For ten years, I was known simply, and affectionately, as “Bitch.”

Walter Surrey’s and my verbal sparring quickly became office legend. Though it was all in good fun, we could seem quite ferocious, and people took bets on who would emerge victorious. On the occasions when I won, Walter’s response was always the same: he would pause as he tried to think of a comeback, finally wave his hand dismissively in the air, mutter “Bitch,” and walk away. It wasn’t long before that became my name, and when he actually, and rarely, called me Brenda, it was either because there was an outsider in the office or he was not in a joking mood. “Bitch,” in Walter’s world, was a term of endearment.

And there were others whom he honored with nicknames. Like my mother.

Aside from keeping his professional life running smoothly, I had other responsibilities: I dealt with Walter’s banker, investment broker, insurance agent, doctors, dentist, barber, ex-wives, and countless others. At some point between marriages (he finally got it right on the third try), he had gotten into the habit of keeping his financial records in the office. I hadn’t been working with him for long when one day I noticed that his checking account balance was running low. I asked him which other account he wanted to draw from to replenish it, and I happened to joke, “Jeez, my mother has more money in the bank than you do.” Without hesitating, he said, “Really? What’s her phone number?” Wrongly assuming he was bluffing, I gave him her office number, then watched in horror as he picked up the phone and began punching buttons. When she answered, he said — to this woman he had never met — “Hello, Moneybags? This is Walter.”

“Walter who?”

“Walter Surrey. Your daughter tells me you have more money than I do. Want to go to Vegas?”

Little did he know that he had hit her soft spot — she loved Vegas! To my great surprise, she never missed a beat, but jumped right in and replied, “Tomorrow soon enough?” And thus was born “Moneybags.” I’m not sure he ever remembered her real name, but Walter and Moneybags became fast friends, despite the fact that the Las Vegas trip never materialized.

* *. *

Then there was the dearest man who ever lived: Hal Krents, a brilliant young lawyer who had been blind since childhood, and who had graduated near the top of his class at Harvard Law. But because of what others considered his handicap — a thing he had never allowed to hold him back from anything he decided to do — he had been turned down for jobs with every respectable law firm along the Eastern seaboard.

Hal’s life is chronicled in his autobiography, “To Race the Wind.” If it’s still available, I consider it required reading for anyone looking for inspiration and a lot of laughs. His life was also the basis — though not strictly biographical — for the Goldie Hawn movie “Butterflies Are Free.” Everyone adored him; but no one had the guts to hire him — until he met Walter. After one interview, Walter went to his partners and said he was going to give “the little blind guy” a chance. When asked if it wasn’t risky, he answered simply, “Maybe. But I like the kid.” And thus began a successful legal career for a bright, funny, talented, totally decent and lovable young man . . . until the previously undetected brain tumor that had caused his blindness in childhood began to grow and ultimately took his life before his 43rd birthday. He left behind a beautiful young wife and three small children.

But during those good years, Walter never ceased to have his fun with “the little blind guy.” Hal refused to use a white cane, a service dog, or any other helpful device; he learned to find his own way, including his path from the elevator to his office. One day — just for kicks — Walter moved a waste basket into that pathway, and laughed diabolically as Hal tripped over it. He didn’t actually fall; he simply laughed, said something to the effect of “thanks a lot, Walter,” and continued on his way. Walter never gave Hal any special treatment because of his disability, and Hal loved him for that. That was just Walter.

*. *. *

Of course, I have to mention the unforgettable ladies’ room incident. Our office occupied two floors of a large building, with rest rooms on each floor. The ladies’ room on the upper floor, where we were located, consisted of two separate areas: a sort of powder room, with a long counter, mirror, and seats, used mostly for primping or just relaxing for a few minutes; and an inner bathroom, which had several private stalls and wash basins. I was alone in the inner area one day, for the obvious reason, when Walter decided he needed my help more than I needed to relieve myself. He stood outside the first door and shouted for me: “Hey, Bitch, what’s taking you so long?”

