J.T.

by John Nicholas Iannuzzi

  The bartender poured gin over the ice and set the glass before Delafield.

  “Give Mr. Wright a fresh drink, Rudy.”

  “I have one right here,” said J.T.

  “Let Rudy freshen it up for you.”

  Rudy placed another drink on the bar in front of J.T., discarding the hardly touched first drink.

  “Cheers,” said Delafield, raising his glass.

  “Cheers,” replied J.T., lifting his glass and letting the Scotch touch his lips. This drink may sound elegant but it tastes lousy, J.T. thought.

  Model airplanes hung from wires over the bar. So did beer tankards and steins, and bats and balls and a myriad of curiosities which hung in bars of every stripe. In “21,” however, they seemed objets d’art.

  Delafield downed his drink with dispatch.

  “Rudy.” He motioned to the two glasses.

  Rudy dutifully made fresh drinks, placing J.T.’s on the bar directly behind the one he was already trying to ignore.

  An elegantly dressed man walked toward the door.

  “Carmine, how are you?” Delafield said happily.

  J.T. turned to face Carmine DeSapio, the Democratic power in New York State. He was more impressive in person than in newspaper pictures, with his handsome features, his Roman nose, and the smoked glasses he always wore because he had some eye ailment. The public thought he wore dark glasses because he was sinister, and he never dispelled that idea.

  “Carmine, this is J.T. Wright, a friend of my niece Dana. J.T., Carmine DeSapio.”

  “You and Senator Anders are making quite a show down in Washington,” said DeSapio.

  “I’m delighted you think so,” said J.T.

  “Have a drink, Carmine?”

  “No, thanks, Chauncey. I’m just waiting for some people. We’ll probably be coming to talk to you about some fund-raising in a little bit.”

  “How do you think the gubernatorial picture is shaping up?” Delafield asked.

  “Rockefeller—no question about it.”

  “You think so? Interesting.” Delafield drank. “What did you think of the Kennedy-Nixon squeaker?”

  “It was the Catholic question that made it close,” said DeSapio. “I thought Nixon might sneak in through the split. But the Kennedys are smart—especially Bobby. They even got your Senator Anders to support them in the end,” he said to J.T. “Reluctantly, but he supported them. He’s probably already oiling his guns for the rematch.”

  “Carmine knows everything there is about politics—wrote the book,” Delafield said to J.T. “You think Kennedy is going to be able to control the Congress?”

  “No question. He’ll take the primaries and be reelected too.”

  Delafield nodded respectfully.

  So there it was, all analyzed and red-ribboned, the kiss of death for Senator Anders’s presidential quest.

  “Sure you won’t have a drink, Carmine?”

  “Thanks, no, Chauncey.”

  “What you say is very interesting, Carmine,” said Delafield. “I’ve been getting financial feelers from a lot of people for Nixon already. You know, at RBM they send anything that smacks of politics to me. I’m Archie’s utility outfielder.”

  “That’s as it should be, Chauncey. You’re the most knowledgable one in the whole setup when it comes to politics.”

  “Carmine, we go back too many campaigns for you to have to soft-soap me. You know the company is willing to support whatever candidates you have as well as the Republicans. We play both sides of the street and make no bones about it. That’s just good business sense to me.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say that, Chauncey. We still have a heck of a fight on our hands. And it’ll be expensive.”

  “I imagine it will. I’m ready to talk when you are, Carmine.”

  “You’re a good friend, Chauncey. Have been a long time. We need more like Chauncey,” DeSapio said to J.T.

  “That’s awfully kind of you to say, Carmine.”

  “Here’s my party now,” said DeSapio. “Good seeing you, Chauncey. Call you next week. Nice meeting you, J.T.”

  They all shook hands, and J.T. watched DeSapio being shown to a table.

  “He’s probably going to have a good financial pep talk with somebody,” Delafield said as he turned back to the bar. “We give to both the Democrats and Republicans. What the hell do we care who’s elected, as long as our business has friends where it counts.”

  J.T. was intrigued.

  “Dana tells me you’re interested in getting into private practice, J.T.—I hope you don’t mind my calling you J.T.”

  “Not at all, sir.”

