Reprinted from CLEVELANDMAGAZINE.COM &n= bsp; July 1976
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Features |
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Edward J. DeBartolo:
The Pharaoh From |
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Twenty-first in a series of 52 m=
oments
in |
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by Gary W. Diedrichs |
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The world's largest shopping cen=
ter
builder is gambling that Randall Park, the world's biggest mall, will be =
his
Great Pyramid, not a white elephant. |
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As part of Cleveland Magazine's 30th anniversary celebr=
ation,
the editors have chosen 52 of their favorite stories from the magazine's
archives, and wish to share them with you. A new story will appear every week at Clevelandmagazine=
.com.
It might be controversial, comical, nostalgic or nonplussing. But it will=
be Visit
the archive to view other articles in the series.
"Ladies and gentlemen, you might think there won't be a palm tree=
left
in Richmond, oozing charm he bottled and brought up with him from his nat=
ive
Tennessee, is squiring representatives from some 50 of the country's lead=
ing
newspapers who are in Cleveland for a national gathering of real estate
editors. At this moment they are getting a firsthand preview of a
$175-million undertaking billed as "the world's largest and most bea=
utiful
shopping complex": gargantuan Randall Park Mall, 2.2 million sprawli=
ng
square feet, suburbia's most spectacular new temple for the mercantile ar=
ts.
This self-contained, climate-controlled colossus sits on a 144-acre plot =
that
is bounded by Emery Road to the north, Northfield Road to the east, Miles
Road to the south and Warrensville Center Roa=
d to
the west — a sizable hunk of the tiny village of North Randall in
southeastern Cuyahoga County. It is scheduled to open for business next
month, on august 11. But it is now mid-spring, still three months to the grand opening, and=
"The floors are a terrazzo tile made especially for us in At mention of his name, a small, slender man in a black silk suit turns
his head in "Standing at this end of the mall and looking to the other end,&q=
uot;
The hats are bright yellow plastic, and each bears a little white stic=
ker
which reads: "Randall Park Mall, Developed/ Owned/Operated by the Ed=
ward
J. DeBartolo Corporation." More than absurd, though, the scene is strange ... even otherworldl=
y. The
dust of construction fills the light as it filters down in shafts from the
high ceiling, and it is easy to imagine that the cavernous interior hazily
visible through the diffused light is actually an especially well-preserv=
ed
archeological marvel a thousand years hence, a surviving monument to Amer=
ican
life, circa 1976, around the time of the United States Bicentennial
... a striking exemplar of that phenomenon of the post-World War II perio=
d,
the suburban shopping mall ... alas, only a bare skeleton now, long since
missing its amenities and colorful detail ... live palm trees, for instan=
ce
.... Yes, the tour guide for this archeological site might say, t=
he
ancient Egyptians had their pyramids, the Greeks their temples, the Europ=
eans
their palaces and cathedrals — and the Americans, well, they had th=
eir
malls. Ed DeBartolo, the Pharaoh from In a historical nutshell, the effect of the shopping mall has been
profound — and Ed DeBartolo, as =
the
largest mall developer of them all, has done as much as any man during hi=
s lifetime
to change fundamentally the way Americans live. The evening's tour is finally over now, and a chartered bus makes its =
way
slowly across the unpaved Randall Park parking lot. Its destination is the
nearby Holiday Inn-North Randall, which DeBartolo also
owns, where the real estate editors will be feted to more drink and a lav=
ish
buffet. Standing at the front of the bus, DeBartolo<=
/span>
leans close to Bill Richmond, who is in contact with the Holiday Inn by
walkie-talkie, and says above the din, "You did a nice job in
there." "Thank you, sir," "But you forgot one thing." "What's t=
hat,
sir?" "You forgot to tell them how big it is." Ed DeBartolo is himself big, bigger than l=
ife in
some ways. And if his malls hold symbolic importance to the American way =
of
life, so does he. Indeed, DeBartolo could be =
called
a man for the Bicentennial. His story is a living testimonial to the Great
American Dream — for better or for worse. Raised by a stepfather who was born in Italy and could neither read nor
write, DeBartolo in his late 60s today=
is
one of the most successful self-made men in American business - and possi=
bly
the richest in the state. The dimensions of his personal fortune are with=
held
from inquiring visitors, although a New York Times Magazine article
three years ago estimated the figure at $200 million. No doubt it is high=
er
today. A Certainly the assets of his privately held company are impressive enou=
gh.
