J.T.

by John Nicholas Iannuzzi

  “I don’t think you answered my question concerning all the murders each year in our country. Several thousand murders last year alone. Are the members of your organization responsible for all these acts of violence?”

  “Of course not, Senator …”

  “You’ve told us about murders, rapes, assaults. How about burglaries? Is this organization of yours responsible for every second-story man in the nation? Do they all owe allegiance to your organization?”

  “I don’t get that, Your Honor—I mean Senator.” Guardaci said with a chuckle, “I thought I was in court.”

  The spectators broke up in a roar of laughter.

  Even Senator Maggiacomo had a crease of a smile. But the senator was smiling because he knew from a brief glance that J.T. didn’t think Guardaci’s performance was amusing.

  “Is every burglar in this country a part of your organization, Mr. Witness? Is it as simple as that?”

  “Most of them burglars are just junkies looking to make a score and get a fix. There ain’t no junkies in Our Thing.”

  Now there was a point, thought Senator Maggiacomo, that J.T. Wright would certainly pounce upon as soon as the senator relinquished the floor. The members of organized crime were not junkies, but they were apparently quite involved in supplying the junk. Before he was bitten by Wright, Senator Maggiacomo decided to pull the tiger’s teeth.

  “Junkies, narcotics addicts, aren’t members of organized crime, is that correct?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Organized crime is responsible, however, for a great deal of the narcotics traffic in this country. Is it responsible for all the narcotics that are brought into this country?”

  “All? No, not all, Senator. There are a lot of groups involved in junk.”

  “Would you say various ethnic groups participate in narcotics trafficking?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Now, Mr. Witness, if I might summarize your testimony, I believe you have testified that all muggings, assaults, rapes, murders, burglaries, are not all committed by people in or affiliated with organized crime, correct?”

  “That’s correct, Senator.”

  “And all the laws this committee might pass concerning organized crime—even if we put every member of organized crime on an island, with no possible escape—would not eliminate crime in our nation’s streets and homes, would it?”

  “You mean would there still be crimes, even without La Cosa Nostra?”

  “That’s correct,” the senator mimicked.

  The crowd roared their laughter and approval. The newspapermen could hardly make notes.

  Guardaci was chuckling too. Even J.T. Wright surrendered a quick smile.

  “Nothing would change, Senator. Nothing.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Witness,” said the senator, turning to the chairman.

  “Thank you, Senator,” the chairman said with relief. “Now, the representative from the state of Missouri.”

  “Mister X, you’ve told us about the different families. Can you tell us more about the people who run these families?” asked the Missourian, following the script precisely. The members, as well as counsel for the committee, and those in the press corps who had copies of the transcript, felt more secure.

  “Yes, sir.” Guardaci felt more secure now, too. “Like I said, in the New York area there are five families. One of them has an underboss named John Entrerri, who you had here already. That gang is headed by Pasquale Bedardo. Another—”

  “Maggiacomo wasn’t as bad as he might have been,” J.T. whispered to Marty.

  “He’s a brilliant man,” Marty replied.

  “Who, Mister X?”

  Marty smiled momentarily.

  “Maggiacomo’s a goddamn fool,” J.T. whispered harshly. “Does he think the American public knew, or even cared about what the hell he had to say?”

  In the background, in response to the Missourian’s questions, Mister X meticulously followed the script, naming the bosses of families throughout the country. Another chart was placed on the easel, which showed the names of family bosses, their underbosses, and consiglieri or advisors. This chart had been compiled through the joint efforts of an FBI-police task force. Guardaci had never met or heard of most of the people named. But he had dutifully memorized the chart and now recited his vast knowledge of the nationwide crime organization.

  “Maggiacomo made a valid point, I thought,” Marty commented.

  J.T.’s face soured. “Follow the goddamn script.”

  Marty, chastened, looked down at the script. Inside, he was stung with humiliation.

