J.T.

by John Nicholas Iannuzzi

  Marty was repulsed by Stern; he seemed to enjoy his weapons too much.

  “By the way,” said Stern confidentially, “being on the job for so long, I know where there are a lot of bones buried.”

  “Oh?” said J.T.

  “And if I don’t know exactly where they are,” Stern said, nodding, “I can sniff them out right quick.”

  “Mr. Stern, I don’t approve of violence,” said J.T. “But having someone on staff with your detective experience, your knowledge of the police department, could be helpful. You know, since we began this project, a kind of nagging thought has been in the back of my mind,” J.T. confided to all in the room. “Perhaps someone might resent the job we’re doing and come up here with a gun, or a knife. Someone staring at a blank wall, having nothing to lose, might come up here looking for a pound of flesh.”

  “They come up here looking for a pound of flesh, and they’ll get it—their own,” said Stern fiercely. “You could put in a buzzer. You press the buzzer, it rings where I’m sitting, and I’ll be here with a machine gun. I have one, by the way.”

  “One what?”

  “A machine gun. You should see the thing. What a beautiful piece of ordnance. Snap a twenty-shot clip on that thing, forty-five caliber, and you take half this building down.”

  “Marty, talk to Mr. Stern. I have a meeting uptown with the Governor’s people in a few minutes. See if you two can come to a conclusion on salary.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Wright,” said Stern, walking over to J.T and extending his hand.

  “Get out of here with that meat crusher,” said J.T.

  Stern laughed heartily.

  May 31, 1964

  J.T. walked confidently into “21,” past Slick Steve, who gave him an enthusiastic welcome, past the cigar counter, to the bar. The bartender who had served him that first drink with Chauncey Delafield was behind the bar. How the world had changed from that time to this, J.T. thought.

  DeValen, who was waiting for J.T. at the bar, smiled broadly when he saw him.

  “J.T., how are you?” he greeted J.T. enthusiastically.

  “Good, good.”

  “Your table is ready, Mr. DeValen,” Mario said. “Good to see you again, Mr. Wright,” he added with a flourish as he ushered them to their table. “Cocktails, gentlemen?”

  “A double vodka over ice for me,” said DeValen.

  “I’ll have a light, very light, Lilet and water,” said J.T.

  “How’s the new job going?”

  “No problems,” said J.T. “How’s your empire?”

  “Fantastic. I’ve taken over another restaurant chain, and turned them into those places where you get all the salad you can eat and a steak or lobster tails.”

  “I’ve seen them.”

  The two of them took up the drinks the waiter served.

  “Congratulations,” said DeValen, looking into J.T.’s eyes as they clinked glasses.

  “Thanks.” J.T. sipped the Lilet. No matter what drink he tried, it always tasted like medicine.

  “You can’t imagine how unhappy I am that you’ve left the firm for this special prosecutor’s office.”

  “Oh?”

  “Not unhappy for you, of course,” he said, touching J.T.’s shoulder. “Just that I was delighted having you working on my things, rather than those twits with the brown shoes.”

  “This isn’t forever. I’m only going to do this until I build up my reputation. Then I’ll open my own office. Right now the State of New York is paying for my advertising and publicity. I’ll reap the results myself later on.”

  “Aha. Then there is method in your madness. I couldn’t imagine why you’d want to go into government work when you could get rich just handling my affairs.” DeValen tapped J.T.’s leg twice for emphasis.

  “I can still give you the benefit of my ideas if you’d like, even though Stevenson & Stetinius are on the job.”

  “That would be excellent.”

  “When they tell you what action they want to take, you bounce it on me and I’ll tell you what I think.”

  “Super,” said DeValen. “I like that. And later on, when you have your own firm, we’ll sit down and work out some kind of retainer or percentage—anything that’ll help us come together better.” He winked at J.T.

  J.T. didn’t like DeValen’s touching and winking. But he certainly liked the sound of his business proposition.

