MITCHELL Walter Mitchell, controlling stockholder and chairman of the board of the Amalco Corporation, arrived at the Hotel Françoise at eight-thirty sharp in his late-model Clemson Bravado, of which only one has ever been made. (In 1997 Amalco provided a start-up loan to my wife's mail-order-seafood firm.) "Chick" Mitchell, as he was nicknamed by longtime pal Bill Squires (who provided a separate loan to the firm), hopped lightly to the pavement, followed by his wife Rusty, another wife, and the man who cleans the pool. Leaving the car and its support team under the hotel's long row of acacia trees (I have occasionally done publicity work for the hotel), CEO Mitchell and his party made their way to the palatial private elevator in back that you've never seen.
In honor of his seventieth birthday and how much money he has, tonight's party would be the culmination of a series of parties all sponsored by people. Celebrities from the worlds of business, television, and masonry assembled in venues like this across the country to show Chick Mitchell their love and appreciation. (Mr. Mitchell agreed to be interviewed for this article in return for text and photo approval.) As he entered the lavishly decorated ballroom, the orchestra began to play the theme music from Amalco's latest box-office smash, Whichever (I served as a nonunion consultant on that film, and received financial compensation and a tote bag). Fontanelle Phillips, whose weekly cable news show was originally Mitchell's idea and who was the only media star invited to Mitchell's recent wedding in Monaco (my attorney and I briefly operated a hair salon for Prince Rainier), surrounded the Mitchell entourage with television lights for a live interview.
"[I very much enjoy being] here this evening," Mitchell was heard to say, as the flashes from many cameras lit up his rather sensual good looks and familiar mane of wavy white hair. "[Tonight is absolutely the thrill of a lifetime for me.]"
The interview done, Mitchell and party retired to a corner of the semiprivate Don Kirschner Room, adjoining the ballroom, where they received admirers a few at a time. As waiters and editors scurried about bringing trays and matters that had to be attended to even at this festive moment, others led individuals selected for short conversations to Mitchell's table. (For an off-the-books hourly wage and tips, I performed this task as a regular part of my reportorial duties.) There was Shreve Mycroft, of NonTel; Willy Brandt Jr., head of the European office; Michael Weiss, of West Hollywood TGI; Mr. Mitchell's brother, Norman, representing the employees' guild; and the Queen of Holland. Michael Weiss, "Mr. Big Tipper," monopolized the guest of honor for a full ten minutes. They hugged and air-kissed until a helper gently ushered Weiss away. (That was me.) Virtually everybody in that gigantic ballroom wanted to meet Chick Mitchell, and was willing to wait for the privilege. The long line grew rowdy at times. He had a kind word for all, speaking shyly with his head ducked down, as he always does. (Mr. Mitchell's demeanor courtesy of Execu-style Modifiers, Inc., of Phoenix, Arizona, which paid for this announcement.)