Ride of Your Life

The Story of a Family and a Country

Portico Darwin

Jul 04, 2025

I dedicate this to two people. My dear friend Arthur, who talked me into doing it.

But only kind of, so don’t blame him.

And my wife Julie, without whom I wouldn’t have the luxury of writing. Or much else.

Chapter 1: Brits, Italians, Germans, and Puerto Ricans

Chapter 2: A Punch Up at a Wedding

Chapter 3: Love and Other Things

Chapter 5: A Car (& Much More) For a Kid

Chapter 6: Doors Opened and Closed

Chapter 8: Eli Picks Up Himself and The Car

Chapter 9: Beverly Elizabeth Booth is a Modern Woman

Chapter 10: Drugs, War, Peace and a Big Party

Chapter 12: Going West and East

Chapter 13: Rutger from Stuttgart

Chapter 14: Summer Games in Fall

Chapter 18: Ben Jr Wants Liberation

Chapter 19: Time Magazine Interviews Connie in SF

Chapter 1: Brits, Italian, Germans, and Puerto Ricans

Cooking and Language School

Benjamin Elias Spencer, from just outside of London, was 19 in 1918 and serving King George V in World War I. A member of the 101st Field Company of the Royal Engineers, he had been assigned to build roads and bridges in the mountainous Dolomites, on the border between Britain’s fellow Allied Power Italy and the Central Power foe Austria-Hungary.

“Excuse me, but aren’t they called the Italian Alps?” he had asked a superior when first getting the assignment, but now he knew better.

Indeed, a year in, Private Spencer knew that and quite a bit more. First, and in no surprise for someone from Shepherd’s Bush who had been exactly nowhere, he was astonished by the splendor of the Dolomites. He had seen pictures of mountains before in school, but he found the jagged spires that surrounded him astonishing.

Secondly, in between the long days with shovel and pickax in hand, Ben had developed a talent for cooking for his colleagues. Specifically, he had a knack for sourcing local meats and cheeses and peppers and breads and making the best sandwiches anyone had ever tasted - and this from a Brit? During a war’s privations? Even the stoic locals of Val Gardena were impressed.

It helped that, over time, he had picked up quite a bit of Italian and even some German; he even could say a few words in the native tongue of Ladin. Learning languages seemed to be in Ben's nature.

During his 14 months in The Great War, he had built roads, bridges, and sandwiches and got out unscathed, although his time in Italy had a major impact. He returned home to England, but soon emigrated to the United States.

Because while he didn’t know it at the time or had even heard the word (coined by the French economic philosopher Jean-Baptiste Say in the early 1800s), Ben was an entrepreneur. He was determined to take what he had learned and do something with it independently, in a place where that was welcome, unlike in Britain.

So in 1919, Ben left Blighty for good and landed on Ellis Island and then made the short trip to Hoboken, New Jersey. It was fortuitous timing, because America’s immigration clampdowns were coming in the form of the Quota Act of 1921 and the National Origins Act of 1924. The inflow of Irish, Italians, Jews, Germans, Poles, and yes, even English was about to end.

But Ben made it to America and would live out the rest of his life at 4th and Washington, near the docks and on Hoboken’s commercial corridor. The family he and his wife Chelsea would raise there were lucky he made it.

The Wedding of Constance Spencer, Act 1

While New York State Governor Nelson Rockefeller was trying to emulate his father’s monumental Rockefeller Center with his South Mall in dreary Albany, his best friend and brother Laurance was doing a bit of building of his own.

But in far nicer places. And instead of offices, he was creating some of the world’s finest hotels.

In 1956, he opened his first, Caneel Bay Resort on St. John in the US Virgin Islands. Just two years later, he had finished his second, Dorado Beach Resort, about an hour’s drive west of San Juan on Puerto Rico. In 1964, the British Virgin Islands would get a RockResort of their own, with Little Dix Bay on Virgin Gorda. And in ‘65, Laurance sprang the incredible Mauna Kea Beach Hotel on the world; it was the first resort on Hawai’i Island.

But it was his still new-ish Dorado Beach masterpiece in Puerto Rico that was the location for the December 8, 1963 wedding of Benjamin Spencer Sr’s beloved granddaughter, Constance.

He and 38 other guests were here to see what not too long ago would have been unthinkable: the marriage of a privileged white girl from Hoboken to a Puerto Rican. It’s partly why when Constance - Connie - insisted they marry on her 21st birthday, they chose this resort rather than her gritty and gray hometown.

And of course, Alvaro Carrión was no ordinary Puerto Rican. His father, Rafael Carrión, was a founder of Banco Popular de Puerto Rico, the largest bank in Puerto Rico and one of the largest in all of Latin America. When Hoboken’s Puerto Rican population began to take off, the elder Carrión sent his son Al there to establish a branch of the family business in 1958.

It had worked out great in more ways than just financially: the Hoboken bank was where Al and Connie first met, by chance, when she stopped by for a roll of dimes. He was 6 years her senior.

While Laurance Rockefeller didn’t need a loan (or dimes) from the elder Carrión in San Juan, he did need permission: Nothing much happened on the island without a nod from Señor Carrión, pictured here during the wedding weekend.

And with that, plus some of his cash spread liberally around the island, Laurance Rockefeller was able to build and open his Dorado Beach Resort. He did such a fine job that it soon became the place to go for the northeastern’s elite, and those wishing to appear so.

Like the Spencers.

So when Alvaro and Connie got engaged, and she pushed for a December ceremony, the Dorado Beach Resort was an easy choice. It would be perfect, they thought.

It wasn’t, as the timing turned out to be awful. Because while Connie believed it would be fun having her wedding on her birthday and that of her best friend, her fraternal twin brother Benjamin Elias Spencer III, some horrendous events meant the wedding would be dark, despite the tropical sunbeams.

First, John F. Kennedy had just been murdered in Dallas. Having happened just a couple of weeks prior, it still cast a pall over most everything. But while some of the Irish back home thought it rude she didn’t postpone, Constance moved forward. After all, she reasoned, she hadn’t rescheduled her nuptials when her Mom committed suicide. Why do it now because of Camelot’s destruction?

On St. Patrick’s Day, just 9 months prior, Genevieve Laroux Spencer, wife of Ben Jr and mother to Connie and Eli, carried out what she had threatened for years. Except nobody had paid much attention then to the always-histrionic but charismatic Gen. One of her favorite jokes about her twins was that Ben Jr and she didn’t have much sex, but when they got hammered together at The Elysian on St. Paddy’s in 1942 and did, they got two for the price of one.

In a final, horrific stroke of the narcissism she had displayed since their birth, she slit her wrists on 3/17/1963. Everyone in the family supposed she did it in one of the cars in the garage in Manhattan as a final fuck you to Ben Jr, and on the day of the twins’ conception as one to them, too.

In her own mind, Genevieve Spencer killed herself to prove to Ben Jr, Elias, and Constance what they had heard forever: They had let her down. Ben Jr with his various dalliances in Manhattan with God knows who, and the children? She had resented them from the start and could never hide it.

While Connie proved resilient in the face of this tragedy, her twin Elias (the family never called him Benjamin) fell apart. 20 and already well-versed in both the drinking arts and underachieving, his mother’s suicide had sent him on a months-long bender. Indeed, Connie almost canceled the wedding not because of personal and national calamity, but rather because of Eli’s drunken and erratic behavior.

But he had promised to behave this weekend. They were best friends and he was determined to stay sober.

The Spencers’ Tupper Lake cousins Craig and Bob Laroux were chatting about all of this on the pillow-soft and golden sand beach that fronts the hotel. There weren’t very many secrets in the Spencer and Laroux families.

It was Friday in the later afternoon, and the wedding was Sunday. Tomorrow would bring the rehearsal dinner on a 70’ sloop on the warm Atlantic, but today and tonight were at leisure for the guests.

The palms - and there were a lot - swayed in the damp tropical breeze. But the moist wind wasn’t doing much to cool the two Laroux brothers. Being snowbirds to the core, they had chosen loungers fully exposed to the sun.

“Hey, it’s too fucking sunny – let’s get some shade,” muttered Craig, as he polished off another Schlitz and muffled a burp. He and his fellow mountain man brother Bob didn’t get much tropical sun in Tupper Lake, and it showed. They were hot and red, and not unusually, they wanted to grab a couple of more beers, preferably somewhere air-conditioned. Which wouldn’t be a problem, although getting to the hotel itself hadn’t been easy for them.

They had taken the New York Central from Tupper Lake Junction in the middle of the Adirondack Mountains to Utica, connected with a train through Albany for New York, and then got themselves to Idlewild Airport. At least the flight was nonstop to San Juan on Eastern Airlines; this was a very popular route now. The two country boys availed themselves well on their first jet flight. In fact, the captain was so charmed by their authentic aw-shuckness that he walked them out onto the tarmac at the San Juan airport after the flight, so Bob could take this snapshot.

The others? As pretty much all of the Spencers and most everyone else attending the wedding came from Hoboken or very close, it was easy: There was also nonstop jet service from Newark to San Juan.

Given Ben Jr’s success, it was no surprise his daughter’s wedding wanted for nothing. Although he “only” owned a car service (as he put it), he was still one of Hoboken’s most prominent and respected businessmen, as was his father, deli owner Ben Sr.

