J.T.

by John Nicholas Iannuzzi

  “Do you know J.T. Wright?” asked Cici Crawford, introducing Anthony and Margo Kent. They shook hands.

  “I’ve seen you on television,” said Margo through lips that hardly moved. Perhaps years of directing servants had influenced her everyday speech. “Those characters you question would terrify me. Some of them are so sinister and swarthy. I don’t know how you do it.”

  “I try not to think about it,” replied J.T., sipping ginger ale from his glass. No one—except his bartender—knew what he drank. He didn’t want anything to interfere with his thinking. “If I did, I’d be a lot more frightened than you are when you watch it on TV. I’m sitting right in the same room with them.”

  They laughed. Cici looked around at the room, which was filling up with guests.

  “Let me steal J.T. for a few minutes, darlings,” said Cici. “I want to introduce him to my other guests.”

  “Certainly, darling,” said Margo.

  “They’re from the Brewster-Kent family,” Cici whispered to J.T. He made careful mental note.

  J.T. watched the Duke and Duchess hold court just ahead of them. He was fascinated. Here were the Duke and Duchess of Ansbury, in person, looking just like their photographs, she beautifully coiffed, he sitting erectly, a drink in hand. J.T. felt a little giddy—not because he was now inside the bakery against the window of which his nose had so often longingly been pressed, but because he was now one of the pastries everyone else was pressing their noses against the window to see. He was not just there. He was there because he was somebody, because people wanted to meet him, talk to him. He was one of the attractions.

  “Your Highness, Duchess,” Cici said to the royal couple, “may I introduce J.T. Wright?”

  The Duke reached out his hand. The Duchess nodded with a tight, toothy smile.

  “Mr. Wright is an attorney with the American Congress. He’s been on television every day for months. He’s like my morning Bloody Mary; as soon as I get up, I turn on the hearings and have my breakfast with J.T. and Mary.”

  “Mary who?” asked the Duke.

  “Bloody Mary, darling,” said the Duchess.

  “Ah. What sort of hearings are these, Cici?” asked the Duke. Other people milled about, waiting to greet the royalty. The Duke or Duchess would smile or wave occasionally to others around the room.

  “Why don’t you tell the Duke and Duchess about your hearings, J.T.,” urged Cici.

  “We are investigating organized crime in America,” said J.T. “We’re conducting hearings to determine what new legislation might be useful to combat it.”

  “Crime is a problem the world over,” the Duke mused. “Just the other day we had a bag—a small bag, but it was quite lovely—taken from our things at the airport in Naples on our way here. Suddenly it wasn’t there and that was that. But you know how it is in Naples. We were coming from Capri, of course.”

  “I’ll ask at our hearings if anyone’s seen your bag,” said J.T. humorously.

  “Oh, I don’t think—ah, I see, you’re joking.”

  The Duchess still smiled that same smile, as if it were painted on her, except, occasionally, her eyes widened as she greeted another guest over J.T.’s shoulder.

  “Darling,” someone said loudly from behind J.T., drawing it out into an entire sentence. A woman in a multicolored silk Pucci moved past J.T. and embraced the Duchess.

  “Look who’s here, darling,” the Duchess said to the Duke. “Frannie.”

  “Why, it’s dear Frannie,” said the Duke.

  J.T. didn’t know whether to stay in the midst of their new conversation or leave. He stood awkwardly a moment. He spied Marty across the room and stepped back two steps, then turned, making his way toward Marty.

  “Where’s Courtnay?” J.T. asked.

  “She went upstairs with Dana Reynolds for a few minutes. They’ll be right down.”

  “Oh, brother. How bad can this Dana be that Cici fixed me up to be her escort? Why did I say yes to this detail?”

  “Because Cici asked you to, and you’re such a nice guy. Have you been meeting people?” Marty asked.

  “I’ve never met more counts and no-accounts, dukes and the like in my life.”

  “Impressed?”

  “No question.”

  “You see that tall thin man over there, with the mustache?” said Marty.

  “Sure, Count Claude-somebody-somebody de Fabisson, right?”

