Filthy Rich

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Late one afternoon, while taking a leisurely stroll on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, Tim Malloy, a friend of mine and a collaborator on this book, nearly ran into a trim, silver-haired neighbor of ours from Palm Beach.

The man was walking down Madison Avenue, and several things about him were striking. For one thing, he was wearing slippers. Expensive, embroidered, monogrammed slippers. But slippers all the same.

For another, he was accompanied by two attractive women. Even in Manhattan, an island that attracts beautiful women from all over the world, these women stood out.

As the man half shuffled, half walked down the avenue, the women walked slightly behind him, as if they were attendants or staff.

Tim followed, keeping a respectable distance, as the threesome made a right onto 71st Street and headed toward an enormous town house-a house that was almost a fortress-right in the middle of the block. The imposing residence had a stone facade and a fifteen-foot-high front door that wouldn’t have looked out of place protecting a castle. And, like our neighbor’s slippers, the house had a monogram: raised brass letters that spelled out JE.

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