So among other things this weekend, that meant a fully-stocked, 24-hour hospitality suite. It was big, luxuriously appointed, and nicely air-conditioned. And Ben Sr’s influence was certainly felt in terms of the quality of the catering. It also had a large, furnished veranda that offered an expansive view of the beach and ocean below. Overall, it was one of the nicest suites any of the guests - some well-traveled - had ever seen.

Into this opulence sauntered the sunburned and decidedly non-opulent Craig and Bob Laroux. Knowing the family as they did, they were not surprised to find most of the family hanging around the free and expansive selection of top-shelf booze and beer. Wine? Only the French Champagne that Connie had insisted upon, although it looked like Ben Jr had bought several cases.

“Hi, buddy,” cousin Bob greeted the barman, who was clad in a crisp white jacket. The color of his coat contrasted with the deep cocoa shade of his skin, which was darker than that of the bridegroom, but not by much. Many still couldn’t get over Constance was marrying a Puerto Rican, no matter how rich or handsome.

“Or snobby,” Craig had said to Bob previously when the subject came up.

But the cousins’ real focus was getting buzzed for free on Uncle Ben’s dime. “Two double V.O. and waters, please,” and he turned and said to Craig, “Let’s get off the Schlitz and I can’t stand daiquiris.”

They then surveyed the room.

While a red rose was brought to every gathering that weekend and set on a chair to represent the missing Genevieve, the whole clan was present otherwise.

The bride and groom were nuzzling off to the side, Ben Sr dozed on a couch, while his now-widowed son sought solace from both a Jack Daniels and his mother and daughter’s namesake, Chelsea Constance Poe Spencer. Born on exactly the same day in exactly the same year, both of his parents were now 64 and had been married for 43 of them. Indeed, Connie got the idea to marry on her birthday from her parents: they had wed on September 9, 1920.

Chelsea, a Hoboken native and not from its pretty part, was her typical loving but direct self. “You are going to have to keep it together. We both know she was never right after your twins were born and it’s been a fucking roller coaster. But look - you are only 41. You have a big part of your life ahead of you and you need to pull your head out of your ass.

“Plus, you have so much pussy in Manhattan, you may end up happier.”

Benjamin Elias Spencer Jr, even after an entire life hearing it, was still taken aback by his mother’s obnoxiously foul mouth. And he simply ignored her now-frequent digs on his infidelity.

“Well, it feels awful, but in some way I am relieved she’s gone. I can only say that to you, Mom. I don’t understand my feelings.”

He looked lost. Chelsea gave him a long hug and then looked at both of her only grandchildren. Elias was thankfully drinking only ginger ale, while Connie - no surprise - was drinking Champagne and perhaps too much, thought her grandmother?

Ben Jr by now had walked away from his mother and approached the record player he had the hotel set up in the hospitality suite.

“Excuse me, sir?” had been the polite response at the front desk when he first asked, but they soon found one, and even the records he had requested. He had picked out some of his favorites from the year, and luckily a bellman found a record store in San Juan with everything. Well, luck and the motivation of the crisp $20 Ben Jr had flipped him.

Because Ben Jr loves and needs his music, especially now: Like the other diversions he now sought, music temporarily helped him forget his decidedly mixed emotions over his dead wife. He stacked the records, the needle dropped, and the party was on.

The younger among them especially enjoyed his first pick, although just about everyone tapped their feet. Like the Spencers, the music was a product of Britain.

The first record he played was the debut album from a band called The Beatles.

Chapter 2: A Punch Up at a Wedding

Ben Gets Lucky

It didn’t take Ben Spencer long to assimilate in America.

Sure, it had been a miserable crossing, and the bureaucracy at Ellis Island had taken the better part of a day. But Ben was an American now, in Hoboken. He landed in the so-called mile square city because his chums back home working the West India Docks said Hoboken was an American equivalent.

It was true. It looked different but similar as Ben took his first streetcar ride to Hoboken Terminal.

He also knew a lot of Italians and Germans had already moved there to work its docks, so his language skills were going to be a big asset. He would learn that immediately.

“Stanza in affito” was the hand-lettered sign on the ramshackle residence of Giovanni Luizzi, at 2nd and Jackson. Luizzi, fairly new to the country himself but from Italy, was stunned to hear this fair-skinned Brit speak fluent Italian on his doorstep. He naturally rented Ben the room, and although the home looked a bit dodgy on the outside, Ben was pleased to find the inside tidy and well-tended by Gio’s wife, Alessia. Hearing her name made Ben smile, as that was the name of his girlfriend in Val Gardena during the Great War. They both made him feel welcome.

Over time, Gio and Alessia introduced the affable Ben to the neighborhood. Nobody failed to gasp when this Brit spoke Italian and German in a neighborhood full of people from both places.

And then there was his cooking, and more specifically, his sandwich making. As in the Dolomites, his ability to take what was available locally and combine them to be magical was even better than his linguistics. But luckily he had both, because his unusual multi-language ability got him noticed and thus hired for day work on the docks, despite being straight off the boat.

But he hated it, and the corruption and violence prevalent there even more. He wanted out and was determined to open his own delicatessen. It was his dream, he clearly had the raw skills, and it was obvious the business was there for one. Hoboken was teeming with factory and dock workers, each needing to be fed, and not always at home. Ben was prepared, but needed an opportunity.

It presented itself at his church, uptown at Trinity Episcopal. Started in 1853, it is the oldest parish in town.

Ben, mostly out of respect for the wishes of his mother, tried to attend regularly. He was lucky he did, because one Sunday, early in 1920, his life would be changed forever. It was on that day he met Chelsea Constance Poe.

Chelsea, of British lineage like Ben but born and raised in Hoboken like her parents, was gorgeous. Thin and tall, with dark blond hair and blue eyes that always reminded Ben of the ocean, they met outside as the congregation chatted after the service. There was an immediate, and mutual, attraction.

She was beautiful, yes, but subtle? No. Chelsea got right to it.

“Hello! I’m Chelsea and you’re new here, aren’t you?”

“I am,” Ben said, a bit flushed because he felt the electricity already.

“Well, why don’t you ask me out so I can show you around? I’ve lived here forever, and I know everybody. Even the nitwits and rubes, who I’ll kindly point out!”

Ben couldn’t resist her blunt and effusive charm. She was direct in a way no British girl ever could be and he couldn’t get enough.

They started dating, and Chelsea, at 21 already no stranger to the bedroom, brought him into hers after only their 4th date. Ben was no virgin either but had never experienced what he did with Chelsea before.

They were lying in her bed afterwards when he asked her a question.

“When is your birthday?”

She giggled and said, “Are you afraid I’m not old enough?”

“No. I’m serious. Mine is September 9, 1899. Four nines! When is yours?”

“You kiddin’ me? No shit? MY birthday is September 9, 1889!”

Ben said, “Let’s get married,” and that was that.

An honorable man, he proposed even before knowing her father would rent them, dirt cheap, a vacant flat he owned, at 4th and Washington. Tragically, the couple living there previously had succumbed to the Spanish Flu, 2 of the 160,000 that died from it during the first six months of 1919.

But Chelsea and Ben were very much alive, and not only in the bedroom. They married and moved in during June of 1920.

Even better was the vacant storefront on the first floor, that Mr. Poe said Ben and Chelsea could rent, too. For $1 a month, “Forever,” he said then, and he stuck to it. That and Ben’s skills made it work, even through a depression. Chelsea was her father’s favorite, and it meant the world to have his little girl nearby and safe.

And married to a proper British gentleman, a decorated veteran of the Great War, and a real go-getter. But everybody, including Mr. Poe, doubted an Englishman could open a successful delicatessen in Hoboken. Even if he did speak Italian and German, it was common knowledge the English can’t cook.

“Horsefeathers,” Ben always said whenever his cooking acumen was questioned, and he set out to prove everyone wrong. Which he did and his shop became a Hoboken legend for decades.

Soon, Chelsea gave birth to their only child, Benjamin Elias Spencer Jr, on October 22, 1922. He was born and spent his early years above the store, in an apartment just big enough for the 3 of them.

One of his earliest memories of the family flat was of his 5th birthday party, and hearing his mother, tipsy on bathtub gin, snorting to friends, “How screwy is that, huh? 9/9/99 for me and Ben and 22/22 for our kid! Fucked up if you ask me!”

Nobody present had previously heard the term fucked up and pretended not to hear it now. In 1927, people still didn’t swear quite the way Chelsea did.

A Großer Mercedes

It was over 40 years later that Ben Jr, on his 41st birthday, bought himself a giant present. And maybe some piece of mind.

Although he was not superstitious, his parents’ and his own birthday’s symmetry made him a closet numerologist, and he often tried to make his largest purchases or important decisions on dates with 9 or 22 in them. And this was both.

But the number on his mind today was not 9, or 22, or even 41. It was 600. As in a Mercedes Benz 600 Pullman limousine. Ben Jr, after years of big success owning a fleet of Lincoln limos in Manhattan, had just walked out of the Mercedes Benz dealership there, having written a $5,000 deposit check for something far different. But just announced, it would not be until early 1964 that he’d take possession.

