The Billionaire Who Wasn't Read online

  Table of Contents

  Praise

  ALSO BY CONOR O’CLERY

  Title Page

  Acknowledgements

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE - MAKING IT

  CHAPTER 1 - The Umbrella Boy

  CHAPTER 2 - The Sandwich Man

  CHAPTER 3 - Banging the Ring

  CHAPTER 4 - Cockamamy Flyers

  CHAPTER 5 - Riding the Tiger

  CHAPTER 6 - The Perfect Storm

  CHAPTER 7 - The Sandwich Islands

  CHAPTER 8 - Hong Kong Crocodiles

  CHAPTER 9 - Surrounding Japan

  PART TWO - GOING UNDERGROUND

  CHAPTER 10 - How Much Is Rich?

  CHAPTER 11 - Boremuda

  CHAPTER 12 - Four Guys in a Room

  CHAPTER 13 - Rich Man, Poor Man

  CHAPTER 14 - Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell

  CHAPTER 15 - The Luck of the Irish

  CHAPTER 16 - Leaving Money on the Table

  CHAPTER 17 - Rich, Ruthless, and Determined

  CHAPTER 18 - The Wise Man Cometh

  CHAPTER 19 - Stepping Down

  CHAPTER 20 - Show Me the Building

  CHAPTER 21 - Four Guys in a Coffee Shop

  PART THREE - BREAKING UP

  CHAPTER 22 - The French Connection

  CHAPTER 23 - Musical Chairs

  CHAPTER 24 - Cutting the Baby in Half

  CHAPTER 25 - Erreur Stratégique

  PART FOUR - GIVING IT AWAY

  CHAPTER 26 - “A Great Op.”

  CHAPTER 27 - Golden Heart

  CHAPTER 28 - Bowerbird

  CHAPTER 29 - A Nation Transformed

  CHAPTER 30 - Charity Begins at Home

  CHAPTER 31 - Geographical Creep

  CHAPTER 32 - The Old Turks

  CHAPTER 33 - No Pockets in a Shroud

  CHAPTER 34 - Not a Moment to Lose

  Epilogue

  INDEX

  Copyright Page

  Praise for The Billionaire Who Wasn’t

  “Chuck Feeney’s success in business, coupled with his commitment to philanthropy, stands as living proof that it is possible to do well and do good at the same time.”—Bill Clinton

  “You may never read a book as uplifting as Conor O’Clery’s The Billionaire Who Wasn’t: How Chuck Feeney Secretly Made and Gave Away a Fortune. In vivid, unvarnished prose, The Billionaire Who Wasn’t recounts Feeney’s meteoric rise from blue-collar beginnings in Elizabeth, N.J., to a perch as one of America’s titans of commerce, head of Duty Free Shoppers, the largest liquor retailer in the world.”—Washington Post’s Express

  “A rollicking story of how, by stealth, an Irish American obsessed by secrecy built a business empire and revolutionised philanthropy.”

  —The Economist, best books of 2007

  “An engrossing look at an unusual, influential philanthropist. . . . A superbly written, detailed look at Chuck Feeney, who gave away billions. Reads like fiction.”—BusinessWeek, top ten business books, 2007

  “The riveting story of a billionaire who gave it all away disturbs deeply rooted assumptions about wealth and power. . . . What makes him so fascinating, and gives such richness to O’Clery’s brilliantly engrossing account, is that Feeney both embodies and rebukes the American Dream. O’Clery turns his prodigious research and mastery of sometimes intricate detail into a tight, pacey, crystal-clear narrative. . . . An epic tale.”

  —Irish Times

  “An interesting and well-written book defining a man whom most of us have never heard of.”—Library Journal

  “If [Conor O’Clery’s] compelling narrative becomes a blue-print for future efforts to record the life stories of philanthropists, then the reading public might become far more aware of the major donors who have existed in their midst. O’Clery’s account of how Charles ‘Chuck’ Feeney rose from a blue-collar New Jersey neighbourhood to immense riches as founder of global retail enterprise Duty Free Shoppers, and then gave almost every cent away, reads like a cross between a whodunnit and an airport business guru book.”—Philanthropy UK

