April 1, 1962

The bandleader’s baton guided the usual, syncopated rinkytink rhythm as dancers in a fantasy of costumes foxtrotted. J.T. was not in costume, although the tuxedo he wore was so unorthodox for this crowd that it might as well have been one. It was a dark tuxedo, not exactly black, its satin lapels faced with a quilted design. He wore a ruffled shirt with a clip-on bow tie, one side of which occasionally lost its grip on his collar. Dana refastened his tie each time it lost its purchase, thinking J.T. was cute, his lost-little-boy quality appealing to her.

The Grand Ballroom of the Waldorf was ablaze with crystal chandeliers, candles at the tables. Laughter filled the air.

Dana and J.T. moved with the dancing traffic, passing George Washington, Captain Hook, Napoleon, and Henry VIII, who were dancing with Pierrette, Hester Prynne, Madame Pompadour, and someone who looked like Isadora Duncan. There were also Cleopatra and Robin Hood, Alice in Wonderland with the Lone Ranger.

Dana herself wore a costume that she had told J.T. represented Pocahontas. To J.T., she looked like any Indian squaw.

Chauncey Delafield wore the costume—except for the martini glass—of someone from the court of Louis XIV, or maybe he was Louis XIV himself. J.T. wasn’t up on the intricacies of the court of the Sun King.

Delafield’s wife wore a Quaker woman’s outfit. Archie Reynolds seemed to be a French moving man, horizontally striped sweater, beret, and all. Mrs. Reynolds was a French apache dancer.

“And what else did Uncle Chauncey say?” Dana asked J.T. as they stepped slowly to a beat that was only in J.T.’s head, the one to which he always danced, regardless of the music.

“He said that the senior partners were very disturbed that I would suggest a client like Bedardo to the firm for any reason, considering all the other clients and business that it might jeopardize. He also said the situation with the money was utterly preposterous.”

“And what did you say to him?”

“I told him I didn’t do anything to purposely upset anyone, but since it was Bedardo’s idea, not mine, I didn’t see what all the fuss was about either.”

“You didn’t tell him that you thought they were wrong, the partners?”

“No, I said they were entitled to run the office and to represent any clients they wanted to or didn’t want to.”

They danced next to a couple who looked like the Grim Reaper dancing with a bedsheet.

Adults in silly costumes always bemused J.T. He was befuddled, really, by the exhilaration of adults in children’s fantasy, perhaps because he had no images dancing in his head, waiting to leap out full-blown in costume.

“What did he say then?”

“He said that was a good attitude, because that’s exactly what the partners had in mind. To run their own office their own way, handling the clients they want.”

“He wasn’t angry with you or anything, was he?”

“I don’t think Uncle Chauncey cared one way or the other. He was just telling me what the others thought. I imagine he went along with their thinking, but he wasn’t angry.”

“And then what?”

They passed another Robin Hood and a woman dressed in brown burlap. J.T. imagined she too was supposed to be an Indian maiden—if you were willing to accept a five-foot-two-inch, one-hundred-eighty-pound Indian maiden with several inner tubes of fat around the waist.

“I said I understood. I should have said that I thought it would be a bit more interesting handling Bedardo’s case rather than the day-in, day-out drudge paperwork of their kind of lawyering.”

“I’m glad you didn’t say that. Not to Uncle Chauncey. He’s so nice. That would only hurt his feelings. He really likes you, you know?”

“I really like him too. He’s not like the rest of those Ivy League drones down there.”

“You were graduated from the same kind of school they were.”

“Somehow. I can’t understand that, either.”

They repassed Marie Antoinette, who was now dancing with Captain Hook. The Captain’s sword hit J.T. in the legs.

“Sorry,” said the Captain in a feminine sort of way.

A fag interior decorator dancing with one of his customers, thought J.T. The bitchy personalities of some of the gay crowd seemed to fascinate the lady socialites. J.T. figured that the boredom of having money and leisure, with no challenge of survival, caused the wealthy to drift toward the unusual, the different, sometimes the perverse and self-destructive.

“Do you think you’d be happier somewhere else?”

“Perhaps. That’s why I asked Uncle Chauncey if I could get a leave of absence.”

Dana stopped dancing.

“I really want to handle this case. At least I’ll find out if it’s the kind of thing I enjoy. Besides, it’s exciting. And there’s a big fee,” J.T. whispered softly, his mouth close to Dana’s ear. He started her moving to his imaginary beat again. “There’d be publicity too. Good publicity. Perhaps it could lead to my own office. I told Uncle Chauncey that I really wanted to stay with the firm, that I didn’t want to do anything that would jeopardize my position there. If I took a leave of absence, I wouldn’t embarrass the firm and wouldn’t be severing my ties with it, either.”

Dana listened carefully. She thought J.T. was about the cleverest person there ever was.

“I told him that the experience and the trial work would ultimately benefit the firm. By handling cases like this, I would build my big bad reputation even bigger and tougher.”

“What did Uncle Chauncey say?”

“He said I was a clever son of a bitch.”

Dana laughed as they passed Napoleon and Hester Prynne.