November 20, 1961

DeValen’s blue limousine coursed slowly, languidly through the blaring, hectic canyon of Park Avenue. The sound and confusion outside, however, could not penetrate the thick glass windows. The car was opulent—actually ostentatious—complete with a telephone, a built-in bar with cut-crystal glasses and decanters, and a chauffeur. The DeValen coat of arms was discreetly painted on the rear doors. J.T. had a ginger ale as DeValen sipped a Scotch and water.

“I’m glad Chauncey had you in on the conference this afternoon,” DeValen said. He wore a two-button suit of silk mohair, and a diamond pinky ring. “I liked your style on television, and when I met you I knew that you’d be right for the kind of work I’m doing.”

“You only talked with me for a minute, then rushed off to Le Club,” said J.T.

“Wonderful. You have a superior memory as well.”

“I’d never heard of Le Club before your wife mentioned it. I asked Dana about it.”

DeValen frowned. “That wasn’t my wife. But you remembered, that’s the point.” He sipped at his drink. “No, that’s not really it, actually. Not your memory. It’s your drive, your intensity … I hope you don’t mind my being frank?”

J.T. shook his head.

“You see, I’m rather down-to-earth. Brought up the hard way. My father was a rather ordinary Methodist minister, and we were naturally as poor as the proverbial church mice. I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth, like some people you and I know. And Dad didn’t leave me a million dollars to play around with. I made my own millions. And I’ve become bloody bored with these pantywaist lawyers you usually meet on Wall Street. Chauncey’s quite a guy, though. I like him …”

J.T. nodded.

“But he doesn’t want to—isn’t able to, actually—handle all my legal matters by himself. And I know this is your kind of action.”

“That’s the thing I really miss right now, action.”

“That’s exactly what I thought. You’re a real street fighter. You aren’t afraid to get your hands dirty. That’s why I want you to work on my legal matters. Those other twits Chauncey recommended, I tell them what I want to do and they tell me we’ll have to check this statute, that regulation. By the time they stop worrying about every little detail and writing me a memo … Good Lord, the memos … I must have some fifty thousand dollars worth of memos that say absolutely nothing. Then another fifty thousand dollars worth that tell me I received the first batch.”

J.T. laughed.

“You can laugh, you wretch,” DeValen kidded, “but I’m the one who has to pay. I don’t really give a damn about the money. What the hell? No sense being greedy. As long as I get something in return for paying. But after all the memos, I’m still where I was when I started. I need someone who can move fast on his feet without worrying about picky legal niceties. When I move, sometimes I’ve got to move fast.”

J.T. liked the sound of DeValen’s approach.

“Sometimes I’m working on a takeover of a corporation, for instance, and management drops its guard for a moment. That’s the time to strike. But I can’t. Not with the lawyers I have working for me now. They fudge around this way, then that. And by the time they’re finished, I’m lucky I haven’t lost my deal. I can’t afford that anymore.”

“I understand,” said J.T. “But there are several lawyers handling your matters right now. I couldn’t very well just walk in and tell them that I’m in charge.”

“Of course not. I will. That might be stepping on their egos, I know, but I don’t give a good damn. They already think I’m some kind of madman because I have no reverence for money. Most people worship at the altar of money. I like the money, of course, but I like the action more.”

“I know there’s something wrong with me, too. Because I understand what you’re saying.”

“Good. Chauncey does too, by the way. But he’s got a little red wagon. He reveres neither money nor work.”

“He and I can’t handle your account alone, either,” said J.T.

“You’ll supervise the others.”

The limousine stopped in traffic.

“Where are we?” asked J.T.

“Around Forty-sixth Street. Where are you headed?”

“I’m just taking a ride with you,” J.T. replied. “I live down in Greenwich Village.,”

“I like the Village. First apartment I had in New York was in the Village. It was different then. No weirdos. There were plenty of writers and artists, and a lot of nuts. But not the kind of weirdos who go out of their way to make themselves weird. Do you want to stop for a drink?”

“I really don’t drink.”

“I thought all lawyers drank. Jesus … did you ever see anyone in your life who could drink the way Chauncey can? But he never gets sloppy or mean. Just mellow. I don’t drink either,” DeValen reflected. “Well, on occasion,” he said, looking at the glass in his hand. “I have to have my wits about me all the time. When the opportune moments arrive, you can’t be out to lunch.”

J.T.’s credo was reaffirmed from on high.

DeValen pushed a button and lowered the window that separated them from the chauffeur. “Frank, after you drop me off, drive Mr. Wright wherever he’s going.”

“Yes, sir.”

The partition slid up again.

“Frank is an ex-cop. He’s very good. Carries a gun, has a lot of friends still on the force.”

“It isn’t necessary for the car to take me downtown.”

“Of course it is. I don’t need it anyway. I have a meeting, and Frank will be sitting doing nothing.”

The traffic began to move a bit.

“I was just thinking …” J.T. began.

“What’s that?”

“If we really want to get things done, I know this young lawyer who’s really on the ball. We worked together in Washington. He’s great at taking care of details, seeing that people get things done. You must know him. His name is Marty Boxer. He’s married to Courtnay Crawford.”

“You want him to work on my account?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll talk to Chauncey. Does Chauncey know him?”

“I’m sure he does.”

“I’ll get Chauncey to put him on the payroll. After all, I’ll end up paying for him in the end, won’t I?”

“That’s true.”

“Everything costs me down there. I think they charge rent for the time I sit in their chairs.”

The limousine made its way through the ramps beneath the Grand Central Building, emerging on the other side of Park Avenue.

“I’ve got a meeting now, I’m trying to get control of Horn & Hardart.”

“The Automat?”

“Right. That’s the first thing I want you to work on. It’s a sweet deal. Horn & Hardart owns the real estate on which most of their restaurants are located. Some of that is prime. Fifty-seventh Street, Times Square, Lexington and Forty-fifth. The real estate alone is worth around fifteen million dollars. The company’s stock is selling today for about seven dollars a share. There are just a little over a million shares outstanding. That means the whole company is theoretically worth under eight million dollars.”

“I don’t understand,” said J.T. “If the real estate is worth fifteen million dollars, how can the company be bought for less than eight million?”

“Management. One of the things that you can rely on in this world, J.T., is the inefficiency of other people. You think Horn & Hardart is running efficiently? Wrong. General Motors? Wrong. The United States government? Wrong. Always take inefficiency into consideration—don’t bank on it, but take it into consideration when you’re trying to accomplish something, and when you’re evaluating the other side. When you ask how could a company with assets in real estate of over fifteen million dollars be selling for only eight million on the market, the answer is management. But what do I care? That’s what makes the deal so sweet. What do you think is the first thing I’ll do if I get hold of this company?”

“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.