WHAT'S IN A NAME?

WHAT’S IN A NAME?

P.J. Flaherty, CEO of Dunphy, Murphy, Kilpatrick and Sons, the blue chip Irish American banking firm that occupied an entire block in the Financial District of Downtown Boston, slowly caressed his putter and watched as his golf ball rolled perfectly into the awaiting cup laid out on the expensive, Axminster carpet of his executive office.

“Yes. Master shot!"

His intercom buzzed.

“P.J. I have Francis Mullins, Level 2, requesting a moment”.

“Thank you, Bridget. Two minutes”.

Leisurely, P.J. (short for Patrick Joseph) strolled to his desk, put on his suit jacket, lifted a mountain of files from the floor onto his desk, sat in his ridiculously expensive Eames chair and, satisfied that he now looked the part of the dedicated, hard working executive, clicked the switch on his intercom.

“Send him in, Bridget”.

The young man that entered the expansive office with a view to die for was Francis Mullins, son of a Bostonian police officer who, himself, was the son of an officer in the Boston police force. Indeed, initially, Francis had disappointed his father and grandfather when he had announced that he wanted to become a banker. Francis was vaguely familiar to P.J. who prided himself on knowing all of the young up and comers striving to get ahead.

“Francis, how can I help you? I’m really very busy, as you can see”.

The young man took in the many files that vied for space on P.J.’s desk. He also took in the Scotty Cameron Black Pearl golf putter lying next to P.J.’s office sofa.

“I’m terribly sorry to bust in here like this P.J. (everybody was encouraged to call the CEO by his initials -a wonderful common touch) but I thought you should know that I have a gentleman coming in today that…well…could be a big one…”

“That’s great, Francis. Very good. Good work”.

“So, you’re okay for me to handle it, sir, I mean P.J.?”

“Of course, son. Like I say, I’m snowed under plus I have every confidence in you”.

“Thanks, P.J. I won’t let you down”.

As Francis, now buzzing with excitement at this great opportunity, reached the door of the office, P.J. asked, matter of factly:

“When you say big, what are we talking here?’

Turning back, Francis elaborated.

“Well, he called looking for an appointment and it landed on my desk…”

“Yes, yes, but how big exactly?”

“I checked him out and he just ordered a yacht from Royal Huisman and they don’t get out of bed for less than a few billion…”

P.J's attention was now awoken.

“Okay. Then we’re talking super yacht. What’s this guy’s name?’

“Abraham Silverberg,  He’s Jewish”.

“Well keep me in the loop. Bring this one in and it’ll be good news for you”.

As P.J. returned to his putting, Francis Mullins descended to the second floor and his own office, a space approximately one sixteenth the size of the CEO’s office that he had just left. Wasting no time, he picked up his phone and called the man who was his closest friend in life-his father.

“Hey, Pops, I think I've got a big one. He’s coming in today. All I’ve been able to find out is that he’s a billionaire, Jewish but there's a hundred guys with the same name. Has to be the same guy but do you think you could do some digging for me?”

Francis’s father, busy trying to stop his Irish terrier from barking at the sound of the postman delivering the mail, struggled to hear his son clearly.

“Will you shut the hell up?  Quiet! What was that son? This damn dog is driving me crazy”.

Francis raised his voice above the yapping that he could hear from his father’s end. He hated that dog with a vengeance.

“I THINK I’VE CAUGHT A BREAK, POPS…”

“A break? Jeez, that’s great son. If anyone deserves it, it's you".

“CAN YOU DO SOME DIGGING FOR ME?’

“Martha, can you please quiet this damn dog of yours? Sure son, what d’ya need?’

“HIS NAME IS ABRAHAM SILVERBERG. FIND OUT WHAT YOU CAN PLEASE. THIS COULD BE BIG FOR ME, POPS”.

“You got it, son. Leave it with me. I’ll get back to you”.

Hanging up the phone, Francis’s father picked up the yapping dog and deposited it in the laundry room, closing the door firmly behind him. Peace at last. He searched the drawers of the kitchen for a pen, finally finding one and scribbling down what Francis had told him-Abe Silverstein.

On the very top level of the banking company was the Chairman’s office and said head of the company was, unlike his CEO, not spending his time practising his putting. B.J. O’Reilly (short for Bernard Joseph) was, instead, casting his brand new Oyster Bamboo fishing rod across the vast expanse of his office which was twice the size of P.J’’s. He was looking forward immensely to the trip up to his cabin at the weekend when he would have the opportunity to try out his new possession for real. Taking a break for a moment, he flicked the switch on his intercom and called out to his P.A. Nuala.