Like an Onassis, DeBarto=
lo
has created an empire that is delibi~rately <=
span
class=3DSpellE>labyrinthian - each venture is a separate corporati=
on,
with the parent company in Then there is Randall Park. It has been all of 15 years in coming, since DeBa=
rtolo
purchased- the property in 1961 and subsequently demolished the race track
for which the mall is named. The intervening years brought zoning hassles,
prolonged and costly court battles, a slumping economy and 360 drawings a=
nd
revisions of the mall blueprint. Even now there remains a serious divisio=
n of
opinion about the mall plan. DeBartolo promis=
es six
major department stores, including a Nonetheless, so determined was DeBartolo to
complete his "showplace," as he is fond of calling Randall Park,
that he refused even to recognize some potential hazards. As steel girders
were being raised for his giant, for instance, other developers were
proclaiming that huge regional malls had already become dinosaurs, facing
certain extinction. Changed market conditions, rising gasoline prices and
other factors, they argued, necessitated ... ore humble endeavors - "=
;minimalls," as they are known in the trade. There was another fear whispered by some local real estate and retail
people. In recent years, the residential area surrounding Randall Park has
become heavily populated by blacks. Would this alone cause white suburban=
ites
to stay away in droves? Would the threat of crime, real or imagined, scare
off shoppers? Heavy-duty security, including a mall security control boot=
h in
full view, where shoppers will be able to see 20 closed-circuit TV cameras
being monitored, is intended to allay such fears. Still, many wondered al=
oud
if that would be enough. DeBartolo, they said
gravely, was taking a hell of a gamble. A few in the local real estate industry still think Randall Park is sh=
eer
folly. "That place is going to be a little Harlem," bluntly ass=
erts
one prominent Because Randall Park has been extremely expensive to construct —=
DeBartolo estimates the cost at about $80 per squar=
e foot
— the tenant rents are high. Why, the skeptics ask, should a
prospective tenant pay from $6.50 to $22 per square foot of space, or a s=
ales
percentage, when the same space can be had at, say, Southgate shopping
center, only a mile away, for about $5 per square foot? Needless to say, DeBartolo scorns such con=
cerns,
and in late May said his mail had already been 85 per cent leased. A hund=
red
or more of the predicted 260 specialty shops, he pledged, would be ready =
for
the August grand opening. The appeal of Randall Park for merchants does s=
eem
strong - as is perhaps best illustrated by the May Company, which is open=
ing
a new store at Randall Park while keeping an old one at For richer or for poorer, Randall Park will be an important addition to
the DeBartolo Corporation portfolio for decad=
es to
come. Yet lumped into the company's total assets, even multi-million -dol=
lar
'Randall Park appears dwarfed. William Pfaus,
company financial vice president, puts a total value on their far-flung
enterprises "in the mid nine figures." Curiously, DeBartolo himself offers a considerably higher tota=
l. "Close to a billion dollars," he confides in a confidential
whisper. "It's a bigggg op=
eration."
He savors the sound of it. DeBartolo is quietly lunching at the rear =
of a
restaurant in his Holiday Inn-North Randall, where he also maintains a su=
ite.
After the main course - a specially prepared sampling of chicken, pork and
roast beef — a plate piled invitingly with chunks of fresh melon
arrives, unordered. The waitress sets it in front of him wordlessly and
leaves. "But goddamn it, the exciting part is what can be done with a
non-publicly owned company," DeBartolo a=
dds,
He ha~ obviously struck a favorite refrain, for it brings a sudden shift =
in
temperament. The soft-spokenness is replaced =
by a
raw intensity that is startling — all the more so, since he also dr=
ives
a bony forefinger into his listener's lapel, jabbing home his message.
"The only way it can work and be successful is if there is somebody
calling the shots — boom, like that . . . .
" His open palm slaps the table. "Boom, make the
decision." Pausing to pop a piece of watermelon in his mouth, he resumes the
rapid-fire discourse: "For instance — Randall Park. We continu=
ed
with this big, monstrous complex when the economy of this country was the
worst since the Depression of the Thirties. Now what publicly owned compa=
ny
would have condoned that? A non-publicly owned company can be more exciti=
ng
and do more for the company and for the world than ... anything=
."
