“Put in an efficient system.”
“Wrong. Sell the real estate! I’ll lease back all the stores to myself first, of course. Ninety-nine-year leases. Then sell the real estate. I’ll make ten million dollars on that. Then I’ll sell the restaurant chain for another, say, five million dollars. How’s that?”
“That sounds like my kind of business.”
“That’s what you work on first, then. Help me put it together.”
“You bet.” J.T. was excited at the prospect.
The car turned on Fifth Avenue and stopped in front of Rockefeller Center.
“I’ll get out here. You keep the car, tell Frank where you want to go. If you pick up any girls, save a pretty one for me.”
“That’s a deal.”
“I’m glad to have you working for me,” said DeValen. He patted J.T.’s knee, his hand rested there.
“I am too.”
“And don’t worry about Boxer—it is Boxer, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Good memory, very important. See what I mean?”
DeValen walked next to the huge statue of Atlas toward the entrance. The chauffeur remained at the curb until he saw him disappear inside the revolving door.
J.T. sat back in the soft, thickly upholstered seat, admiring, luxuriating in all the accoutrements of wealth. He pushed one of the chrome buttons. The partition lowered slowly.
“Frank, the next stop will be Grove Court in Greenwich Village. Do you know where that is?”
“Basically.”
“Just head down Fifth Avenue until you get to Washington Square Park. I’ll direct you the rest of the way.”
“Yes, sir.”
J.T. felt like a king. This was the way to go. And goddamn, wasn’t everything falling right into place? He pressed the chrome button again.
“Frank, how do I use this phone?” he asked authoritatively. If you speak as if you know what you’re talking about, people figure that you do, he thought to himself. “I have to make a phone call for Mr. DeValen.” Why did I make an excuse to the driver? he chastised himself. No more making excuses to underlings, he admonished himself. Ever!
“Just pick up the phone and the operator will answer. Give her the call number, and then the number you want.”
“What’s the call number?”
“New York, 4396.”
J.T. closed the partition. Don’t thank him, he directed himself. He’s getting paid to do this. That’s the only way to treat servants. He picked up the phone, gave the call number, and then the number of the Judiciary Committee offices in Washington.
J.T. heard some interference noise on the phone as they passed between the tall buildings. The phone rang at the other end.
“Judiciary Committee.”
“This is J.T. Wright. Can you find Marty Boxer for me?”
“I’ll try, sir.”
Try hard, he thought to himself.
There were a few moments of silence.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Otto. This is Otto.”
“J.T. How the hell are you?” Marty said happily. “Where are you? How’s everything going? You sound funny.” Marty’s voice resounded in the phone like an echo after each sentence.
“I’m in the back of my limousine, talking on the phone.” J.T. could hear his own voice echoing.
“The back of a what? Whose limousine?”
“No time for questions now. I just wanted to tell you to pack your bags, you and Courtnay. There’s a job waiting for you here at Stevenson & Stetinius.”
“Are you kidding?”
“Is Otto Wright ever wrong?”
“How did this happen?”
Marty sounded happy. So am I, J.T. thought. He realized he had a big grin on his face. “I’ll call you tonight and explain everything. Just hurry up and get your bags packed. The hell with the furniture. Courtnay can arrange for that later. You can bunk with me. I can’t wait for us to work together again.”
“I can’t hear you …”
“I said I can’t … oh, forget it. I’ll call you tonight.”
J.T. pressed the phone back onto its receiver. They were passing the Empire State Building. He thought about taking one of the crystal glasses from the bar and having a drink. That seemed the thing to do. It wasn’t exactly chic to pour ginger ale into cut crystal. But, if that’s what Otto wants, that’s what Otto gets. He took a glass, put in ice cubes with silver tongs, and poured his ginger ale. He leaned back in his seat, saluted himself, and sipped. Never tasted better!
He picked up the phone again, and went through the same procedure.
Squawks and squeaks, and the number began to ring.
“Reynolds residence.”
“Dana, please.”
“Who shall I say is calling?”
“J.T. Wright.”
After a few moments, Dana picked up a phone. “Hi,” she said warmly.
“How are you?”
“I’m fine. Where’ve you been?” she said happily. “I haven’t heard from you in two days.”
“Uncle Chauncey is working my butt off.”
“Uncle Chauncey doesn’t know what it means to work a butt off, his or anyone else’s. Where are you? You sound funny.”
“I’m in the back of DeValen’s car.” He downplayed it now. Dana wouldn’t be impressed by a limousine and a car phone.
“What are you doing there?”
“Just working out an arrangement. He wants me to handle all his work in the firm.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“It is pretty wonderful.” He sipped his ginger ale and gazed out the window. It was delicious watching people stare into the limousine at a man on the phone, sipping what looked like champagne from a crystal glass. This was the way to live.
“Maybe we should celebrate over a little dinner?” Dana suggested.
“Sounds good. We should go someplace fancy. Maybe ‘21.’”
“I thought I’d come over to your place and cook.”
“You know how to cook?”
“I’m going to experiment on you. Call me when you get home. We’ll discuss it without the whole world listening.”