  Mario approached the table. “Excuse me, Mr. DeValen,” he said, “but Mr. Chandler would like to buy drinks for you and Mr. Wright.”

  DeValen looked across the room to a table where a portly man with dark-rimmed glasses sat with a stunning blonde woman of voluptuous proportions. DeValen smiled and waved.

  “Tell Mr. Chandler he bought us a nice bottle of red wine for our lunch,” said DeValen. “And then select something for us that is dry and light, Mario. I’ll leave it to you.”

  “Excellent, sir.”

  “Chandler’s a big butter-and-egg man from out of town,” DeValen explained to J.T. “He’s got a company I’m looking to buy in Dayton. Makes superb batteries for cars. There’s enormous profit in the after-purchase car market.”

  “What’s an after-purchase market?”

  “The car manufacturers sell their cars with mediocre equipment or accessories. After purchase, the buyer replaces the barely adequate battery, tires, wiper blades, with finer-quality merchandise. I’m getting into that market now. Confidentially, the real bigwigs from Detroit are in with me.”

  “You mean to say that the manufacturers purposely provide cheap batteries so they can sell better ones later on?” asked J.T.

  “Not really. They put in the battery and other items the consumer is willing to pay for. If the manufacturer installed all top-of-the-line equipment, the car would have a price tag the average consumer would balk at. To keep the initial price down, they put in less expensive equipment. Later on, the dope who thought he had a bargain when he bought the car pays more to add the quality accessories than they would have cost as original equipment. But if John Q. Public thinks that’s a better deal, we’re certainly willing to accommodate him.”

  Mario brought the menus and handed one to each of them. “The hash is excellent today, Mr. DeValen,” said Mario.

  “That’s for me. I recommend it, J.T.”

  “I’ll try it.”

  The sommelier brought a bottle of red wine. He opened the bottle, smelled the cork, then poured a small amount in DeValen’s glass.

  DeValen’s sniffed the wine in his glass with delight, then sipped. “Ahh, excellent, excellent.”

  “Thank you, monsieur,” said the sommelier, serving J.T., then DeValen.

  DeValen looked across the room, caught Chandler’s eye, and lifted his glass to him.

  Chandler lifted his glass in return.

  “Who’s the tomato?” asked J.T. “She’s gorgeous.”

  “If you want to meet her,” DeValen said blandly, “I’ll introduce you to the little tart. She works for me.”

  “She works for you?”

  “I have three or four girls, all equally attractive, working for me all the time. I pay for their apartments and clothes and they entertain my butter-and-egg men from out of town when they come to New York. I do business much more easily when a man’s having a good time. Anytime you want to meet the girl, J.T., let me know,” DeValen said indifferently, looking at J.T.’s face.

  “No, I’m not interested,” said J.T. He knew instantly he had said the right thing from the look on DeValen’s face.

  “I like you, J.T. You’re an intelligent young man. The tarts are attractive, but a dime a dozen.”

  J.T. said nothing.

  “We can make a lot of money together, J.T.,” DeValen continued.

  “I’m for that.”

  “We’ll make a couple of million together the first six months you’re in private practice.”

  “Sounds better all the time.”

  “Making a million is a lead-pipe cinch.”


  “Really?”

  “Absolutely. Finding compatible people is far more difficult. That’s why it’s important we get along so well.”

  They clinked their wineglasses in a toast.

  “We should have these lunches at least once a week, J.T. just to follow up on your idea of discussing my legal affairs, don’t you think? I’ll pay you a consultant’s fee, of course.”

  “I couldn’t accept any fee while I’m the special prosecutor,” said J.T. “I’d have to start investigating myself.”

  DeValen laughed. “You’ve got a grand sense of humor, too.” He patted J.T.’s leg under the table again.

  February 10, 1965

  J.T.’s intercom sounded. He was behind his desk, scouring newspapers for the latest stories about his office. Fred Balzano sat opposite J.T., idly blowing the smoke from his cigar into rings.

  “Yes?” J.T. asked, pushing the button on the intercom as he continued to read.