For now, all he had was a catalog.

And he corrected himself: Although he’d been a Mercedes guy since seeing them during his time in Stuttgart in World War II, the car was no self-indulgent gift. He had originally decided to buy it as an image-builder for his limousine business: It could put them in a new league, and gain them access to the elitist of the elite in Manhattan.

It was also a needed distraction from Genevieve’s suicide 6 months prior. The fact that she had gone to his garage in Manhattan and bled out in the back of one of the ‘59 Lincolns she hated so much had shook him and left him a confused mess.

Still: Buy the most expensive car in the world? $25,000 was an outrageous sum of money, no matter how impressive the car.

And that was on top of Connie’s wedding, coming up in December in Puerto Rico. He had tried to ignore the crazy estimates, but what could he expect, having signed off early on the concept of a wedding at a resort owned and operated by a Rockefeller?

But what disturbed Benjamin Spencer Jr the most was the real reason he had purchased The Grand Mercedes.

He mostly wanted to bribe his son, who he knew he had to fire after the wedding. Now a year removed from the car accident and expulsion from FDU, things had only gotten worse. Eli often showed up late for work to the family garage, typically smelling of the rye he drank the previous night.

It couldn’t go on and Ben Jr was going to give Eli a most expensive gift as part of a plan to straighten him up. And keep him quiet.

The Wedding of Constance Spencer, Act 2

The rehearsal dinner had been spectacular; Rafael Carrión had spared no expense for a proper party for his son and new bride, and it had been comfortable and gracious. But now it was over, and they were all off the yacht.

While Al and his father smoked cigars and drank Ron del Barrilito rum on the terrace of the hospitality suite, the Spencer twins Connie and Eli took a walk on the moonlit beach together. They hadn’t had much of a chance to talk alone, but both knew the wedding was a turning point in their relationship.

Both would turn 21 tomorrow, and although similar in so many ways, as they aged into adults, they had chosen different paths. Connie had taken the smooth one.

A looker like her mother and blessed with her father’s meticulous attention to detail and grandfather’s knack for languages, she was an honor student and nearly perfect child. Marrying the filthy rich son of a banker with homes across the Caribbean seemed like more of the same. Although some were aghast, nobody being honest back home could say the young Alvaro was anything but respected.

After returning from their brief honeymoon in Buenos Aires, she’d be finishing up her Mechanical Engineering degree at Stevens Institute that spring. Both she and Alvaro were then planning to take off the fall of 1964 and visit Tokyo for the Olympic Games, followed by a tour of the rest of Japan. She half-jokingly told friends it was payback for marrying in one Spanish place, and then honeymooning in another.

Connie had run varsity track at Hoboken’s Demarest High School and had also studied Japanese history as an elective at Stevens. Indeed, she had chosen it over MIT or Rensselaer because of its self-proclaimed “liberal-technical" focus. The fact this historic school was an 8 minute ferry ride from Manhattan didn’t bother Connie, either. It was fitting her father’s company was called cosmopolitan.

Elias Spencer’s ride through life thus far had been much rougher, and mostly by his own doing. Just as smart - if not smarter - than Connie, he was also as attractive as she and never wanted for girlfriends. But Eli’s problem was two-fold: He never applied himself, and he loved to drink.

That had caused problems since he was 14, and it got worse at the end of high school and into college. After they both graduated from Demarest, she the salutatorian, Elias with barely a B average, he enrolled at the bucolic but academically pliable Fairleigh Dickinson University.

In an incident that got him expelled in late 1962 and left a club member with a permanent scar, Elias drank too much at a club rally and cracked up the MG Midget their father had given him. His buddy Brian was cut badly by some flying glass, but was OK other than the scar on his forehead he’d have forever.

Eli was tossed out of FDU soon thereafter and announced he was going to “cool out” for a while.

So walking with his sister next to the roar of the ocean on December 7, 1963, Eli Spencer, nearly 21 and with every advantage in the world, was living with his parents in Hoboken, and cleaning limos at his father’s garage for rent, meals, and pocket money.

“What happened to you, Eli? You always wanted to have fun, but what changed? You’ve gone crazy since March and Mom, but you were very angry before then, as far back as when we were seniors. What’s the matter? It’s nice you’re sober right now, but everyone is worried about what you’re going to do next.”

“I hate Alvaro.” Eli was not lying, although not answering the question, either.

“What?” Connie, for whatever reason, always sought her brother’s approval. She wanted the two of them to get along - maybe even be close. But Connie knew the problem.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Connie, he has never been friendly to me. I am your twin, we’re very tight, and I’m not going anywhere, yet Al barely speaks to me? He’s never asked me one thing about me or our family, not once. Don’t you see that?”

Connie knew it. But somehow, she didn’t care, or at least pretended not to. Her Alvaro was an attempt to elevate the underprivileged. Sure, Al was filthy rich, but many that looked like him didn’t even get a chance. Connie - the idealist - would change the world by showing it was perfectly acceptable in 1963 for a fair-skinned upper class white girl to marry a Puerto Rican. She also thought he looked like a darker, younger, and more handsome Desi Arnaz, so there was that, too. But whether she genuinely loved him was her secret alone.

Connie sat there in silence for a moment. She didn’t like conflict, but she pushed back now.

“This is your insecurity, as usual, Eli. He’s a very smart and successful businessman. He comes from a great family, and you are telling me you’re acting so crazy because of who your sister is marrying? Bullshit.”

She was wrong, because Alvaro was a pompous bore. Yet she was correct that there was something beyond their mother’s suicide deeply troubling her twin brother. And the fact that Connie hadn’t used the word “love” with her best friend Elias in describing her feelings for Alvaro went unsaid, but not unnoticed.

The next day, Connie got the wedding of her dreams, until she didn’t.

Her twin brother Eli went off the wagon at the lavish reception. It was bound to happen, as he and his Tupper Lake cousins were renowned for debauching together at family events. But while those were typically joyous and festive moments, the reception got ugly, because a sodden Elias decided to take out his angst on his new brother-in-law.

“You know what, fuck you, Al. Why don’t you ever talk about anyone but yourself? Do you know you’ve never once asked me a single question about myself? Or Craig or Bob or anyone else I know? You’re my brother-in-law now, but you’re no brother. But you are a dick. A big, Puerto Rican dick!”

Alvaro had tried to ignore Elias, slurring badly now, as the family looked on; this was upsetting and surprising, but not really.

Suddenly, Alvaro slugged Eli square in the stomach and then shoved him against the bar, and shouted, “You are a booze hound and a fucking white nigger!”

Separated by the Laroux brothers and a shrieking Connie, Elias and Alvaro never spoke again.

The record player in the suite, somehow left on throughout the drama, happened to be playing something appropriate.

“Elevator to the gallows, indeed,” thought a somewhat bemused Ben Sr as he shuffled off to a waiting valet with a golf cart that would take him back to his suite for the night. He’d seen enough.

They all had.

Chapter 3: Love and Other Things

A Closet, A War, A Wife, A Son, A Daughter

On December 8, 1941, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt and Congress declared war on Imperial Japan after their attack on Pearl Harbor. While it was a terrible time in America, and had been for quite a long time, the Spencer family had thrived.

Spencer Specialties was by now a Hoboken institution and famous for its sandwiches, for which people came even from Manhattan to enjoy. Benjamin Spencer Sr was rightly proud of what he, Chelsea, and their son Ben Jr had built. It was a true family business, and suffice to say, it was a good thing to own a food shop of any kind when others were going hungry at various points during The Great Depression.

Indeed, the Spencer’s prospered to the point where Ben Sr could buy a large brownstone apartment near 11th and Hudson during the dark days of 1932. Here’s Ben Jr’s pal Larry Weinberg outside, just a few years later.

While it was now a several block walk through Hoboken’s grit to the shop, vs one chilly flight of back stairs, the 3 of them, father Ben Sr, mother Chelsea, and Ben Jr loved all of the space and newness. Their gracious 6 room apartment would welcome many Spencer family members, immediate and otherwise, in the coming years. The property never left the Spencer’s, and it, joined later by the Mercedes, became touchstones across generations.

From his earliest days, the younger Ben demonstrated not a talent for the culinary arts but rather, management. The family still laughs at the irony of him as a child pretending to run a taxi business when he was 10.

Indeed, as early as twelve he began making organizational and operational suggestions at his father’s deli. This evolved as Ben Jr matured to the point where his father often let him run the shop by age 16. With a goal of going to booming Detroit and joining General Motors, upon graduating from Demarest High School, Ben Jr enrolled at Rutgers University, in its business school.

Ben Sr missed his son at the shop, but Benjamin Elias Spencer Jr excelled at Rutgers, educationally and socially. With his stylish clothes and fastidious manner, Ben was a trend setter on campus. He made many friends, and it was with one in particular where Ben Jr found a part of himself.

Because at Rutgers, at age 18 in the late fall of 1940 and in his dormitory, Ben Jr lost his virginity.

But this time, it was to another man.

Given the era, it was something that happened with no courtship and its participants pretended it didn’t occur in the first place. Indeed, Ben suppressed his desires then, and with varying degrees of success in the coming decades. He did not wish to be branded as mentally ill and tried to forget how he felt.