  “Well, that’s where the money is. You can’t make a dime in government. Of course, the experience that you’re getting with those hearings, and the connections you’re making, are certainly going to be valuable assets.”

  “Yes, sir,” J.T. agreed.

  “Mr. Delafield, your table is ready for you now,” said Mario.

  “Thank you, Mario,” said Delafield, raising his glass and draining the colorless liquid.

  Mario guided them to a corner banquette and pulled the table out so they could sit.

  “Two more drinks,” Delafield said to Mario.

  J.T.’s insides wrenched at the thought of another drink, but he said nothing.

  “Yes, sir. Do you care for a menu?”

  “We’ll wait for my niece, Mario. We’ll have our drinks in the meantime.”

  “Very well, sir.” Mario walked away.

  “What would you like to do in the private sector, J.T.?” Delafield asked.

  “I’m really not sure, sir. I haven’t had much experience with any particular kind of law that I’d be more inclined to one than any other.”

  Delafield nodded understandingly. A waiter arrived with their drinks.

  J.T. lifted his glass dutifully. He was getting to hate the Scotch more with each sip.

  “I think I’d like to be involved in litigation, the give-and-take of trial work,” J.T. continued.

  “I can understand that,” said Delafield. “Not that I do any trial work myself. Haven’t been in a courtroom in ages. Hope not to be for ages more,” he laughed.

  “Hello, Chauncey,” interrupted a portly man in a dark blue suit, who stopped at the edge of their table.

  “Mr. Ambassador,” said Delafield enthusiastically. “How are you? May I present J.T. Wright. J.T., Ambassador Smith, United States Ambassador to India. How are all the Indians these days, Richard?”

  J.T. rose to shake hands with the ambassador.

  “Stay where you are, Mr. Wright, stay where you are. India is fine, Chauncey. A lot you give a damn anyway. I’ve enjoyed your committee hearings, Mr. Wright. Think you’re doing a great job.”

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Ambassador,” J.T. said, flattered.

  “Are the hearings finished now?” the ambassador asked.

  “No, sir. I just came up for the day to meet Mr. Delafield. I’ll be going back to Washington this evening.”

  Delafield worked at his drink assiduously. He lifted a finger to the waiter and pointed to J.T.’s and his glasses.

  “Want a drink, Richard?”

  “Thanks, no Chauncey. I’m having one at my table.”

  “So what? Have another. Waiter, send a drink on my tab to Ambassador Smith’s table.”

  “You’re a true madman, Chauncey. A delightful one, I must add. If you want a lift to the airport in my car, J.T., I’m going to be leaving right after lunch. Have a meeting with the President this evening.”

  “Oh?” said Delafield.

  “My master’s voice.”

  “Now you don’t believe that, Richard. You never have taken a back seat to anyone.”

  “I’d like that very much, Mr. Ambassador,” said J.T., delighted.

  “Didn’t Dana say something about having dinner together this evening?” Delafield asked.

  “Don’t let me interfere with true love,” the ambassador said lightly. />
  “It’s not like that at all, Mr. Ambassador,” said J.T. “I do have to get back for meetings with the chairman myself this evening.”

  “Well, let me know.” The ambassador went to his table.

  The new drinks arrived. The waiter took J.T.’s old drink and placed a fresh one before him.

  “Don’t drink much, eh?” said Delafield.

  “I didn’t think you noticed,” smiled J.T.

  “Hell, man, you’ve hardly touched any of the drinks you’ve had.”

  “I’m really not much of a drinker.”

  “Good. Don’t trust a man who drinks too much. Except for myself, of course. Not so sure I trust myself, either.” Delafield laughed. “Seriously, I can understand your liking for trial work, J.T.,” Delafield said, continuing a conversation that J.T. had almost forgotten. “All the give-and-take you’re used to at the hearings, thinking on your feet, questioning, that’s very much like trial work.”

  “Yes, sir, that’s exactly what I mean.”

  “Cheers,” Delafield said, raising his glass. “You don’t have to drink if you don’t want to, J.T. I’m on a liquid diet.”

  “Oh, there’s Dana,” J.T. said, seeing Dana at the entrance of the dining room. She looked great in a tailored suit.

  Mario spied Dana at the same time. He walked over to her quickly, bowed, and led her to the table.

