Mr. Big

The sound of the Hermit Club piano was melancholy, its notes shimmering above the drinks like summer rain. Nearly 50 men, mostly middle-aged, crowded the bar to listen. They were touched by the moment and the melodies, played by a man in financial ruin and destined for federal prison.

Most, in some way, had marveled at Ron Watt, the piano player, for he radiated an air of success, charm, talent, generosity, and above all a positive confidence that attracted friends and clients. Now, as his melancholy rippled across the keys, it was more than just the blues in the night that made them pause.

Watt was the perfect man for this hospitable setting. The Hermit Club is a timbered structure with a medieval air, hidden in an alley near Playhouse Square. Founded a century ago, it was a haven for businessmen who enjoy music, the stage, and grog. While not the most elite of the city's old clubs, it may be the only one to retain the spirit in which it was founded. On its walls hang posters promoting theatrical performances, and in the bar members still roll dice for drinks.

On this night the club, its priorities in order, was honoring Watt with a benefit to help defray his bar bill and back dues, which were nearly $4,000.

"Remember when we were young and everything was out there for us to take?" asked insurance executive Robert Grevey, his elbow resting on the bar. "Look what life brings. Can you believe that Ron is going to jail?"

A younger man overheard the remark. "Did things like this happen to people, say, 25 years ago?" he asked, as if fraud had just checked in with the 21st century.

A feeling of disbelief permeated the gathering, making it difficult for those present to accept that one of their most celebrated members would be joining a new club: the federal prison in Morgantown, West Virginia.

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There was a time when Watt, 62, was an admired figure in Cleveland. If you needed public relations, there was no better place to deposit an advance than at Watt, Roop & Company.

His congeniality, flamboyance, and eagerness to pick up the check made him strikingly different from others who practiced the staid art of public relations. Watt and his partner, James J. Roop, were a colorful team in a business largely staffed by the conservative and conventional, who echoed their client's wishes and tracked billable hours with clocklike precision. In those early days, Watt, Roop appeared destined for fame, fortune, and above all fun.

Everyone wanted Watt at their side. His list of clients ran from FedEx to the Cleveland Browns. He served on 15 boards, including those of the Red Cross and the Tri-C Jazz Festival. He was the national chairman of the Public Relations Society of America Counselors Academy, as well as chairman of its ethics and standards committee.

Watt's unconventional approach attracted talent, clients, and fees. He bought lunch, lent money to parking-lot attendants, played the piano wherever and whenever, and never seemed out of sorts with the world.

"In the beginning, Ron was as good as you get in this business," Roop would say years later. "He cared about the firm, its people. And then something happened."

Beneath the gaiety and glamour, there was something troubling about Watt. Those closest to him sensed that he was distracted, bored, and plagued by a work ethic that abhorred the ordinary.

Chief among those concerned was Roop. He'd come from Chicago to Cleveland in 1981 to join Watt at a public-relations firm then called Hesselbart & Mitten/Watt, an emerging venture headed by a dapper advertising man, Robert Mitten.

Watt, with his boundless creativity, and Roop, with his restrained bottom-line squint, seemed a formidable fit. From afar, they appeared to be a pair of merry men, earnest in their pursuit of both commerce and cocktails.

But privately, Watt felt that Cleveland was a drawback -- a place where it took too long to be recognized, to become "someone." By the time you were anybody, he believed, you were 65; the elderly business titans were holding the young Turks back. He was a Slovenian kid from Collinwood and Euclid, trying to buck Cleveland's caste system.

He grew up in the 1950s in neighborhoods that instilled the lasting ambitions and insecurities of immigrants. They had endured the Depression and World War II, and they were accustomed to long, hard hours of work, much of it mindless, with few breaks. Watt was among that first generation from ethnic families to attend college.

Perhaps it was the ceaseless toil around him that gave rise to his contempt for the routine of work. Some believe that Watt held labor in little esteem -- an attitude that would play into his downfall.

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Watt and Roop bought out Mitten in 1986 for $1 million. They set out to blaze a path through the bland public-relations cosmos of Cleveland, bringing in such large clients as Mednet, University Hospitals, and Invacare. The firm itself was a fun place to be, with few protocols and a camaraderie that extended into the night.