ben weingart - Weingart Foundation

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BEN WEINGART
& Weingart Foundation
John Farrell
Be n We i n g a r t
&
We i n g a r t Fo u n d a t i o n
los angeles, california • 2002
Ben Weingart, 1888-1980.
Be n We i n g a r t
&
We i n g a r t Fo u n d a t i o n
“
Time is money. Don’t waste it!
To be young, think young.
Business is like a tree.
If it stops growing, it doesn’t stand still. It dies.
Create new ideas and things.
It will make a better world.
The only thing you get for nothing
is the hole in your doughnut.
The speed with which you do things
covers a multitude of mistakes.
”
Ben Weingart
©2002 Weingart Foundation.
All rights reserved
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 0-9669263-3-1
vi
Table
of Contents
Epigraph . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .v
Acknowledgements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .ix
Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .xiii
Part I — Ben Weingart
1. Out of Nowhere . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .3
2. On His Own . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .9
3. A Town to Learn In . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .15
4. Water, Wealth & Wedding . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .27
5. Inclined to Succeed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .43
6. Hard Times & A Modest Proposal . . . . . . . . . . . .59
7. Putting the Pieces in Place . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .79
8. Hometown, USA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .95
9. Wheeler-Dealer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .115
10. Company & Comfort . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .135
11. Slippery Slope . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .153
12. Friends Intercede . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .167
Part II — Weingart Foundation
13. The Conservators . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .177
14. The Foundation & Skid-Row Initiatives . . . . . . .191
15. A Steady Course . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .205
16. Reorganization & Medical Research . . . . . . . . .215
17. Making An Impact . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .225
18. Education & the Student Loan Program . . . . . .233
19. Children & Youth . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .239
20. Passing the Torch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .247
Epilogue . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .253
Illustrations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The People of Weingart Foundation
Bibliography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
About the Author . . . . . . . . . . . . .
vii
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viii
Acknowledgements
T
his book is based extensively on interviews conducted
with people who knew Ben Weingart, both personally and
professionally. All of them gave generously of their time and
trust in recalling and revealing their knowledge and memories
of the man.
For such kindness and for their significant contributions to
the manuscript, I offer sincere thanks to Sol Price, John
Gurash, Harry Volk, John Poag, Alan Leahy, Leon Cooper,
Gordon Treharne, Howard Chambers, John Todd, Woody
Smith, Elaine Werner, Jeanelle Robinson, Helen Terashita,
Larry Wolfe, Delores Lukoff, Lucy Aquino, Corinne De La
Cruz, Bill Ross, Howard Dicker, Lee Dicker, Elsie Hochshield,
Helene Yuhas, Togo Tanaka, Bruce Kaji, and others, all of
whom were kind enough to share with me their memories of
Ben Weingart and the early days of his Foundation. Still others,
such as Irene Hirano and Kathleen Takata of the Japan
America Foundation and D.J. Waldie, in his capacity as public
information officer for the City of Lakewood, were instrumental in expediting important interviews.
Holy Land, D. J. Waldie’s justly celebrated and exceptionally
evocative memoir about the city that Ben Weingart built,
served as an invaluable source of information for the chapter
on Lakewood. In Wilkes County, Georgia, Donna Hardy of
the Washington Museum and Dr. Sophia Bramford of Tignall
also provided important historical information.
Dr. Martin Ridge, Senior Research Associate at the
Huntington Library, San Marino, was kind enough to read
much of the manuscript and make valuable editorial comments,
particularly regarding historical accuracy.
At The Castle Press, Vice-President Colleen McKernan and
ix
Art Director Betty Adair thoughtfully and elegantly transformed
the manuscript into a book.
Among those who lent or helped to locate photographs
were Helen Terashita, Bill Ross, Derek Poag, and Dana Poag
McDermott. At the Atlanta History Center, Michael Rose
and Betsy Rix. At the William Breman Jewish Heritage
Museum in Atlanta, Jane Leavey, Sandra Berman, and Phyllis
Lazarus. In Tignall, Dr. Sophia Bramford. At TimePix, Hilary
Johnston. At AP/Wide World Photos, Holly Jones and Jeni
Rosenthal. At the City of Lakewood, D. J. Waldie.
Without the generous assistance of all these people, this
book could never have existed.
At the Foundation, several directors and staff members were
exceptionally supportive of my efforts. Steve Broidy early on
expressed his confidence and never wavered. He provided
both wise counsel and vigorous direction. Ann Van
Dormolen initially championed the project, lending enthusiastic
guidance and constant encouragement. Larry Wolfe took
particular interest and made valuable contributions throughout.
His longtime assistant, Delores Lukoff, was a fount of knowledge
and a beacon of intelligent good humor, almost to the moment
of her sudden illness and untimely passing. Lucy Aquino
never failed to provide guidance and cheer; nor did Veronica
Johnson. Salvador Santana always made me feel not only
welcome, but at home. Fred Ali ably invested the project with
continued momentum and adroitly saw it through to completion.
I count myself especially fortunate to have enjoyed the
confidence and company of Harry Volk and John Poag, both
of whom passed away within a few months of our conversations. It pleases me to think that they might both be joining
Ben about now and indulging in a jovial game of gin rummy.
Particular gratitude is also reserved for and deserved by Sol
Price and John Gurash, both of whom were not only forthcoming in our interviews, but also generous with their time
and patient with my queries. Above all, I thank Ben
Weingart, who, through his friends, let me get to know him,
for being such an interesting man to get to know.
x
I trust that, in these pages, those who knew Ben Weingart
will recognize a fair and accurate, if pale, reflection of the
man. No doubt I have overlooked or distorted more than
one important aspect of his life, as well as salient points in
the history of the Foundation. I only hope enough remains to
do justice to both and to all of those who knew and loved Ben
Weingart. For any omissions, errors of fact, or ill-considered
interpretations, I alone am responsible.
In securing the assignment, as well as in the process of
researching and writing this book, I was favored with the
kindness and consideration of devoted friends and family
members. Too often, their gracious support and sustenance
were met with the proverbial irritability of the self-centered
writer. They deserved better. Still, I am grateful to them for
the light in which they held me. Constant and luminous, it
has guided my path.
John Farrell
Los Angeles
October, 2002
xi
Introduction
O
f his origins, shrouded in mystery, Ben Weingart
recalled only that he began an anonymous orphan.
Over a lifetime of ninety-two years, by his own efforts, he
made about $93 million dollars. In the years he was dying,
thanks to loyal friends, wise investment, compound interest,
and good luck, his fortune increased to some $200 million.
At his death, following his expressed wishes, his friends
began to give it away. And then some.
Grown to manhood, the anonymous orphan made his
money under myriad names, a byzantine panoply of corporate
entities. In all of these, his own name almost never appeared
as a corporate officer. He preferred it that way. It seemed natural to him. Ever since he could remember, he had been
anonymous.
During his lifetime, he gave relatively little to organized
charity. He thought it more prudent to do with his money
what he knew best how to do — make it grow. What he did
give to charity during his lifetime was invariably contributed
by “Anonymous.” Sometimes by “Unknown Benefactor.”
More often, responding directly to immediate, individual
need, it was simply given hand to hand, by “Ben.”
Ben Weingart was a man of many parts.
xiii
B e n We i n g a r t & We i n g a r t Fo u n d a t i o n
part one
Ben Weingart
1
Hebrew Orphans Asylum, Atlanta, GA, c. 1895. Financed by donations from Jews
throughout the southern United States, the orphanage was completed in 1890, two
years prior to the deaths of Ben’s parents. Superintendent R. A. Sonn and Mrs. Sonn
oversee some of their charges, heads shaved to eradicate lice. At the asylum, Ben and
his brothers, Harry and Max, found temporary refuge.
2
Part one — chapter one
Out of Nowhere
T
he boy arrived at the orphanage with his two brothers.
Of the three, he was the oldest. At four years old, the one in
charge, the boss.
Never before had he felt so alone. Never before so anonymous.
His father was dead. Consumption, he had heard them say.
He had no idea what “consumption” meant, except that he
had no father. His mother, herself alone, penniless, dying, had
taken the boys to Atlanta. There was nothing else that she
could do. In Atlanta, at the orphanage, she had given them all
away.
Benny Weingarten was so young, this would prove to be
his earliest memory. Bereft of adult family, he had only his
brothers. Max was two years younger; Harry, an infant. For a
while, the boys stayed together, at the recently established
Hebrew Orphans Asylum, on Washington Street, between
Love and Little. Their care was overseen by Superintendent
R.A. Sonn. Mrs. Sonn served as matron.
Two years later, Benny was adopted by Mrs. Miller, a
devout Christian Scientist. She needed an extra hand on the
land that she sharecropped with her daughter and grandchildren.
Why she chose him, specifically, God only knows. It may be
he showed, even then, what would be manifest in manhood:
compelling personality, quick wit, vigor, a potent physique.
Over the next ten years and beyond, these attributes would
serve them both.
The boy was taken by Mrs. Miller to the land the Miller
family worked, outside the town of Tignall in Wilkes
County, about a hundred miles east of Atlanta. Tignall lay
3
some fifteen miles north of Washington, the county seat; ten
miles west of the Savannah River. Red dirt, rolling hills,
stands of oak, maple, and loblolly pine; it was piedmont land,
fine cotton country. Though some had fallen into disrepair,
many of the old plantation houses still stood. In the 1890s,
the fields were mainly sharecropped. Cotton, of course; plus
whatever land the folks could spare for food.
The Miller house was not much, not much at all; but it
was a home. And the Millers were a family. Among the
Miller children, Benny took a special liking to the youngest,
a girl. Crippled by polio, she wore ungainly, steel braces on
her spindly legs.
She needed help. She needed protection. Moreover, in the
harsh economy of the red-dirt sharecropper, there was little
that she could produce. She was a mouth to feed attached to
hands that could not earn because her legs could not endure
the fields. In part, at least, it was for what the girl lacked that
Benny had been brought into the Miller household.
The mathematics of his situation soon became apparent. Yet
another mouth to feed, he would have to work for two.
Yet the bond between the two children, both afflicted,
seemed immediate. The girl liked him. And he liked her.
What fun they had, they seemed to have together.
Immediately, and for the rest of her life, he would help and
defend her.
The life of a Georgia sharecropper has never been easy. In
the case of an orphan boy, working for two, the realities of
that life during the 1890s are today almost beyond comprehension.
While other boys his age went fishing, relaxed under shade
trees, played baseball — Ty Cobb, the celebrated “Georgia
Peach,” was only two years older — Benny was sent out to
the fields. The Miller family all worked hard to eke out a living
on the edge. Benny picked cotton at age six, commonly
encountered meals of bread and water, welcomed dinners of
succotash, thrilled to the occasional feast of canned sardines.
His school-day lunch often consisted of no more than an
apple, a shameful mark of poverty that earned him the scorn
of callous classmates.
4
out of nowhere
In the nearby town of Tignall, where he scrambled for odd
jobs to earn a few cents of his own, he habitually gazed with
yearning at the immense jar of jellybeans displayed in the
window of the local candy store. In its magnificent excess, a
stark contrast to his own bleak existence, those candies came
to symbolize all that was sweet, vivid, colorful, desirable,
delicious, and evidently unattainable.
One early morning, a young farmer named Bob Lee Sutton
was hauling a load into Tignall. Not for the first time, he
noticed the Millers’ boy striding purposefully along the road.
Sutton reined in the horses.
He asked the boy why he always rose so early and walked
into town before going to school. Eight-year-old Benny
Weingarten said that he figured the storekeepers might need
some help in the morning. Impressed with the boy’s selfdiscipline and determination, Sutton asked him what he
planned to do with the money he made. Benny explained
that he was saving his earnings to buy some candy.
“Well,” opined Sutton, “guess all you youngsters like candy.”
“Yessir. That’s what I figure. Gonna sell it for triple at
school.”
Something in the boy’s cheerful demeanor and entrepreneurial instinct touched Sutton, an upright citizen and member
of the Wilkes County Masonic Lodge. He offered Benny a
lift into Tignall. Along the way, he offered to loan him thirtyfive cents.
The boy quickly accepted and, once in town, headed
straight for the candy store. There he bought the candy he
had always longed for. But he ate none of it himself. Instead,
he took his first investment back to school, where he sold
every piece of it to relatively privileged peers, at a handsome
profit. Some forty years later, he would return to Georgia,
locate his financial benefactor, and repay the loan with interest.
He was, by nature, a quick and eager student. Yet he
remained anonymous, socially insignificant, ever the outsider —
not only a sharecropper, but an adopted child. Moreover, at
school, his immediate concern was not learning. The welfare
of his sister remained paramount to Ben. Her awkward gait
invariably attracted the derision of youngsters more fortunate
5
In the crossroads town of Tignall, Ben first succumbed to the delight of jellybeans.
than she. He hated the way they made fun of her. He hated
seeing the tears in her eyes. Helpless against the onslaught,
she seemed doubly victimized, first by painful fate, then by
human cruelty.
Devoted to her (as he would later prove to be in his philanthropy for crippled children), Ben would spring to his sister’s
defense, not only with words, but with fists. He was big for
his age, strong from work in the fields, impulsive in his
gallantry. Time and again, almost daily, he would interpose
himself between his sister and those who would cause her
pain. His protective impulse was deemed natural, understandable, even admirable, but thoroughly against the rules.
Ultimately, these recurrent fist-fights led to his expulsion.
Shortly after completing third grade, his formal education
came to an end. From that day on, Ben Weingart would be
self-taught.
Two years later, when he was ten, the Miller family gave
up sharecropping. At best, it was a desperate struggle. And it
was clearly a losing bargain. Even a boy — a smart boy —
could see that. The profit was small enough to begin with.
And the landowner took most of it.
Ben in tow, the Miller family headed North.
6
out of nowhere
Their destination, like that of many disillusioned Southern
farmers in those days, and for succeeding decades, was the
mecca of emerging American industrialization, Detroit, which
touted itself as “the city where life is worth living.” Even
before Henry Ford demonstrated that efficiencies of production
and economies of scale could revolutionize society and produce
immense wealth, the machine shops of Detroit spearheaded a
burgeoning local economy magnetically attractive when
compared to that of rural Georgia. The Miller family may
well have found shelter close by the First Church of Christ
Scientist, on Cass Avenue at Hancock.
Toward the turn of the century, Ben found a job — pushing
racks of clothing through the downtown garment district. For
another sixty years or so, Detroit would be an increasingly
wealthy city, home to many of the magnates of the American
Machine Age. Its factories already prospered. The wives and
daughters of captains of industry demanded and could afford
the latest fashions. This meant steady employment for an
able, clever, energetic lad, unafraid of twelve-hour workdays.
Accustomed to padding barefoot along rural red-dirt roads,
the boy now trod the crowded streets of a major city. Along
the narrow, stifling commercial alleys, summers were sweltering,
relieved only by an occasional hand-me-down breeze off the
river. Winter skies were leaden, the days bitter, bone-frozen
cold. What shoes he could afford, likely as not, were lined
with cardboard, providing little protection and less consolation
against the icy sleet and turgid slush that clogged the streets
from December through March. But autumns were pleasant,
especially October, the “Indian Summer.” And from April to
autumn, the Tigers played baseball. Ty Cobb would soon be
their star.
Young Ben worked hard, kept his eyes open, both his ears
too. And he kept his nose clean. Most of his earnings were
contributed to help meet the always pressing expenses of the
Miller family. But he diligently saved some of every nickel
that he made. The time would come, he knew, when his
keep would start to cost the family more than he could deliver.
The day when he would have to make his own way in
the world.
7
That day coincided, more or less, with the early evidence
of manhood. By age fifteen, Ben had grown into a strapping
adolescent. Muscled, steeply sloping shoulders, long arms, big
hands, slender and agile through the hips, and pushing sixfeet-tall. He had a confident air about him and, for all the
hardships he had endured, a persistent twinkle in his eye. He
looked like the kind of kid who could handle himself. And
he set out to prove it.
8
Part one — chapter two
On His Own
F
or reasons unknown — maybe Miller family relatives,
maybe the 1904 World’s Fair — St. Louis beckoned. It was a
move less South than West. And there was action in the city.
River traffic, baseball (the Cardinals), and popular music
(ragtime and the St. Louis Blues).
It seemed that everybody and his brother had changed their
names to “Louie” and were eagerly awaiting one another
“at the fair.” With that kind of exuberant action, there had to
be work. Ben found it in no time, which was all the time he
could spare.
Strong and resourceful, he signed on with a laundry company,
driving a horse-drawn wagon to deliver fresh linens and other
clean wash every day. With the fair — officially the Louisiana
Purchase Exposition — attracting tens of thousands of visitors
to the city, Ben concentrated his efforts where the people
(and the money) were, a neighborhood known as “Chestnut
Valley.” Home to Tom Turpin’s famed Rosebud Bar, this was
where sporting men and fancy women from across the country
congregated to hear Turpin, Scott Joplin, Joe Jordan, Charlie
Warfield, Sam Patterson, Louis Chauvin, and other stellar
musicians.
Great popular music, however, was far from the primary
attraction in “Chestnut Valley.” Indeed, Ben’s laundry route
seems to have been deliberately designed to be at once efficient and highly productive, providing plenty of business in a
growth industry in a compact geographical area: the St. Louis
“red-light” district.
Rising every morning at five, while his competitors began
three hours later, Ben was reported to have washed, dried,
9
and delivered twice as much laundry as anyone else in the
city. He was already applying the wisdom he had first learned
in Tignall, then carried to the streets of Detroit: an extra
eighteen hours a week can make a powerful difference.
Stealing a march on his competition, Ben worked hard to
service the hard-working women who serviced the Gateway
City’s exposition visitors, not to mention its burgeoning
population of transient single men, a considerable number of
well-bred young swains, many a good burgher, more than a
few political leaders, and several pillars of St. Louis society.
Despite the pervasive presence of products purveyed by such
master brewers as August Busch, Ben pursued a steadfast policy
of abstinence regarding alcohol.
It seems less likely that he abstained from the other worldly
diversions so readily at hand. He was young, strong, vigorous,
and fun to be around. Above all, eager to learn. Evidently,
Ben here developed a tender regard for his teachers themselves, one that would develop over time into a sincere concern
for the material needs of relatively defenseless women.
Whatever may have been the perquisites of his position, the
work itself was tedious, exhausting. If he began the day
bounding up and down steep staircases to the residential
quarters above St. Louis saloons, by early evening, he was
more than likely trudging. Lugging sacks of laundry up and
down those stairs might break the arches of any man and
break the back of a lesser one, yet it never broke his spirit.
He remained ever on the lookout for opportunity: a way to
make money, a way to save some, a place where both he and
his money might grow.
Working in St. Louis soon served to redirect his energies.
Ben adroitly absorbed the lessons essential to adolescence,
both those presented by his tender tutors and the harsher
instructions of the street. On his own, with few tangible
resources, he had little choice but to dream ambitiously, to be —
even more than most young men — a visionary. Blessed with
a friendly demeanor, high intelligence, quick wit, and a strong
constitution, reinforced by the healthful practices inculcated
by the Miller family’s religious practice of Christian Science,
as well as a rare capacity to see and analyze the Big Picture,
10
on his own
he was characteristically self-confident, serious but easy-going,
the sort of fellow people trusted.
Moreover, this was the age of virile capitalism. If those
who lost at the game were everywhere apparent, those who
won at it seemed to be universally celebrated. Atlanta had its
Robert Woodruff, whose marketing of a local chemist’s tonic
was already making Coca-Cola nationally renowned. Detroit
was about to be transformed by Henry Ford. Thomas Alva
Edison, Alexander Graham Bell, Edward Henry Harriman,
Andrew Carnegie, John D. Rockefeller, all of them, they had
all started — or so the stories went — with not much more
than he had. Even Teddy Roosevelt was as yet more Rough
Rider than Trust Buster. For an ambitious lad, one with
moxie and keen instincts, the noonday sky was bright with
shining stars, men whose public personas served many a
penniless boy as mentor, especially in the absence of a father
of his own.
The Gateway City swung open its portal in one direction.
For Ben, as for so many others, Horace Greeley served as
metaphoric doorman. The path to opportunity led West.
The vehicle of choice proved to be an enterprising huckster
named Lieber, Doctor Lieber, to his “patients.” Dr. Lieber
had found a need and was eager to fill it. Hardly a railroad
magnate, captain of industry, or oil tycoon, working the
shadier edges of a sellers’ market, Dr. Lieber remained
nonetheless something of an inventor and successful entrepreneur. Having already, if all too briefly, satisfied clients at
county fairs in the Midwest, he was more than ready to head
West. All he needed was an able, intrepid advance man. Ben
signed on.
His job was to precede the anointed, to make straight the
way of the lord. In a chosen Western town, invariably one
lacking the services of a legitimate oculist, Ben would show
up a few days prior to the designated date of deliverance.
Not only would he plaster as many available surfaces as
possible with notices of the “doctor’s” impending arrival, he
was also charged with identifying men of influence and
stature, often to be found in local watering holes. From
among such exemplars, he was to select a few farsighted civic
11
leaders in obvious need of reading glasses and possibly open
to minor corruption. Sizing up his options, Ben would settle
on one or two and present them with a pair of Dr. Lieber’s
startlingly effective universal remedy, along with a not insubstantial quantity of legal tender, a token of Dr. Lieber’s
esteem. These designated shills would then be urged to sing
the praises of the good doctor’s eyeglasses.
Next morning, when the train pulled into town, the clientele
was lined up, cash in hand. Buyers were advised that the
efficacy of the product was so astonishing that it often took
two or three days for the human eye fully to adjust. The
“doctor” raked in the dough, palmed off his all-purpose
magnifying lenses wrapped in baling wire, and left town the
following day. Ben was already singing Doctor Lieber’s praises
down the line.
This mutually profitable scenario was presumably refined in
prosperous if isolated towns throughout the West, from
Dodge City to Durango, Leadville to Laramie, Tucson to
Tombstone, Butte to Billings, Porcupine to Pocatello. Though
making enough money to purchase a seat, Ben preferred,
whenever possible, to hop freights and ride the rails, pocketing
the ticket money — always saving, always saving. If he were
to become a capitalist, he would have to spend less than
he made.
At some point, Ben parted company with the good “doctor.”
At another, soon to follow, he was said to have sold encyclopedias door-to-door in San Francisco. There, he met and was
befriended by a young man named Shobe, whose family
would later come to play a significant role in Ben’s life.
Rebounding with characteristic energy from its devastating
earthquake and fire of 1906, San Francisco remained
indisputably the major, and the most “American” city on the
Pacific coast. For fifty years, it had grown wealthy at a furious
pace, gorging on California gold, Nevada silver, and the
commerce associated with the mines, not to mention banking,
shipping, railroads, agriculture.
It was a vibrant city, one with plenty of money, but not
much opportunity. Already class-conscious and socially stratified,
it seemed as constrained by self-image as by geography. Even
12
on his own
a gifted athlete and magnetic personality like local hero James
J. Corbett, the erstwhile heavyweight champion, had been
forced to adopt the airs of a gentleman before being accepted
by the big shots in their Nob Hill mansions.
Throughout California, San Francisco’s stature was unchallenged. The sleepy state capital of Sacramento offered no
competition, nor did the graceful old Mexican towns of
Monterey and Santa Barbara. San Diego, like San Francisco,
offered a fine harbor, plus a mild climate, but little else. Only
in one place did Ben sense immediate opportunity, and in the
least likely of the old towns. Until very recently, it had been
little more than a dusty, overgrown, Mexican village: El
Pueblo de Nuestra Señora, La Reina de Los Angeles. The
town of Our Lady, the Queen of the Angels. He liked that.
What he liked even better about Los Angeles was that the
city fathers seemed to welcome newcomers. The truth is, they
paid them just to come out and take a look. The climate, he
had heard, was so pleasant, that once people got there, almost
everyone wanted to stay. So civic leaders had made a deal
with the railroads — which is to say, with one another — to
offer free tickets to inquisitive, industrious visitors. Ben
Weingart determined that he would be one.
13
With his favorite horse, “Lucky,” Ben delivered laundry to downtown hotels. Adept at
operational efficiency, he acquired equity in the Diamond Laundry Company, which
he soon owned outright and retained throughout his career.
14
Part one — chapter three
A Town To Learn In
B
en Weingart made it to Los Angeles in the year
1906. He was not quite eighteen years old.
To those today familiar with the city Weingart helped to
build, Los Angeles at the turn of the twentieth century can
only be imagined. At the time, the city was home to 120,000
officially tabulated souls. Fifteen years before, in 1885, only
12,000 people had lived in Los Angeles.
The city had already experienced its first flush of prosperity,
the Boom of the Eighties, along with the resulting bust, the
recession of the mid-1890s. By the time of Ben’s arrival in
1906, the city was about to launch itself forward again, as
ever, based on speculation in land, as well as a newly discovered
asset: oil.
Apart from open land, however, Los Angeles had little to
offer except sunshine. The town had never had much water,
even when it had been no more than a Mexican pueblo.
What water it did have, via the Los Angeles River, was both
unreliable and insufficient for a growing population. City
fathers — which is to say whoever might combine money,
vision, and power of will — would soon enough (though just
barely) remedy the lack of water. But no one could do much
of anything about the earthquakes, floods, and wildfires to
which the city was naturally vulnerable.
Situated in semi-arid terrain, locked between mountains to
the north, desert to the east, Mexico to the south, and the
Pacific Ocean to the west, Southern California in general
seemed to have little to offer. And Los Angeles even less.
Though close enough to the Pacific, only some fifteen miles
inland, the city had no natural harbor. In this regard, it was
15
far outstripped by both San Francisco and San Diego.
Yet by the time that Ben Weingart arrived, the dredging of
an artificial harbor at San Pedro had already been underway
for seven years. In 1906, the year Ben came to town, Los
Angeles officially annexed the harbor area, along with a
sixteen-mile-long, half-mile-wide strip of land — sufficiently
wide to provide for rail transit and associated commercial
activity — that connected the city to the sea.
Compared to its dimensions today, the city itself was
miniscule — a scant forty-five square miles. Ever since 1870,
when Yankee-led civic institutions came to prevail over those
of the old Californios, urban development had tended to
move south and slightly west of the original pueblo centered
near Olvera Street.
Essential to this development was the providence of law
and order, all too evidently absent in the race riot of October,
1871, which had claimed the lives of nineteen Chinese and
left scores of others beaten and crippled. Civic leaders were
determined to establish and maintain a sense of urbane civility
sufficient to attract well-bred and moneyed Easterners, as well
as Midwestern farmers and European immigrants.
The imposing county courthouse, crowned by an impressive
red sandstone clock tower, was constructed in 1891, only to
be irredeemably damaged in an earthquake forty-two years
later. The courthouse stood on Temple, in the block also
bordered by Grand, Hill, and First Streets, as good a location
as any to call the center of Los Angeles at the time.
Spring Street, between Fourth and Seventh was the financial
center, soon to be known as the “Wall Street of the West.”
Streets were paved and lit by gas-lamps. Electric trolleys ran
along main thoroughfares such as Spring.
The principal form of transportation, however, was still
horse and buggy. Bicycles were popular among the middle
class. By 1906, Angelenos were no longer startled to see the
occasional horseless carriage.
To the southwest of the courthouse rose the thriving,
graceful residential area of Bunker Hill, home to uppermiddle-class professionals and prosperous merchants. Truly
wealthy residents tended to build their homes somewhat
16
a town to learn in
south of downtown, along Figueroa, then west along Adams.
Working-class, single men and women, as well as families,
found affordable housing east of the river, primarily in Boyle
Heights.
A suburb of sorts already existed, some eleven miles to the
north, in Pasadena, another locale favored by the wealthy, as
well as the infirm. Home to 4,000 fortunate inhabitants,
linked to Los Angeles by a light rail line, Pasadena already
had developed a national reputation for its salubrious climate.
Eager to attract moneyed Easterners pursuing the fashionable
exploration of the Western provinces from the plush comfort
of Pullman coaches, Pasadena offered resort hotels such as the
“Castle Greene,” built by G.G. Greene with the profits from
a lucrative patent medicine business. The city promoted the
healthful effects of its benign winter climate with an annual
Rose Parade, initiated in 1895, some ten years before Ben’s
arrival. Nearby Glendale boasted a world-class sanitarium
providing expensive “rest cures” for those who suffered from
respiratory diseases and rheumatism.
People of more modest means were drawn from the East to
Los Angeles by incredibly low railway fares. In 1885, launching
the first tourist/real estate boom, the newly constructed Santa
Fe Railroad determined drastically to undercut existing
transcontinental prices. For a brief time in its price war with
the Southern Pacific line, the Santa Fe dropped the price of
its one-way, third-class fare from Kansas City to Los Angeles
to a single dollar.
Though this extreme loss-leader price endured but a few days,
the Santa Fe offered a sustained one-way fare of only eight
dollars. On competing Southern Pacific, the previous fare had
been $125. Forced to comply to the laws of the marketplace,
Southern Pacific deeply cut its own prices. Lured by the
climate, available real estate, and a pervasive sense of possibility,
many of the adventurous and curious pilgrims who made the
grueling, four-day journey chose to stay.
Land was evidently plentiful, much of it already subdivided
into forty-acre parcels. Yet the prices sought by main-chance
speculators, such as the celebrated Nathaniel C. Carter or that
amoral swindler, shameless promoter, and notorious libertine
17
E. J. “Lucky” Baldwin, were not cheap. When one prospective
buyer scoffed at the stiff price demanded by Baldwin, the
quintessential Los Angeles land developer is reported to have
taken offense. “Hell!” he shot back. “We’re giving away the
land. What we’re selling is the climate.”
The Santa Fe Railroad terminal, passenger-friendly La
Grande Station, stood at the intersection of Second Street and
Santa Fe Avenue. Cavernous Arcade Station, built by its
competitor, Southern Pacific, rose in self-proclaimed splendor
on Alameda Street between Fourth and Sixth Streets.
Designed to challenge the South Coast predominance
enjoyed by the Santa Fe line, Southern Pacific’s imposing
terminal rose to a height of ninety feet at its arch.
Nearby both railway stations were the rooming houses and
transient hotels, those catering to a clientele of business travelers
and new arrivals. In this area east of downtown, bounded
loosely by Second on the north, Sixth on the south, Alameda
to the east, and Hill Street to the west, diversions of the
usual sorts were readily available in the more questionable
hotels. And most of the saloons offered a “free” lunch along
with the ten-cent beer.
At noon, young Ben Weingart frequented these taverns, if
not for the usual reasons. His habit was to order a beer, then
offer it to whomever happened to be standing next to him.
The lunch he would eagerly consume, washed down with a
glass of water. One patron, impressed by the young man’s
teetotaling discipline, offered Ben a job he already knew well —
delivering laundry to downtown hotels. Chewing intently on
a stale-bread sandwich, Ben nodded his agreement.
The next day, Ben Weingart went to work for the
Diamond Laundry Company. Driving a horse-drawn wagon,
he picked up and delivered laundry along a route that included
most of the downtown hotels, from the middle- to lowerclass establishments near the railroad stations to such upscale
establishments as the Westminster and the Nadeau, which
offered relatively elegant lodgings for prices beginning at one
dollar a day, American plan, two meals included.
Instinctively, Ben Weingart applied his intelligence to
questions of efficiency, economy, and productivity. Character18
a town to learn in
istically, he rose earlier and worked longer than his competition.
Above all, with fierce determination, he saved money. He
saved his wages so assiduously that, when the owner of the
laundry fell on hard times, Ben offered to invest in the business,
thus gaining a piece of the action. Soon enough, saving even
more now, reinvesting all his share of the profits, Ben bought
out his benefactor and became the sole proprietor of the
Diamond Laundry Company.
❖
The Los Angeles in which Ben Weingart found his way to
wealth was already prospering when he arrived. The city had
mushroomed in population, increasing ten-fold in the twenty
years between its first real-estate boom in 1886 and 1906,
when Ben showed up. While it enjoyed a climate that
Easterners and Midwesterners (not to mention the local
chamber of commerce) likened to that of Paradise, Los
Angeles had taken pains to construct itself in the physical
image of a prosperous Midwestern city.
Downtown buildings were built of substantial stone and
brick, much as they were “Back East.” The only distinguishing
difference was that the extensive awnings fronting Los
Angeles’ commercial establishments were designed to protect
against intense sun, not inclement weather. An extensive
inter-urban railway system, the brainchild of Henry Edwards
Huntington, favored nephew of Collis P. Huntington and
inheritor of half his uncle’s fabulous wealth, ran from San
Bernardino to Santa Monica, from Pasadena to San Pedro. Its
central station was located at Main and Sixth streets, on the
southeast fringe of downtown. In under an hour, Ben could
ride to the beach for a nickel.
Roads were also extending in commercially viable directions.
Once outside the central city, however, even major thoroughfares, though graded, remained unpaved and lightly traveled.
Out beyond Hoover Street, El Camino Viejo, later renamed
Wilshire Boulevard, was still a country road traversing “the
sticks.” The same rustic aspect was apparent along Hollywood
Boulevard, about two miles to the north.
19
In 1892, thirty-six-year-old Ed Doheny, a pick-and-shovel
prospector who had spent a dozen years digging for a fortune
that seemed destined to elude him, leaving Doheny always
closer to broke than to breaking even, decided he would try
his hand at something new. Doheny and his partner, Charles
Canfield, started digging a hole near the intersection of Lake
Shore Terrace and Patton Street, just south of what came to
be called Echo Park, to the northwest of downtown Los
Angeles. They dug as deep as they could, timbering their
vertical tunnel as they went. Some forty feet down, the walls
of the shaft began to ooze petroleum. About 160 feet down,
the oil began to puddle up around their boots.
After Ed Doheny struck it rich in petroleum, oil drilling
rigs sprang up all over L.A. Over the next thirty years or so,
just about everybody, so it seemed, tried his or her luck at
one time or another. One of the most successful was Emma
Saunders, the Oil Queen of Los Angeles. For the decade
before Ben arrived, the quest for oil became something of a
local obsession. Now land speculators could not only sell the
climate, but the prospect of cash-gushing mineral rights too.
By 1906, while considerable oil drilling activity was already
taking place in Signal Hill and the Baldwin Hills, and ten
years later, with a vengeance, in Huntington Beach, these
remained relatively isolated pockets of habitation. Once Collis
P. Huntington’s plan to dredge a major port at Santa Monica
had failed in favor of San Pedro, the staid seaside community
remained relatively isolated from the central city. More
compelling as a beach excursion was that fanciful extravaganza
of real estate development that its visionary founder, Abbot
Kinney, christened Venice. Kinney’s dream of genteel living
along gondola-graced canals opened to the public on July 4,
1905, a year before Ben arrived.
The principle obstacle to successful growth in the Los
Angeles basin was the lack of a reliable, sufficient supply of
water. Thus, the major civic undertaking of the decade was
the quest to bring water to the expansive, semi-arid plains
extending north, west, and south of central Los Angeles.
The Owens Valley aqueduct project was financed by the
sale of city-issued bonds approved by Angeleno voters. By
20
a town to learn in
1913, seven years after Ben’s arrival, the visionary venture to
transport water hundreds of miles through, over, and around
apparently impassible terrain, had been achieved by City
Engineer William Mulholland. Yet the initiative had long
been led by such influential men as lawyers Jackson A.
Graves, Henry W. O’Melveny, and James H. Shankland, not
to mention General Harrison Gray Otis, longtime publisher
of the Los Angeles Times.
These were men of wealth, influence, and power, men who
regularly undertook and evidently relished titanic struggles,
sometimes in mutually beneficial alliance, often enough
against one another, to build the metropolis they envisioned.
They instinctively strove to increase their own individual
resources, to realize their personal goals, pursue their selfinterested plans and dreams. At the same time, they invariably
viewed their own successes as inextricably intertwined with
the vitality of the city to which they were devoted, which
they passionately loved, as if it were their own flesh and
blood, because, in large measure, it was.
Ben Weingart’s settling in Los Angeles coincided with a
protracted, tense, bitter, and increasingly violent confrontation
between such men and the poorest of the new arrivals,
between management and labor, employers and employees. In
the stark terms of the day, between capital and labor. In fact,
as antagonists on either side were likely to acknowledge,
between the owners and the owned. In Ben’s chosen city, the
turbulent antagonism between competing racial, ethnic, financial, and political interests was laced with the inherent antipathy
felt by the two great urban rivals of the Pacific Coast — Los
Angeles and San Francisco.
San Francisco had already profited handsomely from the
proceeds of unprecedented mineral wealth, an energetic population of courageous, optimistic seekers and risk-takers, a
highly developed commercial and banking sector, a magnificent
natural harbor, early and extensive rail connection to the East,
an abundant and easily accessible supply of water, plus what
amounted to at least a thirty-year head start. Los Angeles,
blessed with few if any of her rival’s inherent resources,
enjoyed only two real competitive advantages: abundant land
21
into which the city might expand; and an abundant, constantly
replenished, ready, able, eager, if not desperate, supply of
cheap, unorganized, immigrant labor.
Major Los Angeles capitalists and commercial interests were
determined to maintain their advantage where inexpensive
and amenable labor was concerned. San Francisco, for all its
relative sophistication, was not only physically, but economically
constrained. The city to the north, twice as long in the making
as Los Angeles, had matured earlier and, by the first decade
of the century, had by far the most organized and selfdisciplined labor force in the West. Organized labor had
helped build San Francisco and now held a recognized if not
always honored place at the civic banquet table.
In Los Angeles, though employers generally paid fairly
decent wages, the city fathers were determined to maintain an
“open shop” environment, the better to avail themselves of
the steady stream of new laborers lured to the city by cheap
train fares and the owners’ self-serving civic boosterism.
If Los Angeles were ultimately to prevail financially and
commercially over San Francisco, the southern city would
have to grow farther, faster, cheaper. All of which added up
to better. And to better San Francisco, Los Angeles would
have to suppress organized labor.
Such was the perspective of most leading citizens. And in
support of this perspective, their irascible champion was Civil
War Colonel Harrison Gray Otis, publisher of the Los Angeles
Times. Survivor of fifteen Civil War battles, twice wounded
and cited for gallantry, promoted to general for service in the
Philippines during his second major military conflict, the
Spanish-American War, Otis tended to command Los Angeles
as if it were his own personal regiment.
Through much of the 1890s and the early years of the new
century, the Los Angeles-based Local #174 of the Union of
Typographers had been locked in conflict with H.G. Otis and
the Times. Three years before Ben’s arrival, union headquarters dispatched a nationally experienced organizer to Los
Angeles. His task was to transform the civic and political
environment of the city, to till the soil and plant the seeds
22
a town to learn in
that might someday flourish in the garden of the working
man. It did not turn out that way.
Frustrated by the slow progress of labor organization in Los
Angeles, largely thwarted in their bid to undermine the
Times’ publisher by resort to secondary boycotts of his major
advertisers, as well as the enticement of San Francisco-based
William Randolph Hearst to open a competing paper, the
Examiner, in Los Angeles, radical elements in the union
movement determined to take matters into their own hands.
On October 1, 1910, at 1:07 A.M., a powerful dynamite
explosion rocked the offices of General Otis’s newspaper.
The ensuing fire, fed by broken gas lines, soon engulfed the
shattered building. The bombing killed twenty employees and
maimed some eighty others.
The action turned much of the public against organized
labor. Not even celebrated defense attorney Clarence Darrow
could do much more than plea bargain for the defendants —
among them, militant national leaders of the radical Bridge
and Structural Iron Workers Union. After months of emphatic
and spirited protestations of innocence, supported by much of
organized labor and quixotic social reformers such as Lincoln
Steffens, the accused ultimately owned up to the crime.
To Ben Weingart, twenty-two years old, struggling to make
his way in the world, a young man whose natural sympathies
probably favored the workingman, the path to success in Los
Angeles was no doubt clearly illuminated by the concussive
blast and lurid flames of the L.A. Times bombing. If the conflict
between wealth and want was at once pervasive and eternal,
better to position oneself on the side more likely to prevail.
In Los Angeles, even more than elsewhere, Ben could not
help but notice, it was inherently better to have than have
not. Moreover, especially in Los Angeles, it was manifestly
true that God seemed to favor those who helped themselves.
In this Eden of Opportunity, an able and ambitious man, one
who worked hard, used his brains, kept his eyes open, and
understood the lay of the land, could go far.
One such entrepreneur was Robert A. Rowan. Thanks to
Rowan, in 1905, just prior to Ben’s arrival, Los Angeles had
23
been graced with a splendid new hotel, the Alexandria, at
Fifth and Spring. Until the Biltmore was constructed eighteen
years later, the Alexandria, designed by John Parkinson,
proved the epitome of Angeleno elegance. The hotel, a meeting
place for the wealthy, powerful, and celebrated, was the financial creation of a young man, less than ten years older than
Ben Weingart.
While still in his twenties, Robert A. Rowan had formed
his own real estate firm. Rowan was apparently the first Los
Angeles developer to exploit the potential of a financial practice
previously unused in Southern California. The ingenious
technique involved establishing a separate corporation for
each new building venture, then transferring the construction
site to the corporate entity, in exchange for the capital stock.
The company then sold long-term mortgage bonds to pay for
the construction of the building.
By means of this technique, Rowan was able to finance and
build several of the most prominent buildings that rose in Los
Angeles during the first twelve years of Ben Weingart’s
residence in the city. Though Rowan himself died in 1918,
the financial technique he pioneered would not be lost upon
others seeking to develop the city. Ultimately, among those
who learned best from Rowan’s example would be an alert,
ambitious, energetic young man named Ben Weingart.
For the moment, however, Ben was busy delivering laundry
and trying to figure out how to leverage his way into ownership, another equity position. No doubt any equity would
have had its attraction, but Ben was particularly drawn to real
property, the most tangible and marketable commodity in Los
Angeles. The one lesson he clearly picked up early from
Rowan and others, among them Henry Edwards Huntington
and the leaders of the water aqueduct effort, was that the
only way to build quickly — especially build wealth — was to
fuel the engine of a good idea with the potent, relatively
inexpensive energy of other people’s money.
As it happened, a man named Orth, owner of the
Winchester and other hotels to which Ben catered, had taken
to sharing his financial woes with the affable, young laundry
cart driver he traded pleasantries with every day. Ben
24
a town to learn in
Weingart, it soon became apparent, could come up with
succinct potential solutions even faster than the failing
businessman could identify his problems.
Soon enough, Orth suggested that, since Ben seemed to
understand the hotel business better than he himself did, why
not manage the Winchester for him? Confident that he could
implement profitable policies, Ben agreed to the profit-sharing
proposal.
As the efficient practices that Ben devised began making
money for both men, Orth extended the management offer
to other hotels that he owned. Ben took him up on it, careful
to negotiate a deal that ultimately led to his gaining ownership of several properties.
No matter it was long and winding, fraught with potential
perils, the way to wealth now lay open. The Winchester
proved to be the first of the more than 200 hotels and apartment buildings that Ben Weingart would eventually own.
25
26
Part one — chapter four
Water, Wealth & Wedding
W
ater made the city in which Ben Weingart prospered.
At the turn of the twentieth century, Los Angeles wealth
was based largely on land and other real property, usually
enhanced by speculation. Other fortunes derived from railroads. Still others from oil. Soon enough, millions were made
in motion pictures. Not much later, the sky proved no limit
for pioneers of aviation.
All of these were endeavors based on speculation. Visions
realized at a propitious moment. In Los Angeles, remarkably
more so than elsewhere, success could often be defined as the
fortuitous confluence of imagination, environment, and effort,
plus the possession of or the ability to raise essential capital,
plus the will to take the risk.
All of these endeavors were also based in large measure on
the blessings of nature, particularly on the generally sunny
weather. Yet to transform these enterprises into wealth required
not only an expanding urban infrastructure, but also an everincreasing population. And ever-increasing numbers of people
required the one resource that the city did not naturally possess.
Obviously, human beings, especially in large, mutually
dependent numbers, cannot prosper without water. Yet genius
has been defined as that vision that recognizes the obvious.
This much was very early clear to Los Angeles city fathers:
few people would choose to live in a desert. Without water,
local leaders were painfully aware — much more water than
naturally existed in the surrounding semi-arid coastal plains,
canyons, and valleys — much of the year, Los Angeles, on the
scale that they envisioned the city, would be little more than
wasteland.
27
William Mulholland brought the water to Los Angeles. The
water brought the people. Indeed, a plan to meet the increasingly urgent need for water had been initiated some four
years before Ben Weingart arrived.
Mulholland had already been working in and for the city
twenty years. When he began his career there, in 1877, most
Los Angeles residents received their water from a system of
zanjas, open-air troughs connected by ditches. Mulholland’s
first job in the city was working for the private water company
as a zanjero, tending the zanjas, keeping the system of troughs
and ditches relatively clean and the limited water flowing. He
became fascinated with problems of hydraulics and had risen
to the position of chief engineer for the water company by
the time that the city experienced its first population explosion,
the boom of 1887. As the city’s population increased, and as
the private water company’s contract drew closer to its expiration date, civic leaders began to entertain a larger vision.
This vision was fostered by the city’s growing population,
as well as by the desire to reinvigorate the land boom. It gained
impetus as a result of the drought of 1898, followed the next
year by rainfall barely half the recorded average. It was greatly
encouraged in 1901 by the successful importation of Colorado
River water via a fifty-mile-long canal to Calexico in the
desert southeast of Los Angeles, and frankly modeled after
San Francisco’s attempted, ultimately effective importation (or
appropriation) of water from the Hetch Hetchy reservoir near
Yosemite.
At the turn of the century, the notion was shockingly
energized by a report of the recently established Federal
Reclamation Service, which stated starkly that, with regard to
its natural aquifers, “Los Angeles is…taking water out faster
than it is flowing in. Some day you will strike bottom. You
are headed for…tragedy.”
The private water company that employed Mulholland had
served Los Angeles satisfactorily; but when its contract expired
in 1902, civic leaders had already determined that the water
system should “go public.” Residents agreed, voting a
$2,000,000 bond issue to purchase the existing private system
from its owners, acquire additional distribution equipment, and
28
w a t e r, w e a l t h & w e d d i n g
establish a municipal water department, governed by a Board
of Water Commissioners. To no one’s surprise, Mulholland
was appointed system superintendent and chief engineer.
In fact, Mulholland had long considered the problem of
importing water to satisfy the thirst for development of a
greater Los Angeles. Beyond the forbidding mountains ringing
Los Angeles, the even more towering Sierra Nevada to the
north provided consistent and substantial snowmass. To the
mind of Engineer Mulholland, the problem was simply one
of hydraulic transportation.
Tapping the west face of the Sierra Nevada was deemed
impossible; the Tehachapi mountains to the north of the city
effectively blocked any aqueduct delivery system within the
existing state of the art. Recourse to the east-facing slopes,
the only remaining alternative, presented obstacles nearly as
challenging. After a week-long journey on foot and horseback
exploring a conceivable route, Mulholland reported to the
Board of Water Commissioners that he considered the eastern
slopes project to be possible, though barely.
The plan called for building a system of aqueducts, flumes,
siphons, reservoirs, dams, and tunnels that were together
capable of transporting water some 250 miles from the
Owens Valley, which drained the eastern slopes of the Sierra
Nevada, including many peaks rising as high as 11,000 feet.
The town of Lone Pine stood in the valley, only fifteen miles
below the peak of 14,494-foot Mount Whitney, snowcapped
year around. Mulholland recommended that the water course
begin at the Owens River, above the town of Independence.
The system that Mulholland proposed would have to traverse
the Mojave, one of the world’s harshest deserts, as well as
several mountain ranges. This meant that men and equipment
would have to function reliably and efficiently in harsh conditions ranging from snow drifts to sandstorms, in temperatures
ranging from considerably below zero to 135 degrees
Fahrenheit. Moreover, all this would have to be accomplished
across terrain that had, within living memory, experienced
earthquakes registering more than magnitude eight on the
Richter scale.
29
Mulholland’s cost projection was approximately $25,000,000 —
equivalent to at least half a billion dollars today. The
assembled water commissioners no doubt let out a whistle of
astonishment. They probably gulped hard at the figure, but
they did not blink.
The commissioners did seek concerned opinion and expert
advice, consulting discreetly with leading citizens and calling
upon the expertise of major local bankers. Longtime civic
leaders such as Harrison G. Otis, Harris Newmark, L.W.
Blinn, W. D. Woolwine, John F. Francis, and Chamber of
Commerce general manager Charles D. Willard had led the
fight against Collis Huntington’s Southern Pacific to win federal backing for the San Pedro harbor project. These men
knew well that the city, then home to about 200,000, was
already deeply committed to the harbor, as well as to increasing
demands for schools, sewers, and electric power. Appropriately
conservative in their perspective, financiers such as Thomas
L. Duque warned that almost everything would have to turn
out right and almost nothing go wrong for the aqueduct project
to come in on time and on budget.
If Mulholland’s plan did succeed, there was still danger that
the expected increase in population and attendant boost to
city revenues would prove insufficient to make timely
payments on the principal and interest of the city’s bonded
indebtedness. If the aqueduct failed, or turned out to cost
more than projected, the city would find itself not only
embarrassed, but deeply, perhaps irredeemably, in debt. Not
only would Los Angeles’ future then be bleak indeed, even
its existing economy would prove unsustainable; and with it,
the personal fortunes of many of the commissioners and
financiers themselves.
Still, no one blinked. The commissioners did, however,
hasten to take reasonable precautions. The first, following
Mulholland’s recommendation, was to swear one another to
secrecy, as well as anyone else consulted on the project. For
the moment, all agreed, this was essential.
Meanwhile, the commissioners authorized former mayor
Frederick Eaton, who had originally suggested the Owens
Valley route to Mulholland, to begin soliciting in his own
30
name, for eventual, strategically timed transfer to the city,
options to purchase certain essential parcels of land and attendant water rights along the proposed route. Eaton was to
seek these options primarily in the Owens Valley watershed.
Other parcels that Mulholland felt to be essential to successful
completion of the project lay in the north-central San
Fernando Valley, terminus of the proposed aqueduct.
Some thirty years earlier, the watershed lands of the sparsely
inhabited Owens Valley had been set aside as a reservation
for Paiute Indians. Pioneering white men considered the wellwatered land too valuable to be wasted on Indians, and the
white men’s perspective predictably prevailed in Washington,
for a time.
Then, in 1902, during the administration of Theodore
Roosevelt, with the advent of the U.S. Reclamation Service —
an agency established to “Store the Floods” and “Reclaim the
Deserts” — 565,000 acres of Federal lands in the Owens
Valley were withheld from public use, presumably for Federal
irrigation projects. Included in this amount was much of the
land that watered the system Mulholland envisioned.
J.B. Lippincott, at the time the supervising engineer for the
Reclamation Service, proved amenable to Mulholland’s suggestion that Los Angeles could be relied upon to actualize the
agency’s reclamation goals. Lippincott approved sale of the
Federal lands. Less than a year later, he went to work for
Mulholland on the Los Angeles aqueduct project.
The secrecy of the early aspects of the operation was
modeled after that of the previously implemented San
Francisco aqueduct project and no doubt seemed an entirely
sensible and fiscally responsible hedge against land prices likely
to inflate sharply as soon as the public got wind of the Los
Angeles aqueduct plan. Nonetheless, a substantial impediment
remained.
No funds had been authorized for the purchase of those
land and water options that Eaton would buy, apparently to
his own account; nor could such funds now be authorized
without publicly disclosing the plan. Yet when City Attorney
William Matthews brought the commissioners’ conundrum
and urgent request to the attention of City Treasurer Walter
31
Workman, himself a former mayor, Workman rose to the
occasion. With that combination of acute intelligence,
nuanced sensibility, and subtle aplomb characteristic of Los
Angeles’ early leading citizens, Workman immediately
perceived that, in this instance, his larger civic duty might
best be interpreted as superseding the precise letter of the law.
Knowing that, if a future bond measure the commissioners
proposed were to fail at the polls, he would be held personally
liable for the $150,000 that his signature released, Workman
took care to consult the financiers who held his indemnity
bond. They encouraged him to serve the city according to
his own progressive instincts. With a stroke of his pen,
Workman authorized the funds needed for the purchase
options specified by Eaton and Mulholland, for the purposes
secretly proposed by the commissioners.
Every one of the no more than fifty men aware of and thus
involved in the high-stakes gamble — which might readily be
viewed as a conspiracy to defraud — knew himself to be both
personally and professionally at risk. No doubt to mitigate the
personal risk somewhat, thirty of these “insiders” formed a
syndicate that quietly began to purchase for their own
accounts 47,500 acres of San Fernando Valley land. If the
aqueduct succeeded, the semi-arid San Fernando was seen as
a logical purchaser, at bargain prices, of excess Los Angeles
water. The city would profit, as much as it would in any
case; and handsome profits might await those sufficiently
prescient to own land in the valley.
Shortly after the Times broke the story of the proposed
aqueduct, rumors about it having reached critical mass, an elated
electorate voted seven to one in favor of a city bond issue
valued at $1,500,000. This proved a fortunate event for those
in and around Los Angeles, if not the Owens Valley. The
bonds were enough to cover the $150,000 advanced from city
coffers, finance the exercise of the options that Eaton had
purchased on behalf of the city, and pay for detailed engineering
studies. The bond measure was approved in September, 1905
— less than a year before Ben Weingart came to town — just
in time to save Walter Workman and William Matthews,
among other civic leaders, from possible indictment.
32
Less than two years later, in June, 1907, on the basis of
Mulholland’s detailed studies and no little boosterism, Los
Angeles voters, Ben Weingart presumably among them,
approved a subsequent bond issue by a margin of ten to one.
This new civic indebtedness, valued at $23,000,000, was to
finance the actual construction of the longest, most
technologically advanced, most financially tenuous, most
geographically precarious hydraulic engineering project in the
history of the modern world.