  “Do you know what he does?”

  “You mean in general, in a closet, in front of mirrors?”

  “Making a living.”

  “Haven’t the faintest idea,” said J.T.

  “He’s a jewelry salesman. In Tiffany’s, right here on Worth Avenue. During the season, New York sends him down here. Out of season, he’s in New York. These people would much rather buy their jewelry from a count.”

  “Is he really a count?”

  “Definitely. And when you read about this party in the papers or in the magazines next month, they’ll be sure to mention the Duke, the Duchess, the Count, and all the notables.”

  “Is it always this much bull?”

  “I beg your pardon,” Marty feigned offense. “Ah, here’s Courtnay and Dana.”

  Courtnay entered the room with statuesque Dana. Not bad at all, thought J.T.

  “Marty,” said Courtnay, “you know Dana. J.T., this is Dana Reynolds.”

  J.T. studied Dana as she was turned toward Marty. She had large features, and was heavily made up. Her hair was thick, shoulder-length, and blonde. She wore a strapless, sequined cocktail dress. What a set of lungs, J.T. thought as Dana turned to face him. Her eyes caught him gazing at her bosom, and she was not offended.

  “Don’t tell me, I already know,” Dana said to J.T. Her voice was deep, a bit raspy. “You’re J.T. Wright, the gang buster. I’ve caught you on TV many times.”

  J.T. was waiting for her to finish. Apparently she already had.

  “Thank you.”

  The conversation evaporated.

  “You remember meeting Dana before, don’t you, Marty? At East Hampton,” said Courtnay.

  “Certainly.”

  “That was ages ago.”

  J.T.’s eyes wandered to Dana’s bosom again. Dana caught him staring again, and her eyes were bright with amusement.

  “J.T., how would you like to buy me a drink?” Dana smiled. “And you can tell me all about your hearings. I’m a great listener.” She took J.T.’s arm and aimed him toward a waiter with a tray of drinks.

  Marty and Courtnay watched the two of them walk away. J.T. looked back over his shoulder with a little smile on his face.

  “Now he’s met his match,” said Courtnay. “Dana’s a real whirlwind. Plays football on the beach with the men, a whiz in business.”

  “I know a lot of lawyers,” Dana said to J.T., passing up a waiter with the tray of champagne. “Let’s get something else to drink.” They walked through the doors opening on to the lawn overlooking the pool. The soft rush of the ocean, scented with gardenias, filled the air. “Come on, there’s a bar in the pool tent.”

  Just to the side of the pool was a large striped Arab-style tent. Inside, a bartender stood behind a small bar. Several men and women were seated outside the tent on white wicker chairs. Music from the orchestra playing in the main house was piped over loudspeakers to the tent. Two couples were dancing.

  “Vodka martini,” Dana said, “but just swirl the vermouth in the glass and throw it away.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Sir, would you care for a drink?”

  “I’ve had several. I think I’ll just cool it with a ginger ale for the moment.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  “Ginger ale? Aren’t you overdoing it a tad?”

  “If I don’t, I might fall right into the pool.”

  “Don’t worry. If you do, I’ll carry you back to the house.”

  “That’s different, then,” J.T. kidded.

  The bartender put two drinks in front of them.
/>   “Let’s walk over to the ocean wall,” said Dana.

  The two of them stood atop the concrete bulkhead, watching the waves break about a hundred yards out from the wall. The rollers lifted and curled into white foam, then slithered into thin sheets along the beach.

  “I just love it down here. The water’s so clean, so blue. Do you like the ocean, J.T.?”

  “Not really. It’s too rough. I don’t swim.”

  “I can teach you, if you like.”

  “Are you a swimming instructor too?”

  “As a matter of fact, I was the AAU hundred-yard breaststroke champion when I was fourteen.”

  “Now that sounds like my kind of activity.”

  “Very cute, dear boy. When do you want to start your swimming lessons?”

  “I’m just going to be down for a couple of days, Dana.”

  “Me too. Then I’m heading back to New York. But we have a pool at Locust Valley. You could come there and I’ll teach you.”