So that’s how he came to be holding hands with his girlfriend Genevieve Laroux as they walked across the brisk courtyard in front of the business school, where they had met 9 months prior. Now there was a courtship - the perfectly dressed and mannered bisexual Ben and the unpolished yet charming Gen from the Adirondack mountain town of Tupper Lake. Ben and Gen dated exclusively from the get-go and Ben did it with a smile on his face.

Gen, on her own for the first time from her cloistered Catholic upbringing, was as batty in bed as she was elsewhere and it attracted even a confused Ben Jr. Well, that and the can-do attitude of a mountain girl combined with a sporty Gallic look true to her heritage. They had already talked about getting married when they finished their degrees. She knew nothing about his sexual past, or future.

They were done with classes for the day when the news began to spread on campus of the awful attack. It was about 2:30 PM. They clutched, wept, and looked east towards New York City, wondering if Germany was in cahoots with Japan and if their U-Boats would start mayhem here.

That didn’t happen. But the attack on Pearl Harbor and America’s involvement in World War II because of it meant college was going to be delayed for Ben and Genevieve.

Permanently.

And while one would prosper in service to his country, the other would use it as the first of an endless string of grievances and disappointments about which she’d harangue those around her for the rest of her troubled days.

In short order, he was drafted and told to report to Fort Dix beginning the third week of April of 1942 for basic training, in advance of being sent to the European theater of operations. He had dreamed of visiting his ancestral lands of England and the mountains of Italy where his father had been, but not this way.

The couple chose to marry before Ben’s deployment. That occurred on March 17, 1942, in a simple ceremony in Genevieve’s hometown. Although British with no Irish heritage, they still chose St. Patrick’s Day, for good luck.

With the war effort ramping up and not wanting anything showy, they married in the recently weatherized - and quite luxurious - Adirondack camp of the Laroux family. Directly on Big Wolf Pond, outside of Tupper Lake proper, the wedding was small and subdued. Which made sense, as the groom, after a brief honeymoon in nearby Montreal, would be going off to fight a war, and might never come back.

Even though sex by then was nothing new, they still enjoyed themselves - even Ben - on their wedding night, spent in the cozy guest cabin on the property. Indeed, they had so much fun, it resulted in a pair of fraternal twins, birthed by Genevieve alone but for a midwife. Her husband was thousands of miles away and would not learn of his children’s arrival until just before Christmas.

In fact, Benjamin Elias Spencer III and Constance Anne Spencer, born December 8, 1942, didn’t meet their father until he returned in 1945 to a more-than-grateful nation.

Their mother, left to fend for herself with two newborns, was not as grateful.

Alvaro at The Alvear

Connie tried to put the awful end of their wedding reception out of her mind as she and Alvaro were driven from the Dorado Beach Resort to the San Juan airport. After all, they were off to honeymoon for 7 nights at the best hotel in Buenos Aires, and one of the best hotels in the Southern Hemisphere, The Alvear Palace Hotel.

Knowing they were going to be spending a couple of months in Connie's pick of Japan next fall, she happily agreed to keep the Spanish thing going for their honeymoon, especially after Al showed her this article from a magazine he swiped at the barbershop.

Also, Connie, even as a child, loved fine hotels, so that, and a chance to continue practicing her Spanish in a city reputed to be the "Paris of the Americas" all sounded ideal. Like her grandfather, she picked up other languages quickly; Spanish was her 4th, after English, Italian, and German, the latter two being a constant connection between her and her Grandpa. And if one considered the rough Japanese she was picking up as part of her Japanese studies at Stevens, she was closing in on 5. That was another motivation for the big trip next year: She had a goal of becoming fluent in that tongue, too.

It was the day after, December 9, 1963, and she had hoped slugging her brother and calling him a name would put an end to Al’s bitching. At the time, she honestly felt they could build a life together. After all, they had everything going for them.

But he wouldn’t let it go and she was already tired of his complaints about Elias.

“Connie, I am sorry. But he is a boozing playboy that has wasted every chance your family has given him. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him serious about anything. It’s all just a big party to him and I don’t like it. And he seems be getting worse.”

Connie knew he was right, at least partially. But her twin and best friend was a lot more than just a well-dressed barfly, and she knew instinctively as his twin there was something deeply troubling him beyond a predilection for gin mills. She also knew he had what it took to turn it around. Indeed, Connie knew Elias in ways that her handsome Puerto Rican prince never could or would. She’d later recount that his lack of empathy had been the earliest red flag.

Thankfully, they were distracted by the journey. The incessant roar of the DC-7’s props precluded much conversation of any kind for the hop to Miami. They were then lost in the bliss of 9 hours of Pan Am’s First Class service on the 707 jet ride to Buenos Aires.

There was a refueling stop in Caracas, but they got to Buenos Aires and Connie hoped a week in what some were calling a new world capital, and a Spanish one at that, would please the moody Alvaro.

Ironically, it was a Lincoln sedan that transported them from Pistarini Airport to the hotel, but it went unmentioned. Their car pulled to a gentle stop beneath the portico of the imposing Alvear Palace Hotel, and the newly-minted Mr. And Mrs. Alvaro Carrión emerged. He was in an impeccably tailored gray-blue Brooks Brothers suit and she a Chanel ensemble the color of champagne. The space, comfort, and service on the plane had made all the difference.

“I feel great - and only 9 hours!” exclaimed Connie, hoping to set the right mood. Jet service had cut the trip time between the Latin American capitals by more than half.

A bellhop rushed forward, tipping his cap with a "Buenos días, Señor y Señora Carrión!" as Al passed him a crisp American dollar bill. The hotel was expecting them, and had rolled out a literal red carpet: Buenos Aires was actively seeking to attract skilled, highly professional businessmen like Alvaro, but especially his father, Rafael - and their businesses. A branch of Banco Popular de Puerto Rico opening in BA (as everyone called it) would be a win all of the way around.

Truth be told, it was the reason Al had suggested BA in the first place; it wasn't just a random magazine article - he hoped to make some banking contacts. His new wife would learn he often conveniently omitted facts when it served him.

Connie removed her sunglasses, and focused on the grand Belle Époque façade with the appreciation of the engineer she would soon be. The Alvear Palace stood as a monument to old-world European grandeur transplanted to South American soil, while the Carrión’s were a new-world equivalent, at least for a week.

They checked in, and were not surprised at the ongoing expressions of condolence regarding Kennedy’s assassination. Nor were they surprised Connie’s father had sprung for a nice suite for them. There was even a bottle of Champagne on ice awaiting, from the same house as at their wedding. Fresh flowers, too. Ben Jr, as usual, had thought of everything.

After being tipped an extraordinarily generous $5 by Al, the bellman left and they immediately had sex on the suite’s bedroom’s plush bed. He was a stud, but Connie was already wondering if that, his money, and his thin veneer of charm would be enough.

After a nap, that night it was a feast of some of the best beef either of them had ever had. The wine, which they were told was called “Malbec,” was a perfect complement. “It’s actually one of the 4 Bordeaux varietals,” sniffed Al, who was more of a dilettante than Connie wanted to believe.

“I think there are 5, 6, even, if you include Carménère,” corrected Connie, who then ordered another bottle as a diversion. She was her father’s daughter, and while young, already sophisticated, and not just in languages and engineering.

After dinner, they retreated to the hotel’s luxurious bar for a cordial. There Connie witnessed his problem in toto, which she was beginning to understand might be fatal in terms of their marriage.

Actually, Connie thought, there are two problems. One is how he always talked down to others, and no more so than with fellow Latins who happened to be waiting on him. He had done it at the Dorado, and he was doing it here.

He had an attitude just now, ordering a B & B from a bartender who had seen Alvaro’s type before, but was still gracious. Earlier, he had sneered a crack in Spanish that Connie didn’t understand when he dressed a barman down for having the audacity to serve his otherwise perfectly prepared martini with only a single olive.

There would be a similar scene at the bank the next day when they went to cash some traveler’s checks, and seemingly every other time Alvaro had a chance to show off his wealth and machismo. Connie found it tacky and rude.

But the bigger problem was his personality: He didn’t have one, or more accurately, the one he possessed was defective. While handsome and very smart, Alvaro simply didn’t take any interest in others.

While that didn't do much for him socially, it also hurt him in business, like that night over cordials at the bar. But neither Alvaro nor Connie would ever know.

Because Alvaro never learned that the Brit he was chatting up was in fact on the board of directors at First National City Bank in New York City. Who was looking for a Latin partner to enter booming Argentina and Brazil. He knew about Alvaro, his father, and their bank, and had the Argentinian government’s blessing to get a deal going.

It was no accident he was in the bar in the first place, and while he could have met Alvaro in New York, the "Citibank" executive wanted him at ease. And it was also near the government officials who would have to be bribed.

But Alvaro hadn’t asked the gentleman about his own line of work, and instead droned on about himself and his own banking prowess. The executive barely got a word in, and Alvaro hadn’t bothered to see the Englishman’s growing unease with the conversation in general.