Led by General Adna Chaffey, a newly constituted Board of
Public Works oversaw the five-year-long construction project.
Against all odds, as well as considerable vocal opposition in
the Owens Valley, the project proceeded on schedule. At its
height, the work force numbered 6,000 men. Millions of tons
of material, a new railroad, a 1,000-barrel-per-day cement
plant, and hundreds of miles of new roads were also essential,
as well as water, supply, and power lines to fifty-seven
separate construction camps.
Thanks to such largely untested technological advances as
dynamite, carbide lamps on miners’ helmets, electric lighting,
and ventilation fans, Mulholland’s men even managed to push
a 26,870-foot-tunnel through the San Fernando Mountains,
into San Francisquito Canyon north of Saugus. Only a few
miles from the aqueduct tunnel, thirty-five years earlier, a
7,000-foot tunnel had nearly defeated the Southern Pacific
railroad, whose tunnel crews were then the best in the world.
In the end, excluding reservoirs, the aqueduct stretched 226
miles. Its capacity was 420 second/feet, enough to satisfy the
needs of a city of a million people, irrigate 75,000 acres, and
still have plenty left over.
On Wednesday, November 5, 1913, Mulholland presided
over the somewhat uncertain ceremony celebrating the
importation of abundant life to Los Angeles. The reviewing
stand erected so that civic leaders might make commemorative
comments and view the fervently desired culmination of their
herculean efforts faced the final precipitous sluice designed to
deliver to a San Fernando Valley reservoir the waters lately of
the Owens Valley.
After nine years of labor, the sustenance of the Sierras was
33
held back only by a final sluice gate. Somewhere up the line,
someone eager to make history opened the gate prematurely.
All in a roaring, resounding, reverberating rush, the life’s
blood of the future of Los Angeles came cascading down the
cement-lined sluice.
The exultant throng in attendance instinctively turned their
backs on their benefactors, suddenly ignoring the dignitaries
at the podium in favor of witnessing the miracle so
wondrously at hand. In seemingly endless abundance, thousands of tons of water rushed down the ultimate incline of
the aqueduct, Mulholland’s marvel of engineering, at once a
monument to Los Angeles city fathers’ skills of political
manipulation and not entirely coincidental self-enrichment.
Mulholland, in his abruptly truncated and irredeemably
upstaged moment of personal and professional triumph, cast
aside his prepared remarks.
His impromptu statement upon seeing the wealth he had
brought to Los Angeles could stand as a motto for the entire
region of Southern California, as viewed by those who imagined and willed it into existence: “There it is,” Mulholland
exclaimed. “Take it!”
Whether Ben Weingart was one of the hopeful souls in
attendance that day in the San Fernando Valley cannot be
ascertained. That he was present in spirit is beyond doubt.
With sufficient water on tap, at least for the moment, one
other fundamental resource was required by the city’s everincreasing population. Even in paradise, Ben reasoned, a roof
over one’s head was essential.
In the twelve years since the census of 1900 had determined
the population of Los Angeles to be 120,000, the number of
Angelenos had almost quadrupled. In the six years since his
own arrival, Ben himself had seen it double. When
Mulholland brought the water, it quenched the physical and
spiritual thirst of at least 400,000 souls. By 1920, with the city
limits expanded greatly by annexation, an expansion that was
in fact a self-fulfilling prophecy accomplished by the water,
the population stood at some 600,000. It was knowledgeably
predicted that 750,000 would call Los Angeles home by 1925.
While perfect hindsight exists in abundance, visionary
34
prescience is correspondingly rare. Even before Mulholland
brought the water, Ben Weingart had seen a need: shelter for
the immigrant masses. And he had determined to fill it.
❖
The breathtaking bubble of Los Angeles land speculation
suddenly burst (not for the first, nor the last time) less than a
year after Mulholland brought the water. Most of the
investors who took a bath had been trading subdivided lots
out “in the sticks.” Ben, constantly reinvesting his profits and
improving the downtown properties in which he had an
interest, remained largely untouched by the debacle. Indeed,
for Ben, the subsequent recession in which many speculative
investors foundered proved a blessing.
Since his laundry company continued to service many of
the downtown hotels, Ben knew sooner and better than most
which of his clients were in financial trouble. To stay in business, they needed fresh linens. So, when they fell behind in
paying their laundry bills, he would offer to forgo payment in
lieu of equity in the establishment. Whenever possible he
would further negotiate an option to buy at a favorable price.
If the hotel continued to lose money, Ben would meet with
the mortgage holder, suggesting that foreclosure on the troubled
property was not in anyone’s best interest. Instead of the
lender’s being saddled with the problems of operating the
business, Ben offered to manage the hotel efficiently and profitably, in exchange for a reduction in the principal balance of
the loan, not to mention lower monthly payments.
The remedy was not easy to swallow, but Ben’s prescription
was a pill considerably less bitter than the owner’s probable
bankruptcy and the substantial losses that the lender would
likely incur in that eventuality. Predictably, as his reputation
for efficient management increased, so did the number of
mortgage holders who agreed to Ben’s proposal. So too did
his portfolio of downtown income properties.
❖
35
Not long after Mulholland’s “Miracle of the Waters,” with
characteristic pragmatism, Ben took measures to fulfill another
fundamental need. If he were to prosper to the extent he
desired, he reasoned, his own vision, hard work, and frugality
were unlikely to prove sufficient. If he were to advance far
enough fast enough, he would need to apply the wisdom and
the methods fostered by the leaders of the city, adapted to his
own distinct, relatively disadvantaged situation.
For a man to pull himself up by his bootstraps was the
classically impossible task. Yet, given a lever of sufficient size
and strength, Archimedes had calculated, a man could move
the world. Similarly, Ben reasoned, successfully pulling himself up by his bootstraps, would require the application of
existing or invented financial technology.
To build wealth sufficient to his own desires and ambition,
he would need to leverage his position. This meant he would
have to borrow money, either on the basis of collateral, or by
convincing others of the value of investments he suggested.
In either case, he would have to make a favorable impression
on the leading men of Los Angeles commerce and finance.
And if he were to make his way among these more substantial, publicly upstanding citizens, in a city whose upper echelons
remained notoriously if rather hypocritically strait-laced, Ben
Weingart would have to be appropriately married.
Stella Shobe was the spinster daughter of the owner of the
boarding house where Ben lived in Boyle Heights. Born in
Missouri, on November 15, 1881, she was the sister of a young
man he had met in San Francisco before coming to Los
Angeles. Like Ben, Stella had been raised a Christian Scientist.
Unlike him, she was formally educated and “well bred.”
Ben Weingart and Stella Shobe were married in the city of
Santa Ana, Orange County, California, on Monday, April 23,
1917. Ben was twenty-eight years old. Stella was thirty-five.
Matching photographs, evidently taken to commemorate
their wedding, reveal the pragmatic mutual selection of a
clearly complementary couple. Yet the individual characteristics and personalities of the pair seem starkly and remarkably
divergent.
In his photo, twenty-eight-year-old Ben Weingart obviously
36
Ben and Stella’s wedding portraits, 1917.
brims, indeed, overflows with effervescent energy. Though
his aspect is sober, his demeanor serious, the light in his eyes
radiates a palpable and compelling self-confidence. Also apparent
is a certain ironic sense of humor, the sort likely to make him
more than welcome in a gathering of worldly, optimistic,
active men. This pragmatic, essentially cheerful outlook seems
equally likely to find favor among exuberant and adventurous
women. Like his personality, Ben’s features are solid, unambiguous, substantial. Compared to those of his wife, however,
they seem somewhat raw-boned, if not coarse.
At thirty-five, Stella Shobe Weingart is undeniably a lovely
woman. Her aspect is that of a natural aristocrat. Her
demeanor is at once simple and elegant. Absent the abundant
passion emanating from Ben’s visage, her own eyes glow
nonetheless with the constant warmth of higher sentiments.
Her sensibilities are subtle and refined. Her intelligence appears
profound. Her features are firm and regular, attractive. Her
gaze is steady, penetrating, in fact, hauntingly wan. Stella is,
above all, steadfast. She seems the sort of woman respected
by men, if always from a distance, admired and appreciated
best by other women, seldom if ever truly known by or available to either.
37
A passionate zest for life, in all its possibilities and permutations, is frankly apparent on Ben’s open, eager face. He exudes
a voracious appetite for experience and confidence in his
ability to master whatever challenges and opportunities that
life might send his way.
Stella is decidedly more reticent, reserved, if not withdrawn. She seems the sort of person capable of living a rich,
rewarding life all but entirely within herself, at once secure
and fulfilled within the nurturing confines of home and hearth.
Ben seems to have something to prove to the world; and
he is eager to do so, impatient to get on with life. Stella seems
to attend life demurely, content to wait for experience to come
to her, serene in the contemplation of an uncertain future.
In many ways, given the mores and expectations of the
time, Ben and Stella made a well-matched, well-balanced, and
entirely appropriate couple. In personality and temperament,
they each provided much of what the other lacked. They
completed one another. They each expanded the life
prospects of the other. To the extent that the outcome of
such alliances can ever be predicted, both could be said to
have married thoughtfully and married well.
❖
As the population of Los Angeles inexorably expanded, at a
rate little diminished by either the Mexican Revolution or the
First World War, at the same time enhanced by the burgeoning
motion picture industry, Ben’s laundry business and hotels
both prospered. He and Stella lived in Boyle Heights, across
the street from Art Hochshield, an erstwhile competitor in
providing laundry services, who would prove to be a lifelong
friend.
Yet Ben’s naturally restless, constantly creative intelligence
inevitably sought new ways to make money. After more than
a decade in Los Angeles, he had managed to establish himself
as a diligent, determined, imaginative, and trustworthy
businessman. Though hardly a tightwad, he manifested a
remarkable knack for stretching a dollar. Concepts and practices of efficiency and productivity later taught as revealed
38
truths in prestigious business schools seemed instinctive and
inherent to Ben Weingart.
Moreover, sooner than most, he had developed a reputation
as not only the earliest bird in the garden, but one with
unerring instincts as to where and how the juiciest and most
nutritious worms might be unearthed. Ben often found
opportunity in enterprises that others either disdained or
overlooked. If this caused some to consider him a bottomfeeder in the turbulent seas of Los Angeles business and
finance, he did not mind.
After all, he reasoned, he had to feed somewhere. And
those portions of the seabed that lacked appeal for others
were consequently all the easier for him to harvest productively. Meanwhile, living frugally, the more money he made,
the more he saved. And the more money he had, the more
he would one day be taken seriously by those establishment
financiers who, for the moment, were unlikely to give him
the time of day.
A pattern was developing for Ben, an instinctive business
plan. Think of it as the “Lemons-to-Lemonade Gambit.”
Essentially, his vision involved creating win-win situations.
The specifics often varied. The fundamentals seldom did.
Take other people’s problems off their hands. Reduce their
exposure; increase your own potential equity. Minimize
inherent risk; maximize ultimate profit. Live frugally. Work
like hell. And keep your fingers crossed. This would prove to
be a pattern repeated to his own and generally mutual
advantage for more than fifty years.
❖
Meanwhile, with characteristic foresight, not to mention an
irrepressible sense of mischief, Ben continued to find, indeed,
manufacture opportunity where others might have experienced only frustration and thwarted hopes. He looked around
Los Angeles, a dozen or so years after his own arrival, and
saw in the constantly increasing numbers of immigrants not
only potential tenants for his cheap yet invariably clean, safe,
and honestly managed hotels, not only more sheets and
39
pillowcases to launder every day, but also, somewhere among
the hoards of new arrivals, he felt certain, people much like
himself. Ambitious, hard-working, imaginative, as yet unestablished working people and potential entrepreneurs, for the
moment alone and with few resources in an unknown city,
who could use some help now and then, perhaps even profit
from it, and who were, all things considered, worth the risk.
The leading banks and brokerage houses of Los Angeles
were strung along Spring Street like perfect cultured pearls on
the necklace of an unattainable woman of means. These temples
of high finance actively vied with one another to present the
most imposing façade. Classical designs, marble columns,
heavy ornate doors. Everything about the buildings and the
system that they served seemed designed to keep those not
already a part of it at their proper and respectful distance.
Out on the street, it was a different story. Out on the
street, people actually had to work for a living. Most of them,
in fact, had to struggle. Ben Weingart worked the street.
Before long, he became known as a man who would lend
money, on fair terms, to people who actually needed it. He
would listen to a stranger. Hear him out. Size him up man to
man. He would take time to assess an investment, calculate
its potential rate of return.
Seldom if ever any collateral. No pedigree required.
All of this was based on the borrower’s apparent
intelligence, his self-evident character. And Ben Weingart’s
willingness to trust his own instincts as regarded his fellow man.
The deal could be overnight. It could be for weeks or for
months. Even years. With the most minute notes, almost in
code, the terms were recorded in a little book Ben kept
inside his coat pocket.
Then, in a delicious twist on the usual state of business
affairs, Ben would escort his client inside the nearest imposing
edifice of high finance. There, in the marble-pillared foyer, if
not yet the inner sanctum, they would seal their bargain with
a handshake.
Along Spring Street, in the Los Angeles of the 1910s, this
scenario occurred countless times. As he went about his
business, Ben Weingart made it a point, whenever possible,
40
to help not only himself, but also help his fellow man. Soon
enough, his growing reputation for probity and soundness as
a judge not only of business opportunity, but also of personal
character would begin to pay large dividends.
Meanwhile, along Spring Street, functioning as a curbside
lender of first and last resort, he had found a way to steal a
march on the local moguls of finance. And he had discovered
yet another way to increase steadily his own no longer
insubstantial capital.
41
Spring Street, downtown Los Angeles. This 1920s view of the “Wall Street of the
West” looks north from Seventh Street. The building in the lower right is the Pacific
Stock Exchange.
42
Part one — chapter five
Inclined To Succeed
T
he years just before, during, and after World War I
coincided with an era of progressive politics in Los Angeles
and California generally. Although widely hailed as an era of
good government, one that instituted many of the forms and
practices of public oversight of powerful institutions
pioneered by Californians, it proved to be a time lamented, if
not excoriated, by many of the men whose foresight, efforts,
and energy had brought water, public transportation, schools,
hospitals, libraries, electricity, sewers, a major harbor, and
hundreds of thousands of citizens to Los Angeles.
The original Anglo settlers, most of whom had arrived in
Los Angeles as young men in the decade following the Civil
War, many of whom had profited handsomely from their
civic vision, concerted action, determination, and good luck,
were now being replaced by a new generation of whom they
did not entirely approve. Old-timers such as civil attorney and
banker Jackson A. Graves had first come to Los Angeles
when the city was little more than a dusty pueblo of 11,000,
including Indians and Chinese. The principal industry had
then been cattle ranching. The economy had repeatedly been
afflicted by drought. The population had often been held
hostage to virulent disease, and many had been lost to smallpox.
When Graves and his compatriots first arrived, Los Angeles
had been a brawling cow-town, where hopeless Indians were
paid in firewater and celebrated their incipient demise with
raucous, drunken gatherings on the outskirts of town. Most
of the old Californio landowners of Mexican origin were
then being systematically defrauded or otherwise dispossessed
of their extensive land holdings. Chinese railroad workers and
43
others of their race were feared, detested, and at least once
massacred. The new elite, for fifty years, would be mainly
white, Anglo-Saxon, and Protestant, primarily Methodist. Yet
there had almost always been room for men of energy who
were Jewish or Catholic. Compared to Indians and Asians,
blacks were welcome and might expect to prosper, up to a
point, almost as well as most whites.
Yet in the first two decades of the century, the influx of
immigrants numbering in the hundreds of thousands — among
them Ben Weingart — had changed too much for Anglo oldtimers like Jackson Graves to suffer in silence. On Saturday,
September 9, 1922, in celebration of his impending seventieth
birthday, Graves invited some 150 of the most influential men
of the city to a stag dinner at his fifty-acre estate in Alhambra.
From O’Melveny to Dunn to Crutcher, from Otis to
Chandler to Keck, from Clark to Doheny to Gaffey, from
Eisner to Newlin to Hellman, from Jacoby to Levy to
Goldwater, from Mulholland to Banning to Van Nuys, the
list of gentlemen in attendance represented the business and
financial elite of Los Angeles.
Graves proposed a toast to those other luminaries who had
helped him celebrate his sixtieth birthday ten years previously
but were no longer among the living. He asked the vital
assembled to drink to their memories and to the repose of
their souls. Among these thirty-one departed, all hailed as
good friends of Graves, were Guy Barham, Adna Chaffee,
Kaspare Cohn, T.L. Duque, Abe Haas, Isaias Hellman,
Harrison Gray Otis, R.A. Rowan, and Nate Wilshire.
Graves’s remarks on the occasion — fundamentally a paean
to a bygone age of lost innocence and moral rectitude —
ranged from a detailed history of land ownership in and
around the Los Angeles of his youth, to charming reminiscences and heartfelt expressions of gratitude to the men who
had sponsored and recommended him at the outset of his
career, to vitriolic denunciations of what he perceived to be
the ruinous, foreign, socialist political and syndicalist forces at
work in California. These remarks, as constantly instructive as
they were occasionally caustic, were preserved, along with
the guest list, in a commemorative program.
44
inclined to succeed
Ben Weingart, then age thirty-four, was not among the
invited.
Yet fifty years later, when he himself was in his eighties,
when he himself had made more money, had built and overseen more of Los Angeles than many of those men combined,
a program from that 1922 dinner was one of the few mementos
to be found among the personal papers of Ben Weingart.
How had he acquired a copy of Graves’s remarks and guest
list? Why did he keep the program close at hand? Was it for
the history of Los Angeles real estate that it contained? Was it
for the program’s utility as a Who’s Who guide? Was it for
the inspiration he derived from the reminiscences of an earlier
age in Southern California? Was it to remind himself of the
elite company from which he had been excluded?
Whatever the answers to these questions, it seems clear that
Jackson A. Graves and his illustrious cohort, at their ease
under the stars in Alhambra, somehow, over the years,
offered both intellectual springboard and emotional anchor to
Ben Weingart. For even as the self-congratulatory Old Guard
celebrated, Ben had already begun to lay the groundwork for
his own real estate and financial empire in Southern
California.
❖
Certainly compared to Graves, an egotist of the first order,
as well as to many another Los Angeles “mover and shaker,”
Ben Weingart’s great advantage was his essential modesty.
Ben took his work seriously, but seldom, if ever, himself.
He was blessed with a wry sense of humor, often enough
self-deprecating, a positive outlook that would help to see
him through professional triumphs that might easily sway the
judgment or inflate the ego of a man more self-involved. At
the same time, this basically cheerful, ironic perspective on
human beings and their endeavors helped him to endure
calamities that could readily shatter the self-confidence of a
man less fundamentally sound.
Moreover, from the beginning, Ben knew the value of
relative anonymity. Not for him the celebrity of the narcissist.
45
Better to function with that agility purchased at the expense
of pride.
His needs were few. His tastes were simple. His desires
mundane. He was content to rise early, think clearly, work
hard. His practice was to eat simply and in moderation, in
accordance with the Christian Science prescriptions to which
he had been raised. While he absolutely eschewed tobacco and
alcohol, he evidently occasionally indulged in other “vices.”
Yet his greatest pleasure clearly lay in making money. And
Ben was not a trader. His interest was much less in manipulating markets for short-term profit than in making deals that
steadily increased his equity, investing in and holding real
properties for the long term, all the while judiciously leveraging
his accumulated wealth.
❖
On November 1, 1923, Ben and Stella Weingart met in a
lawyer’s office. There they both signed a document, soon to
be duly notarized. It took seven pages and twenty-eight paragraphs to specify the agreement they had reached.
Noting that “the parties hereto desire to settle and forever
adjust their present and future property rights,” Ben and Stella
agreed that both would forgo their rights to community property. They agreed that each would maintain separate accounts
and that any and all property in either person’s name would
pertain to his or her account alone, thereby allowing Ben to
deal in his properties without Stella’s signature.
Ben agreed to pay Stella three hundred dollars a month for
as long as both might live. He also agreed that he would
make suitable provision for the support of Stella in his will,
said support to be no less than $300 a month. If they decided
to divorce, Ben agreed, he would, at his discretion, either pay
Stella a lump sum of $25,000 or continue to pay her $300 a
month. In those days, $300 was equivalent to at least $3,000
today. In today’s money, $25,000 was worth a quarter of
a million.
Among the preliminary “whereas” clauses was one of
particularly poignant grace and charm. It noted that the parties
46
inclined to succeed
expected to live together as husband and wife until the death
of either, “but, realizing the uncertainty of life and that
human love and affections often change in the usual course of
human events....” Clearly, the bloom was off the connubial rose.
Paragraph sixteen noted that the fact that the parties were
then living together as husband and wife, maintaining marital
relations, and expected to do so in the future “shall not in
any manner affect the present or future validity of this agreement.” Nor should the fact that Ben might then or at any
other time maintain Stella at a level beyond the specified
obligation ever be construed to create any additional obligation on his part.
Significantly, paragraph sixteen also noted that the document
had been drafted at the request of “the party of the
second part,” to wit, Stella Weingart, who “hereby acknowledges complete satisfaction with all of the agreements, terms,
and conditions....” Finally, both parties agreed that “no
[future] act or conduct of the parties...shall affect the validity
of, or abrogate or terminate this agreement.”
How and why does such a spousal bargain come to be
legally documented? It may be that Ben’s burgeoning
businesses required a degree of flexibility and responsiveness
that precluded the existence of legally cumbersome community
property.
What is telling is that, however much Ben was determined
to maintain his freedom of association and the security and
comfort that such freedom might afford him, he seems to
have been equally determined to fulfill his responsibility to
provide for Stella’s own security and comfort. To Ben, in his
personal life as well as in business, the best deal was a good
deal for all concerned.
This instinct toward gallantry had been previously manifested
in his devotion to his crippled stepsister. It would be seen
again in his later efforts to make safe, clean, affordable housing
available to elderly single women, including the mother of his
stepsister, whom he would support financially for many years.
If always in his fashion, Ben would prove similarly
gallant, true, and loyal to a number of women friends, in a
variety of circumstances and relationships.
47
❖
In business as in pleasure, Ben was cautious, but he followed
his instincts. And he made it his practice not to look back. If
a deal went sour, he looked to the next deal. No use (and no
time) to cry over spilt milk.
One reason for Ben’s determination not to overextend himself financially, a cause of his judicious circumspection, may
be found in the experience of the Los Angeles Investment
Company. Founded in 1899, seven years before Ben’s arrival,
the LAIC was basically a real estate mutual fund that offered
an apparently secure investment vehicle by means of which
less well-heeled Angelenos might transport themselves into
the stratosphere of soaring profits realized by wealthy speculators in Southern California land. At its height, LAIC was the
most successful subdivider of land in and around the city,
having sold hundreds of new homes with easily affordable
mortgage payments and owning thousands of acres of undeveloped land, as well as land and buildings downtown.
The club was the brainchild of Charles Elder, a musician
whose day job was with the Orpheum Theater orchestra. For
fifteen years, its success was widely hailed and celebrated, as
it rode the evidently ever-swelling wave of land values in and
around Los Angeles. Like the city in which it did business,
LAIC’s fatal flaw was its greatest strength: an unbridled,
buoyant optimism that failed to consider a fundamental law of
gravity — what goes up must (or at least may) come down.
The fund was honestly if somewhat less than competently
managed. In 1913, Elder won praise from Los Angeles Mayor
George Alexander and other civic leaders for his role as a
benefactor to the common man. In 1914, when the prevailing
real estate bubble burst, an overextended LAIC collapsed, and
he was sentenced to Federal prison for mail fraud, Elder still
enjoyed strong support among people at all levels of Los
Angeles society. The Times noted editorially that the growth
of the fund had not only matched that of the city, but had
actually exceeded the market, falling victim only to its own
momentum when the economic winds shifted too suddenly.
So significant to the prosperity of Los Angeles was the
48
inclined to succeed
LAIC that sober-minded civic leaders formed a communitybased board of directors to attempt to salvage the company.
The well-respected panel included such luminaries as
Stoddard Jess, J. E. Fishburn, D. A. Hamburger, Henry
O’Melveny, Joseph Scott, William Allen, Jr., Harry Chandler,
and Robert Rowan — all men of the sort who would later
make the short list for Jackson Graves’s birthday dinner. After
many months of effort to salvage what could be saved of the
company, they managed to pull just enough fat from the fire,
avoiding a bankruptcy that might well have brought down
the entire local economy, itself overextended on municipal debt.
To an observant young businessman like Ben Weingart,
certain lessons to be learned from the LAIC imbroglio must
have seemed obvious: Timing is (almost) everything.
Conservative fiscal tactics must undergird an essentially
optimistic investment strategy. As much as possible, refrain
from placing yourself at the mercy of forces beyond your
control. Eschew excess. Never panic. Avoid equally greed
and fear.
Nonetheless, one fear was ever present. In Ben’s chosen
city, it was unavoidable. And the more property he leased,
managed, and ultimately owned, the more he grew susceptible
to that singular and constant trepidation: earthquake. In later
years, his friends would say, it seemed to be the only potential
trauma that truly worried him.
Of course, in California, fear of earthquakes is perfectly
reasonable. All the more so if one’s fortune is to a significant
extent at risk because it is largely based on the value of
increasingly aged and vulnerable structures. Yet with Ben, the
fear seemed to run deeper.
When he first came to Los Angeles, the year was 1906. At
daybreak, on April 18th of that year, a devastating earthquake,
its epicenter under the waters of the bay, jolted, shook, and
destroyed much of San Francisco. Measuring greater than
magnitude eight, that earthquake (along with the terrible fire
that ensued) was the greatest natural calamity ever to have
struck in the history of the United States.
Though the quake did damage even in San Diego, more
than six hundred miles to the south of the Bay Area, for
49
some reason, it was scarcely felt in Los Angeles, which
escaped from the catastrophe hardly scratched. Nonetheless,
panic-stricken tourists and even local residents crowded Los
Angeles railway stations, desperate to catch the first available
train to the East. The curse of California was more than they
could bear.
Where Ben Weingart was on April 18, 1906, is uncertain. It
is known that he lived and worked for a short while in San
Francisco prior to his arrival in Los Angeles. Was he actually
in the city on the fateful day? Was it in fact the great quake
that precipitated Ben’s decision to make his home in Los
Angeles, unscathed by the disaster? Or did he simply count
his blessings to have headed south just in time?
Whether or not Ben directly experienced the San Francisco
earthquake of 1906, the specter of its sudden devastation was
to haunt him the rest of his life. Yet, once having made an
investment, Ben’s habit was to ride it out.
❖
By the onset of World War I, downtown Los Angeles had,
with the rest of the city, begun shifting south and west.
Along Spring Street between Fourth and Seventh, many of
the financial district buildings scaled new heights, scraping the
thirteen-story, 150-foot limit prescribed by law. Major department stores like Hamburger’s, precursor to the May
Company, and Bullock’s set up shop on Broadway, as far
south as Eighth Street. Their competitor, J.W. Robinson,
went even farther west, to Seventh and Grand.
The city limits had expanded to include the old Fair
Grounds, renamed Exposition Park, from which southern
limit a half-mile wide strip of land paralleling the railroad
track to San Pedro had been officially incorporated into Los
Angeles. Thanks to U.S. Senator Stephen M. White and
other civic leaders who had refused to be held hostage by
Collis P. Huntington and his Southern Pacific, a deep-water
harbor had been dredged in San Pedro, paid for in large
measure by Federal funds, as well as yet another multi-million
dollar issue of city bonds.
50
inclined to succeed
Morocco, once a relatively desolate way-station among
wheat fields and wild mustard along the Red Car electric trolley
line to Santa Monica, had begun to attract upscale residents
after 1907, when the fields were subdivided and developed,
and the town was renamed Beverly. The following year,
other “western” real estate was subdivided and developed for
residential view lots all the way from a road not yet called
Sunset Boulevard to the top of Laurel Canyon, more familiar
to tourists than to Angelenos from the trackless electric
trolley run up to the Lookout Mountain Inn, a resort hotel at
the top of the ridge.
For at least another decade, “El Camino Viejo” would
remain a country lane, until it was developed in the early
1920s into an upscale shopping district newly accessible by
motor car. The visionaries who first realized and gambled that
people would henceforth not only walk but drive to department
stores were realtor A.W. Ross and his wealthy investment
partner, H. Gaylord Wilshire, in whose honor the new
“boulevard” was named.
Yet even in the preceding decade, to the west and north of
downtown, upstart motion picture moguls such as William
Selig and Mack Sennett were already busy building sound
stages and back lots around Echo Park. Soon the burgeoning
industry had branched out into Santa Monica, where Thomas
Ince first filmed William S. Hart westerns, and Culver City,
where Ince later located his studios. Other movie-making
companies, notably Paramount, headed by Adolph Zukor,
and United Artists, founded by actors Douglas Fairbanks,
Mary Pickford, Charlie Chaplin, and director D.W. Griffith,
preferred the easy-going ambiance of the crossroads village of
Hollywood. Carl Laemmle’s Universal Pictures had even
ventured over the hills and down into the valley to the north.
Though the new business and job opportunities provided
by the burgeoning industry might have been considered
welcome, many of the principals and even the very nature of
the motion picture show business were frowned upon by an
essentially sober and seriously Methodist Los Angeles. In fact,
having attracted somewhat more than they had bargained for,
many civic leaders began to rue the excesses of the Chamber
51
of Commerce in ballyhooing the splendid local weather,
claimed to provide 350 sunny days a year.
Lured by the sunshine, the moviemakers made Los Angeles
their mecca. Lured by the glamour of the movies, many a
vain young man and every pretty shopgirl in the nation
suddenly seemed compelled to make his or her naive pilgrimage
to Los Angeles. Disappointed in their dreams of stardom,
penniless, and a long way from home, many young women
felt that they were left with little choice but to market their
youth and beauty more directly.
As early as 1898, the city had accepted a gift from the
undeniably generous if eccentric and occasionally psychotic
land-baron Griffith J. Griffith, who managed to discard 3,000
acres he considered worthless by providing a vast park for the
citizens of Los Angeles to enjoy. In 1912, having served
prison time for the attempted murder of his wife, Griffith
further bequeathed to Los Angeles funds to construct an
observatory on Mount Hollywood in his park. Four years
later, in 1916, G. Allan Hancock, owner of La Brea Ranch,
west of the then-existing city limits, made a thirty-five-acre
gift of the Brea Tar Pits to the County of Los Angeles. Both
Hancock’s and Griffith’s gifts had the effect of attracting
development to the west of downtown.
Having arrived in the city some thirty years later than these
civic benefactors, Ben Weingart still chose to focus his attention
in the area that he knew best, downtown Los Angeles. In
part, no doubt, he took this decision because he so far lacked
the capital for major development at or beyond existing city
limits. In part, perhaps, because he could leverage his way
into an equity position in downtown hotels whose owners,
managers, clientele, and practices he had come to know well
through daily contact in his laundry business. In part, perhaps,
because he could see that new arrivals to the city, whose
numbers kept increasing every year, needed shelter near the
railroad stations where they first disembarked into the storied
Southern California sunshine, near also to the stores and
offices where they were most likely to find work.
These newest Californians, he probably reckoned, the lucky
ones, would soon enough move on to long-term boarding
52
inclined to succeed
houses, then maybe begin to look for an apartment. The
more fortunate among them might someday be able to afford
and buy a home of their own. But the immigrants and
visitors who constituted the widest and most reliable market
were those among the steady and predictable mass of new
arrivals and business travelers who needed immediate shelter
in downtown Los Angeles. That was where Ben’s frugality,
efficient management, and scrupulous attention to detail
might best and most predictably pay off. Meanwhile, despite
the LAIC fiasco to the contrary, the value of Los Angeles real
estate kept rising.
It took the United States almost three years to get accustomed
to the war in Europe. Those three years may have saved Ben
Weingart’s life. In June, 1914, when Archduke Franz
Ferdinand of Austria-Hungary was assassinated in Sarajevo,
Ben was only twenty-five years old. By the time that the
sinking of the Lusitania and a growing drumbeat of patriotic
propaganda finally overcame the nation’s isolationist instincts,
he was almost twenty-nine.
Yet many young men of his age eagerly made their way to
the glorious carnage. Why not Ben? For one thing, he was
newly married. For another, his arches and ankles had already
broken down from thirteen years of hauling heavy loads of
laundry up and down the stairs of hotels and boarding houses.
For yet another, those who went were mainly volunteers; and
Ben had already made his way as an American to a point as
far removed from the turmoil of Europe as was geographically
and emotionally possible. Whatever his reasons, he chose not
to join the one in ten American soldiers who became a casualty
of the war in less than a year of brutal, ultimately unavailing
combat.
Before witnessing the horrors of trench warfare in the charnel
house of Europe, many of the doughboys passed through Los
Angeles. San Diego was designated as one of sixteen cantonments in the nation, a training site where soldiers from
California, Nevada, Utah, Arizona, and New Mexico all
gathered. On their way to and from San Diego, almost all of
these young men passed through Los Angeles. When the war
was over, many of them chose to return. Watching the troop
53
trains come and go, seeing many of those soldiers come back
to live in Los Angeles, Ben Weingart made a mental note.
Thirty years later, it would prove to be a memory that served
him well.
❖
With the end of the First World War, Los Angeles, along
with most of the nation, soon began to enjoy a new wave of
prosperity. In Huntington Beach, one of the largest oil strikes
ever made in Southern California gushed money beginning in
1920. For decades after, the local beaches seemed home to
more oil derricks than to sea gulls and surfers combined.
The film industry — already known generically as
“Hollywood,” though actually widely dispersed around Los
Angeles — increased its financial significance to the region,
taking self-censorious steps to overcome the bad publicity of
recurring scandals.
Willingly sacrificing a few of its more notoriously selfindulgent stars, the industry, thus effectively harnessed and
bridled, made many millions for its principals, contributed
thousands of jobs to the local economy, and continued to
lend glamour and frank sex appeal to a city that had previously
prided itself on public prudishness.
During the 1920s, drawn once again to the climate and the
open land, yet another new industry began to soar into the
sunny skies over Los Angeles. In 1910, only seven years since
the Wright brothers success at Kitty Hawk, almost 20,000
spectators had attended America’s first international air meet,
held at Dominguez Field, south of Los Angeles. A decade
later, aviation pioneers of design and mass production, among
them Jack Northrup, Donald Douglas, and the Lockheed
brothers, all had set up fledgling factories near the city.
Such was the spiritual hunger of immigrant Angelenos that,
having founded a Los Angeles-based ministry in the Four
Square Gospel Church with her last $100 in 1921, Evangelist
Aimee Semple McPherson soon managed to finance and
build 5,300-seat Angelus Temple just north of Echo Park.
Her entertaining sermons were broadcast on radio throughout
54
inclined to succeed
the region, and Sister Aimee became a national phenomenon
before running afoul of the city’s rather more decorous and
stern Protestant establishment.
Relatively affluent Angelenos, Ben Weingart now among
them, were increasingly enjoying automobile transportation.
In fact, so many of them were whipping along outlying
thoroughfares that roadside traffic courts were set up to dispense
immediate and efficient judgment to drivers over-eager to
achieve their destinations.
On its Venice Short Line, the Pacific Electric offered a
50-minute trolley trip from Hill Street downtown direct to
Venice Beach. So many citizens made the excursion that, on
summer holiday weekends in Venice, few of these oceangoing sun worshippers could actually see the sand.
By 1925, in keeping with its originally self-proclaimed but
increasingly acknowledged status as a major American
metropolis, Los Angeles had begun construction of a modern
city hall. Such was the city’s confidence that it was destined
to surpass San Francisco as the leading urban center in the
state, that civic leaders determined that the mortar used in its
construction should consist of sand from every county in
California, mixed with water from all twenty-one of the
state’s Spanish missions. Flouting its own height-limit rule,
the city’s new government building more than doubled the
existing standard, thrusting fully twenty-eight stories into the
still-blue skies.
Through it all, more and more people kept coming. The
city kept growing, mainly to the south and west, but also
northwest into the San Fernando Valley. And Los Angeles
real estate, Ben Weingart’s holdings included, continued to
increase in value.
Ben continued systematically to expand (and hold onto) his
investments. Not only was he increasingly invested in downtown Los Angeles real estate, he also had maintained his
ownership of the local laundry company that had first
employed him. Though never one to trumpet his own
accomplishments, Ben’s quiet, self-effacing success had already
developed for him something of a reputation in local business
and financial circles.
55
In regard both to people and investments, he was known as
a man of sound judgment and shrewd instincts. He was
known to be open to making a deal, unafraid to try new
ventures he considered promising. He was known as an
excellent manager, one who wasted neither time nor money.
He was known as a man who always met his obligations and
who paid his bills on time. He was known to be fair-minded,
even-tempered, and good-humored. He was known to be
sober, energetic, and hard-working, a man whose intense
intellectual curiosity was matched by his physical vigor. He
was known to be honest, known to keep his word. In short,
Ben Weingart was the kind of man with whom one might,
profitably and pleasurably, do business.
One of those who saw Ben as an able and effective partner
was Victor Montgomery, himself destined to become something of a legend in the insurance business. In 1923,
Montgomery served as Chief Deputy Insurance Commissioner
for the State of California. As such, he was acquainted with
William Kilgore, the affable and flamboyant manager of and
chief lobbyist for the California Laundry Owners’
Association. Prominent among the laundry owners was Ben
Weingart.
At the time, one of the principal functions of the laundry
owners’ association was to make workmen’s compensation
insurance available to its members by means of a reciprocal
agreement. The association formed an insurance company
that was licensed to write insurance for its members. The
owners of the member companies were thus protected from
catastrophic losses if an employee were injured on the job.
The association’s insurance company was subject to regulation by the California Department of Insurance, a function in
which Victor Montgomery was involved.
In whose mind the idea first found fertile ground remains
unclear. What is certain is that three distinct ambitions and
abilities coalesced to mutual benefit. Montgomery decided to
relinquish his position in public service. Immediately, Victor
Montgomery, William Kilgore, and Ben Weingart agreed to
form the Pacific Employers’ Insurance Company. Montgomery
was named president; Kilgore vice-president. Ben Weingart
56
inclined to succeed
was secretary-treasurer. The first client of their new company
was the California Laundry Owners’ Association.
With Weingart investing funds for the capitalization of
Pacific Employers’ Insurance, Montgomery at the executive
helm, and Kilgore providing entrée to legislators and businessmen alike, especially in the heady economic atmosphere of
the 1920s, the company soon prospered. By the late 1920s,
Ben Weingart was not only a laundry owner, a real estate
investor, and a small-business lender, but also a major shareholder in one of California’s fastest growing insurance companies. Indeed, some years later, Pacific Employers’ would be
acquired by Insurance Company of North America (INA),
one of the largest insurance companies in the world.
As did ever increasing numbers of Americans, Ben began to
invest in the stock market. He was characteristically cautious,
much preferring the tangible asset of real estate. Nonetheless,
he did make it a point to follow the stock market.
One morning in 1928, in a stock broker’s office on Spring
Street, Ben happened to meet a vivacious and attractive
young woman who compelled his attention more than most.
From the moment of their first encounter, over the ensuing
fifty-two years, come what might, Hazel Walsh and Ben
Weingart would maintain a friendship that was mutually
devoted and constantly affectionate.
Meanwhile, the good times rolled on. Harry Chandler,
successor to Colonel H.G. Otis as publisher of the Times,
continued in the family tradition of heaping praise upon
William Mulholland while profiting from his skills. In
December, 1924, the opening of Mulholland Drive, a twentytwo-mile stretch of road along the crest of the Santa Monica
Mountains, running from the Sepulveda Pass to the
Cahuenga, at once increased the value of lands that Chandler
owned and was more widely celebrated as continuing
evidence of Mulholland’s engineering genius.
Unfortunately, less than four years later, the San
Francisquito Dam that Mulholland had designed for his
aqueduct some twenty years earlier suddenly gave way. In the
catastrophic accident, hundreds of lives were lost. In retrospect, the dam’s collapse might have been seen as portentous,
57
not only for the dreamers and builders of Los Angeles, but
for countless others across the nation and the world.
On his forty-first birthday, in the early autumn of 1929, Ben
Weingart’s net worth, he later calculated, stood at somewhat
more than four million dollars. Starting from scratch, it had
taken him twenty-three years of all but constant effort to
build what was, for Los Angeles, a modest fortune. In less
than a single year, almost all of it was gone.
58
Part one — chapter six
Hard Times &
A Modest Proposal
P
eople who had lost less were jumping out of windows.
Characteristically, even before the dust from the Crash of
‘29 had settled, Ben Weingart surveyed his surroundings and
tried to figure out a way to make money in the midst of
mayhem, to pick up the lemons that were left and sell some
lemonade. As ever, he was pragmatic. And determinedly
optimistic. The way he saw it, he really had no other choice.
Hindsight was a luxury that Ben could ill afford. Even
many years later, when he was a vastly wealthy man, whenever
a deal would go sour, he would always be onto the next
possibility, even while others were still lamenting their losses.
“Never worry about losing a deal,” he advised. “There’s
always another one around the corner.”
Throughout his life, Ben Weingart made it his habit to
keep turning those corners, always to keep looking ahead.
That way, he was ever alert for new opportunity, ever
beyond the pains of the past. In this regard, he was the paradigmatic citizen of Los Angeles, City of the Second Chance.
In the 1960s, an associate of Ben’s recalled, he once saw
Ben actually laughing when a deal had fallen through, leaving
Ben holding a bag with a hole in the bottom and several
hundred thousand dollars, if not millions, poorer. His colleague,
Sol Price, was incredulous, even angry.
“How can you just laugh it off?” Price demanded. “We just
lost a bundle.”
Ben laughed all the harder.
“Listen, Sol,” he finally responded, “if crying would bring
59
back that money, I’d cry you a bathtub of tears.”
Soon, Price too was laughing.
“And don’t ever forget that,” Ben jokingly admonished.
Which Price never did.
“Now let’s get some lunch.”
That day, as usual, Price remembered, Ben dined on peanut
butter and jelly. And thoroughly enjoyed the meal.
Wealth, with its attendant responsibilities and obligations,
was never taken for granted by Ben Weingart. Having experienced both ends of the spectrum, however, he managed to
keep money in perspective. It was a wonderful thing to have,
he affirmed. Yet, if necessary, one could always do without it.
During the early years of the Depression, while others were
shirking financial responsibilities as rapidly as possible, Ben
determined not only to hold the line, but also, whenever
possible, to pick up the slack. First of all, he vowed to hold
onto his laundry company and keep his employees on staff.
There would no doubt be missed paydays, he told them, but
there would be no layoffs.
Repaying his loyalty, Ben’s employees stuck with him,
through thick and thin. Of course, as the Depression deepened, they probably had little choice. But they did more than
just show up for work. Knowing they were up against it, all
of them — including the boss — in the same boat, many of
Ben’s employees decided to pool the meager resources left to
them as individuals and entrust everything they had to Ben.
Apparently, they believed that he would know best what to
do with whatever money they had left. They had confidence
that, if anyone could find a way out of the prevailing economic
mess, it would be Ben. They felt confident he would not lose
their money. Hoping against hope, they even trusted him to
make their money grow. And he did not let them down.
Elsewhere, as things went from bad to worse, Los Angeles
bankers and financiers found themselves inundated with foreclosed commercial properties whose putative owners had
proven unable to meet their mortgage payments. Especially as
regarded downtown hotels, the banks and other mortgage
lenders were property rich, cash poor, and burdened with
management obligations for which they were both unskilled
60
hard times & a modest proposal
and ill prepared, as well as subject to operational costs and
property taxes that they could ill afford. Their only option
seemed to be to sell at ten cents (or less) on the dollar.
Sensing opportunity where others perceived disaster, Ben
Weingart was quick to offer them a more attractive alternative.
Ben went in to talk things over with the money men.
Adroitly conducting a variation on the theme of his experiences fifteen and twenty years before with Orth and others,
his basic plan was to relieve the financiers of their immediate
management burdens, instead provide them with a modest
income on the properties, and ultimately, with a lot of work
and a little luck, create value for all concerned.
He proposed that, for a period of time, he would manage
for them certain foreclosed properties, mostly downtown
hotels whose efficient operation he knew well, while the
bank or mortgage company maintained ownership. In return,
the reluctant owners would provide him options to purchase
those hotels at depressed 1932 prices, the options to be exercised
or relinquished in ten years.
First to take him up on the deal was Morgan Adams, head
of Western Mortgage Company, at the time, the second
largest such firm in the nation. By this time, word had gotten
around about Ben Weingart. He was no longer an unproven
quantity. Yet, more than most, Adams seems to have been
the kind of man willing to factor intelligence and integrity
into the financial equation.
On a somewhat larger scale, Adams made basically the same
bargain with Ben that Orth had found attractive years before.
Western Mortgage held the deeds to several downtown
hotels, many of which had been losing money and now
seemed destined to lose more for years to come. Ultimately
forced to foreclose on the mortgages, Adams did not relish
the idea of being saddled with the day-to-day management of
these investments.
To get out from under that potential burden, meanwhile to
staunch the flow of red ink, perhaps someday to show a small
profit on the books, Adams decisively turned to Ben. Relying
on Ben’s demonstrable management skills and reputation for
efficiency, Adams agreed that Ben would run the properties
61
for Western Mortgage and share in any profits that his
innovations might produce. The deal was sweetened (for
both men) with a ten-year option for Ben to buy. Once
Adams and Western Mortgage had agreed to Ben’s proposal,
other commercial lenders readily followed suit.
In essence, Ben gambled on his management skills and on
the future of Los Angeles. He staked out a bullish position
on both. The banks had little or nothing to lose. They might
even come out ahead. For his part, Ben Weingart had everything to gain.
About this same time, Ben sold back to Victor
Montgomery and William Kilgore the stock that he held as a
founder of Pacific Employers’ Insurance Company. That stock
was essentially his only liquid asset. No doubt, he hated to
have to part with it; but he needed cash to stay afloat. And
his heart had always been in real estate.
He would soon feel the risk of holding even this most tangible
of assets, fortunately from a distance sufficient to leave his
interests intact. The Long Beach earthquake of 1933 —
registering 6.3 on the Richter scale — severely rocked the
region; but Ben and his downtown Los Angeles buildings
emerged largely unscathed.
Optimistic, determined, self-confident, Ben rolled up his
sleeves and found a way to make low-end hotels profitable
during the Depression.
His fundamental assumption was that, as bad as
things got anywhere else
in the country, things
would generally be better
in Los Angeles.
All things considered,
he reckoned, if men had
to be homeless and
penniless, most would
rather be broke in the
sunshine. Ben believed
the people would keep
The Hotel Cecil was one of several hotels Ben
managed profitably through the Depression.
coming. He bargained
62
that, despite the Depression, demand for clean, cheap shelter
in Los Angeles, would continue to exceed the limited supply.
He was right.
People kept coming. They came to pick the oranges. They
came to help build Hoover Dam, the Pacific Coast Highway,
and other public works projects. They came to keep from
freezing in the East. They came because they had nowhere
else to go. They came because, in large part thanks to
Hollywood, Southern California was the last place left to
dream.
In fact, so many new Californians kept coming that the Los
Angeles Police Department set up roadblocks to turn back
“undesirables” well east of the city limits. Fortunately for Ben,
enough of these eager, if not desperate, immigrants overcame
all obstacles and made their way into Los Angeles.
As ever, more water — this time, from the Colorado River
— and more roads made the city accessible to more people.
Meanwhile, especially during these economic hard times,
Hollywood kept an otherwise largely hopeless populace
distracted, maintained a relatively high level of local
employment, and kept Los Angeles city and county tax-bases
fairly solid.
Life could have been worse, and it was almost everywhere
else. At least in Los Angeles, it wasn’t raining.
❖
For Jack Rosenburg, however, things were decidedly tough.
By all accounts, Rosenburg was a genius with numbers. He
applied this gift in various ways, but he favored two particular
endeavors that rewarded his skill in numerical analysis and
mathematical probability. One was the stock market. The
other was horse racing.
If anyone ever staged a match race to see which one of the
two Rosenburg preferred, the outcome would probably have
been a photo-finish dead heat. Maybe the market, by a nose. It
lacked the grace and elegance of thoroughbred racing; but for
excitement, they ran neck and neck. And besides, fully to enjoy
life at the track, Jack needed to make money in the market.
63
In both venues, Jack Rosenburg was a high roller. And he
made it a point to relish whatever it was he was doing. In
fact, if anyone ever enjoyed life as thoroughly and consistently
as did Ben Weingart, his name was probably Jack Rosenburg.
Jack had made and lost two fortunes by the time the two
men met. The last one he had lost was in the Crash of ‘29.
What made it worse for Jack was that he had a wife and
two kids to support. He was willing to take any work he
could find.
What Jack found was a job selling and distributing wholesale toilet supplies, mostly to bars and restaurants. It was hard
and dirty work, fundamentally menial, quite a comedown for
a high-roller. Yet every time he sold a case of disinfectant or
a new supply of toilet paper, Jack could be sure he was putting
food on the table. Plus, he got to meet interesting people.
The best that anyone alive today can say for sure is that
one of the places that Jack sold his wares must have been in
one of the hotels that was managed by Ben Weingart. That
seems the likeliest explanation. In any case, sometime in the
early 1930s, the two met. Evidently, it was lifelong friendship
at first sight.
Ben and Jack had a lot in common. For one thing, both of
them were bootstrap boys. Both of them were of Jewish
stock, though neither made much of it or observed the
religion. Both had been born “Back East.” Both had come a
long way to L.A. Both were eager and successful cultural
assimilators. Both of them had made and lost a lot of money.
Both felt certain that they could and would make more.
Much more.
Both were essentially optimistic, jovial, and joyful men.
Both loved making money almost more than having it. Both
enjoyed life, savoring every moment with rare vigor and vitality. Both liked to keep things simple, have fun, and be happy.
Second only to making money, both relished the company of
cheerful, charming, unpretentious, and attractive women.
Both proved to be constant and loyal friends to one another.
Indeed, over some fifty years, the two were mutually devoted.
Separate yet somehow inseparable. Rain or shine, they
seemed to have agreed one day during the depths of the
64
Depression, come hell or high water, Ben Weingart and Jack
Rosenburg would see each other through.
Bill Ross, Jack’s son, still holds among his earliest memories
those Sunday mornings when, as if by magic, bottles of fresh
milk began arriving on the Rosenburgs’ front porch. Bill was
about seven, maybe eight, his sister even younger. In the
Depression, in Los Angeles, for most people, milk was hard
to come by. Yet when the Rosenburg kids needed it, the
milk bottles started to appear. Sometimes, the milk would just
be there, left carefully in a shady spot by some long-gone
early riser, some guy who was almost always in a hurry. One
day, young Billy met and came to know his family’s benefactor,
the man whose Sunday morning appearances he always anticipated happily, the man he soon began calling (and ever after
would refer to in the familiar) “Uncle Ben.”
As soon as things were looking up a little, Ben Weingart
asked Jack Rosenburg to come and work with him. Forty
years later, they still had offices next door to one another. At
least five days a week, either one of them could walk ten
steps and bump into his best friend. Over those years, Jack
Rosenburg and Ben Weingart did indeed make a lot of
money. Ben made a lot for Jack in real estate. Jack made a lot
for Ben in the market. Together, working in tandem, the two
of them would become the irreverent, irrepressible twin foci
of an all but anonymous yet formidable financial powerhouse.
❖
All that would come after — a good twenty years after — the
Depression. For the moment, whether in real estate or stocks,
the pickings remained slim. These were times in which the
homely virtues of long-range planning, patience, and perseverance might have sold at a premium. Not that there was
anybody buying. The whole country, even Los Angeles,
seemed primarily preoccupied with salvaging basic resources.
First among these, confidence, especially in one another.
The old pioneer spirit — self-reliance — was not getting
anybody very far these days. Even in the old days, it was
noted, those “self-reliant” pioneers had crossed the prairie in
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wagon trains whose visionary members were pledged to one
another for their mutual safety in traversing a perilous and
unpredictable terrain. Until, at last, together, most of them
ultimately found success.
So it was, as the long trek through the economic desert of
the Thirties plodded onward. First the salvage operation.
Only then, perhaps, refurbishment, kept to a minimum.
There really were few metaphoric crops to husband. And few
enough actual crops to eat. Mainly, those who were blessed
with the luxury of considering anything beyond their own
survival, concerned themselves simply with keeping the soil
fertile, the machines lubricated, the people, if not hopeful, at
least not in despair.
Potentiality was all. Just get through it, get through, until
tomorrow. Not today. Not the present. No, not yet. But still,
maybe, the future. Things would get better, surely. They just
had to. What goes down, must (someday) come up. Or so
people who had any hope left kept on hoping. Meanwhile,
with rare exceptions, nobody was really making money.
Fortunately for the psyche and the tax-base of the city,
more than a few of those exceptions who were getting on
better than most seemed to live in and around Los Angeles.
There was Hollywood, of course. Give a guy flat-broke a
nickel, and he would likely spend it on whatever might distract
him from his economic woes. Hollywood prospered in the
Thirties, keeping people distracted, keeping the Dream
Merchants in relative clover, well rewarded for keeping the
Dream alive.
Star-studded movie premieres at Sid Grauman’s Chinese
Theater and similar palaces of cinematic excess sent luminous
beacons of light and hope to pierce the dark skies of the
Depression. The studios created, controlled, and publicized
the glamorous lives of stars such as Greta Garbo, Joan
Crawford, Norma Shearer, Clark Gable, and Lionel
Barrymore. In a time when wishes were surely not horses,
nonetheless, thanks to celluloid royalty, beggars might ride. If
they could scrounge the price of a ticket.