  “Won’t it be too cold for swimming in a pool?”

  “It’s indoors, dear boy. Do give Dana a little credit for brains.”

  “Indoors. Wonderful.” Good God, J.T. thought, that really costs money.

  They both looked out over the ocean again. J.T. didn’t know what to do now. His experience with women was quite limited.

  “You say you know a lot of lawyers,” he said, just not to be standing, looking foolish.

  “Yes, there’s always some litigation going on with Daddy’s business. And my uncle is a partner in Stevenson & Stetinius. They represent RBM.”

  “That’s a high-powered firm,” said J.T. “One of the biggest on Wall Street.”

  “It’s fifth largest in the United States. Have you ever been in private practice, J.T., or did you go right into government?”

  “Right into government.” J.T. sipped his ginger ale.

  “Thinking about going into private practice when you’re finished?”

  “Sure. When the right situation comes along. Which I hope will be soon. There’s just so much I can get out of being associate counsel to a Senate committee.”

  “What kind of law are you interested in?”

  “I haven’t quite made up my mind.”

  “You ought to talk to my uncle. He’s been a lawyer forever. Why don’t we all meet some day in New York for lunch at ‘21’ or someplace?”

  “I’m always in Washington,” replied J.T.

  “You must be able to get one day off. Surely all those crooks can get along without you.”

  “Probably a lot better than they’re doing right now in front of the committee.”

  Dana laughed. “Come on, silly boy, let’s go inside,” she said, taking his hand in hers. “You’ve got to promise to come to New York to meet me. Do you promise?”

  Dana’s hand was very warm and very strong in his. An RBM Reynolds, built like gangbusters, holding his hand as if she meant it, J.T. marveled.

  “Do you promise?” Dana repeated as they made their, way to the house.

  “Yes, sure.”

  “Great.”

  They were again enveloped in the music and talk and gaiety of the party.

  March 19, 1961

  J.T. stepped cautiously down the steps to the “21” Club. He had never been inside before; even the heft of the glass door was intimidating. A slick-haired young man at the reception desk looked inquiringly at J.T.

  “I’m supposed to meet Mr. Delafield and Miss Reynolds for lunch,” replied J.T.

  “Neither Mr. Delafield nor Miss Reynolds has arrived. I do have Mr. Delafield’s reservation. Perhaps you’d care to wait in the lounge, sir?” the young man said, indicating a sitting room to the rear of his desk. “Or perhaps at the bar?” He pointed to a doorway beyond a cigar-and-magazine counter.

  “I think I’ll wait in the bar.”

  Two striking women, wearing luxurious mink coats and flashes of gold at their wrists, entered the restaurant.

  “Hello, Steve.”

  “Mrs. Whitney,” Slick Steve said enthusiastically. “I haven’t seen you in ages!” He completely forgot J.T.

  J.T. wandered slowly toward the bar. He could now see the dining room, straight ahead of him.

  “21” is a watering hole for the rich and famous, those who want to be rich or famous, and those who want others to think they are. J.T. stopped at the cigar counter to give himself a chance to absorb the layout before proceeding to the dining room. He bought a package of Wint-O-Green Life Savers.

  “We were away for the holidays,” J.T. overheard Mrs. Whitney explaining to Slick Steve, who accompanied the women to the dining room.

  “Oh? Where did you go?”

  “Our place in the islands.”

  “Of course. By the way, your horses did marvelously at Saratoga last year.”

  “Yes, didn’t they?”

  The women and Slick Steve laughed pleasantly.

  “Mario, Mrs. Whitney’s table,” Steve said to a short, gray-haired man in a tuxedo standing at the entrance to the dining room.

  J.T. turned toward the dining area, hoping he didn’t look as out of place as he felt. Slick Steve had done all he could to heighten J.T.’s discomfort.

  “I’m sorry, madame, your table will be five minutes more,” Mario explained with a pained expression. “Everyone is going so slowly today.”

  “Damn,” complained the other woman, looking at her gold watch. “We’ll be late for the theater.”

  “I do have a table in the next section,” Mario apologized, looking toward other tables separated from the first section by a beamed arch. Beyond the second section was yet a third, where several tables were empty.

