High life
Taxed to the limit
Taki
ne more week to go, and then it's goodbye Big Bagel. Starting next Monday my work schedule moves into high gear with William Buckley's bash for 150 of his friends on board one of the world's longest sailing ships. As I understand it, we will sail around Manhattan, which is the only way one can safely visit the West Side nowadays, while French flunkeys ply us with food and drink, and an orchestra from south of the border plays 'La Cucaracha'.
The next day, night rather, I dine with . . . believe it or not, the most ridiculous President America ever had the bad luck to have presiding over her, the father of the girl who gave little girls a bad name, Jimmy Carter in person. Now I know it sounds ungracious to attack the guest of honour, but so be it. My hostess is Alice Mason, a lady who has forgiven my bad manners in the past, and one whose friendship I treasure, but whose fondness for the peanut-brained one I can only attribute to Christian charity.
When Alice rang to invite me, I warned her that some of the people present might take umbrage at my being there. One of them particularly, who was named Amer- ican ambassador to the United Nations office in Geneva by Carter — Bill Vanden Heuvel. It was about eight years ago, in Gstaad, where all diplomats usually spend their time, at a party given by Arnaud de Borchgrave and his wife. I was seated near a large man who was obviously American and, dutiful diplomat that he was, defend- ing Carter's disastrous foreign policy. When I disagreed rather vigorously, Van- den Heuvel took exception and jokingly threatened me with a tax audit.
Now I should be able to take a joke, but when one pays the kind of taxes I do, a tax audit threat becomes no laughing matter. I called him all sorts of names and threatened to do with him what Khomeini does to people without beards. For some strange reason the party suddenly came to an end, and I found myself driving back to the Palace alone and abandoned by every- one except Arnaud. So I wrote a note to Vanden Heuvel apologising for my bad manners, and I'm still waiting for his apology for his threats.
Needless to say, I'm looking forward to Alice's party. In fact, I feel a bit like Klaus von Stauffenberg going back to the Hitler bunker for yet another staff meeting after the July bomb attempt had failed. If you never hear from me again, look in the basement of one James Carter, Plains, Georgia, and one William Vanden Heuvel, New York, N.Y.
And speaking of basements, I have finally discovered a man who makes all the creeps I have known seem as noble as General Patton by comparison. His name is Arthur Liman, and what a piece of . . . work he is. But before I describe his appearance, here are some of the noble people he has defended in court: Carl Icahn, the corporate raider, John Zaccaro, the convicted swindler, Robert Vesco, the drug-dealing mega-thief and fugitive from justice who has now become one of Cas- tro's best friends, etc. etc.
Liman is a lawyer, what else, and a very successful one at that. Unfortunately for him, nature did not exactly bless him with looks, which is probably why the politi- cians of the Iran-Contra hearings hired him in the first place. Next to him they look almost human. The ironic thing is that Liman's smear tactics against brave men might have the opposite effect. General Secord has flown 250 combat missions in defence of Uncle Sam, and I'm willing to bet my truly last drachma that most lawyers were sitting on a desk whenever there was any fighting to be done.
But why am I spoiling my day, and yours, by speaking of the unspeakable? In one hour exactly I shall be at the New York Yacht club — minus the America's Cup for yet another party honouring Bill Buck- ley and his book on crossing the Pacific ocean. Neither Carter nor Liman is ex- pected.
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