  At thirty-one, Gerald Wynans, a representative from New Jersey, was the youngest man on the podium. He was also the congressman with the least time in office; this was his freshman year in Congress. His father had been the congressman from his home district for twenty-five years. Like a true feudal lord, Wynans’s father had passed his fiefdom of the provinces lying west of the Raritan River to his son. J.T. disliked Gerald Wynans. Perhaps it was because Wynans was so young, although J.T. was younger. Perhaps it was because Wynans was short and had a nonathletic pudginess tending toward the pear-shaped; although J.T. wasn’t any taller nor much more muscular. Perhaps it was because Wynans’s father had broken the ground for him, and he was participating in the hearings because of family influence. Big Jim had inportuned the chairman to hire J.T. as the junior—or, as J.T. insisted, the deputy chief-counsel of the committee. Perhaps it was because Gerald Wynans seemed hesitant, unsure. J.T. wasn’t that. And if he were, he’d never let it show. That was it, J.T. knew, the openly displayed diffidence he saw in Wynans that accounted for J.T.’s dislike of him. J.T. was the one who first called Wynans “Fat Ass.” Anders had used it without thinking one day, and then it stuck. Not openly, not to his face, not that he even knew, but Wynans was now known to the members of the committee and the staff as Fat Ass.

  “I hope this idiot can read the goddamn script,” J.T. said sarcastically when the chairman called upon Wynans.

  Marty said nothing. He happened to like Wynans. He was young, recently out of college, unassuming and friendly enough to be able to relate easily to Marty. He was trying to do a job, and do it well. He took his responsibility seriously. And behind that appearance of uncertainty was a determination to learn everything there was to know about being a representative, and do a real job for his constituency. Marty and Wynans spoke occasionally, and, perhaps to make up for the curtness J.T. always displayed, Marty was always courteous and pleasant to Wynans.

  “Mister X., would you describe how organized crime infiltrates legitimate business?” asked Wynans.

  “Well, let’s say we’re talking about restaurants. Sometimes, when a good fellow—that’s another way we call another guy in the mob, a ‘good fellow’—if he sees a good place, and it don’t belong to nobody—”

  “How could it not belong to anyone?” Wynans interjected.

  “That means that the restaurant isn’t already connected to a good fellow, nobody is speaking up for it, in other words.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “So the good fellow will make a move on the place. That means,” Mister X explained quickly, “that maybe he’ll send some of his guys to start some trouble. They start fights and arguments at the bar, walk out without paying the tab. When the owner grabs them at the door or out in the street, they threaten to break his head, and he’s too scared to do anything. A few nights of this kind of aggravation, and no wise guys show up to protect him, the good fellow shows up and says to the owner, ‘Hey, this sort of thing shouldn’t be happening in a nice place like this. Maybe I can help you out.’”

  “Go ahead, Mister X,” said Wynans.

  The crowd was fascinated by Mister X’s testimony.

  “So then the wise guy who’s playing Good Samaritan arranges to have the bad guys stop the trouble. Of course, they’re all in it together in the first place, but the owner don’t know that. He thinks the good fellow is doing a terr
ific job. The good fellow comes around every once in a while, has a drink, has dinner. Now he’s there, he’s in, he already made his move. Only it’s not just him. It’s also his gang.”

  “Would you explain that, please?” said Wynans.

  “Certainly, Mr. Representative. Whenever a wise guy takes over something, that’s his own. If a wise guy’s got the smarts to get himself something, it belongs to him, and it don’t belong to the others in the gang, except that he kicks in a piece of the action to the boss every week. When the boss gets his piece, that’s his. He don’t give nothing to the other guys in the gang. Wise guys are really on their own.”

  “Then the gangs are made up of independent factors, is that it?” asked Representative Wynans.

  “I don’t get the question.”

  Representative Wynans saw a signal of request from Senator Maggiacomo. “Mr. Chairman, may I yield the questioning to Senator Maggiacomo for a moment?” he asked.

  “Yes, certainly,” said the chairman.

  “Are you saying that every gang member is on his own to earn his legitimate or illegitimate living, Mr. Witness?”