  “Hi, everyone,” she smiled.

  Mario pulled out the table and Dana slid onto the banquette. She kissed Delafield on the cheek.

  “Hi, J.T.,” she said happily. “How’ve you been?”

  “Really fine,” he said, smiling back.

  “Mario, bring me a Manhattan, please.”

  “Of course, Miss Reynolds.”

  “We were just talking about trial work,” said Delafield. “J.T. seems interested in that. I think that is one terrifically exciting kind of law. Except, of course, J.T., the firm I’m with tries like hell to keep its clients out of court.”

  “Does it always succeed?”

  “No, unfortunately. Most of the time it does, but not always.”

  “Well, then,” Dana said, “doesn’t that mean that firms like yours need some trial people? Maybe you need someone on the staff to handle the RBM matters?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” said Delafield. “I head up the law staff that handles the RBM account,” he explained to J.T. “Although …” Delafield sipped his drink pensively.

  “What are you thinking, Uncle Chauncey?” Dana asked.

  “Well, you know, I’m just thinking that the kind of experience that you’re having, J.T., the trial kind of experience, and your contacts in Washington, could be valuable assets to a law firm.”

  “To Stevenson & Stetinius, for instance?” Dana asked hopefully.

  Delafield smiled. The waiter brought Dana’s Manhattan.

  “Here’s good luck on the prospects of a new career on Wall Street,” said Dana.

  “Aren’t you jumping the gun just a little?” said Delafield.

  “Not at all,” she said. “J.T.’s going to be terrific when he gets to New York.”

  “Say, Chauncey,” a man called from two tables over, “did you talk to Marge about dinner this Thursday?”

  “Damn, I forgot, Frank,” Delafield rose. “Excuse me just a minute,” he whispered. “I have to gracefully extricate myself from a boring dinner party. Dana, why don’t you show J.T. the speakeasy?”

  “What’s the speakea y?” J.T. asked Dana.

  “Come on,” Dana said.

  They walked through the swinging doors to the kitchen. “What’s the speakeasy?” J.T. asked again.

  “Hold your horses,” Dana said, touching his arm. “I’m glad you decided to take me up on the suggestion to meet Uncle Chauncey.”

  “My pleasure.”

  She looked at him with serious, sincere eyes. He looked away.

  An assistant maitre d’ came over to them. “Miss Reynolds, Mario asked me to show you downstairs.”

  “Thank you.”

  The man went ahead of them, down a stairway to a cellar. The floor was concrete, and the walls were of cinderblock, all painted battleship gray and white.

  “You see, sir,” the maitre d’ expounded like a tour guide, “when this place first went into business, Prohibition was the law in this country.”

  They walked along a cinderblock corridor.

  “However, some people liked to drink anyway. The owners of ‘21’ tried to figure out how to provide for the pleasure of their customers without being closed down. You will notice that the walls in this cellar are very thick.” He pounded his fist against the wall. “Try them.”

  Dana looked at J.T. expectantly.

  He pounded his fist lightly against the wall. “Solid?” he said.

  “If the police came down here to check whether anyone was drinking on the premises, they’d be greeted with these solid stone walls. However …” The maitre d’ took a long piece of thick, stiff wire from behind an overhead pipe. “… there was this tiny hole in this one block,” he said, fitting the stiff wire into the hole. “And then …” Suddenly the wall itself swung inward. “… inside,” he said, walking ahead of J.T. and Dana into a small room complete with booths, bar, and liquor. “Voila!”

  J.T. was very impressed. Now he pounded his fist earnestly against the cinderbock wall that had swung open to permit them access to this hidden oasis.

  “The wall is eighteen inches thick,” said the maitre d’, “and it swivels, just as it did during Prohibition, on special hinges that can each support over a thousand pounds.”

  “Just think of it, people actually sat down here in the bowels of the earth, just to have a drink,” J.T. marveled.

  “Uncle Chauncey would,” Dana said. “Speaking of Uncle Chauncey, we’d better go up. He must have gotten out of that dinner date by now. Thank you,” she said to their guide.

  When they returned, Delafield was sitting at the table by himself, sipping a drink.

  “Ahha,” he said, rising. His face was quite flushed now. “Did you gain access to the interior world?”