From his studio on Hyperion Avenue, an adept draftsman,
movie-maker, and businessman named Walt Disney was
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already keeping people laughing with short, animated films
featuring cute (and cheap to produce) cartoon characters. By
the late-Thirties, Disney was putting the finishing touches on
his full-length cinematic masterpiece “Fantasia.”
In the mid-Thirties, catering to the entertainment needs of
Hollywood celebrities, as well as those who sought to rub
shoulders with the film world elite, nightclubs began to
sprout along a still largely rural strip of Sunset Boulevard,
between La Cienega and Doheny. It was correctly assumed
that almost all such clubs were financed by gangsters.
The intersection of Sunset and Vine, closer to downtown
yet itself hardly urban, was home to a 24-hour drive-in
restaurant, Carpenter’s Sandwiches. By the early 1930s, Harry
Carpenter boasted three such drive-ins; but the one at Sunset
and Vine was his most popular, since it catered to nearby
radio studios, such as those of CBS and NBC, as well as the
Paramount and Goldwyn movie studios. For the price of a
barbecued ham sandwich (twenty cents), a fan (with a car)
could lunch and munch with the stars.
About the same time, downtown, along North Broadway
or Hill, around Second, a man could get a bowl of chili for
ten cents, three pancakes and two strips of bacon for fifteen.
The food was at least as filling as the sort dished out in
Hollywood, but the surroundings were somewhat less
salubrious, one’s dining companions arrived on foot, and few
of them were famous.
The movies captured everyone’s attention, but an almost
equally glamorous pursuit was aviation. On June 7, 1930, less
than a year after the Crash, in an act symbolic of the city’s
sometimes desperate self-confidence, Los Angeles had dedicated
its new municipal airport, then called Mines Field, precursor
to LAX. It boasted a single 2,000-foot runway and two
100-foot hangars, not to mention an almost four-story control
tower with a red-tile roof. Some fifteen years later, the facility
finally succeeded in luring most commercial carriers from the
competing Lockheed-owned runways in Burbank. The L.A.
airport had been created from 640 acres of bean fields in the
wilds of Westchester.
In 1938, in nearby Santa Monica, Douglas Aircraft had
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begun manufacture of a remarkably efficient and reliable new
passenger aircraft, designated the DC-3. For years and even
decades later, the DC-3 would be the workhorse of the
nation’s commercial aviation fleet. But in the 1930s, Douglasbuilt aircraft were already carrying ninety-five percent of
commercial traffic in the country. Though railroads were still
the preferred and most widely affordable means of rapid transport, adventurous travelers, as well as those fortunate few
who found themselves with more money than time, were
already sprouting wings.
Jack Northrup, the brilliantly innovative aeronautical engineer,
had first built his original “flying wing” design in 1929.
Northrup kept on dreaming and building throughout the
Depression, constantly striving to perfect his visionary
“mind’s eye” drawings and launch his elegant, aerodynamic
designs into Los Angeles’ azure skies.
By the mid-1930s, a local girl from Toluca Lake, Amelia
Earhart, was already setting aviation records. In 1937, Earhart
would be lost over the Pacific in her specially designed plane,
capable of reaching the previously unimaginable altitude of
27,500 feet, more than five miles high. Yet her courageous
spirit of exploration and adventure, her insistence on
“pushing the envelope” of aviation, would inspire generations
yet to come.
Earhart’s male counterpart, the flamboyant Howard Hughes,
seemed to set new air-speed records in his spare time. Either
that or, as head of Republic Pictures, make motion pictures as
a hobby. By the mid-1930s, Hughes had established a world
speed record in his plane, a sleek, single-engine projectile
dubbed the “Winged Bullet.” In 1937, he went on to break
the transcontinental record, flying a Northrup Gamma, modified
with the latest military Cyclone engine and a Hamilton
variable pitch propeller, from Los Angeles to New York in
seven hours and twenty-eight minutes.
Americans and Angelenos in particular were apparently
determined to set their sights on cerulean skies and silver
screens alike, for the same reason, as an essential antidote to
the drudgery and hopelessness that most of them experienced
in their all too earthbound, economically constricted lives.
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Yet they found that even these two triumphant saving graces,
Hollywood and aviation, might combine to produce tragedy.
Even before Earhart was lost at sea, America’s preeminent
humorist and celebrated movie star, Will Rogers, along with
the accomplished and intrepid aviator, Wiley Post, perished in
a plane crash over the Alaskan wilderness. The self-effacing
Rogers, whose cockeyed grin and wryly trenchant observations of the cultural, political, and economic scenes had made
him a welcome radio presence in American homes and something of a national treasure, had long provided psychological
buoyance to those suffering a shipwrecked economy.
Still others, less beloved if no less renowned, finding themselves up against it, took matters into their own hands.
During the late 1920s and throughout the ‘30s, crime (both
organized and freelance, both the sort officially sanctioned
and the sort officially proscribed) flourished in Los Angeles to
an unprecedented degree. The response of civic leaders was
to give carte blanche to the police, as long as they kept the
mayhem down to a dull roar or, better yet, a muffled moan.
Notorious crimes of greed and passion made the headlines.
In December, 1935, the mink-wrapped, lifeless body of screen
star Thelma Todd, “The Ice-Cream Blonde,” was found in
her car, parked on the torturous road above her coastal highway
restaurant, not far north of Sunset. Throat abrasions argued
against the official story of suicide by carbon monoxide
poisoning. Suspects included her former husband and still
agent, as well as Todd’s business partner and sometimes lover,
a movie director. Others suggested that she had been murdered
by gangsters, after refusing to let them set up a gambling den
at her seaside establishment. Mysteries abounded; everybody
beat the rap.
Considerably less glamorous was the 1936 case of Robert
James (aka Major Lisenba), who had already collected on the
double-indemnity life insurance policy of a murdered former
wife. James adroitly managed to bind three of the limbs of his
pregnant, heavily-insured third wife to a kitchen table,
apparently by mutual consent, then fatally betrayed her trust
by thrusting her remaining foot into a box containing
rattlesnakes. Impatient for the inevitable, James then drowned
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his young wife in the bathtub and dumped her body into a
backyard fishpond. The coroner posited death by accidental
drowning. Suspicious insurance investigators soon proved
otherwise.
This was the gritty, edgy, crazed, and desperate Los Angeles
that would come to be immortalized by writers such as
Nathaniel West, John Fante, and Raymond Chandler — its
sordid underbelly revealed beneath a thin veneer of selfserving gloss applied none too delicately by the Chamber of
Commerce and the movie studios. Indeed, throughout the
Thirties, Los Angeles citizens coped with, indulged in, and
profited from crimes of vice as seldom if ever before.
In economically difficult times, the oldest profession naturally
flourished. So too did illegal bookmaking and gambling, the
latter finding lucrative venues as diverse as card clubs in
Gardena and casino ships anchored off the coast at Santa
Monica. All of this underground and underworld economic
activity took place under the watchful and well-rewarded
administrative eye of a thoroughly corrupt Los Angeles Police
Department, headed by tough-guy Chief James Edgar “TwoGun” Davis.
The 1938 car-bombing of ex-LAPD detective turned
crusading private-eye Harry Raymond finally blew the lid off
City Hall corruption. The device intended to kill Raymond
was traced to members of the LAPD Intelligence Squad.
Chief Davis and some twenty of his more egregious cronies
were dispensed with. Mayor Frank Shaw was implicated in
the scandal and ultimately defeated at the polls by reformer
Fletcher Bowron. Los Angeles, having repented, went on to
reinvent itself anew.
All the while, the Chamber of Commerce kept shamelessly
and effectively touting the virtues of Los Angeles, above all,
as ever, the benign climate. Citrus grove workers (most of
them eager to be exploited for a miserable hourly wage) were
pictured as sturdy, shirt-sleeved yeoman farmers, harvesting
the bounty of a lush and lavishly generous land. Strategically
located for maximum effect, snow-capped mountains loomed
in the background. The counter-intuitive impact proved
70
overwhelmingly attractive to ice-bound Easterners and dustchoked Midwesterners alike.
If the gentlemanly joys of agriculture were not exactly one’s
métier, Los Angeles continued to promote itself as a surpassingly pleasant place to do business. One Chamber of
Commerce puff-piece from the 1930s was illustrated by a
photograph of a “wide-awake” businessman (actor?) apparently
taking a telephone call while reclining on the sands of
Southern California.
Clad in bathing suit and tank top, the astute argonaut is
attended by an able and solicitous personal secretary, while a
probably Filipino manservant, apparently charged with cranking
the telephone’s generator, kneels as unobtrusively as possible
behind his relaxed yet dynamic boss’s reclining canvas chair.
To one side, each supplied with her own typewriter and chair,
a three-woman stenographic pool clatters away at its quotidian
chores, the diligent young women all suitably curvaceous in
form-fitting bathing suits, one of the women sporting a sleek,
skull-hugging bathing cap. Exactly what sort of business the
titan of industry is transacting is anybody’s guess.
The folks more likely to find work in Los Angeles were
manual laborers. Paid largely with Federal Works Progress
Administration funds, these otherwise desperate men constructed all or part of such later landmarks as Griffith Park
Observatory, the cement-lined Los Angeles River channel, the
entrance gates to the Hollywood Bowl, and Union Station.
The magnificent terminal would henceforth serve all three
competing railroads — Southern Pacific, Union Pacific, and
Santa Fe — whose systems had once been crucial to the building
of Los Angeles.
Women looking for an “honest” job, might find one in a
citrus-packing plant, less glamorous but more reliable than
waiting to be discovered by that ever-elusive Hollywood
producer. Many of the women who labored in Sunkist cooperatives and other factories were white, many more were
Chinese, Japanese, or Mexican. Standing on the lowest rung
of the local economic ladder, Mexican women could scarcely
fare better than a job in the El Sol de Mayo tortilla factory.
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Most resident Mexicans had been recruited to work on the
railroads or in the California citrus fields and grape vineyards.
Others were descendants of families established in the area for
generations. Many working-class Mexicans lived in a secluded
area northwest of the Old Pueblo, out of sight and for the
most part out of mind, in Chavez Ravine.
Chinese residents, whose numbers had diminished since the
1871 anti-Chinese race riot and massacre, were again being
recruited to perform menial and manual labor. They too tended
to congregate in their own community, Chinatown, northeast
of downtown, just north of the Old Pueblo.
By far the largest group of “foreign” immigrants, however,
were the Japanese. As early as 1910, Los Angeles had more
residents of Japanese descent than any other U.S. city except
San Francisco. By 1920, fully half of the non-white population of the city was Japanese. Most men made their livings in
agriculture, particularly in truck farming. By the 1930s,
Japanese labor accounted for some ninety percent of the
vegetables consumed in Los Angeles. Many Japanese
Americans also worked as fishermen or gardeners.
Little Tokyo, the area around First Street and San Pedro
Avenue — not far from where Ben Weingart managed his
hotel properties — remained home to many first- and secondgeneration Japanese immigrants. Others, somewhat more
established, industrious, and eager to share in the American
Dream, had already begun to move south and west of downtown, buying family bungalows in the Crenshaw district.
In fits and starts, other outlying areas were slowly being
developed to house the continuing supply of new Angelenos,
or rather, those whom the new immigrants displaced. South
of Beverly Hills, a tract of gently rolling open fields was
subdivided in the late 1930s. Despite, or perhaps because of,
the Depression, Beverlywoods’ developers proclaimed that a
lot in the “Switzerland of Los Angeles,” which could be had
for a “mere” $2,000 to $4,000, might someday be worth twice
to ten times that much. As it turned out, the extravagantly
self-promoting developers erred only in their underestimation.
Meanwhile, people who could scrape together that much
money lined up to buy the land.
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The great majority, who were not certain they could buy
tomorrow’s breakfast, could only wait and dream and try not
to lose hope. Some of them might still be found out in the
northern San Fernando Valley, panning for gold flakes in the
waters of San Francisquito Creek. Site of the first California
gold strike in 1842, six years prior to Sutter’s Mill, the creek
was for the most part long played out. Yet something was
always better than nothing. And the promise of California
had always been its future, its potential, waiting only for the
right man, the right moment, and the means to turn the tap.
❖
For Los Angeles and the nation, just as for Ben Weingart,
all the while alert for opportunity, nonetheless biding his
time, waiting for his moment, husbanding his means, the
long fallow years of the Depression were finally to end only
with war.
In the Europe that his birth parents had left behind more
than fifty years before, the tide of racist Fascism was rising,
about to inundate the aunts, uncles, and cousins that Ben had
never known. It would take a few years yet for instinctively
isolationist America to wake to the imminent global danger.
But even before Pearl Harbor, Southern California factories
and shipyards had begun to increase production. No matter
that the United States itself was not yet prepared for conflict,
Fortress America was already gearing up to provide Allied
forces with essential armaments and munitions. That meant
more jobs in and around Los Angeles, more people, and finally
the beginnings of a more positive economic outlook.
In the six months between December, 1941 and June, 1942,
Ben Weingart took two actions that would, ever after, define
his personal and professional lives. Both actions provide a
telling measure of the man.
Immediately following December 7, 1941, a wave of hysterical
suspicion swept across California and other Western states.
Anyone of Japanese descent was soon regarded as a potential
if not actual spy, supposedly tied by blood to our mortal and
sinister enemy, the Empire of Japan. Shortly thereafter, all
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Japanese Americans living in states along the Pacific Coast
were required to leave their homes and businesses, take with
them no more than two suitcases of personal effects, and
report for transport and indefinite, forced internment in what
amounted to concentration camps.
In December, 1941, there were at least 127,000 persons of
Japanese descent living in the United States. About 114,000
lived in the four western states of Washington, Oregon,
California, and Arizona. Many thousands of these lived in or
near Los Angeles.
While most made a relatively humble living, many others
had, over three generations, come to prosper as owners of
businesses and properties, many of these in the “Little
Tokyo” district of downtown Los Angeles, along East First
and Second Streets, adjacent to the area where most of Ben’s
hotels were located. Two of the businesses in which Japanese
Americans prominently participated were laundries and
vegetable “truck farming.”
After the war, truck farming Japanese may well have tippedoff Ben to the opportunity to purchase what would prove to
be the largest single parcel of land in California history. In the
years before the war, however, Ben probably had closer contact
with the businessmen — laundry owners, hoteliers, restaurateurs
and others — in “Little Tokyo.”
Unlike many of their other competitors, who tried to
freeze-out Japanese Americans from the laundry business by
means of a restrictive “gentleman’s agreement,” Ben evidently
admired and appreciated Japanese Americans’ work ethic,
characteristic frugality, and business efficiency. For example,
in the vegetable trade — farming, transportation, wholesale,
and retail — Japanese Americans had established a competitive
advantage by employing the entire family in the enterprise,
working long hours, being highly organized, and paying
meticulous attention to detail. No doubt all of these traits
appealed to Ben and elicited his sympathy.
In March of 1942, among countless others, Togo Tanaka, a
recent graduate of UCLA, was sent to the Manzanar “relocation center.” After some six months under guard, Tanaka was
released. He had been selected as one of a dozen Japanese
74
Americans to be employed as researchers for a two-volume,
University of California, Berkeley, study of “social aspects of
the wartime evacuation, detention, segregation, and resettlement of the Japanese American minority.” In 1950, having
completed his work on the historic project, Tanaka went on
to found Gramercy Enterprises, a commercial real estate firm
that, by the end of the century, would be doing business in
more than half of the United States.
According to the UC Berkeley study, “the swiftness with
which the evacuation was accomplished rendered plans for
the protection of evacuee property ineffective. .... The Western
Defense Command’s Final Report, pointed out that ‘landlords, creditors, and prospective purchasers were ready to take
advantage...of the adverse bargaining position of the Japanese
evacuees....’ The Federal Reserve Bank, which had been
given responsibility for safeguarding nonagricultural property,
undertook a policy of encouraging liquidation, accepted property for storage only ‘at the sole risk’ of the owner, provided
no insurance, and disclaimed liability ‘for any act or omission
in connection with [the property’s] disposition.’ Under these
conditions, virtually all evacuees suffered heavy losses of
tangible assets.”
In the midst of these disastrous circumstances, Tanaka
confirmed, several Los Angeles “Little Tokyo” businessmen
found a publicly anonymous “angel.” Unlike so many others
who were eager to profit from the wartime injustices visited
upon Japanese Americans, Ben Weingart came to the defense
of property owners of his acquaintance.
In early 1942, once the inevitability and scope of the pending
relocation program became apparent, as the predictable,
shameful process began to run its course, Ben took it upon
himself to seek out the Japanese American businessmen he
knew. On a handshake, he quietly “bought” their properties
at fair market value, promising to sell back to them at the
same price once the war was over. To these cruelly distressed
compatriots, about to be transported to an uncertain future,
Ben provided desperately needed cash, at a time when most
of their bank-held assets had been blocked.
In 1945, when the relocation restrictions were lifted and
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Japanese Americans began returning to Los Angeles, Ben kept
his promise. He “sold” the properties back to them, for the
same price he had paid. He had held their wealth in trust for
them, for the duration.
While countless Japanese Americans lost hard-earned wealth
during the war, those who knew and trusted Ben Weingart
did not. Effectively, they placed their life savings in his hands.
Four years later, they learned that their confidence and trust
had been well-placed.
Los Angeles accountant and businessman Bruce Kaji, himself
interned in Manzanar until being released as a U. S. Army
volunteer, concurred with Tanaka. Kaji recalled that his
brother-in-law, attorney Taul Watanabe, and Watanabe’s partner,
real estate broker Asajiro Nishimoto, both of whom were
active in the post-war redevelopment of “Little Tokyo,”
found that one of the few property owners who could be
trusted to do honest business with Japanese American entrepreneurs was Ben Weingart.
Not long after the internment of the Japanese, Ben saw his
judgment vindicated in another way. Based largely on warrelated production and transportation, the Los Angeles economy
began to boom as never before. Along with jobs, wages, and
profits, commercial real estate values increased dramatically.
Ten years of patience, efficient management, and energetic
endeavor had effectively served his long-range vision and acutely
astute awareness. Ben’s farsighted, confident investment in
himself was about to pay fantastic dividends.
As the Los Angeles economy took off like a pent-up, fuelinjected rocket, Ben began making the rounds of local banks.
With the exception of Morgan Adams, his original patron,
the same bankers whose white-elephant, foreclosed properties
he had offered to manage profitably, back in the dark and
fearful days of the early Depression, were perhaps somewhat
less gratified to see him across the desk this time.
Ben had kept his end of the gambler’s bargain. Now his
ten-year options to buy were coming due. Exercising those
options, he was able to purchase — at a fraction of their current
value — some of the most lucrative, income-producing real
estate in downtown Los Angeles.
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The nine hotels that he now owned, well-maintained and
efficiently managed, formed the bedrock of a fortune already
more than twice as great as that which he had lost. Even as
he salted away the income from the wartime, full-to-capacity
operation of his hotels, Ben Weingart was planning how best
to leverage his new wealth after the war.
77
Another of Ben’s early acquisitions, the El Rey Hotel would later
become a comprehensive facility dedicated to helping the homeless.
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Part one — chapter seven
Putting the Pieces in Place
O
ne month after the war ended, Ben Weingart
celebrated his fifty-seventh birthday. He had reason to celebrate.
The Allies had won the war. He owned nine downtown
Los Angeles hotels, with a total of more than 3,000 rooms.
And most of those rooms had been occupied daily for most
of the last four years.
Ben had unencumbered property. He had income. He had
a solid business reputation. He had vision. He had watched
Los Angeles grow for almost forty years. And he had kept his
eyes open.
Over the years, he had learned certain simple truths that
would now serve him well. One such axiom was that, once
people experienced Los Angeles and Southern California,
most of them wanted to live there. Another was that, as a
result, there was seldom if ever enough available housing.
Consequently, Ben had learned, almost any housing built or
land developed could be profitably managed or sold.
Nonetheless, people preferred and valued clean, safe, comfortable
accommodations. To minimize financial risk, one’s product
should be made affordable to the broadest possible market.
Above all, to minimize risk even further, that product should,
as much as possible, be produced by using other people’s
money.
The time had come for Ben to synthesize the lessons of
decades, to put all the pieces in place. The historical and
economic moments in which he might do so profitably were
now at hand.
❖
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The Federal government had invested billions of dollars in
the Los Angeles area during the war. That money might now
provide the impetus for unprecedented, explosive growth. In
fact, in just a few years immediately after the war, the population of the region grew by at least one million. By the end of
the decade, 3,000 new residents, most of them still in their
twenties, were pouring into Southern California every week.
During the decade of the Fifties, another two million would
arrive.
By 1960, when the greater Los Angeles population topped
six million, the popular wisdom was that the postwar wave of
westward migration had been predictable, inevitable, obvious.
Fifteen years before, however, few had combined that prescient
vision with the courage to invest in it. Ben Weingart was one.
Ben had watched hundreds of thousands of young servicemen pass through Los Angeles on their way to war in the
Pacific. He recalled how, after World War I, the area’s growth
had increased even more than had been predicted. He knew
that, this time, many more servicemen had been exposed to
the charms of Southern California. He figured that, once
mustered out, once having spent a little time back home with
the folks, a large percentage of those ex-G.I.s would likely
succumb to the lure of perennial sunshine.
Moreover, he had seen wartime production at the Douglas,
Lockheed, and Northrup aircraft factories reach unprecedented levels. He was willing to wager that the aviation industry
would continue to boom. Southern California oil production
had expanded during the war; now oil and related enterprises,
such as plastics, seemed poised to explode with productivity.
Productive industries and factories meant plenty of jobs for
young workers and their families. Settling in Southern
California, those young families and single men alike would
soon need somewhere to live. Given his leverage, financial
contacts, and business acumen, it occurred to Ben that he
might well provide this new wave of Angelenos with the
shelter that they would require.
❖
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putting the pieces in place
Among Ben’s major deals shortly after the war, no doubt a
deal close to his heart, was the purchase of the Wyvernwood
Garden Apartments, a twelve-square-block, 1,176-unit, 149building apartment complex on East Olympic Boulevard in Los
Angeles. Wyvernwood was then, and today remains, one of the
biggest privately owned housing complexes west of Chicago.
Built for a lower-middle-class clientele, Wyvernwood
nonetheless offered gently curving streets, plentiful shade
trees, and expansive rolling lawns that would have made it
desirable housing in almost any area of the city. Yet it was
built east of the Los Angeles River, between Soto and Grande
Vista streets, only a few blocks south of Ben’s own neighborhood in Boyle Heights.
Some twenty years after his purchase of Wyvernwood, Ben
would leverage his ownership of that property in an innovative
deal that allowed several of his longtime employees to buy
into the complex so that its rents might provide them a
pension. It was an investment opportunity that Ben was
certain would not only ensure them retirement income, but
also prove highly profitable, as it had for him.
❖
Soon after the war, President Truman announced the G.I.
Bill of Rights, which included free higher education and
government subsidized housing. Among the universities
welcoming veterans was the University of Southern
California. A short drive west of the campus, along Santa
Barbara Boulevard (since renamed to honor Martin Luther
King, Jr.), Ben found land that could be developed for apartments suitable to house the war veterans turned scholars.
He secured financing for the land and the construction both
from the Federal Housing Authority. He hired architects and
contractors, and they soon went to work. By 1948, Ben’s
669-unit Crenshaw Village Apartments were providing substantial rental income, in effect, guaranteed by the Federal
government, which had also borne much of the land and
construction costs. It was a clever piece of business. Yet Ben
already had in mind a larger plan — much larger.
81
❖
Lou Boyar, whose Long Beach-based construction company
had been building homes throughout the war, mainly to help
house defense-plant workers, had a plan. In fact, he had been
drawing and redrawing his dream development for almost ten
years.
Boyar knew the territory. Three thousand, three hundred
and seventy-five acres, the great majority of it devoted to
truck farming, began just east of the Long Beach city limits,
near the Douglas aircraft factory. The acreage that Boyar coveted
ran east some five miles from Cherry Avenue to beyond the
San Gabriel River. From an irregular northern border to
Carson Street on the south, the measurement was something
less than two miles. The land totaled almost ten square miles.
Boyar had reason to believe that it might be for sale.
The land was owned by a corporation called the Montana
Land Company. During the immediate postwar period,
corporate taxes were running at seventy-seven percent. The
stockholders were evidently in an awkward situation. As leased
farmland, the vast tract was hardly profitable. Yet selling it to
various developers in smaller, subdivided tracts was similarly a
less than rewarding alternative. The company might, however,
be persuaded to sell the entire property to a single buyer.
If indeed the land could be purchased, it would be only the
sixth time in recorded history that it had exchanged hands.
Prior to the sixteenth century, though utilized by Indians, the
land had been “owned” only by God. Since the time of the
northern thrust of the Spanish Conquest, the land had legally
belonged to the King of Spain, by right of possession.
As an absentee landlord, the King was represented by the
Governor of California. In 1784, Don Manuel Nieto had
been provisionally granted the lands — indeed, all the land
between the San Gabriel (now the Los Angeles) River on the
west and the Santa Ana River on the east, by Governor
Pedro Fages. The grant was made for services rendered to the
Crown when the Spanish, under Gaspar de Portola, first
occupied the land in 1769.
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Nieto, who built an adobe house near the site that so
compelled Boyar’s attention, had bequeathed part of his lands
in 1834 to his granddaughter, Rafaela Cota, who had married
Jonathan (Don Juan) Temple in 1830. Thirty-five years later,
in 1869, after three years of drought effectively ended the
days of the Californio cattle ranches, the Cota de Temple
grazing lands were sold to Llewellyn and Jotham Bixby, who
planned to raise sheep. The price was less than seventy-five
cents per acre.
Thirty years after that, in 1898 — when ten-year-old Benny
Weingarten was picking cotton outside Tignall, Georgia —
William Clark and his brother Joaquin bought the land from
the Bixbys. The Clark brothers paid fifty dollars per acre.
William Clark, long a rival of Collis P. Huntington and his
Southern Pacific Railroad, was then one of the ten richest
men in America. Clark had first made money in Montana and
Arizona copper and silver mines, but he soon diversified. To
avail himself of a Federal protective tariff that made sugar
beets a relatively risk-free and profitable crop, he purchased a
sugar mill in Los Alamitos. To supply beets to his sugar mill,
he began to buy great quantities of arable land in the region.
Among his many other enterprises was a gambit typical of
the time. Clark persuaded the Los Angeles City Council that
he would construct a railroad from the city’s new port of San
Pedro, through Los Angeles, and on to Salt Lake City, where
his line would meet the railhead of the Union Pacific, thus
breaking the Los Angeles freight monopoly enjoyed by
Huntington’s Southern Pacific, if not by other Angelenos. In
return, the city gave Clark a franchise to build his railroad.
William Clark was true to his word, up to a point, that
point tending to coincide precisely with his own greater selfinterest. He completed construction of the railroad he
proposed from San Pedro to Los Angeles, then on as far as
Pasadena. At that point, he sold his interest to the Union
Pacific and retired from the railroad business, in favor of politics.
About the same time, Clark’s brother was made a director of
the Union Pacific.
Soon appointed U.S. Senator from Montana, William Clark
did, however, take care to hang onto his Nieto-Cota-Temple83
Bixby farmland southeast of Los Angeles. In 1904, he
transferred title to a family-owned enterprise called the
Montana Land Company, presided over by his brother,
Joaquin Ross Clark. Since the 1920s, the Montana Land
Company had been headed by Joaquin Ross Clark’s nephew
and namesake, Clark Bonner.
For several years, with limited success, Bonner had attempted
to subdivide and develop the land. In 1929, a financially illadvised moment, he had retained the Janss Company, which
had recently developed Westwood around the new University
of California campus. When the Depression hit, however, the
Janss Company plans proved a flop. In the mid-Thirties,
through Charles Hopper, the developer of such money-making
real estate ventures as Bel-Air and Southgate, Bonner had tried
to flog “self-sustaining” lots, which meant homesites large
enough to contain a chicken coop and a substantial vegetable
garden. The prices he asked for these lots proved too high
for the thrifty, enterprising homeowners he had in mind.
Towards the end of the war, with Long Beach factories
humming and the city college in need of a convenient campus
site, Bonner had managed to develop some upscale home
sites built around a reservoir masquerading as a golf-course
lake. Residents were mainly doctors, retired Navy officers,
and college professors. Reflecting his robber-baron roots and
snobbish instincts, Bonner had christened this small, exclusive
enclave “Lakewood,” in honor of the New Jersey resort
favored by John D. Rockefeller.
Apart from a few low hills and rolling knolls on the golf
course, the land was as flat as a billiard table. Nonetheless,
well-watered by underground aquifers, it was ideally suited to
farming. Bonner leased the land to truck farmers, who first
preferred planting government-subsidized sugar beets. When
the Federal sugar subsidies expired in 1926, the farmers
turned to lima beans, carrots, and alfalfa. Prior to the war,
most of the farmers had been Japanese.
It may have been that Ben Weingart knew about the land
from friends he had made in the Japanese American community,
whose Los Angeles properties he had protected from predatory
scavengers for the duration of the war. It may have been that
84
Boyar and Weingart knew each other from the apartment
construction projects in which Ben involved himself immediately following the war. Exactly how and when the two men
met remains unclear.
What is certain is that Lou Boyar had — not only in mind,
but in hand — an extraordinary plan, one that required both
financial expertise and access to capital far beyond his own
means. Ben Weingart had financial expertise, management
skills resulting in efficient operation, uncanny instincts for
profitability, and a business reputation that enabled him to tap
other funding sources. Visionary kindred spirits with complementary attributes, the two men struck a bargain.
Their first step was the plan. They shared the fundamental
belief that their proposed development should base its profitability on keeping costs to a minimum, thus being able to
offer good value at a relatively low price, thus appealing to
the widest possible market. This was essentially the model of
mass production at low cost and low profit margins that
Henry Ford and other manufacturers had successfully
pioneered. It was the same model of efficient operation and
high productivity that had won the war in the factories of
Southern California. It was the same business model that Ben
had followed for years in his downtown hotels.
Boyar’s plan called for residential lots that were all but
uniformly fifty feet wide by 100 feet deep. Though different
floor plans and external designs would be offered, each of the
17,500 houses to be built would measure 1,100 square feet.
Given the various floor plans and presumed sizes of the families
occupying the homes, this added up to an approximate total
of 70,000 people who would be living in the 3,375-acre,
ten-square-mile area.
The density of population resulting from Boyar’s plan was
designed to be the maximum allowed under then-existing
laws. In other words, if the partnership could produce sufficiently
appealing houses, at a sufficiently affordable price, making
them available to a broad enough market, the development
that they proposed was as likely as possible to prove economically successful. At the least, it would not lose money.
85
❖
One of the first men Ben approached to fund the purchase
of the land was Harry Volk. In 1947, Volk, then in his early
forties, was the recently appointed director of the Prudential
Insurance Company, Western Regional office. After the war,
at his own suggestion, he had been sent West from the
Prudential’s New Haven, Connecticut, home office to found
an autonomous regional operation close to the action in the
burgeoning Southern California region.
Under Volk’s leadership, Prudential sought not only to sell
insurance, but also — indeed, primarily — to reinvest its earnings
in the region. Ever after their first meeting, Volk would
remain a close business associate and personal friend of Ben
Weingart. Some thirty years later, Volk would become the
longtime chairman and CEO of the foundation that bore Ben
Weingart’s name.
“It was in ’48 or ’49,” Volk recalled. “I’d been sent out from
Prudential headquarters in Newark to open up a full-service
operation in the eleven Western states, plus Alaska and
Hawaii. Basically, we set up an autonomous regional office.
Before that, Prudential’s interests on the West Coast had been
strictly in the area of real estate investment.
“We had only two men out here, Bill Shoal and Pete
McManus; but it turned out that they had already been doing
some business with Ben. So the local office had previously
mentioned his name to me as being a customer.
“Anyway, one day, after I was here only a few months, I
got a call from a friend of mine saying that Mr. Ben Weingart
would like very much to meet me.
“‘Well,’ I said, ‘tell me about Ben Weingart.’
“Basically, he said: ‘Ben wants to meet anybody who has
considerable money available for loans.’ That was pretty
much all that my friend had to say, but I agreed to the meeting.
“Then, before our meeting, I asked Bill and Pete about
Ben. They both spoke very highly about his business acumen
and his particular ability in real estate. They told me that Ben
had expanded his vision very broadly at the end of World
War II. And to do the things he wanted to do, he needed a
86
lot more money than he had been getting prior to that time.
Pete, who handled his account, claimed that Ben was a bit of a
genius in real estate. Which, I soon learned, he was.
“Understand that, as head of the Prudential office,” Volk
explained, “I was in the business of meeting promoters and
developers of all kinds. The company was doing this all over
America. In New York, I’d known scores of these people,
the Trumps of their era — Zeckendorf, Hemsley, Tisch — the
whole lot. We’d been doing business with all of them back East.
“Out West, in San Francisco, one of our great customers
was Ben Swig, the man who owned the Fairmont Hotel. We
financed him and his partner. They had other sources too,
but we were one of their important sources. And in Los
Angeles, we were Weingart’s almost exclusive source.
“Bill and Pete had been doing a good job with him. But
before I came to town, until they mentioned him to me, I’d
never heard of Ben Weingart. In fact, I don’t think that, back
in Newark, back at Prudential headquarters, anybody knew
too much about him. But we all sure learned a lot about him
once I got here.
“So, one day, not long after I’d arrived here in Los Angeles,
Ben came to my office, in the new Prudential Western Region
building we’d just built in the Miracle Mile, on Wilshire, out
near the Tar Pits. He walked in, and he introduced himself.
“Immediately, my first impression was a good one. He was
in no way ostentatious. He was friendly, but he didn’t waste
time. Got to the point quickly. And I could see right away
that he knew what he was talking about.
“He told me that he was involved in a lot of real estate
deals of various types. He already had a number of different
company names that he was using to pursue different kinds of
business. We talked about some other interests of his. But
uppermost in his mind at that time was a project he called
‘Lakewood.’
“He envisioned all the G.I.s’ coming back from the war,
wanting to start families, needing to have houses. Not only
coming back to the States, back to where they’d grown up,
but coming out here to the land of sunshine, California.
Because, as he emphasized, G.I.s from all over the country had
87
passed through here during the war; they’d fallen in love with
Southern California, and now they all wanted to live here. If
they were able to buy houses for five percent down and at a
very low interest rate, Ben said, he felt sure that houses like
that could sell like hot cakes.
“He was right. And I think he saw it before anyone else did.
“We talked some more. And Ben was very persuasive.
“I knew he had a reputation for efficient, profitable operation.
As a manager, he was exceptionally competent. Low margin,
high volume: that was his expertise. He had proven it
throughout the Depression, managing low-end hotels and
boarding houses at a profit, during the worst of times.
“Most of those places, all of them on the edge of bankruptcy,
had belonged to Morgan Adams, through the Western
Mortgage Company. Ben had really saved their skin during
the Thirties, helping Western Mortgage get rid of those
money-losing hotels, taking those properties off their hands
and managing them profitably, in return for an option to buy.
“People said that he’d made a lot of money before the
Depression. But when Ben made that deal with Morgan
Adams, and later, when he exercised those options, I’d say
that was the source of his later fortune, his first major step in
real estate.
“After that, and even during the Thirties, if he needed
money for improvements, or to finance some new deal, he
had usually come to the Prudential. Bill and Pete had assured
me that Ben was not difficult to do business with, that he
didn’t quibble too much over rate. He knew what was fair.
He expected a fair rate, and he got it. But he never tried to
chisel. And whenever he borrowed, he paid every obligation,
paid it right on the nose.
“So he had established a very good reputation with the
Prudential. And that, to me, was extremely important.
Because if someone comes into you with an idea, sure, you
can evaluate the idea. And it may be a great concept. But
still, you’re basically doing business on a handshake, investing
in the human being. And if you make any mistake on that
handshake, you go broke. So fundamentally, you judge the
man. You’re always sizing up the individual, as well as the idea.
88
“From another source, I’d also heard that, during the
Thirties, Weingart had gone to Ben Meyer, who was then
president and chairman of Union Bank, and told Meyer that
he wanted to borrow $25,000 to buy a hotel. Or maybe a
rooming house.
“Meyer asked him about his security for the loan, how he
was going to repay the bank. Ben said that he planned to
resell the place, in about six months time, for $50,000. And
that’s when he’d pay off the loan. So his only real security for
the loan was the property he planned to buy with the
borrowed money.
“I don’t know all the details; but apparently, Ben got the
money he wanted. And sure enough, a few months later, he
sold the hotel. Cleaned it up, turned it around, proved its
value, and then sold it for $50,000. Just like he’d said he
would. Paid off his loan and pocketed the profit.
“It took a lot of courage, after the Crash, to do that kind of
deal. But he did. And from that point on, he was a customer
of Union Bank for years and years. Later on, when I became
head of Union Bank, the relationship continued. Ben carried
balances of eight, ten million dollars in the bank. But that
was some years after he first walked into my office at
Prudential.
“In any event, that first day, Ben convinced me. He had a
plan, a good one. In fact, it was highly ingenious. He knew
exactly what he wanted to do. He knew where he wanted to
do it. And the first step was to buy the land.
“It was a huge piece of property, all of it owned by the
Montana Land Company. I think that, at the time, it was the
largest single purchase of unimproved land in the modern history of Southern California. But buying it like that, all at
once, Ben thought he could get a good price.
“He figured it would cost about nine million. I believe that
we agreed to loan him eight point nine.”
❖
Thanks to Harry Volk and the Prudential Insurance
Company, Ben Weingart and Lou Boyar now had the money
that they needed to buy 3,375 acres the Montana Land
89
Company wanted to sell. Evidently as part of the deal to get
the loan, they also acquired a third partner, Mark Taper.
Born in Poland, Taper had been raised in England, where,
during the 1930s, he had made a fortune building low-cost
row houses commissioned by the British government. Based
on this experience, it was clear that Taper knew how to build
durable housing cheaply and profitably. In 1939, Taper had
retired from the construction business and moved to
California just in time to avoid the Nazi blitzkrieg.
Taper, who would soon devote himself primarily to
running American Savings and Loan, the mortgage banking
concern he founded in Los Angeles, seems to have been
something of a silent partner in the project. Nonetheless, his
reputation, expertise, and track record in the successful
construction of large tracts of housing apparently contributed
to the securing of the initial Prudential financing, as well as
further loans for construction and mortgage underwriting.
Ben Weingart was primarily responsible for financing the
entire project. Not only did he secure from Prudential the
initial loan to buy the land, but he also convinced Investors’
Diversified Services of Minneapolis, along with Prudential, to
underwrite $250 million in mortgages for the houses to be
built. The deal was secured by $300,000 invested with IDS
by Robert Young, a railroad financier, and Clint Murchison,
then owner of the Del Mar racetrack and, as such, an
acquaintance of Ben’s longtime friend and associate, Jack
Rosenburg, a devotee of thoroughbred racing. Thus encouraged, IDS agreed to become the exclusive mortgage lender
for houses built in Lakewood.
As for the actual construction of those houses, Ben planned
to finance that through a no-interest loan from the Federal
Housing Authority. It did not quite work out that way. Yet
when FHA financing suddenly dried up with new lending
restrictions imposed at the onset of the Korean War, Ben
proved even more creative and resourceful in tapping government funds to finance home construction.
Finally, once the money to build the houses was secured,
Ben went back to Harry Volk. He persuaded Volk to invest
another $8 million of Prudential’s money in the construction
90
of Lakewood Shopping Center, at the time, the largest in
the world.
Ben Weingart and Lou Boyar put up $15,000 of their own
money to form the corporation, Lakewood Park, that built
the houses. Boyar was charged with overseeing the construction.
Boyar was named president of the corporation. Taper was
named vice-president. He invested no money of his own in
Lakewood Park, Inc.
Ben Weingart held no major position in the corporation.
He preferred to remain anonymous. Nonetheless, two of the
three votes that controlled decisions of the partnership — his
own and that of Lou Boyar — invariably went Ben’s way.
❖
In 1948, Lou Boyar’s son, Marshall Boyar, married Joann
“Joni” Eichenbaum. Ben was invited to the wedding. At the
reception, he and the bride’s father, Joe Eichenbaum, began
to chat. Eichenbaum had retired to California after managing
department stores in Chicago. Instinctively, Ben recognized a
superior salesman. He soon offered Eichenbaum a stake in
the Lakewood partnership, if he would oversee the construction
of and leasing of space in the new shopping center that Ben
planned to build.
When Ben showed him the design, however, Eichenbaum
had his doubts. As planned, the shopping center was to be set
back from all four of the nearest boulevards by the length of
a football field — a vast area dedicated solely to parking.
Eichenbaum pointed out that one of the first such set-back
shopping centers to be built had gone broke the year before.
Indeed, prior to 1950, almost all retail establishments relied
on massive and extensive display windows and sidewalk
passersby, which, combined with jostling crowds of pedestrians,
were assumed to create the critical mass of push-pull effect
required to get shoppers into the store and in the mood to
buy. Ben argued that if A.W. Ross and H. Gaylord Wilshire
had been able to change the habits of shoppers in the late
Twenties and Thirties, drawing them away from the pedestrianreliant retailers in downtown Los Angeles, in favor of stores
91
they now regularly drove to along the Miracle Mile, then he
and Joe could do the same in the coming decade of the 1950s.
People now, Ben argued, were willing, indeed eager, to get
in their cars and drive to a store to do their shopping. This
was especially true, he maintained, if they knew they would
encounter a major retailer — a one-stop retail outlet — at the
end of their automotive excursion. At Fairfax and Wilshire,
Ben noted, twenty years after it first opened at an unproven
intersection in “the sticks,” the May Company’s Miracle Mile
store was still packing in the shoppers.
Thus persuaded, Eichenbaum signed on for the duration.
Immediately, he went to work wooing major retailers for the
proposed Lakewood Shopping Center.
❖
In late 1949, however, “Montana Ranch,” as the property
was known, was still planted in lima beans, carrots, and alfalfa.
Apart from the few homes around the golf course that Clark
Bonner had developed, there was not another residence in all
3,375 acres. And as yet, not a single potential shopper.
According to social historian D. J. Waldie, before the war,
the average number of houses per acre was about five.
Working with architect Paul Duncan, Boyar had intentionally
designed Lakewood so as to yield eight houses per acre.
“Yield” was essential to any subdivision’s profitability, which
was to be measured less by houses sold than by population
density.
It is this density of population, Waldie observed, that developers use to attract the builders of shopping centers. For
developers of a residential subdivision, by far the greatest
profit lies in its commercial real estate.
From the start, Ben Weingart had held this equation prominently in mind. So too had Lou Boyar. Mark Taper, it would
seem, nodded his agreement and followed their lead.
The deal to buy the land was consummated in October,
1949. Ever after, Ben Weingart would display, framed on his
office wall, a cancelled check, payable to the Montana Land
92
Company. The purchase price was $8.9 million. That worked
out to about $2,340 per acre.
❖
Meanwhile, Lou Boyar was presenting his plans to the Los
Angeles County Planning Commission. In this case, so
immense an undertaking, winning the commissioners’
approval was by no means a sure thing. Objections were
raised, changes required.
Agreeing with Joe Eichenbaum’s previous (and erroneous)
perspective, the commissioners expressed their own doubts
about the efficacy of Ben Weingart’s shopping center. They
insisted that the surrounding 10,580 parking spaces that the
developers’ plans called for should be overlaid by the street
grid of the subdivision. That way, when the radical new
shopping center inevitably failed, its wasteful, white-elephant
parking area could be converted to more conservatively
designed business lots, without the inconvenience and
additional expense that would otherwise befall the county.
The commissioners, however, liked certain other things
about the plan. They liked the way that the main boulevards
were separated from the residential streets by a broad
esplanade that effectively blocked direct vehicular access.
Boyar pointed out that this “scientific” element of the design
was intended to protect neighborhood children from the perils
of traffic along heavily traveled thoroughfares. He omitted to
mention that this key detail had been added coincidentally
and only at the insistence of his wife, Mae Boyar, who
thoughtfully recalled the dangers of neighborhood recreation
during her own childhood in Chicago.
They liked another element that Lou Boyar himself had
thought up. No house in the subdivision would be more
than half a mile from what was then a wholly novel notion,
as yet without generic appellation, but today known as a corner
strip-mall. Boyar planned sixteen such neighborhood shopping centers, all of them within easy walking distance of any
of the homes. Most of these would include a grocery store.
93
All would have a dry cleaners, a barber shop, a beauty salon,
and a drug store or a five-and-dime. In a time when not
everyone yet owned an automobile and the “two-car family”
was still rare, the providence of easy access to commercial
centers for pedestrian suburban housewives was considered to
be at once admirable and visionary.
In January, 1950, Lou Boyar attended his pivotal meeting
with the planning commissioners. By the end of the meeting,
Boyar had won approval from the County of Los Angeles for
his revised plans for the subdivision to be known as
“Lakewood Park.”
No record has been found to indicate a celebration at Ben
Weingart’s office on Wilshire at Witmer. Probably the
moment was marked in some memorable way. Or it may
have been that everyone involved in the project was already
too busy to pause and toast what was, after all, merely a partial
and transitory victory.
What is certain is that very shortly thereafter road grading
equipment began to scrape and shape the old Montana Ranch
truck farm fields that had only recently been harvested for the
last time. The land would never again yield vegetables in
quantity. Ben Weingart and company had in mind a different
kind of crop, unlike any other ever before seen.
94
Part one — chapter eight
Hometown, USA
W
hen the earth moving equipment began plowing up
the bean fields and scraping the already flat land even flatter,
no one really knew for sure if Ben Weingart and his partners
could ever dispose of the houses that they planned to build.
One local wag is said to have remarked: “Who are you going
to sell all those houses to? The jack rabbits?”
Not jack rabbits; ex-G.I.s.
Still, no one knew what sort of city might result. No one
had ever before built homes on such a scale. No one knew
what would happen when thousands of ex-G.I.s, their wives,
and kids all moved into the same town, all at once.
Maybe it would not exactly be a ghost town. But why
would anybody really want to live there?
One reason — the one Ben Weingart counted on — was
that thousands of ex-G.I.s, having passed through during the
war, now longed to live in sunny Southern California.
Another was that many Douglas aircraft plant workers wanted
to live closer to the factory. Those reasons alone were probably
sufficient.
But Ben and his partners provided further incentive. The
cost to move in was very low. Basically, if you had a steady
job, as almost everybody did in 1950, you were in. If you
were an ex-GI, your down payment was a mere $195. If not,
you had to pay only slightly more — $695 to $795, depending
on the floor plan. Mortgage payments averaged about fifty
dollars a month.
The Federal Housing Authority (FHA) guaranteed both the
construction and the mortgages, making it possible to offer
95
home ownership to men whose weekly paychecks averaged
less than $100. Originally, Ben had planned to finance
construction of the homes under the G.I. Bill of Rights. With
the outbreak of war in Korea, however, those government
loans were no longer available.
Ben and his partners soon came up with an alternative.
Most of the construction was financed by creative application
of a little-known article of the National Housing Act (NHA),
federal legislation originally passed during the Depression.
Under Section 213 of the act, the government would provide
100 percent of the funds needed for construction of houses, if
the homes were built by a non-profit cooperative of property
owners.
The legislation had been designed to help distressed rural
communities by encouraging property owners to form nonprofit cooperatives that would build affordable housing. As
the land they sought to develop had in fact previously been
rural, Ben and his partners argued successfully that Section
213 of the NHA was applicable.
The law strictly limited the amount of land and the total
value of the government-guaranteed loan available to such
cooperative ventures. Moreover, the maximum number of
houses that a cooperative might build was 501. Yet these
specifications proved no obstacle. Ben and his partners simply
divided the 17,500 houses they intended to build by the legal
maximum. Thus, some thirty-five such cooperatives were
formed.
When a couple made their down payment on a house,
what they actually bought was stock in the non-profit cooperative that was supposedly building the houses. Five hundred
of their future neighbors purchased the rest of the stock.
Among the neighbors were employees of Ben and his partners.
These employees were the people who actually applied for
the Section 213 loans.
For their part, buyers (members of the cooperatives)
received government-guaranteed, thirty-year loans at four percent
annual interest. As soon as each group of 501 houses were
built, the cooperative associations were dissolved; and the
houses went into conventional escrow. Publicist Don Rochlen
96
hometown, usa
Eager home buyers line up to secure their dreams in “The City As New As Tomorrow.”
altered his pitch to tout a community of “mutual homes.”
In this way, Ben and his partners controlled the ostensibly
non-profit building associations. The associations “bought” land
from the developers real estate company — at a profit of $1,600
per acre — then retained a corporation controlled by the
developers to construct the houses. Moreover, the associations
paid Ben and his partners a management fee to oversee
construction. It was a pretty piece of business. And all of it
on land that, only a few years before, had been considered
worthless.
The Time magazine article promoting Lakewood appeared
in the Business & Finance section in the issue of April 17,
1950. Entitled “Birth of a City,” the article appeared along
with stories about Wall Street, the auto industry, oil and gas,
and “the future.” Most telling about the piece was the absolute
omission of any reference whatsoever to Ben Weingart.
According to Time, the immense, $136 million project was
the result of a decision to join forces made by two previously
competing Los Angeles construction companies — Aetna
Construction, Inc., owned by “swarthy and shy” Lou Boyar,
and Biltmore Construction, Inc., headed by “Londoner”
Mark Taper. Their agreement had ostensibly been forged due
97
to the size and complexity of the project, which led them to
“pool labor, equipment, and building materials.”
Time noted that Boyar had previously built 20,000 homes in
and around Los Angeles, while Taper had put up 10,000. The
article correctly reported that initial financing for land and
construction had been obtained from Investors Diversified
Services and Prudential Insurance Company.
Nowhere was it mentioned, however, that the financing
had in fact been secured by Ben Weingart, who also maintained a controlling interest in Aetna Construction, Inc. The
closest Time came to penetrating Ben’s fervently desired and
carefully protected anonymity was to note that “land has been
set aside for a massive shopping center.”
Time reported that, during the second week in April, 611
houses had been sold. Three thousand five hundred homes
had been started, and one hundred were being completed
every week. Buyers could reliably expect to move into their
new homes “within two months.” At that rate of construction
and occupancy, the magazine predicted, Lakewood would
soon “dwarf such long-established U.S. cities as Poughkeepsie,
N.Y. and Holyoke, Mass.” So fast was the pace of sales that,
according to Time, “when one church delayed its decision on
a location for a week, it found that 91 home foundations had
been built on the site it wanted.”
Seventeen thousand, five hundred homes were built in thirtythree months. To accomplish this mass production, assembly
line techniques were used. The houses were built by thirtyman teams of workers, each team consisting of smaller groups
with specialized skills.
Most of the houses were built without basements. Their
foundations — scarcely more than twelve inches deep — could
be mechanically excavated in about fifteen minutes.
Carpenters nailed up and slapped in three-foot foundation
forms. Immediately, other workers poured the concrete,
direct from cement mixing trucks that waited in a mile-long
line. These digging/forming/pouring teams could complete
approximately twenty-one raised foundations every day. Since
houses were begun at the rate of 100 per day, at least five
such foundation teams seem to have been employed.
98
hometown, usa
Next came the men who fastened plywood flooring with
pneumatic hammers. Carpenters tilted up the wall frames,
finished with special electric saws and assembled on-site from
precut lumber. Others hammered roofs onto the rafters. Still
others nailed shingles onto the roofs. Cedar shingles were
transported to the roofs by conveyor belt directly from
custom-built trucks. Windows were installed and doors were
hung by specialized teams using power equipment. One crew
applied rough plaster to the tarpaper walls; another smoothed
the plaster minutes later.
In the first year of construction, 4,000 men were hired to
build houses. Most of these unskilled workers were veterans,
still in their twenties. The more experienced among them did
the framing. The less experienced laid rafters. All they needed
to know how to do was swing a hammer. Almost everyone
learned on the job. The average wage for rafter work was
one dollar an hour.
Construction materials were delivered to each building site
in predetermined and exact amounts. At the sites, building
foremen commanded their teams through loudspeakers.
Expediters roamed the sites in radio-equipped cars, coordinating
the supply of materials and the availability of machinery and
manpower. So efficient were Lakewood construction methods
that, from every ten foundations poured, enough extra concrete
was recovered to form an eleventh.
The streets were laid out in straight lines, no time or space
for curving roads and “country” vistas. Right angles — uniform,
predictable, efficient — were the order of the day. Yet Lou
Boyar’s plan took pains to assure that no two of the fourteen
possible floor plans were built next to one another, nor were
similar plans ever situated directly across the street. Twentyone exterior designs and thirty-nine different combinations of
exterior stucco and wood trim were also available. This variety
in one’s immediate surroundings helped to dispel visual
monotony.
So did the trees — mainly low-cost, fast-growing varieties —
planted on the seven-foot-wide strip of lawn in front of every
house, between the sidewalk and the street. Each block was
planted with a different kind of tree. All told, some 30,000
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trees were planted. In 1950, these were mere fifteen-gallon
saplings. Today, they form a canopy that arches high above
lawns and streets alike.
Whatever its interior floor plan, each house was about
1,100 square feet. And each was set on a lot fifty feet wide by
100 feet deep. Though the houses and the lots were small,
the streets were relatively wide, forty feet across. Along with
the twenty-foot distance between house and curb, the wide
streets lent an expansive air to the development.
Following Ben’s habit of making lemonade, publicist
Rochlen claimed that the houses and lots had been deliberately
kept small so that the streets might be wide. No public mention
was made of the population density that major retailers would
find attractive.
What the buyers found attractive were the prices, the low
down payments, and the easy mortgage terms. They liked the
streetlights too. The county did not require streetlights at the
time, but Ben and his partners made a point to include them.