“What do you mean?” J.T. asked.
“That phone you’re on is like a ship-to-shore radio. Anyone can listen to us on their shortwave radios.”
“I’ll call you when I get home,” J.T. said hastily, wincing. He hung up.
November 20, 1961
Dana looked around J.T.’s apartment with curiosity. He was far from a neat housekeeper, she thought. In fact, his apartment was a. mess. Clothes were strewn on the only chair in the little living room; books and papers were on the floor; empty glasses were on the TV. Other than the chair, the living room contained a small sofa, an end table with a lamp, and a small television set on the floor. There were no pictures on the walls. The bedroom, even smaller, had an unmade studio bed, and a dresser on top of which lay a myriad of papers, loose change, an empty cough-drop box, and a broken shoelace. There were no pictures on these walls either. This was J.T.’s entire apartment, except for a pullman kitchen, where the only cupboard was practically bare. A quart of milk, a bottle of ketchup, a jar of pickles, and a lonely can of tuna fish sat in the refrigerator.
On the counter next to the sink was the bag of groceries Dana had just bought to make dinner.
“I’m going to straighten up the kitchen first,” said Dana as she took off her jacket. “Then we’ll make dinner together, okay?”
“Sure.”
“You don’t cook much, do you?”
“Not too much.” J.T. looked around the kitchen. It seemed all right to him. He was quite content to go around the corner to the deli and buy a hero sandwich; that and a can of soda was as good a solo dinner as any. More important than being good, it was fast. J.T. caught Dana looking around the apartment, perhaps surprised that he hadn’t added neat, elegant, well-appointed decor. He didn’t have time for all that fancy stuff. This apartment was just
a place to rest as he struggled furiously up the mountain. Furniture, cooking, eating, all that would only delay his ascent.
“Tonight I’m going to make something special. Different, anyway,” Dana said cheerily. She was happy to be doing something domestic, particularly for J.T. At home, the only thing she did in the kitchen was raid the cupboards occasionally at night. Angelo ran the kitchen with such efficiency, the refrigerators were usually locked.
“What did we buy, anyway?” J.T. asked.
“I’m going to make a recipe I found in a magazine. Have you ever had beef Wellington?”
“No.”
“Well, you’re not going to have it tonight, either.”
“Oh?” He laughed. They laughed together.
“This is the recipe for poor man’s beef Wellington. It’s much easier and quicker. It’s made with a loaf of Italian bread, chopped meat, and spices and things.”
“Sounds good to me,” said J.T. “I’m half Italian.”
“You are?”
“My mother’s Italian.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Not too many people do, except those who are close to me.”
“Does that mean I’m close to you?” She looked into his eyes.
“I guess it does.” He began taking the groceries out of the bag.
“You have to help, J.T.,” Dana said, starting to sort the used dishes and glasses left in the sink. “We’ll wash these first.”
Dana washed and J.T. dried with his only dish towel. Then Dana sponged off the tops of the counters and searched about for a frying pan. She found a never-used one in the cupboard.
“What do you want me to do?” J.T. asked.
“Slice the bread down the middle like you were going to make a hero sandwhich.”
“I’m an expert at that.”
“You mean because you’re Italian? I didn’t mean anything like that.”
“I didn’t either. I meant because I buy hero sandwiches at the deli all the time.”
“Oh. And then set the table.”
“What table?”
“Oh, dear. Where do you usually eat?”
“Sitting on the couch, watching TV. I use the little table next to the couch when I have to. I put the lamp on the floor.”
“All right,” she said, smiling. This dinner was becoming an adventure. “Put the table in front of the couch.”
J.T. began to arrange his sparse furniture for dining. “Shall I put the chair up to the table, so one of us can sit on the couch and the other on the chair?”
“Terrific.”
J.T. tossed the clothes that had been on the chair onto the unmade bed. The unusual aroma of cooking filled the apartment.
“That smells great,” said J.T., joining Dana in the kitchen.
“Oh, come on …”
“When the only smell of food around here is usually milk wetting the Rice Krispies, anything’d smell great.”
They both laughed again.
“I don’t know about you, J.T., but I’m having a grand time. I feel very comfortable with you.”
“I know what you mean. Not about you, I mean about me.”
“Oh, my, the meat,” said Dana, turning quickly to the stove, stirring. “I almost burned the main course.”
“I probably couldn’t tell the difference—not that your cooking is always burnt. I mean—”
“I know what you meant,” she said, smiling. “I don’t know why, but somehow I feel we understand each other, everything about each other, even before it happens. As if we’ve know each other a long time.”
“I know what you mean.”
The meal was prepared. J.T. even helped make a salad—iceburg lettuce with a bottled dressing poured over it. Despite the fact that there was no salt, the meal tasted terrific. J.T. turned the television on and they watched For Whom the Bell Tolls, with Gary Cooper and Ingrid Bergman. There wasn’t too much conversation during dinner, but then Gary Cooper never did say much.
When they had finished, they cleared the dishes away and returned the furniture to its original places.