‘Nuala, my dear. Can you get me P.J? And, Nuala, you’re still okay for the weekend? A little fishing trip at my cabin?”

The responsive giggle assured him that Nuala was, indeed, okay for the weekend. The booming voice of P.J. Flaherty interrupted this little flirtation.

“B.J. What can I do for you?”

“You know P.J. that results have been a bit flat this quarter. I have to present to the board on Monday. Do you have anything juicy that I can blind them with?”

There was a momentary pause as the CEO scrambled to think of something to satisfy his chief.

“Well, we have a billionaire coming in today. Jewish…”

“Jewish, you say? That’s exactly what we need. For far too long we have focussed primarily on the Irish American community. We need to tap in to the Jewish clique; the elite of the Jewish faction. Who is this person?’

For the life of him, P.J. could not recall the potential client’s name. Alfred? Silver -something?

“Hello? P.J?”

“Sorry, B.J. I had another call. Yes, his name is Alfred. Alfred Silverman”.

“Never heard of him. I’ll make some enquiries”.

Down below, Francis Mullins answered his phone. It was his father.

“Okay, Junior, write this down, son. I spoke to a friend over at Intelligence. This guy, Silverstein…”

“Silverberg, Pops”.

‘Yeah, yeah, Silverberg, Silverstein, Silverfish, whatever. He used to be with Israeli Intelligence. Made a fortune, pals with all the Israeli Premiers of the last thirty years. This guy is big is what I’m saying, you hear me?”

Francis could barely keep his excitement under control after this confirmation.

“Thanks, Pops, I owe you-big time”.

‘This is it, kid. You gotta knock this one outa the park, d’you hear?’

In the CEO’s executive bathroom, P.J. stepped on the scale. Seriously? Another five pounds? He could hear his intercom buzzing furiously and he rushed to answer it in his silk stockinged feet.

“P.J?”

“Yes, B.J. I’m here. What is it?”

“Listen, I spoke to my cousin, Seamus, over at Quantico. He says this Jewish guy, Alfred Silverman, is a real big fish. All the intelligence services know him. Sold his oil company for billions. This is just what we need to reel in more from that community. You’ve got him on the hook, right?”

Once more, P.J. hesitated before answering.

“Of course, B.J. You can rely on me”.

“Don’t let me down, P.J. We need this trophy”.

P.J. switched the intercom button.

‘Bridget, get me that chap who was here this morning…Freddie…”

“Francis Mullins, P.J.”

“Have him come see me right away”.

For the second time that day, Francis entered the office that he and many others aspired to.

“Francis, my boy. How are things going with your little project?”

“Well, he’ll be here in an hour, P.J. I’ve done some more digging and it turns out that he’s connected to Israeli Intelligence and a confidante of every world leader and…”

P.J. interrupted, not wanting his underling to think he knew more than his boss.

“I know all that, son, I make it my business to know everything. That's why I sit in this chair. Look, I’d like to sit in if you don’t mind. Don’t worry, I’ll see that you get all the kudos for this but I’d just like to.. to…uh…see you in action, so too speak. For your future prospects, you understand”.

‘P.J. that would be an honour, sir. I was wondering…”.

“Yes?”

“Do you think we could order up some sandwiches and I could…uh…use one of the boardrooms?”

“Are you kidding me? Order some of those pancake thingies -binis or whatever they call them. And some smoked salmon, I think they call it something else but whatever these people eat, let’s get it.”

“I think you mean blinis -and lox, P.J.”

“Hell, find the best Jewish delicatessen in the city and order up a whole buffet and we’ll see this guy right here, in my office. The personal touch”.

“Yessir. I’m on it”.

One hour later, Abe Silverman, a small, non-descript man in his early sixties, reported to the ground floor front desk of Dunphy, Murphy, Kilpatrick and Sons exactly on time for his appointment with Francis Mullins and was extremely amazed to find the man in question awaiting him in the lobby. He was also pleasantly surprised by the effusive welcome that Mr. Mullins showed him. Bypassing all of the elevators, Abe was led to an executive elevator, one that required a pass key just to open the doors. He was enchanted to discover that the marble lined elevator played music as it rose majestically upwards. Watching the digital panel that marked the floors as they passed them, Abe was further astounded to see the lift halt in the executive level. Was this how they treated all new customers, he wondered?