His own "non-publicly owned" company is housed in the
unprepossessing The big black car suffers from too many short runs as DeBartolo
drives to and from work. His large but not extravagant home - a white,
12-roorn ranch-style house with colonial pillars at the entryway — =
is
only 1,200 feet away. DeBartolo wants it that=
way.
He hates to waste time. Anyhow, most of his traveling is done the speediest way possible ̵=
2;
by air. Behind the Most often, however, the STOL whisks DeBartolo
from the office to nearby This private air force enables DeBartolo to
routinely pursue a work day which few businessmen can match — a day=
of
nearly perpetual motion. "If the boss is flying to DeBartolo himself will be back home in
Youngstown for dinner, with his wife, Marie, and second child, daughter M=
arie
Denise, 25, who lives with her parents and is also personnel director for=
the
company. The small DeBartolo household is tig=
htly knit,
a fact DeBartolo is proud of As he once boast=
ed to
Chuck Perazich, assistant sports editor of th=
e Expensive to own and fly as they are, it is also true that the airplan=
es
have proved an invaluable business tool. They are impressive, certainly, =
to
prospective business associates. But more important, DeBartolo,
after years spent cruising through the clouds, is said to possess one of =
the
keenest knacks in the business for evaluating the potential of new mall s=
ites
from 2,000 feet overhead. And, of course, he also gains mobility and speed
that cannot be matched by competitors still on the ground. "The name=
of
the game with us," he delights in repeating to associates and employes alike, "is speed." The pace DeBartolo sets is extraordinary e=
ven
without the aircraft. For years people have wondered what makes Eddie run=
. Sleeping
an average of four or five hours a night, he rises daily - 365 days a yea=
r -
before dawn. He is at his desk before 6 a.m. and ready to do business bef=
ore
that. "The first time I met him," a From his early-morning start, DeBartolo's
typical working day stretches well into evening - 15 hours is normal, mor=
e is
not unusual. This grueling routine is repeated six days a week, then shortened to around seven hours on the seventh.=
Week
after week, with never a break of more than a day or two. DeBartolo
boasts, in fact, of never having taken a vacation in his life. The very
concept of vacation is alien to him, and he merely tolerates such desires=
by
his employes. "I just like to get up every morning," he says, "and What makes Eddie move so fast, he tells you, are the three germinal
influences of his childhood and early adult life: growing up poor, the
Depression, the war. Says DeBartolo: "I was shaped by that
stuff. What the hell, I was hungry when I was a young boy. I was hungry w=
hen
I was in my teens. You weren't accustomed to money, to anything being han=
ded
to you. I never knew-anything more than just banging my brains out workin=
g.
I'm not talking about brains or ability. I'm talking about having guts and
staying power." His natural father died when Eddie was small, and the job of raising h=
im
fell to his mother's second husband, Michael DeBarto=
lo.
The family lived in an Italian neighborhood on "He worked like a damn mule," DeBartolo=
says of his stepfather. "I owe everything to him. He was tough."=
; Apparently the long hours they put in together were rewarded. The small
paving jobs gave way to larger ones, then to heavy construction. But Ed w=
as
disturbed by the chronic ups and downs that the construction business =
212;
dependent on contracts from developers or governmental bodies —
suffered. "We'd have some good years in paving, and we'd buy a lot of
tractors and other equipment. Then the next year, we'd die with all this =
damn
iron! When I was in my early 20s, I decided I wasn't going to let anybody
guide my destiny. I decided to get into the development end of
everything." By then he had been graduated from Notre Dame with a degree in civil
engineering. A fellow member of his Class of 1932, a At World War 11's eruption, a somewhat reluctant =
DeBartolo
found himself in the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, where he eventually ea=
rned
a field commission as a 2nd lieutenant while serving in the Pacific. Mili=
tary
life proved worthwhile, however. He learned to become expert in matters of
topography, a skill he would put to use in later civilian life scouting f=
or
mall sites. And he became accomplished in another endeavor - poker playin=
g.
Often he would risk most of his paycheck, he h=
as
told Alan Huff, who, as DeBartolo's chief pil=
ot
today, probably knows his boss as well as anyone in the company. "But
usually," Huff hastens to add, "he won." If he had not been sure of it before, DeBartolo
learned in the Army that he had the gambler's instinct. Even as a hustling
youngster, Ed had found time to indulge in a favored pastime of his
neighborhood - risking a coin or two in a game of chance. He liked to sho=
ot
craps. Indeed, it is still something of a joke in Not that he has time to hunt up the local game anymore. DeBartolo has long since gone on to gambling for bi=
gger
stakes in high-rolling citadels such as Back in As he looked around, however, watching whole new neighborhoods sprouti=
ng
on the outskirts of the city, DeBartolo saw, =
that a
greater gamble was worth taking. These new tract homes needed drugstores =
and five-and-dimes,
and downtown The risk was considerable. The area was almost cou=
ntry.
