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 trimming 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.

“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.