“I am not overly reluctant, nor am I unaware that there are criminal elements in this country of Italian or Italian-American ancestry,” said Senator Maggiacomo.
The chairman watched the thrusting and parrying with patient amusement. He had seen these two duel many times in the Senate.
“Perhaps I could sum up my position on the proposed hearings quite simply,” continued Senator Maggiacomo, “by saying that although there are no alleged crime families in Georgia—Italian or otherwise—still there is unlawfulness, murder, rape, burglary, robbery, and every other crime committed in every other state, every other nation of the world. There are such crimes in Georgia, are there not, Senator Monrow?”
J.T. was getting nervous. The chairman was right, Maggiacomo was crafty.
“Are you waiting for an answer from me, Senator?” said Senator Monrow, aware that the others were looking at him. “You want to know whether there’s crime in Georgia? Yes, the answer is yes. Does that in any fashion explain this organized crime problem?”
“Indeed it does,” replied Senator Maggiacomo.
“Well, I for one fail to see it.”
“Or refuse?” added Senator Maggiacomo.
“Now, Mr. Chairman, am I being baited or am I not? I ask that we conduct this meeting so that we have no undignified displays or insults that require further answer or debate.”
“Or perhaps satisfaction,” Senator Maggiacomo added. “Unfortunately, where I come from, we have no practice of dueling with our detractors.”
“Let me explain the usefulness of these hearings, Senators,” J.T. interrupted from the far end of the table.
All eyes turned to the junior counsel.
“We cannot deal with the entire problem of crime at one time with this committee. True, there are many crimes not committed or controlled by organized crime. However, we can, and hope to, address ourselves to this one area of crime at this time. The chairman indicated to me that there was already enough legislation on the books against murder, burglary, robbery, and rape to cope with those crimes. But there is a dearth of legislation to cope with this sophisticated new kind of organized criminality. And that’s what our purpose is here: to find out the true dimensions of organized crime, and then figure out how to cope with it.”
“If we could uncover something new, perhaps that would be beneficial,” agreed Senator Maggiacomo. “But are we going to learn anything new? Or are we just going to have an open, televised rehash of what we already know, what we can already easily obtain from the FBI or the police? If we’re just going to put on a show, then I question the purpose altogether. Is that unreasonable?”
“Senator, do you agree that if we could come up with new, never-before-revealed information, if we could bring this menace out into the open, these hearings would be worthwhile?”
“I think—no, I’m sure—I’m being led down the primrose path, but yes,” Senator Maggiacomo smiled.
“Well, we have just such new information,” J.T. said boldly.
“Somehow I knew that was next,” Senator Maggiacomo countered.
“I was advised by the FBI that an informant has come to the surface, a member of organized crime, one marked for death by his criminal peers, who wishes security and protective custody in exchange for revealing to us the inner workings, the families, the names of individuals, the crimes, the whole story,” said J.T. “I have interviewed this man already, and his knowledge of the workings of organized crime is quite impressive. He could testify at private executive hearings, so the committee would be satisfied that what this witness says is new, revealing, even shocking. Wouldn’t that be the difference between a witch-hunt and a legitimate investigation, Senator?”
“So long as it’s not a witch-hunt, I repeat, I am interested in it,” the senator said, studying J.T. closely.
Anders smiled across the long table at J.T. “Well then,” he said, “let’s have an executive closed session to hear this informant give us his new and revealing information, and if he is what Mr. Wright says he is, then we’ll have a vote on the hearings. Is that satisfactory, gentlemen?”
The murmurs were almost unanimously affirmative.
“What’s the witness’s name, Mr. Wright?”
“Joseph Guardaci.”