DeBartolo relishes telling how he was standin=
g on
the plaza's newly poured sidewalk, when he overheard a prominent Just down the road, almost to DeBartolo
Corporation headquarters, is Southern Park Mal=
l,
evolutionary heir to that humble, 25-year-old plaza. Southern Park, anoth=
er
former race track site, is a 1.2 million square foot regional mall that <=
span
class=3DSpellE>DeBartolo opened in 1969. In brief, the evolutionary
process was this: The early strip plazas gave way to L-shaped and U-shaped
centers, which by the late Fifties had become two parallel strips —=
in
effect, open malles. It was then but a simple=
step
to throw a roof over them, creating the climate-controlled enclosed mall,
which grew bigger and bigger during the decade of the Sixties. One such
project was Great Lakes Mall in By the middle Sixties the huge regional malls had become as American a=
s a
Sears next to a Thom McAn next to a Petrie's =
next
to a Richman Brothers . . . in other words, as American as the suburban
shopping experience itself. DeBartolo decided=
to
sell more than 60 of the company's early plazas and centers. and to pour his resources into building regionals faster than anyone else in the game. He a=
lready
had the land needed, in many cases, since the company had bought up about
20,000 acres nationally. DeBartolo built His malls now under construction will expand the empire into As DeBartolo malls sprang up around the co=
untry,
the company also began diversifying — creating the Toledo Foreign T=
rade
Zone, for instance. Opened in 1961, it remains the only lake-based facili=
ty
of its kind in the nation. Foreign goods are imported into it free from d=
uty,
to be stored, processed, repacked, assembled or manufactured within the z=
one
— which, incidentally, has seven of its own smelting furnaces to pr=
ocess
ores. Duty is paid only when the finished product leaves the zone. Expand=
ed
now to eight times its original 50,000 square feet, it handles millions of
tons of goods annually, including all Volkswagens bound for the With such successes came a marked popularity with the money market. To=
day DeBartolo obtains financing for his projects from t=
he
nation's largest lenders, primarily major insurance companies such as
Massachusetts Mutual, New York Life and Prudential. "Our deals are
normally in the $20 to $50 million range," says financial vice presi=
dent
Bill Pfaus, a relaxed man who spouts million-=
dollar
figures as if they were the prices of milk and bread. "There are onl=
y a
dozen or so lenders who can handle that." The company borrows from $100 to $150 million a year, Pfaus
says, but it is in the enviable position of being able to finance its own
construction internally until the right loan deal can be found. "We =
have
two projects right now in That cash allowed DeBartolo, for example, =
to
pour $27 million into Louisiana Downs - the company's third race track - =
near
Back in the hardscrabbled early days, thou=
gh,
well-heeled money partners such as No one disputes DeBartolo's success. Yet i=
n the
eyes of some people, especially those who do not know him and see only his
money and Italian name, DeBartolo has come to=
o far,
too fast. It is "unlikely," they automatically presume,
that he did it alone. Shut out at the beginning by many legitimate source=
s of
financing, did he make his covenant with DeBartolo, naturally, angrily denies any s=
uch
association — and resents questions on the subject. In 1973, when t=
he
Illinois Racing Board was considering his application to buy Anthony Scariano, chairman of the racing b=
oard,
asked DeBartolo if he had ever had dealings w=
ith
reputed Mafia figures Joseph Bonanno or Peter=
Licavoli. DeBartolo den=
ied
knowing either of them. Then the questioning continued: Scariano: Never had anything to do with th=
em? DeBartolo: No, sir. Scariano: Or anybody connected with them? =
DeBartolo: No, sir. I do feel bad about the
questions you are asking me, though.... Scariano: I expect that you would. DeBartolo: Is it because the name is DeBartolo? Scariano: No, no. I have got a name with a=
vowel
at the end of it too, Mr. DeBartolo. The racing board was apparently satisfied, because they approved the s=
ale.