The man left, finding Alvaro so off-putting that he would choose rival Banco Santander for his bank's South American partner. The Carrión family bank, Banco Popular de Puerto Rico, would remain a bit player in the region - and never do deals with Citi in New York, either - in large part due to Alvaro's insolence. But he hadn't noticed.

Much like he didn’t notice Connie’s unease, in the bar that night and elsewhere.

With it not even a week old, a bad marriage this soon couldn’t be happening, she wanted to believe. “Because I’ve always made the right decisions,” she told herself.

While that was true, her choice of men, starting with Alvaro, would prove problematic.

Chapter 4: Cars For Kids

The story of Ben Jr's business, Cosmopolitan Car Service, or Cosmopolitan Cars as it would later be known, is really about Ben and Gen's twins. Because it was wanting the absolute best for them, always, that motivated him when he finally came home from the war. He was sad he wasn't there to see them enter the world, nor witness their first and second birthdays. Ben Jr would work his "ass off" (as he liked to say) for decades making up for it: He was determined above all else to give them both every advantage.

And he was born an entrepreneur, like his father, but also a natural leader and manager. That was about pay dividends.

As babies, Connie and Eli were the exact opposite of what they'd become. She was a royal pain, never sleeping through the night, while, except for feedings, Elias did almost from birth. As toddlers, she screamed and yelled, while Elias was calm and thoughtful. It was not until their father returned that they would assume their future roles, he being the problem, she the apple in everyone's eyes. It was like a switch had been thrown, and nobody could ever explain it.

But presently, almost at the end of World War II, along with doing without because of shortages and rationing, Genevieve Spencer was also raising their children, alone. Sure, Ben Jr's parents were there, and helped often - especially the doting Chelsea, who absolutely adored her grandchildren - but it was still a burden.

A burden that Gen would complain about forever to those same children and husband, who she could only hope was returning. Indeed, her anxiety regarding his return made things worse than they already were.

Which to Gen in the spring of 1945 was hard to imagine. The babies, the worry, Hitler, the Japs, everything - she found it all too much. She was determined if he did ever come back, she'd never let him or the children forget what they had done to her.

Ben Jr did come home and the young Spencer family was reunited. The children, while not old enough to really understand, were still glad their mother seemed happier, and loved their new daddy. The first few weeks were a blur and bliss for everyone.

And Genevieve was indeed happy. But like always, it never lasted, and she would often make the family's life miserable with her cutting remarks and habit of placing blame for her problems everywhere except where it belonged.

Upon Ben Jr's return from Germany, his father encouraged him to take it easy, help out in the shop when he felt like it, and get to know his kids and wife again. Ben Sr by now was flush with cash, having landed a lucrative food supply contract for serving sandwiches to GIs departing on trains from Pavonia, so he told his son to "take as much time as you need." It was a luxury his son would use wisely, and one few other returning GI's enjoyed.

A couple of years passed, with Ben Jr quickly returning himself to his father's store and the minutia of running a gourmet sandwich shop in Hoboken. He thought about going back to Rutgers, but it was after this parade, on Memorial Day 1949 that Ben's future would become more clear. It was then, and for an unusual reason, Ben decided to pursue a particular line of work.

Because he went to Luizzi's Tavern afterward. Now owned by Gio Luizzi's son and Ben Jr's longtime pal Pete, who had been excused from serving in the war due to his bad leg. Which earned him the nickname "Gimpy" around his bar, a popular place for Italians and others seeking a classic watering hole. It was at 2nd and Jackson.

Ben Jr walked in, and said, "Gimpy, what a day! It's got to be a shot and a beer!" It being Memorial Day, his money was no good in a bar full of proud Italian Americans. Ben was a couple of drinks in, and after talking about how they both didn't like President Truman, Pete started talking business. The jukebox was, as usual, playing Hoboken's very own son.

"Hey, listen. My Uncle Paulie tells me the smart guys are buying limos so the swells don't have to take a taxi. Go figure!" Pete, whose leg allowed him to avoid the family business of La Cosa Nostra the same way it got him out of the army, was, with Larry Weinberg, Ben's best friend. Ben knew Pete had a way of predicting the future, mostly because his Uncle Paulie Luizzi was a caporegime in Joseph (“Joe Bananas”) Bonanno's crime family and thus seemed to know everyone and everything.

Yet because of Ben Sr's relationship with Gio, and then Ben Jr's with Pete, the Mafia left the Spencers to themselves. It was a huge advantage in a city and country increasingly run by the mob.

But the Mafia would prove to be excellent customers for Ben, now obsessed with starting what he called his Cosmopolitan Car Service. He was a "car nut" (as they were being called now) from his earliest days, when he vividly remembers them terrifying the horses they were quickly replacing. He had managed his father's store for years, and knew his way around a carburetor. And in the army, he had learned the value of service, dignity and respect. He hoped it might even help Gen - trained as a bookkeeper, she could do the accounting and it would get her out of the house.

And most importantly, that past winter while deer hunting with Gen's relatives at the River Ridge Club outside of Tupper Lake, Ben Jr learned he had a patron. A wealthy Laroux in-law, one of the largest heating oil and gasoline distributors in the Adirondacks, had committed to funding any business that Ben Jr wished to start. His reputation for business acumen was already well-known throughout the family, and now a decorated war vet, it was one of several offers of employment or investment interest he had received.

That is the somewhat unlikely origin of a company that would make him quite wealthy, and allow him to provide for his family the way Ben always wanted. Which was first-class.

During the war, he had come across two different vehicles that would inform his future decisions, car-wise. First were the massive Mercedes Benz sedans he had seen upon arrival in Stuttgart, which his regimen had captured. There was something about their presence that made a permanent impact on him, but it would be years before he'd realize his dream, formed then, of owning a big Benz.

The war also had a more practical impact, vehicle-wise. In Germany, Ben's life and that of 2 others were saved because the "Jeep" he jumped into was drivable despite its damage, and they were able to speed off moments before a mortar landed - and killed several fellow soldiers. Knowing it had been made by Ford, he would be a Dearborn man for the rest of his days, and proudly displayed what others found boring. If they only knew.

So when it came time to buy a car for his company, Ben knew it had to be a Ford. And not just any Ford: Ben would always buy Lincolns.

He started the company in 1950, and copying the first market entrant, J.P. Carey who was driving people from the New York Central's Grand Central Station in a fleet of Cadillacs he had leased (from a Mafia-controlled dealer, at their direction), Ben would focus his attention on his favorite building in Manhattan, the Pennsylvania Railroad's magnificent, if fraying, Penn Station. Along with Grand Central, it was the hub of New York and thus the world, and Ben thought (very correctly, it would turn out) the wealthy travelers using the station would want a stylish and professional option, beyond a taxi, which was neither.

Although Checker was starting up their limo division and operating at Penn Station, critically, Uncle Paulie Luizzi kept Carey at Grand Central as a favor to his limping nephew. He also made sure Ben Jr would not be shook down by anyone in his or the other 4 New York City crime families through the years. Yet the Spencers were protected as if they were indeed paying pizzo - protection money - like J.P. Carey had to. Ben just agreed to fair pricing for limos for the top guys in all of the City's Mafia families for their non-criminal nights out.

In sum, it was a unique opportunity, and Ben was prepared for it: He had made his own luck.

This was the very first car in a fleet that would grow to dozens in later years. It was, appropriately enough, a Lincoln Cosmopolitan.

Ben would need a garage with plenty of space, and he found the perfect building, conveniently down the block from a Gulf station, at 97 Charles Street, near Hudson, in Greenwich Village. It gave him good-enough access to Penn Station and the rest of midtown, but also allow him to serve Wall Street out of the same garage, which would later turn into a gold mine for him. And it was an easy ferry or subway ride from Hoboken.

Of lesser importance was its proximity to Julius', one of Ben Jr's favorite bars when he was drinking with particular friends in Manhattan, although he certainly didn't tell anyone.

Ben Jr was CC's original driver, but that soon expanded. Wife Genevieve did the books and managed bookings (at least in the earlier days), but Ben still needed someone to take care of the company's most precious and expensive asset: its cars.

In a hire that would pay dividends for the company's entire existence, Ben, like his father sympathetic to all minorities, hired a Negro mechanic to take care of the car and then cars. Marcus Howard was only 22 and just out of the service like Ben when he became employee #1. He would go on to become his right hand man and enable Cosmopolitan Cars to develop a sterling reputation for giving its customers "the perfect ride," which Ben set as the only acceptable standard.

Indeed, by 1959 when Ben placed his biggest order with Lincoln to date, he had a total of 5 Negroes working in his shop. He, Gen, his secretary Gladys, and the drivers were the only white faces, which some found odd - but the condition in which the cars were kept spoke for itself.

It had been an advertisement that had convinced Ben to make the sizable investment; it was exactly how he saw himself, his drivers, his cars, and his business. It was these cars when he first stopped plastering his company's name on the side.

He also dumped the word "Service" from their name and added an "s."

Cosmopolitan Cars' new limos would set a standard across a booming Manhattan, and in the 1950s and then into the 1960s, Ben Jr's success allowed him to give everything to his children and wife Gen. Country clubs, nice clothes, vacations in Europe: He did it all for them. In return, he got to run his business as he pleased, including selecting the cars for his drivers, one of his favorite parts of the job.