Thinking, “Oh, for God’s sake, can’t I have a moment to myself?” I shouted back: “You’ll have to come in and get me.”

Incredibly, I heard the outer door open and close as Walter replied: “Okay, I’m in. And I’m waiting.”

Now in fighting mode, I called out: “There’s another door.”

Momentary silence. Then, “Bitch!” as the outer door opened and closed again, and Walter finally retreated in defeat. Score one for the Bitch. What would I have done if he’d taken the dare? I honestly don’t know, but fortunately my faith in his good sense was justified and I never had to find out.

*. *. *

And while we’re on the subject of nicknames, let us not forget Shithead. One day, around 1985 or ‘86, I received a phone call from an attorney whose name I don’t recall now, but who is better left unnamed in any event. He had been on the other side of a legal dispute with one of Walter’s clients some years earlier, and now was representing a client whose case demanded specialized legal knowledge of international law. He was seeking Walter’s help.

But Walter was always hopeless when it came to people’s names. He could remember other details to the nth degree, though, and he told me the story of his old interaction with this lawyer. It was a lengthy and tiresome negotiation involving multiple parties, and all the parties and attorneys had finally come to an agreement, with one exception: this attorney. To try and conclude the matter once and for all, Walter took him aside and said, “Listen, everyone else is agreed. Don’t be a shithead; do what’s best for your client and the others.” The attorney finally saw the light, the matter was settled, and that nameless lawyer became forever known in Walter’s mind as “Shithead.” If I had ever mentioned the man to Walter by his real name, I would have been met with a blank stare.

As it turned out, the new matter was of great importance, and Walter agreed to be co-counsel for Shithead’s client. One day, Walter was expecting an urgent call from him, but had to attend a partners’ meeting in our large conference room. He asked me to cover his phones and to get him out of the meeting if that call came in. Which, of course, it did. Placing the call on hold, I ran to the conference room, flung open the door without knocking, looked across the table at Walter, and urgently announced, “Shithead’s on the phone.”

A dozen heads — managing partners from our DC, New York, London, Paris, Geneva, Brussels, Hong Kong, and Riyadh offices — all swiveled to stare at me. They waited, eyes wide and mouths gaping, to see what would surely be the end of my career. But Walter merely stood up, walked around the table to the doorway where I was waiting, and said, “Sorry, I have to take this call. I’ll be back.” And left the room, as I followed and closed the door behind me. That, too, was Walter.

*. *. *

I could fill a book with tales of my years with Walter Surrey; in fact, I just may do that. But for now, I’ll continue here with the saga of my “China Syndrome.”

Having worked with Richard Nixon and Henry Kissinger in the reopening of relations with the People’s Republic of China (PRС) — more commonly known then as “Red,” China — Walter naturally encouraged some of his corporate clients to become more involved in doing business there. And as Chairman of the National Council for US-China Trade (now the US-China Business Council), and legal counsel for the Embassy of the PRC in Washington, he was uniquely positioned to assist those clients in establishing some very successful joint ventures and other commercial relationships in Beijing, where he traveled frequently and several times met with Chinese leader Deng Xiaoping. In fact, China became the principal focus of his work for many years.

It was not unusual, therefore, for meetings to be held in our offices with representatives of the Chinese Embassy, as well as dignitaries visiting Washington from China. One such occasion involved negotiations for the establishment of a joint venture between a multinational corporate client and the China Council for the Promotion of International Trade (CCPIT), for which their representatives had flown in from Beijing. After a week of discussions, involving much wining and dining and bowing and cowtowing, an agreement was finally hammered out. When it was over, I was responsible for arranging a celebratory luncheon at an authentic Chinese restaurant. When I told the restaurant manager that we were bringing a delegation from Beijing, they pulled out all the stops.

Our group — about ten or twelve people, including two interpreters — were seated at a large round table in a quiet alcove, and were being served from the banquet menu. Dish after dish of the most incredible food made their way around the table. Seated to my right was a rather plump Chinese gentleman who spoke no English, and who seemed to have taken a liking to me. As the food was passed to him, he would serve himself, and then begin scooping food onto my plate.

