Devonshire Street

Philip Latimore was sitting in his office on the twenty-eighth floor of UBC's midtown, New York headquarters, when his interoffice telephone rang. His secretary asked if he'd speak with a "Mr. Jones," on line one. The caller said it was a private matter, something to do with Billy, his son. Resigned to the call he knew someday would come, he responded, "Its okay, Alice. I'll take it. Switch it to my private line. Please hold my other calls." The red light on his desk began to blink; Latimore, paused only for several seconds before picking up the receiver.

"Latimore, here." He spoke as he turned in his chair to look out at the sun drenched, New York City skyline, which lay before him.

The male voice on the other end of the line was mature and relaxed. "You can call me Mr. Jones. We have a common interest in your son's future." It was John Altamonte's voice Latimore heard. He laid out several demands, he was matter-of-fact, he made no threats. The one-sided conversation lasted ten minutes.

When Altamonte finished, Latimore answered, "I'll do everything I can to comply with your wishes."

After that, the line went dead. L. Philip Latimore, Vice Chairman and Director of UBC, was now part of the Don's plan to become "legit."

In the years since his son, in a drug induced stupor, thought he'd killed the woman in the New York hotel; she actually died from a drug overdose. His boy kicked the drug habit, finished college and attended law school. He passed the New York State Bar and was a trust attorney with a major New York bank. Young William Bennett Latimore was happily married to a wonderful young woman; they had a son, Lawrence. Little "Larry" was named after his paternal grandfather. The family's picture was prominently displayed on the polished mahogany credenza behind Phil's desk. Altamonte's telephone call placed a knife in Latimore's heart. As he sat looking at the picture on the credenza, he knew he'd have to comply with "Mr. Jones'" demands.

Phil sat at the window for the balance of the afternoon. As he relived the past ten years, he vowed he'd do everything necessary to protect his son's family. They were dearer to him than anyone else. Latimore's wife, Mary Anne, died of cancer two years before. His son's family was all he had left. They were his real reason for living.

It was after seven-thirty PM, when Phil left for his condominium on East 77th Street. He'd sold the large Tudor-style home in Greenwich, a year after Mary Anne died. There were just too many memories for him to stay. Besides, at sixty two, he preferred his own company and doing things for himself. When not attending business dinners, he'd eat alone. He'd usually fix himself one chilled vodka martini and re-heat whatever his housekeeper prepared for dinner.

He relaxed by spending time with his son's family at his modern, A-frame, log cabin, located on a hilltop near Lake Placid. He was a devoted skier and also loved to fly-fish for the large elusive, brown trout that swam in the Saranac River. As soon as the snow started in late November, he'd head north on Route 89 on Thursday afternoons, returning on Sunday evenings. After the snow melted in late spring, he'd again head north, to wet a fly line in the river. After a day on the river, he'd meet friends for dinner at the Silver Arrow Lodge. At home, in New York City, his workdays were hectic; he was in-line for the job of Chairman of UBC.

Latimore was a former paratrooper and kept in good shape. On nice days, he'd walk to his office from his condo. He was a patriot, a decent, hard-working, family man who wasn't the type of partner, Marcello usually teamed-up with.

Phil's experience as a Green Beret Lieutenant in the jungles of Viet Nam in 1971, prepared him for the many obstacles he'd faced as he made his way through the jungles of Wall Street during the next three decades.

Latimore had two Purple Hearts, paratrooper’s jump wings and a Silver Star. The small scar on his cheek came from a close call with a 7.62mm bullet fired from an AK-47 in the hands of a North Vietnamese soldier as they grappled in a slit trench near a firebase on a lonely Asian hillside, many years before.

There were no heroes in the Marcello crime family. John Altamonte, who'd have taken a bullet to protect his Don, was a murderer whose entire life focused on doing things on the wrong side of the law. While Marcello faced death once or twice during his criminal career, Phil Latimore faced it almost daily in Vietnam. He was a far better man than John Altamonte or Salvatore Marcello. When given the opportunity, he'd prove it.