Welcomed by a lovely lady called Bridget, who took his overcoat, Abe was ushered into, what he could only describe as a business heaven. A large, corpulent, red-faced man in his forties rose from behind his behemoth of a desk and was introduced to Abe as P.J.

“A.S.” Abe responded jokingly and was astounded to find that this provoked hysterical laughter from both of the bankers.

Ensconced in a plush armchair, Abe watched, his mouth salivating, as the lovely lady entered pushing a trolley piled high with every possible kosher delight imaginable. Encouraged to help himself, Abe needed no further urging. The two Irish men also partook of the buffet but, to Abe’s canny eye, they did not appear to be enjoying it as much as he, himself. Having eaten his fill with not a word having been spoken, Abe needed the toilet.

“Is it possible that I could use the bathroom?”

Francis stood up with alacrity.

“Of course, I’ll show you the way”.

“No, no” interrupted the corpulent man, his mouth full of bagel and cream cheese. “Use my executive bathroom. Come, I’ll show you…Abe. May I call you Abe?”

“Of course, as long as I can call you…P”.

Once again, the two Irish men guffawed with laughter. In his neighbourhood, Abe was known for his sense of humour but, by far, these two gentiles were his best audience yet.

As P.J. closed the bathroom door on Abe, he turned to Francis.

“Can you believe these people? He’s worth billions and still dresses like Harpo Marx. Did you see how much he ate? Jeez, most of this stuff is inedible”

“It’s going well though, don’t you think?”

In the bathroom, Abe was somewhat cowed by his surroundings. This sherutim was like a palace. As he washed his hands, he was unsure what to do with the towel-surely not throw it in the bin? He folded it neatly and put it back on top of the others.

As he rejoined the bankers, P.J. welcomed him back as if he had just returned from a long vacation.

“So, Abe, we won’t mess around. We’ll set you up with an immediate line of credit”.

Discreetly, P.J. raised his index finger for Francis to see. On second thoughts, he raised a second finger. Francis rose and excused himself from the room.

“So, Abe, I know you probably can’t talk about it but it’s a subject that has always fascinated me. The Mossad passing out ceremony is held at Masada isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t know”.

“No, no, of course not. I understand. Mum’s the word”.

Francis returned carrying a piece of paper which he placed in front of Abe. As the Jewish man read that he was being given an immediate line of credit for two million dollars, he raised his eyebrows in disbelief. P.J. mis-interpreting this to mean dissatisfaction with the amount, immediately rushed to Abe’s side and snatched the document away. I thought it was too good to be true, thought Abe. But, after making an adjustment and signing off on it, P.J. re-placed the paper back in front of Abe to sign. To his astonishment, the amount now read five million.

“Of course, this is just a preliminary figure, you understand, Abe, and you can draw on it immediately”.

‘P.J. and Francis, I can honestly say that, in all of my experience, I have never been shown such courtesy. Your customer service is excellent”.

‘Thank you. And we hope you’ll be recommending us to all of your friends and acquaintances. Dunphy, Murphy, Kilpatrick and Sons is proud to be a friend to the Jewish community”.

“I will, most certainly, be recommending you to everybody I know”.

Francis personally escorted Abe downstairs to the banking floor where Abe withdrew one hundred thousand dollars in large denomination notes. Even here, the staff were so friendly and courteous.

Returning to the CEO’s office, Francis could not contain himself and hugged his boss who, himself, was glowing at having bagged a big one-and a Jew at that. He couldn’t wait to update B.J.

Abe Silverman sat on the bus back home to Brookline clutching his bag of cash. Today had been a day of wonders. Wait until he told his wife, Sarah, and his best friend, Manny, who had both mocked him when he said that, having been turned down by so many Jewish banks, he was going to try the oldest institution in Boston, the Irish firm of Dunphy, Murphy Kilpatrick and Sons to try and raise the two thousand dollars he needed to fix up his bathroom. Not only had these Irish been so welcoming, they had even provided him with a sumptuous feast, given him more money than he’d ever had in his entire life and treated him as if he was royalty. Never again would he hear a bad word spoken about the Irish. The only thing that puzzled him was why the paper they had had him sign said Abraham Silverberg!