Over the years law-enforcement authorities =
in "DeBartolo doesn't go out of his way =
to
antagonize the mob," says one observer close to law enforcement.
"They could cause him terrible trouble. But he isn't one of them,
either." That is not to say he might not know them. A fellow real estate develo=
per
points to photos on his office wall and says: "See these pictures? T=
here
are Mafia people in some of those group shots. Ed comes from the old
neighborhood, like me. He made a right turn, they went left. Just because
he's now a successful businessman, that doesn't mean he should forget all=
the
old friends. So they're around. So what?" That is it, and essential in a business whe=
re
faith in your word and your handshake is still more important than comput=
er
printouts and space-age technology. DeBartolo's
industry is still rooted in personal relationships. About three years ago,
for instance, DeBartolo was having some
difficulties working out final plans for a 1.5 million square foot mall he
planned to build near Finally, DeBartolo, who had been growing
increasingly impatient at this impasse, announced, "We're going to
settle this thing here and now." He pulled a coin from his pocket, a=
nd
with one flip decided the location of the two multi-million -dollar
investments. Nobody challenged his authority to do so. Ed DeBartolo had come a long way in a hurr=
y, and
so had the business of developing shopping centers. A far cry from the old
days when, as one old-timer put it, "You told the guy, 'Sign this le=
ase
and I'll get you laid.' " Along the way <=
span
class=3DSpellE>DeBartolo and a large handful of fellow entrepreneu=
rs had
grown extremely rich. "This business is full of Horatio Alger
stories," an executive for a shopping center trade magazine, who ask=
ed
not to be named, explains. "But they had some guts, and they were lu=
cky
to find a business where a man could make a fantastic amount of money.&qu=
ot; Along the way, too, DeBartolo in particula=
r had
built up a virtual mall factory under one roof. At corporate headquarters
today he has a staff of 300 people who handle every phase of mall develop=
ment
and management - including site selection, construction, financing, leasi=
ng,
design, engineering, legal problems, mall operations and maintenance,
advertising and promotion. Most of the top positions are filled with peop=
le
who worked their way up, and nearly all his employes=
are native to the Clearly, he is not an ordinary man. He is not the average businessman,
either, which by itself sets him apart, especially in a place the size of=
Example: DeBartolo does not actuall=
y live
in the house he built near his office. His auto is parked in the home's
driveway at night and at the office by day, but DeBa=
rtolo
actually lives in Example: A subcontractor on a DeBartolo
project was so desperate because he had been unable to collect the money =
DeBartolo owed him that he marched up to him with a=
gun
and said, "It might as well be both of us." To which DeBartolo rejoined, "I admire aman
who wants his money that badly." He paid the man. Example: The briefcase DeBartolo al=
ways
carries when he arrives at Thistledown is stuffed with bundled $50 bills.=
Example: When All these tales may be cut from whole cloth. It is impossible to say. =
The
point is, though, that those who have watched him operate over the years =
do
not usually dismiss such stories out of hand. Ed DeB=
artolo,
they know, is not an ordinary man. And in the personal world he has caref=
ully
carved out for himself, moreover, he might as well be DeGaulle.
It is a world where DeBartolo alone sets the =
rules
and calls the shots. There was the Gilligan episode two years ago, for instance. According =
to
Eugene P. O'Grady, head of Governor John J. Gilligan's ill-fated reelecti=
on
effort at the time, DeBartolo handed him a pl=
ain
brown envelope containing about $25,000 in cash as a campaign contributio=
n.