Now, I had recently succeeded in losing those last five stubborn pounds that so many of us have to deal with, and was determined not to gain it back. So, as my new friend prepared to load me up with yet another plateful, I tried to make myself understood by shaking my head from side to side, and holding a hand above my plate. Then I placed my hands by my sides and — still shaking my head — said, “No, no. Fat. Fat.” To which the smiling gentleman bobbed his head up and down, and proceeded with great glee to plop yet another spoonful of food onto my plate.

Walter told me later that my benefactor was probably searching for an American concubine to take back to China with him, but that I was not quite round enough to make the grade and needed to be fattened up a bit. And to think . . . I could have spent the last 40 years living in China, not dieting. Damn!

But though I was able to make my escape on that occasion, it wasn’t to be my last offer from our friends from the Far East. At another meeting in our office, with a different group of people from the PRC Embassy, there was one particularly distinguished gentleman in uniform, a Military Attache with the rank of Colonel. The conference was concluded without incident, but a week or so later, when Walter returned from a meeting at the Embassy, he was wearing a huge, rather devilish grin. He said he had bumped into the Colonel, who had stopped him to chat. Somewhat uncomfortably, the Colonel had said, in his rather limited English (and this is verbatim, as reported by Walter, with his usual lack of concern for political correctness and a dreadful Charlie Chan impersonation):

“Uh, Miss Brenda. She pretty lady, yes?” Walter was taken aback, and cautiously replied, “Yes, I guess so.”

The Colonel then asked, “She married?”

Walter, still cautiously: “No, not any longer.”

Colonel, eagerly wagging a finger back and forth between Walter and himself: “You fix?”

Now, Walter was an incredibly quick thinker, and realized that Chinese culture would require certain social niceties in these circumstances, so he replied, “Oh, no, I can’t do that. First of all, I am not a matchmaker; and second, that is not how we do things in this country. If you want to see her again, you will have to call her yourself.” Obviously, he knew that would never be allowed to happen, so once again I had been snatched from the jaws of an unknown fate.

I don’t know what it was those two men saw in me. I was, I guess, not totally unattractive, but certainly no raving beauty. Whatever it was, I was very flattered, and had another couple of great stories to bring home to my family. Life with Walter could be frustrating, exhausting, and sometimes infuriating; but it was never, ever dull.

*. *. *

And finally, there was Walter’s Rome adventure. A client required Walter’s presence at a negotiation that was sufficiently complex to warrant his bringing with him an associate — a younger, non-partner attorney. The associate who had been working on this matter happened to be female, which made the story all the more interesting. When I called our travel agent to book the trip, I told her he preferred a certain hotel — I can’t recall now whether the name was the Ritz or the Palace. She called me back and said there were five hotels in Rome by the same name, and I said it would surely be the best — and therefore the most expensive — of the five. And that was that . . . or so I thought.

A day or two later, Walter and the associate left for Rome on the evening flight. The next morning, I received a call from him in Rome. He was laughing so hard I could barely understand him, but he finally managed to ask me what hotel I had told the agent to book. I told him it was the most expensive of the five choices, and he — still laughing — said, “Well, the rooms must be pretty nice for that price, but we never got to see them — the lobby was full of hookers. You booked us into a g**damned whorehouse!” And we all — I could also hear the female associate in the background — exploded in laughter.

Now, a lot of people in Walter’s position would have been upset, even furious. But not Walter, who always managed to get a good story out of any situation. As for the end of this tale, with the help of a very understanding “concierge” at the house of ill repute, they managed to find the right hotel and get the two rooms they needed. But it took a while before I — and the travel agent — lived that one down.

*. *. *

Once again, I’ve rambled on for too long, so I will leave you now with a pretty good picture of Walter Surrey, and with the image of an Italian bordello firmly lodged in your brain — a very expensive Italian bordello at that. So long for now, and see you next Thursday, when I get to pack my bags once more, this time for London.

Brendochka
2/2/23