After hearing a lengthy recitation of the facts from Joe Fischer and Mickey Rudin. Lang fully endorsed Rudin's belief that the Begelman problem had to be reported to the Securities and Exchange Commission. The initial report could be informal and private, but it should be made as soon as possible. The longer Columbia waited, the greater the risk that someone outside the company might tip the SEC and arouse suspicion that Columbia was trying to conceal a scandal. If Columbia itself was the informant, Lang reasoned, it could assure the commission that an internal inquiry was being conducted in good faith and thus reduce chances that the SEC staff would launch its own investigation.
While not disputing the need to consider the SEC. Herbert Allen was antagonistic—the reaction of an entrepreneurial businessman who had clashed more than once with the SEC and felt that the agency had far too much power to interfere in the affairs of corporations. Just two weeks earlier, in fact. Allen & Company had won a court battle stemming from fraud charges the commission had made and failed to sustain against the Allen firm in a case unrelated to Columbia Pictures. Still feeling confident and combative, Herbert wanted to tell the SEC as little as possible about the
Begelman
affair and to avoid letting concern about SEC reaction govern the way in which Columbia handled the matter.
"The SEC is a runaway agency, but they're not going to run over this company as long as I'm here," he said.
Hirschfield
sided with Todd Lang's preference for candor and-promptness. The possibility of a leak of information increased daily. Although the number of people who knew about the
Begelman
problem remained small, it was a diverse group, and it was growing:
Cliff Robertson and his r
epresentatives; three Los Angeles-are
a police departments; at least two people at the Columbia studio in Burbank; and now an increasing number of people in New York. Even assuming an attitude of discretion on everyone's part—which couldn't be counted on—it was impossible to be sure that no one would let a comment slip accidentally to the wrong person over lunch or after a couple of drinks.
It was finally agreed that the SEC had to be told something, but the group postponed a decision on what to say and when. There was also concern about the Beverly Hills police, who had asked for a written statement of whether Columbia wished to prosecute Begelman. Mickey Rudin agreed to act as the company's liaison with the police; anything Columbia might say it should say through Rudin.
Herbert Allen asked if anyone had spoken to
Begelman
since Fischer's visit the previous week. Todd Lang cautioned that the company was nearly at the point of becoming
Begelman
's adversary in a legal sense, and thus any conversation other than formal contact by lawyers should be kept to a minimum. Herbert Allen urged nonetheless that someone should telephone
Begelman
and summon him to New York so that he could be confronted with the allegations against him and given an opportunity to explain himself. Hirschfield heeded Lang's advice and declined the task. But Allen insisted, and went next door to Fischer's office to make the call himself, only to learn that
Begelman
was at the Cedars Sinai Medical Center in the middle of a physical examination and would not be back in his Burbank office until the next day.
In addition to worrying about leaks, the SEC, and the police,
Hirschfield
was in a snit about Columbia's annual report to shareholders which was being published that
very week. The report featured D
avid
Begelman
and lavished praise upon him.
"Can't we stop publication?"
Hirschfield
asked. "It's going to look awful. We're memorializing our stupidity forever. It's got his picture and everything."
Joe Fischer informed him that the report had just left the printer and was in the mail. It was too late.
Mickey Rudin, who had promised to investigate the Peter
Choate
contract further, reported that he had no new information but expected to hear from his Beverly Hills office later in the afternoon. The remaining question was whether the Peter
Choate
whom
Begelman
had claimed was an
acoustics consultant working on
Tommy
was, in fact, a Beverly Hills architect who had worked on Begelman's house at Columbia Pictures' expense. Rudin was scheduled to return to Los Angeles that evening, at about the same time that the din
ner sponsored by Brande
is University in honor of Alan
Hirschfield
would be getting under way at the Waldorf-Astoria. On his way to the airport, Rudin said, he would stop by the Waldorf and give
Hirschfield
whatever new information he had obtained.