But while Ben found the lines of the 15 new 1959 Mark IV Continentals he had ordered sleek and modern, Gen developed a real hatred for these cars. Ben suspected why, but would not know for certain until reading her suicide note in a few short years.

Chapter 5: A Car (& Much More) For a Kid

As Elias walked to the sadly deteriorating Hoboken Terminal and its dwindling ferry service, he glanced towards downtown Manhattan. Everything seemed to be changing, for him, for his surroundings, and for the United States.

This was captured by the front page of the previous day’s paper, which Eli had left abandoned on his doorstep and not seen.

But he did see the ongoing abandonment of dock after dock, pier after pier, on Hoboken’s once-booming waterfront on this walk, and on many before. Hoboken by 1964 was a shell of its former self: Deindustrialization and the introduction of containerized shipping appeared to be diseases from which the city would never recover.

As his ferry made the short ride to Christopher Street, Elias considered the city and what lay ahead of him. Even on a bluish-sky day, New York City had an old, tired feel and somehow, only 21, he felt the same. Like Hoboken and lower Manhattan, Eli needed a major rebuild.

He stepped off the ferry, and the noise of the city enveloped him immediately: car horns punctuating conversations and women's heels clacking on the pavement, mostly. Well, that and the distant strains of The Beatles' "I Want to Hold Your Hand."

A young secretary named Beverly Booth, walking to a subway and her midtown job at J. Walter Thompson, was clutching a transistor radio, and the local stations were playing that song every 20 minutes or so. They’d be making their American debut on The Ed Sullivan Show in just a couple of weeks.

Change was everywhere, and it wasn’t just music that was transforming. Since JFK’s murder in Dallas late last year, President Johnson announced his War on Poverty and there seemed to be real movement on civil rights. Negroes were now openly demanding equality and justice, and a final end to the defacto Jim Crow world still in existence. Everybody Elias knew wanted that, too, and they likewise held people like Dr. Martin Luther King Jr in the highest regard.

It was one of the reasons Alvaro’s “white nigger” crack made no sense.

“What did that even mean?” he said out loud to no one. He paused momentarily outside his father’s hulking garage on Charles Street, nervously adjusting his pea coat against the winter chill, even though he was about to go inside. He knew he’d be out of a job within a few minutes; what he didn’t know were his father’s terms.

Since making a huge scene at his sister’s wedding a little over a month ago, his behavior had only deteriorated further. The holidays were one big boozy blur, spent at various watering holes in Manhattan, Jersey City, and back home in Hoboken. As a result, he’d often show up late for work and even as a garage man at his father’s Cosmopolitan Cars, a level of professionalism was not only expected, but demanded. Despite being the white son of the owner, his Negro coworkers embarrassed him, with their punctuality, attention to detail, and positive attitudes. Ben Jr's son Elias, in early 1964, had none of those attributes.

And then there was the accident just a couple of weeks ago. In a family limousine.

"Hey, Eli, did you hear about our boy," Marcus Howard asked Eli as a greeting as he walked through the garage to his Dad's office in the back. He had always been one of Elias's favorites, first when he would hang around the garage has a kid, and now as a fellow worker. Marcus was referring to Joseph C. Thomas, a friend and neighbor of his; pending confirmation by the Senate, he was about to become the first Negro postmaster of Englewood, NJ.

Elias briefly thought about how quickly things were moving for Black people now, but his attention returned to what was about to happen.

“Sit down, son,” Ben Jr said to Elias, and gestured him to one of the two facing leather sofas. Like its resident, Ben's office was immaculate and stylish, more so when one considered it was in a very busy garage full of limousines being readied for their next missions.

Despite the day’s gravity, Elias stifled a laugh at his father’s lack of irony: He had proudly hung in his office the poster Connie had sent from her honeymoon with Alvaro.

Ben Jr studied his only boy, whom he adored. What Eli had seen him doing in the locker room at Glen Ridge Country Club the summer before his senior year in high school had damaged him, so Ben had given his son chance after chance after chance. Plus, he had kept his mouth shut and kept Ben Jr’s secret. Indeed, that eventful day and night had not been mentioned since.

But Eli’s erratic behavior had gone too far. It was only through family connections a nasty car accident in Manhattan, with Ben at the wheel of a family limousine and flask in hand, was swept under the rug. And like at Fairleigh Dickinson, and it was only by sheer luck someone wasn’t badly hurt or worse.

Ben couldn’t fully know what his son would do after getting a pink slip from the family business, bribe or not. Heck, he and Connie literally took their first steps on the garage’s concrete while their mother did the books, and now Eli was getting fired?

He had known it was going to take tough love and a lot of money. But since Ben had plenty of the latter, his son’s recovery and getting him on a path to some kind of future beyond aimless drinking was all that mattered.

That message came through loud and clear to Elias when he heard his father’s offer. Typically formal and polite in public, in private and when agitated, like now, his mother’s foul mouth in him emerged. He was very stern but was not yelling.

“Elias, you are a fucking shit-headed, drunken asshole. Time after time, you have fucked-up every chance I and your mother - rest in peace - have given you to turn things around. FDU is a Goddamned country club, and you fucked that up. And now? You’re either at our real country club, boozing, in town, boozing, or screwing up here at the garage.

“Put simply, you are a complete and total mess. But I love you. And I know how what you saw at our club hurt you. I want to make it right.”

He didn’t want the focus to be on him, so he immediately asked, “Eli, do you want my help? Son, you really need it.”

“Dad, I know,” Eli said and he started to break down.

“It’s just that for a couple of years now, I’ve not understood who you are and if you and Mom were even true or just an act. Now she's gone, and I'll never know. And if you two were an act, isn't our whole family an act? I don’t understand and it’s making me crazy. I know I’m drinking to pretend I don’t know that you like to have sex with other men. Dad, it’s disgusting and it makes me sick.”

“Elias, this is not about me. I apologize but I am not going to have my life ruined by you or anyone. I am going to help you and I am going to do so much for you that I think you’re going to want to keep our secret.” Ben was speaking as if he already knew the outcome, however strife the moment was.

“I can’t go on. I can't live this lie for you.”

“Eli, you must. I think when you hear what I'm offering you'll see how this is good for both of us.

"First, you’re going to that Towns Hospital on Central Park West to dry out. You’re going to be there for however long it takes.”

“What?”

“Shut up - it gets a lot better. When you prove yourself there, I have a job lined up for you, and I am putting you in your own apartment on - wait for it - Park Avenue. Right in Murray Hill, 34th and Park! All expenses paid. Well, as long as you agree to see a psychiatrist every week, and don’t fuck up at work.”

“What is the work?” Although Elias - typically among the smartest in any room - already knew it wouldn't matter. Even with the next piece to his father’s bizarre puzzle.

“Ha! That’s the best part: I talked to Eddie, and as a personal favor to me, you’re going to work for our largest competitor, the King of Caddies, Carey Limousine! You’re going into their driver training program and you’re going to chauffeur New York’s wealthiest back and forth from Idlewild and LaGuardia - in those Goddamned fucking Caddies!”

"Drive for another company? What? I've never driven and I don't want to."

Ben had already been laughing out loud at even the idea of a Spencer - a Lincoln and now Mercedes house through and through - driving a Carey Cadillac, no matter how pretty he thought they were.

Then his father's tone suddenly turned serious. "Son, you are one step away from either jail or the morgue. You have zero choice."

Elias didn’t react. He couldn’t, because his father kept going, and what he said next was so outrageous, he sat there, too stunned to speak.

“But Eli, there’s a very special part to my offer. You know that giant Mercedes limo I ordered last fall for Cosmo? Well, it’s arriving pretty soon, and” Ben paused for effect, but then continued, “it’s yours. I am giving you the most expensive car in the world. But only kind of.

“You only will get the keys from Ed Carey once a month, to use with really special clients - I mean these will be the biggest of the fucking big. You’ll give him the keys back at the end of your shift, and the car will be kept very secure at Ed’s. It will be serviced on my dime - I don’t want those Caddy grease monkeys at Carey touching our Benz. And only you will drive it.

“And I have an even bigger idea for you. I want to send you to England in a couple of years to Rolls Royce for that chauffeur class they have. When you come back, you’ll have ‘graduated’ and you’re on your own. You can leave Carey. The Mercedes, taken care of, should last forever. I’ll put the title in your name at that point. Perhaps it will make sense then for you to come back here and take over. You know I've always wanted that.

"My stupid offer to my fucked-up son is for that. I want you to take this over, and if and when you do, I will want you to have the most knowledge of anyone in the industry. Having grown up here, driven for Ed, and then being trained in Crewe will do that. We'll still have the best cars. You'll certainly have the best car. Wait to see the Benz.

“But fuck up, even once, and our entire agreement is off, I will take the car and the apartment. You'll have to make it on your own, at Carey or wherever. Frankly, this is so nutty generous, if you fuck this up, my conscience is clear and I will not care one Goddamned iota what happens to you.”

Ben Jr stood up and walked towards his office’s fireplace. In his impeccable dark gray Botany 500 suit, crisp white shirt, narrow silk jacquard tie, and cuff links, even Elias - who’d observed his father’s sartorial habits his whole life - was impressed by his elegance. In the most inelegant of places: a limousine garage in the New York's West Village.