The gift was legal, since the present state law banning cash contribution=
s of
more than $100 was not yet in effect, but it was an egregious violation of
the governor's self-imposed limit of accepting only $3,000 from any
individual. DeBartolo, it seems, did not beli=
eve
the rule applied to him. "Eddie had been talking that he was going to be the biggest
contributor to my campaign," recounts Gilligan, who now lives in O'Grady told reporters from the Akron Beacon-Journal, who broke=
e
story, that he returned the ch-and-a-half-thi=
ck
packet, unpened, to DeBa=
rtolo
headquarrs after keeping it hidden in a ocked filing cabinet f=
or about
six weeks. When DeBartolo himself was uestioned
by the As governor, Gilligan says, he did DeBartolo no
favors. He did appoint DeBartolo's son to the=
board
of trustees at Even so, the entire Gilligan contribution affair — all too
reminiscent of similar goings-on nationally during the same time - was
quintessential DeBartolo. He does it his way,=
or
not at all. Another illustration: About 1960, when he first got involved =
in
horse racing, he was also flirting with the idea of buying a pro football
franchise. Indeed, he came close to closing a deal for a hefty piece of t=
he
Washington Redskins — at a bargain-basement price. "It was a lead-pipe cinch," claims recently retired sports
broadcaster Bob Neal, who was the voice of the Cleveland Indians in those
days. He and DeBartolo were two-thirds of the=
group
who negotiated to buy into the Redskins club. The other partner was Vince=
Marotta, noew an owner =
of the
successful At the last minute DeBartolo pulled out of=
the
venture, and the deal collapsed. "He decided," laments Neal, no=
ting
that their investment would be worth millions today, "that he didn't
want to be a minority stockholder." During the same period DeBartolo and pro
football had other near misses. The DeBartolo
people say he could have grabbed up the Cleveland Browns before Art Modell bought the club, but decided to purchase
Thistledown instead. He also expressed interest in acquiring the Philadel=
phia
Eagles and in founding an American Football League franchise in Above all, though, DeBartolo is a tough
businessman. It's his game, and he knows how to play hardball when he has=
to.
According to Bob Schreiber, his chief counsel, DeBar=
tolo's
secret is that "he doesn't take 'no' for an answer. He makes his peo=
ple
find solutions." But he is also said to be as good as anyone at a ga=
me
land developers play —"working on O=
PM,
other people's money," as a DeBartolo has been sued a number of times =
by
subcontractors and suppliers seeking payment. Routinely, a settlement is
reached before trial. The most sensational suit on record in Fink demanded $100,000 in damages. After two years of delay, the case =
was
finally settled out of court in 1973, with the DeBar=
tolo
parties ordered to pay court costs. Contacted at his job, Fink refused to
comment on the suit. A few days later, however, DeBa=
rtolo
lawyer Schreiber contacted CLEVELAND MAGAZINE to say, "The boss is a
little concerned. He got a call from the police chief in Boardman, saying=
you
had been asking about Eddie, Jr." DeBartolo
has considerable clout within the state and even nationally because of his
wealth and position; his own back yard, however, is his virtual satrapy. =
DeBartolo's only statement on the case, relayed thr=
ough a
company spokesman, was —"The matter has been resolved. It shou=
ld
not be rehashed." In the sanctuary of his company offices, DeBartol=
o
is "the boss" or "Mr. D," but seldom "Ed," =
even
in casual reference. (His son, on the other hand, is almost always referr=
ed
to As "Eddie, Jr." or simply "Junior.") Unwritten rul=
es,
observed by all but a few, are rarely breached: He approaches you, not vi=
ce
versa ... he is not to be interitipted while =
on the
phone .... One rule is sacred, inviolate: Display absolute and total loyalty. his top people — heads of purchasing,
engineering and construction - felt the force of those words a few years
back. It seems a "There was a conflict of interest, and we let them go," DeBartolo reflects. "They were good people. Go=
od
people. But sometimes you've got to do that." For the most loyal, however, the rewards can be lavish. Loans for a new
car or home downpayment. Unexpected bonuses. =
And
for about 60 of the 300 employes in the home =
office
- including faithful secretaries and the pilots - a "piece of the
action," as DeBartolo calls it. Beginnin=
g four
years ago, with a mall near "That's better than a salary," DeBartol=
o
tells you, calling the plan unique in the industry. "They can't wast=
e it
away. It's better than a stock option, because they can take the deprecia=
tion,
the cash flow .... I went into Bill Moses' off=
ice
one day [Moses is vice president in charge of mall leasing], and he was
writing away at something. He looked up and said, 'You know, in a few yea=
rs,
you will make me a millionaire.' That man will bust his ass day and night=
for
me." The word DeBartolo uses constantly is
"family." Says his public relations woman, Ruby Kelly: "So=
me
of us cringe a little when he says that. It sounds like The Godfather.=
But
