Excerpt from Group by Paul Solotaroff, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Some people drink because they were abused as children, or because they've got the gene for it, or it helps them relax," he said. "Me, I drank because I flat-out loved it; I loved every single thing that had to do with it. I loved the taste of booze, even if it was third-rate scotch; I could sit there and savor it like old wine. I loved the smell of a bar, and just hanging there on a Saturday, nursing a beer and doing some work. I tell you, I got more done in bars than in my office on Wall Street. In fact, at one stretch--"

"Uh, Jack, we could do with less of the Dewar's ad and more of what happened six years ago," said Lathon. "I know I told you to take your time, but do try to stick to the important stuff."

Jack chafed a bit, grousing that this was important--at least, it was to him. He was trying to make the point that the drinking was his fault--not his father's, or his mother's, or the bad luck of heredity. Going back to his great-grandparents, in fact, not one person in his family had ever had a problem with booze. And the same thing went for what he'd done while drunk--the divorces, the accidents, the embezzlement, and so on. All that was on him and not the addiction, and he wanted that much clear from the outset.

"Uh, well, before we accept your plea," said Lathon, "we would sort of like to hear the facts."

The other members laughed at this, but Jack grunted, folding his arms. Already, something was brewing between him and Lathon, a mutual sizing-up and marking of territory. Both were big bulls who were clearly used to primacy, to the deference given men of heft and carriage. Both, moreover, wore their vanity proudly, from the tilt of their jaw to the shine on their boots. Judging by their posture, neither of them liked being pushed. It shaped up to be an interesting undercard.

Jack picked up his story from the point he quit Wall Street, going into production with a partner. Excited by the abundance of new talent downtown--the young Sam Shepard, David Rabe, et al.--they started off bankrolling plays in the East Village. After a couple of bumpy years, they unearthed a writer with a hand for sex farce, and rode him all the way to Broadway. Over the next fifteen years, they brought two dozen shows there, including a number that played profitably on the road. Even in a down year, Jack was clearing two million--and spending whatever he made, plus 10 percent.

He paused here, shaking his head in small circles, as if a minor seismic event were occurring beneath him. Looking at the other members, he seemed to search them for censure. Instead, they looked back at him, murmuring words of recognition, as if this were merely another spin on the tribal story.

"Like I said, Jack, it'll be hard to shock this group," said Lathon. "So just tell it, and don't worry about making enemies. As they say on The Ricki Lake Show, 'We can relate, man.'"

Snickering at this stab at hipness, Jack went on. By the middle of the eighties, he was supporting three households and putting four kids through college or prep school. He had also, fatefully, traded in his pot habit for a raging cocaine problem. Initially, this enabled him to drink less and do more, to work a series of twelve-hour days and save the serious bingeing for the weekends. And, for a time, he deluded himself that the switch was healthy; that coke was a functional, even facilitating, drug. But by the end of the decade, he'd burned a hole in his septum, and spent most of his days in a robe and flip-flops, sending out for narcotics and fast food. (This was the two-year period when his wife took off, unwilling to watch him snort himself to death.) Running low on cash, Jack began to "borrow" from his productions, kiting funds off profits earmarked for investors. He repaid the money whenever a check came in, but that didn't suffice to keep a lid on the matter, and in 1989 he was arrested and charged with embezzlement. Thanks to a skillful attorney, he avoided going to jail but was hit with a huge fine and stiff suspension.

Reprinted from GROUP by Paul Solotaroff by permission of Riverhead Books, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc. Copyright © 1999 by Paul Solotaroff. All rights reserved. This excerpt, or any parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.