  “That’s correct,” Guardaci said lightly.

  “And the only one who benefits from all of this is the boss?”

  “Sometimes the boss shares with the underboss or the consigliere, but that’s about it.”

  “Is that the way the gangs are with each other?”

  “Correct.”

  “Can you elaborate?”

  “The gangs don’t really work with each other. They are out to earn as much as they can for themselves. But they cooperate with each other. If a wise guy makes a move on a restaurant or some other business, and finds that there’s another wise guy, either from his own mob or some other mob, already in there, he leaves the place alone and goes to the next place. He don’t take a place from another wise guy. It’s the same with the families. If one family makes a move and they find there’s some other family already there, they’ll go look for something else. In other words, with all the suckers there are in the world, why step on another wise guy’s or another family’s toes? You get what I mean, Senator?”

  “Indeed I do,” replied Maggiacomo. “The gangs don’t work together under one roof, one national set of rules, one head, one treasury, one set of goals?”

  “That’s correct. Lucky—that’s Lucky Luciano—got rid of the boss of all bosses. There ain’t been one since. The bosses are just bosses of their own mobs.”

  “Is there a central commission in charge of all the mobs?”

  “In charge? No. Not in charge, Senator. But if there’s a beef, then some guys have been appointed to the commission to iron out the beef.”

  “Like arbitrators?”

  “Exactly correct, Senator.”

  “This organized crime doesn’t work together all the time, then?”

  “Correct.”

  “Mr. Chairman, may I return the questioning to Representative Wynans?”

  “Certainly.”

  Representative Wynans found his place in the script.

  “What does this ‘good fellow,’ as you call yourselves, do after starting and then ending trouble in the business he intends to invade?” asked Wynans.

  “Well, his first move is to tell the owner that it’d be a good idea if he could put one of his men on the payroll, to work, not just to show up, in case trouble starts. Now when the mob guy gives the job to somebody, he’s giving the guy a chance to earn, a chance to put bread on his table. This worker is then with the wise guy, is obligated to the wise guy, owes him some allegiance. You get what I mean?”

  “Does that mean that each mob member may have his own smaller gang?” asked Wynans.

  “Correct.”

  “And when he gives work or favors, the people to whom he gives out this work or these favors become obligated to him?”

  “Now you got it.”

  “May I ask Mister X something at this point?” said J.T.

  The chairman looked at Wynans, who nodded. “Go ahead, Mr. Wright.”

  “Are these smaller gangs made up of people who are also part of La Cosa Nostra?”

  “Yes and no. I mean, they ain’t necessarily ‘made’ guys.”

  “What does that mean, ‘made’ guys?”

  “That means an official member of Our Thing.”

  “So that there are many more people involved in this life of crime than are officially members of your organization, is that correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “Do you know how many people are involved, whether or, not they’re made?”

  “Not exactly. But there are a lot.”

  “Thank you,” said J.T. He felt a surge of victory. He wanted to turn and look right at Maggiacomo, but he resisted, staring down at his script instead, scratching with a pencil as if he were making some notes.

  “Does this mob member get any kickback from the person to whom he gives the job?” Representative Wynans asked.

  “Yeah, probably. Not always.”

  “Does the mob member ever get further involved in this legitimate enterprise, further than, say, just getting some work with which he can expand his gang?”

  “Sure. First he muscles in on the owner. Then, as time goes by, he gets a little bigger piece, then bigger. The guy is too afraid to do anything, and before you know it, they’re partners.”

  The chairman looked at the clock on the wall. “Would this be an appropriate time to recess?” he suggested to Representative Wynans.

  “Certainly, Mr. Chairman.”

  “This session is now in recess,” said the chairman. “We will resume at two o’clock sharp.”

  The audience shuffled to its feet. Mister X was immediately flanked by his guards, who stood around his table as the crowd moved out of the hearing chamber.