Ben then turned around, stared directly at his son, and said, “Do we have a deal?”

Elias’s head was spinning like a top. His father had planned an entirely new future for him, and it was the most bizarre and generous thing he'd ever heard.

Dry out at the most exclusive drunk tank in the City. Free apartment in Manhattan, walking distance to the Carey garage near Grand Central. New, salaried job with the best outfit in town. The chance to drive the best car available, get the best training, and then be able to have it all to himself before turning 30? Just by keeping quiet about his pervert father? And at the same time, being able to keep his own secret: his unintended role in his mother's suicide?

“Dad, I don’t know what to say. It’s the craziest thing I’ve heard. But Mom’s g-g-gone," Eli stuttered for the first time in his life but then continued, "and I know you’re on your own road so to speak. I’ve got to get it together. I want to quit drinking, and right now, I am completely lost.

“So, yes. Yes, Dad, thank you for saving me. When do I start at Carey? When do we get our hands on that big Benz? And when can I move to Park Avenue?”

Damn, I spoiled this boy rotten, thought Ben Jr.

“Talk to Gladys,” Ben Jr said, gesturing at his secretary on the other side of his office’s glass and his confidant of over 10 years. “She’s got a packet of information for you - everything’s in there. You’re to report to Towns first thing tomorrow morning. Consider yourself fired. And sober.

“Elias, don’t fuck this up. This is it.”

"Sure, Dad. Hey, what's the suitcase for? Going somewhere?"

By this point Ben Jr was such a good customer of Lincoln's, they were flying him to Chicago on Ford's new corporate jet, so he could see in person their next limousine, manufactured by Lehmann-Peterson there. He'd be going to Teterboro in a couple of hours.

Ben would order 20 of them on the trip, and looked forward to never seeing a 1959 Lincoln again.

"Hi Gladys. Please turn that down," Elias said, gesturing at the big radio on her desk. "Dad said you have a packet for me?"

"I do, and what's the matter, Eli, don't you like that song? My daughter loves it."

"I've already heard it too much," he answered, taking the large envelope from the sturdy Gladys, and headed back to the ferry and Hoboken. For one of the last times; Benjamin Elias Spencer III would soon be a Manhattanite.

He would first have to get sober. And then perhaps accept his father for who he is?

Gladys was able to catch the end of the song after he left; she found it fun.

Chapter 6: Doors Opened and Closed

A Day at Glen Ridge Country Club

The four Spencers, parents Ben and Gen, and their twins Connie and Eli, arrived around eleven on Saturday morning, about when the Glen Ridge Country Club came alive with both the thwock of rackets striking tennis balls, and the first martinis of the day. Their club, a 35 minute drive northwest of Hoboken, had been the family sanctuary from gritty Hoboken ever since Ben Jr insisted they apply for membership 5 years previous, in 1954, after Cosmopolitan Cars had really taken off.

"It'll be good for the business," he said then, and as was often the case when it came to business, he had been correct. It allowed him to add prominent businessmen and academics to his clientele, which to date had consisted primarily of America's biggest mobsters. It was through friends of friends at the club that he would find himself and those in his employ transporting the world's most brilliant and wealthiest.

Ben pulled his Continental Mark II into a space near the entrance, not hiding his satisfaction that the spot afforded both shade and prominence. The automobile itself - midnight blue, gleaming with wax - announced what his wife's quiet sighs and the twins' high school senior indifference did not: we are here, and we have arrived. He couldn't resist when Lincoln offered him one at dealer cost a year ago.

"Well," Ben said, turning off the ignition and adjusting his straw boater in the rearview mirror. "Here we are."

Genevieve said nothing, her gaze fixed at the modern clubhouse, opened just two years ago, after the tear-down of the original colonial one. They all knew she was counting the minutes until she could retreat to the women's pavilion, with its cool marble floors and cold stares and colder vodka.

The twins sat equally cold in the back seat, sixteen years old and already masters of the carefully crafted sulk. Elias with his nose buried in a paperback novel about an airline pilot, Connie braiding and unbraiding a strand of her dark hair, both pretending they were anywhere but here, in this parking lot, with these parents, on this particular Saturday in July, in this particular part of North Jersey.

"For Christ's sake," Ben muttered, "at least pretend to enjoy yourselves."

The twins exchanged glances in their private language, the one they'd developed and refined through almost seventeen years now of watching their parents' marriage slice itself thin like cold cuts in their grandfather's delicatessen.

With their day bags and golf clubs, they made it inside, but soon went their own ways, first to their lockers and then elsewhere.

Ben found his regular foursome, Tom Frederick, Bill Cameron, and a rotating fourth who was today a ruddy-faced man named Connolly. They were off to play 18 and would be gone for 4 hours or so. The twins headed downstairs to go outside while Genevieve went to find her bridge club.

The pool at Glen Ridge Country Club was Olympic-sized yet still often crowded on weekends. Elias found some empty loungers at the end and sat in one, after spreading out his towel. He flicked on his omnipresent transistor radio, spun by WINS and WMCA and landed on WMGA, which he liked because they were more likely to play his favorite pop tunes; one was playing now.

"Your mother's at bridge," Connie announced, appearing beside him with two bottles of Orange Crush, already damp from the humidity. She wore a red bathing suit with a modest cut that nonetheless drew glances from boys of various ages. Connie had matured into a prettier version of both her mother and father. She had been dating the same boy since her sophomore year, while Elias, equally attractive, had - and typically - done the opposite. Presently, he was unencumbered, but looking - Eli often met girls from other schools and towns at the club.

"She told me to watch you." Elias was typically good for sneaking at least 3 or 4 drinks from the pool bar. At times, they'd even serve Eli directly, at least after a nod from his father.

"I'm watching her," Elias replied, taking the lemonade. "Same difference."

They observed Genevieve in her wide-brimmed hat at a table beneath a striped umbrella. The bridge club had decided to play outside today. Gen clutched her cards, and said words they couldn't hear but knew by heart:

"Two spades." "I'll bid three hearts." "Partner, why did you lead with diamonds?" Their mother played bridge like she was excavating for something lost beneath the cards.

"She took another pill in the car," Connie said quietly. "When Dad was getting the clubs from the trunk."

"I know," Elias said. "I saw her."

They sipped their orange sodas in silence, watching the parade of country club life unfold before them. It was typical of so many of their past summer days over the years, although they both knew the easy life of a teenager was ending, with their final year in high school approaching. Then: Adulthood, and while Connie seemed ready, it was a toss-up regarding Eli.

"What a day," Connie said in their father's voice, a perfect mimicry down to the way he'd clear his throat between sentences. "What a perfect goddamn day to be alive."

Elias snorted Orange Crush through his nose, and they both dissolved into laughter that drew annoyed glances from the cabana area. They made exaggerated stares back and left for the pool. Both twins took real pride in being smart-asses - even the otherwise-perfect Connie.

"Are you two joining us for the club dance next weekend?" Eileen Cameron appeared beside them in the pool, her voice syrupy with false hospitality, and shoulders red from a lack of suntan lotion. The daughter of their father's golfing partner, she was a year older than the twins and already possessed her mother's talent for nosiness disguised as pleasantry.

"I'm not sure," Connie replied noncommittally.

"You really should," Eileen continued. "Princeton boys come down for it. Yale too." Her gaze slid to Elias. "Though I suppose you'll be off to Rutgers like your father - didn't he go there before the war?"

"Yes, but for me, it's Columbia, actually," Elias replied, watching with satisfaction as her perfect eyebrows lifted a fraction of an inch.

"How interesting," she said, trying to appear unimpressed. "Will you be staying in the dorms or . . . "

"Commuting from Hoboken?" Elias finished it for her. "I just might."

Eileen's smile tightened. "Well, do consider the dance. Connie would look lovely in blue, don't you think?"

After she drifted away, Connie kicked water at her brother. "Columbia? When were you going to tell me?"

"I'm not," Elias said. "I just wanted to see her face." He looked at his sister and they both burst out laughing.

And not for the last time that day and night. Because the country club scene in North Jersey in the summer of '59 struck both of them as very funny.

---

Genevieve excused herself from the bridge table after losing the third rubber. The other women - Mrs. Bentley, Mrs. Weintraub, and the widow who called herself Miss Burns - watched her go with a look of disdain and disgust. Odd, since they were all supposedly the best of friends and had played bridge together for years.

In the women's lounge, she locked herself in a stall and sat fully clothed on the closed toilet lid. She opened her purse and removed the amber bottle of pills, shaking one onto her palm, and then, after consideration, a second. The doctor called them "mother's little helpers," a phrase that made her want to drive her fingernails into his self-satisfied face.

What did they help with? They helped her ignore when Ben . . . strayed. They helped her forget, for stretches of blessed numbness, that she had once been Genevieve Laroux of Tupper Lake, New York, before she'd fallen for the stylish and charming Ben at Rutgers. Before she got unexpectedly pregnant, which was bad enough, but twins? By herself, with her husband at war? Gen never let it go, even now, 17 years on.

She swallowed the pills dry, a skill she'd perfected.

Outside the stall, she heard female voices entering the lounge.