  “Mr. Stern is here. He wants to see you if you have a minute,” J.T.’s secretary responded.

  “Send him in,” J.T. said, idly releasing the intercom button. “This is pretty good,” he said now to Balzano, indicating the newspaper.

  “Thanks, J.T. I thought you’d like it. A few months getting this show staffed and together made a hell of a difference. Now it’s a lot easier to place articles. The reporters are really receptive.”

  “Have you given them the latest on the sergeants’ club?”

  “Not yet. I’ve been waiting for us to finish the investigation before releasing the balance of the story.”

  “It’s already finished,” J.T. said impatiently.

  Stern entered the room. He was wearing a sports jacket over dark pants.

  “Carl, aren’t we finished with that sergeants’ club investigation?” asked J.T.

  “Just about.”

  “What does ‘just about’ mean?”

  “We still have some odds and ends to clear up. I checked with Marty, and we’re convinced that this Sergeant Lewis can give us a lot more. He seems to be involved in something we can’t quite put a finger on. But we’re almost there.”

  “Jesus,” J.T. exploded. “Fred has terrific stories the media is dying for, and we’re held up by one man?” J.T. pressed the button on the intercom anxiously. “Will you ask Marty Boxer to step in here?”

  “That’s what I came in to tell you, chief. I think this Lewis is on the ropes now. I have him in the other office. It wouldn’t hurt if he saw you. The pressure would fold him.”

  Marty Boxer came into the room.

  “Marty,” said J.T., “why aren’t we finished with the sergeants’ club investigation?”

  “We are, basically. I—”

  “Good, then break it, Fred, break it. Why do I have to ask fifteen people around here, to get one straight answer? Christ, I have to kick ass all day just to keep people from falling asleep.”

  “What’s this all about?” asked Marty.

  “It’s about a story I was holding back on the sergeants’ club investigation.”

  “I told Fred to hold it until we complete the rest of the investigation,” Marty explained, turning to J.T.

  Balzano’s face changed from fear to relief.

  “What for?” J.T. blasted. “It’s been on the fire six or so months. Let this part of the story go now. Jesus H. Christ, we need a new story every week! Every week!” J.T. looked at each of them. “Is it too late for today’s deadlines?” he asked Balzano.

  Balzano checked his watch. “Yeah. It’s too late for the early people. We’d lose out on a lot of good coverage. Best thing is to hold it until tomorrow morning.”

  “God damn it!” J.T. shouted, picking up a book from his desk and hurling it against the wall. His jaw muscles tensed until they hurt. He stared out of his twentieth-floor window, trying to calm himself.

  The others in the room stood silently.

  J.T. blew out his breath and smiled a tight smile. “Let’s try to salvage it tomorrow morning, first thing.”

  “Right.”

  “Maybe that’ll work out better, anyway. Carl, you say this Sergeant Lewis is ready to fold? If he does before tomorrow morning, he might just save himself and help us out. Think you can make him understand the time element here?”

  “Let me try again, boss. Maybe this’ll be just the thing to open him up.”

  “Once these indictments are filed tomorrow morning, that’s the end of him,” said Marty. “Make him understand that.”

  “I’ve told him that. I told him we could help him save his pension, his job, we’d let him retire instead of being bounced, if he gave us some information.”

  “Bring him in here,” J.T. said flatly.

  Stern left the room.

  “You sit over on the couch, Marty,” said J.T. “Give him the feeling he’s surrounded.”

  J.T. had arranged his office in the way he’d heard Mussolini had arranged his: his back was to the curtainless windows, causing bright afternoon sunlight to glare uncomfortably in the eyes of anyone approaching the desk. All of J.T.’s office appointments were set in the afternoon.

  Stern came back into the office, followed by an ashen-faced man with thinning blond hair.

  “This is Sergeant Lewis,” said Stern.

  Lewis nodded, looking around the room. No one acknowledged him. This was part of the routine: make sure the suspect feels invisible, ineffectual.