  “Dublin-based journalist O’Clery presents an archetypal American success story, a rags-to-riches account with a twist. . . . A smart business book detailing some vicissitudes of retailing, wrapped in a vivid biography of an engaging tycoon.”—Kirkus Reviews

  “For America’s new generation of Internet and private equity billionaires, this is an exemplary tale.”—FT.com

  “A gripping read.”—Sunday Business Post

  ALSO BY CONOR O’CLERY

  Phrases Make History Here (1986)

  Melting Snow: An Irishman in Moscow (1991)

  America, A Place Called Hope? (1993)

  Daring Diplomacy (1997; published in Ireland

  as The Greening of the White House)

  Ireland in Quotes (1999)

  Panic at the Bank (coauthor, 2004)

  This, then, is held to be the duty of the man of wealth: first, to set an example of modest, unostentatious living, shunning display or extravagance; to provide moderately for the legitimate wants of those dependent upon him; and after doing so to consider all surplus revenues which come to him simply as trust funds which he is called upon to administer . . . to produce the most beneficial results for the community.

  ANDREW CARNEGIE

  (1835-1919)

  AUTHOR’S NOTE AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I first encountered Chuck Feeney at a White House party on March 17, 1994. I had been invited as a Washington-based journalist. Feeney was a guest because of his work to bring peace to Ireland. All I knew about him was that he was listed in Forbes magazine as a billionaire, and that he was wearing a cheap watch. But I didn’t know, nor did anyone else in the East Room with Bill and Hillary Clinton that evening, that Chuck Feeney was the world’s biggest secret philanthropist. Nor did anyone there have any idea that far from being a billionaire, he did not even own a house or a car.

  I got to know Chuck Feeney in 2002 when I was assigned by my newspaper to Wall Street and we were introduced by a mutual friend. After several lunch meetings, mostly in his favorite saloon, P. J. Clarke’s on Third Avenue, he agreed to cooperate on a book about his life to promote giving while living. He undertook to release family, friends, associates, and beneficiaries from long-standing vows of secrecy, and to allow me access to his archives. He did not seek any control over the final product. Nor did he or his philanthropy finance the biography in any way.

  I subsequently received unstinting access. I traveled with him around the world on his never-ending quest to put his foundation’s wealth to good use. I enjoyed lunches and dinners with him and his friends in locations as far apart as Honolulu and Ho Chi Minh City. Almost everyone who knew Feeney in his business and philanthropic life was enthusiastic about helping to tell his story, even those with whom he fell out during his business career. I traveled across the mainland United States and to Hawaii, the U.K., Ireland, France, Switzerland, Vietnam, Australia, Thailand, Hong Kong, and Bermuda to conduct interviews with scores of people from different phases of his life.

  I am particularly grateful to Chuck Feeney for the patience and good humor with which he endured long interview sessions, and to Chuck and Helga for allowing me to visit them in San Francisco, Brisbane, and Dublin. Members of the Feeney family went out of their way to be helpful: Caroleen Feeney, Danielle Feeney, Diane Feeney, Leslie Feeney Baily, Juliette Feeney Timsit, Patrick Feeney, Jim and Arlene Fitzpatrick, and Ursula Healy. Their insight was invaluable.

  The book would not have been possible without the enthusiastic cooperation of Professor Harvey Dale of New York University, founding president of the Atlantic Philanthropies, and John R. Healy, the chief executive from 2001 to 200
7.

  I am especially grateful to Chuck Feeney’s business partners in Duty Free Shoppers—Bob Miller, Alan Parker, and Tony Pilaro—who graciously invited me into their homes in Geneva, Yorkshire, and Gstaad, respectively, to talk about their sometimes fractious relationship with the man who led them to unimaginable riches.