They also included several parks, as well as boulevard medians
and Mae Boyar’s nine-foot-wide grass esplanades that separated
residential streets from main traffic arteries. These broad panels
of green were generously planted with stately eucalyptus and
red crepe myrtle.
Almost as soon as they started scraping the bean-field stubble,
Ben and his partners erected a steel oil derrick, topped by a
war-surplus beacon, to herald the location of their sales office.
They strung electric lights up and down the legs of the derrick.
It was an impressive marketing display, one that could be
seen for miles around.
The first houses were completed and ready for sale in late
March of 1950. Already, row upon row of concrete foundations
surrounded the only remaining bean field, designated as the
future site of the centrally located shopping center.
In April, on a sun-kissed Palm Sunday morning, the
Lakewood Park sales office opened for business. Twenty-five
thousand buyers were lined up. Almost all of them were
young. At least three out of every four were buying a house
for the first time.
The following weekend, Easter Sunday, the quantity of
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eager homeowners-in-waiting had scarcely diminished.
Through May and June, every weekend, the buyers kept on
coming, in overwhelming numbers, lining up and standing
for hours in the Southern California sun they craved.
Two-bedroom houses sold for $7,575. Three-bedroom
houses cost $8,525.
Almost anybody could come up with the down payment.
Almost anybody with a steady job could meet the mortgage
requirements. A two-bedroom house required a monthly
payment of $46.98. A three-bedroom could be had for $53.50.
According to Ben’s publicist, Don Rochlen, the average age
of a male homeowner in the new town proved to be thirtytwo. His average annual income was $4,313. In those days,
few wives worked outside the home. Nonetheless, the average
couple paid only about fifteen percent of their monthly
income for their home.
Adjacent to the sales office was a row of model houses.
Never before had such a variety of sample homes been used
to attract buyers. The model home sites were fully landscaped,
graced by verdant lawns and surrounded by mature shrubbery.
Couples waited their turn to be guided through the homes
by a crew of young athletes from Long Beach Junior College.
Four styles of interior furnishing were displayed. Potential
buyers could envision their future cozy nests feathered in
Maple, Traditional, Modern, or Provincial. By day, these
model homes basked under the Southern California sun. By
night, they were bathed in the seductive glow of floodlights.
Day or night, they proved to be compelling repositories of
the American Dream.
Once their appetites had been whetted by this glimpse of
the future, couples had to wait in line again. Thoughtfully, a
supervised playground was provided so that neither parents
nor children might grow impatient. In any event, hardly anyone
ever gave up a place in line. No one complained. In fact, the
long delay only seemed to heighten buyers’ anticipation.
At last, a couple would be ushered into the barn-like sales
office. Inside, along with attractive sales brochures and photographs of construction in progress, the fourteen different floor
plans were prominently displayed. Each in his own cubicle, a
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crew of thirty-five salesmen sat behind desks, pencils and wits
at once sharpened, ready, willing, and able to write contracts.
For each house that he sold, a salesman earned thirty-five
dollars. On weekends, the sales force worked in shifts from
nine in the morning until ten at night. Most of the houses
were sold on weekends.
Once they sat down at a salesman’s desk, a couple would
be urged to select a floor plan and exterior design. That was
really all it took. Having signed a contract, buyers agreed to
accept whatever lot they were assigned. All that remained was
to point out to them on a map of the tract the site of their
future home.
Inside the sales office, facing their future, buyers seldom
hesitated. Everyone knew Lakewood was a great deal.
Everyone knew how long the line outside was. Almost everyone jumped at the chance to live in “The City as New as
Tomorrow.”
Lakewood, California, would be the largest planned
community ever built. It was designed to house 70,000
people — a population greater than that of many existing
cities, among them, South Bend, Indiana; Tampa, Florida;
and Savannah, Georgia. In Lakewood, people were not buying
just a house, not even a neighborhood. They were buying
a hometown.
Four years before, in 1946, developers on Long Island had
planned and built Levittown. The Eastern effort, however,
had been considerably smaller. Ben Weingart and his partners
had taken the Levittown concept to an entirely new level.
In the process, they had pioneered the application of
high-volume/low-margin retailing to the American housing
industry. And Levittown provided them valuable lessons.
They learned, for example, that most young couples were
ill-prepared to set up housekeeping, all the less, homemaking.
For one thing, few of them owned the requisite appliances.
And so, to sweeten the deal, Lakewood salesmen were
authorized to include in the purchase price of the house a gas
range, a refrigerator, and a washing machine. Monthly installment payments, nine dollars for each modern convenience,
could be easily included in the mortgage.
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At no additional charge, each kitchen came equipped with
an electric garbage disposal, making Lakewood, according to
a sales brochure, “the only garbage-free city in the world.”
Kitchens also boasted a stainless steel counter and a stainless
steel double sink. Dining rooms were graced by wallpaper
above the chair rails. All interior walls were protected by two
coats of paint. A built-in service porch was designed to
accommodate the washing machine. Each house had a garage.
All homes offered picture windows and oak floors.
Every day, on average, thirty-five families moved into town.
Most families had kids, usually two. Schools were built,
twenty primary schools to begin with. Churches of various
denominations. Even a synagogue.
This was unusual, as Jews were generally excluded from
most subdivisions built at the time. Jews and Catholics, not
to mention blacks and Mexicans, were systematically shut out
by restrictive covenants written into property deeds. In 1948,
the U.S. Supreme Court had ruled such covenants unconstitutional. Yet a homeowner might still be sued for selling to a
buyer of a restricted religion or race. The rationale: lowering
the value of his neighbors’ properties. Consequently, when
Ben Weingart, Lou Boyar, and Mark Taper bought the ten
square miles of land they would develop as Lakewood,
including the existing subdivision near the lake and golf
course, they owned a tract of homes in which they themselves
could not live.
Ben and his partners opened their “Lakewood Park” development to buyers of all religions and ethnicities. Salesmen,
however, definitely understood that they were not to sell to
blacks. The exclusion, common at the time, seems to have
been based, at least where Ben was concerned, solely on
business judgment rather than on racial prejudice.
Nonetheless, those few blacks who did line up to buy at
Lakewood were invariably directed instead to nearby, already
integrated communities such as Compton and Willowbrook.
Soon enough, black couples stopped showing up. Ten years
later, census figures would show only seven Lakewood residents
who identified themselves as black.
The preferred group among Lakewood residents was clearly
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the white, middle-to-lower-middle class. First-time buyers
were often aircraft factory workers, many of whom had first
arrived in California some fifteen years before as teenagers
and children, migrant farm workers displaced by the
Depression from states bordering on the Deep South, then
found brief employment before the war as “Aviation Okies.”
Many of these young men had been drafted to serve in the
military, then returned to work in the manufacturing industries
of Southern California. After the war, they held steady jobs
and longed to lay down roots and raise a family.
Within three years time, some 70,000 people — 17,500 families
— would move into Lakewood. According to Time magazine,
it was the largest housing development on the face of the
planet. And it was created almost overnight.
Lou Boyar’s design called for 5,000 light poles with underground wiring illuminating 133 miles of paved streets and
105 acres of concrete sidewalks. The plan also envisioned
thirty-seven playgrounds and eighteen venues for religious
congregations. Multiplying almost as miraculously as loaves
and fishes, these various houses of God’s worship soon grew
to twenty-six.
The young couples who bought homes in Lakewood needed
everything. They needed streets, sewers, gas lines, electricity,
parks, schools, churches. They needed all the infrastructure
and public services provided by a city. Soon enough, thanks
to an innovative plan fostered by Ben Weingart and promoted
by farsighted local leaders, they would have all this.
Most of all, however, in the short run, they needed not
only corner grocery stores and barber shops; they needed a
place to shop for major items. They needed a department
store. They also needed retail outlets that specialized in merchandise essential to the feathering of nests — curtains, rugs, shoes,
pots and pans, table settings, lamps, baby clothes, jewelry,
clothing, books, records, hardware, sporting equipment.
They needed a shopping center. And Ben Weingart had
long since determined to fill their need.
Befitting the largest development in the world, the
Lakewood Shopping Center would be three times the size of
the largest existing shopping center, Northgate, in the suburbs
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of Seattle. In the early 1950s, Lakewood was the largest shopping
center in the world. And it sat smack in the middle of 17,500
brand new houses.
Even before those houses were under construction, it was
Joe Eichenbaum’s job to convince retailers to lease space in
the proposed shopping center. Recalling that the May
Company had, twenty-two years earlier, demonstrated the
foresight to locate along what came to be known as the
“Miracle Mile” but was at the time little more than a rural
road, Ben suggested that Joe Eichenbaum approach them as
the “anchor” store of the new Lakewood Center.
Eichenbaum offered a long-term lease at highly favorable
rates. The May Company accepted.
It was now Ben Weingart’s job to convince Harry Volk to
invest another eight million dollars of the Prudential
Insurance Company’s money, this time to build the world’s
largest shopping center. With the May Company under longterm contract, Volk and his board could readily envision a
prudent and farsighted opportunity. Moreover, having already
financed the purchase of the land on which homes were
being constructed, it was evidently considered to be in the
company’s interest to support commercial development that
would make residential development of the Lakewood property
all the more attractive and potentially profitable.
Nonetheless, the concept was starkly “modern.” The center
would cover more than 260 acres. And the majority of this
prime commercial land would be a parking lot.
The plan called for 10,580 parking spaces — each of them
nine feet wide, to help prevent inadvertent damage to
Lakewood residents’ second most important investment, the
family car. Sufficient parking spaces were provided so that, at
any given moment, sixty percent of Lakewood families might
be shopping at the center.
In the center of the asphalt parking lot, ninety stores would
flank a third-of-a-mile-long pedestrian mall. The design proposed
not only retail outlets, but also a post office, county government
offices, a bowling alley, and a motel. A tunnel stretching half
a mile connected the basements of all these establishments.
All supplying of the stores would take place underground.
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No delivery trucks would ever endanger shoppers. No
ground-level loading docks would distract them from the
compelling commercial experience at hand. Shoppers were
free to stroll the pedestrian malls at their leisure and in
absolute safety. The two rows of stores that formed the mall
were separated by a sixty-foot-wide walkway, shaded by
fifteen-foot overhangs projecting from the stores.
In this thirty-foot-wide space open to the Southern
California sunshine, palms, ferns, and other semitropical
vegetation sprouted from concrete planters. Benches built
into the planters beckoned to tired shoppers as they strolled.
Loudspeakers hidden in light standards were designed at once
to play continual background music and to broadcast the
location of lost children. During the Christmas season, as well
as other holidays, thematic tunes could be piped in to help
create an appropriately festive mood and encourage potential
consumers.
The immense service tunnel underneath the stores also
served another, similarly ingenious purpose. Immediately
upon the shopping center’s opening in 1952, the tunnel was
designated an official Civil Defense shelter. In the event of
nuclear attack, Lakewood residents — living in perilous
proximity to defense plants high on the Soviet Union’s list of
priority targets — could take cover in the half-mile-long catacomb. Striking yellow and black signs with the three white
triangles signifying a nuclear fallout shelter were prominently
displayed at either end of the tunnel. Whether all 70,000
Lakewood residents might take cover there was problematic;
but according to publicist Don Rochlen, at least several thousand could. In sunny Southern California in the early 1950s,
the palpable possibility of nuclear annihilation seemed to be
the solitary cloud on an otherwise optimistic, brilliant, and
ever-beckoning horizon.
Ben Weingart and Joe Eichenbaum had more immediate
concerns. The shopping center was surrounded by 100 acres
of parking spaces. They worried about the visual and ultimately
psychological impact of so extensive an expanse of parked
cars, stretching a hundred yards in every direction from the
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stores. Would passing drivers miss the commercial mountain
in the transportation forest for the vehicular trees?
In a solution characteristic of Ben Weingart’s attention to
minute detail, it was determined that the surface of the parking
lot should slope slightly down and away from the stores.
Over such a distance, the grade itself was imperceptible to a
pedestrian. Yet by the time the parking asphalt reached the
surrounding boulevards, it was four feet below the level of
the transportation arteries.
Employing a metaphor particularly apt for the era, a Los
Angeles newspaper reported that the Lakewood shopping
center was graded so that its stores stood out above the parking
lot “like the screen in a drive-in movie theater.” That was
precisely the intended effect, especially of the anchor May
Company department store.
The May Company building was a huge, white, three-story
rectangular concrete shell encompassing 357,000 square feet
of uniquely valuable retail space. The company had been
persuaded to locate in Lakewood not only by the density of
population promoted by Lou Boyar’s plan, but also by a
contractual guarantee that no other major department store
would be allowed into Lakewood Center until 1970. In
February, 1952, the May Company opened with an almost
twenty-year running start on its competitors.
Twenty years of effective local monopoly can mean a lot.
When 17,500 families need almost everything for their new
homes, and when a store sells almost everything they need, it
can mean even more. The May Company and Lakewood
would soon become almost synonymous.
Rising from the surrounding level plains like an alabaster
monolith, the May Company building was topped by four
immense, totemic “M”s, facing in each of the cardinal points
of the compass. At night, these sixteen-foot-tall, omnidirectional symbols broadcast their presence even farther in
bright yellow neon. For thirty years, on a clear night, the
giant letter “M”s could be seen as far away as sixty miles. Day
or night, anyone looking for Lakewood, California, had little
trouble finding it.
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During these early years of burgeoning growth, Lakewood
was an unincorporated area administered by the Los Angeles
County Board of Supervisors. Seventy thousand new neighbors
faced immediate and complex decisions. Many wanted the
community to remain unincorporated. Yet the City of Long
Beach was eager to annex Lakewood neighborhood by
neighborhood, and increasingly aggressive in its political
machinations toward that end.
After defeating a ballot measure that would have surrendered
their community to Long Beach, a group of residents calling
themselves the “Lakewood Civic Council” organized 600
volunteers to collect signatures in favor of incorporation. On
March 9, 1954, sixty percent of Lakewood residents approved
incorporation; and a new city was indeed born. Five weeks
later, on April 16, Lakewood became the 16th largest city in
California, larger than Santa Barbara or San Bernardino, and
the first Los Angeles County community to incorporate in
fifteen years.
The biggest challenge facing the new city council was to
find a way to preserve the benefits of Lakewood living without
burdening the residents with excessive taxes. At the suggestion
and with the active participation of Ben Weingart, the
support of the city attorney, and the cooperation of the
County Board of Supervisors, the new council created what
was then a unique plan for providing community services.
The “Lakewood Plan” — soon to be widely imitated
throughout California and in many other states — called for
contracting with existing county agencies and private firms
for essential public services. This highly efficient plan eliminated
duplication of services and has ever since maintained a high
level of community services at greatly reduced public
expense.
Ben and his partners made a lot of money in developing
Lakewood. Due in large measure to Ben’s characteristic practice
of working through a variety of legal entities and corporations,
it is still difficult to know for certain exactly how much the
three profited.
All of them invested considerable time and energy, as well
as vision and creativity, not to mention risks to their professional
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reputations. All told, however, only $15,000 of their own
money was ever put at risk — all of it put up by Ben
Weingart and Lou Boyar. About eight years later, it seems
likely that each of them had made as much as $12 million.
The surprise is that not much of this profit was derived
from the sale of houses. Mark Taper once noted that they
made no more than five percent on each house they sold. At
an average price of $8,000 per house, five percent means that
the profit on 17,500 houses totaled only $7 million — a substantial
sum, yet, split three ways, over several years, hardly a fortune.
Ben and Lou Boyar would later explain to the U.S. Senate
Committee on Commerce that they had cleared more than
$1 million from constructing just two tracts of “mutual
homes.” They said that, prior to any construction, they had
made another $1 million on each 600-acre section of land
they had sold to the non-profit housing cooperatives they
controlled. In 3,500 acres, there are almost six such tracts.
Some of the money was made in management fees paid by
the temporary cooperative associations on each of the forty
individual tracts developed. Lou Boyar is said to have made
$44,500 managing one such tract alone.
Typical of Southern California, where water is precious,
much of the profit was derived from selling to the City of
Lakewood a company the men had formed to dispose of the
water rights that ran with the acreage they had bought with
Prudential’s money from the Montana Land Company. Under
the auspices of their water company, the developers built storage
tanks, drilled wells, laid water mains, installed service lines,
and placed water meters on every house they built. Soon,
however, observing diminishing returns on their investment,
they decided to get out of the water business. In 1957, the
City of Lakewood floated a bond issue of some $5 million to
purchase the company that owned the water under the land
under the houses that Ben and his partners had built.
Three years earlier, in 1954, when the construction of the
city was largely complete, three major assets remained to the
corporation. These were the lake and golf course adjacent to
the pre-existing homes, the corner-store commercial outlets,
and the shopping center.
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John Poag, then a young real estate whiz recently hired by
Ben, was instructed to write down each asset on a separate
piece of paper and place the three pieces of paper inside
Ben’s hat. As Poag held the hat high above his head, each of
the three partners extracted a piece of paper.
Mark Taper got the lake and golf course, which he later
sold to the county employees retirement fund for almost $5.5
million. Lou Boyar got the corner “strip malls,” which would
prove to be worth many millions more. Ben Weingart, as
luck would have it, drew the largest shopping center in the
world.
Having pulled their individual “rabbits” from the magic hat,
Ben and his partners dissolved the corporation they had
formed four years earlier to build Lakewood Park. All in all,
if time is money, it had proven time well spent.
Characteristically, as Ben Weingart understood a good deal,
everybody — from Prudential under Harry Volk; to IDS and
its lead investors, Robert Young and Clint Murchison; to the
Federal Government; to the residents of Lakewood — everyone came out ahead. Some perhaps rather more than others.
By their charitable gifts, Ben and his partners would all end
up contributing substantially to Lakewood. Of the three,
however, Ben was the one who focused primarily on the city
they had built.
Among other contributions, Lou Boyar gave a synagogue to
Lakewood. Yet after helping to build the city, Boyar’s primary
charitable activities supported the State of Israel. As a
co-founder and chairman of Israel Bonds, he would raise
billions of dollars for the fledgling nation. He would also
fund a Jerusalem high school for gifted children, as well as
the Harry S. Truman Research Institute for the Advancement
of Peace, at Hebrew University in Jerusalem. In all of these
endeavors, he would invariably prevail upon his old friend,
Ben Weingart, who generously pitched in.
Among other contributions made to Lakewood, Mark
Taper would donate the county library next to Lakewood
City Hall. Yet Taper’s major contributions and charitable
interests would come to focus on the City and County of
Los Angeles, where he established the major source of his
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wealth in American Savings and Loan. His foundation was
particularly generous in providing $1.5 million toward
construction of the theater that bears his name in the Los
Angeles County Music Center complex.
For all the money that Ben Weingart made on Lakewood,
he and his foundation would give back most of it, if not
more. Contributions made by Ben’s foundations — including
the B.W. Foundation, the Stella Weingart Trust, and their
joint successor, Weingart Foundation — specifically in and for
the City of Lakewood, would come to total at least $12 million,
including cash grants and land.
Among other gifts made in Lakewood, Ben’s charitable
donations would construct, in whole or in part, a community
center, a senior citizens center, a library, and a YMCA.
Lakewood would prove to be one of the few places where
“Mr. Anonymous” allowed the use of his name on a building
he had given. Lakewood was the exception that proved Ben’s
rule of charitable anonymity.
To buy land, subdivide it, and build houses is hardly a
unique employment in Southern California. The basic steps
are obvious; the process is accessible to anyone who has or
can borrow enough capital. Buying, subdividing, and building
on a massive scale is really just the same thing, only bigger.
Being the first ever to do so demands vision, skill, and
courage, not to mention more than a little luck. Making a lot
of money at it probably ensures that the experience is
ultimately pleasant.
Yet all these things can be done. Indeed, in the fifty years
since his pioneering efforts, all of these have been accomplished, more than once, by many men other than Ben
Weingart. So it may fairly be considered that imagining,
financing, building, and profiting from Lakewood is a significant
but perhaps not a great achievement.
Yet Ben Weingart did something more. He did not merely
build houses. He did not just create another suburb. Out of
nothing, more precisely, from relatively worthless bean fields,
Ben Weingart conjured an American hometown.
Lakewood, California, is not just another place to live. It is
the sort of place that people come to claim as and want to
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call their own. More than forty years since its incorporation,
Lakewood offers, including houses and apartments, almost
27,000 places to live. On any given day, only some two percent
of Lakewood residences are vacant. No home remains empty
for long.
Though its photograph was staged, Life magazine offered an accurate depiction of
the thousands of families simultaneously starting new lives in Lakewood.
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When Ben Weingart and his partners first offered these
houses for sale, the average price was $8,000. Today, a couple
who took the plunge into home ownership — the investment
that Ben provided, publicized, and pointed out to them,
above all made affordable and relatively easy — such a couple
has seen the value of their faith in him multiply more than
twenty-five times. The average home in Lakewood today sells
for upwards of $230,000. In some cases, considerably more.
Today, the city that Ben Weingart built has created and
maintained a hometown atmosphere that is seldom if ever
found in other suburban developments of whatever size.
Lakewood homes are well-maintained. The streets are safe.
The schools are good. Places of worship are diverse and
plentiful. Parks are graceful and conveniently located.
Opportunities for recreation are many and varied. Libraries
and community centers are excellent. The corner stores are
all within walking distance. Major retailers remain close by.
Neighbors actually know and speak to one another. More
than a few residents even walk to work each day.
Almost fifty years after they were planted as slender and
fragile saplings, the 30,000 trees of Lakewood shelter its
homes and form a verdant canopy above its streets, avenues,
and boulevards. Lakewood is not quite Grover’s Corners, but
it has fulfilled if not surpassed the promise Ben made to his
eager buyers.
Today, seeds planted long ago have blossomed, flourished.
Lakewood is desirable, a place to set down family roots and
watch them grow. Especially for a middle-class, suburban city,
it has proven remarkably, perhaps uniquely, attractive. Once
“The City As New As Tomorrow,” Lakewood has become
an All-American hometown. The hometown Benny Weingarten
never knew.
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From this unassuming office building at 1301 Wilshire Blvd. Ben Weingart built and
managed his fortune.
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Part one — chapter nine
Wheeler-Dealer
B
y the time he finished building Lakewood, Ben
Weingart was sixty-five years old. Having reached the official
retirement age, he might have been expected to relax and just
enjoy his money. Yet making money — less having it than
making it — was what he most enjoyed in life.
Making deals, almost all of which made money, was no
doubt his greatest joy, if not always his greatest pleasure. By
age sixty-five, Ben had evidently attained the wisdom that
concentrates on securing and increasing joy, while not overlooking the essential delights and benefits of pleasure. For the
next twenty years, he would cultivate both aspects of a rich
and rewarding life.
His remarkable deal-making prowess, especially in real
estate, had made him the largest property taxpayer in Los
Angeles County and one of the wealthiest men in California.
While he continued to buy (and hold) residential and
commercial real estate, almost all of it in Southern California,
Ben’s restless nature and inquiring mind were increasingly
applied to a wide array of other investment opportunities.
For example, even while Ben was still engaged in building
Lakewood, John Gurash, at that time a young insurance
executive with an innovative marketing plan, was dispatched
by his boss, Victor Montgomery, president of Pacific
Employers’ Insurance Company, to meet with Ben Weingart.
Along with Ben, Montgomery and William Kilgore had been
principals of Pacific Employers’ when the company was
founded in 1923. Ben had later sold his interest to
Montgomery and Kilgore to raise capital during the
Depression.
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Gurash, in 1950 a vice-president of Pacific Employers’, had
convinced Montgomery to start a new company that would
sell automobile insurance with an innovative, new concept.
The policy would be written by an independent agent; but
renewals would be billed and processed directly by the company,
thus bypassing agents after the initial premium was paid.
Although a common practice with life insurance, at the time,
this was a novel notion where automobile insurance was
concerned. Consequently, it promised to be highly profitable.
“Victor thought it was a good idea,” Gurash explained,
“but he wanted to avoid offending our independent-agent
sales force. We discussed alternatives; and finally Victor said:
‘I have a friend. Ben Weingart. Your idea could make a lot of
money. And I think we can get Ben to front for us.’
“As it turned out, Victor was right. You know, of all the
people that Ben dealt with, and he dealt with thousands,
Victor Montgomery was one he respected. Maybe it was
because Victor had helped him cash out of Pacific Employers’
when Ben needed capital. Maybe it was just because he
respected Victor as a businessman. All I know is, Ben
Weingart looked up to Victor Montgomery. And Ben looked
up to very, very few people.
“So, when Victor called him, Ben said, ‘Yeah, fine, sure.
Great idea.’ And, just like that, he made a major investment
in the company, Meritplan Insurance. We capitalized it for
about half a million, and Ben must have put up at least a
hundred thousand. Just like that.”
Since Ben was the nominal head of the company (an
unusual position for him to assume), it was agreed that
Gurash would work out of Ben’s office, Junior Realty, at
Wilshire and Witmer. Upon their first encounter, Gurash,
who would become a close associate of Ben’s, later board
chairman of Insurance Company of North America, and later
still one of the earliest members of the board of Weingart
Foundation, immediately noted the impact of Ben’s voraciously
inquisitive intellect.
“I learned right away,” Gurash recalled, “that Ben’s mind
never stopped working. He was an idea-a-minute guy.”
“At that time, Ben had the big office at Junior Realty. Later,
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for camouflage, he gave it over to John Poag. But in 1950,
Ben used it himself. It had another big room in the back.
And back there, I had a secretary and one other man, Victor
Montgomery’s son-in-law. So the three of us started the
process of applying to the State Insurance Department and all
that. And that’s when I really became acquainted with Ben.
“Almost overnight, it seemed, Ben became absolutely
intrigued with the insurance business. He’d be at my desk
every damn morning. ‘How did we do yesterday?’ he’d
always ask. ‘Why don’t you try this? How about trying that?
Have you thought about...?’ I mean, he never quit.
“I look back on those early days,” Gurash laughed, “and I
think that, if I’d just accepted half his ideas, we probably
would have been twice as successful as we were. Ben was an
absolute realist, totally pragmatic in getting the job done. But
his mind was highly creative, terrifically imaginative. And his
mind never stopped working, twenty-four hours a day.”
After having helped launch Meritplan, Ben took a back seat
in the company, so as to help win timely approval from the
California Department of Insurance. Nonetheless, he continued
his interest in the company, as well as his intuitive ability to
recognize and match allied business interests and kindred spirits.
In the early 1960s, he introduced John Gurash and Sol
Price. Short-term result: for some years, Gurash and Meritplan
sold insurance policies directly to the public at Price’s heavily
trafficked Fed-Mart retail warehouse outlets. Long-term result:
a close friendship that has endured for more than forty years
between the two friends of Ben and later Weingart
Foundation board members.
Ben also continued his fascination with the insurance business
in general, an abiding interest of his since 1923. By the late
1950s, Gurash recalls, Ben was involved in another insurance
venture, one more closely allied with his interest in real
estate, Security Title Insurance Company. At Security Title,
characteristically, Ben was one the largest shareholders.
Gurash succeeded Victor Montgomery on the board of
Security Title, a company that he recalled as having been
“obviously, for sale.”
At the time, the late 1950s, shortly after Gurash had also
117
succeeded Montgomery as president of Pacific Employers’
Insurance, Seattle-based Safeco Insurance expressed interest in
expanding by means of a merger with Pacific Employers’.
Over lunch at the California Club, the president of Safeco
made his pitch; but the deal did not appeal to Gurash.
“We were just not interested,” he explained, “but I happened
to know that Safeco had made an entry into the title insurance
business. So, in the course of the meeting, I said, ‘I don’t
think we can do this. But I have an idea for you. You’re in
the title business. Do you want to expand that?’ The result
was that they bought Security Title from Ben.
“A few days later,” Gurash laughed, “I got a call from him.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘that was a hell of a job you did. I figure
Security owes you some money.’ A few more days and, out
of the blue, I got a fat check in the mail. Sort of a finder’s
fee, you might say. Completely unsolicited.”
❖
In 1954, a few months after the residents of Lakewood had
declared themselves a city, Ben Weingart and Lou Boyar
were subpoenaed to testify before the U.S. Senate.
Specifically, they were called to answer questions posed by an
investigative subcommittee of the Senate Commerce
Committee. The subcommittee was chaired by Senator
Homer Capehart, Republican of Indiana.
The senators had invited or compelled the presence of
more than a dozen real estate developers from around the
country. The developers were expected to explain apparent
irregularities in federally backed home mortgages and
construction loans from which their companies had benefited.
Ben’s testimony proved enlightening only by omission.
Whether he was brilliant by design or befuddled by good
fortune, his answers managed either to bewilder or bamboozle
the assembled senators. Essentially, he presented himself as a
man who had so much on his mind that he knew almost
nothing.
The gist of the testimony presented is perhaps best paraphrased.
Explaining that he was a director of some 200 to 300 companies,
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Ben proposed that he could not be expected to remember
how each one of these varied enterprises actually operated.
Capehart: “Mr. Weingart, we seem to know more about
your companies than you do.”
Weingart: “Senator, you probably do. But you don’t have
as many companies as I do.”
Capehart: “Isn’t it true, Mr. Weingart, that most of the
companies you control are dummy corporations?”
Weingart: “You’ll have to ask Mr. Boyar.”
Capehart: “Ask Mr. Boyar. Ask Mr. Boyar. That seems to
be your only answer, Mr. Weingart. How is it, I wonder, that
a man intelligent enough to have investments worth $200
million can know so little about his own business?”
Weingart: “That’s why I have Mr. Boyar.”
Capehart: “Mr. Weingart, I submit that you have set up
hundreds of corporations simply to conceal your ownership
and shield your investments. If any of the companies that you
control should fail, the FHA loans that it holds would default
to the government, to the detriment of taxpayers and citizens
generally. In fact, Mr. Weingart, the way that you have things
set up, you have everything to gain, and little or nothing to
lose. Isn’t that true, Mr. Weingart?”
Weingart: “You’ll have to ask Mr. Boyar.”
❖
A few months after Ben testified before Senator Capehart’s
subcommittee, he evidently decided that he actually could use
some help in keeping track of his burgeoning enterprises.
The only problem lay in finding someone nearly as brilliant
as himself, at least someone capable of understanding the
financial and legal intricacies of his operation and willing to
undertake the learning process. As luck (for both of them)
would have it, that man proved to be John Poag.
At that time, early 1955, Poag was working for Paul J.
Howard, a horticulturist by profession, by chance a reluctant
multimillionaire. Howard had previously owned a nursery in
Santa Fe Springs, where he experienced at once a horticultural
disaster and financial bonanza. Union Oil Company discovered
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a substantial quantity of petroleum under Howard’s nursery,
an event that destroyed his beloved plants, at the same time
making him a very wealthy man.
With some of his millions, Howard purchased forty acres of
land in West Los Angeles, near what is now the intersection
of Barrington and National. There he constructed a magnificent
new nursery and gift shop stocked with exotic treasures
discovered during his travels throughout the world.
Meanwhile, Howard hired Poag to subdivide and sell or
develop much of the remaining land he had acquired.
In late 1954, Poag was charged with subdividing twenty
acres behind Howard’s nursery. The land was zoned R-3,
residential income property, ideal for apartments.
“One day,” Poag recalled, “Bernie Berk, one of Mr.
Weingart’s associates, came to me and said that they were
interested in purchasing all of the lots on the east side of
Barrington. This was a total of twelve or thirteen lots; so we
finally went into escrow and sold them the property. Sold it
through Junior Realty, which was the company Ben used for
building apartments.
“During the negotiations on that deal, I told Bernie that he
ought to look into the other side of the street at the same
time. We had another ten or twelve lots for sale on the west
side of Barrington, and I told him, ‘Bernie, you better take
them now, because once we’re out of escrow, I’m liable to
surprise you over there.’
“For some reason, he didn’t believe me. Probably thought I
was bluffing, trying to sweeten the original deal. But two or
three months later, he came back and said they’d decided to
buy the other side too. They wanted all of it.
“I said ‘Okay.’ But I doubled the previous price. Bernie
went through the roof. I told him ‘Take it or leave it.’
“Apparently, or so I learned later, Bernie went back to
Weingart; and Weingart agreed to the price. Then he told
Bernie, ‘You’d better hire him. Better to have this guy on
our side.’
“They made me an offer, a very substantial offer, great
salary, good benefits. With a wife and four kids, I couldn’t
refuse. So on April 1, 1955, I went to work for Ben Weingart.”
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Before long, Poag would become Ben’s right-hand man and
business alter ego. His first job, however, was to serve as
assistant to Berk, at that time, the titular head of Junior
Realty. As most of the residential sales in Lakewood had by
then been completed, Poag involved himself primarily in leasing
the commercial corners that Lou Boyar’s plan had carved out
to serve the neighborhoods of Lakewood — gas stations, grocery
stores, just about any kind of small-scale, commercial enterprise.
To a lesser extent, he also worked with Joe Eichenbaum in
securing leases from major retailers for commercial space in
Lakewood Shopping Center.
“When I first met Ben,” Poag recalled, “met him face-toface, we had a very brief meeting. In business, he was brisk
and short and to-the-point. I’d go into his office; and I’d lay it
out — the deal, the problems, the options. Generally, he’d
give me an answer right away. Considering his reputation, as
well as some other things I learned about him along the way,
I had great respect for Ben. And I think that, over time, he
came to respect me too.
“For one thing, if he ever asked a question, and I didn’t
know the answer, I always told him that I didn’t know; but
I’d go and find out. Also, he saw that I took it upon myself
to keep an eye on the back door. By that, I mean I’d analyze
practically everyone and everything that we were dealing
with. I’d always tell him my opinion, and I’d always give it
to him straight. I think he appreciated my honesty. I discovered a lot of dishonest things going on, and I managed to
clean them up.
“Sometimes, it was people. But not often. More often, it
was just the deals. Once Ben’s wealth and influence came to
be known more widely, it was predictable that some people
would try to take advantage of him. And some did try, but
very few succeeded. Understand that Ben would get offers every
day of the week. Word got around that he had money to invest;
and so, naturally, people were always offering him deals.
“Ben himself was always very busy, and sometimes distracted,
just because he had so many financial balls in the air all at
once. I felt that part of my job was to keep things on the
straight and narrow. To make sure that everything was on the
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up-and-up, in Ben’s whole operation. Above all, that he had
the straight facts and that he got good advice. So I always
tried to do that for him.
“Ben also had a great attorney. I don’t mean the in-house
lawyers. I mean the outside guy, Ben’s general counsel,
Harold Larson. Later, it was Leon Cooper. But for many
years, it was Harold. And his secretary. Just the two of them.
They’d go over everything too. And Harold never hesitated
to speak up when something wasn’t right.
“I know that Ben appreciated that. It was obvious that the
bigger he got, the harder it became, even for him — in fact, for
anybody — to keep track of everything himself. And of course, the
more money he made, the more that other people wanted it.”
❖
Among the earliest projects undertaken by Poag was the
development of a tract of homes and apartments in Seal
Beach, south of Long Beach. The development was called
Marina Shores.
Ben had acquired the property — several acres of oceanview land — as part of the three-way distribution of excess
assets from the Lakewood Park corporation. The land was
potentially valuable, but the realization of its potential would
clearly demand some effort. For one thing, that area along the
coast was then rife with quasi-legal gambling, particularly
poker dens and other card rooms.
“We couldn’t very well develop the property as up-scale
residential,” Poag recalled, “not with all the gambling going
on. So what we did, what Ben did, was to hire an ex-admiral
— outstanding Navy man, spotless record, symbol of civic
virtue, and all that — and set him up as a crusading newspaper
editor and publisher.
“The principal editorial theme of the weekly Ben funded
was the pressing need to drive gambling and other dens of
iniquity out of Seal Beach and environs. After a year or so, it
worked. The citizens held a referendum that effectively
prohibited all obstacles to our developing the property. It was
a regular triumph of civic virtue.”
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According to Poag, Senator Capehart seems to have been
on the right track. From scores of lots developed at Marina
Shores, Ben created a separate corporation to develop each
five or six lots. Otherwise, Poag noted, under then-existing
tax laws, the development would have been an exercise in
financial futility.
The Marina Shores homes and apartments were built by
Aetna Construction, a company owned by Ben and Lou
Boyar. Development of the properties was overseen by Poag,
while sales and rentals were handled by Lakewood Center
Realty, a company formed by lead Lakewood salesman
Woody Smith and Ben’s brother, Harold, known to one and
all as “Cliff.”
Woody Smith and Cliff Weingart helped to sell a number
of other Weingart and/or Boyar developments. Among these
were homes in communities developed near Lakewood,
including Buena Park and Carson Park, as well as other projects as far flung as Ventura and Las Vegas.
According to Smith, who first met Cliff Weingart while
selling Lakewood houses, Cliff idolized his older brother and
often relied on Ben. Cliff was, however, “his own man” and
an exceptionally likable person, “as nice a guy as ever you
could meet.”
Perhaps because Ben had already achieved wealth, Cliff
seemed much less driven to do so. Moreover, his own relatively
precarious health caused Cliff to prefer a more relaxed, less
stressful lifestyle than Ben’s. Cliff also valued a steady income
more than the unpredictable joys and fears of sales commissions
or entrepreneurial ventures.
Cliff did meet regularly with Ben, often weekly, usually on
Wednesday evenings, according to Smith. The younger
brother served the older as a particularly reliable and loyal set
of eyes and ears at the Lakewood Park sales office and
construction site, which Ben himself rarely visited. Cliff and
his wife, Eula, lived quietly and apparently happily. Like Ben
and Stella, they had no children.
Cliff himself purchased one of the Lakewood properties,
then sold it a few years later to build a relatively modest
house in the adjacent “country club” area of the city, first
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developed in the late 1930s. He borrowed $20,000 from Bank
of America to pay for the construction. Unfortunately, six
months later, on July 10, 1959, while buying and selling properties at his Lakewood office, Cliff Weingart suffered a heart
attack and died.
As Smith recalled their relationship, Ben and Cliff were
mutually respectful and devoted to one another. For some
reason, however, one that remains unclear, both Ben and
Cliff were estranged from their other brother, Max.
Nonetheless, all three of the brothers who had been
orphaned together in 1892 in Atlanta ultimately came to live
in proximity to one another in Southern California. Max
Weingarten (he kept the original spelling of the family name)
died in Los Angeles County on January 25, 1950.
❖
Ben’s wealth was founded upon his constant variations on a
subtly lucrative theme of high volume, low profit margin, and
constantly refined efficiency, leading not only to economies
of scale, but also to minutely incremental profits gleaned from
an instinctive urge toward frugality. If ever there was an
enterprising capitalist whose motto may have been “a penny
saved is a penny earned,” that bean-counter was Ben.
Yet he never counted his beans in a miserly fashion. On
the contrary, though seldom lavish and never spendthrift, he
was expansive in his attitude. When negotiating deals, for
example, he was never one to fight over the last nickel left
on the table. His vision was larger than that. At the same
time, however, he usually knew where every nickel of potential
profit lay before he ever sat down to bargain.
In the same vein, he seldom if ever insisted on personally
owning fifty-one percent of anything. Though he might control
an enterprise, he preferred not to own it. His reasoning was
not only to avoid notoriety, as well as legal exposure, it also
ran deeper, in a philosophic way. According to many of his
associates, Ben always insisted that, if you let the other guy
have fifty-one percent, and therefore “ownership” of an enterprise, he would work all the harder to make it a success, in
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the process enriching all the participants all the more. The
trick was to have a substantial interest in a quantity of such
successful enterprises.
As did Henry Ford and other early industrial magnates, the
proponents of assembly-line productivity, Ben would have
agreed that, at a certain point, quantity becomes quality, at
least in terms of profits. No doubt Henry, Ben, and all such
capitalist true-believers would have been appalled to learn that
this inspirational wisdom originated with Karl Marx.
Nonetheless, it worked. Moreover, as much as was possible
within the low-end market niche he carved out for himself
with his hotels, Ben strove to make the products that he
purveyed display inherent quality. Invariably, whether in
hotels or in apartments, he offered good value for the
money that his tenants paid. In fact, he was something of an
efficiency fanatic.
Examples abound of Ben’s attention to detail in creating
devices and policies that reduced cost and effort, thus at once
increasing both efficiency and profit. One way or another,
almost as if by second nature, Ben seems to have always been
“building a better mousetrap,” secure in the belief that, if the
world would not necessarily beat a path to his door, at least
he would make money by not spending it.
According to many of his associates, Ben was the first to
consider, develop, implement, and improve at least three costcutting practices now common in hotels. For example, he
designed the arm chairs in his hotel rooms to have their rear
legs extend farther than did their headrests. By this simple
device, he assured himself that the vast majority of scuff
marks would accrue to the baseboards of hotel room walls,
not to the walls themselves. Marks on baseboards, of course,
were less readily noticed; and baseboards were far more
cheaply repainted than walls might have been.
The savings in one room were modest, indeed, all too
easily overlooked. But multiplied by thousands of rooms,
such savings soon added up to “real money.” Moreover, the
specially designed chairs and seldom-marked walls went a
long way towards allowing Ben consistently to offer the
cleanest, neatest, most attractive accommodations in his price
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range. In turn, this led to his hotels enjoying a high-tenancy,
low-vacancy rate that more posh establishments routinely
found enviable, especially when balancing the books.
Another innovation that Ben apparently devised, or at least
promulgated, was the platform bed, that is, a mattress placed
atop an immobile platform extending about twelve inches off
the floor. This design offered two cost-benefits. In the first
place, it provided substantial savings in the total area of floor
that needed to be covered by carpeting. One double bed,
platform mounted, meant a savings of some thirty-five square
feet of carpet. At the same time, it eliminated floor space and
therefore time and effort spent in vacuuming, a benefit that,
multiplied over many rooms, saved considerable labor costs.
Though neither of these cost-effective solutions would win
approval from the doyennes of House Beautiful, neither did
they denigrate the immediate environment. The same could not
be said, however, for Ben’s selection of hallway light fixtures.
He was quick to note that fluorescent tubes provided lighting
at a fraction of the cost of incandescent bulbs. Soon these
fixtures were installed in all of his residential properties,
lending their corridors an efficient if slightly bilious hue. At
the same time, Ben took measures to ensure the safety of his
tenants. All stairwells and other potentially dangerous areas
were lighted by two fixtures, so that if one of them failed,
the other would continue to light the way and provide safe
passage.
Still another of Ben’s ideas designed to save time and
money has since become so ubiquitous that it is taken for
granted wherever it is seen today, and it is seen in almost
every hotel in the United States, if not the world. Today, the
chambermaid who cleans a hotel room and changes the hotel
towels and linens parks her mobile cart immediately outside
the door of the room in which she works. The cart contains
everything that she may need to clean or to replace, all close
at hand. Prior to Ben’s innovation of the mobile cart, however,
hotel maids had to walk at least half the length of any given
hotel corridor to retrieve the supplies needed for each room.
All of these notions, ideas, designs, devices — in retrospect,
so obvious — may seem hardly the stuff of genius. And yet
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genius has been perhaps best described as that which recognizes
the obvious.
Ben was a genius at that. And he had his share of cockamamie inventions too, among them, a robot that could
perform a number of relatively useless actions and a rudimentary
FAX machine. In fact, his ever-restless mind, tending toward
something of a “Tom Swift” bent, produced a number of
patented devices. And he was often on the cutting edge of
new technologies.
For example, long before most people had ever considered
the notion of “ecology,” Ben helped to develop a novel,
alternative source of energy — thermal power. Evidently, his
instinct for efficiency was soon enthralled by the entrepreneurial possibilities of an enterprise known as “Magma
Power.” Based in Northern California, the company sought
to harness the potential of volcanic forces, particularly thermal
geysers, to create marketable electric energy. Buying in early
— a nickel a share — Ben made out big with Magma over time.
And not just financially. When he wanted to reward a
female companion whose attentions had pleased him, yet
whose feelings he wanted to spare, he would not give her
money, but rather would present her stock certificates in
Magma. They had cost him almost nothing, yet he knew that
they would grow to represent substantial value.
Underlying all his innovations was a fundamental yet far
from simplistic belief. Save time, save energy, save money:
make money. That was Ben Weingart’s subconscious mantra.
Whether or not it brought him peace of mind, no one can
say. Most certainly, however, it greatly helped to make him a
very wealthy man.
Wealth in itself, of course, does not ensure happiness. Yet it
does ensure a certain sense (and reality) of security. At the
most elemental level, the wealthy man is unlikely to starve.
He will be physically comfortable. He will suffer less anxiety.
He will enjoy at least the possibility of realizing certain
dreams. In this sense, wealth surely is a blessing. All the more
so to the man whose boy was orphaned at the age of four.
From at least the age of sixty, Ben was in the habit of
carrying with him at all times two symbols of his success.
127
One was a list of all the properties he owned. In homage to
his first enterprise, Ben called it “the laundry list.” He liked
to keep it tucked inside his jacket pocket, a sheet of paper
that served him less for boasting than it did for security.
“Whatever else I may or may not be,” the list assured him, “I
am the man who owns these properties.”
In another jacket pocket, Ben habitually carried a large
amount of cash, usually in hundred dollar bills, inserted into a
sealed envelope cut off on a jaunty angle at the top. On more
than one occasion, Ben was seen to extract a bill from this
makeshift wallet and, waving it for dramatic effect, emphasize
to someone whom he felt might profit from the lesson: “The
dollar is your friend. Your friend. And don’t ever forget it.”
❖
Ben’s pragmatism sometimes extended to the eccentric, if
not the laughable. Yet even when it seemed excessive, it was
always rooted in street-smart experience.
The “House Rules” he had posted in every room in every
hotel he owned included such admonitions as:
• No repairing of automobiles on premises;
• No cooking or laundering, unless unit is equipped for
that purpose;
• Children will not be allowed to play on the stairs or in
the driveways;
• Vocal or instrumental music will not be permitted before
9 A.M. or after 10 P.M.;
• It is required that all guests will keep their rooms in a
reasonably clean and orderly condition;
• Maid service for maintenance of the premises shall be
supplied by management on a scheduled basis;
• House linen is to be laundered and cared for by the
management on a scheduled basis;
• DO NOT USE TOWELS for removing make-up or
polishing shoes. Guests will be charged for all towels with
make-up or shoe polish on them;
• Telephone messages or packages may be received by the
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management for guests. No responsibility for delivery to
guests is assumed by the management. As a matter of
courtesy, only, the management hopes to make delivery
promptly;
• Guests are cautioned to lock their doors each time they
leave;
• Bills are to be settled before guests’ baggage is removed;
• Rents are to be paid in advance.
Ben’s no-nonsense, time-is-money pragmatism extended to
his own living quarters. Here, too, he was not one to waste
time or money on aesthetics.
In 1948, when he and Stella finally moved “up-town” (actually,
five miles west of downtown) from their longtime residence
at 431 South Commonwealth Avenue in Boyle Heights to
the fashionable enclave of Hancock Park, he could not be
bothered to pay the same attention to detail in his own home
that he routinely applied to the rental units he owned.
The new lot, 228 South Hudson Avenue, backed onto the
Wilshire Country Club, offering splendid views of the
adjacent greens and fairways. Rather than design a home to
take full advantage of the site, however, Ben simply ordered
an existing design from a catalog. Sufficiently splendid to do
justice to the neighborhood, the Weingarts’ new home
nonetheless failed entirely to avail itself of its verdant setting.
In fact, the house offered hardly any prospect whatsoever to
the golf course; the expansive swath of greenery could be
glimpsed only furtively, solely from the master bathroom.
❖
Ben Weingart enjoyed himself. He loved a good laugh.
If his sense of humor was somewhat coarse, it was always
“in good fun.” By then prevailing standards, he was a gentleman;
but he was never a prude. And never pretentious. Ben was
utterly down-to-earth.
His humor was impish, fun-loving, never mean-spirited.
More than most men, he could laugh at himself.
As a practical man, he made it his practice to have a good
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time. Essential to this attitude was to take work seriously, but
not to make too much of it. However difficult the moment,
Ben never forgot that there is more to life than business.
John Poag recalled an illustrative incident. One of Ben’s
hotel managers called the office in a state of distraction,
extremely upset. He asked that Mr. Weingart come immediately
to the hotel.
When Poag and Weingart arrived, the manager was nearly
out of his mind with grief. Evidently, the night clerk had
made off with the weekend receipts. By now, the culprit was
probably deep into Mexico.
“How could he do it? How could he?” The manager was
close to tears. “We’ve been so good to him, Mr. Weingart. I
never should have trusted him with so much money.”
Ben burst out laughing.
Astonished, the manager blurted, “What are you laughing at?”
“I’m laughing at you,” Ben told him. “Here you are, in this
business twenty years; and you still haven’t figured out, sometimes a man will steal!”
That shut up the manager.
“The way I look at it, we’re lucky,” Ben admonished. “If
the occupancy had been up to where we want it, he could
have got away with a lot more.”
Spilt milk was not worth a single tear. Not as far as Ben
was concerned.
Yet Ben was nobody’s fool. And he was always one to take
appropriate precautions. Often, these precautions would be
tempered with a certain jocular good humor.
For years, Ben carried on a running dollar-poker match
with Howard Ahmanson. Founder of Home Savings and
Loan, the largest such financial institution in the country,
Ahmanson seems to have reserved his serious competitive
instincts for engagements with Mark Taper, founder of the
rival American Savings and Loan. It was this rivalry that
Dorothy Chandler astutely exploited in extracting from both
Ahmanson and Taper major donations for the Los Angeles
Music Center. With Ben, however, Ahmanson’s competitive
instincts took on a decidedly more playful tone.
Whenever the two men met, they would each search their
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pockets for a dollar bill with the highest total serial number.
The winner would pocket the other man’s money. Harry
Volk recalled more than one occasion when Ben, perhaps the
largest single depositor at Union Bank, would prevail upon
Volk, then the bank’s president, to scour the cash drawers for
sure-fire winners.
As a practical man, Ben delighted in practical jokes. The
simpler, the better. Long his favorite was the laughable ladybug
gambit. For many years, Ben regularly sported a remarkably
lifelike ladybug pin. Especially when meeting people for the
first time, he would affix the pin to the shoulder of his suit
jacket.
Invariably, he found that, not long after engaging the
person in conversation, his unsuspecting interlocutor would
courteously pass his or her hand over Ben’s shoulder, in a
gesture intended to brush off the firmly anchored insect.
After the first sortie failed, people would generally swipe at
the bug again once or twice. The most gullible among them
would end up flailing away at the pesky intruder. All the
while, Ben deadpanned as long as possible, then usually
ended up by howling with delight.
The Christmas holidays, however, afforded the best opportunity for Ben to demonstrate at once his playful sense of
humor and the essential kindliness of his nature. For many
years in the 1950s and ‘60s, as the Yuletide approached, Los
Angeles newspapers would display an unusual seasonal
advertisement. The ad urged anyone in need of Christmas
cheer to call a certain telephone number and hear from Santa
Claus himself.
Those who did so were greeted by a jolly message recorded
by Ben. His Season’s Greetings began and ended with a
hearty laugh, meanwhile helping anyone who heard it to
recall the blessings and good fortune that the peace and love
of Christmas promise to all humankind. In keeping with
Ben’s essential modesty, almost no one ever knew exactly
who it was who had brightened the holiday.
❖
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Ben’s penchant for anonymity was well-known to his
associates. Yet it was seldom more succinctly manifested
publicly than at a dinner honoring him for his many contributions to the creation of Lakewood.
“He was never a man to seek public attention,” John Poag
recalled. “In fact, he disliked it. And so, as much as possible,
he avoided the spotlight.
“Once, however, I saw Ben kind of cornered. He was
designated ‘Man of the Year’ by the City of Lakewood. And
he was invited to a dinner given in his honor by the mayor
and the city council. All the prominent citizens were in attendance, not to mention a few county supervisors, along with
many others who were eager to honor Ben.
“At the end of the dinner, Mayor Joe Iacoboni, the first
mayor of the city and himself a great leader, recounted all
that Ben had accomplished, all the things he had done to
benefit the citizens of Lakewood, not only as a developer, but
also by means of his private philanthropy.
“I mean, the list was impressive. And Joe really ran through
the whole routine. Then he turned to the guest of honor and
asked him please to give a speech.
“Well, Ben stood up, reluctantly. He looked all around —
up and down the table on the dais, all the dignitaries, then all
through the audience, all the spectators. For a long time, it
seemed, he didn’t say anything. Finally, he cleared his throat.
“‘I’m a doer,’ he said. ‘Not a talker.’
“Then he sat down. That was it.
“At first, the room was quiet. Absolutely silent. Then, all of
a sudden, a few started laughing. And then they all started
laughing. Then they stood up. All of them at once, they rose
to their feet. It was wonderful to watch. While everybody
applauded, Ben just sat there, with a big grin on his face.
And that’s all he said, all night.
“‘I’m a doer. Not a talker.’ That was Ben, all right.
“You see, he was not just publicity shy. I would say he was
shy as a person. Or maybe, ‘modest’ is the better word. For
all of his accomplishments, all his generosity, Ben was
fundamentally a humble man. He knew that he had a lot to
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wheeler-dealer
be proud of. But he didn’t want anybody blowing his horn.
And himself least of all.”
Another incident recalled by John Poag is similarly indicative
of Ben’s inherent preference for action over words. At the
same time, the recollection demonstrates Ben’s humanity,
compassion, and sense of indebtedness to those who had
helped him along his way.
Shortly after Poag first went to work for Weingart, Ben
learned that Morgan Adams was seriously ill. Adams had been
his first great benefactor, in many ways the foundation of
Ben’s fortune, the man whose keen judgment of character
and ability at the depths of the Depression had allowed Ben
to strike it rich after the War. Ben rushed over to Adams’s
house and knocked loudly on the door. When Mrs. Adams
opened the door, and Ben explained that he urgently needed
to see her husband, she refused him entry.