“Where do you want to go to now?” J.T. said as they stood in the kitchen.
“Why not see the end of the movie?”
They sat next to each other on the love seat. J.T. could feel the touch of Dana’s hip against his. He did not dare to look at her. His eyes were riveted on the TV.
“Tell me about your new situation at the office,” Dana suggested, turning to J.T.
“I told you all I know about it already. DeValen wants me to handle whatever he has in the office. He said he’s sure I’ll handle it well.”
“I’m sure you will. You’d handle anything well.”
J.T. began to feel a flush, a warmth, his chest felt tight, his breath heavy. He noticed that Dana, too, was breathing in a deep, labored kind of way.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Fine.”
Their hands were beside each other. J.T. glanced down. Like two spiders, their hands moved slowly, painfully toward each other; during a commercial, they finally touched fingers.
“When do you start this new job—I mean, assignment?” Dana said, ignoring the fact that their fingers intertwined.
“Right away, I guess.”
J.T. didn’t know what else to do. Their breathing was slower, heavier. He was galvanized by fright and ignorance into a state of immobility. What should I do next? he thought to himself frantically. They pursued an aimless, wandering conversation, each of them murmuring meaningless words as they sparred for time to contemplate, to think about what was to happen next.
“It sounds very exciting,” Dana said.
“It does sound excited—exciting, doesn’t it?”
J.T. decided he’d reach his arm along the top of the couch and drop it around her shoulder. The arm, however, just wouldn’t lift. It was like cement. Dana wanted to do, to say something that might encourage J.T. But she couldn’t think of any words. Her mouth couldn’t make the slightest sound of encouragement.
“Will you be getting a new office?” she asked, her mouth so dry she could hardly speak.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Maybe.” God, what a fool, what a helpless, hopeless failure I am, J.T. thought. His throat felt as if it were lined with sandpaper. He thought that instead of putting his arm up over her shoulder, he’d slide it across her waist and pull her closer. I can’t do it, he screamed angrily inside himself. Goddamn it. I can’t do it. He felt like running from the room and banging his head into a wall.
I wish J.T. would do something, thought Dana. I can’t even move.
The two of them just sat there, holding each other’s hands, wondering what the next move should be, who should make it. The more they thought about doing something, anything, the less they could do.
Come on, come on, J.T. urged himself. Make a move. It’ll all fall into place. But he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.
“Do you want to go out to a movie?” he finally said.
“If you do.”
“Why not? There nothing on TV.”
They both smiled nervously as they got their things together and went off to the Greenwich Theater to see whatever was playing there.
March 16, 1962
“I couldn’t get you an office on my floor,” J.T. explained as he and Marty inspected the small cubicle the office manager had assigned to Marty. “I’m on the Members’ floor. That sort of thing is really a big deal around here, who sits where, who has a corner office. A very chickenshit outfit.”
“I understand.”
“By God, it took long enough, but it’s good to have someone here that I can talk to,” J.T. said happily.
“How could I refuse? A good firm, a good salary, and last but by no means least, our old team is back in action. Anyway, Courtnay was really anxious to get back to New York, even before you called about the job.”
“Then it worked out just right.”
“Otto, I’d better tell you
something.”
“About what?”
“Courtnay.”
“Having trouble?”
“No. She’s pregnant.”
“A baby? You’re kidding.”
“No. She’s due in November.”
J.T. was dumbfounded. His pal’s wife was having a baby. Funny, thought J.T., here was a great announcement, and no bands played, no crowds cheered. J.T. searched for something appropriate to say. But all he could muster was, “That’s really terrific, Otto.”
“Yeah.”
They stood silently, awkwardly for a minute.
“Anyway, I’m sure glad you’re here. Our team can outthink these Wall Street preppies three to one.”
“You really think so?”
“Absolutely. These Wall Streeters are real stiffs,” he said softly. “Jeesus, they’re boring. Come on, let’s go up to my office.”
They walked through the corridor to the stairway.
Although J.T. had already been associated with the firm for almost a year, he was such a recluse that people in the lower strata of the firm rarely saw him and were still awed by the recollection of him at the hearings, on television, a pseudo-celebrity. The girls at the desks, even the other attorneys, hesitated momentarily when they saw him walking, stared discreetly, then went about their business.
“Your office will be finished in a day or so,” J.T. assured Marty. “If there’s anything you want that they don’t issue you, just let me know. We’re on special assignment, and I’m in charge. After Delafield, of course.”
They arrived at J.T.’s office. His new secretary looked up and smiled, mainly at Marty.
“Where do I begin?” asked Marty.
“DeValen’s got so many projects going right now, I don’t know what you should tackle first.”
“I thought you were concentrating on that restaurant chain takeover.”
“That’s still in the works. We’ve made our offering, eight dollars per share. We’re waiting for the stockholders to decide whether they want to accept it. We’ve already cornered twenty-two percent of the stock, but it’s not enough to control the corporation. The majority holdings are held closely by the Hardart family. And they won’t sell. They feel it’s a family operation, and it should stay that way.”
J.T. Page 16