  January 15, 1961

  The Crawford Palm Beach cottage—if twenty-five rooms overlooking the ocean, with servants’ quarters, a gate house, tennis courts, and a pool surrounded by cabanas could be called a cottage—was spectacular. Tall French doors opened onto a manicured lawn, which swept down to a turquoise pool surrounded by stone cherubs pouring water from flowers and seashells into the pool. Beyond the pool, the rolling surf, flecked with white foam, glistened in the soft light of the January half moon. The fragrance of the tropics—a combination of salt air, sand, palm, and sea grape, blended with the deep perfume of gardenia bushes—surrounded the main house.

  Courtnay’s family was having its annual party. J.T. had been invited. His invitation, however, was not Courtnay’s idea; in fact, she was not in favor of such an invitation. Cici Crawford, Courtnay’s mother, had invited J.T. for the weekend, because J.T. was now a celebrity, and thus he helped make the party more sensational and newsworthy.

  Cici, always a clever woman, had also invited Dana Reynolds. Dana was Courtnay’s age, and single. Her family were the major stockholders of RBM, Reynolds Business Machines. Her grandfather, in fact, had founded that international company. The Reynoldses and Crawfords had known each other, socially and commercially, for years. Dana had also graduated from Caldwell, two years behind Courtnay. Yet the two girls had never been very close. In fact, Dana had very few friends. She was intelligent, with a shrewd business mind, athletically tall, quite buxom, nicely proportioned; but she was also completely independent, reserved to the point of being aloof. Cici thought it would be great fun to throw the cool, blue-blooded Dana into the mix with the parvenu J.T. Wright. When Courtnay found out her mother was playing matchmaker again, and had even asked J.T. to be particularly nice to Dana, a chill descended on the Crawford house. Not that Cici cared. She was too busy arranging the gala. J.T., well aware that Dana was a Reynolds of the RBM Reynoldses, said he’d indeed try to be a pleasant escort.

  Palm Beach is magnificent, dug out of the Florida coast with gold-plated shovels. In the peaceful beauty of the tropic dawn, black men in trucks drive along the main roads, cutting down the dead or browning palm leaves and trimm
ing the grass along the edge of the road. When the folks in the mansions rouse themselves languidly from bed to breakfast beneath striped canopies overlooking their pools and the ocean, at tables set with linen, crystal, and silver, they see no blade of grass out of place, no limp palm leaf, not even black men working in their paradise. It is a playground for the wealthy, the bailiwick of corporate presidents and chairmen of boards, who have devoted a lifetime to more assets. The average age of the moguls is beyond what might be called spry. Some are in wheelchairs, their faces paralyzed from strokes that are an occupational hazard, part of the cost of doing big business. But their clothes are elegant, the gowns and jewels of their wives beyond the imagination, in style or price, of ordinary mortals.

  J.T. had now been on the front page of every major newspaper, on every television screen, for months. He appeared there as a flame, a consuming conflagration, searing the criminals with withering questions which they couldn’t or would n’t answer. And the less they answered, the more he questioned, hounded, pounded. With such publicity, J.T. became a “must” for the guest lists of clever hostesses. Celebrity guests are still an exclusive preserve cherished by hostesses, guests, and notables alike. These parties reassure them all that they are truly different, important, very special.

  In the glass-domed conservatory-turned-cocktail lounge with J.T. and the other guests were the Duke and Duchess of Ansbury, the perennial society party guests, the most prestigious of the “musts.” They would not accept invitations to just any party. It had to be exclusive and very chic, and of course, their traveling and living expenses had to be covered while they stayed, even if they remained until the next invitation was not only received but approved.

  J.T. knew how Courtnay felt about him. If nothing else, he was perceptive. And he knew Marty didn’t have enough influence with Courtnay’s family to get him invited. He was quite aware, therefore, that he had been invited to amuse the other guests with anecdotes about the criminals he questioned, the feeling of looking across a flimsy desk at murderers, cutthroats, and the like. But they won’t get as much out of me as I will out of them, J.T. thought as he looked around the guests. This is where the dough is, and where I intend my future to be.