November 21, 1960
Courtnay sat opposite Marty. J.T. sat to Marty’s right in a light blue suit that was in need of a pressing. J.T.’s rumpled appearance was not unusual, even under the best of conditions. He was so involved in moving quickly in so many directions, he never bothered with the frivolous world of style or fashion. And like a crowd around a gambler on a hot roll, people around J.T. weren’t concerned about his clothes, they were too fascinated with the action. The suit J.T. was now wearing, for instance, was a slightly electric blue with a nubby shantung pattern. His tie—the most tasteful part of his ensemble—had creases near the knot from being pulled down so often in his office and up again for public appearances in the hearing chamber.
“How did you think the questioning of Gentleman Johnny went today?” J.T. asked Courtnay, putting the menu down. They were in the Jockey Club, one of Washington’s most exclusive restaurants.
“It went rather well,” she replied, knowing J.T. was really asking how his own performance had come across on television. Courtnay wouldn’t dare tell J.T.—although she was sorely tempted—that what was very apparent on TV was his thinning hair.
“Why not just say it was nice?” J.T. joshed. “Come on, Court, you can say something besides ‘it went rather well.’ What did you think when Gentleman Johnny wasn’t televised?” J.T. prodded.
“His part was really dramatic,” Courtnay said.
“That’s who was dramatic—Gentleman Johnny?” J.T. joshed with feigned annoyance. He was obviously feeling high, pleased with the hearings.
“She’s just too shy to tell you to your face that you were rivetingly attractive, sartorially splendid, and all sorts of other terrific things,” Marty chided.
J.T. looked down at his suit. “Now I know you’re soft-soaping me.”
They all laughed.
The captain and the waiter silently came to the side of the table. The captain had his order pad at the ready. A busboy poured water and set down bread and butter.
“Have you decided, darling?” asked Marty.
“I’ll have the steak Diane,” Courtnay said.
“Yes, madam. And for the gentlemen?” said the captain, turning first to J.T.
“I don’t know. What do you suggest?”
“May I recommend the frogs’ legs, sir? They’re exceptional today.”
“Don’t you dare eat frogs’ legs at this table,” said Courtnay.
J.T. shrugged to the captain, who was silent, patient. “What are you going to have, Marty?” he asked.
“I’m going to try the steak tartare.”
“Very well, sir.” The captain made a note.
“I’ll just have a regular steak, medium,” said J.T. “We ought to have a bottle of wine with this feast, too. The expense account can afford it.”
“Oh … this is really a rare mood, I see.” Marty grinned.
J.T. smiled back. His happiness seemed infectious. Even Courtnay was in a good mood, which was unusual when she was around J.T.
“Captain, will you bring the wine list?” Marty said enthusiastically.
“Certainly, sir. I’ll send the sommelier over in a moment.” He handed the waiter the order list, and they both retreated discreetly into the darker recesses of the restaurant.
“Are you through with Gentleman Johnny now?” Courtnay asked.
“I think we’ve gotten as little as we could have hoped for,” J.T. said with a wry smile. “You agree, Marty?”
“That’s for sure. And no one else could have done so much with so little. You got tremendous mileage out of his appearance.”
“The very fact that he didn’t answer made it seem all the more sinister,” said Courtnay. “A vast criminal empire out there tha
t no one would talk about.”
“Where’s that wine?” J.T. said with delight. “That calls for a toast.”
“I hope you don’t mind my saying this, J.T.,” Courtnay said, “but you’re in a rare mood tonight. Usually you’re so quiet, so …”
Marty looked worried.
“So dramatically understated?” J.T. proffered. “Mysteriously withdrawn with the knowledge of some exotic secret?”
“That’s close,” Courtnay smiled.
Marty and J.T. laughed again.
The captain returned to the table, carrying a telephone.
“A call for you, Mr. Wright.”
“Thank you,” J.T. looked at Marty and shrugged.
The captain plugged the phone into a jack next to their table.
“Hello?” said J.T. He heard some clicks on the wire. “Hello?”
“Hello, J.T.”
“Yes, Mr. Chairman,” J.T. said purposely, so Marty and. Courtnay would know who was on the phone.
