The rich-and-ripped-off can be droll.
New Yorker: At The Breakers, in Palm Beach, the 10-thousand-dollar-a-week cabanas were all booked, but a guest there said the atmosphere was grim. “It’s like everybody’s in mourning,” he said, referring both to Bernie Madoff’s victims and to the people whose stock portfolios had merely taken a dive. “It’s like a member of the family has died, and its name is Money.” A new poolside pastime had emerged, in place of canasta: calling a friend over and showing him a stack of account statements from Bernard L. Madoff Investment Securities—the now worthless things touting those steady 10- to fifteen-per-cent returns—and asking, “What did I miss?” The guest, having seen a few, thought he’d detected a clue (besides the impossible maths): “When you get a statement from J. P. Morgan and Merrill Lynch, it’s done on a laser printer. Madoff’s statements were all done on nineteen-nineties printers—impact printers, typewriter-ribbon printers. If I was running a con, I would have kept my technology up to date is what I’m saying.”
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