  Thanks also to the following who gave interviews for the book: Gerry Adams, Harry Adler, Fred Antil, Adrian Bellamy, Padraig Berry, Gail Vincenzi Bianchi, Christine Bundeson, Jack Clark, Peter Coaldrake, Ron Clarke, Bob Cogan, Frank Connolly, Mark Conroy, Eamonn Cregan, Roger Downer, Francis “Skip” Downey, Jim Downey, Tass Dueland, Jim Dwyer, Joel Fleishman, Ken Fletcher, Phil Fong, John Ford, Howard Gardner, Jean Gentzbourger, John Green, Ray Handlan, Paul Hannon, Mark Hennessy, Ted Howell, Farid Khan, Hugh Lunn, Aine McCarthy, Vincent McGee, Jeff Mahlstedt, Colin McCrea, Michael McDowell, Michael Mann, Bob Matousek, Thomas Mitchell, John Monteiro, James Morrissey, Gerry Mullins, Frank Mutch, Niall O’Dowd, Chris Oechsli, Danny O’Hare, Pat Olyer, Le Nhan Phuong, Bernard Ploeger, Frank Rhodes, Chuck Rolles, David Rumsey, Dave Smith, Jim Soorley, Sam Smyth, Lee Sterling, Ernie Stern, Bonnie Suchet, Don Thornhill, Tom Tierney, Jiri Vidim, Ed Walsh, Sue Wesselkamper, Mike Windsor, and Cummings Zuill. Others who contributed to the project were Jonathan Anderson, Jane Berman, Loretta Brennan Glucksman, Mark Patrick Hederman, Chris Hewitt, Desmond Kinney and Esmeralda, Sylvia Severi, Paddy Smyth, and Walter Williams. Patrick O’Clery read the manuscript and made most helpful suggestions. Declan Kelly helped get the book under way. I am especially grateful for the encouragement of Esther Newberg, my agent, and the invaluable advice of Clive Priddle, editorial director of PublicAffairs. And finally, my sharp-eyed and imaginative wife, Zhanna, put so much time and editing talent into shaping this book that it became in the end something of a joint effort. For both of us it was a labor of love. I of course am solely responsible for any shortcomings or errors.

  All sources are identified in the text except in rare instances where someone requested anonymity or nonattribution.

  PROLOGUE

  It was sunny and already hot at Nassau International Airport early on Friday, November 23, 1984, as passengers disembarked after the three-hour flight from New York. Most were American vacationers intent on partying in the Bahamas over Thanksgiving weekend. One rather deferential middle-aged man in blazer and open-neck shirt, unremarkable but for his penetrating blue eyes, emerged from economy class. He and his wife took a taxi to an office building on Cable Beach, a string of hotels and apartment blocks by the pale aquamarine ocean waters of the Atlantic, halfway between the airport and the city of Nassau. He was in familiar territory, as he had often used the subtropical island for the business dealings that made him one of the world’s wealthiest men. This time, however, he had come to the Bahamas to conclude a deal unlike any he had made before, one that would change his life irrevocably.

  Two attorneys were also bound for the Bahamas that morning to meet him. Frank Mutch flew into Nassau airport from Bermuda to act as a legal witness to the deal. Harvey Dale was expected to arrive simultaneously from Florida, where he was spending Thanksgiving with his parents. He was bringing all the necessary documentation. Dale had choreographed the event with meticulous attention to detail. The culmination of two years of planning, the transaction was taking place in the Bahamas to avoid the huge financial penalties that it would incur elsewhere. The Harvard-trained lawyer had secured a conference room from a trust company at Cable Beach where the papers would be signed, a complex process that would take up to three hours but would still allow time for everyone to catch evening flights back to their points of departure.

  But when the time came for the signing session, Harvey Dale was nowhere to be seen. The one thing he could not control was the weather. That morning all planes were grounded at Palm Beach airport because of a persistent thunderstorm overhead. His frustration grew as the hours passed and his flight was not called. In the Bahamas the others waited, going out for a fish and chips lunch before returning to the office and sitting around the conference table, making desultory conversation.

  Dale was able to board the Nassau-bound flight at West Palm Beach in the early afternoon. The commuter jet flew straight into the still-rumbling storm cloud and took a heavy buffeting but quickly got clear and arrived in the Bahamas an hour later. He burst into the conference room, out of breath, sometime around 4:00 PM. There was only an hour before they had to vacate the building and return to the airport. He opened his briefcase and spread out agreements, power of attorney, corporate resolutions, and other legal documents on the table. “No time to talk, you sign here, you sign there,” he said. Then he gathered up the papers, and they all hurried off to catch evening flights out of the island.