“Listen, son. These newspaper and television people are banging my door down, wanting to know what we have up our sleeves for tomorrow. I don’t know if I should tell them anything about Guardaci. But at the same time, I don’t want to antagonize any of our friends. What do you think? I hate to bother you in the middle of anything, but I didn’t know what I ought to do.”
“Who called?”
“The television stations, the newspapers. Everyone. Even Duneden.”
“Mmmmm … well, perhaps we can tantalize them with a little morsel, although I don’t know why they can’t wait until the morning. They have enough of a story for today.”
“Yes, that’s what I think. But I didn’t want to antagonize them, you know. What the heck, we need these fellows.”
The sommelier, with tasting cup and wine cellar key on a chain around his neck, arrived with a leather-covered wine list. J.T. motioned to him to give the list to Marty.
“I’ll tell you what, Mr. Chairman. I’ll talk to them, or at least to Duneden. I’ll take care of it, if you want me to.”
“Sure, sure. Frankly, that’s just what I had in mind. I hate to interrupt your evening, though. Is she pretty?”
“Who’s that?”
“Why, the girl you’re in the middle of, of course.” He laughed.
“Oh, yes, she’s quite beautiful,” said J.T., looking at Courtnay.
“Hot damn, son. What shall I say to the reporters when they call?”
“Tell them—except for Duneden—that you’re trying to get in touch with me, that you can’t release anything without clearing it with me, because there are legal complications. Tell them you’re tracking me down but haven’t found me yet.”
“Sounds good. What about Duneden?”
“Tell him where I am. He can call me here.”
“Do you want his number?”
“I have his number, Mr. Chairman. If he’s really interested in the story, he’ll call back.”
“Whatever you say.”
“I’ll check in with you later,” said J.T.
“Don’t call me at home. I won’t be there. And I don’t want the wife to get wind of the fact that we’re not having an executive session tonight, understand, son?”
“Right, sir. Talk to you in the morning. Is she pretty?”
“You son of a gun. Don’t you know Southern gentlemen never reveal that sort of thing?” Anders laughed again.
“Good night, sir.”
J.T. put down the receiver.
“What was that all about?” asked Marty. Courtnay was watching avidly, caught up in the excitement of the political whirlwind.
“Chairman’s having some trouble with the press. Told him I’d take care of it. Did you order the wine yet?”
“No.” Marty began to study the list.
“May I say, sir,” the sommelier said quietly to J.T., “you were very good on television today.”
“You really thought so?” J.T. said, pleased.
“Yes, sir. Especially with that Gentleman Johnny from New York. You really showed him.”
“You think we got to him?”
“Very much so. You had him tied up in knots.”
“Make that two bottles of wine,” J.T. said with a grin.
The sommelier, everyone, laughed. Marty ordered a red wine and the sommelier left.
The captain returned. “Mr. Wright, another call.”
“Thank you.” He looked at Marty and Courtnay and smiled. “When you’re important, you’re important.”
“Hello?”
“Hello, J.T., Jim Duneden. Anders just called me and told me where I could contact you.”
“Right, I told him to do that,” J.T. said. “I want you to get whatever information you need on these hearings.” J.T. silently mouthed Duneden’s name to Marty and Courtnay.
“I appreciate that, J.T. Tell me what you have planned for tomorrow. I need something to spice up my column.”
“Well, there’s a secret informer I’d prefer you to call something like ‘Mister X,’ so that his erstwhile underworld friends won’t rub him out.”
“An informer? You think the boys won’t know him the minute he appears on TV?”
“I’ve been thinking, Jim, perhaps I should have him testify the way Gentleman Johnny did, without his face being shown.”
“I’d imagine they’ll know who this guy is just from the way he talks and the things he talks about.”
“I guess that’s true. But it won’t hurt if the public had a little spectacle.”
“Have him testify with a mask on, then. Let him look like a real crook.”
“That’s great, Jim.”