“‘You can’t,’ she said. ‘He’s very sick. He’s dying.’
“Of course,” Poag noted, “that was exactly why Ben had
come, to pay his respects before Morgan died. To thank him,
from the bottom of his heart. But he didn’t say anything.
Didn’t even try to explain. He just sort of exploded into
action.
“‘God damn it!’ he shouted. ‘Morgan’s a friend of mine.
And I’m going to see him.’
“With that, he just shoved Mrs. Adams aside and bounded
up the stairs to see his friend. Nothing was going to stop
him. Ben was like that. Once he had his mind set on it, he
was like that about everything. Above all, he was that way
about friendship and compassion.”
133
As his fortune grew, Ben commissioned a photographic collage of his achievements,
depicting his rise from “rags to riches.” This photo of Ben at his desk is inscribed
“To my friend, Harry Volk.” Today, the collage hangs in the library of Weingart
Foundation.
134
Part one — chapter ten
Company & Comfort
I
n his office at Junior Realty, Ben always kept a jar of
jellybeans, prominently displayed. Any and all who met him
were welcome to help themselves.
For the man who had grown from a penniless orphan
whose mouth watered to observe the colorful, delicious candies
in the window of a candy store in rural Georgia, that jar was
both a reminder of the hardships he had overcome and a trophy
of his triumph.
Having achieved success beyond his dreams, Ben now daily
offered the once unattainable delight of jellybeans to one and
all. Symbolically, with this sweet and cheerful token, he
shared the achievement of his dreams.
❖
Ben was generous to friends and employees alike. More
than one of his employees was fortunate enough to have Ben
back his or her first mortgage, helping a worthy person get a
foot in the door of the ever-rising Southern California real
estate market. Jeanelle Robinson was one who benefited from
Ben’s generosity and patriarchal instincts.
With Ben’s help, in the mid-1960s, Robinson had purchased
a small house in South Pasadena. Now her teenage son wanted
to move back in with his mother, to leave his father’s house
in Boston and live with her in sunny California.
“I was telling Ben about it,” she recalled, “explaining that
my son was coming out to live with me. And Ben asked,
‘Well, how much rent are you going to charge him?’
“‘What?!’ I couldn’t believe my ears. I said, ‘He’s only
thirteen.’
135
“‘That makes no difference,’ Ben insisted, his paternal
instinct rising. ‘If he wants to live with you, you make him
pay you room and board.’
“‘Mr. Weingart,’ I said, ‘where’s he going to get any
money? He’s only a kid.’
“‘Hmmm,’ Ben thought it over. ‘Well, he can work for it.’
“‘I don’t know if he can get a job or not,’ I said. ‘You
know, there’s lots of kids around looking for odd jobs.’
“‘I’ll give him a job,’ Ben said.
“‘And what would he do?’
“‘Well,’ said Ben, ‘he can sweep out the warehouse. I’ll pay
him fifty cents an hour.’
“‘Mr. Weingart,’ I said, ‘you don’t understand. He’s a thirteenyear-old kid. He can’t get work papers.’
“‘But...I’ll give him a job.’
“‘It’s against the law!’ I tried to explain.
“‘What?!!’
“‘It’s against the law for him to work. He’s only thirteen.
You have to be sixteen to get work papers.’
“Ben couldn’t believe it.
“‘Against the law? Against the law? For a boy to work and
help out his mother?’ He was aghast. Furious at the stupidity
of it.
“Ben believed in the value of work. He believed in it so much
that every day he sent a truck out to South Pasadena to pick
up Scott after school. Sometimes he’d even send his chauffeur
out. And sure enough, he put the kid to work.
“He believed in work. And he made me a believer. Because
I was a single mother. And with Scott out back of the office
and working in the shop, my teenage son had about forty
blue-collar guys kicking his butt all the time. It was great
discipline, and Ben saw to it. He took a personal interest, and
he got things done for Scott.”
Despite Ben’s own reputation as a womanizer, Robinson
noted, he ordered that any “girlie calendars” in the workshop
had to be removed or properly camouflaged.
“He made one poor guy in the machine shop paint bikini
diapers on all of his nudes,” Robinson laughed. “And poor
Scott! He was just at the age where he would be interested.
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company & comfort
But Ben would have none of it. He was determined that
Scott would only come under the best of his influence.
“I was always grateful to Ben for taking an interest, not
only for lending me a hand with the mortgage, but even
more so for helping me raise my boy. However gruff it was,
his paternal instinct came in handy, let me tell you.
“A few years later, when Scott turned sixteen and wanted
to drive himself into work, I thought he should just take the
bus. But Ben lent him the money to buy his first car, an old
van. Six hundred dollars. He had Scott sign a promissory
note to him, even though he knew it wasn’t legal, that Scott
was still a minor and couldn’t legally sign. But because of that
note, Scott took his obligation seriously. And he paid back
every cent of the money. He paid Ben Weingart fifty dollars a
month for a year.”
❖
As Ben’s wealth increased, despite his best efforts to remain
largely anonymous, so did the number of charitable projects
and institutions that solicited a contribution from him. Yet he
was by no means a soft touch, not in the usual sense.
As a rule, he limited his charitable gifts to those areas
where he had made his money; and he gave to causes that
would make those areas better, safer, more pleasant, more
hopeful places to live. In other words, he gave back to those
who had given to him. And he tended to do so in ways that
would make a direct, immediate, positive, potentially longterm difference in their lives.
One of his favorite charities, the Volunteers of America,
worked directly every day to improve the lives and prospects
of the people on Skid Row. The foundation of Ben’s fortune
continued to be the transient hotels and low-rent apartment
houses east of downtown Los Angeles. So he supported the
efforts of Colonel Paul Nolte, commanding officer of the
Volunteers of America, to improve the lives of the destitute,
often hopeless, too often alcoholic men and women living in
the area. Certainly, there was an element of self-interest in
Ben’s donations to the VOA. Most landlords can see the benefit
137
of helping to “clean up” the neighborhoods in which they are
invested. Yet, in Ben’s case, characteristically, he took this
obvious self-interest more than a few steps further.
Always concerned with innovative improvements and costeffectiveness, Ben funded and helped to design a VOA center
Ben (far left) helps VOA colonel Paul Nolte (second from right) and others break ground.
at which a homeless man — in those days, such unfortunates
were typically known as “bums” — might, in clean and decent
surroundings, shower, shave, and generally pull himself
together. If he felt up to applying for a job, a man could get a
decent suit of clothes for the occasion.
Ever the pragmatist, Ben’s focus was always on providing the
opportunity for the down-and-out to regain self-respect, giving
them the chance to make changes that made a better, more
responsible, more productive future possible. Whether in the
buildings that he owned or in the facilities that his charity funded,
Ben never lost sight of the fact that surroundings that provided
cleanliness, safety, and at least a modicum of convenience and
comfort were essential for a person to maintain self-respect.
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company & comfort
He was a man who knew what it means to have nothing.
He knew that when a man (or a woman) has nothing, at least
nothing of material value, when a meager and belittled pride
is all that they have left, then simple human dignity is everything. Even when he had more wealth than most men are
ever likely to know, Ben never forgot this fundamental lesson
of his own early poverty.
Perhaps as a result, he had little patience with those who
would petition his support for projects he considered relatively
insignificant, in fact, frivolous. One such encounter, celebrated
in the annals of Los Angeles philanthropy, was with the
doyenne of cultural charities, Dorothy Buffum Chandler.
Herself heir to the Buffum’s department store fortune,
married to Norman Chandler, grandson of General Harrison
Gray Otis, publisher of the Los Angeles Times, “Buff”
Chandler was a legendary fund-raiser for local causes. In the
early 1960s, Mrs. Chandler’s latest project was beyond doubt
her largest and most significant, particularly in terms of
establishing the city’s reputation as a national focal point of
serious music, drama, and the arts. She had determined to
provide Los Angeles with the Music Center that major civic
leaders, herself prima inter pares, were determined it deserved.
“One day I got a call from Buff,” Harry Volk recalled.
“To my mind, she was a wonderful lady. And she asked me
to set up a luncheon meeting with Ben Weingart. So I
arranged for them to meet at Perino’s restaurant.
“We all knew what the meeting was about. She’d gotten a
million dollars from Mark Taper, for the theater that bears his
name. She got a couple million out of Howard Ahmanson,
for the concert hall. And she knew Ben. Not socially, of
course. But she knew of him, possibly from Mark and Howard.
At least, she knew that Ben was in their league financially.
“The three of us met at Perino’s. And over lunch, she
presented a very strong case for the Music Center, how
much it would benefit Los Angeles, not just the city, but all
its citizens. Ben listened to her carefully, took it all in, while
he enjoyed his lunch.
“Finally, Buff laid her cards on the table. ‘You know, Ben,’
she told him, ‘your friend Howard Ahmanson has given.
139
Mark Taper has given. I’d like to have you think in terms of
matching their gifts.’
“One thing about Buff, she wasn’t shy about asking for
money. And she was certain she had a good cause.
“‘How about it?’ she asked him.
“Ben looked up from dessert. ‘I won’t give you a dime.’
“Mrs. Chandler was shocked.
“‘Well.... Well,’ she stammered, ‘why do you say that?’
“‘I don’t like music,’ Ben said.
“She couldn’t believe it. Why would anyone have that
response? What’s more, she certainly wasn’t accustomed to
having anyone speak so directly to her.
“Finally, Ben cleared up her confusion. ‘Listen,’ he said,
‘you look after the rich. I look after the poor. You give me a
million for my poor people; I’ll give you a million for your rich.’
“Needless to say, the lunch ended abruptly. Buff went
home chagrined and empty-handed, but Ben was elated. In
the parking lot, he said to me, ‘Boy! I handled that, didn’t I?’
To Ben, rebuffing Buff Chandler, that was a triumph.
“Basically, I realized, he was right. They lived in completely
different worlds. His mind and heart were not with the
crowd who haunted art galleries and museums. To him, they
were simply spreading frosting on their cake. They really didn’t
need his help.
“Ben was concerned with those who lacked so much as
bread and water. He cared about people who were hungry
and poor, who needed a place to sleep. The people who
lived in and around his primary investments, in that immediate
community. Those were the people Ben knew and understood.”
Volk recalled another time when Ben’s response to a
request for a charitable donation showed that he lived in a
completely different world from the person asking for his
money. That time, Ben demonstrated that his concerns were
literally “down to earth.”
“I took him out to Cal Tech one time,” Volk explained. “I
was on the board of the university, and Dr. Lee DuBridge
was president. I introduced Ben to Dr. DuBridge. Then we
went over to see the head of the Department of Astronomy,
which was in the market for some financial support.
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company & comfort
“As we were strolling along one of the campus walkways,
I casually mentioned to Ben, ‘Look, there’s the Firestone
building.’ And then, here’s this building. And that building.
All of them named for the donors, of course. And I said to him,
‘Ben, you could have one of those. What do you think of that?’
“He said, ‘I think they’re all nuts.’
“Well, I was smart enough to shut up for a while. At least
until we got to the Department of Astronomy, where we
were met by the chairman, a brilliant scientist, of course, a
very attractive man, and a great person, Dr. Greenstein, who
happened to be Jewish.
“‘Well, Ben,’ he said, not knowing that Ben had been
raised a Christian Scientist, not to mention he was now a
Thirty-Third Degree Mason, ‘I’m very sympathetic with your
situation, because I’m Jewish too. I had to struggle to get
through college,’ which incidentally was somewhat stretching
reality, because he had been born into comfortable circumstances, his parents had been well-off, and they had seen to it
their son received an excellent education. But Dr. Greenstein
wanted to make hay with Ben, and he was doing his best to
make a favorable impression.
“So I was glad when he dropped the mutual background
angle and stuck to the astronomy. He started telling Ben
about the work he was doing; and then he was fascinating,
because he was all excited about it, talking about this galaxy
and that solar system, all of them hundreds of millions of
miles out in space, many thousands of light years away.
“I looked over at Ben, and I could tell that he was really
engaged, you might even say mesmerized by these concepts,
which he’d probably never considered before. So I thought
that Dr. Greenstein was doing a great job, getting Ben excited
about astronomy and all the discoveries yet to be made.
“They talked for a long time and parted amiably. When we
left, I could see that Ben was pondering something, really
deeply interested, as if he were mulling over a question for
the ages. So, thinking that I might broker a deal on the spot,
I asked him straight out, ‘How do you like Dr. Greenstein?’
“‘Must be something wrong with that guy,’ Ben said.
141
“‘What do you mean?’ I asked him. ‘You looked like you
thought his work was...amazing.’
“‘Yeah, it sure is. He’s obviously a bright guy, highly
intelligent. So I kept asking myself: What the hell is he doing
out there in space, a hundred million miles away? Why is he
out there? Why?, when there’s so much to be done right
here in Los Angeles.’”
Sol Price concurred that Volk’s stories are typical of Ben.
And for more than one reason.
“Ben was very pragmatic,” Price noted. “And I’m sure he
did view Mrs. Chandler’s interests or Dr. Greenstein’s as
being ‘out of this world.’ Certainly, he was interested in a
totally different segment of society than either of them were.
So there was an element of absolute sincerity in his responses.
“But he was also very shrewd. And it’s worth remembering
the attitude that he adopted was an effective way to excuse
himself from giving to any cause beyond his own immediate
concerns. For all his empathy with other human beings,
especially those less fortunate than he, Ben was simply not a
giver, not in the way of money.
“He gave wonderful advice. He was a warm friend, always
interested in others, and exceptionally creative. But he never
really sought to apply his genius to doing good with his
money, not in a systematic, philanthropic way.
“Ben much preferred to do what he did best — make
money. He’d often say to me, truly bewildered, ‘Why do
they want it now? Don’t they know that they’ll all get much
more after I make it grow?’ That was his attitude. While he
was alive, he didn’t really want to be bothered, except for
immediate, obvious, human need.
“Another thing,” Price noted, “Ben was modest. He really
didn’t want his name on buildings. But at the same time, his
belief in anonymity was part of the same, self-interested
syndrome. ‘If I keep my name off things,’ he used to say,
‘they won’t be bothering me.’
“In the same vein, he believed very strongly in avoiding
notoriety. ‘Sol, don’t ever seek publicity,’ he used to tell me.
‘If you do, pretty soon you’ll find yourself taking deals
because they have publicity value, not because the deal itself
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company & comfort
is a good deal.’ Ben felt very strongly about that. ‘Never let
publicity become more important than good business.’
“Ben believed in tangible value,” Price insisted. “He was
highly pragmatic, an exceptionally realistic person.”
❖
On the evening of December 29, 1957, Stella Weingart
died. She was seventy-six years old. The official cause of
death was recorded as acute congestive heart failure, but she
had been suffering from duodenal cancer for at least the
previous four years. She had undergone surgery at
Hollywood Presbyterian Hospital twelve days earlier. The
cancer, however, was found to have metastasized beyond lifeprolonging excision. Ben buried her immediately, on the
morning of December 31st.
John Poag recalled that, with the possible exception of Jack
Rosenburg, no one in the office even knew that Stella had
been ill. “I knew that Ben had retained a physician to look
after her,” Poag explained. “But he told me he’d retained the
doctor to keep Stella healthy, not to treat any illness.
“Both Ben and Stella had been raised as Christian Scientists.
So retaining a doctor for his wife, to keep her in good condition, I thought that was just typical of Ben’s pragmatic
nature. He was always a man ahead of his time. To the
extent he entertained the notion of medical care at all, for
himself or for Stella, he thought of it as a preventive measure.
Sort of a managed health care program, thirty years before
most people even considered it.”
According to Poag, such pragmatic farsightedness was typical
of Ben’s devotion to Stella. Ben always made certain that
Stella was comfortable and physically secure. In the material
world, at any rate, Stella lacked for nothing.
“He was very...well, I wouldn’t say ‘loyal’ to her,” Poag
recalled. “Everyone knew that he had other women. But Ben
took very good care of Stella. And always in very practical ways.
“For example, he had a place down in San Juan Capistrano
or maybe San Clemente, one of the beach towns going
towards San Diego. And Mrs. Weingart would stay down
143
there alone every once in a while. So Ben had a siren put up
on the roof, a regular fire-station-type siren. He told me you
could hear the damned thing miles around.
“Connected to the siren, he had a button installed, right
next to her bed. He told her that, if she ever needed help or
anything, all she had to do was touch the button. He told her
the whole town would hear it. And he wasn’t kidding.
“I know, because he sent me down there one time to look
the place over and try to appraise it, see how much he could
get for the property. After she died, he wanted to get rid of it.
“I drove down there; and, for some reason or other, I got
to thinking, I wonder if this thing is just a phony. You know,
maybe Ben told her all that just to make her feel better. So,
like an idiot, I hit the button. Before I knew it, the police
were there, the fire department. I mean, immediate response,
complete official presence.
“I just stood there, with egg all over my face. I told them
what I was doing, working for Mr. Weingart; I tried to
apologize. But for a pretty good while there I thought they
were sure to throw me in jail.
“When I got back and told Ben what had happened, he
loved it. Couldn’t stop laughing. ‘I told you the damned
thing worked,’ he kept saying. ‘I told you.’ It cracked him
up. He laughed like hell.”
On the day that Ben buried his wife, he was far more
somber, but similarly matter-of-fact. “He buried her the morning
of the second day after she died,” Poag recalled. “And that
was the first we knew about it, any of us in the office. He
walked in late, around ten or eleven o’clock. He was always
in early, so I knew something must have happened. And he
just made an announcement, very directly. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I
just buried my wife.’” As it happened, the day Ben buried
Stella was New Year’s Eve.
Helen Terashita, who had worked as the Weingarts’
housekeeper for some twelve years at the time of Stella’s
death, and who would stay on to look after Ben for almost
twenty more, recalls that, at Forest Lawn cemetery in
Burbank, apart from herself, only Ben and one other couple
attended Stella’s interment. The other couple were Art and
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company & comfort
Elsie Hochshield. Art had known Ben and Stella ever since
their marriage in 1917.
Helen Terashita lived and worked in close proximity to
Stella Weingart for almost a dozen years. She recalled Stella as a
thoughtful, considerate employer, as well as a woman of simple
yet elegant taste. In Helen’s memory, Stella remained an
inherently graceful woman, one of unfailing dignity and poise.
Stella was evidently well aware of Ben’s tendency toward
womanizing. She once went so far as to hire a private
detective to follow Ben and specify his actions in this regard.
When confronted with the evidence, Ben drew a clear distinction between his lives inside and outside their mutual home.
Whether or not Stella agreed with her husband, she
apparently acquiesced to this relegation to the domestic
domain. It was no doubt a constrained existence, but it
provided her certain exclusive prerogatives that Ben respected
as inviolate. In the home they shared, Stella Weingart
reigned, if seldom ruled. Outside their home, Ben lived more
or less as he pleased.
What else may be implied regarding the nature of their
marriage and relationship is probably anybody’s guess and
ultimately nobody’s business. Yet, if one can judge from a
photograph taken at
the celebration of
their fortieth wedding
anniversary in 1954,
both Ben and Stella
seem not only happy
in the moment, but
also pleased with and
proud of a union that
served and sustained
husband and wife
alike for almost half
a century.
How many marriages today can claim
as much?
Ben and Stella celebrate their 40th anniversary,
April 23, 1957.
145
❖
Especially after Stella’s death, Ben’s realism and pragmatism
became particularly evident in his relationships with women.
Never a man reluctant to express the pleasure that he took in
their company, Ben was not about to limit his options for
entertainment and delight.
Certainly, once his wife had died, he became more open in
his longstanding friendship with Hazel Walsh, whom he had
known for more than thirty years. Theirs was a relationship
that had endured for decades and one to which they were
both devoted.
Ben was a loyal friend and companion to Hazel, but by
now she surely understood his eclectic appetites where
women were concerned. Moreover, Hazel — though a particular
favorite of Ben’s and, even now, one whom he compared
favorably to all others in all ways — was close to sixty years
old. With a veritable smorgasbord of potential delectation
spread before him, Ben, though far from gluttonous, was
hardly one to restrict his palate to monotonous experience.
Even before Stella’s death, Ben had befriended Helene
Yuhas, a vivacious blonde he met in the mid-’50s. Their
relationship, however, came as no small surprise to her.
“I was helping out a friend of mine,” Yuhas explained,
“working part-time as a public stenographer at the Beverly
Hills Hotel. One of my clients at the hotel, a real big shot,
asked me to drive him to an important meeting. I had a great
car then, a Buick Roadster; and this guy wanted me to drive
him down Wilshire to the meeting. I learned later that
he wanted to impress his friend by arriving in a snazzy
convertible, driven by a female chauffeur.
“When we got there, 1301 Wilshire, everyone was out to
lunch. But pretty soon they all came back. My friend called
out: ‘Hey!, B.W. Over here.’
“Ben walked over to the car. My client introduced me as
his chauffeur. Ben tipped his hat.
“‘Well,’ he said, ‘how do you do, Little Lady?’
“Then he reached into his pocket. He got a handful of
something or other and held out his hand to me.
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company & comfort
“‘Have a jellybean.’
“That’s how we met,” Yuhas laughed. “Over a jellybean.
“It was a hot summer day, and I had on a white strapless
dress. While my client met with Ben, I stayed in the convertible. I’d brought along my knitting. Then, after a while, Ben
came out and said he didn’t think that it was healthy for me
to be sitting out in the hot sun.
“‘Won’t you please come in?’ he asked me, very gracious.
“I thought it over, and I took him up on it.
“At first,” Yuhas recalled, “we were just friends. I’d just
been through a tragedy. The man I loved and planned to
marry had been killed in an accident. So I was really devastated,
in no mood to play around. And I learned that Ben had a
sick wife. So it wasn’t like we jumped right into it or anything.
In fact, it took some time.
“For a long while, we were just friends. Ben used to take
me to business meetings on Saturday mornings. He told me I
was too naive, too innocent. He wanted to show me the way
the world really worked. And, well, I guess I must have
learned some things he wanted me to know.
“I had a place in Silverlake,” Yuhas explained, “and Ben
would often come by Sunday mornings. I was always glad to
see him. And not for why people might think, not because he
helped me out financially. Just because I liked him, you
know. Ben was always fun to be around. He loved to laugh.
“Good company, that’s what he was for me. And I think I
was the same for him. He had a lot on his mind, you know,
from the office, all his business interests. And I just tried to
help him forget about all that stuff for a while. Just relax and
enjoy life.
“We were good for one another that way. You know, one
way or another, rain falls in everybody’s life. But Ben, for me
anyway, he was always sunshine.
“He’d come by in the morning. Maybe help me wash my
car. Then we’d go out for a Sunday drive. We might go
down to the South Bay. Or up into the mountains. Just enjoy
the day, you know, and each other’s company.
“Sometimes, Ben would just want to check how things
were going at his various hotels. He liked to make sure his
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managers were on their toes, see that everything was always
clean and safe and neat.
“He liked to go down to Lakewood too. He was really
proud of that town, all that he’d accomplished there. And he
liked to keep track of the progress that the people down
there made.
“Sometimes we’d have lunch or dinner, at a restaurant
along the way. Sometimes we’d go out of town, Palm Springs
or Lake Tahoe. More than anything else, I guess, we just
made each other laugh.
“I was really very fond of Ben,” Yuhas recalled. “I mean, I
really liked him. Back then, in the late ‘50s, he was, I guess,
about forty years older than I was. And you know what people
always think. But that wasn’t it at all. I simply liked him. I
liked him as a person. And I liked him as a man.
“He was a great friend to me, always kind and thoughtful;
and he always treated me with great respect. He was considerate
and generous. Not just with his money, but with his heart,
his spirit. The Ben I knew, he was a gentleman. You know,
every relationship, you always have your ups and downs. But
with Ben, from the first day that we met, I can’t recall a single
time I wasn’t glad to see him. Or just a little sad to see him go.
“When all is said and done,” Yuhas observed, “there’s not
too many people in this world you can say that about. I
know one thing, neither of us ever gave the other anything
we didn’t want to, or ever asked the other for anything they
didn’t want to give.
“We just seemed to hit it off together, Ben and I. Even
now, forty years later, it makes me happy just to think of him.”
At much the same time, another of Ben’s favorites was
Noel Cannon. Like Helene Yuhas, like Ben himself, Cannon
was something of a free spirit. A graduate of Stanford
University Law School, as well as an attractive, sprightly
blonde, she was in the habit of “packing heat” of moderate
caliber — a silver-plated derringer that she was not averse to
flaunting.
In part based on her intellectual and professional qualifications,
in part based on her own lobbying efforts, in part based on
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company & comfort
Ben’s pulling political strings, the flamboyant Cannon found
herself appointed a judge of the Municipal Court, City of Los
Angeles. From this exalted vantage point, Her Honor
proceeded to make an eccentric name for herself. Once,
pulled over for a minor traffic violation, she responded to the
perceived affront by threatening to provide the ill-starred cop
with “a .38-caliber vasectomy.”
Ultimately, discretion proving the better part of valor, Judge
Cannon was forced to relinquish her seat on the bench. For
some years before, however, The Court was pleased to entertain
a judiciously intimate relationship with her benefactor, the
party of the first part, Mr. Weingart.
Even while Ben and the judge were taking matters under
consideration weekday evenings, Helene Yuhas, Ben’s preferred
weekend companion, had to go back to her hometown in the
Midwest to attend to family matters. Though they stayed in
touch by telephone (and remained friends until his death), by
the time that Helene returned to Los Angeles in 1960, it was
clear to her a new attraction had hit town.
❖
Jack Rosenburg was instantly impressed. The young woman
who walked into his office to solicit a charitable contribution
was a beauty. Moreover, she had about her an aura of selfconfidence, an elegant and polished manner that he found
remarkably appealing.
She was in the early bloom of womanhood. She had intelligence to match her looks. And she was clearly nobody’s fool.
Always one to look out for Ben, not to mention appreciate
his friend’s particular delights, Rosenburg made it a point to
engage his attractive visitor in prolonged conversation, all the
while waiting for “The Boss” to return to the office. This
was a woman, Rosenburg felt certain, Ben Weingart would
want to get to know.
It almost did not happen. She had a long list of offices to
visit that day, other solicitations to pursue. And she took her
work seriously. It was clear she had already done considerable
149
research on Ben, his businesses, and his financial resources.
Finally, regretfully, she stood to leave. Rosenburg saw her to
the door that led to the Junior Realty parking lot.
Just then, Ben pulled his Cadillac into the reserved space.
Rosenburg escorted the more than willing woman by the
arm. Her eager smile was dazzling. As Ben climbed out of his
car, Rosenburg made the momentous introduction casually:
“Hey, Boss! Meet Laura Winston.”
❖
Ben Weingart was not a man to concern himself with partisan
politics. He was, however, by the mid- to late-Fifties, the
largest single taxpayer in the County of Los Angeles. He was
purported to own more hotel rooms than did Conrad Hilton.
As an investor of such scope and influence, he was certainly
interested in advancing his business interests. To that end, for
many years, Ben retained Gordon Hahn to lobby city and
county politicians on his behalf.
Gordon Hahn was the older brother of Kenneth Hahn, for
decades a Los Angeles County Supervisor and a power in the
Democratic Party. Not only did Gordon Hahn know his way
around L.A. County politics and politicians, as “Kenny”
Hahn’s brother, he enjoyed extraordinary access, not only to
supervisors, but also to Los Angeles City Council members
and longtime mayor, Tom Bradley.
In terms of contributions and the influence they purchased,
Ben played both sides of the road. Before Bradley won the
mayor’s office, for example, Ben had been on friendly terms
with Bradley’s defeated opponent, Sam Yorty. Ben also
contributed to the gubernatorial campaigns of Ronald Reagan.
At heart, however, he remained a “small-d” democrat, a
preference often enough manifested with a capital “D.”
One such occasion was the Democratic National
Convention of 1960. Ben’s Lakewood associate Lou Boyar
was actively and publicly involved in the effort to bring the
convention to Los Angeles and evidently invested considerable
money of his own in attracting and subsidizing the event.
It was rumored that Ben’s money too paid a lot of the
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company & comfort
As Ben’s fortune increased, so did his reputation as a political power-broker. Taken
at Ben’s Junior Realty office around 1970, this photo records a visit from an earnest
and good-humored governor, who would soon adopt Ben’s custom of keeping in his
office a jar of jellybeans.
Democrats’ bills when the party nominated Jack Kennedy for
president.
Alan Leahy, Ben’s accountant, recalled that, though he
never found any such contributions to have been made
directly in Ben’s name, he early learned, before claiming a tax
deduction, to note carefully the endorsements on checks
drawn upon Ben’s many and varied accounts. More than
once, Leahy discovered Weingart enterprise checks originally
written to advertising agencies or other deductible service
providers to have ultimately been endorsed to and cashed by
political candidates or their committees. It was clear that,
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where political influence was concerned, Ben valued
anonymity even more than he did in business.
Did Ben really bankroll the Democrats in 1960? The nature
and extent of Ben’s support for the Democratic convention
can perhaps be measured by the fact that candidate Kennedy
paid a personal visit to Ben’s office at Wilshire and Witmer.
Further evidence is provided by a later photo of Ben and
President Kennedy, both of them smiling, perhaps simply for
the pleasure of each others’ company. Then again, perhaps not.
Having helped finance, through his friend Lou Boyar, the 1960 Democratic convention
in Los Angeles, Ben gained ceremonial access to “Camelot.” This photo, taken in 1962,
shows Ben and the President at a fund-raising gala.
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Part one — chapter eleven
Slippery Slope
A
ll his life, or as long as anyone around him could
remember, Ben had demonstrated a firm aversion to medical
treatment, at least for himself. In part, no doubt, this was a
result of his early experience in the Miller household and his
informal indoctrination as a Christian Scientist. In part, it was
due to lifelong habits of healthful living.
For example, he neither smoked nor drank alcohol.
Generally, he ate sparingly and consumed a well-balanced
diet. For most of his life, he went to bed early and rose with
the dawn. From at least his middle years, he was also in the
habit of taking an afternoon nap.
Ben also benefited greatly from an optimistic outlook, a
sunny disposition, and a jovial nature. He was noted for his
childlike glee in harmless practical jokes and his well-honed
sense of humor.
Nothing got Ben down for long. It was his practice seldom
if ever to look back. Instead, he was always looking ahead,
not with grim determination, but rather with joy and delight.
He never worried much about life’s enigmatic problems and
philosophical conundrums. Ben was a practical man who
sought and found practical solutions. The “Great Dilemmas”
he tended to ignore.
Over the years, Ben had developed certain behaviors that
he codified as rules for happy, healthful, and successful living.
By most counts, there were four.
First among these was the dictum “Never get too tired.”
He felt that no matter how important a piece of business
seemed in the moment, if a man were too tired, he would
not think clearly. No matter what the pressure, he advised,
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better to take a break. Go lie down and rest for twenty minutes.
Take a nap. The result would be better decisions.
Second, Ben advised, “Never worry about money.” Sol
Price recalled Ben’s often saying, “I’ve made a lot of money.
I’ve lost lots of it too. One thing to remember: there’s always
more money to be made. You can’t replace an eye, an arm, a
leg. But you can always replace money.”
Third, he admonished, “Never overeat or overdrink. Avoid
gluttony and greed. Always leave something on the plate, in
the glass. That goes for the negotiating table too.”
No doubt in order to protect the innocent, no one seemed
to be able to recall Ben’s fourth rule.
All agreed, however, that he was utterly serious about these
maxims, absolutely convinced of their efficacy. In any case,
he proposed them to others with absolute sincerity and
seriousness of purpose. And he himself practiced these rubrics
religiously.
Evidently as a result of these and other practical habits, Ben
had always enjoyed remarkably good health. He was blessed
with an unusually strong constitution and a muscular
physique, attributes that allowed him to enjoy a vigorous
life style.
His only apparent physical afflictions were the fallen arches
and weak ankles that resulted from his early years of strenuous
labor, carrying heavy loads of towels and linens up and down
the stairways of hotels along his St. Louis and Los Angeles
laundry routes. These maladies he relieved largely by wearing
the ankle-high shoes he had made to his specifications by a
shoemaker in Boston. Most people who noticed Ben’s
characteristic footwear considered it simply “quaint” and “oldfashioned,” another of his charming eccentricities, not the
physical necessity it in fact was.
Apart from his feet and ankles, however, Ben appeared and
considered himself to be generally in the best of health. In
fact, it seems that he had reached his late seventies before he
ever saw the inside of a hospital as a patient.
It must have come as a surprise when, one day in 1966, he
began to experience persistent and increasing flu-like symptoms,
including headaches, lassitude, and a general sense of malaise.
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slippery slope
Finally, after some weeks without relief, at the urging of a
business associate, Ben agreed to be examined by a physician.
Yet the medical diagnosis remained somewhat obscure.
Perhaps as a result of treatment, perhaps coincidentally,
Ben’s symptoms began to abate. After a while, he was his old
self again. Characteristically, once he had recovered, Ben put
the disconcerting episode behind him. Indeed, having passed
beyond the mysterious shadow, he seems to have never
looked back.
❖
No doubt greatly relieved, Ben went on about his business
and his pleasure.
Throughout the 1960s and early ‘70s, he continued to make
deals, most of them turning a substantial profit, especially
when he stuck to real estate. A few times, however, as Price
recalled, Ben got burned.
“Probably because he himself had patented a few inventions, Ben always liked to get involved with guys who had
new concepts. And sometimes, for example, with Magma
Power, he did very, very well by investing in these unusual
ideas, what today are called cutting-edge technologies. But
sometimes his enthusiasm for a new idea could backfire.
“It’s true that Ben had a genius for smelling a good deal,
but nobody’s perfect. In fact, as he grew older, he was kind
of a sucker for a clever promoter. He could read somebody
wrong, get in bed with the wrong guy. And a couple or three
times, he did just that.
“One time I’m aware of, it cost him a million bucks. But
nine times out of ten, he’d get it right. And, you know, the
truth of the matter is, if you show me somebody who’s never
made a bad deal, I’ll show you somebody who hasn’t made
any deals at all.”
Despite all his efforts to remain anonymous and not publicize
his wealth, Ben attracted his share of would-be financial
predators, some of them female companions, most of them
male, erstwhile business associates. Whether male or female,
whether personal friend or business associate (and some of
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them were both), the people to whom Ben was attracted to
his detriment were generally attractive, flamboyant personalities.
Among them were a “Kentucky Colonel” real estate developer
who promoted himself as having built the wartime Road to
Mandalay and a would-be Hollywood mogul struggling for
control of the Republic Pictures motion picture studio, as
well as more than one shady operator and/or pseudo sportsman.
For the most part, John Poag recalled, few could pull the
wool over Ben’s eyes for long. He remained a shrewd judge
of character, though sometimes he reached his judgment too
late. When that happened, his instinct was immediately to cut
his losses, make as favorable a settlement as possible, put the
bad experience behind him, and move on.
Like all optimists, as he grew older, Ben proved perhaps all
the more susceptible to other people’s dreams. And if he
occasionally made errors in judging the intentions and characters of some who unscrupulously targeted his wealth, he may
perhaps be forgiven such relatively minor lapses of judgment
based on his generosity of spirit. At much the same time,
however, Ben pulled off one of his most lucrative deals ever,
increasing his fortune by at least $10 million at a stroke.
❖
Barrington Plaza — an impressive array of up-scale apartments
and commercial spaces, comprising two fourteen-story buildings
and one twenty-five-story tower — would prove to be the crown
jewel of deals pulled off by Ben. The 712-unit complex had
originally been built with Federal money, some $27 million
lent to the builders by the U.S. Department of Housing and
Urban Development. When the owners defaulted on their
mortgage, the government sought a new buyer to take the
valuable white-elephant off their hands.
The opportunity had been brought to Ben’s attention by a
friend who had in turn been tipped off to its potential by a
real estate agent of his acquaintance. Sol Price, however, was
the one who suggested to Ben how he might most profitably
structure the deal. Price’s plan was so successful that Ben
ended up purchasing the building at little or no cost to
himself or his associates.
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slippery slope
In fact, so lucrative did the Barrington Plaza deal prove to
be that it attracted the scrutiny and disfavor of U.S. Senator
John McClellan, a tenacious watchdog of the public interest
and inveterate enemy of self-evident boondoggles. Despite the
senator’s outrage that a private citizen should so enrich himself,
after lengthy investigation, he was unable to prove any
wrongdoing. McClellan could only grudgingly admit to having
witnessed a remarkably shrewd piece of business.
Barrington Plaza rose on Barrington Avenue, just off
Wilshire Boulevard, a prime location for real estate. When its
original owner defaulted on the mortgage, the Federal government found itself with a major problem. Not wanting to accept
such a large loss, the Department of Housing and Urban
Development was eager to negotiate its way out of the jam.
Ben Weingart offered them the requisite $22 million. But
the deal was structured so that Ben paid nothing down and
enjoyed a two-year moratorium on any payments. After that,
his payments would be “interest only” for the subsequent ten
years. Even these payments were to be made only if the
property showed sufficient net income. If he could not pay
the interest, it would simply accrue to the principal balance.
The deal that Ben and Sol Price negotiated with the government meant that Ben’s risk was minimal to non-existent. At
the same time, he availed himself of tax benefits worth more
than $1,250,000 a year.
As luck, shrewd investment, and exceptional negotiating
skills would have it, real estate values soon spiraled upward
again. Ben walked away with a profit of at least $10 million,
not to mention the most up-scale property in his bulging
portfolio.
❖
By all accounts, Laura Winston made Ben Weingart happy.
Without exception, whether business associate or displaced
woman friend, everyone who knew of their fondness for one
another considered that Laura was a bright light in Ben’s life.
For one thing, they had much in common. Both of them
were pragmatic dreamers. In Laura’s case, the emphasis was
on the dream. In Ben’s, the pragmatism. Yet both of them
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combined an optimistic nature with iron will and staunch
determination to realize the dreams they could imagine.
Laura was a woman who, despite a less-than-privileged
childhood and several related emotional setbacks, had determinedly and optimistically bettered herself and improved her
situation. By her power of imagination and her force of will,
she had created a vibrant personality and a fulfilling way of
life. By natural inclination, careful study, and diligent practice,
she had educated herself to the social graces, much as Ben
himself had overcome his own early disadvantages. She was a
considerate and genuinely loving friend, one who expanded
Ben’s horizons beyond his workaday world, while generally
accepting him for who and what he was.
For another, Laura was intelligent, articulate, and sympathetic, the sort of intimate companion with whom Ben could
relax not only in private, but also in the most prestigious
(or pretentious) of public situations. Under any and all
circumstances, again much like Ben, she seemed graceful and
at ease.
For yet another reason (of no little importance to Ben),
Laura was lovely to look at, a beautiful woman whose classic
features were enhanced by a compelling sensual flair. Jack
Rosenburg had been right about one thing — though all of
Ben’s favored women friends had their particular charms, and
no one of them could be considered less than a pleasant and
engaging companion — Laura was indeed “a cut above.”
Essentially down-to-earth, she nonetheless carried herself
with poise and dignity. She personified and projected a vivid
sense of style. Innately, if not by pedigree, she had breeding
— what Ben would have referred to as “class.”
For a man in his declining years, there are worse fates, no
doubt, than to be attended by such a woman, be approved of
and assuaged by her, be afforded the pleasure of her tender
mercies. Laura may have gotten on Ben’s nerves from time to
time. Yet she also helped him to stay interested in life, gave
him something to look forward to each day, and kept his
spirits high.
From the mid-1960s onward, she saw to it that his birthday
was celebrated every year at a luncheon attended by his
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friends, associates, and beneficiaries, not to mention many of
the leading Los Angeles politicians. One way or another, she
seems to have managed to make most of these occasions
something of a surprise for Ben. More than once, she enlisted
Harry Volk to pick up Ben and ostensibly drive him to a
business meeting, one that instead turned out to be a festive
birthday celebration.
The souvenir menus from these annual luncheons typically
featured dishes humorously named to highlight Ben’s proclivities, achievements, and interests. The events proved to be
an annual tour de force for Laura, as each year she strove to
outdo herself in terms of the convivial atmosphere and heartfelt delights she created to charm and honor Ben upon his
birthday.
Though they continued to live separately, and Ben characteristically insisted on his freedom to entertain and be
entertained by other women, increasingly, Laura came to be
his recognized favorite. Some would say that she gradually
insinuated herself into a position of undue emotional and
psychological influence. Others, among them several of Ben’s
female employees, not to mention previously favored female
friends, would, perhaps more generously, insist that Ben and
Laura’s increasing familiarity simply reflected the growing
pleasure he took in her company.
Among other ways Ben demonstrated his approval and
appreciation was to see to it that Laura acquired a real estate
license. Then he routinely funneled business deals through
Laura, acting as his agent, a practice that contributed to her
personal financial security and sense of professional accomplishment. In ways and by means uniquely available to each
of them, they both consciously and deliberately took care to
look after one another.
At the same time, like most couples, they were sometimes
testy toward each other. Volk recalled an occasion when he
was driving Ben and Laura to the Wilshire Ebell Theater.
Laura loved the theatre, an entertainment in which Ben, as
far as Harry knew, had previously exhibited little to zero
interest. Nonetheless, on occasion, Laura would successfully
cajole Ben into witnessing an evening of drama or perhaps a
159
concert. On the particular occasion Volk described, Laura was,
perhaps good-naturedly, perhaps too pointedly teasing Ben
about his inveterate frugality, not to mention his less-thanrefined aesthetic sense.
“Harry,” he recalled her saying, “I saw the loveliest bedroom
set today. It’s just perfect for us. Exquisite, really. And it only
costs $4,000. I don’t know why Ben won’t buy it. Don’t you
think that he should buy it for me, Harry?”
“Well,” Volk responded, greatly discomfited, “I suppose
Ben ought to do whatever he feels like doing.”
“I don’t want to buy it,” Ben snapped. “I’m not going to
buy it. And that’s that.”
A trivial domestic quarrel? No doubt. Yet it would later be
seen by Volk as evidence of a recurring dynamic between
Ben and Laura. As he saw it, Laura tended to prod Ben to do
things that he otherwise would never have considered.
At the same time, in the snipings and skirmishes sometimes
attendant to intimate relationship, Ben usually gave at least as
good as he got. In fact, on at least one occasion, his
expressed attitude toward Laura might be considered overtly
cruel.
Sol Price recalled an occasion when, as friend and designated
executor, he and Ben were discussing Ben’s will. Price noted
with sincere surprise that Ben had specified that only $40,000
should be left to Laura.
“Now, Ben,” Price recalled himself urging, “don’t you think
that $40,000 seems a little low? After all, you and Laura have
been friends for quite a while now. And you know, it’s not
like you can’t afford it.”
In Laura’s presence, Ben responded curtly: “I figure that’s
about all that she’s worth.”
Clearly, the slight had been intentional. Clearly, Laura had
been hurt to hear herself so derided. Clearly Ben had made
his point.
Later, Ben would make clear to Price that he considered
Laura’s friendship to be considerably more valuable. And
Ben’s bequest to Laura was adjusted to reflect his actual sentiments, in fact, generous and respectful. Yet, for some reason,
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Price noted, Ben had felt, on at least one occasion, that Laura
needed to be “put in her place.”
Of course, where the truth lies in such matters can seldom,
if ever, be accurately ascertained. While, even in the most
volatile markets, dollars and cents can be readily counted,
intimate emotions, even at their most placid, are far less susceptible to measurement.
Some observers — austere in attitude, severely realistic —
might see the bargain Ben and Laura struck as an elaborate,
mutual manipulation, each of the parties serving primarily his
or her own ends. Others — inclined to an expansive, more
romantic point of view — might consider the relationship to
be mutually rewarding, emotionally heartfelt, psychologically
fulfilling — in short, something rather closely resembling what
might even be called love.
❖
As long as Ben remained relatively healthy, acute in mind
and vigorous in body, no one had or was given reason to
doubt the value to Ben of his relationship with Laura. No
one seems to have questioned Laura’s character or the innocence of her intentions. When Ben’s health began to fail,
however, second thoughts gradually came to the fore. As his
energy and acumen diminished, he became increasingly
reliant upon Laura. As his delight in her companionship
imperceptibly transformed itself into psychological, emotional,
and physical dependence, the friends and associates who had
known Ben the longest — among them, Jack Rosenburg, John
Poag, Sol Price, John Gurash, and Harry Volk — began to
harbor doubts, if not suspicions, concerning the nature and
extent of Laura’s influence on Ben.
Was the impact of their intimacy positive or negative? Was
the attention Laura paid to Ben malignant or benign?
With most men of Ben’s age (then approaching eighty-five),
the questions would have provided little more than an excuse
for playful titillation, pointless gossip. Yet when the man in question is worth something in the neighborhood of $100 million,
issues extending far beyond the personal are likely to arise.
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Over time, the question inexorably came to mind: In her
evident devotion to him, was Laura a devoted, selfless friend,
one whose care of and concern for Ben were offered primarily,
if not solely, out of love and friendship? Or were her ministrations to him based upon an expectation that she would, in
due course, be well rewarded for her efforts? If both these
motivations existed simultaneously, which was the more
prevalent? If she did have expectations, were they based on
Ben’s actual intentions and desires, clearly expressed, cogently
undertaken, and categorically precise. Bluntly put, was Laura
a fortune-hunter, a gold-digger, a financial predator? Or was
she an entirely disinterested friend, one who could be trusted
to act with Ben’s own best interests exclusively in mind?
And what, indeed, were Ben’s own best interests? Who
could say? How could they know? For that matter, with so
much wealth at stake, could anyone’s intentions be trusted
absolutely?
These were weighty questions, ponderous in all senses.
They were, perhaps, beyond human capacity to answer with
full moral certitude.
Nonetheless, as Ben’s once-incisive mental capacity continued
to decline, it became increasingly clear to everyone concerned
that a decisive moment would soon be at hand.
“Ben was older,” Poag recalled. “But you didn’t really
notice it physically. At least I didn’t. To my mind, physically,
he wasn’t really failing. Mentally, though, it was pretty obvious.
My first clue was in his ability to speak. His speech just started
going. And it kept on going downhill until, most of the time,
he was simply mumbling. So much so that I couldn’t really
understand what he was trying to say. It’s hard to say exactly
when it started. My guess would be around 1970, because
this deterioration spread over three or four years.
“Sometimes, he would seem completely lucid. At least, his
speech would be intelligible, if not absolutely clear. But that
was really the only sign of Ben’s deterioration. Physically, as I
say, he seemed perfectly healthy. He’d always taken good care
of himself that way. Never smoked or drank. Early to bed,
early to rise. All things in moderation. For his age, he was a
very healthy guy.
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“He came into the office every day. And he looked fine.
But I could tell that his memory was failing. And then his
speech. After a while, he just started to babble. He’d sit in his
office there, and he’d just babble on all day. Stare out the
window, all day long.
“Of all the people in the office, I was probably the first to
notice. Simply because I had so much contact with him every
day. Jack Rosenburg and I. We had connecting offices, on
either side of Ben’s.
“But there wasn’t much that we could say about Ben’s
condition. I’d report to him every day, of course. Every now
and then, he’d come and stand in my doorway, shoot the
breeze, or try to; sometimes he’d come in and sit down. I
used to get to the office around seven or seven-thirty in the
morning. Ben would come in at nine, nine-thirty, something
like that, and he always came into my office, said “good
morning.” But then, when he tried to talk business, or
where, in the past, he would have been talking business,
now, he was just mumbling. I couldn’t really tell what he was
saying. It was gibberish, most of it.
“After about two years of this, he didn’t even say “good
morning” anymore. He’d just go straight into his office, if he
came in at all. Sometimes, he wouldn’t come in until ten or
eleven. After a while, I’d never know if he was coming in or
not, much less when. By late ‘73, early ‘74, it had gotten
that bad.”
About that same time, Poag began to spend extended
periods of time in Hawaii, negotiating and overseeing
Weingart investments in commercial and industrial properties
near the Kahe marina. In part due to the pressures of those
tasks, in part due to his several absences from Los Angeles,
Poag was distracted from the problems attendant to Ben’s
mental deterioration. Upon returning to the mainland, however, he was struck by what were now clearly perceivable and
precipitous declines.
“Jack saw it, probably even more than I did,” Poag recalled.
“Because he saw Ben every day. And Jack was great to Ben.
They were such old friends. By that time, they’d known each
other more than forty years. They didn’t socialize together
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much, didn’t play gin rummy at Ben’s house. That was partly
because Jack lived way out in Arcadia, nearby Santa Anita,
which he loved; while Ben lived in Hancock Park.
“But Jack would see him at the office. He’d sit and talk to
Ben. Take him for walks. ‘C’mon, Boss,’ he’d say. And
they’d go out for a stroll or for a drive. Jack took good care
of Ben, protected his feelings as Ben grew more and more
confused. Jack made him feel involved and kept him active.
They had a very close and loving friendship.
“Of course, over the years, Ben had been a great friend to
Jack, helped him out more than once. And Jack had made a
lot of money in the stock market for Ben. That was Jack’s
genius, the market, especially margin calls. Jack was a great
margin player. In fact, a great gambler across the board.
Loved the horses, played the odds. But Ben didn’t take those
risks. For Ben’s account, Jack would mostly buy and hold.
“Looking back, we probably waited too long, Jack and I. I
was setting up the deals in Honolulu. And Jack, I think he
didn’t really want to face the fact of Ben’s decline. Neither of
us wanted to. And neither of us were really in a position to
break the news to Ben. We were old friends and associates,
but we were also employees. All we could do, or all we did,
was to try to be considerate of him, protect his feelings.
Continue to show him affection and respect.
“Meanwhile, I just kept the office going. All the various
businesses. Hotels, apartments, construction, maintenance,
real estate development. There was a lot at stake financially,
not to mention in human terms. By that time, Ben’s companies
employed more than 800 people. Jack and I, each in our own
way, we had our hands full. But we both knew that something would soon have to be done. And that was just about
the time that Sol stepped in.”
Sol Price was the only one of Ben’s three designated executors
who was not also an employee. For almost fifteen years, Sol
and Ben had been in the habit of getting together every
Monday. Their meetings were based at once on friendship
and on business. Ben was also invested in what was then
Sol’s main enterprise, Fed-Mart. Moreover, Ben had loaned
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slippery slope
considerable money to Price, almost a million dollars, a sum
secured by Price’s Fed-Mart stock.
Over the years, the two men had developed a mutual fondness, respect, and admiration. Almost thirty years older than
Price, Ben was as close as Sol ever came to having a mentor.
As Ben’s mental capacities deteriorated, Price was able to
perceive, in weekly increments, a diminished capacity that
might easily escape Rosenburg or Poag, for that matter, anyone
who tended to see Ben every day. Perhaps more significantly,
Price was a man accustomed to making weighty decisions
and taking significant actions.
“Neither Jack nor I ever said to each other ‘My God!
What’s going on here?’” Poag recalled. “We never asked each
other, ‘What should we do?’
“I’m sure that we both thought about it. I know I did. But
Jack and I never really talked it over together. Not until Sol
decided that we all had to face facts.
“In those days, nobody really knew much about
Alzheimers. We just thought of Ben’s affliction as senility.
After all, he was eighty-six by then. And so, even though, on
the one hand, Ben had always been so mentally sharp, on the
other, it seemed perfectly natural that, at his age, he was losing
touch. The problem was: What could we do about it? What
should we do?
“Some years before, Ben had asked me to draw up a will
for him. He told me that he wanted me and Jack and Alex
Deutsch, an old friend of his, as his executors. Then he said
he wanted me to draw up the goddamn will! Seemed like he
was after me to do it almost every day.
“Finally, I told him, ‘B.W., I can’t do it. I’m not qualified.
I’m not a lawyer.’ So I got him to call Adenauer, the same
lawyer who had helped him set up the B.W. Foundation.
And he did a marvelous job with the will.
“Meanwhile, though, Ben and Alex had had a falling out —
in my view, it was a disagreement precipitated by Laura. In
any case, Ben excluded Alex as an executor, and he replaced
Alex with Sol Price. That’s how it came down to the three
of us — myself, Jack, and Sol.
165
“As we talked it over, it wasn’t just a question of what our
personal responsibility was, not just what we owed to Ben as
his friends. We also became very aware that, as executors of
his estate, we had a larger fiduciary responsibility to uphold.
And if we didn’t do that properly, we would be legally liable.
What’s more, our responsibility as executors was complicated
by the fact that all of us — at least, Sol and I; but I think Jack,
too — we all owed money to Ben.
“Sol had by far the largest debt, but I myself owed Ben
about $100,000. Yet, since I was running his business affairs, I
was in the position where, whenever the note would come
due, Ben would ask me what he ought to do about it. I
could either pay it off, or I could recommend that he renew
it. In effect, I was overseeing my own debt to Ben, along
with other people’s debts. If Ben died, I would be in a
position of owing money to an estate of which I was also an
executor. It was, to say the least, a situation that could easily
be considered a conflict of interest. So all of us were a little
on edge.
“Then,” Poag recalled, “one Monday morning, late
October, Ben gave me a piece of paper. On the note, it simply
said ‘I want to give Laura two million, instead of one.’ Words
to that effect. And it was initialed by Ben. At first, it was just
one more thing for me to attend to. But the more I thought
about it, the more I was troubled by the implications of that
note.
“It happened that Sol was coming up that day. As soon as
he arrived, I showed him the note. Now, not only were we
concerned that Ben was almost totally out of touch with his
businesses, not to mention with his fortune, we were also
worried that he might be persuaded to give it all away.”
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Part one — chapter twelve
Friends Intercede
T
he time had come for action.
