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dictators or military strongmen. Then, in his telling, he
was representing a series of vastly wealthy people and
families—not just doing their bidding or their investing,
but helping them to navigate the ambitions of their
wealth. If they had big dreams before, it’s nothing to
what they can have now.
If early in his career he might have seemed like a
sort of George Peppard (there’s a physical resemblance)
in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, a charming hustler, later he’s
George Peppard in Banacek, a smart and astute operator.
At just about this point in the narrative, the
incredulity about Epstein began to circulate in social
circles. Epstein had acquired the major symbols of
wealth but without position, public holdings, or
obvious paper trails. His is a questionable substrata of
wealth, without institutional credentials or bona fides.
He’s a freelancer. That’s the rub: he doesn’t work for
anyone.
There is no clear alternate narrative, except perhaps
guilt by association. (In addition to Robert Maxwell,
who will be accused of fraud, there’s Steven
Hoffenberg, briefly a New York high flyer, who went to
jail for a Ponzi scheme, for whom Epstein acted as a
consultant—along with, he points out, Paul Volcker.)
But the characterization persists: if it’s not clear, it must
be murky. Sure, Goldman Sachs partners and tech
geniuses, they might have stratospheric wealth, but what
to make of a Coney Island, Zelig-like no-namer?
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