“I was just kidding, J.T.”
“I wasn’t.”
“That’s what I was afraid of.”
“You can print something about our having a very dramatic informant witness, whose life is in danger, a hood who’s breaking the code of silence, that sort of stuff.”
“You know for sure that your witness is going to talk?”
“The committee’s already been through his testimony in executive session. We’ve already got a script prepared for tomorrow.”
“You do? You son of a bitch, where’s my copy? That’s my column for tonight.”
“You can’t print anything from the script, Jim. Not until the witness testifies.”
“Yeah, but I can tantalize them with something about it. I can hint at things. Anybody else have a copy of the script?”
“Just the chairman and myself. Even the committee members won’t have copies until tomorrow morning.”
“Great. Let me have an exclusive. How do I get a copy?”
“I can get one to you later.”
“You have one with you now?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sending someone for it right now.”
“You’ll have to keep it strictly under wraps until he testifies,” J.T. admonished.
“Beautiful, sweetheart. Talk to you later. I’ll call you at home when I’ve finished reading it.”
J.T. hung up the phone.
“What’s this drama that’s going to happen tomorrow?” Courtnay asked, consumed with curiosity.
“If you thought today’s witness was something, wait until you see tomorrow’s,” said J.T. “Tomorrow we’re going to have an informer, a stool pigeon from the syndicate, who’s going to give the inside story about the mob on television, coast to coast—first time anywhere.”
“How did you ever get someone to do that? I thought they never did that sort of thing.”
“It was a stroke of luck,” Marty chimed in.
“It wasn’t luck at all, Marty. It was intensive research, investigation, and hard work by both of us, wasn’t it?” J.T. said with a smile.
Courtnay looked at J.T. She had never liked the way Marty took a back seat to J.T., and how J.T. seemed purposely to keep Marty in that place. Even though the mood was jovial, Marty was J.T.’s foil. And Courtnay wished that it was different.
/> “Well, this witness, Joe Guardaci’s his name, was a member of organized crime, and while he was in prison, the mob wanted him killed—part of a vendetta or something. He found out about it, and one day when he thought an inmate was going to try to kill him, he hit the other inmate in the head with a pipe first.”
“Oh, my God,” said Courtnay. “Did he kill him?”
“He did. Then he had a twofold problem. Having killed an inmate, he was subject to indictment and prosecution by the authorities. And with the mob still interested in killing him, he had no place to hide. So he did the best thing he could think of.”
“What’s that?” asked Courtnay.
“Why, he got in touch with Superman, of course,” said Marty.
“Exactly right,” smiled J.T.
“I take it you’re Superman,” said Courtnay.
“Right again—in the guise of a mild-mannered junior counsel …”
“Beneath whose rumpled suit,” Marty added, “is a man of steel.”
“Rumpled suit?” J.T. look down at his tie. “You know, Marty, I wasn’t doing too badly until you started this Superman bit.”
“A little comic relief never hurt Shakespeare any, Otto,” replied Marty, reaching out and patting J.T.’s back.
“Take it easy now,” J.T. kidded. “This guy is really the man of steel. Stronger, if that’s possible, than my father.”
“I know,” said Courtnay.
“Have you been manhandling this lovely young woman?” asked J.T.
“Not at all, not at all.”
“And even if he were, we’d never tell,” Courtnay said coyly.
“Marty, listen to this. I got this idea just now, talking to Duneden. This Guardaci is so frightened of being rubbed out, of being killed by the boys, that he won’t testify without wearing a mask.”
“A mask?”
“Don’t you see the drama of it? A man in a mask, looking like a crook, telling the public all about organized crime. He can’t let the people he’s testifying about know who he is, or he’ll be killed. The public will eat it up.”
“It’s crazy,” said Marty. “What kind of a mask?”
“Who cares, even if it’s a flour sack with eye holes cut out. Hot damn, the television people, the papers’ll eat it up.”
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