Sol Price and Ben had often spoken about what Ben wanted
to do with his money. Indeed, as Ben’s attention increasingly
wandered, Price had urged him to set his financial affairs in
clear order. Especially important was the question of whom
Ben wanted to appoint as executors of his estate.
At a meeting held in the office of Attorney Leon Cooper,
Ben had met with his closest business associates. After
reviewing the terms of his will, he indicated clearly and
specifically those with whom he chose to place himself and
his fortune in trust. In the room with Ben were Cooper, Sol
Price, Jack Rosenburg, John Poag, Alan Leahy, and John
Gurash, among others. Ben pointed in turn, to Price, Poag,
and Rosenburg: “You, you, and you,” he stated. Perhaps for
emphasis, perhaps in his jokester mode, he pointed to Leahy
and Gurash, both of them Catholics, and added: “Not you.
And not you.”
Ever canny concerning the nexus of persuasion where the
spiritual and material intersect, Ben was congenitally if jovially
suspicious of Catholics, particularly of their devotion to the
greater glory of the Archdiocese of Los Angeles. Besides, he
felt, with no little justification, the Cardinal already had philanthropist Dan Murphy in the deep pocket of his priestly cassock.
“Nothing against you boys,” Ben muttered. “But you know
how I feel. No Catholics.”
And so the executors were selected: Price, Poag, and
Rosenburg. Two Jews, plus a Canadian High Church
Anglican; and, much to Ben’s liking, all of them fairly well
167
lapsed. These were the intimates, the men he most trusted,
those who best knew him, those whom he knew best.
❖
Jack Rosenburg and Ben
Weingart had been friends
for more than forty years.
Jack, a mathematical wizard
and an inveterate gambler,
had already made and lost
a fortune on the stock
market by the time that he
met Ben. In the early
Thirties, when Jack was
down and out, Ben had
lent him a hand, and then
some, eventually bankBen Weingart and Jack Rosenburg: for fifty
rolling his reentry into the
years, the best of friends.
market. Bill Ross, Jack’s
son, recalled that, throughout the Depression, the family
never went without milk. It seemed to appear magically on
the doorstep, delivered by Uncle Ben.
Universally remembered fondly for the sweetness of his
disposition, Rosenburg was the sort of man that everybody
liked to have around. He had an office next to Ben’s at
Junior Realty, to which he would drive in every day from his
home in Arcadia, conveniently located adjacent to Santa
Anita race track. If there was one thing Jack enjoyed more
than following the market, it was probably playing the horses.
When he was not at the office, he could usually be found
down at Del Mar, over at Hollywood Park, or back at Santa
Anita — wherever the thoroughbreds were running.
Where Ben was characteristically tight with his money,
Rosenburg was expansive, a generous tipper at the Santa
Anita Jockey Club. His friendship with Ben was in most
ways a mating of opposites, Jack emotional and outgoing,
Ben cerebral and reserved. Yet their loyalty to one another
was legendary.
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friends intercede
For Rosenburg, Ben had, more than once, proven a financial
savior. For Ben, Rosenburg, despite his excesses, had made
nothing but money on the stock market. Whatever Ben
entrusted to him to invest, Jack parlayed it into more, often
much more. The man knew the market, a financial arena for
which Ben lacked both time and interest. Basically, over
time, Jack Rosenburg became Ben Weingart’s stockbroker. It
was a business relationship from which they both profited.
But the friendship always came first.
In the final analysis, what bound them together was not
only mutual esteem and affection, plus the camaraderie of
having endured and survived life’s predictable ups and downs.
More than anything else, they both loved life with a passion.
They lived their lives zestfully. These two fellows knew how
to have a good time. And for both of them, the good times
were always more fun when shared with one another. The
tough times too.
❖
John Poag, a brilliant, ambitious,
and daring young man, had been one
of the youngest combat pilots in the
history of the Royal Canadian Air
Force. Still in his teens at the outbreak of World War II, he had flown
bombers from Britain to North Africa,
on to Suez, India, and the Burma Road.
It was Poag’s squadron of bombers
that would later be immortalized in
the book and movie “Bridge On the
River Kwai,” assigned the dubious For twenty-five years, John
Poag served as Ben’s rightduty of attacking a bridge built by hand man.
British prisoners of war.
Mustered out of the RCAF, Poag went on to college,
married, and moved to his wife’s hometown, Los Angeles. By
the mid-1950s, he was applying his considerable talents to
another theater of operations where combat experience would
prove an asset, the Los Angeles real estate development wars.
169
Trying his hand at the game, Poag represented the owner
of some land in West Los Angeles, near the intersection of
Barrington and National. A man named Bernie Berk called
him up and offered to buy it. Poag named his price, and the
man turned him down. A few weeks later, the man called
again. He asked if Poag was still interested in selling. Always
interested, said Poag. But the price was now fifty percent higher.
“You can’t do that!” exclaimed Berk.
“Not only can I do it,” said John Poag. “I’ve done it.”
And he had.
It turned out that Berk worked for Ben Weingart. Ben
bought the land, at Poag’s price, then offered him a job as
Berk’s assistant. Before long, Poag was running the real estate
development operation. Before much longer, he was Ben’s
right-hand man.
A man of fierce intelligence and iron constitution, Poag
devoted both to the advancement of Ben’s financial interests.
Along the way, he learned enough to advance his own.
“One thing Ben told me, from the beginning,” recalled
Poag. “The first day that I went to work for him, he said, ‘If
you’re not financially independent by the time that you turn
fifty, I don’t want you working for me.’”
All things considered, Poag kept pretty much to Ben’s
schedule. But even absent the necessity, he kept on working
for Ben. As Ben grew older, he came to rely increasingly on
Poag. He was not only an ally, but the closest Ben came to
having an heir to his business. There were other young men
to whom Ben took a liking, others he helped along the way
to success. John Poag was as close as Ben came to having a son.
❖
For sixteen years, Sol Price had weekly traveled to Los
Angeles to lunch with Ben, play gin rummy, talk business,
shoot the breeze. From the start, between the two, there had
been a bond of mutual recognition. These were men who
instinctively knew, respected, enjoyed, and felt affection for
one another.
Price recalls the first time that he met Ben Weingart:
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friends intercede
“I was running a company called Fed-Mart. At that time,
around 1960, we were expanding into Texas and Arizona.
Along the way, we’d entered into an agreement to buy a
piece of property in Dallas. And I guess it must have made
the papers.
“All of a sudden, I was contacted by a fellow named Joe
Eichenbaum. Joe was a super salesman. I learned later that
he’d leased out all the Lakewood Shopping Center sites for
Ben. He’d sold a lot of properties that Ben developed. I
mean, Joe was a super salesman.
“The greatest storyteller ever lived, you know. And in business, a very, very tough guy. Negotiating a deal with Joe was
like.... If there was a nickel on the table, he’d come after it,
you know. Joe was a tough guy.
“Anyway, he contacted me. And he said, ‘We’ve got a piece
of property, in Covina, out there just east of L.A. Right next
to one that you’ve got. Why don’t we throw your property
and our property together. I’ll arrange the financing and the
building, and then you lease it back.’
“Well, it sounded pretty good at first. And we kind of
negotiated an agreement. But after we got the Dallas
Fed-Mart built, we didn’t do anything with the Covina land.
And the more we studied it, the more we decided it would
be a bad location for us.
“So, I finally went and told him. ‘Joe,’ I said, ‘we shouldn’t
build there. It’s not right for Fed-Mart. And we’re not going
to build there.’
“‘Come on,’ he says. ‘We’ll go down and talk to the Old
Man.’
“That’s when I met Ben.
“You know, before that, all along, I thought I’d been dealing
with Joe Eichenbaum. I had no idea he had a boss. But there
we were, in Ben’s office, Wilshire at Witmer. Just the three
of us.
“Joe told his side of the story. And I told mine.
“Ben listened to us both. Then after a while, not long, Ben
looked up and said to Joe: ‘He’s right. You’re wrong.’
“Then he turned to me and said: ‘How do I buy stock in
your company?’
171
“That’s the way it began.”
Ben became Price’s business associate, the second largest
shareholder in Fed-Mart. Through the years, they met together
every week. The two met so often that Price finally rented
an apartment in one of Ben’s apartment buildings.
“I paid for it, too. Full rent. You know, Ben. That generous,
he wasn’t.”
Price would fly up from San Diego, early in the week, on
Monday or Tuesday. They would have lunch together, usually
at the Teris Hotel cafeteria, sometimes the Pacific Dining
Car. After business consultations, they would enjoy an early
dinner. Then they would repair to Ben’s house for a few
hands of gin rummy. About nine o’clock, Price would leave
for the airport. He and Ben went on that way for years. Over
time, they came to know each other well.
❖
Price’s sense of Ben’s relationship with Laura Winston was
that, however much Ben enjoyed Winston’s company, however
much he was genuinely fond of her, his gratitude did not
extend to his entire fortune. Indeed, Ben had made clear to
his executors that he wanted the bulk of his fortune to go to
charity, via a foundation.
As an executor of Ben’s will, Price knew that Ben had
provided a million dollars inheritance for Winston. In tax-free
bonds, this was a sum sufficient to ensure her an income of
$60,000 a year for the rest of her life. He had also provided
for a rent-free apartment, as well as a new Cadillac every
three years. It seemed a fair deal.
Clearly, Ben’s mind, once so acute and incisive, was
wandering. One moment, his old vital self; the next moment,
distant, distracted, absorbed in the trivial, he was often
confused. Even in the familiar surroundings of his office, he
was spending more and more time in a state of mental
absence, gazing out the window, transfixed by a vision or
memory known only to him.
On Monday, October 28, 1974, having been apprised of the
situation by John Poag, Sol Price showed Ben a piece of
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friends intercede
paper on which, according to Winston, Ben had indicated
that he wished to double her inheritance. The note read
succinctly: “Make it two million instead of one.”
According to Price, Ben stared at the paper and finally
responded: “I didn’t write that.” Price pointed out that the
note was in Ben’s handwriting. “Never saw it before,” Ben
insisted.
Whether or not Ben had indeed penned the note, the fact
that he now claimed to have no memory of it set off alarm
bells for Price and the other executors of his will. He was
clearly subject to Winston’s persuasion.
The next day, Tuesday, October 29, Sol Price, John Poag,
and Jack Rosenburg applied to Superior Court Probate Judge
Earl Riley for appointment as conservators of Ben Weingart’s
person and property. They presented to the judge their reasons
for believing that their longtime friend and associate was no
longer of sound mind, unable to make decisions in his own
best interests. Based on the statements made by the executors,
Judge Riley agreed. He appointed Price, Poag, and Rosenburg
jointly to be not only executors of Ben Weingart’s will, but
also his conservators, charged with protecting his existing fortune and responsible for his physical and mental well-being.
At once relieved yet burdened with a sense of profound
responsibility, the three old friends returned to Ben’s office.
They sat down to try to explain things to him. They went
over the situation from every angle, trying as best they could
to make the facts clear to Ben. Lost in his own thoughts,
impassive, watching the traffic pass by on Wilshire, Ben simply
stared out the window.
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part two
Weingart Foundation
175
176
Part two — chapter thirteen
The Conservators
B
en Weingart was utterly distracted. He was alarmingly forgetful. He was terribly confused. And now, too late
to provide the key to the puzzle of his extensive enterprises,
he was the only man alive who knew where all the money was.
Ben’s habit — based on a lifelong preference for anonymity —
had been to create a new corporation, partnership, or guarantor
for almost every new deal he went into. He had countless
deals going, and almost every one of them was a separate
legal entity. Seldom, if ever, did his own name appear as
owner or even as a corporate officer. Often there was nothing apparently connecting Ben Weingart to a property that he
in fact controlled.
Many real estate assets had been placed in the names of
business associates, employees, or friends — people whom
Ben knew and trusted or whose loyalty he could otherwise
rely upon. Among the trusted associates, were Sol Price, John
Poag, and Jack Rosenburg — the executors of his estate,
trustees of his foundation, and now also court-appointed
conservators of his assets and person.
In themselves, these tripartite responsibilities would tax the
ingenuity, energy, and acumen of the most gifted of businessmen and dedicated of friends. Yet to these burdens would
almost immediately be added further, even more staggering
responsibilities, stemming from acrimonious legal battles and
public relations assaults on their intentions and integrity.
Dissatisfied with the provision of a substantial lifetime
income from one million dollars worth of tax-free bonds, plus
maintenance of her rent-free apartment and a new Cadillac
every three years, Laura Winston determined to sue the
177
conservators. Over the next six years, she would prove a
tenacious adversary, one who managed to present her case
in such a way that it proved irresistible to the more sensationalistic of journalists among the local and national press.
At the outset, however, the initial task facing the conservators
was to untangle the cleverly woven tapestry of Ben’s estate.
His holdings included the largest array of real estate assets in
the history of Los Angeles, extensive stocks and bonds, plus
cash in myriad accounts under a baffling assortment of
disparate names in a variety of different financial institutions.
Once all the assets had been located and accounted for, the
conservators — who were also executors of Ben’s will and
trustees of his foundation — felt themselves duty-bound to be
guided in their decisions by the stipulations of his will and
estate plan. Ben’s plan provided that his entire estate (less a
substantial amount, if relatively small percentage, for bonus
payments and gifts to longtime friends and employees) should
go to his then existing foundation — the B.W. Foundation —
to be applied to charitable purposes.
Sol Price recalled that, long before Ben’s succumbing to
mental confusion, indeed, perhaps due to his mental acuity
and delight in teasing his friends, it had been all but impossible
to get Ben to specify how precisely to dispose of his fortune.
“The fact of the matter is,” noted Price, “Ben said to me
many times, ‘I don’t care what you do with it. I’m not interested.’ Whether he actually cared or not is another story. But
I tried for many years to get him to specify what he wanted,
and he simply would not do it.
“I finally got him to agree to a few negatives, things that he
didn’t want done. Mainly, Ben was opposed to what he
called ‘S.O.B.’ grants. To most people, that’s shorthand for
‘Symphony-Opera-Ballet.’ But to Ben, it just meant ‘Sit-Onyour-Butt.’ You know, the usual sort of ‘civic leader’ grants —
high culture: music, theater, museums. He felt that was not
his territory. He left that to Mrs. Chandler. And she had
already corralled Howard Ahmanson and Mark Taper.
“But in a positive vein, the most I could ever get out of
Ben was that he wanted his money spent in Southern
California, where he’d made it. And even more specifically, as
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the conservators
much as possible, within the communities where he had
made it.
“From the empirical experience with him, it was clear that
he was far more interested in social problems than he was in
culture or science or high-tech stuff. More than anything else,
Ben had always had empathy for those who were exposed,
at-risk — as he himself had once been. The folks he wanted
to look out for were the poor, the ones having a hard time,
the losers, the down-and-out.
“Of course, through the Volunteers of America, he had a
history of helping the men on Skid Row. But he also had a
special empathy for little old ladies. He had an apartment
house that he leased exclusively — and very affordably — to
little old ladies. Only little old ladies.
“In part, he had an empathy for people on Skid Row
because he had started his career in that part of town. In part,
because the orphan in him never forgot what it was like to
be alone in the world. In any case, it seemed clear to me
that, from the way Ben thought and talked and had himself
acted, if his money had to be given away, that’s where he
wanted to start.”
In early 1975, however, though judged mentally incompetent
to make decisions in his own best interests, Ben Weingart
was still alive. The task confronting his conservators was not
how to dispose of his fortune, but rather how to identify,
order, and protect it (if possible, increase it) so that it might
eventually be distributed to charity according to his will. At
the same time, funds sufficient to ensure quality medical care
for Ben and provide for his physical comfort would have to
be provided from his existing assets — whatever and wherever
those assets might in fact be.
Among Ben’s major assets was Consolidated Hotels
Corporation, a holding company that operated the various
downtown Los Angeles low-rent hotels that Ben had accumulated over more than fifty years. These hotels were
maintained largely by Aetna Construction Corporation, which
Ben also controlled, whose corporate operations were centered
in the warehouse in back of Ben’s office building on Wilshire
at Witmer. Aetna also maintained more than two hundred
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apartment buildings throughout Los Angeles owned or
controlled by Ben through the corporation known as
“Tragniew,” Weingart spelled backwards. There were also
numerous commercial real estate buildings and shopping centers,
also assets of Tragniew, Inc.
Ben owned fifty percent of the stock of Tragniew, one of
his major holdings. Twenty-five percent of Tragniew stock
was owned by the Stella Weingart Trust, a tax-free charitable
trust established in 1951, prior to the death of Ben’s wife.
The remaining twenty-five percent of Tragniew was owned
by the B.W. Foundation, Ben’s own tax-free charitable trust.
One of the first orders of business for the conservators thus
became to locate, specify, and evaluate all of the assets of
Tragniew Corporation. For this, a daunting if not overwhelming task, they turned to Larry Wolfe.
Wolfe had only recently signed on with the Weingart
enterprises. In fact, he had been hired a mere five weeks
before Ben was placed in conservatorship.
“My training was as a real estate appraiser,” Wolfe explained.
“I had been doing acquisitions for the William Walters
Company. But it hadn’t worked out. As a matter of fact, I
got fired. It was a real shock, a rude awakening.
“A couple of weeks before, I’d gotten a call from this guy
named John Poag. He’d wanted me to interview for a job. I
had no idea who he was, and I hadn’t given it a second
thought. Fortunately, my wife never throws anything out. So
when I came home that day, when I got the bad news, I
asked her right away: ‘Where’s that piece of paper? You
know, that guy who called?’
“I gave him a call, and Poag said, ‘Sure. Come on down.’
So I went down there, 1301 Wilshire, corner of Witmer. And
I thought, this must be a joke. Junior Realty: it was not an
impressive building, not by any means. In fact, it was pretty
ugly.
“I waited in this little lobby that had these bulletproof glass
windows, because people would come and pay rent there; a
lot of money changed hands. The outside office had a
linoleum floor and some fake wood paneling on the walls.
When they buzzed you in through the door, the door to the
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the conservators
back office, there were fluorescent light fixtures hanging from
the ceiling. And the secretaries had these old gray, metal desks.
“Then I walked into John Poag’s office. And it was this
nice, wood-paneled office, real wood. The drapes were
drawn; and it was dark in there, except there was one table
lamp, on this table, where he sat. And he spoke very softly.
Eventually, he told me he was the president of Consolidated
Hotels.
“The whole thing was surreal. He was telling me about the
company and how much it was worth. He said something
about ninety-one million dollars. I just sat and listened. And I
didn’t believe a word that he said.
“I mean, I looked at the place. And I looked at him sitting
there. And I thought: ‘If he meets the next payroll, I’ll be
lucky. But I’m not doing anything right now. Why not? Why
not give it a try?’
“He told me about all the property they had, about a couple
hundred different parcels. And what the assignment was —
appraise every one of them. And he wanted to know if I
thought I could do it. I said: ‘Sure. No problem. It’s just
going to take us some time.’
“John told me subsequently that he had interviewed a number
of people, and most of them were overwhelmed by how
much there was, how many buildings, all the different types.
Most of them thought the job was impossible. It would take an
army of appraisers to put it together. But I said: ‘No problem.
Just take ‘em one at a time.’
“And so,” Wolfe recalled, “John Poag hired me. I started
the next day.”
Even as Wolfe went about his appointed rounds, the
conservators uncovered a vast assortment of legal, accounting,
and business decisions they had to make, on scores of complex
matters. These decisions were complicated by the fact that
not only did they function as court-appointed and courtsupervised conservators of Ben’s wealth and person, but also
as the executors of his will and as trustees of the B.W.
Foundation, not to mention as directors of Tragniew, Inc.
Except for their court appointment as personal and financial
conservators, none of these roles had been sought by any of
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the three. Indeed, they were serving in response to Ben’s
expressed wishes. Yet their conjoined roles, burdensome
enough simply for the business decisions they demanded, also
presented a minefield of potential conflicts of interest — a
double-edged sword that Winston and her lawyers not only
constantly brandished, but also repeatedly sought to thrust to
the hilt.
Moreover, in the course of their duties, Price, Poag, and
Rosenburg had uncovered obvious operating inefficiencies, as
well as various imprudent and/or nonproductive assets, within
Ben’s wide-ranging business interests. His convoluted financial
and personal relationships had led to longstanding arrangements whereby friends and associates received generous
benefits from Ben, for example, rent-free apartments in
Tragniew-owned buildings, no-interest mortgages, and personal
loans. Indeed, among those having received such benefits
were Price, Poag, and Rosenburg themselves.
“When we took over,” recalled Price, “and we found that
Ben had run Tragniew as if it was his own personal fiefdom,
and didn’t pay any attention to the fact that the other half
was owned by charities, and was putting all his friends into
the hotels and apartment houses, and making a lot of political
contributions, well, you know, all of a sudden, we realized
we had to get off that base.”
All in all, making sense of what Ben had once carried
around largely in his brilliant head proved to be, in the
absence of his mental capacity, a herculean undertaking. As
Price observed fondly, “Ben was an expert in keeping things
mixed up. He didn’t want, for public consumption anyway, a
nice, tidy, transparent operation. In fact, Ben liked to confuse
people. In part, it was probably because he figured, that way,
he could keep it all under his personal control. You know,
he’d be the only one who really knew what the hell was
going on. But I also think it had to do with his peculiar
sense of humor. You know, he always enjoyed playing little
tricks on people. It wouldn’t surprise me if he had deliberately
screwed things up.”
Indeed, the conservators soon came to realize that Ben’s
financial and personal interests were, in Churchill’s memorable
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the conservators
phrase, “a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma.”
To make matters worse, Laura Winston and her lawyers
insisted upon uninformed soothsaying. Predictably, in the
legally and personally charged atmosphere, their interpretations
proved invariably self-serving, while corrosively detrimental to
the public stature and reputations of the conservators.
Winston’s accusations against the conservators ranged from
abuse of authority to forgery to larceny to kidnapping.
Sometimes, it seemed, only the fact that Ben was alive kept
her from accusing them of worse. To which all such charges,
the conservators mustered the grace not to respond.
Meanwhile, one of the major issues to be resolved was the
ownership of Tragniew, Inc. The holding company was
owned half by the conservatorship, on behalf of Ben, and half
by two tax-exempt entities — the Stella Weingart Trust and
the B.W. Foundation. With plenty of cash available, more
than sufficient to meet any foreseeable needs for Ben’s comfort
and care, the conservatorship had no interest in dividends or
other income. At the same time, the charitable foundations
needed dividends, so that they could comply with the legal
requirement to pay out five percent of their value annually,
yet maintain a substantial corpus.
Over some two years time, even as they marshalled the
assets and identified the various fiduciary, legal, and tax issues
to be resolved, the conservators explored the alternatives
available for the disposition of Tragniew. They identified
three basic alternatives.
First, and most obvious, they could try to sell the company
to a third party. At first glance, this choice seemed the simplest.
Yet it would be far from easy to accomplish. For one thing,
the value of Tragniew as an existing entity and “cash cow”
was most obvious to the Ben Weingart who had known
instinctively how to run the operation efficiently, at least
more efficiently than was immediately apparent to potential
buyers. While Ben’s estate plan foresaw the continued operation
of Consolidated Hotels and of Tragniew for seven-to-ten
years after his death, in consideration of those employees
who had served him well over the years — a group that had
now come to number some 800 people — the fact was that
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the company was probably worth more when valued in terms
of its aggregate assets, rather than as an operating business.
Second, they might arrange for Tragniew to purchase the
fifty percent interest owned by the two charitable foundations.
This would make Tragniew more valuable, if subject to
greater taxation, yet it would also effectively dissolve the
charitable foundations that had been envisioned by Ben and
Stella Weingart while both had been of testamentary capacity.
On moral grounds alone, this second course seemed less than
desirable.
Third, they might seek to have the foundations acquire
Ben’s interest in Tragniew, as had been contemplated in his
estate plan. This was by far the most innovative option.
Though transfer of Tragniew to the B.W. Foundation at
this time might be considered premature, surely sooner than
Ben himself had anticipated, the third course essentially
followed Ben’s expressed wishes. Moreover, it offered the
additional benefit of protecting the current value of Tragniew.
Once it was no longer an operating company, it could not
lose any money and was thus less likely to diminish in value.
Even more important, it held out the possibility that
Tragniew assets would no longer be subject to taxation.
Finally, the conservators decided to petition the court to
allow a gift of Ben’s fifty percent interest in Tragniew to the
B.W. Foundation. This was, to say the least, an unusual
request. In effect, Price, Poag, and Rosenburg were proposing
to extract something more than $20 million in value from
Ben’s estate, which they were charged with the legal responsibility of conserving.
“I think it was the first time in the history of the courts,”
noted Price, “that a guardian, a conservator, came into court
and asked the court to allow them to give away the ward’s
money — in Ben’s case, about $29 million — in anticipation of
his estate plan. That was highly unusual. And fairly innovative.
And that’s the first time, to my knowledge, that guardians,
conservators, asked the court to allow them to give the
ward’s money away to a charity, before the ward died. To
give it to his own charity, yes; but nonetheless, a charity.”
Ultimately, the court was convinced that the remaining
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the conservators
assets in Ben’s estate were substantially greater than any
possible need that might arise in relation to his medical care
and comfort. It was also persuaded that the conservators’
ultimate interest was to effect Ben’s estate plan to the greatest
extent they were able, that is, to preserve as much of his
fortune as possible for charitable purposes.
Nonetheless, their request was so unusual that the court felt
compelled to appoint an additional person to oversee the case
and assure the court that Ben’s best interests were protected.
The guardian ad litem chosen by the court was a sophisticated
and respected probate attorney, Frederick Leydorf.
“Our ultimate plan — and Ben’s ultimate plan — was that it
would all end up in the Foundation. So we went into court,
and we said: “He’s got enough money, of his own, without
Tragniew.”
“You see,” Price noted, “we needed to get Tragniew to the
point where it could become merged with B.W. Foundation.
We wanted to get the ownership of Tragniew out of Ben’s
name and into the Foundation’s name. So when we went to
ask the court for permission to turn Ben’s shares in Tragniew
over to the Foundation, the court appointed a guardian ad
litem, reporting directly to the court, not one of the three of us.
“For the first few months, the guardian was Fred Leydorf.
Then it was a retired probate judge, Kenneth Chantry.
Ultimately, Gordon Treharne came on as public guardian and
chief conservator. All of them highly experienced men,
exceptional integrity. And it was really the first time the court
had ever done that.”
At the same time, a request was filed with the court to
approve reimbursing Tragniew for various expenditures made
by Tragniew in Ben’s personal behalf, expenses such as free
rent for friends, political donations, and the like. As executors
of Ben’s estate, the conservators paid out of the estate and
back to Tragniew a sum equivalent to what Ben had taken
out of Tragniew funds for essentially personal expenses. With
that, the conservators had finally managed to set straight the
Tragniew corporate accounts.
The anticipated merger of Tragniew with the B.W.
Foundation not only protected the Tragniew assets, it also
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solved a problem of perceived conflict of interest. “If we had
kept it the way it was,” Price explained, “with our being his
guardians and also being the trustees of the Foundation, we’d
have a conflict of interest. No doubt about it. So the whole
plan was to move as much as we could into one place.”
One of the responsibilities of the guardian ad litem was to
effect an independent appraisal of the value of Tragniew, Inc.
As it turned out, based in part on the work that Wolfe had
been doing, in part on a rising real estate market, the value of
the corporation was assessed about one-third higher than
book value.
After the gift of Ben’s interest in Tragniew, Inc., to the
B.W. Foundation was accomplished, the conservators, as
trustees of both the Stella Weingart Trust and the B.W.
Foundation, voted to combine the two charitable trusts, joining
them under the rubric of the B.W. Foundation. Their next
action was to merge Tragniew, now owned 100 percent by
the B.W. Foundation, into the B.W. Foundation. The conservators applied to the Internal Revenue Service for a ruling
that the merger would be tax-free. Having obtained a favorable
ruling from the IRS, a letter acknowledging their interpretation
of the merger as tax-free, the conservators voted to subsume
Tragniew into the B.W. Foundation.
“That was the other innovative thing we did,” recalled
Price, “getting the IRS to approve the merger of a for-profit
corporation into a nonprofit. There was no question that one
of our motivations was to see if we could get it all into the
Foundation, so that when we sold it, we wouldn’t have to
pay any tax. And we avoided a lot of taxes by doing that.
Many, many millions of dollars.”
Yet the conservators/trustees now faced new challenges. As
trustees, they functioned under the restraints of fiduciary
responsibility common to foundations and other institutions
held in trust. They were acutely aware of the need to act
with and demonstrate prudent judgment as regards all
investments held by the Foundation. Consequently, they soon
set about disposing of assets that were considered imprudent
to retain.
As trustees of the B.W. Foundation, the conservators found
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the conservators
themselves facing some of the same fears that had for many
years troubled Ben Weingart. As long as Tragniew real estate
comprised the bulk of the assets of the Foundation, the
Foundation was vulnerable on many fronts.
The buildings were primarily old, by contemporary building
codes, substandard. Though kept in good repair, they were
particularly subject to fire and earthquake damage. Like any
real estate asset, they were relatively illiquid. Moreover, there
were the usual problems of landlord/tenant relations, exacerbated at the time by a burgeoning movement for tenants’
rights and rent control. It was obvious that, charged with the
responsibility for prudent investment of Foundation funds,
the trustees should divest the Foundation of residential real
estate. If they were to hold any real estate, the trustees decided,
it should be high-grade commercial.
As Price recalled the decision, “The main purpose of selling
the real estate was that we decided those were not the kind
of assets we should be holding. Ben’s buildings were mostly
low-end, the wrong kind of assets for a foundation to rely on.
We sure didn’t want to be seen as ‘slum landlords.’ Over all,
it was just too dangerous. If something were to happen in
one of those buildings, all of a sudden, the Foundation would
be perceived as a culprit. There were financial risks and liability
risks. Frankly, most of those buildings were trouble waiting
to happen. And what with Laura and her lawsuits, we already
had enough trouble. Why hang onto more?”
As Foundation trustees with a fiduciary responsibility for
prudent investment, Price, Poag, and Rosenburg had little
choice but to begin selling off Tragniew assets. Largely because
of the liability that might attach to residential properties, most
of Ben’s real estate assets did not rise to the level of quality
appropriate to a foundation. Whatever the potential income
from Tragniew properties, perceived by some to be a herd of
“cash cows” worthy of preservation for the income to be
milked, there was little doubt that these particular bovines
were risky, indeed, improper animals to have in a foundation’s barn.
Above and beyond other considerations, there was a legal
issue: foundations are precluded from involvement in an
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operating business. It was, at best, an open question whether
Consolidated Hotels was a landlord or an operating business.
Certainly, Ben had run it as an operating business, with his
personal day-to-day involvement, as well as that of employees
and managers on the premises. Similarly, Aetna, the hotel and
apartment maintenance group, was an operating business; and,
in Ben’s absence, one increasingly without oversight and control.
“The team that Ben had back there in the warehouse,”
Price recalled, “all the plumbers, cabinet-makers, electricians,
by that point in time, it was hard to say whether it was still
saving him money to have them on a payroll, as against hiring
independent contractors. Certainly, John Poag, who was there
every day, had his doubts. And that was also troublesome to
us. It helped us to make the decision to get the hell out of
the whole business of servicing the hotels and apartments.
Everything came together, and it was clear that Tragniew was
an operating business. And a business was something we
could not be in.”
Meanwhile, given the mounting stress of investigation by
the office of Los Angeles County District Attorney John Van
de Kamp, Jack Rosenburg decided to call it quits. Rosenburg,
a character of the Old School, raconteur and bon vivant, an
inherently sweet-dispositioned man, and one utterly devoted
to Ben Weingart, had reached the end of his rope. Publicly
vilified by the woman he himself had introduced to Ben,
nursing a heart condition that had landed him in a hospital
bed, Rosenburg was nonetheless forced to undergo deposition
by a particularly abrasive investigator from the District
Attorney’s office.
As Poag told the story, the investigator pressed Rosenburg
concerning the nature of his illness, implying that Jack was
faking it to avoid testifying. “Jack looked him over,” Poag
recalled, “sizing him up like he would a horse at Santa Anita.
He told the guy, if he didn’t believe he had a heart condition,
he could go straight to hell.
“‘But that’s not really what makes me sick,’ said Jack.
‘What makes me really sick is having to look at your ugly
puss every day, you no-good, sleazy son-of-a-bitch.’”
Or words to that effect.
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the conservators
Ben would have loved it. But it was clear that Jack had
reached the point where it would be in everyone’s interest
for him to retire. Sol Price, John Poag, and Jack himself now
turned to a man they knew even the most aggressive and
suspicious of prosecutors could not flap, nor find untrustworthy.
On October 18, 1978, gratefully resigning his seat on the
Board of Trustees, Jack Rosenburg gave way to Harry Volk.
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190
Part two — chapter fourteen
The Foundation &
Skid-Row Initiatives
H
arry Volk was himself an institution in Los
Angeles. A 1923 graduate of Rutgers University and Rutgers
Law School, he had been a varsity football player and young
alumni member of the Rutgers Board of Directors.
During World War II, he was commissioned an officer and
assigned to work with Prudential CEO Franklin D’Olier.
Under the direction of legendary spy masters Charles “Tex”
Thornton and “Wild Bill” Donovan, in the Office of
Strategic Services, D’Olier’s mission was to use methods of
probability and cost-effectiveness developed by the insurance
industry to identify the most “lucrative” European bombing
targets in the campaign against Nazi Germany. Decorated for
his wartime service, Volk was the youngest vice-president in
the history of the Prudential Insurance Company.
Volk first came to Los Angeles in the late 1940s, where he
not only established the fastest growing, most profitable
regional office in the corporation, he almost immediately
involved himself in civic affairs. A measure of Volk’s character
and stature is that he was called upon to mediate a longstanding dispute between the YMCA and the Community
Chest. The success of his innovative solution to the standoff
between the two major charities was indicative of his unquestioned integrity and the esteem in which he was held by public
citizens throughout the city.
Volk met Ben Weingart in the late 1940s, when Ben
applied to Prudential for a business loan. Over the years, the
Prudential, under Volk, became Ben’s primary lender, certainly
191
a major player in arranging the financing that allowed Ben
and his partners to purchase the land and build the homes of
Lakewood. When Volk left the Prudential to assume the
duties of Chief Executive Officer and Chairman of Union
Bank, Ben transferred almost all his cash and certificates of
deposit to Union Bank, entrusting them to Volk and greatly
enhancing the bank’s balance sheet.
At Union Bank, Volk had pioneered and vigorously
advocated the expansion of bankers’ ability to provide
traditionally separate forms of financial services that are
commonplace today. For almost thirty years prior to Ben’s
confinement, Volk and Weingart had maintained a close
business and personal relationship.
It became something of an ongoing joke as to which man
had made the other wealthy. In fact, both had prospered
financially without the other. And both had greatly prospered
for their friendship.
Again, Volk became the lender of first resort. This time,
however, what he lent to Weingart Foundation was his own
unimpeachable character and impeccable credentials for
integrity and public service. Volk had carefully followed the
various aspects of the sensational controversy swirling around
the trustees in the press; and he had satisfied himself that the
assaults on the integrity of Price, Poag, and Rosenburg were
fallacious, if not malicious. Immediately upon receiving a
request to join the Board, Volk resigned his numerous, more
prestigious board memberships to sign on again with Ben.
His accession could not have come at a more propitious
moment.
At more or less the same time, the trustees moved the
Foundation offices from Ben’s old complex at Wilshire and
Witmer, across the street and down one block to 1200
Wilshire Boulevard, leasing a suite of offices from Dick
Dunn, Ben’s longtime associate in a variety of real estate
transactions. The move away from 1301 Wilshire signaled the
dawn of a new day for the Foundation.
Once Larry Wolfe’s inventory and appraisal of Tragniew
properties was completed, a task that took more than two
years, the complex process of consolidation, particularly the
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the foundation & skid-row initiatives
selling of Ben’s residential properties, was undertaken in
earnest. The intention was to decrease the Foundation’s financial
and legal exposure, at the same time increasing not only its
flexibility and responsiveness, but also the value of its assets.
Yet the procedure was delicate and fraught with dangers.
If the conservators were perceived as cannibalizing Ben’s
real estate empire, Laura Winston and her lawyers were sure
to exploit such sales to their advantage. More important, if
they sold too much too quickly, especially if they were
perceived as too eager to sell, the prices received would no
doubt decrease and potentially plummet. Yet it was their duty
to conserve the value of Ben’s estate. The process of liquidating
Ben’s real estate holdings thus became a high-stakes proposition
of selective selling in an unpredictable market, under constant
pressure and microscopic scrutiny, both from the probate
court and from Winston.
Throughout the mid-to-late 1970s, the Board of the B.W.
Foundation met on at least a monthly basis. According to the
minutes of their meetings, Wolfe was authorized to solicit
bids for certain of the more marketable properties, a few at a
time, with the Board — Price, Poag, and Rosenburg, soon to
be replaced by Volk — approving or disapproving the sales
individually. Seldom were more than five properties sold in a
month. Yet over several years, from approximately 1978
through 1983, the majority of the Tragniew real estate holdings
were liquidated, with the tax-free proceeds flowing to the
Foundation. This laborious, delicate, and time-consuming
process was greatly aided by the fact that, during the late
‘Seventies and early ‘Eighties, Los Angeles real estate grew
increasingly attractive to buyers, a boom fostered largely by
the interest of Japanese and other foreign investors.
In April of 1978, with the Stella Weingart Trust assets and
the Tragniew properties safely transferred to the B.W.
Foundation, the Board voted to change the name of the
consolidated entities to Weingart Foundation.
Ever since assuming the responsibilities of conservators and
trustees of the Foundation, Price, Poag, and Rosenburg (now
replaced by Volk) had been doing their best to disburse in
charitable contributions five percent of the Foundation’s assets
193
annually. Yet until they could muster all the assets under a
single roof — Weingart Foundation — this had proven a difficult
task. In truth, until all the assets could be identified, and
Wolfe could appraise them, then test their actual market
value, as much art as science was necessarily employed in
calculating the value of Ben’s fortune.
One of Volk’s first contributions to the soundness of the
Foundation, as well as to public perception of the fiduciary
responsibility of the trustees, was to enlist the services of a
“Big Eight” accounting firm, Arthur Young & Company.
While almost immediately upon taking on the burdens of
Ben’s conservatorship the trustees had instituted rigorous
accounting procedures — certainly more precise than the
standards that had prevailed when Ben was fit and preferred
to carry the most salient figures only in his own head — the
fact remained that the accounts presented publicly for the
Foundation were generated by CPA Alan Leahy. It was a
yeoman’s task, ably performed, but ever subject to challenge
by the very nature of Leahy’s longtime association with the
Weingart enterprises. Therefore, Volk reasoned, call in an
absolutely unimpeachable source of financial data.
Following Volk’s suggestion, the trustees retained Arthur
Young & Company to perform an independent annual audit
of the Foundation’s assets. As of June 30, 1978, according to
Young’s tally (as well as Leahy’s) the value of the combined
assets totaled $89,917,548.
This aggregate — some ninety million dollars — represented
the total value of the fortune earned personally by Ben
Weingart. At the end of the following fiscal year, June 30,
1979, the assets of Weingart Foundation had increased more
than fifty percent, to $155 million. Roughly sixty percent ($90
million) of the assets remained in real estate. Marketable
securities represented about twenty percent. The remainder
was in cash, receivable notes, and certificates of deposit.
Now, after an unimpeachable audit, with the real estate
appraisal process completed, and with some properties beginning to be sold and generating liquid assets, the trustees
of the Foundation were much better able to meet their
responsibility for charitable disbursal — set by federal law at
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an average annual minimum of five percent of the total assets
of the Foundation.
Even as the trustees were at once defending, consolidating,
and husbanding Ben’s fortune, they were called upon to
consider and formally specify the nature of projects the
Foundation would and would not support. Following the
wishes Ben had expressed to Sol Price, the trustees determined
that, except in unusual circumstances, the Foundation would
contribute only to organizations in Southern California.
Grants would not be made to individuals. Neither would
the trustees award grants “to carry on propaganda, to influence
legislation or elections, to promote voter registration, to political
candidates, to political campaigns, or to organizations engaged
in such activities.”
Further refining their field of philanthropy, the trustees
agreed that the Foundation would generally “not consider
requests for support of projects that normally would be
financed by governmental agencies, nor does it ordinarily
make grants for continuing operating expenses, endowment
funds, contingencies, debt retirement or operational deficits.”
The trustees determined at once to honor and to extend
Ben Weingart’s own philanthropic interests. As their friend
of so many productive, happy, and vigorous years grew
increasingly debilitated, wasted in both mind and body, they
decided to support pilot projects that might lead to major
advances in medical science, particularly scientific investigation
of the aging process, with its attendant problems of senility
and physical deterioration. Reflecting Ben’s lifelong interest in
the problems of Skid Row, they also sponsored research into
the causes and cures of alcoholism and drug addiction, as well
as efforts to improve the quality of life for the elderly and the
disadvantaged.
With Ben deteriorating, his longtime friends determined
that one of the first major efforts of the Foundation would be
to focus its giving on an attempt to understand the aging
process. Ben himself had remained vital, active, and productive
past the age of eighty-five. At a time when the average life
span was being continually extended through advances in
medical science, the trustees were particularly interested in
195
research efforts directed toward helping people stay well and
enjoy more vital lives as they lived longer.
Thus, among the major grants during the first two years of
the new Weingart Foundation was $1,000,000 to the Salk
Institute of San Diego, to fund a developmental neurobiology
laboratory for brain research. The same amount was granted
to the California Institute of Technology, to fund the
Weingart Laboratory of Molecular Immunology, which would
conduct research on aging.
At the same time, the trustees did not forget Ben’s lifelong
care of those less fortunate than he, especially those who
were physically afflicted, particularly crippled children, as well
as the old, the infirm, and the destitute.
The trustees further honored Ben’s wish to give money
back to the places and the people who had helped him to
prosper. The largest single grant in fiscal years 1978 and 1979
was in the amount of $1,615,000 to the YMCA, for construction of a new facility in the City of Lakewood designed as a
family activity center for residents of the city Ben had built.
Another $448,000 was awarded for the construction of a new
library in Lakewood, to be known as the Weingart Library,
with special programs for children and retired people.
Since 1974, the Foundation (then operating as the B.W.
Foundation) had made other grants in Lakewood, including
$500,000 to build the Lakewood Community Center and
$673,100 for a Senior Citizens Center. By the end of fiscal
year 1979, Weingart Foundation grants to the City of
Lakewood totaled $3,382,100.
These early grants of the reorganized Weingart Foundation
were categorized in five main areas: Research, Education,
Health, Culture and the Arts, and Human Services. Clearly, the
strategy of philanthropy was two-pronged. In the immediate
present, in the very practical way that Ben himself preferred,
Weingart Foundation grants benefited those least able to fend
for themselves: the old, the young, the destitute, the isolated,
the transient, the poor, the ill, and the disabled. Looking toward
the future, the Foundation sought to benefit all humankind,
through support of advanced scientific research directed toward
the cure of disease and the advancement of the quality of life.
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Just as Volk had brought wide-ranging business experience
and longstanding civic leadership to the Board, Volk, Price,
and Poag soon determined to expand the Board, seeking
additional trustees who would lend not only business acumen,
but also personal and civic substance, as well as expertise. In
fiscal year 1980, two such new trustees agreed to join the
Board of the Foundation. The two additions were John
Gurash and Marcus Rabwin, M.D.
John Gurash, chairman emeritus of Insurance Company of
North America, had known Ben Weingart for more than thirty
years. Gurash and Weingart had first met in the late 1940s,
when Victor Montgomery, mentor to Gurash and a legend in the
insurance industry, as well as a friend and business associate of
Ben’s since the 1920s, sent Gurash to work out of extra office
space in Ben’s Junior Realty building on Wilshire at Witmer.
Gurash, at that time developing an innovative method of
selling insurance directly to purchasers, thereby eliminating
much of the excess cost of insurance agents for both consumer
and provider, met with Ben Weingart daily for several years.
The two men formed a close bond that was sustained even
during the fifteen-year period Gurash spent in Philadelphia, as
chairman and CEO of INA, now Cigna. Over some twentyfive years, prior to Ben’s affliction, the two had grown to be
close friends.
Marc Rabwin, a retired physician and former chief of staff
at Cedars of Lebanon Hospital, had been instrumental in the
successful merger of Cedars and Mt. Sinai hospitals to form
the renowned Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. Rabwin was a
respected surgeon, teacher, and dedicated community leader.
Given their “substantial interest in supporting innovative
approaches which may provide new solutions to existing
problems,” the trustees recognized a need for expert advice to
guide the Foundation in supporting scientific research, particularly efforts aimed at helping people stay well and enjoy
healthier, happier, and more productive lives as they lived
longer. To that end, Dr. Lee A. DuBridge, president emeritus
of the California Institute of Technology, agreed to serve as
scientific advisor to the Board. Clearly, DuBridge’s affiliation
with the Weingart Board would lend it added stature.
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Foundation assets at the end of fiscal year 1980 had reached
a total of $176 million. In the course of three fiscal years —
from June 30, 1977 to June 30, 1980 — the Trustees, chiefly
Price, Volk, and Poag, as well as Gurash and Rabwin, had
determined and pursued policies that, while appropriately
conservative and prudent, had increased the value of
Weingart Foundation by some seventy-seven percent.
By almost any measure, certainly by then existing standards,
this represented a remarkable performance of business and
financial acumen, accomplished under intense press and judicial
scrutiny, as well as personal, emotional duress. No doubt,
Ben would have been pleased.
❖
In its early years of grantmaking, as well as for many years
thereafter, the Foundation focused much of its interest and
investment on the area of downtown Los Angeles known as
Skid Row. Just as Ben himself once was, the trustees were
acutely aware that alcoholism represents a heavy cost, not
only to the people who suffer from the disease, but also to
the public in terms of law enforcement and medical facilities.
L.A.’s Skid Row was home to thousands of alcoholics.
These men and women slept in gutters, in doorways, and in
alleys — an empty wine bottle often lying by their sides. Skid
Row was home to the homeless — the inebriated, the unwanted,
the unemployed. Over its first twenty years, bringing hope to
those who live on the streets, Weingart Foundation would
invest more than $10 million in various agencies that provide
food, shelter, and care for the Skid Row population.
In 1979, the Foundation afforded Skid Row residents an
opportunity to repair the ravages of alcoholism and regain
their dignity and self-respect. A grant of $125,000 was made
to the Volunteers of America — long one of the major recipients
of Ben Weingart’s personal philanthropy — to support their
Skid Row Alcohol Detoxification and Rehabilitation Center.
At the time, the Detoxification and Rehabilitation Center
was the largest diversion facility for public inebriates in Los
Angeles County. Rather than lock them in jail, police
198
brought those arrested for public intoxication to the Center
for a 72-hour detoxification period. Thus, the Center served
as a focal point for treating the alcoholic as the victim of a
disease rather than as a criminal.
Thanks to the Weingart Foundation grant, Volunteers of
America staff members at the Skid Row Alcohol Detoxification
and Rehabilitation Center could counsel men and women in
a multifaceted program of services aimed at returning the
alcoholic to a life of sobriety and self-reliance. Weingart
Foundation’s gift helped to support this vital program that
afforded Skid Row residents an opportunity to regain their
dignity and self-esteem. At the same time, the program helped
to modify the economic and social stresses created by the
insidious disease of alcoholism.
❖
Among the more innovative grants made in 1980 was
another to the Volunteers of America. The 621-room, twelvestory El Rey hotel in Skid Row, a property long held by Ben
Weingart, was deeded to the VOA for use as an indigent
alcoholic rehabilitation center, known as the Weingart Center.
The gift was made for two reasons. First of all, since the
hotel was in the center of Skid Row, selling it profitably
would have been very difficult. In giving it away, the
Foundation received grant credit for the market value of the
building, $2,262,000. Second, the building had long housed
the poor in a “single-room occupancy” format. In fact,
responding to an obvious need in the immediate surroundings,
Ben himself had made available in the lobby a 50-cent shower
and a coin laundry, so that homeless people would have a
place to clean up. Thus, to transform the hotel into a service
center through the VOA, arguably Ben’s own favorite charity,
seemed most in keeping with the Foundation’s chosen mission.
To aid in the transition, the Foundation granted an additional $1,000,000, the sum needed by the Volunteers of
America to upgrade the elevators, among other things, so as
to make the structure a viable service agency. Nonetheless,
while given ownership of the building, the Volunteers were
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At the Weingart Center, homeless men and women are provided a full range of health
and human services in the Los Angeles Skid Row area.
not allowed to evict anyone currently living there. Instead,
they could use the space only as it became available. The
trustees saw no reason to create additional homelessness in an
effort to serve the homeless.
At this time, the homeless on Skid Row were still primarily
male alcoholics, known as derelicts and subject to antiloitering
laws. In the period of time it took to upgrade the building,
however, “sundance laws” were passed, making loitering
arrests illegal. Additionally, the definition of certifiable mental
illness changed from “a danger to oneself and others” to
merely “a danger to others.” Previously, “a danger to oneself”
had been interpreted to include not being able to find and
hold onto a place to live.
200
Both legal actions came about as a result of lawsuits
brought by people who were “down and out,” yet felt strongly
that poverty should not be against the law. Though the intention was noble, the unintended result proved to be a massive
increase in the number of people living on the streets. Under
these new circumstances, the VOA program for male
alcoholics proved inadequate to address or solve the problems
on Skid Row.
In response, the VOA took a bank loan on the hotel to
enhance its program and further upgrade the building to serve
more people in more and different ways. Unfortunately, the
Volunteers discovered they could not both sustain the program
and service the loan. Soon, they were in danger of losing the
building to the bank.
The bank itself was not looking forward to that resolution
meeting, nor was it looking forward to carrying the old Skid
Row hotel on its books. So the bank approached the
Foundation, hoping that, due to mutual identification with
the Weingart name, the Foundation might want to bail out
both the VOA and the bank.
The Foundation’s response was not a simple one. First, the
trustees reasoned, if the VOA program were ever to be
viable, it would have to enjoy the support of the general
community. Therefore, it determined to bail out the bank,
but only temporarily, setting in motion a way for the ultimate
bail-out funds to be raised from other donors in the community.
Second, it recognized that the old VOA programs were
probably inadequate to new circumstances on Skid Row.
Fortunately, the Foundation had inherited from Ben a shell
501c3 nonprofit corporation (Aetna Foundation) that could be
used if needed. The trustees decided to pull out Aetna, dust
it off, and rename it the Weingart Center Association. An
independent board was formed; and Maxine Johnson, a
dynamic executive director, was enlisted to head up the program.
Johnson was fresh from an executive position with the
successful 1984 Los Angeles Olympics. The Foundation knew
her from the grant it had made to the Olympics. At the new
Weingart Center, she set up a unique, “all under one roof”
program, housing in a single location a variety of services
201
offered by the county and private sources, all housed in the
same large building.
Skid Row clients were directed to the various programs
offered via a kind of triage, a system designed to meet first
their most pressing needs, yet never lose sight of their ultimate health and well-being. In the process, the Weingart
Center became a source for much of the most valuable
research on homelessness.
To this day, the Weingart Center provides shelter, health
care, and an alcohol-free environment for alcoholics who
want to return to productive, sober living.
❖
Also in 1980, the Foundation extended its hand to the most
vulnerable of all. Skid Row had long been home to the jobless,
the hopeless, the transient, the alcoholic, and the derelict. By
the late 1970s, however, its decaying hotels had become
home to a new kind of resident: families with children. It
was estimated that there were as many as 2,000 such children,
playing amidst filth and debris, left in the care of school-age
siblings or locked in rooms while their parents worked or
struggled to find work, living in transient hotels, spending
their days among drunks, drug addicts, and derelicts in the
grimmest part of downtown Los Angeles.
The harsh reality of these children’s plight had come vividly
to light in a December, 1979, article in the Los Angeles Times.
In response, by January, 1980, thanks to Weingart Foundation
and others, Para Los Niños had been formed.
The purpose was simple: to establish and maintain a safe
day-care center for the innocent children of the destitute, the
children of Skid Row. A $100,000 Weingart Foundation grant
allowed the civic response group Para Los Niños to transform
a barren warehouse on Skid Row into a secure and welcoming
facility equipped to care for some 2,000 young children and
infants, as well as elementary school youngsters who participated in after-school activities.
Despite this obvious need and worthy purpose, Weingart
Foundation exclusive involvement in the endeavor was an
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exception to the rule. In fact, it differed from the then-existing
Foundation practice of “giving our fair share,” that is to say,
funding on average no more than ten to fifteen percent of
any given project. This method, generally favored by the
Board, was designed to cause an agency that received a
Weingart Foundation grant to join the Weingart money with
other funds, thus encouraging the agency to develop a broad
range of public support, one likely to ensure that its programs
would continue past the period of the Weingart grant.
Indeed, however much it set its sights on the future,
Weingart Foundation never failed to take special care of the
men and women, the children, the families on the Skid Row
of downtown Los Angeles. These were the lost souls to whom
Ben Weingart himself had paid most attention — the debilitated,
disconsolate, desolate, destitute — the lowest of the low.
Some might see his interest and investments in the human
capital of Skid Row as simply good business. After all, Ben
had many millions of his money at stake in the same neighborhood. Almost certainly, however, there was more to it
than self-interest.
Ben Weingart had been there, at the bottom of the ladder.
As a one-time penniless orphan, he knew what it felt like to
be without resources in a world so often callous and cruel.
He knew the inestimable value of brotherly love, of faith in
one another’s potential, of human solidarity — a helping hand,
when it was needed most.