  On the drive back to Nassau airport, the man in the blazer, Charles F. Feeney, felt a profound sense of relief. He had flown into the Bahamas that morning an extremely rich man; now he was flying out with little more to his name than when he had started out on his various business ventures three decades earlier. While millions of Americans gave thanks that Thanksgiving weekend for the material things with which they were blessed, he celebrated having divested himself personally of the vast wealth with which fate and his genius for making money had burdened him.

  It was all done with the utmost secrecy. Few outside of the small group that gathered that day in the Bahamas would know what had taken place for a long time to come. As much as four years later, Forbes magazine listed Feeney as the twenty-third richest American alive, declaring him to be a billionaire worth $1.3 billion. But Forbes had got it wrong, and would continue to repeat the mistake for many years afterward. Chuck Feeney had gotten rid of it all. He was the billionaire who wasn’t.

  PART ONE

  MAKING IT

  CHAPTER 1

  The Umbrella Boy

  In the spring of 1931, the Empire State Building was opened in New York as one of the last great triumphs of the economic boom of the Roaring Twenties. At the same time, a number of shocks began hitting the U.S. economy. The Great Depression settled over the United States, banks collapsed, and unemployment soared. It was precisely at this juncture of American history that Chuck Feeney was born, on April 23, 1931, into a struggling Irish American family in the blue-collar neighborhood of Elmora, New Jersey.

  His parents, Leo and Madaline Feeney, had come to New Jersey from Philadelphia a few years earlier. The newly married couple had high hopes of a new life in the prosperous environs of New York City, only a few miles away on the other side of the Hudson River. Both their fathers worked on the railroad in Philadelphia and gave them wedding presents of railroad passes for the Pennsylvania-New Jersey line so they could keep in touch.

  The pair set up home in Newark’s Vailsburg section and later moved on to Elmora, a neighborhood that stretches over both Elizabeth and Union townships. Leo got a job as an insurance underwriter, and Madaline worked as a nurse. They had three children, all born in Orange Memorial Hospital in Elizabeth, New Jersey: two girls, Arlene and Ursula, and in between, their only son, Charles Francis Feeney.

  The Feeneys survived the Depression better than many of their neighbors. Both were hardworking. Young Charles saw his mother take on double shifts at the Orange Memorial Hospital and his father setting off at dawn in suit and tie to commute to his job with Royal Globe Insurance Company in New York City. They lived first in rented houses, but when a grandfather died and the family inherited $2,000, they were able to put a down payment on a small, two-story red-brick house on Palisade Road, Elizabeth, in a neighborhood of Catholic Irish and Italian families. The house still stands, shaded by a spruce tree, in a quiet avenue of single-family homes amid a network of busy highways: the Garden State Parkway, Interstate 78, US Route 22, and State Route 82.

  Money was tight in the Feeney household. Anyone who lived in working-class New Jersey in the 1930s knew the value of a dollar. Even with two jobs, they had little disposable income and struggled to pay their $32-per-month mortgage and main
tain the family car, a green Hudson with worn floor-boards and a horn that went off when rounding corners. Their old jalopy sometimes broke down on trips to Philadelphia—the railroad passes did not last for long—or the retread tires would get punctures. They would sometimes visit Madaline’s relatives in Pottsville, who were considered rich because they owned a “pretzel factory,” which in reality was no more than a large oven in the kitchen, and who reputedly hid their money around the house, though no one admitted to finding any after they died.

  People looked after each other in those tough times. Madaline Feeney was a discreet Samaritan, doing favors without anyone knowing. When she noticed that Bill Fallon, a neighbor who had Lou Gehrig’s disease, walked to the bus stop to go into New York every day, she would pick him up in the car as he passed the house on the way to the bus stop, pretending that she too was on her way somewhere. “He never knew that she wasn’t going anywhere,” recalled Ursula. During World War II, Madaline Feeney went off at night in a blue uniform to work as a volunteer Red Cross nurse. She could never understand how other Red Cross workers could take money for their “voluntary” service, which became something of a scandal when disclosed in the newspapers.

  Leo Feeney was a daily Mass-goer and also spent much of his time helping others. He joined the Knights of Columbus, a Catholic men’s fraternal society that rendered financial aid to members and their families. He was always conscious of getting value for money. When the children were big enough, he walked them to the library on Elmore Avenue. “We pay taxes,” he would tell them, “so we must make use of it.”