pretty well. Even if something’s missing, we can check it against the negative files.”
I pushed back from the table and got up. “Okay, buddy, I’m with you.”
The town house of Gerald Ute was a newly restored three-story building just off Fifth Avenue opposite Central Park. My own knowledge of Ute came from sketchy newspaper accounts and on the way over Hy briefed me on his background. He owned several flourishing corporations that had expanded into the multimillion-dollar class since 1950, but he himself hadn’t erupted onto the social scene until his wife decided Chicago was too restrictive for their new position and coerced him into a move to New York. She lasted a year before she made him a widower, but Ute had gotten to enjoy the high life of society circles he could afford and he widened his activities so that he was everything from patron of obscure arts to unofficial host to visiting dignitaries.
Apparently Ute was smart enough to stay out of the political jungle, though on several occasions his influence was used to mollify ruffled feathers among the U.N. members he cultivated. His activities didn’t seem to interfere with his businesses, which were still climbing on the big board in the Stock Exchange, and at sixty-two, he was pretty well out of the scandal class.
The muted sounds of a string quartet floated through the rooms against the background of quiet murmuring. A butler took our hats and behind him the guests were gathering in small groups, waiters circulating with trays of champagne glasses. There was little formality. Most of the men were in business suits, a few in black ties, while the women fed their vanities in Paris originals winking with diamonds.
Gerald Ute knew the value of good public relations. I saw Richie Salisbury who usually covered the Washington beat, Paul Gregory whose “Political Observations” were featured in a national magazine and Jean Singleton who usually handled the foreign news coverage. Ute was talking to Norman Harrison when we walked in, stopped long enough to come over and say hello to Hy and be introduced to me.
For all of his years, he was still ruggedly handsome, though starting to bulge out at the middle. He had the sharp eyes of the shrewd speculator that could laugh at locker-room jokes or cut ice if they had to. When they focused on mine they were reading me like a computer being programmed and he said, “Mr. Hammer. Yes, you’ve made some headlines recently.”
“Accidentally,” I said.
“But good for business.” He dropped my hand and smiled.
“Sometimes.”
“It’s too bad I can’t write half the things I know about him,” Hy put in.
“Why don’t you?”
Hy let out a laugh. “Because Mike might decide to write a biography and I’d be in it. How’s the party going?”
“Fine, fine. It’s just a welcoming thing for Naku Em Abor and his party ... getting him acquainted with the city and all that. People will be drifting in and out all evening. Suppose I introduce you around.”
Hy waved him off. “Don’t bother. I know everybody anyway. If I don’t, I will.”
“And you, Mr. Hammer?”
Before I could answer Hy said, “Don’t worry about him, Gerald. You never know who this guy is buddies with.”
“Then let me introduce you to our hostess for the evening.” He walked between us to the nearest couple, a woman in a black strapless gown that flowed over her body like a silvery fluid who was talking to a small oriental in a tuxedo. He said, “My dear
... if you have a moment...”
She turned around, her hair still glinting like a halo, eyes twinkling and touched so that they seemed to turn up at the comers, and when they looked at me, widened with pleasure and Dulcie McInnes said, “Why, Mike, how nice to see you here!”
Hy nudged Gerald Ute with his elbow and whispered, “See what I mean?”
Our host laughed, presented James Lusong, talked for a few moments, then the three of them went back to the others,
I pushed back from the table and got up. “Okay, buddy, I’m with you.”
The town house of Gerald Ute was a newly restored three-story building just off Fifth Avenue opposite Central Park. My own knowledge of Ute came from sketchy newspaper accounts and on the way over Hy briefed me on his background. He owned several flourishing corporations that had expanded into the multimillion-dollar class since 1950, but he himself hadn’t erupted onto the social scene until his wife decided Chicago was too restrictive for their new position and coerced him into a move to New York. She lasted a year before she made him a widower, but Ute had gotten to enjoy the high life of society circles he could afford and he widened his activities so that he was everything from patron of obscure arts to unofficial host to visiting dignitaries.
Apparently Ute was smart enough to stay out of the political jungle, though on several occasions his influence was used to mollify ruffled feathers among the U.N. members he cultivated. His activities didn’t seem to interfere with his businesses, which were still climbing on the big board in the Stock Exchange, and at sixty-two, he was pretty well out of the scandal class.
The muted sounds of a string quartet floated through the rooms against the background of quiet murmuring. A butler took our hats and behind him the guests were gathering in small groups, waiters circulating with trays of champagne glasses. There was little formality. Most of the men were in business suits, a few in black ties, while the women fed their vanities in Paris originals winking with diamonds.
Gerald Ute knew the value of good public relations. I saw Richie Salisbury who usually covered the Washington beat, Paul Gregory whose “Political Observations” were featured in a national magazine and Jean Singleton who usually handled the foreign news coverage. Ute was talking to Norman Harrison when we walked in, stopped long enough to come over and say hello to Hy and be introduced to me.
For all of his years, he was still ruggedly handsome, though starting to bulge out at the middle. He had the sharp eyes of the shrewd speculator that could laugh at locker-room jokes or cut ice if they had to. When they focused on mine they were reading me like a computer being programmed and he said, “Mr. Hammer. Yes, you’ve made some headlines recently.”
“Accidentally,” I said.
“But good for business.” He dropped my hand and smiled.
“Sometimes.”
“It’s too bad I can’t write half the things I know about him,” Hy put in.
“Why don’t you?”
Hy let out a laugh. “Because Mike might decide to write a biography and I’d be in it. How’s the party going?”
“Fine, fine. It’s just a welcoming thing for Naku Em Abor and his party ... getting him acquainted with the city and all that. People will be drifting in and out all evening. Suppose I introduce you around.”
Hy waved him off. “Don’t bother. I know everybody anyway. If I don’t, I will.”
“And you, Mr. Hammer?”
Before I could answer Hy said, “Don’t worry about him, Gerald. You never know who this guy is buddies with.”
“Then let me introduce you to our hostess for the evening.” He walked between us to the nearest couple, a woman in a black strapless gown that flowed over her body like a silvery fluid who was talking to a small oriental in a tuxedo. He said, “My dear
... if you have a moment...”
She turned around, her hair still glinting like a halo, eyes twinkling and touched so that they seemed to turn up at the comers, and when they looked at me, widened with pleasure and Dulcie McInnes said, “Why, Mike, how nice to see you here!”
Hy nudged Gerald Ute with his elbow and whispered, “See what I mean?”
Our host laughed, presented James Lusong, talked for a few moments, then the three of them went back to the others,
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