On the calendar it was the penultimate evening of summer—that Tuesday, September 20—but it felt like the first evening of fall. The temperature had dropped steadily through the day and was in the low fifties by nightfall. Many of the hundreds of dinner guests, still with deep summer tans and wearing light attire, shivered slightly as they made their way into the still-air-conditioned Waldorf and up to the Grand Ballroom on the third floor.
Alan Hirschfield, his wife, Berte
, their two oldest children, Laura and Marc, and Alan's parents, Norman and Betty Hirschfield from Oklahoma City, stood outside the ballroom in the large foyer where cocktails were being served and accepted congratulations from the people swirling around them. Behind his smile and happy chatter, Alan was acutely aware of rising to another occasion. However, unlike the
Bobby Deerfield
preview two nights earlier, this was the most important social event of his career. Nothing could be allowed to mar it and, as it turned out, nothing visible did. The pleasure and honor of the moment captured Alan. No one could see his anxiety, even though it was heightened by the knowledge that Mickey Rudin would arrive momentarily, probably with more bad news.
Berte
Hirschfield, a slender woman of understated elegance and beauty, with short black hair, dark eyes, and a spectacular smile, carried off the moment as well as her husband, although she, too, was conscious of Rudin's imminent arrival, and of how very few people, among the hundreds milling about, knew that Columbia Pictures was astride a volcano of scandal that might erupt at any moment. Alan's father, one of his closest confidants, had not been told yet. Their hosts. C
hancellor Abram Sachar of Brande
is and the university's president, Marver Bernstein, certainly knew nothing. Nor did any of the
Hirschfield
s' friends. Alan's business associates, the Columbia board of directors, with
the exception of Herbert Allen
and Leo Jaffe, nor the upper echelon executives, except for Joe Fischer. Thank God the Begelmans did not fly in for the event, Berte thought.
No sign of Mickey Rudin. The cocktail hour was ending and the guests were filing into the ornate old chandelier-lit ballroom, the site of hundreds of presidential balls. United Nations galas, Al Smith memorial political dinners, and charity extravaganzas. Then, just as Hirschfield was sitting down at his table, he spotted Rudin at the entrance, dressed in a blazer and polo shirt for his flight to Los Angeles.
Hirschfield
caught Fischer's eye and the two of them moved back through the crowd and huddled with Rudin in the nearly empty foyer.
Rudin had just spoken with his Beverly Hills office. The message: the Peter
Choate
in whose name David
Begelman
had drawn a $35,000 check was not an acoustics consultant for
Tommy
but was the architect Rudin had suspected he was. Rudin's office had determined, by checking building permits at the Beverly Hills City Hall, that Choate had done construction work at Begelman's home. Hirschfield and Fischer knew that Columbia had authorized an expenditure of about $22,000 to outfit a home screening room for Begelman. But that amount had been paid separately. The inescapable conclusion, therefore, was that David
Begelman
had created a bogus contract and transaction in order to steal an additional $35,000 from Columbia Pictures. That brought his total embezzlements discovered thus far to $45,000.*
In full view of the crowd in the ballroom, Hirschfield and Fischer managed to contain their dismay, and also conceal the awkwardness of the moment. As Rudin stood delivering (he bad news in the lowest possible voice, latecomers to the dinner kept approaching and greeting him and Hirschfield. "Congratulations. Alan. Hey. Mickey, where's your suit and tie?" Acting out a previously concocted cover story.
Hirschfield
escorted Rudin into the dinner so that he could greet some of the people he knew and tell them that he had pressing business in California and had just stopped by to say hello. Joe Fischer, meanwhile, was giving whispered bulletins to Herbert Allen and Todd Lang.
"The second transaction is confirmed. We'll fill you in later."
*Peter Choate,
wh
o knew nothing of Begelman’s use of his name in an embezzlement was indeed an architect to the stars. He had designed houses
for Linda
Ronttadt. Ry
an O'Neal. Henry Man
cini. Carroll O'Connor. Lee Grant, and Mel Brooks and Anne Bancroft, among
others
After a few moments, Hirschfield returned to his table and Rudin left for the airport.