  “Sit down, Mister Lewis,” J.T. said.

  Lewis sat in an isolated chair in front of J.T.’s desk.

  “Investigator Stern tells me that you’re not a bad fellow,” J.T. started. “You’re in serious trouble, and we’d like to help you. But you have to help us help you.”

  “There’s nothing I can help you with.”

  “Marty, hand me that file, please. This is your file, Mr. Lewis. Inside is an indictment. Here, look at it.” J.T. handed an indictment to Lewis. “You see your name there, along with the others?”

  Lewis read the document. Beads of perspiration glistened on his forehead.

  “That document was supposed to have been filed two hours ago. But Investigator Stern asked that we hold it up until tomorrow morning. He thought that maybe you had enough sense to save yourself.”

  “I don’t know anything about the sergeants’ club.”

  “Stop bullshitting,” Stern said harshly.

  “You don’t have to tell us anything about the sergeants’ club,” said J.T. “We know all about it already. How do you think we got this indictment?”

  Lewis said nothing.

  “We don’t want you to do anything for us. Do something for yourself, for your wife, Marge,” J.T. said, reading Lewis’s pedigree from the file. “Your kids.”

  “You sons of bitches have this routine down pat.”

  “Take it easy, Sergeant Lewis. You’re not going to do yourself any good that way,” said Marty, who was to Lewis’s left.

  “Look, you do something for us, whatever you can,” J.T. said smoothly, “and maybe we can have a secretary stay late, retype this indictment without your name on it. We have the authority to talk to the commissioner and let you retire from the job with vested rights to your pension. How many years do you have in already?”

  “Seventeen,” Lewis admitted resignedly.

  “How can you waste seventeen years of your life, Lewis?” J.T. wondered. “Don’t you owe a little something to your wife, your kids?”

  “Leave them out of it.”

  “You’re the one leaving them out of it,” said Stern. “You’re leaving them out in the cold when you get indicted. We have you by the balls.” Stern cupped his hand.

  “Make some cases for us,” urged J.T. “Jesus, what do we have to do to help you help yourself?”

  “What’ll you do for me?” Lewis mumbled.

  There’s the first crack, J.T. thought.

  “Hold it, Lewis, hold it right there. You’ve got this all wrong,” J.T. said harshly. “It’s not what
we’re going to do for you. It’s what you’re going to do for us. We don’t need you. You need us to keep your job, your badge, your gun, your pension.”

  “I don’t know anything that can help you,” Lewis retreated again.

  “Carl, you were wrong,” J.T. said disgustedly. “You said this man had brains and was interested in helping himself. Marty, file those indictments first thing in the morning. And, Mr. Lewis, leave your badge and revolver on my desk.”

  “Leave them now?”

  “When the hell did you think?” said Stern coldly.

  J.T. watched Lewis. He knew he’d hit a nerve with that; a cop can’t handle being asked for his badge and gun. It’s like taking his balls off. He’s afraid to become an ordinary mortal again, after tasting life with the gods of authority.

  “Look, maybe I can think it over?”

  “We’ve been at this for weeks now,” Stern said angrily. “You’ve had plenty of time to think it over.”

  “What the hell can I give you?” asked Lewis.

  “You’ve been on the force seventeen years. You’ve been in court. Somebody must have offered you dough, some court clerk must have done things for you, some judge, some DA. Come on, man, think,” J.T. prodded. “We’ve got to do this now!”

  “I really don’t know anything. I’ve been inside for the last eight years.”

  “If you can’t help yourself, you can’t help yourself,” J.T. shrugged. “Leave the badge and gun on my desk.”

  “You’ll let me retire?” Lewis said slowly.

  “If your information is good enough,” said Stern. “Just because you give somebody up doesn’t mean that information is going to get us a conviction.”

  “You’ll have to testify, too,” said Marty.

  “No, not testimony.”

  “Say, Carl, will you be kind enough to get Mr. Lewis out of my office so I can go back to work? You’re wasting my time.”