  “Darling,” said the woman with the gold watch, “there’s only one place we sit. You know that.”

  “Of course,” said Mario.

  “Of course,” Slick Steve agreed. A couple had just entered through the glass portal. He had to return to his post.

  J.T., waiting halfway between the cigar counter and nowhere, turned toward the front, hoping to see Dana Reynolds. It wasn’t Dana.

  “Perhaps,” Slick Steve said as he started for the door, “you could squeeze in another table for the ladies.”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Whitney. “Mario, do see if you could set up another table.”

  “Very well, madame.” Mario bowed, motioning to a man in a red jacket. “It will be only a few moments, ladies. Would you care to wait by the bar?”

  “Yes, let’s,” said the other woman. “I could kill for a Bloody Mary.”

  Slick Steve directed the couple that had just entered up a staircase opposite the cigar counter. There were several dining rooms upstairs, but nobody who was anybody sat there.

  J.T. walked casually toward the bar.

  “May I help you?” asked Mario, looking curiously at J.T., trying to place his face.

  “Just going to wait at the bar.”

  “May I ask who you are waiting for, Mr. Wright?” Mario said, delighted with himself for having recognized J.T. “I’ll let you know as soon as they arrive.”

  J.T. was also—although silently—delighted to be recognized. To stand out in a crowd of people like those at “21” was a special pleasure. He felt a great deal better already.

  Mario’s satisfaction was less amorphous; he had long ago realized that recognizing people and making them feel important was all part of his service, and a significant factor in the computation of gratuities.

  “I’m waiting for Mr. Delafield, Chauncey Delafield,” J.T. replied. “And Miss Reynolds.”

  “My pleasure, Mr. Wright,” Mario said enthusiastically. “I hope they don’t arrive for a few minutes.” He shrugged, looking at all the filled tables.

  The dining room was wood-paneled. The banquettes along the wall and the small tables in the center were all covered with red checked cloths. The other two dining sections were exactly the same as the first.

  J.T. watched as one red-jacketed waiter carried a small tablet
op over his head, while another carried the base.

  “Excuse me,” Mario said to J.T., moving to assist the waiters. He spoke to people seated at a nearby table. They rose. The waiters pulled their chairs back, moved their table slightly, and the new table was set in the small opening. A cloth, plates, and glasses were set in place, and Mrs. Whitney and her friend were ushered to their table.

  J.T. made his way to the long bar.

  “Yes, sir?” the bartender asked.

  “Scotch with a splash of branch water,” said J.T. He hated the taste of Scotch, but he had heard someone order that drink in a restaurant in Washington, and it sounded sophisticated enough for “21.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The new table having been put in operation without a ripple of difficulty, Mario returned to his post at the door. J.T., at the edge of the bar, leaned toward Mario.

  “Mario, is there something special about this section that people don’t want to eat in the other areas?”

  “My customers are special customers, Mr. Wright,” Mario whispered confidentially. “I know what they need. I can take care of them. Every place where Mario is not, Mr. Wright, is Siberia.”

  “I get it,” J.T. said, venturing a sip of his Scotch. He watched the luncheon activity for a while. The room was filled with animated conversations. Some people paid their bill and left.

  “Ah, Mr. Delafield,” Mario said to a man just entering the dining room. “Mr. Wright is waiting for you at the bar.”

  Chauncey Delafield was dressed elegantly and immaculately, with a stiff white collar and a solid-colored silk tie. His complexion was pale, his skin smooth. He had a thin white mustache and slick gray hair. He looked the epitome of the successful businessman.

  “Mr. Wright,” said Chauncey Delafield, walking over to J.T., extending his hand.

  “Hello, Mr. Delafield.” J.T. shook his hand.

  “Your table will be ready in a minute, gentlemen.”

  “That’s fine, Mario. I’ll get a little libation at the bar while I’m waiting. When my niece arrives, let me know.”

  “Of course.”

  “Hello, Mr. Delafield,” said the bartender. He began putting ice in a glass. “How are you today?”