While he himself had managed to escape the depths of
degradation, indeed to scale the heights of personal achievement, he knew from his own experience that every rung up
the ladder was slippery, every step up and out potentially
treacherous. He never forgot where he had come from. He
never forgot the people who had helped him along the way.
No matter how much success he enjoyed, no matter how
much money he made, Ben never considered himself to
be “above all that.” All his life, when observing those less
fortunate, he always maintained a deep, sure sense of his
own, hard-won good fortune. He always seemed instinctively
to understand, in the depths of his soul: “There, but for the
grace of God, go I.”
203
In its constant support of programs to restore and rehabilitate
the broken and vulnerable lives on Skid Row, Weingart
Foundation proved itself similarly devoted and enlightened.
❖
In all of these early endeavors, the trustees manifested their
commitment to their old friend, Ben Weingart, to the values
he had demonstrated during his life, and to their mutually
held belief that, in the words of Winston Churchill, “Human
beings and human societies are not structures that are built or
machines that are forged. They are plants that grow, and must
be tended as such.”
Over some six years of painful personal decisions, emotional
distress, dutiful determination, delicate business reorganization,
exceptionally capable financial maneuvers, disheartening legal
wrangles, sobering leadership dilemmas, and burdensome
fiduciary responsibilities, after suffering an all-but-constant
barrage of scathing public opprobrium so severe and so
misplaced that it had led trustee Jack Rosenburg to retire
from the fray, after gaining the personal commitment and
public authority of Harry Volk, John Gurash, and Marc
Rabwin, at last, the trustees of Weingart Foundation seemed
to have discovered and established a philanthropic path that
could be productively pursued.
As had Ben himself, the trustees clearly held on to and
embodied the hope once expressed by Abraham Lincoln:
“I want it said of me, by those who knew me best, that I
always plucked a thistle and planted a flower, where I
thought a flower would grow.”
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Part two — chapter fifteen
A Steady Course
F
or two years after probate court Judge Earl Riley
had initiated the conservatorship of Ben Weingart’s person
and financial assets, Ben had lived at home, with his longtime
housekeeper, Helen Terashita, and round-the-clock nursing
care. He was also provided with a driver and bodyguard. For
some months, he continued to come to his office in the
Junior Realty building at Wilshire and Witmer.
Except for the comfort of familiar surroundings and the
presence of longtime friends and employees, however, there
was no reason for him to come to the office. He had little or
nothing to do. Indeed, there was little he was any longer
capable of doing. It did seem to please him, though, to sit at
his desk, to nod quizzically at associates of many years, to
stare out his office window toward the Teris Hotel.
Jack Rosenburg not only visited Ben at home, he made it a
point to take Ben for walks around the neighborhood.
Sometimes the two old friends of more than fifty years would
drive past their old haunts, get a bite to eat at a favorite
restaurant. Sometimes Jack would try to engage Ben in a
game of gin rummy.
These visits and activities seemed to gladden Ben, to perk
him up. Yet their heartening effect was always temporary and
increasingly inconsistent. Ultimately, not even old friends and
familiar sights had any positive impact.
Given their concerns about Laura Winston’s influence on
Ben, the conservators had taken legal action to deny her
entry to Ben’s home and office, as well as telephone communication. Though the abrupt separation no doubt proved a
painful blow to Winston, and possibly to Ben as well, it
205
seemed only prudent to the conservators, charged as they
were to protect Ben’s financial interests. Moreover, conscientious effort was made to provide for Ben’s mental, emotional,
and physical comfort.
Nonetheless, as Ben’s health deteriorated, it became clear
that he would have to be cared for in a hospital. After careful
consideration, for a variety of reasons, the conservators determined that the best, most tender care would be provided at
Good Samaritan Hospital.
Among the factors leading to their choice was the fact that
Ben’s physician practiced there. Moreover, “Good Sam”
stood only a block down the street from Ben’s office. The
hospital had long sought to expand and, to that end, coveted
the Teris Hotel, as well as the land on which Ben’s
office/warehouse complex stood. Significantly, the conservators,
meeting at least monthly in Ben’s office building or just
across the street, could conveniently and regularly visit him at
“Good Sam.”
For the last three years of his life, Ben was ensconced in a
private suite at Good Samaritan Hospital. There he received
the finest medical care available, on a twenty-four-hour basis,
in privacy and comfort. Meanwhile, as Ben — bedridden,
increasingly unresponsive, unable or unwilling to eat anything
but frozen yogurt — unavoidably deteriorated, Laura Winston
pursued legal efforts to be allowed access to Ben. In
November, 1980, the conservators agreed that she might visit
Ben in his suite at Good Samaritan.
Accompanied by press photographers and reporters,
Winston arrived at the hospital. She spent some time at his
bedside, emerging to tell the press that her presence had
elicited a faint smile from Ben, his “eyes lit up,” and she was
certain he had recognized her. Other friends reported contradictory experiences regarding Ben’s powers of recognition.
What the actuality may have been, God only knows.
Ben’s doctors, having noted generalized organ failure,
agreed that, absent kidney dialysis, he was near death. They
also agreed that though dialysis might prolong his physical
existence, it would do little or nothing to advance his quality
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a steady course
of life. In fact, the attendant discomfort would probably cause
Ben more pain than it alleviated.
As the conservators wrestled with this decision, on Monday,
December 22, 1980, in the early hours of the morning, Ben
Weingart passed away. He was ninety-two years old.
❖
Chief conservator Gordon Treharne was called to view the
body in Ben’s suite at Good Samaritan Hospital. There, at the
bedside, he encountered Ben’s longtime, devoted friend
Hazel Walsh. After paying her respects, Walsh insisted that
she be allowed to buy new clothes for Ben, so that he could be
properly buried. Treharne recalled that Walsh provided a
handsome, dark blue suit from Bullock’s Wilshire. The price tag
read $600. Treharne and John Poag together chose the casket.
❖
Even Ben’s death could not end the turmoil surrounding
his conservatorship. His scheduled interment, in a wall crypt
at Glendale’s Forest Lawn cemetery, next to Stella, his wife of
nearly fifty years, was, with several hundred mourners in
attendance, postponed at the last minute.
Laura Winston had secured a temporary restraining order
from a probate judge. In her petition, Winston declared that
Ben had not wanted to be buried next to Stella but instead
had expressed a wish to be cremated. In exemplary anticlimax,
everyone then dispersed.
Finally, almost three weeks later, Winston’s petition having
failed in court, the restraining order was dissolved. Chief
conservator Gordon Treharne, pursuant to his public duty,
ordered that the body of Ben Weingart at last be laid to rest.
Apart from cemetery personnel, Treharne was the sole witness.
❖
207
Among the mourners at the originally scheduled service
were Estelle Prado, the daughter of Ben’s estranged brother
Max, and her daughter. They were Ben’s only living relatives.
Though minimal provision had been made for them in his
will (indeed, Ben had apparently never met Estelle or
her daughter) the executors of his estate — Sol Price, Jack
Rosenburg, and John Poag — agreed that $250,000 should be
disbursed to them.
Some years later, the matters litigated with Laura Winston
were resolved.
❖
As the trustees — now Directors of Weingart Foundation —
noted in their tribute to an old, dear friend, among Ben
Weingart’s many aphorisms was one characteristic of the man
himself: “Most people wait for things to happen. A few make
them happen.” Ben was one of those who made things happen.
During his lifetime, the pioneer real estate developer and
investor personally built a $90 million estate comprised principally of hotels, shopping centers, and apartment buildings. He
developed housing for literally thousands of families in
various communities of Southern California. He was one of
the principal developers of the City of Lakewood, California,
and Lakewood Center, at the time he built it, the state’s
largest shopping complex and among the largest in the world.
The Directors determined that Ben’s legacy to the city and
region that he loved, Los Angeles and Southern California,
would continue to live for many generations yet to come
through Weingart Foundation grants that supported his personal
wish to help build “a better world for all humanity.”
Pursuing its policy of divesting residential real estate, in
favor of more liquid assets and commercial real estate, the
Directors had by now reduced the value of residential rental
properties by some $15 million, to a total of $78 million. The
assets of the Foundation had increased by some $21 million to
$198 million, reflecting a growth rate of about eleven percent,
during a time of economic recession.
The Directors continued the process of refining their
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a steady course
philanthropic goals. They specified interest in supporting
efforts “expected to enable people to live happier, healthier
and more productive lives,” both in the present and the
future, with particular emphasis on “the young, the old, the
transient, the poor, the ill, and the disabled.” In their vision,
focused at once on immediate need and on hope for the
future, the Directors began to wrestle with questions that
would lay a philosophical groundwork for years of
Foundation grants yet to come.
Thanks to the expertise of Director Dr. Marcus Rabwin,
medical research and treatment was also coming to be within
the interest and purview of the Foundation. Along those
lines, grants were made to the Salk Institute and to the
Scripps Clinic and Research Foundation, where great strides
were being made in the area of bone marrow transplantation.
❖
The Directors, increasingly led by Harry Volk, who, with
new Board member John Gurash and original trustee Sol
Price, brought a steady hand and blue-chip corporate credibility
to the Board, now sought to invest the Board and the
Foundation with a sense of high purpose and dedicated public
citizenship. Each of them exceptionally successful entrepreneurs
and innovators within their own fields of banking, insurance,
and retailing, these three men in particular promoted the
notion that Weingart Foundation had a substantial interest
in supporting innovative approaches that might provide new
solutions to existing problems.
Having elected Harry Volk as chairman, while John Poag
continued to serve as president and chief executive officer,
the Directors sought to further refine the focus of their attention.
They now identified five areas of consideration: Community
Social Services, Health and Medicine, Arts and Humanities,
and Higher Education, as well as a new area, Governance and
Public Policy.
Once Volk was chairman, he set about bringing a level of
professionalism to the operations of the Foundation, one more
in keeping with his own banking and insurance background,
209
a professionalism that he felt to be essential for the adequate
stewardship of funds held in the public trust. Especially in the
then existing climate of legal tempests and governmental
scrutiny, the only appropriate response was to make certain
that all the operations of the Foundation were not only
“squeaky clean,” but also could be clearly perceived as such.
Volk insisted on a genuine, public transparency in all
Foundation actions, so that there could be no mystery
concerning what the Foundation was about. In addition to
hiring a “Big Eight” accounting firm to audit the books, he
insisted on the publication of an annual report and the
retention of a public relations agency. Such a report was not
legally required of a private foundation, but Volk felt strongly
that it was nonetheless necessary, indeed, it would prove an
advantage.
At the same time, the Directors faced undeniable personnel
problems, dilemmas that could no longer be ignored.
Fundamentally, the office staff that then existed was primarily
one appropriate to a property management company; yet
what was increasingly required were personnel whose attitudes
and skills were more appropriate to a private foundation staff
and office.
Moreover, quite apart from the ongoing Winston controversy, a bone of contention had arisen between the Directors
and Ben’s office and warehouse staff. As all parties were
aware, Ben had indicated that he wished the Directors to
maintain in their employ for seven-to-ten years after his death
the staff members he had hired.
What Ben evidently did not know was that, with the bulk
of his estate in income-producing real properties that
comprised “an operating business,” the Directors were obligated
by fiduciary responsibility to divest the Foundation of such
assets. Once the buildings were sold, employees whose jobs
were directly related to the operation and maintenance of
hotel and apartment building facilities were unavoidably liable
to termination, based on the same fiduciary responsibilities to
which the Directors were subject.
Some humane form of severance pay and pension benefits
had to be devised. There were also already retired Weingart
210
a steady course
employees with existing pension plans and commitments that
could not be ignored. Volk set about to settle all those thorny
problems. Certain employees of Tragniew, Inc., and Consolidated
Hotels were carried forward into the Foundation, while most
of the others were compassionately let go.
The Directors’ other concern, as well as legal responsibility,
was for the prudent investment and proper management of
the Foundation’s assets. In addition to real properties, Ben
had owned some 250 separate issues of common stock, as
well as various holdings of mineral rights. One residential
property of his had an oil well in the back yard. The residential
properties were being sold for cash and trust deed notes, with
the cash thus raised requiring immediate reinvestment.
To assist them in this pressing responsibility, the Directors
engaged independent investment counsel Fred Taylor to manage
the stock portfolio and divest those issues that he felt should
not be held by the Foundation. Over the next few years,
Taylor pared down the portfolio to thirty issues. As more
funds became available from the real estate sales program, the
Directors allocated more cash to Taylor. He managed a rather
conservative portfolio, hedged with covered calls that promised
an attractive return over U.S. treasury bills.
An additional outlet for the surplus cash being generated
was, at the time, a relatively new security. The new asset was
issued by the Government National Mortgage Association. It
bundled home mortgages into million dollar lots and sold
them to investors, with a guarantee against default covered by
the full faith and credit of the U.S. government. This new
offering made more money available for home ownership all
across the country, making the American Dream vastly more
attainable. Impressed both by the security of the investment
and by its steady returns, the Foundation allocated a portion
of its fixed-income investments to GNMAs.
By fiscal year 1982, the Directors could be both proud and
grateful that Weingart Foundation grants had helped support
children with chronic renal failure, dependent on dialysis
machines to stay alive, to attend summer camp; feed indigent
seniors with an average age of eighty-four years; provide a
hospital with medical equipment needed by children with
211
orthopedic problems; provide a passenger bus suitable for
recreational and educational outings to youngsters living in a
foster home because of family illness, divorce, abuse, or financial
problems; provide an emergency family shelter as a haven for
battered women and their children; teach Latino youth about
the importance of a college education and how to obtain it;
offer classes and activities for a minority population of some
260,000, ranging from infants to senior citizens, at a new
YMCA; and conduct neurobiological research into the nature
of common birth defects and diseases such as the senile
dementia that had afflicted Ben Weingart.
Yet the early success of the Foundation, hard-won over a
plethora of daunting obstacles, bred its own problems. The
Foundation’s continued growth allowed for increased grant
expenditures. But as increasing numbers of worthy applicants
sought support from the Foundation, Directors had to come
to grips with the fact that it was impossible to satisfy fully the
constantly rising number of requests. Moreover, even as they
rewarded certain successful programs with increased and/or
continuing funding, the Directors felt obligated to emphasize:
“Although a few long-term commitments are made to
ensure adequate support for selected programs and research
projects, Foundation grants are usually awarded for a limited
time, generally one or two years. Over-reliance upon the
Foundation as the principal source of funding for a project is
discouraged, and applicants are expected to show support
from internal as well as other sources.” It sometimes seemed
that the more help the Foundation provided, the more pressing
needs became apparent.
Nonetheless, by the end of fiscal year 1982, the assets of
Weingart Foundation stood at $204,419,381 — an amount
more than $100,000,000 greater than the fortune Ben
Weingart had accumulated. Over the year, continuing their
policy of divestment of real estate assets in favor of investment in marketable securities at once more liquid and offering
higher yields, the Directors had increased the value of
remaining Weingart Foundation assets by twelve percent,
while disbursing almost seven percent of total assets.
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a steady course
The Directors had reason to be proud of their accomplishments. Yet, to a man, they agreed that their most profound
reward lay in the compassionate assistance they had been able
to provide, the visionary hopes they had supported. Such a
reward, surprisingly subtle, disarmingly direct, arrived in the
form of a simple handwritten note, received at the
Foundation offices in April, 1982.
The Foundation had conveyed to Loyola Marymount
University real property in the central city for use by the
Missionaries of Charity. The houses located on this property
helped the Missionaries continue their work in serving the
sick, the needy, and the unwanted. They provided an oasis of
peace, hope, and love for the many broken, abandoned, and
forgotten people who lived on the streets of Los Angeles.
Founded in 1948 by Mother Teresa in the slums of
Calcutta, India, the Missionaries of Charity and their work
are widely-known today. Mother Teresa’s organization has by
now grown to serve the poorest of the poor in some thirty
countries. In 1979, she herself was awarded the Nobel Prize
for Peace.
The handwritten note she sent to John Poag, as president of
the Foundation, expressed her personal appreciation for the gift:
4/6/82
Dear Mr. Poag,
God love you for the love you give and the
joy you share through your gift of houses to
our Brothers. My gratitude is my prayer for
you and your family.
God bless you.
Mother Teresa
The profound impact of this simple note of thanks reflects
the truth of a belief held in common by Ben Weingart and
George Washington Carver, who wrote: “How far you go in
life depends on your being tender with the young, compassionate with the aged, sympathetic with the striving, and
tolerant of the weak and the strong. Because someday in life,
you will have been all of these.”
213
214
Part two — chapter sixteen
Reorganization &
Medical Research
S
ince its inception in late 1975, and especially since Jack
Rosenburg’s retirement and Harry Volk’s joining the Board,
the Foundation had struggled to accomplish three goals:
defense, definition, development. Now, in early 1982, the
time had come to take stock of its accomplishments.
At great expense in loss of time and psychic strain to everyone involved, with nothing gained by anyone on either side,
the original conservators and Directors — Sol Price, John
Poag, and Jack Rosenburg — had successfully defended themselves against vitriolic and largely scurrilous attacks, both in
the courts and in the less responsible media. Under unprecedented scrutiny by the Probate Court, and after intensive
investigation by the Los Angeles District Attorney, as well as
the California Attorney General, no trial or appellate court
had ever entered any judgment or order suggesting that any
actions that had been taken by the conservators or the
Directors had not been in the best interests of Ben Weingart
or the Foundation.
In the face of a barrage of allegations, both as to their
competence and their character, the conservators and the
Directors had not only successfully maintained their integrity,
but also their poise and dignity. That alone must be regarded
as an extraordinary achievement.
At the same time, in the midst of the assault, the Directors
were obliged to define the philanthropic direction of
Weingart Foundation. In itself, this was not an easy task. To
give away money, when the supply is sufficient and one is
215
legally obligated to do so, is not difficult. To give it wisely
and constructively is another matter.
Precisely how to do so would become a topic not only of
continuous discussion, argument, and ultimate compromise. It
would also prove to be an opportunity for personal growth
embraced by all Board members, one leading to the forging
of mutually respectful and affectionate friendships that
spanned decades.
As regards development, by June 30, 1983, the Directors
had not only more than doubled the value of the assets of the
Foundation, they had done so while giving away an amount
equal to more than half of the original corpus. Fortunately,
with the settlement of Ben Weingart’s personal estate, the
Foundation received additional properties and funds worth
approximately $40 million.
In 1978, Ben Weingart’s fortune had been valued at some
$90 million. In the five years since that valuation, his
Foundation had dispersed some $48 million. Yet by the end
of fiscal year 1983, the total assets of the Foundation had
reached a value of $231 million. By any objective measure,
the Directors had both skillfully husbanded and ably distributed
the wealth Ben Weingart had created.
Their ability to do so had been augmented in many ways.
First of all, the Directors were no longer subjected to
contentious legal battles and the attendant, intense prosecutorial
scrutiny. At last, with Ben’s own passing, the antagonisms of
the past had been largely laid to rest.
Now, in addition to their regular monthly business meetings, the Directors began the practice of holding two separate
planning sessions during the year. These two-day-long
“retreats” were designed to provide time and space dedicated
to the review of policies and practices being followed and to
plan future courses of action involving grants, investments,
and organization of the Foundation.
In early 1983, John Poag asked his fellow board members to
be relieved of his duties. He had long endured the quadruple
pressures of service as a conservator/trustee, as well as the
day-to-day tensions of running simultaneously not only the
many and varied Weingart business interests, but also
216
reorganization & medical research
Weingart Foundation, not to mention serving as a Director of
the Foundation. Consequently beset by serious, stress-related
medical problems, Poag decided to resign. In one way or
another, for almost thirty years, he had dedicated himself to
serving the interests of Ben Weingart, his enterprises, and the
Foundation.
Charged with overseeing the implementation of the many
bold, astute, and intricate policies the Board, including himself,
had voted, Poag had served ably and with distinction. Now,
having led various real estate ventures for Ben and the
Foundation in Hawaii, he determined to retire to the island
paradise he had long cherished and there pursue other interests.
Poag’s resignation, effective at the end of February, 1983,
was accepted by the Board, with Poag agreeing to serve as a
consultant and to make himself available for advice and counsel
for an additional year. Until a suitable replacement could be
chosen, the Directors elected Volk to serve not only as Board
chairman, his current post, but also as president and chief
executive officer.
❖
At the end of fiscal year 1983, Foundation assets had risen
to $231,047,436 from $204,419,381 the year before, in an
economic climate that remained sluggish. Successfully pursuing
its policy of divestment of residential real estate, in favor of
more liquid assets and commercial properties, the Board had
slashed the value of residential real estate properties by almost
fifty percent, to a total of $45 million, a decrease of almost
fifty percent from its highest valuation.
❖
A major question for the Directors continued to be
whether the Foundation’s philanthropy should be “proactive”
or “reactive.” Should the Foundation pursue the creation of its
own programs in a proactive way, or should it remain primarily
reactive to the community and the proposals it received?
Should the Board follow the advice of experts working for
217
established care-giving agencies, however hidebound or timid
they might be? Alternatively, could the Board afford to invest
the time and exert the energy required to educate the Board
itself to a level of expertise sufficient to identify fundamental
problems and implement creative solutions.
Some might see these questions as essentially a matter of
taking a conservative or a progressive approach. To their
credit, none of the three leading Directors saw it precisely in
such simplistic terms. All three were sophisticated, subtle
thinkers, far from the doctrinaire. All three sought, above all,
to “make it work.”
Consequently, the decisions taken by the Board included
efforts that reflected both approaches. On one hand, the
Foundation granted substantial support to such established
organizations as the YMCA, Boy Scouts, Salvation Army, and
Volunteers of America, as well as to major medical and
educational institutions. On the other hand, it worked closely
with innovative care givers such as Para Los Niños, Grand
People’s Company, Los Angeles Downtown Women’s
Center, and San Diego Innovative Preschool Project (School
of Success).
Finding the appropriate blend between “proactive” and
“reactive” approaches, however, inevitably caused the Directors
to grapple with two other intricately related concerns. Both
were vexingly intertwined with the question of “proactive” or
“reactive.” Neither offered an entirely clear-cut solution.
One related concern was the question of whether to
address present or future needs. A “proactive” policy would
tend to allocate funds directed primarily to the prevention of
future human suffering. A “reactive” policy would tend to
allocate funds directed primarily to the care of those already
afflicted.
Should the Foundation respond to existing social problems,
ameliorating the negative effects manifested among adult
populations; or should it address the root-causes of those
effects, focusing on strengthening the positive resources available
to youths? Should the Directors support promising, longrange efforts that might or might not produce major results in
the future? Or should the immediate and predictable needs of
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Weingart Foundation was a major supporter of Boy Scout camps, where city youngsters
came to know the wonders of nature and the delights of the “great outdoors.”
individuals be met in the present? Metaphorically, should the
Foundation “give a man a fish,” or should it “teach a man
to fish?”
The other related concern — perhaps the most perplexing of
all — was the question of whether the Foundation should be
Board-driven or staff-driven. In this regard, how could
Weingart Foundation avoid falling victim to its own success?
The dilemma was rooted in the legal requirement that charitable
219
foundations must disburse at least five percent of total assets
every year.
If a foundation grows its assets, so as to be able to accomplish more — a goal in which Weingart Foundation excelled —
it must disburse an ever increasing sum. At a certain point,
the task of wisely distributing so much money — in effect,
making considered and prudent social investments — becomes
a very difficult endeavor. At this point, most foundations
come to rely increasingly on staff, specifically on program
officers, who tend each to develop expertise in certain areas
of social need.
While giving to established, external, charitable organizations
forces reliance on tradition-bound, often less-than creative
“experts,” reliance on in-house, staff-based program officers
runs the risk of creating competing power centers, each with
its own agenda. Both alternatives ultimately diminish the
effectiveness of that entrepreneurial genius evidenced by Ben
Weingart himself, not to mention the similarly creative
instincts of men whom Ben knew and respected, such as Sol
Price, Harry Volk, and John Gurash.
These three leading Directors came to know all too well
how difficult it can be for a large foundation to remain
Board-driven. Yet even as it grew, in wealth as well as
impact, Weingart Foundation remained determined to prove
the task was not impossible.
❖
The consensus reached was that the Foundation’s policy
should be primarily reactive. Nonetheless, recognizing the
entrepreneurial value of flexibility, no inviolable lines were
drawn in this regard, so as not to limit the Directors’ doing
something exceptionally meritorious that happened to break
the reactive rule.
Factors cited in support of a reactive policy appeared primarily
on two fronts. First, it was felt that the service providers closest
to the needs of the community usually had the best ideas for
what was needed. Second, a reactive policy would allow the
Directors to maintain a relatively small staff, which would
220
tend to keep the Board fully engaged in the function of the
Foundation.
Even as the Foundation’s growth required that members be
added to the staff, program officers were never allowed to
specialize. As a result, there was never, for example, an
“education” program officer or a “youth” program officer on
staff. The Directors believed that if a staff member should
ever come to consider himself or herself an expert in a chosen
area, thus become too much invested in securing funding for
programs in his or her area of supposed expertise, such
specialization would tend to detract from the “expert’s” ability
to analyze a grant dispassionately. Inevitably, it would also
detract from the Board’s ability to be directly involved in
grantmaking plans and subsequent funding decisions.
To this day, many foundations do not agree with the
Weingart Foundation approach. Many still prefer to have
their program officers specialize; and they consequently pay a
price in terms of the self-interested support of proposals, as
well as diminished board involvement in funding decisions.
Even so, in the Weingart Foundation boardroom, a perennial
discussion ensued. Usually led by Sol Price, some Directors
continued to argue in favor of a proactive policy that would
narrow the focus of the Foundation.
As a rule, Price took the lead in urging that the Foundation
narrow its focus and make a conscious effort to be more
creative, rather than simply responding to requests from
grant-seekers. Innovation and creativity were the hallmarks of
Price’s philanthropic instincts, just as they were in his own
entrepreneurial enterprises.
Though there were obvious benefits derived from the more
general, reactive approach — primarily the fact that Directors
were thus guaranteed wide latitude in their choice of actions
and programs — the Foundation’s annual disbursement of
around $13 million was viewed as a relative drop in the bucket,
especially when compared to the need existing in the city and
the wealth of other funding sources available, such as government. If the Foundation’s contribution were allocated in a
scattershot way, Price argued, it would be difficult, if not
impossible, to discern a noticeable effect from the funding. If
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the Foundation picked a specific area of focus, however,
impressive results might be realized.
No one could fault Price’s logic. The problem was agreeing
on the area of focus. With strong and brilliant personalities
on the Board, each with a great deal of mutual respect for
one another, but not always in philosophical agreement,
choosing a philanthropic focus, at least in the traditional way,
was often difficult.
The one guidepost the Directors could all agree upon was
Ben himself. The Directors were for the most part close
friends of Ben Weingart. They knew firsthand how little he
had been interested in funding programs that he viewed as
being “for the rich,” such as the music center and art museums.
Ben had never been interested in joining the “A-List” of high
society. Indeed, he had once told society doyenne Dorothy
Chandler that he would give her a million dollars for her rich
people if she would give him a million for his poor.
With this in mind, the Directors agreed to eliminate culture
and the arts from the Foundation’s fundable categories. This
did not, however, completely eliminate grants to museums,
the Music Center, and similar organizations. Grants were still
made to such institutions, if their programs served to educate
children and youth or to make culture accessible to economically marginalized people. When such proposals were funded,
they were placed in the Community Services category.
A number of successful applicants for grants were now
proposing projects that might serve as models that could be
replicated elsewhere. The “multiplier effect” that such investments might provide was becoming an area of particular
interest for the Foundation.
At the same time, the Board continued to make substantial
grants in the field of Health and Medicine. In this area, a
major commitment was made to fund research in molecular
and genetic biology, a field that promised discoveries of
fundamental importance for prolonging and enhancing human
life. Significant awards were also made to organizations
engaged in the study of key public policy issues. The purpose
of these grants was to develop factual data that would assist
current and future public officials in making their decisions.
222
Yet the Foundation’s interest in funding social agencies that
provide needed community services remained very much
alive. For example, the stimulating effect of Foundation grants
in Skid Row and other marginalized areas of Los Angeles
County had been gratifying to all concerned. Over the previous
five years, total grants contributed to responsible social-service
organizations in these areas had exceeded $21.5 million.
Indeed, the Foundation continued its support of both established agencies and innovative programs designed to strengthen
the community, especially its youth and disadvantaged adults,
and address urgent social problems.
❖
Philanthropic grants can perhaps best be regarded as investments in the future. By the mid-1980s, the Weingart
Foundation had helped to build libraries, laboratories, and
dormitories, as well to support faculty development, and
important social, scientific and medical research. Indeed,
through June 30, 1984, sixty-three percent of all Foundation
contributions had been associated, in one way or another,
with educational institutions and organizations, including
medical schools.
Reflecting this growing interest in scientific and medical
research, the Directors invited Dr. William McGill, distinguished
quantitative psychologist and former president of both
Columbia University and the University of California, San
Diego, to join the Board of Weingart Foundation. The Directors
were increasingly aware of the fact that finding solutions to
complex medical problems begins with basic research. At this
early stage, the seeds of discovery may reveal clues to cures
for developmental disorders and such disabling and often fatal
diseases as cancer, Alzheimer’s, and diabetes. The field of
molecular and genetic biology, in particular, had been identified
as a major area of scientific investigation for the 1980s.
Guided by the wide-ranging medical and scientific expertise
of Marc Rabwin, Bill McGill, and Lee DuBridge, the Board
realized that molecular genetics was an area of research that
held particular promise for breakthroughs in the treatment of
223
cancer, birth defects, and disorders of the brain and nervous
system. A breakthrough in the research of molecular genetics
could revolutionize methods of medical diagnosis and treatment.
The potential impact of such findings would be limitless.
In 1984 alone, the Foundation approved $7.9 million in
grants for research encompassing the study of genetics, the
disease process, the brain, and the nervous system. These
grants were made to four distinguished institutions — the
medical schools of Stanford University; the University of
California, Los Angeles; and the University of California, San
Francisco; as well as the Salk Institute in La Jolla — for their
independent studies in the field of molecular genetics.
The Foundation had previously supported several major
medical research projects at the University of California, San
Diego, with grants applied toward studies in the areas of
Alzheimer’s disease, gene therapy, and cell biology. In 1984,
the UCSD School of Medicine had been awarded $380,000.
In 1986, the Board voted to grant researchers at the school an
additional $1,400,000, disbursed over three years. This grant
helped to fund research equipment for the school’s new
26,000-square-foot Institute for Research on Aging.
The Foundation also supported other important medical
research. In 1980, a five-year grant had been awarded to establish
the Weingart Center for Bone Marrow Transplantation at the
Scripps Clinic and Research Foundation in La Jolla. Its purpose
was to explore bone marrow transplantation as a practical
therapy for acute leukemia, aplastic anemia, and other blood
disorders.
Throughout the 1980s, the Foundation supported innovative
medical research and capital improvement programs that
offered long-term solutions for meeting the health needs of
communities, both in the current moment and for generations
yet to come.
224
Part two — chapter seventeen
Making An Impact
T
he three senior Directors of Weingart Foundation
— Sol Price, Harry Volk, and John Gurash — at once had
much in common and much that distinguished each from the
other. In their service to the Foundation, it would be as
much their differences as their similarities that would prove
invaluable.
All three were exceptionally successful businessmen.
Creative, indeed visionary, in their business dealings, all three
were men of entrepreneurial genius. Though coming from
disparate backgrounds and having different life experiences, all
three had known Ben Weingart personally and been close
friends of his. All three had associated with Ben in deals
valued in the multimillions.
Volk and Gurash had both worked for and led established
institutions; Price preferred to create his own enterprises.
Though each of the three had risen through different professional channels, within his own field, each was considered
remarkably innovative.
Sol Price
Harry Volk
John Gu
Senior Directors of Weingart Foundation
225
While Volk and Gurash had made their marks in essentially
conservative businesses — insurance and banking — Price was
an iconoclast, a natural initiator. It was his gift to conceive a
“better mousetrap,” convince others of the virtue of his
concepts, and encourage them sufficiently to finance the
mutually profitable realization of his ingenuity. In this bootstrap scrappiness, Price was more like Ben himself than was
either Volk or Gurash.
First with Fed-Mart, then with Price Club, Price was the
first to realize that consumers would be willing to forego
some of the convenience and comforts of department-store
shopping to pay lower prices in clean, well-lit, if relatively
bare-bones, warehouse surroundings. Indeed, Sam Walton of
Wal-Mart fame credits Price as being the originator of the
concept that made both of them wealthy.
Yet, within their chosen businesses, both Volk and Gurash
were similarly renowned as trailblazers. Gurash had pioneered
the concept of direct sale of insurance to policyholders, initially
sidestepping insurance agents, thus saving money for policyholders and insurance companies alike. It was a model soon
to be followed by others in the insurance industry. As a banker,
Volk was among the first to offer daily interest on deposits,
thus winning Union Bank greatly increased business. He was
also one of the first to advance the idea of integrated financial
services provided by one-bank holding companies, an innovative
concept widely adopted only some thirty years later.
All three — Price, Volk, Gurash — like Ben himself, constantly
thought in terms of increasing efficiency and productivity,
thus creating a bigger “bang for the buck.” All three had
based their most profitable achievements on ingenuity, each
in his own way “thinking outside the box;” and all three
recognized the value of originality in the ideas of others.
Moreover, all three proved exceptionally capable at marketing
— not only marketing new ideas to the ultimate consumers,
but also selling the value of their concepts to investors and
others within their industries. Whether as private individuals
or in the public sphere, these were dynamic men.
Due to their characteristic dynamism, all three recognized
that their varied individual philosophies of grantmaking were
226
making an impact
best considered to be under constant review. They agreed
that, in the Foundation, as in any living organism, change
was inevitable. Thus, a constant review and evolution of the
Foundation’s methods, even its purposes, was an inherently
healthy regimen to pursue.
Recognizing that, in successful entities, change is the only
constant, Price, Volk, and Gurash remained constantly open
to new and conceivably better ways of accomplishing their
duty to fulfill Ben Weingart’s goal: To make the world a better
place for all humanity. Many different paths might lead to
that desired end, and these Directors were always willing to
pursue promising leads. Though they insisted that the
Foundation, like any business, should be run in an orderly
manner, they similarly insisted on the value of institutional
flexibility.
None of the three was likely to mince words. In his own
business, each was accustomed to having his word carry the
day. All three men trusted their instincts. All three were
exceptionally decisive. All three were always willing to try.
None of them feared making a mistake.
Though each would propound his point of view persuasively
and argue for it fiercely, each man manifested the grace to see
beyond his own perspective. Moreover, none was ever so
blinded by his own brilliance as to overlook the virtues and
potential benefits of an opposing or tangential approach. Still,
Price and Volk particularly often seemed diametrically
opposed.
Tending to “follow the market,” Volk instinctively favored
the conservative route to charitable giving, preferring to
distribute Ben’s wealth through well-established agencies such
as the YMCA or the Boy Scouts. He felt that such successful
institutions had already proven themselves in the marketplace,
demonstrated their ability to provide good value. While ever
alert to new and better ways of doing things, Volk was not a
man given to the reinvention of the wheel.
Tending to create his own market, Price instinctively
favored the unusual route, preferring to distribute Ben’s
wealth through visionary vehicles created for the most part
out of whole cloth. These, he reckoned, might better serve as
227
models for the solution of similar problems elsewhere. Price
believed that, if existing organizations were capable of
successfully identifying and solving human problems, they
would have long since done so. While keeping a watchful
eye on the bottom line, Price insisted on being in the vanguard,
addressing the Big Picture.
Price would joke that Volk, in steadfastly following traditional means toward accepted ends, seldom seemed to think
beyond what he read in The Wall Street Journal. Volk would
joke that Price, in pursuing a staunchly progressive agenda,
often seemed to take his inspiration straight from The Daily
Worker.
Though sharing with Volk a background in the conservative
establishment and with Price a maverick, entrepreneurial flair,
Gurash was the Director most likely to remind the Board of
Ben’s own charitable instincts. To Gurash, as to Ben himself,
what distinguished the Foundation was that its purpose was
to fund the poor, not the rich. Whatever the method
employed, whatever the agreed tactics, Gurash insisted on
maintaining Ben’s own characteristic strategy. Especially for
Gurash, the Foundation existed to lift up the downtrodden,
not to provide an additional boost to those already relatively
high on the ladder of success.
Perhaps predictably, since all three men were devoted to
Ben Weingart, their mutual efforts to effect in his name
significant philanthropy led them to share a deep respect for
one another, indeed, an enduring affection. The mutual respect
they felt was based on what each recognized to be the
strengths that the others “brought to the table,” the shared
knowledge that each man possessed valuable traits the
others lacked. Over time, their diverse perspectives coalesced
into a philanthropic vision even greater than the sum of its
dynamic parts.
❖
By 1985, Weingart Foundation was increasingly self-aware,
well-organized, responsive, proactive, and beginning to see the
results of its process of self-reflection and professionalization.
228
making an impact
The twice-yearly planning sessions, in conjunction with
monthly board meetings and ongoing staff discussions, had
led the Foundation to reassess some of its earlier directions
and decisions.
While seeking to respond generously to immediate human
need, the Foundation had, from its inception, certainly since
the early 1980s and the active involvement of Harry Volk,
sought also to ensure that its grants had long-range impact in
advancing human knowledge and ameliorating the human
condition. Such an awareness had been at the roots of the
Foundation’s investment in medical research, especially in the
area of molecular genetics, which promised to produce scientific
advances of almost unimaginable proportions, only now
beginning to be realized with the successful mapping of the
human genome.
Though the Foundation continued to support organizations
dedicated to assisting the sick, the aged, and the disabled, as
reflected by its staunch support of Community Social
Services, a similar impulse toward long-range investment
could be seen at work in the Foundation’s increasing support
of organizations and programs dedicated to laying solid
groundwork for the future of humanity. This was especially
evident in its increasing focus on programs serving Children
and Youth.
In 1985, for the first time, investment in the category of
Education surpassed that in Medicine and Health. Indeed, by
1984, grants to educational institutions and organizations,
including medical schools, had come to represent fully sixtythree percent of the Foundation’s philanthropy.
❖
Although the Foundation’s horizons had by now considerably
expanded, however much it set its sights on the future, the
Foundation remained committed to Skid Row. Thanks in part
to the Foundation’s first grants to that area in the late 1970s,
the number of agencies serving the Skid Row community
had proliferated. The Foundation continued to support many
of them.
229
For example, the Downtown Women’s Center provided a
haven for women on Los Angeles’ Skid Row. The center had
begun in the late ‘Seventies when Jill Halverson befriended a
“bag lady” she met in a downtown parking lot. As a welfare
and alcohol abuse counselor on Skid Row, Halverson had
become aware that community care for indigent women was
inadequate. By 1984, the Downtown Women’s Center had
grown to serve the needs of some fifty women every day.
These women were otherwise forgotten or abandoned, many
of them disabled by psychological and emotional problems.
At the Center, homeless women could be assured of a wellbalanced midday meal; clean, private toilets and showers; a
change of clothing; a place to sleep during the day; and a
protected mailing address. Weingart Foundation contributed
$100,000 toward the purchase of a property next door to the
Center’s storefront headquarters, as well as for the reconstruction
of a fifty-room hotel for the women of Skid Row.
The residence provided a wholesome alternative to the ratinfested and costly hotels where most of the women had
been forced to live. Moreover, the residence became a model
program, recognized by state and national officials for serving
the female forsaken — a population living in the shadow of
urban wealth and progress, but lacking the resources to join
in mainstream activity.
In 1985, the Foundation also awarded $50,000 to the Los
Angeles Family Housing Corporation to start a new housing
development program. This program offered selected lowincome families an alternative to the transient hotels of downtown Los Angeles. With its first project, L.A. Family Housing
gave eight families the opportunity to move into safe, clean,
affordable housing away from Skid Row and get a fresh start.
Families living in these units were provided with such selfhelp mechanisms as on-site child care and counseling to help
them become economically self-sufficient.
Another Skid Row grant had awarded $25,000 to help furnish the newly founded Los Angeles Men’s Place, a drop-in
center for mentally and emotionally vulnerable men. The
Foundation also supported renovation by the Skid Row
Development Corporation of a light-industrial building that
230
making an impact
would provide a number of low-skilled jobs.
In 1986, a $50,000 grant was given in support of an afterschool program for Skid Row latchkey children. The program
was sponsored by the Salvation Army Day Care Center, in
collaboration with Para Los Niños. Offering children a safe,
supervised alternative to being on the streets, the latchkey
program also introduced them to the world outside Skid
Row, through field trips and cultural arts programs. It further
offered them an everyday environment conducive to study
and self-development.
Reflecting its profound commitment to alleviating the pain
and degradation of Skid Row, in 1988, the Foundation awarded
the Los Angeles Mission on Skid Row a $250,000 grant
toward construction of its new multimillion-dollar, 113,000square-foot facility, destined to quadruple relief and rehabilitation services to the homeless.
❖
Throughout his adult life, Ben Weingart cared most of all
for the abused and abandoned, for the forgotten man, the
231
defenseless woman. His Foundation took particular care to
continue to advance Ben’s most fundamental humane instinct.
Yet in determining the nature of Weingart Foundation
philanthropy, a variety of vexing, fundamental, interrelated
questions needed to be addressed by the Directors and, if
possible, answered. Despite their best efforts, some of these
problems continue to challenge, if not defy, solution even today.
First and foremost, having known Ben Weingart well, each
of the three leading Directors was determined that Ben’s
Foundation should reflect Ben’s own philanthropic instincts
and attitudes. This required adherence to certain obvious
policies. An all-but-exclusive focus on Southern California,
where Ben had made his money. A significant focus on those
neighborhoods where Ben had prospered, generally home to
the less fortunate among us.
Equally important, all three men believed, was a preference
for seeking, finding, and implementing innovative solutions
to the problems of human society. This belief strongly
implied that the Foundation should remain Board-driven, not
become staff-driven, as had so many other foundations.
Volk, Price, and Gurash insisted adamantly on their mutually
held belief that the Board of Weingart Foundation must never
become a mere rubber stamp for decisions already made by
members of its staff. To that end, the Board sought new
Directors of entrepreneurial instinct and vision, ones willing
to focus their energies and limit their charitable Board
commitments almost exclusively to Weingart Foundation, as
had Volk, Price, and Gurash.
Moreover, with many of its grants, the Foundation sought
to create, develop, and present a model for others to follow.
Thus, the Directors of Weingart Foundation remained unusually
focused on, personally active in, and deeply committed to the
success of its philanthropic efforts.
As had Ben himself, in his own life and work, the
Directors sought to create an increased “bang for their buck,”
they tried to leverage funds to the maximum, they insisted
the investments of the Foundation must “pay off.” A more
fitting tribute to its founder could hardly be imagined.
232
Part two — chapter eighteen
Education &
the Student Loan Program
D
uring the mid-1980s, Weingart Foundation began
to rethink its role. At twice-annual retreats, the Board and
staff continued to contemplate how best the Foundation
might contribute to making Southern California a better place
to live, work, and grow.
As a result of these discussions, the Board reached agreement concerning an important new thrust of its philanthropy.
Although grant support would continue in each area of previous
interest, the Foundation’s grant policy would be narrowed to
focus primarily on programs affecting Children and Youth.
First of all, on education.
❖
By the mid-1980s, a fundamental problem was emerging in
California. The cost of private higher education had grown at
more than twice the rate of the Consumer Price Index.
Tuition and fees were growing to a point beyond the reach
of the average student. Many had their options reduced to
attending state institutions, which, however excellent, were
by their very nature large and impersonal, affording little
individual attention to the undergraduate student. Many
students were unsuited to this environment.
Moreover, most existing scholarship programs aided the
very poor or the highly intelligent. Few programs existed for
those of average means and ability, the financial mainstay of
almost all educational institutions.
233
In addition, smaller private schools were primarily sustained
by tuition, having inadequate facilities to obtain large research
contracts. As enrollment dropped, the financial condition of
such schools became increasingly precarious. Many of them
potentially faced the end of their existence. California faced a
drastic reduction in the number of private schools and the
valuable education they could offer.
With its characteristic brand of entrepreneurial ingenuity,
the Foundation found a landmark solution: the Foundation’s
thirteen-year, $28 million program for interest-free student
loans at fourteen private colleges in Southern California.
Under the program, the Foundation provided interest-free
loans to the colleges; and each college established a trust,
funded by Foundation money, to make interest-free loans to
qualified students. Each college guaranteed repayment of the
student loans to the trust.
Eliciting an equal amount in matching grants, Weingart
Foundation endowed Southern California-based, private, liberal
arts colleges with funds that provided interest-free tuition
loans for needy students. The innovative program not only
kept many of the colleges in business, it also allowed them to
maintain a student body representative of all economic levels
in the region. Moreover, with loans to be repaid within ten
years of graduation, the endowments were designed to be
self-perpetuating, ensuring access to quality, private, higher
education for generations to come.
The unique program was inaugurated with the 1987 fall
term when the Foundation distributed $3.5 million among
the participating colleges: Chapman, Claremont McKenna, La
Verne, Loyola Marymount, Mount St. Mary’s, Occidental,
Pepperdine, Pitzer, Pomona, Redlands, Scripps, University of
San Diego, Westmont, and Whittier. The amount awarded to
each school was determined by a formula based on the number
of full-time sophomores, juniors, and seniors enrolled on a
specific date.
To qualify for loans, students had to be U.S. citizens,
graduates of Southern California high schools, and studying
full time for baccalaureate degrees. Selection of students to
receive the loans was at the discretion of each college.
234
education & the student loan program
The program was structured so that loan repayments by
students, added to the Foundation’s projected conditional
commitments, would enable each school to sustain the loan
program into the future at the same level as the first year.
Significantly, the Weingart program included a challenge grant
to each college to raise additional student-loan funds from
private sources; the Foundation would match such funds
dollar for dollar with outright grants of up to $10.4 million,
equivalent to the amount of Weingart loans projected for the
colleges in the program’s first three years.
It was hoped that the program would lead to the establishment of a permanent student-loan fund at each college,
The innovative Student Loan Program provided interest-free tuition loans to students
at fourteen private colleges and universities in Southern California.
235
increased enrollment and higher graduation rates at the colleges,
replication of the program in other areas, and an easing of the
debt burden incurred by students for their educations.
❖
The Student Loan Program represented the largest commitment yet made by the Foundation. It expressed the board’s
desire to help ensure the availability of quality education to
Southern California students.
Yet, in 1987, in addition to initiating the Student Loan
Program, Weingart Foundation granted more than $1.6 million
for projects at other colleges and universities, as well as
$190,000 to private high schools.
In 1988, Foundation-supported educational projects benefited
thirty-six different institutions, primarily colleges. These funds
were for the construction and upgrading of facilities, as well
as for support of the Foundation’s unique Student Loan
Program, inaugurated the previous year.
To enrich young minds; to support wholesome activities for
youngsters; to aid deserving college students; to help young
Southern Californians prepare for leadership: these objectives
were an important consideration as Weingart Foundation
reviewed the community’s pressing needs.
But this dedication to youth and education did not come at
the expense of the Foundation’s interest in other vital social
services. The Foundation continued to support many projects
that enabled community organizations to expand health services,
especially for the poor; reduce hunger and homelessness, and
help break the cycle of urban poverty and alienation; build
job skills, self-esteem, and emotional strength; add and
improve services for handicapped, orphaned, abandoned, and
abused children.
❖
The Directors of the Foundation reiterated and refined their
philanthropic outlook. Weingart Foundation’s philosophy was
now “to encourage well-conceived experimental or
236
education & the student loan program
demonstration projects that promise significant positive
results, have the potential to continue beyond the initial funding,
and are likely to produce long-term, multiplier effects.
Programs aimed at prevention of social problems or solution
of society’s ills are favored over those that address the consequences of problems.”
In light of these evolving purposes, education and other needs
of children and young people had now substantially surpassed
health and medicine among the Foundation’s priorities. The
clear intent was to invest in the future, particularly in youth,
in the hope of solving or preventing social problems before
they reached intractable proportions. The Foundation believed
its investment in youth and education would pay future
dividends, not only to the young people served by programs
that were funded, but also to the communities in which they
would live and work.
❖
As the decade of the 1980s drew to a close, Weingart
Foundation could take pride in its financial stability, its
growth, its newly agreed focus on the future, and the enduring
impact for good that its innovative programs had created.
Since its inception, the Directors of the Foundation had
astutely managed its wealth; the assets of the Foundation had
in fact more than quadrupled over fifteen years.
Over that same time, the Foundation had awarded grants
totaling nearly $150 million, with major contributions in the
areas of Skid Row Initiatives, Medical Research, and Education.
The new decade held out even greater promise and would
lead to even richer achievements.
237
Weingart Foundation provided support to allow children of the working poor to attend
Y-Achievers, the YMCA’s inner-city preschool program.
238
Part two — chapter nineteen
Children & Youth
A
s the new decade dawned, the last of the 20th
century, the Directors of Weingart Foundation had much to
celebrate. They had successfully preserved a substantial fortune
for the betterment of society. They had wisely maintained the
dignity and probity of the Foundation through its early, difficult
years. They had masterfully managed and astutely invested the
fortune that they had been charged with husbanding.
Through financially perilous times, they had almost quintupled
the assets to the foundation, while awarding grants whose
total value had reached almost twice that of Ben Weingart’s
original fortune.
The Foundation had helped to accomplish enormous good
for humanity, particularly within Southern California. Yet true
to its founder’s own restless, entrepreneurial spirit, ever alert
to opportunity, ever striving for improvement, ever seeking
to perfect the endeavor at hand, ever eager to affirm the best
of human potential, ever determined to use wealth as a tool,
not a crutch, the Directors continued to strive to refine the
focus of the Foundation and thus to create an even more
positive impact.
The question they faced was at once simple and complex.
In determining the most effective use of its charitable
resources, a foundation must often choose between a policy
that allocates funds directed primarily to the prevention of
future human suffering or a policy that allocates funds directed
primarily to the care of those already afflicted. Blessed with
sufficient assets, however, it may strive to prevent future
suffering, while at the same time alleviating that which it has
been unable to prevent. Over the fifteen years since Ben
239
Weingart’s health failed him, the Foundation had made
substantial grants in both areas.
Notable prevention examples included multimillion-dollar
grants to graduate medical schools for research in molecular
genetics and the financing of experimental preschool programs
for children from less advantaged households.
In the area of immediate care for those already afflicted, the
Foundation’s grants had helped tens of thousands of individuals
in need. The hungry, the ill, the abused, the homeless — both
children and adults — all had been given aid.
Over the years, more than 1,100 agencies had received
Weingart Foundation grants to help implement their goals of
helping the unfortunate. Examples ranged from the various
inner-city missions, the food banks, the free clinics, the
Salvation Army, and the Volunteers of America, to many
Southern California hospitals. The work of these agencies had
held the highest interest of Ben Weingart during his own lifetime, and the Directors had conscientiously followed Ben’s
lead.
Yet, as the assets of the Foundation grew, and as the
Directors themselves gained more experience in the allocation
of grants, it became proverbially obvious that “an ounce of
prevention is worth a pound of cure.” If that formula held
true, then the Foundation might expect a sixteen-to-one
return on investments made toward future human well-being.
As longtime chairman Harry Volk noted, for centuries, educators, philosophers, and public officials have expressed their
concerns for the future of society in terms of its children.
The Old Testament attributes this homily to King Solomon:
“Train up the child in the way he should go; and when he is
old, he will not depart from it.”
Since young people are the future — of the community, the
state, the nation, and the complex global arena shared by all
the world’s citizens — Weingart Foundation determined to
dedicate an increasing percentage of its resources to the
support of worthwhile programs for Children and Youth.
This decision was rooted in the firm conviction that with
freedom comes responsibility, that free men and women —
especially those who profit greatly from our economic system
240
children & youth
of private enterprise — have a moral obligation to be active
public citizens, generous with both their time and money, to
strive to improve the lot of all in the community.
❖
Although its focus was now on Children and Youth under
eighteen years of age, the Foundation continued to make capital
grants to colleges and universities. In 1990, more than $1
million was provided for new educational wings and science
centers. Institutions of higher learning were viewed as
community capital assets. As a good corporate citizen, the
Foundation upheld its responsibility to support, maintain, and
expand such assets, awarding $100,000 to Stanford University,
toward a pilot project with the Los Angeles Unified School
District, to improve the literacy of elementary school children.
❖
June 30, 1991, marked the 40th anniversary of the beginning
of Weingart Foundation, with the establishment of the Stella
Weingart Trust and the B.W. Foundation. Over those forty
years, the Foundation had approved grants totaling more than
$200 million to philanthropic, humanitarian, and charitable
causes, almost entirely in Southern California. Year by year,
its assets had also grown, reaching $459 million.
By now, the Foundation had successfully implemented
three large, proactive projects: Skid Row Initiatives, Medical
Research, and the Student Loan Program. It was time to
implement another. At a planning retreat, Directors were
polled concerning their ideas for the next such project they
would undertake.
Director William McGill presented a persuasive argument
for early childhood education. He first posited that the
Foundation seemed to be in the business of preventing the
creation of a permanent underclass, an academic way of saying
they were in the business of assuring opportunity for betterment for all the population and providing the tools to take
advantage of that opportunity.
241
He presented data demonstrating that education was the key
to achievement and economic well-being and that academic
achievement was directly related to a child’s development
prior to the age of five. This made preschool stimulus, guidance, and development the all-important key.
Researching the possibilities available to the Foundation led
the Directors to Y-Achievers, an innovative program being
run by the Los Angeles Metropolitan YMCA. From the
Foundation’s perspective, this proved an attractive program
for several reasons. For one thing, starting a preschool from
scratch was a difficult proposition, especially considering the
myriad federal, state, and local regulations; the difficulty of
securing insurance; and the expense of keeping the doors
open with few revenue sources. The YMCA had already on
staff people with the expertise necessary for licensing and creating the unique educational structures required. It also had an
unimpeachable reputation, during a time when a notorious
preschool scandal filled Southern California newspapers.