you know who he means? Us, the company. That's how he thinks of us."=
It is within'the "family" that <=
span
class=3DSpellE>DeBartolo is most comfortable. A shy man basically,=
he is
often ill at ease with strangers. Especially those whose backgrounds were
more privileged than his own, for he has the lingering distrust for the
"haves" of one who grew up a "have-not." (A man who o=
nce
leased mall space for DeBartolo recalls him
becoming excited to learn his employe had bee=
n to
Oakwood Club, the exclusive Jewish country club in And it is within the company family that DeBartol=
o
has absolute respect, something important to him, something he feels he
deserves after all the sweat and success. Even his personal appearance se=
ems
calculated to reap the full measure of respectability: always the
conservative suit, white shirt, quiet tie. Most of his employes
have never seen him without a tie; indeed, even on the steamiest summer d=
ay,
he refuses to remove his suit jacket. Most of all, however, it is the family — his company — whi=
ch
is his respectability. The family has made it possible for Ed DeBartolo, once just a skinny craps shooter from Even at The International Council of Shopping Centers is gathering for the fir=
st
time ever at this Babylonon-the-Desert. Devel=
opers,
retailers large and small, the money lenders, the suppliers — in al=
l,
some 7,000 people connected to the shopping center industry are descending
upon the infamous Vegas. Strip. It is late spring. The locale is fitting. The Strip itself looks like a shopping center
designer's masterwork — it has the sweeping lines, parabolic curves=
and
gaudy embellishments of a monstrous fantasy mall. It is also fitting in another way. A few weeks earlier
— the night, in fact, that the real estate editors had their tour of
Randall Park Mall — Lynn Squire, a DeBartolo
executive, had predicted: "The casino managers can't wait for this o=
ne.
Every developer is a gambler, and usually that means he's not adverse to wagering a little personally. But more th=
an
that, this group is full of more high rollers than almost any you could
name." Opening night is a Saturday. All along the Strip I.C.S.C. flags snap i=
n a
brisk breeze, but the action is centered, not at the flashier MGM Grand H=
otel
or Three-hundred -fifty guests were expected; a hundred more than that sh=
ow
up. The hosts graciously order extra dinner places to be set while the gu=
ests
crowd around the open bars. Several men, most of them gray-haired, are
wearing blue blazers with crests. They call themselves Colonels of the Re=
al
Estate Rat Pack — 47 members strong, a sort of private fraternity of
the founding fathers of the shopping center industry. Although he is dres=
sed
in his usual dark suit, DeBartolo is one of t=
hem. For once DeBartolo is practically gregario=
us.
Familiar faces surround him, and hands are extended continually. As the <=
span
class=3DSpellE>tuxedoclad orchestra launches into "In the
Mood," DeBartolo, who is chatting with A=
rthur O'Day, a vice president of Associated Dry Goods
Corporation (Lord and Taylor, Joseph Horne Company, et al.), pauses in
mid-sentence. He sweeps a hurried glance around the room and smiles. This=
is
his party, these are his peers, and he is clearly a patriarch among them.=
After the six-course dinner, DeBartolo has=
a
little surprise f6r his sated colleagues. He takes the microphone to anno=
unce
that "on behalf of myself and the family," each and every female visitor to DeBartolo hospitality suite ring the five-day conve=
ntion
will given a complimentary gift — attractive suede pouch with $10
quarters inside. "A little money play the=
slot
machines with," he says. On each pouch is the stamped inscription:
"With DeBartolo, it'=
s
money in the bag." The idea was his own, =
DeBartolo's coup de grace. The party ends around 10:30 p.m. Throughout the evening, the Bartolo people have been predicting that the boss w=
ould
arrive early next morning at the company suite, even though it would be a
Sunday in Vegas, the town that does not sleep. They quote DeBartolo's
personal "creed": "Work harder than you play." As a f=
ew
guests still linger, DeBartolo himself sudden=
ly
departs, traveling swiftly through the adjoining casino and into the warm
night. It the last time he is spotted that evening. Sure enough, though, at 8 sharp next morning, he is at the $800-a-day =
Ziegfeld penthouse, the company suite, atop the MGM
Grand. About a half dozen of his executives, most in suits and ties, are =
also
there, but DeBartolo is the only one who looks
rested. As he quietly flips through the sports pages of the The morning wears on slowly. As the sun grows hot over the strip, the =
DeBartolo suite sits ready, waiting to work deals f=
or
Randall Park, for the other DeBartolo malls u=
nder
construction, for future projects in the works. The Edward J. DeBartolo Corporation is working harder than it pla=
ys ...
but no one else is. By noon hardly a soul has yet ventured into the suite=
. DeBartolo, the Pharaoh from ungstown,
does not seem to mind. He is disciplined. He is respectable. He is open for business. |
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