The rest of the evening proceeded pleasantly, although to
Hirschfield
it evoked a Kafkaesque dream. There were speeches by Columbia board chairman Leo Jaffe; Jack Valenti, the president of the Motion Picture Association of America; Chancellor Sachar and President Bernstein of Brandcis; and Robert Benjamin, the cochairman of United Artists and the newl
y elected chairman of the Brande
is board of trustees.
Then
Hirschfield
rose for his speech of thanks. "No remarks about my success," he said, "can be complete without an expression of my deepest thanks to those who are members of our Columbia team, some of whom, like Herbert Allen, are here tonight, and some of whom, like David
Begelman
. were unable to attend." The talk was relaxed and witty, and people remarked at how effective Alan Hirschfield was in front of an audience.
Hirschfield
was presented with a plaque, and then the evening gradually decelerated, as the Mark Towers Orchestra played for dancing, and dozens of people lined up at
Hirschfield
's table
to shake his hand again.
PART TWO
TEN
When Herbert Allen was divorced in 1971—after nine years of marriage and four children—he moved back to Manhattan from the elegant Westchester County suburb of Irvington and established one of the pre
-
eminent bachelor pads in the city on the thirty-first floor of the Carlyle, which vies with the Beverly Hills for the title of finest hotel in America. Herbert's uncle, Charles Allen, lived at the Carlyle, and Herbert grew to savor the life there. The cityscape views were stunning and the hotel's services were the best. Balanced with a sprawling Southampton beach home for weekend variety and space, the Carlyle place was perfect. Jennifer O'Neil, the actress with whom Herbert had a long romance in the early seventies, spent a lot
of time there, and Barbara Rucke
r, the blond model and actress of TV commercial fame (Sheraton, Harvey's Bristol Cream, and Final Net) whom he began seeing later, replaced Jennifer O'Neil on the thirty-first floor. Herbert's children visited frequently.
Because of its convenient midtown location—more convenient in many instances than his Broad Street office—Herbert conducted a good deal of informal business at his apartment. So it was natural for him to invite Alan Hirschfield there on the mor
ning after the Bran
deis dinner to discuss the David Begelman crisis with Ray Stark, whom. Herbert had ca
lled from the pay phone at La Co
te Basque Tuesday afternoon and asked to come to New York immediately. The quick summoning of Stark accurately reflected the producer's pivotal role in the affairs of Columbia Pictures and in the lives of Herbert Allen. Alan Hirschfield. and David Begelman.
Hirschfield
and Stark arrived at
Allen's apartment promptly at 9
a.m
.. and the three men settled in the den with coffee.
* * *
For as long as anyone in Hollywood could remember, Ray Stark had been known to friend and foe alike as "The Rabbit." Although many people assumed that the tag originated as a sexual reference, it actually was a physical description coined by Fanny Brice, who was to become Stark's mother-in-law in the 1940s. When daughter Fran introduced Ray to her mother and later asked what she thought, Fanny answered: "He looks like a rabbit," referring to Ray's prominent teeth, nose, checks and brow, and his short stature. Ray was not a homely man. but the term was apt enough to stick, and was used as commonly in the seventies as it had been in the forties and fifties. He had grown rather tired of it over the years, just as he had grown tired of being known principally as Fanny Brice's son-in-law—as if that relationship were wholly responsible for his success. His repeated use of Brice's life story—as the producer of the Broadway musical
Funny Girl,
as well as the movie of the same name and its sequel.
Funny Lady
—had been landmarks in his career, in part because they enabled him to share in the fruits of Barbra Streisand's rise to stardom. But he had made other notable films as well, and by the late seventies had become one of contemporary Hollywood's most successful producers. Although he was far from being what Herbert Allen called him—"the most important producer in Hollywood post-1948" (he had produced little of artistic distinction, and his films had won very few Academy Awards, none as best picture) —Ray Stark had accomplished something that the entertainment industry admires more than anything else because it is so elusive— commercial consistency. Rarely blockbusters and rarely losers, his films generally made substantial amounts of money for him and for the studio that distributed them. More often than not in recent years, that studio had been Columbia Pictures.