Accordingly, the Foundation granted more than $5 million
over three years to defray the cost of the program for the
working poor. No grant money was needed for the development of the program, since the Y had already shouldered that
cost.
Among other elements, the grant supported expansion and
enrichment of preschool programs in eleven inner-city
YMCA areas. Preschool project goals were to provide safe,
affordable, high-quality, early-childhood development programs
that facilitated the emotional, educational, social, and physical
growth of at-risk children. Staff members also worked with
parents to help build self-esteem and strengthen family support
of the child.
The program also expanded inner-city YMCA efforts in
support of early elementary school “latchkey” children. Parent
education for the families of children in both the preschool
and latchkey programs included training classes in English,
literacy, and job readiness.
Concurrently, Director McGill rolled up his sleeves and
created from scratch a preschool program in San Diego. That
school was housed in a traditionally African-American church
242
children & youth
in a particularly disadvantaged neighborhood. With McGill
fully involved in its development, this effort proved to be the
culmination of much of his research into the need for earlychildhood education.
The San Diego Innovative Preschool Project received an
initial grant of $225,000 toward the start-up costs of a
$1,555,130, three-year special education program for disadvantaged three- four- and five-year-old children from low-income,
ethnically diverse families. Also known as the “School of
Success Preschool and Kindergarten,” it was a demonstration
project designed to show that the destructive effects of poverty,
street culture, and weak family structure could be overcome
by a positive, nurturing school environment that helped to
build self-discipline, self-esteem, and learning skills in early,
formative years.
The Foundation’s long-range objective in supporting this
experimental program was to persuade university researchers
to develop the advanced educational technology needed for
early-childhood education, particularly of minority children.
At the time, there was no solution sufficiently effective to
make a significant impact on the nation’s forty to sixty percent
urban school dropout rate.
In a similar vein, a gift of $100,000 to the Los Angeles
Unified School District funded a two-year model program
known as “The Connection Project” — the first known program
of its kind in the nation — at Coeur d'Alene Elementary
School in Venice. The grant helped fund additional professional
staff to tutor, counsel, and provide medical and social solutions
for children from homeless families living in the area.
Along with its usual grants serving the disabled and disadvantaged, the Foundation also sponsored certain innovative
programs in the area. For example, the Boys Clubs of
America had an experimental program designed to put clubs
in housing projects where the neediest children lived. Yet
none of these clubs existed in Southern California. The
Foundation granted $85,000 to the Pacific Region of the Boys
and Girls Clubs of America to launch a comprehensive youth
program in a local housing project.
Situated in the Normont Terrace Housing Project in
243
Harbor City, the new club met critical and continuous needs
of disadvantaged children living in a dangerous neighborhood.
Basketball, dance exercise, and tumbling were among the
after-school activities enjoyed by more than 400 youngsters a
year at the club in Harbor City. Youngsters learned selfesteem, responsibility, and skills and were provided a positive
alternative to gangs, drugs, and hopelessness. Moreover, BCA
executives reported that the annual cost of their prevention
effort was $134 per youngster, compared with $15,000 for
rehabilitation in a drug treatment center and $16,000 for
incarceration.
❖
Since foundations are required by law to disburse annually
five percent of their total assets, and since it costs as much in
personnel time to process a small grant as a large one, most
other sizable local foundations had come to consider small
grants too expensive an endeavor to continue. Valuing above
all the idea behind a grant proposal, Weingart Foundation
addressed the issue differently. Rather than rejecting small
grants out of hand, the Directors sought to lower the costs of
processing small grants.
Under the Weingart policy, if a well-established agency
requested a small grant, the Directors assumed that there was
little chance the grant would be wasted, as the agency was
already established in the community. If a smaller or newer
agency applied for a small grant, and the program otherwise
seemed worthy, then such a grant was usually considered
worth the risk. Indeed, many small grants bore remarkable fruit.
Moreover, if an agency could secure even a small amount
of money from Weingart Foundation, this success served as
an endorsement, one that allowed it to raise more money
from other sources. In this and other ways, the Foundation
constantly sought to leverage its resources to achieve the
most rewarding results.
Voluntary organizations that help youth develop character,
that educate, that address health needs, that advance children’s
rights — organizations that guide, motivate, train, and protect
244
children & youth
infants, children, and young people — these were the kinds of
agencies whose work was of interest to Weingart Foundation.
❖
With these and hundreds of similar endeavors during the
early years of the decade, the Foundation slowly but surely
shifted its focus to shine increasing light on the path to be
trod by Children and Youth. By investing in the present
needs of society’s young, the Foundation aimed to avoid the
problems that, absent its efforts, would surely arise in the
future.
245
246
Part two — chapter twenty
Passing the Torch
A
s Harry Volk, Sol Price, and John Gurash, the
longest-serving Directors of the Foundation often noted,
Weingart Foundation had never received a specific directional
charge from its founder, Ben Weingart. Nevertheless, Board
members continually measured all their official actions against
Ben’s oft-expressed wish to “build a better America.”
Ben Weingart also expressed the wish that the funds he
placed in the Foundation be applied to assist in solving, or at
least ameliorating, the needs of society in Southern California,
a region he had come to love and where he had made his
fortune. Again, with very few exceptions, the Board of
Directors restricted its grantmaking to agencies serving the
needs of residents of Southern California.
By 1993, following the compelling logic that it was a more
efficient investment to build strong children than to repair
wounded adults, Board policy provided for the bulk of funding
to be directed to programs designed to enhance the health,
knowledge, skill, confidence, and self-esteem of Children and
Youth. Following Ben’s dictum of giving where the need was
greatest, agencies serving inner-city youth were traditionally
major recipients of Weingart grants.
❖
A year after the Los Angeles civil disturbances of 1992, the
soul-searching on the part of local grantmakers continued. A
local foundation had sponsored a study to determine some of
the reasons for the pent-up violence that was triggered by the
Rodney King affair. The conclusions drawn and shared with
247
the foundation community were not that new programs of
crisis intervention needed to be created, but rather that the
inner city did not have its share of the traditional youth-serving
agencies and programs normally associated with the suburbs,
like the YMCA and the Boy Scouts.
Weingart Foundation had endured some criticism in the
past for its support of these established agencies and for its
urging those agencies to reach out toward their original mission,
inner-city youth. Now, it seemed, the Foundation’s longtime
approach was recognized as just what the doctor ordered.
Harvey Price, Vice President of Programs for the
Foundation, had been the head of the Boy Scouts both locally
and nationally. The Foundation challenged the Scouts to
overcome the problems associated with the inner city and
start troops there anyway, on the basis of a $245,000
Foundation grant. And the Scout executives responded.
For example, with single mothers volunteering for the post,
the Scouts bypassed certain rules to set up troops in which
single mothers could be leaders. They designed a new uniform
for the inner-city troops, one that was both more stylish and
less expensive. Much to their surprise, the kids preferred to
wear the old-style uniform; and their families determined to
find the money somewhere. Anything to keep their kids from
wearing the gang colors. The Foundation kept its eye on the
progress of the program by requiring the Scout executives to
report to the Foundation regularly. It was an extremely
successful program.
While the Foundation now employed program officers, the
Board remained fully engaged in analyzing grant proposals. In
1993, grants were made overwhelmingly to programs serving
disadvantaged youth. The size of grants ranged greatly, from
millions to less than $10,000.
The funding categories first established years before were
still in use, but even the categories “Health and Medicine”
and “Governance and Public Policy” now included grants for
disadvantaged youth. In Health, there were grants to “free
clinics” such as the Watts Health Foundation and the Venice
Family Clinic, and grants to hospitals to serve underinsured
children. In Governance, grants were made to the Alliance
248
passing the torch
for Children’s Rights and the Children’s Advocacy Institute.
Moreover, this year provided room in the budget to actuate
a longstanding desire to provide “camperships” to thousands
of inner-city kids. Under the program, scores of existing agencies
with the capacity to provide summer camp experiences were
granted funds sufficient to provide that experience to all their
clients, regardless of ability to pay.
The joys of summer camp — singing songs around the
campfire, sleeping under the stars, sharing secrets with new
friends — were just a dream or, worse yet, an utter mystery to
many disabled children and those from low-income families,
foster-home care, and residential-care agencies. Yet Weingart
Foundation Campership Fund grants helped make that dream
come true for nearly 23,000 Southern California youngsters
during 1993 and 1994.
The Campership Program provided funding for eligible
children to attend a variety of week-long camps in mountains,
parks, and other settings surrounded by the beauty of nature.
The program was established after the 1992 Los Angeles civil
unrest to allow urban youths to enjoy a carefree, enriching
experience, away from their everyday environment. For many
boys and girls, the camping excursion was their first trip out
of the city; and it exposed them to a side of life they had
never seen before. The camps were conducted by established
youth agencies such as the Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, YMCA,
and Hemophilia Association, among others.
Weingart Foundation pledged to provide funding through
1998 to agencies that demonstrated the ability to generate
increased funding on their own. The goal of this challenge
grant aspect of the program was to help participating agencies
stimulate new funding sources and permanent program support,
so as many children as possible could end the summer sharing
happy memories and telling lively stories on the theme of
“What I Did at Summer Camp.”
❖
Especially as its assets grew and the need to disburse funds
increased, the Foundation’s tactical preference was to rely on
established human-service organizations, educational and
249
health institutions, and cultural centers, whose able staffs were
in continuing, close, and immediate contact with the human
needs to be addressed. For many such organizations, particularly
in a time of restricted charitable funding, a Weingart
Foundation grant closed an otherwise yawning financial gap.
Ben Weingart knew from personal experience, on both
sides of the equation, that all of us need a helping hand at
some point in our lives. The Directors of Weingart
Foundation took justifiable pride in having been that helping
hand for thousands of children, youth, and adults who benefited
from its grants.
To fulfill its mandate, the Foundation was required to take
certain risks in the programs it supported, just as its entrepreneurial founder and benefactor had himself taken risks to earn
large rewards. Both Ben Weingart and the Directors of his
Foundation firmly believed that “those who would have nothing
to do with thorns must never attempt to gather flowers.”
❖
On December 31, 1993, Harry Volk retired as the chairman
and chief executive officer of Weingart Foundation. He had
served with great distinction in those capacities for thirteen
years, as well as having served as a Board member for two
previous years. Volk’s wide-ranging knowledge of the social
needs of Southern California had been essential to shaping
Foundation guidelines, while his financial and investment
expertise had proven a key factor in asset growth.
With the retirement of Volk as Chairman, a sea change
began in the life of Weingart Foundation. The composition
and possibly the very nature of the Board of Directors was
changing. It was a time of transition, one that would carry
the Foundation into the new century.
In 1994, the original group of three seminal Board members
— Volk, Price, Gurash — reluctantly made way for new leadership. Yet, throughout the 1990s, Harry Volk continued as
an active Board member and Chairman Emeritus. Devoting
himself to Weingart Foundation almost until the very day of
his death in 2001, Volk never stopped contributing.
250
passing the torch
On June 30, 1997, Sol Price retired as a Director of
Weingart Foundation. A primary figure in the development of
the Foundation and long a philosophical counterweight to
Volk in Board deliberations, Price had been a founding
Director and had had a profound impact on the Foundation’s
grantmaking and asset investment since its inception. An
insightful personal friend of Ben Weingart, Price had been the
decisive actor in ensuring that Weingart’s wealth would be
applied to charitable purposes.
Himself a generous and highly creative philanthropist with
his own substantial wealth, Price chose to devote his remaining
years to advancing the quality of life in his native city of San
Diego, particularly in City Heights, the neighborhood of his
youth. While choosing to concentrate his energies on the
work of his own foundation, Price Charities, Price remained
involved with Weingart Foundation as a valued mentor and
unofficial consultant.
John Gurash continued to serve actively on the Board. A
quiet elder, lending perspective and wisdom to a Board in
transition, he represented the last direct link to the earliest,
most challenging, most entrepreneurial days. After Price’s
retirement and Volk’s passing, Gurash steadfastly held the line
as the last active Board member to have worked closely with
Ben Weingart.
Through decades of service to the institution they had done
so much to create, defend, and develop, all three of the original
leading figures on the Board of Weingart Foundation
demonstrated their passionate commitment to the success of
the Foundation they knew so well and loved so dearly, just as
each of them had known and loved Ben Weingart. Above all,
Volk, Price, and Gurash remained determined to maintain
Weingart Foundation the way Ben would have wanted it,
driven by a vitally active Board of Directors, personally
concerned with and deeply involved in the programs they
choose to support.
251
252
Epilogue
O
n any given day, in the reception hall of Weingart
Foundation, a visitor is sure to find in easy reach a jar of
jellybeans — symbol, remembrance, and evocation of Ben
Weingart. In their colorful array, they elicit the essence of the
man and summon his spirit.
The road to wealth proved long and hard for the orphan
boy who gazed into the window of the candy store in
Tignall, Georgia. Yet that road beckoned the boy with all the
flavorful allure of the sweet and succulent, rainbow-hued
extravagance for which all children long.
Inspired by youthful desire, Ben Weingart walked his road
with abundant energy, keen intelligence, inventive wit, ebullient
optimism. Thanks to his friends, the wealth he won along the
way has come to serve his fellow human beings well, above
all, those most in need.
Especially for these, Ben always had a warm and winning
smile, a word of encouragement, a willing hand to lend.
When others turned their backs or gave no more than a cold
shoulder, Ben remembered how it feels to be alone, afraid,
without a friend, not a penny in your pocket.
As he made his way along the road, Ben Weingart — in his
joyful work as in his zest for life — put a smile on countless
faces. Today, as his vivid belief in human possibility continues
in the work of his Foundation, a visitor will find it difficult
to pass without dipping an eager hand into the jar that holds
Ben’s dreams.
No one who enters Weingart Foundation can eat one of
those jellybeans without thinking fondly of Ben. Sooner and
better than most, Ben Weingart learned the secret of happiness:
No one can eat a jellybean without smiling.
253
Illustrations
1. Ben Weingart, 1888-1980 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Frontispiece
2. Hebrew Orphans Asylum, Atlanta, GA. c. 1895 . . . . . . . . . .2
3. Tignall, GA, c. 1895 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .6
4. Ben Weingart at his laundry truck, Los Angeles, c. 1910 . . .14
5. Ben Weingart and Stella Shobe Weingart, 1917 . . . . . . . . . .37
6. Spring Street, downtown Los Angeles, c. 1920 . . . . . . . . . .42
7. Hotel Cecil . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .62
8. El Rey Hotel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .78
9. Lakewood sales office, spring, 1950 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .97
10. Lakewood moving vans, c. 1950 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .112
11. Junior Realty . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .114
12. Ben Weingart in his office at Junior Realty, c. 1955 . . . . . .134
13. Volunteers of America (VOA) groundbreaking . . . . . . . . .138
14. Ben Weingart and Stella Shobe Weingart, 1957 . . . . . . . . .145
15. Ben Weingart and Governor Ronald Reagan . . . . . . . . . . .151
16. Ben Weingart and President John F. Kennedy . . . . . . . . . .152
17. Ben Weingart and Jack Rosenburg . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .168
18. John Poag . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .169
19. Weingart Center . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .200
20. Boy Scouts of America . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .219
21. Sol Price, Harry Volk, John Gurash . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .225
22. Los Angeles Mission . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .231
23. Student Loan Program . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .235
24. Y-Achievers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .238
Grateful acknowledgement is given for the photographs appearing on
the following pages:
Page 2, used by permission of the Ida Pearle and Joseph Cuba
Archives and Genealogical Center of The William Breman Jewish
Heritage Museum, Atlanta, GA. Page 8, courtesy of Dr. Sophia
Bramford. Pages 37 and 145, courtesy of Helen Terashita. Page 42, used by
permission of the Photo Collection/Los Angeles Public Library. Page 97,
courtesy of the City of Lakewood, CA. Page 112, used by permission
of TimePix. Page 152, used by permission of AP/Wide World Photos.
Page 168, courtesy of Bill Ross. Page 169, courtesy of Derek Poag and
Dana Poag McDermott.
The photographs on pages 14, 62, 78, 114, 134, 138, 151, 200, 225, 231,
235, 238, and the Frontispiece were provided by Weingart Foundation.
254
the people of weingart foundation
Board of Directors
*Sol Price
Trustee/Director:
Chairman:
Director Emeritus:
1974 - 1997
1979 - 1981
1997 - present
*Jack Rosenburg
Trustee/Director:
1974 - 1978
*John Poag
Trustee/Director:
1974 - 1983
*Harry J. Volk
Trustee/Director:
Chairman:
Chairman Emeritus:
1978 - 2001
1982 - 1993
1994 - 2001
John T. Gurash
Director:
1980 - present
Marcus H. Rabwin, M.D.
Director:
1980 - 1989
Lee A. DuBridge, Ph.D.
Science Advisor:
1982 - 1993
William J. McGill, Ph.D.
Director:
1984 - 1997
Dennis Stanfill
Director:
1987 - 2002
Roy A. Anderson
Director:
Chairman:
1991 - 1998
1993 - 1998
Steven D. Broidy
Director:
Chairman:
1991 - present
1999 - present
Murray L. Galinson
Director:
1997 - present
William D. Schulte
Director:
1999 - present
Andrew E. Bogen
Director:
1999 - present
Steven L. Soboroff
Director:
2001 - present
*Prior to April, 1978, these Directors were trustees of The B.W. Foundation
255
Officers & Staff
Sol Price
Chairman
1979 - 1981
John Poag
President & Chief
Executive Officer
1980 - 1983
Chairman & Chief
Executive Officer
1982 - 1993
President & Chief
Operating Officer
1983 - 1987
Grants Administrator
1982 - 1987
President & Chief
Administrative Officer
1987 - 1993
Chairman & Chief
Executive Officer
1993 - 1998
President & Chief
1993 - 1998
Vice President,
Grants Administration
Interim President
1992 - 1994
1998 - 1999
Chairman & Chief
Executive Officer
1999 - present
President & Chief
1999 - present
Vice President &
Treasurer
1982 - 1985
Corporate Secretary
& General Counsel
1982 - 1984
Vice President,
Real Estate
1982 - present
Vice President,
Administration
1991 - present
Corporate Secretary
1995 - present
Harry J. Volk
Morris A. Densmore
Charles W. Jacobson
Roy A. Anderson
John G. Ouellet
Harvey L. Price
Steven D. Broidy
Fred J. Ali
Bernardine Helwig
Joseph R. Satz
Laurence A. Wolfe
256
Marcine Benizio
Lucy Santana Aquino
Assistant Secretary
& Assistant Treasurer
1982 - 1991
Assistant Secretary
Administrative
Assistant, Grants
1983 - present
Judy Osborn
Corporate Secretary
1984 - 1988
Ann L. Van Dormolen
Vice President
& Treasurer
1985 - 2001
Corporate Secretary
& Program Officer
1991 - 1994
Program Officer
1994 - 1999
Susan H. Grimes
E. Corinne De La Cruz Assistant Treasurer
& Senior Accountant
1991 - present
1991 - 2001
Delores S. Lukoff
Assistant Secretary
& Administrative Assistant,
Real Estate
1991 - 1999
Barbara Kaze
Program Officer
1992 - present
Carol Ashley-Simmons
Accountant
1993 - 1997
Veronica Johnson
Secretary &
Receptionist
1993 - 1995
Grants Facilitator
1995 - present
Staff Assistant
1993 - 1995
Staff Assistant &
Receptionist
1995 - present
Jerry C. Yu
Program Officer
1995 - present
Tomoko Horie
Senior Accountant
1998 - present
Rosa M. Castillo
Program Officer
1999 - present
Priscilla Waller
Administrative Assistant,
Real Estate
2000 - present
Belen Vargas
Program Associate
2000 - present
Deborah Ives
Director of Finance
& Controller
2002 - present
Salvador Santana
257
bibliography
Alexander, Carolyn Elayne
(Venice Historical Society)
Images of America:
Venice, California
Charleston, SC:
Arcadia Publishing, 1999
Bak, Richard
Images of America:
Detroit, 1900-1930
Charleston, SC:
Harvey, Steve
The Best of Only in L.A.:
A Chronicle of the Amazing,
Amusing, and Absurd
Los Angeles:
Los Angeles Times Syndicate,
1996
Heimann, Jim
Sins of the City:
The Real Los Angeles Noir
San Francisco:
Chronicle Books, 1999
Kaplan, Sam Hall
L.A. Lost & Found:
An Architectural History
of Los Angeles
New York:
Crown Publishing, 1987
Santa Monica:
Hennessey + Ingalls, 2000
Poremba, David Lee
Images of America:
Detroit, 1860-1900
Charleston, SC:
Lazzareschi, Carla, editor;
Amy Dawes. writer;
with Michael Diehl and
Stacey R. Strickler
Imagining Los Angeles:
Photographs of a Twentieth
Century City
Los Angeles:
Los Angeles Times Books, 2000
Thomas, Dorothy Swaine, with
Charles Kikuchi and James Sakoda;
The Salvage
Berkeley and Los Angeles:
University of California Press, 1952
Waldie, D. J.
Holy Land:
A Suburban Memoir
New York:
St. Martin’s Press, 1996
Woodruff, Frank B. and
Arthur M. Woodruff
All Our Yesterdays:
A Brief History of Detroit
Detroit:
Wayne State University Press, 1969
O’Flaherty, Joseph S.
Those Powerful Years:
The South Coast and Los
Angeles, 1887-1917
Los Angeles:
The Historical Society of
Southern California, 1992
258
Index
Adams, Morgan, 61, 76, 88, 133
Aetna Construction, Inc., 97, 98, 123, 179, 188
Ahmanson, Howard, 130, 139, 178
airplanes: DC-3, 68; Northrup Gamma, 68;
“Winged Bullet” the, 68
Alexander, George (Mayor), 48
Ali, Fred, 256
Allen, Jr., William, 49
Alliance for Children’s Rights, 248-249
“American Dream,” 72, 101
American Savings and Loan, 90, 110, 130
Anderson, Roy, 255, 256
anti-Chinese riot and massacre (1871), 72
see also Los Angeles race riot (1871)
Arcade Station, 18
Archdiocese of Los Angeles, 167
Archimedes, 36
Arthur Young & Company, 194
Ashley-Simmons, Carol, 257
assembly-line, 98, 125
Atlanta, GA, 3, 11, 124
aviation, companies: Douglas Aircraft, 68, 80, 82,
95; Lockheed Aircraft, 67, 80; Northrup
Aviation, 80
aviation, fields: Dominguez Field, 58; Mines Field,
67; Lockheed (Burbank), 67
aviation, pioneers: Douglas, Donald, 54; Lockheed
brothers, 54; Northrup, Jack, 54, 68; Wright
brothers, 54
aviation, technology: Cyclone engine, 68; Hamilton
variable-pitch propeller, 68 “Aviation Okies,”
104
aviators: Earhart, Amelia, 68-69; Hughes, Howard,
68; Post, Wiley, 69; Rogers, Will, 69
B.W. Foundation, 111, 180-181, 183-187, 193, 241
Baldwin, E.J. “Lucky,” 18
Barham, Guy, 44
Barrington Plaza, 156-157
bean fields, 100, 111
Bel-Air, CA, 84
Benizio, Marcine, 256
Berk, Bernie, 120-121, 170
Beverly Hills, CA, 72
Beverly, CA, 51
Beverlywoods, 72
“Big Eight” accounting firm, 194, 210
Biltmore Construction, Inc., 97
Bixby, Jotham, 83
Bixby, Llewellyn, 83
blacks, 44, 103
Blinn, L.W., 30
Board of Water Commissioners, 29
board-driven, 219-220, 232
Bogen, Andrew, 255
Bonner, Clark, 84, 92
boulevard medians, 100
Bowron, Fletcher (Mayor), 70
Boy Scouts of America, 218, 227, 248-249
Boyar, Lou, 82-83, 90-94, 97-99, 103-104, 107,
109-110, 118-119, 121, 123, 151
Boyar, Mae, 93, 100
Boyar, Marshal, 91
Boyle Heights, 17, 36, 38, 81, 129
Boys and Girls Clubs of America, 243-244
Bradley, Tom (Mayor), 150
Brea Tar Pits, 52, 87
broadest possible market, 79, 85
Broidy, Steven, 255, 256
Buffum’s Department Store, 139
Bullock’s Department Store, 50, 207
Bunker Hill, 16
Calexico canal, 28
California Club, 118
California Department of Insurance, 56, 117
California Institute of Technology (Caltech),
140, 196, 198
California Laundry Owners’ Association, 56-57
Californios, 16, 43
“campership” fund, 249
Canfield, Charles, 20
Cannon, Noel (Judge), 149
Capehart, Homer (U.S. Senator), 118-119, 123
Carter, Nathaniel C., 17
Carver, George Washington, 214
Castillo, Rosa, 257
Catholics, 44, 103, 167
Cedars of Lebanon Hospital, 197
Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, 197
Chaffey, Adna (General), 33, 44
Chamber of Commerce (Los Angeles), 70-71
Chandler, Dorothy Buffum, 130, 139-140, 142,
178, 222
Chandler, Harry, 49, 57
Chandler, Norman, 139
Chandler, Raymond, 70
Chantry, Kenneth (Probate Court Judge, Ret.), 185
Chapman College, 234
Chavez Ravine, 72
“Chestnut Valley” (St. Louis), 9
Children and Youth, 233, 241, 245
Children’s Advocacy Institute, 249
Chinese, 16, 43, 71-72
Christian Science, 3, 10, 36, 46, 141, 143, 153
see also First Church of Christ Scientist
churches, 103
Churchill, Winston, 183, 204
“City as New as Tomorrow, The,” 102, 113
City Heights (San Diego), 251
Civil Defense shelter, 106
Claremont McKenna College, 234
Clark, Joaquin Ross, 83-84
Clark, William (U.S. Senator), 83
Cohn, Kaspare, 44
colleges (private), 234
Colorado River, 28, 63
commercial real estate, 92
259
Index
El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora, La Reina de Los
Angeles, 13
El Sol de Mayo tortilla factory, 71
Elder, Charles, 48
entrepreneurial ingenuity, 225, 232, 234, 239
entrepreneurs, 210
esplanades, 100
ex-G.I.s, 80, 95
executors, 166, 181
Exposition Park, 50
Committee on Commerce, U.S. Senate, 109
Commonwealth Avenue, 129
Community Chest, 191
community property, 46
conflicts of interest, 182
“Connection Project, The,” 243
conservators, 173, 179, 181, 183-185, 193, 205
Consolidated Hotels, Inc., 179, 181, 183, 188, 211
Cooper, Leon, 122, 167
cooperative associations, 96, 109
Cota (de Temple), Rafaela, 83
Couer D’Alene Elementary School, 243
Crash of 1929, 59, 67, 89
Crenshaw Village Apartments, 81
crimes (notorious): Lisenba, Major (aka Robert
James), 69; Todd, Thelma, 69 (aka “The IceCream Blonde”), 69
crippled children, 6, 196
D’Olier, Franklin, 191
Davis, James Edgar “Two-Gun,” 70
De La Cruz, Corinne, 257
de Portola, Gaspar, 82
defense plants, 106
Del Mar race track, 90, 168
Democratic National Convention (1960), 151-152
Democratic Party, 150
Densmore, Morris, 256
Department of Astronomy (Caltech), 140-141
Depression, 60, 62, 63, 65-66, 68, 72-73, 76, 88,
96, 104, 133
Detroit, MI, 6
Deutsch, Alex, 165
Diamond Laundry Company, 18-19, 35
Directors, 210-213, 215-219, 232, 236-237, 239,
244, 247, 255
District Attorney, County of Los Angeles, 215
Doheny, Ed, 20, 44
Dominguez Field, 54
Douglas Aircraft Company, 68, 80, 82, 95
Douglas, Donald, 54
Downtown Women’s Center, 230
DuBridge, Lee A. (Ph.D.), 140, 197, 223, 255
Duncan, Paul, 92
Dunn, Dick, 192
Duque, Thomas L., 30, 44
early childhood education, 241
Easterners, 71
eastside, 137
Eaton, Frederick, 30, 32
Echo Park, 20, 51, 54
economy of scale, 124
Education, 233, 237
efficiency, 124-125
Eichenbaum, Joann (“Joni”), 91
Eichenbaum, Joe, 91, 93, 105-106, 121, 171
El Camino Viejo, 19, 51
Fages, Pedro (Governor), 82
Fante, John, 70
Fed-Mart, 117, 164, 171-172, 226
Federal Housing Authority (FHA), 81, 90, 95
Federal Reclamation Service, 28
Federal Reserve Bank, 75
fiduciary responsibility, 166, 186-187, 194, 211
financial district, 50
financial predators, 155
First Church of Christ Scientist, 6
see also Christian Science
First World War, see World War I, 54
Fishburn, J.E., 49
flexibility, entrepreneurial value of, 220
flexibility, institutional, 227
fluorescent lighting, 126
Ford, Henry, 6, 11, 85
Forest Lawn Cemetery, 144, 208
Francis, John F., 30
Franz Ferdinand, Archduke of Austria-Hungary, 53
“free” lunch, 18
Galinson, Murray, 255
garbage disposals, 103
Gateway City (St. Louis, MO), 10-11
genetic biology, 222-224
G.I. Bill of Rights, 81, 96
Girl Scouts of America, 249
G.I.s, 87
gold strike of 1842, 73
Good Samaritan Hospital (“Good Sam”), 206-207
Government National Mortgage Association
(GNMA), 212
government subsidized housing, 81
Grand People’s Company, 218
Grauman’s Chinese Theater (Sid Grauman), 66
Graves, Jackson A., 21, 43-45, 49
Greene, G.G., 17
Greenstein, Jesse (Dr.), 141-142
Griffith Park Observatory, 71
Griffith, D.W., 51
Griffith, Griffith J., 52
Grimes, Susan, 257
Grover's Corners, 113
guardians, 184-186
Gurash, John, 115, 117, 118, 161, 167, 197-198,
204, 209, 220, 225-228, 232, 247, 250-251, 255
260
Index
Haas, Abe, 44
Hahn, Gordon, 150
Hahn, Kenneth, 150
Halverson, Jill, 230
Hamburger’s Department Store, 50
Hamburger, D.A., 49
Hancock Park, 129, 164
Hancock, Allan G., 52
Harriman, Edward Henry, 11
Harry S. Truman Research Institute for the
Advancement of Peace, 110
Hawaii, 163, 217
Health and Medicine, 237
Hearst, William Randolph, 23
Hebrew Orphans Asylum (Atlanta, GA), 3
Hebrew University (Jerusalem), 110
Hellman, Isaias, 44
Helwig, Bernardine, 256
Hemophilia Association, 249
Hetch Hetchy reservoir, 28
high volume, 124
higher education (private), 233
Hilton, Conrad, 150
Hochshield, Art, 38, 144
Hochshield, Elsie, 144
Hollywood Bowl, 71
Hollywood Park race track, 168
Hollywood Presbyterian Hospital, 143
Hollywood, CA, 51, 54, 63, 66, 67, 71
Home Savings and Loan, 130
homeless, 138, 200, 202
hometown atmosphere, 102, 111, 113
Honolulu, HA, 164
Hoover Dam, 63
Hopper, Charles, 84
Horie, Tomoko (CPA), 257
hotels: Alexandria, 23; Beverly Hills, 146; Biltmore,
24; Castle Greene, 17; Cecil, 62; El Rey, 78, 199;
Fairmont, 87; Nadeau, 18; Teris, 172, 205-206;
Westminster, 18; Winchester, 24-25
Housing and Urban Development, U.S.
Department of, 156-157
Howard, Paul J., 119-120
Huntington, Collis P., 19-20, 30, 50, 83
Huntington, Henry Edwards, 19
Iacoboni, Joe (Mayor), 132
Independence, CA, 29
Indians, 43
innovation, 210, 221
installment payments, 102
insurance business, 56
Insurance Company of North America (INA),
116, 197
inter-urban railway system, 19
inventors: Bell, Alexander Graham, 11; Edison,
Thomas Alva, 11; Ford, Henry, 11
Investors’ Diversified Services (IDS), 90, 98
Israel, State of, 110
Ives, Deborah, 257
jack rabbits, 95
Jacobson, Charles, 256
Janss Company, 84
Japanese Americans, 71-76, 84
Jerusalem (high school for gifted children), 110
Jess, Stoddard, 49
Jews, 44, 103, 141, 167
Johnson, Maxine, 201-202
Johnson, Veronica, 257
Junior Realty (1301 Wilshire), 94, 116, 120-121,
135, 147, 150, 152, 168, 171, 173, 179-180,
192, 197, 205
Kahe Marina, 163
Kaji, Bruce, 76
Kaze, Barbara, 257
Kennedy, John F. (President), 151-152
Kilgore, William, 56, 62, 115
King of Spain, 82
King, Rodney, 247
Kinney, Abbot, 20
Korean War, 90, 96
La Grande Station, 18
La Verne (University of), 234
Lakewood Center Realty, 123
Lakewood, City of, 109-111, 132, 196, 209
Lakewood Civic Council, 108
Lakewood Community Center, 196
Lakewood Park (subdivision), 94, 100, 102-103,
105, 110, 121-124, 151, 192
Lakewood Park, Inc., 91
“Lakewood Plan,” 108
Lakewood Senior Citizens Center, 196
Lakewood Shopping Center, 91-92, 104-105, 107,
121, 171, 209
Lakewood, CA, 84, 87, 92, 97-98, 102-108, 110-113,
115, 118, 123, 132, 148
land development, 18, 79
land speculation, 15, 27-28, 35
Larson, Harold, 122
Las Vegas, NV, 123
“latchkey” children, 231, 242
Leahy, Alan, 151, 167, 194
Levittown, NY, 102
Leydorf, Frederick, 185
Lincoln, Abraham, 204
Lippincott, J.B., 31
“Little Tokyo,” 72, 74-76
Lockheed Aircraft Company, 67, 80
Lockheed brothers, 54
Lone Pine, CA, 29
Long Beach Earthquake (1933), 62
Long Beach, CA, 82, 108, 122
Los Angeles Board of Public Works, 33
Los Angeles City Council, 83, 150
261
Index
Los Angeles County Board of Supervisors, 107108, 150
Los Angeles County Music Center, 111
Los Angeles County Planning Commission, 93
Los Angeles County, 108, 115, 199
Los Angeles Downtown Women’s Center, 218
Los Angeles Examiner, 23
Los Angeles Family Housing Corporation, 230
Los Angeles Investment Company (LAIC), 48-49, 53
Los Angeles Men’s Place, 230
Los Angeles Mission on Skid Row, 231
Los Angeles Music Center, 130, 139
Los Angeles Police Department (LAPD), 63, 69-70
Los Angeles, population of, 28, 80
Los Angeles race riot (1871), 16
see also anti-Chinese riot and massacre
(1871), 72
Los Angeles River, 15, 71, 81
Los Angeles Times, 21-23, 32, 48, 202
Los Angeles Unified School District, 241, 243
Los Angeles, CA, 13, 15, 17, 21, 49, 53-54, 59, 73,
83, 139, 142, 154, 209
Los Angeles, City of, 110
Los Angeles, County of, 52, 94, 110
Los Angeles, downtown, 52, 230
Los Angeles Municipal Water Department, 29
Louisiana Purchase Exposition (1904), 9
see also World’s Fair
low profit margin, 124
Loyola Marymount University, 213, 234
Lukoff, Delores, 257
Magma Power, Inc., 127, 155
management fees, 109
Manzanar “relocation center,” 74, 76
Marina Shores, 122-123
Mark Taper Forum, 111
Marx, Karl, 125
Masonic Lodge (Wilkes County, GA), 5
Masonic Order, 141
mass production, 98
Matthews, William, 31-32
May Company Department Store, 50, 92, 105, 107
McClellan, John (U.S. Senator), 157
McGill, William (Ph.D.), 223, 241-242, 255
McManus, Pete, 86, 88
McPherson, Aimee Semple, 54
Medical Research, 237, 241
Meritplan Insurance, 116-117
Mexicans, 71, 103
Meyer, Ben, 89
Midwesterners, 71
migrant farm workers, 104
Miller family, 153
Miller, Mrs. (Ben’s adoptive mother), 3
Mines Field, 67
“Miracle Mile,” 87, 92, 105
model programs, 232
Mojave Desert, 29
molecular biology, 222-223
Montana Land Company, 82, 84, 89-90, 93, 109
Montana Ranch, 92, 94
Montgomery, Victor, 56, 62, 115-117, 197
Mother Teresa, 213-214
motion picture industry, 52, 27, 38, 54, 67, 70
motion picture producers: Disney, Walt, 67;
Hughes, Howard, 68; Ince, Thomas, 51;
Laemmle, Carl, 51; Selig, William, 51;
Sennett, Mack, 51; Zukor, Adolph, 51
motion picture stars: Barrymore, Lionel, 66;
Chaplin, Charlie, 51; Crawford, Joan, 66
Fairbanks, Douglas, 51; Gable, Clark, 66;
Garbo, Greta, 66; Hart, William S., 51;
Pickford, Mary, 51; Rogers, Will, 69; Shearer,
Norma, 66; Todd, Thelma, 69
motion picture studios: Goldwyn Studios, 67;
Paramount Pictures, 51, 67; Pictures, 68;
United Artists, 51; Universal Pictures, 51
Mount Sinai Hospital, 197
Mount St. Mary’s College, 234
Mount Whitney, 29
Mulholland Drive, 57
Mulholland, William, 21, 28, 29, 32-35, 44, 57
“multiplier effect,” 222
Municipal Court, City of Los Angeles, 149
Murchison, Clint, 90
Murphy, Dan, 167
National Housing Act (NHA), 96
Newmark, Harris, 30
Nieto, (Don) Manuel, 82-83
Nishimoto, Asajiro, 76
Nolte, Paul (Colonel), 137
Normont Terrace Housing Project, 244
Northgate Shopping Center, 104
Northrup Aviation, 80
Northrup, Jack, 54, 68
O’Melveny, Henry W., 21, 49
Occidental College, 234
Office of Strategic Services, 191
oil, 15, 27, 54, 80
“Old Guard,” 44-45
Old Pueblo, 72
“oldest profession, the,” 70
Olvera Street, 16
Orth, Mr., 24-25, 61
Osborn, Judy, 257
other people’s money, 24, 79
Otis, Harrison Gray (Colonel/General), 21, 22, 30,
44, 57, 139
Ouellet, John, 256
Owens River, 29
Owens Valley, 20, 29-33
Pacific Coast Highway, 63
Pacific Dining Car, 172
Pacific Electric trolley, 55
262
Index
Pacific Employers’ Insurance Company, 56, 62,
115, 117-118
Paiute Indians, 31
Para Los Niños, 202, 218, 231
parking lot (at Lakewood Shopping Center), 105
Parkinson, John, 24
Pasadena, CA, 17, 19, 83
pedestrian malls, 105-106
pension benefits, 81, 211
Pepperdine University, 234
Pitzer College, 234
platform bed, 126
Poag, John, 109, 116, 119-123, 130, 132-133, 143,
156, 161-163, 165-167, 169, 170, 172-173, 177,
181-182, 184, 187-189, 192-193, 197-198, 207208, 210, 213-217, 255, 256
Pomona College, 234
population density, 92
see also yield
Prado, Estelle, 208
Price Charities, 251
Price Club, 226
Price, Harvey, 248, 256
Price, Sol, 59, 117, 142, 154-155, 157, 160-161,
164-167, 170, 172-173, 177, 178, 182, 184,
186-189, 192-193, 195, 197-198, 208-210,
215, 220-221, 225-228, 232, 247, 250-251,
255, 256
“proactive,” 218-219, 239
Probate Court, County of Los Angeles, 215
program officer, 220
property taxes, 115
Prudential Insurance Company, 86-91, 98, 105,
109, 191-192
public works projects, 63
publicity, 142
Pullman coaches, 17
Rabwin, Marcus (M.D.), 197-198, 204, 209, 223,
255
railroads, 27, 68
Raymond, Harry, 70
“reactive,” 218-219, 239
Reagan, Ronald (Governor), 150
real property (real estate), 24, 27
Red Car (electric trolley line), 51
Redlands (University of), 234
“red-light district” (St. Louis), 9
religious congregations, 103-104
reservoirs, 33
restrictive covenants, 103
retail outlets, 104
Richter scale, 29
Riley, Earl (Superior Court Judge), 173, 205
Robinson’s (department store), 50
Robinson, Jeanelle, 135-136
Robinson, Scott, 136
Rochlen, Don, 96, 100, 101, 106
Rockefeller, John D., 11, 84
Roosevelt, Theodore (Teddy), 11, 31
Rose Parade (Tournament of Roses), 17
Rosebud Bar, 9
Rosenburg, Jack, 63-65, 90, 143, 149-150, 158,
161, 163-169, 173, 177, 182, 184, 187-189,
192-193, 204-205, 208, 215, 255
Ross, A.W., 51, 91
Ross, Bill, 65, 168
Rowan, Robert A., 23-24, 44, 49
Royal Canadian Air Force (RCAF), 169
Rutgers University, 191
Safeco Insurance, 118
Salk Institute, 196, 209, 223
Salvation Army, 218, 231, 240
San Diego Innovative Preschool Project (School
of Success), 218, 243
San Diego, CA, 13, 16, 49, 53, 143, 172, 196, 242,
251
San Fernando Mountains, 33
San Fernando Valley, 31-33, 55, 73
San Francisco earthquake (1906), 12, 49-50
San Francisco, CA, 12, 13, 16, 21, 49, 72, 87
San Francisquito Canyon, 33
San Francisquito Creek, 73
San Francisquito Dam (catastrophic accident), 57
San Gabriel River, 82
San Pedro harbor, 30
San Pedro, CA, 16, 19-20, 50, 83
Santa Ana, CA, 36
Santa Anita Jockey Club, 168
Santa Anita race track, 164, 168, 188
Santa Fe Railroad, 17-18, 71
Santa Monica, CA, 19-20, 51, 68, 70
Santana Aquino, Lucy, 256
Santana, Salvador, 257
Satz, Joseph, 256
Saugus, CA, 33
Saunders, Emma (Oil Queen of Los Angeles), 20
Savannah River, 4
School of Success Preschool and Kindergarten, 243
see also San Diego Innovative Preschool
Project (School of Success)
Schulte, William, 255
Scott, Joseph, 49
Scripps Clinic and Research Foundation, 209, 224
Scripps College, 234
Seal Beach, CA, 122
Section 213, NHA, 96
Security Title Insurance Company, 117-118
Shankland, James H., 21
Shaw, Frank (Mayor), 70
Shoal, Bill, 86, 88
Shobe, Stella, see Weingart, Stella Shobe
shopping centers, 92, 104
Sierra Nevada, 29, 33
Signal Hill, 20
Silverlake, 147
Skid Row Development Corporation, 230
263
Index
Skid Row, 137, 179, 195, 198-204, 222, 229-231,
237, 241
Smith, Woody, 123-124
SOB grants, 178
Soboroff, Steven, 255
Solomon, King, 240
Sonn, Mrs. R.A., 3
Sonn, R.A., 3
Southern California, 15, 45, 63, 71, 73, 79, 86,
88-89, 95, 101, 104, 106, 111, 115, 124, 178179, 209, 234, 236, 239, 241-243, 247, 249-250
Southern Pacific Railroad, 17, 18, 30, 50, 71, 83
Spring Street, 16, 40-41, 50
St. Louis, MO, 9, 154
staff-driven, 219, 232
Stanfill, Dennis, 255
Stanford University, 223, 241
Stanford University, School of Law, 149
Steffens, Lincoln, 23
Stella Weingart Trust, 111, 180, 183, 186, 193, 241
stock market, 164, 168
streetlights, 100
Student Loan Program, 236, 241
“sundance laws,” 201
Sunkist Cooperatives, 71
Sutter’s Mill, 73
Sutton, Bob Lee, 5
Swig, Ben, 87
synagogue, 103, 110
Tanaka, Togo, 74, 76
Taper, Mark, 90-92, 97, 103, 109-110, 130, 139140, 178
Taylor, Fred, 211, 229
Temple, Jonathan (Don Juan), 83
Terashita, Helen, 144-145, 205
Tignall, GA, 3, 5, 83, 135, 253
Time magazine, 97-98, 104
Tragniew, Inc., 180-188, 193, 211
transparency, 210
trees (in Lakewood), 99, 113
Treharne, Gordon, 185, 207-208
truck farming, 72, 74, 84
Truman, Harry S. (President), 81
trustees, 181, 186-188, 192-198, 200, 209
tuition loans, 234
tycoons: Carnegie, Andrew, 11; Harriman,
Edward Henry, 11; Rockefeller, John D., 11;
Woodruff, Robert, 11
U.S. Reclamation Service, 31
U.S. Supreme Court, 103
“undesirables,” 63
Union Bank, 89, 131, 192, 226
Union Oil Company, 119
Union Pacific Railroad, 71, 83
Union Station, 71
University of California, Berkeley, 75
University of California, Los Angeles, 84, 223
University of California, San Diego, School of
Medicine, 223, 224
University of California, San Francisco, 223
University of San Diego, 234
University of Southern California, 81
Van de Kamp, John (Los Angeles County District
Attorney), 188
Van Dormolen, Ann, 257
Vargas, Belen, 257
Venice Beach, 55
Venice Family Clinic, 248
Venice, CA, 20, 243
Ventura, CA, 123
Volk, Harry, 86, 90-91, 105, 131, 139-140, 142,
159-161, 189, 191-194, 197-198, 204, 209-211,
215, 217, 220, 225-229, 232, 240, 247, 250-251,
255, 256
Volunteers of America (VOA), 137-138, 179, 198199, 201, 202, 218, 240
Wal-Mart, 226
Waldie, D.J., 92
Wall Street, 97
Waller, Priscilla, 257
Walsh, Hazel, 57, 146, 207
Walton, Sam, 226
Washington, GA, 4
Watanabe, Taul, 76
water, 15, 20, 27, 43, 109
Watts Health Foundation, 248
Weingart Center for Bone Marrow
Transplantation, 224
Weingart Center, The, 199, 201-202
Weingart Foundation, 111, 116-117, 192-194,
196, 198-199, 201-204, 209, 211-213, 215-219,
221, 223, 227-232, 234-237, 239-245, 247-249,
250-251, 253
Weingart Laboratory of Molecular Immunology,
196
Weingart Library, 196
Weingart, Ben: Adams, Morgan, relationship with,
61-62, 88, 133; ankle-high shoes of, 154;
anonymity, preference for, 132, 142, 155; as
“Anonymous, Mr.,” xiii, 111; as “Boss,” 3, 150,
164; Cannon, Noel, relationship with, 149;
charity, attitude towards, xiii, 137-142, 178-179,
195, 228, 232; Christmas phone messages of 131;
compassion of, 4, 6, 10, 47, 65, 133, 137-138,
140, 168, 179, 199-200, 203; crippled sister,
attitude towards, 4, 47; as curbside lender, 41;
dealmaking, attitude towards, 19, 25, 35, 39,
40-41, 56, 59-60, 61, 75-76, 88-89, 90-93, 9597, 105, 115, 121, 124-125, 156-157; Detroit,
life in, 6-7; early jobs of, 3-13; education of,
formal, 6; efficiency, knack for, 25, 125-126;
entrepreneurial vision of, 39, 40-41, 56, 61, 76,
81, 87-88, 90-92, 94, 104, 121; equity positions,
gaining of, 19, 25, 35, 56, 61, 76-77, 156-157;
264
Index
excess, avoidance of, 10, 18, 46, 49; fallen arches
of, 154; fear of earthquakes, 49; female companions of, 146, 155; fortieth wedding anniversary of, 146; gallantry of, 6, 10, 47, 127, 147-148;
generosity of, 65, 110, 135, 137-138, 140, 148,
166, 199-200, 203; gin rummy, playing of,
164, 170, 172, 205; Gurash, John, friendship
with, 115-118, 161, 167, 197, 208, 220, 225,
228, 251; habits of, 10, 18, 39, 46, 60, 153-154;
hotels owned by, 25, 38, 61, 76, 79, 150; “House
Rules” of, 128-129; insurance business,
activities in, 56-57, 62, 115-118, 197; intelligence
of, 3. 5, 10, 18, 34-35, 38, 56, 116-117, 119,
142, 156, 162, 172, 182; inventions of, 125127, 155; Japanese Americans, respect for, 7476; jellybeans, fondness for, 5, 135, 147, 253;
ladybug pin of, 131; Lakewood, contributions
to, 110, 196; Lakewood, personal interest in,
148; laundry business of, 19, 35, 38, 74, 126;
“laundry list” of, 128; laundry routes of, 9, 18;
lemons-to-lemonade, attitude of, 39, 100; little
old ladies, care for, 179; “Little Tokyo,” business in, 74-76; marriage of, 36; maxims of,
153-154; medical treatment, aversion to, 143,
153-154; mental incompetence of, 179; modesty of, 45, 87, 142; money, attitude towards, 5,
10, 12, 19, 38, 59-60, 125, 128, 142, 154;
Montgomery, Victor, friendship with, 56-57, 62,
115-116, 197; as orphan, 3, 124, 203; options
to buy (hotels), use of, 25, 35, 61, 76; other
people’s money, use of, 24, 36, 79, 81, 86-90,
95-98, 105, 109, 156-157; personal tastes of,
46, 60; political influence of, 150-152; publicity,
attitude towards, 142; physical fitness of, 3, 6-7,
10, 56, 153-154, 161-162, 195; post-nuptial
agreement of, 46; Poag, John, friendship with,
119-122, 161-163, 165-167, 170, 172-173, 177,
182, 207-208, 216; pragmatism of, 128-129,
143; Price, Sol, friendship with, 59, 117, 157,
160-161, 164-167, 170-173, 177, 178, 182,
208, 220, 225-226, 251; probity, reputation for,
5, 40-41, 55-56, 75-76, 85, 88-89 105, 121;
realism of, 143; Rosenburg, Jack, friendship
with, 63-65, 90, 143, 149-150, 161, 163-169,
173, 177, 182, 188, 205, 208; senility of, 165,
212; sense of humor of, 129-131, 144, 188189; single women (elderly), care for, 47; St.
Louis, life in, 9-10; tangible value, belief in,
143; Tignall, GA, life in, 3-6; travels in West of,
11-13; as “Uncle Ben,” 65, 168; Volk, Harry,
friendship with, 86-91, 105, 131, 139-142,
159-161, 191-192, 204, 220, 225; Walsh, Hazel,
relationship with, 57, 146, 207; as ward (of the
court), 184; weak ankles of, 154; wealth of, 25,
36, 41, 58, 60, 76-77, 79, 115, 127, 139, 172,
177, 192, 194, 208; Weingart, Harry (“Cliff”),
relationship with, 3, 123-124; Weingart, Stella
Shobe, relationship with, 36-38, 46-47, 143-144,
123, 129, 143-146, 208; Weingarten, Max,
relationship with, 3, 124, 208; Winston, Laura,
relationship with, 149-150, 157-162, 165-166,
172-173, 205, 206, 208; work ethic of, 74, 136;
Yuhas, Helene, relationship with, 146-149; zest
for life of, 64, 129, 153, 146, 169;
see also Weingarten, Benny
Weingart, Eula, 123
Weingart, Harold (“Cliff”), 3, 123-124
see also Weingarten, Harry
Weingart, Max see Weingarten, Max
Weingart, Stella Shobe, 36, 37-38, 46-47, 123,
129, 143-146, 184, 208
Weingarten, Benny, 3, 5, 113
Weingarten, Harry, 3
Weingarten, Max, 3, 124, 208
West, Nathaniel, 70
Western Defense Command, 75
Western Mortgage Company, 61, 88
Westmont College, 234
White, Stephen M. (Senator), 50
Whittier College, 234
Wilkes County, GA, 3
Willard, Charles D., 30
William Walters Company, 180
Wilshire Boulevard, 19, 92, 94, 116, 157, 171,
173, 179-180, 192, 197, 205
Wilshire Country Club, 129
Wilshire Ebell Theater, 159
Wilshire, H. Gaylord, 51, 91
Wilshire, Nate, 44
Winston, Laura, 150, 157-162, 165-166, 172-173,
177, 182-183, 187-188, 193, 205, 206, 208
Witmer Street, 94, 116, 171, 179-180, 192, 197,
205
Wolfe, Laurence (Larry), 180-181, 186, 192-194,
256
Woodruff, Robert, 11
Woolwine, W.D., 30
Workman, Walter, 31-32
Works Progress Administration (WPA), 71
World War I, 38, 43, 50, 53-54
World War II, 73, 169, 191
World’s Fair (1904), 9
see also Louisiana Purchase Exposition
world’s largest shopping center, 105
Wright brothers, 54
Wyvernwood Garden Apartments, 81
Y-Achievers, 242
yield, 92
see also population density
YMCA, 111, 191, 196, 212, 218, 227, 242, 248-249
Yorty, Sam (Mayor), 150
Yosemite, 28
Young, Robert, 90
Yu, Jerry C., 257
Yuhas, Helene, 146-149
zanjas, 28
265
About the Author
John Farrell is a journalist, novelist, and historian. His
articles have appeared in magazines such as Architectural Digest,
Modern Maturity, and the quarterly bulletin of the J. Paul Getty
Trust. He has edited twelve nonfiction books and also served
as writer/consultant for the design of a museum. Eight of his
dramatic screenplays have been produced, as well as documentary and educational scripts. In progress is a biographical
novel set in Florence during the Italian Renaissance.
266

ben weingart - Weingart Foundation

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