumbed to his energy and antics. I couldn’t wait to see what was going to happen next. Now that I could leave whenever I wanted, I couldn’t wait to get to work in the morning.
    Okay, I’ll admit it: I was starting to find Owen Brace unbelievably attractive.
    “. . . because appearances in the auction business are the opposite of all your other enterprises,” I explained, the Radcliffes now just a memory. “We don’t want to be trendsetters. We’re guardians of the past. You need to look good, look solid. You can’t go around looking much better-off than the clients, even though, in most instances, you probably are. Or at least, they think you are. They’re trusting you with their most treasured family possessions, things they love and usually don’t want to give up. You should view yourself the way you would look at a funeral director—you can’t afford to appear as though you’ll be disrespectful or cavalier with their goods. That’s why Ballantine’s has always had a dress code, which you are making a mistake to ignore.”
    He listened to me carefully. His dark eyes glittering like glass.
    “I know the backstage of this business is not anything you expected.” I shrugged my shoulders and crossed my arms across my chest. “But, that’s the mystique of it, and if you’re really committed to getting this old girl off the ground, which you seem to be, judging by the amount of cash you’re shoveling into her, and attracting the sorts of high-visibility clientele you need, well, sir, you can’t go around dressed like a gigolo.”
    I might as well have whacked him on the side of his head with a frying pan. He stared at me for two full beats, and I returned his look without blinking. “How long have you been with Ballantine & Company?”
    “Much, much longer than you,” I answered.
    “Are you always so honest?”
    “Yes, sir. I am.”
    He grinned at me. “You know what, Kick?”
    “No, sir. What?”
    “You are pretty goddamned cool.”
    Something fizzy buzzed up my spine—like the tingle from the first sip of champagne.
    The next morning tailors from Gieves & Hawkes arrived at eight sharp. Within days, Owen and the rest of the staff were in dark pin-stripes, starched, white, Egyptian cotton shirts, and banker’s ties and shoes.
    A more fitting, new era had begun. More fitting- looking , at any rate. I delayed submitting my resignation indefinitely—Provence