  “We did.”

  “Excellent. Do you care to order now, Mr. Delafield?” asked Mario.

  “Sure. What’ll it be, kids?”

  They ordered, and Mario left to place their orders.

  “Now, you were saying, Uncle Chauncey, that you thought that someone in J.T.’s position, with his experience and contacts in Washington, would be just the kind of man you could use at your firm.”

  “I did? I don’t remember that.” He sipped his drink and smiled brightly. His teeth were very white and straight. “But then I don’t remember much that happens after my fifth lunch drink.”

  “Does that mean you think J.T. might find a place at your firm?”

  “J.T.’s still involved in the Washington hearings. Perhaps someday, when he’s finished with them and the committee, we could talk?”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful, Uncle Chauncey. Isn’t it, J.T.?”

  “It sure is.”

  “And I thought I was being noncommittal.”

  The waiter arrived with the lunch order.

  “You’re going to stay for dinner, aren’t you, J.T.?” Dana asked.

  “I don’t think so,” said J.T. “I have to get back early for a committee meeting. Ambassador Smith said he’d give me a ride to the airport.”

  “Oh, no,” said Dana unhappily.

  “I really have to get back. If I stay for dinner, I’ll miss my appointment. The last plane leaves at seven o’clock.”

  “Make him stay, Uncle Chauncey.”

  “I can’t make you stay, young man, but your best supporter is going to be awfully unhappy if you don’t.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said to Dana, “but how will I get back?”

  “There’s always the company plane. It’s sitting out at Butler Aviation. We could fly you back to Washington after dinner.”

  It would have been quite a coup for him to g
o back to Washington with the Ambassador, J.T. thought. But going back in RBM’s private plane wasn’t a kick in the stomach either.

  “Okay, I’ll stay. I’ll call the chairman and tell him I’m going to be late.”

  Dana smiled. “Thanks, Uncle Chauncey.”

  “Cheers,” said Delafield, lifting his glass.

  March 20, 1961

  “Is the senator in?” J.T. asked.

  Lucy, who was sitting behind her desk, reading the page on which she was typing, looked up momentarily. “He is.” She continued to read.

  J.T. walked directly into Senator Anders’s office. The senator was on the phone. J.T. sat on a couch, hunching forward to read a copy of the Congressional Record on the coffee table.

  “That’s right, Nat, we’ve still got a lot of strength in the South and West.” The senator winked at J.T. “And we have to keep it that way.”

  J.T. nodded and smiled.

  “Yes, I’ve been in touch with the people from Illinois. I think we can muster even more strength there the next time.” He listened. “That’s right. Keep a low profile for the time being. But there are still a lot of people who can’t get over having a Catholic in the White House. That’s his Achilles’ heel.” Pause. “I know he’s the President now. But he’s still an Irish Catholic President, and we know a lot of people who aren’t happy with a papist. We’ll have to stir up more of that kind of sentiment, that’s all.”

  J.T., despite his appearance of total absorption in reading the Record, was listening intently to the senator’s conversation. He knew from Carmine DeSapio’s comments in New York that the senator’s hopes for the presidency were dead. Anders would be too old to be a serious contender after two Kennedy terms.

  J.T. had also realized during his hop in the private RBM plane last night—God, he had felt like a ruler of the civilized world; Dana rode down with him and returned with the plane to New York—that the answer to his quest for money, fame, and power wasn’t going to be found as junior counsel to a congressional committee, or on the salary that went with it. He realized that the time and opportunity to set a new course had arrived. The tide was with him, and Dana Reynolds was trying her damnedest to ease his passage. He might as well take advantage of it, J.T. thought as he waited for the senator to finish on the phone. After all, how long would Dana be rooting in his corner before she felt that they were a serious duo and would expect him to do something serious about their relationship? Dana was as nice a girl—woman—as he’d ever known. But he didn’t feel like getting married, getting tied down, not with Dana, not with anybody, not right now. There were worlds to conquer, and he’d travel faster if he was lighter—and that meant no family dragging him down. Yes, he’d better take advantage of Dana’s contacts and get as high up the mountain as he could before Dana demanded commitments he didn’t intend to undertake—not now, not ever.