"The Spencer twins are peculiar, aren't they?" one said.

"Well, consider who raised them," replied another. "Her with her pills and him with his - well, you know."

"The girl seems nice enough, but the boy . . ."

Genevieve leaned her head against the cool metal partition. There was a time when such talk would have sent her storming out of the stall, French-Canadian and Adirondack dignity aflame. Now she only felt a muted curiosity, as if they were discussing characters on a TV show she only occasionally watched.

---

Elias had been in search of his sister when he made the wrong turn. The corridor behind the men's locker room was poorly lit, institutional in its stark white tiles. He was about to turn back when he heard a sound - a muffled voice, his father's voice, though pitched differently than he'd ever heard it.

He hesitated, then moved toward the partially open door at the end of the hall. A storage room of some kind, lined with shelves holding folded towels and swimming supplies.

Through the opening, he could see two figures. One was his father, still in his golf clothes, his back to the door. The other was Mr. Connolly, the fourth from his father's golf game.

What happened next burned itself into Elias's consciousness with such clarity that he would revisit it in dreams for decades to come: The way his father sank to his knees, the way Connolly's hand found the back of his father's head, the unmistakable rhythm of what followed.

Elias backed away. When he reached the main corridor, he turned and walked swiftly toward the pool and the tennis facility beyond it. His heart was pounding and his mind scrambling to reconcile this new information with everything he thought he knew about Benjamin Spencer Jr., owner of the second-most successful limousine company in Manhattan, driver of Lincolns, husband of Genevieve.

His father.

---

Connie found her brother by the tennis courts, watching a doubles match with an intensity that suggested he was memorizing something essential.

"Where'd you go? Dad's looking for us," she said. "It's almost dinner time."

Elias said nothing, his eyes fixed on the players, seeing none of them, and barely hearing his sister and best friend.

"What's wrong?" Connie asked, the twin-sense between them prickling with alarm.

"Nothing," he managed. "Just thinking."

She studied him. "You're lying. I can tell when you're lying."

"Drop it, Connie," he said, his voice sharper than he intended.

She recoiled slightly, hurt going across her face before hardening into anger. "Fine. Be that way. Fuck you, Eli. But we need to change for dinner."

They walked along the manicured path toward the clubhouse, a new silence between them, not the comfortable shared quiet of their usual communication but something barbed and unfamiliar.

"Is Dad a normal person?" Connie asked suddenly, although she had no idea what she was actually asking.

The question struck Elias with the force of a physical blow. He struggled to keep his expression neutral. "Normal? Dad's . . . different."

Connie, thinking he meant different in the regular way, moved on. "And Mom?"

"Mom was once, I think. Before us."

They had reached the entrance to the clubhouse. Through the windows, they could see men in blazers and women in summer dresses gathering in the foyer, drinks in hand. In an hour, a five-piece band would begin playing standards in the corner of the dining room. Their father would request "Blue Skies" and overtip the Black piano player.

"We should get married someday," Connie said. "Not to each other, obviously. But on the same day. Double wedding, maybe on our birthdays. And then we should move next door to each other."

"In Hoboken?" Elias asked with a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"God, no. Somewhere far away. California, maybe."

"What would Dad say?"

"He'd say we're breaking his heart."

"And Mom?"

"She'd take another pill and buy us matching wedding gifts."

---

The Spencers sat at their usual table in the country club's sleek dining room - not the best in the room, but not the worst either. Ben had dressed for dinner: navy blazer, crisp white shirt, club tie, gray slacks. The twins looked well-tended, Connie in a pale yellow dress, Elias in a coat and tie that made him look like a younger version of his father, a resemblance that now struck him as both ironic and terrifying.

Genevieve wore blue silk and pearls, her blond-ish hair swept into an updo that emphasized the nasal, French-like structure of her face. The pills had settled into her bloodstream, creating the pleasant sensation that she was watching the evening unfold from a slight distance. Now more than ever, experiencing Gen was to experience either a snarling, bitter middle-aged woman, or as now, a near zombie, dulled by prescriptions and vodka.

"The Kaplans are having us for dinner next Friday," Ben announced, buttering a dinner roll with aggressive precision. "Herschel wants to discuss a business opportunity."

"That's nice," Genevieve murmured.

Elias stared at his father, searching for signs of the man he'd glimpsed in the storage room. There were none. This was the Benjamin Spencer Jr. he'd always known - confident, slightly bombastic, and obsessed with business.

It was as if the other man, the one on his knees before Connolly, didn't exist at all.

"Mrs. Kaplan mentioned they're considering The Pines for Rachel's bat mitzvah," Genevieve said, changing the subject and trying to engage. "They've asked for our caterer's information."

Ben nodded, pleased. "See? This is how it works. Connections. Recommendations." He pointed his butter knife at the twins. "This is why we come here."

"I hate it here," Elias said quietly, stabbing a potato with his fork.

"What was that?" Ben's voice took on the dangerous softness that preceded storms.

Elias looked up, meeting his father's gaze directly for the first time since the storage room. In that moment, something passed between them - a current of recognition so brief that later, Elias would wonder if he'd imagined it.

"I said the food is great here," Elias amended, not breaking eye contact.

Ben looked away first. "You two should be making the most of your time at this club. You'll be off to college soon enough. This is the kind of place where connections are made, opportunities created." He turned to Connie. "Eileen Cameron tells me there's a dance next weekend. College boys from good schools will be there."

"She mentioned it," Connie said, noncommittal.

"You should go," Ben continued. "Both of you. Meet people from the right circles before you start at Stevens - right, Connie, is that your pick?"

"Yes," Connie said. "And Elias has been accepted at Fairleigh. Right, Dad?"

"Correct," although it was like Elias wasn't even there. That would change immediately after dinner.

---

They stood on the terrace overlooking the rapidly darkening golf course. Ben had asked Elias to join him for a cigar after dinner, an unprecedented invitation that Elias had accepted with a nod, ignoring Connie's questioning glance.

Music drifted out and hung in the humid night air. Just out since last November, both father and son agreed his new one might be his best.

Ben offered a cigar, which Elias declined. They stood in silence, the kind that accumulates between people who have too much to say and no language with which to say it.

Elias looked at his father's profile, gilded by the light from the clubhouse. He thought about doors - especially the ones his father had opened for him and Connie. But also the one to the storage room that had revealed a truth Elias had never suspected.

"Does Mom know?" The question emerged before he could stop it.

Ben turned sharply. "Know what?"

Elias met his father's gaze steadily. "About your . . . arrangements."

The color drained from Ben's face, leaving behind a mask of frozen shock that quickly hardened into something else - a calculation, a reconfiguring of the world. His fingers tightened around the cigar until Elias thought it might snap in two.

"I don't know what you think you saw," Ben said quietly, "but you're mistaken."

"I'm not," Elias replied, his voice surprisingly steady. "I saw you. With Connolly."

Ben stared at his son for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice was different -stripped of its usual bluster, raw with a vulnerability Elias had never heard before.

"Your mother has her pills," he said. "I have my . . . arrangements, as you call them." He looked away, out toward the darkened 18th green. "We each cope in our own way."

"Cope with what?"

"Life, Elias. The goddamn charade." He gestured with his cigar toward the clubhouse. "The roles we play. The lies we tell. The parts of ourselves we cut away."

Elias felt something shift inside him - not forgiveness exactly, but a kind of empathy. His father was neither New York business titan nor bisexual fraud, but something more complicated: A man struggling to reconcile irreconcilable parts of himself.

"Does anyone else know?" Elias asked.

"Your mother suspects, I think. We don't discuss it." Ben stubbed out his cigar on the stone balustrade. "And now you. Which puts us in a difficult position."

"I won't tell anyone," Elias said. "Not even Connie."

Ben looked at him skeptically. "You two have never kept secrets from each other."

"I'll keep this one."

"Why would you do that for me?"

Elias considered the question. "Not for you," he said finally. "For me. Because I'm leaving soon. For FDU and I hope beyond. And I need to know who I am before I go."

Ben nodded slowly, understanding. "And who are you, Elias Spencer?"

"I don't know yet," he answered honestly. "But I know I'm not like you - I like girls."

Ben flinched slightly, but nodded again. "Good," he said. "That's good."

He straightened his tie, a nervous gesture Elias had seen a thousand times but now recognized as a shield being adjusted. "We should go back in. Your mother will wonder where we've gone."

The subject at hand - Ben Jr's sexuality - would not be openly addressed again for almost 5 years.

---

Gen was really in no condition to travel, even for the short 30 minute ride home from the club to Hoboken. She had taken perhaps one too many pills and had at least one too many vodka tonics. But Elias and Ben, as they had done so often before, managed to get the growling and threatening Genevieve outside and into the family car. They ignored both the looks of other members and also her taunts, many of which were vicious and ugly. Eli had been helping his father like this for as long as he could remember.

Tonight, a raging Gen had no precise targeting on the ride home: She blamed Connie, Elias, and above all her "cheating" husband and didn't stop until she finally blacked out in the front seat. Elias thought right then she knew about his father's perversion that he had witnessed just a few hours earlier.

Ben turned down Hudson towards a residential brownstone building the Spencer's now owned in its entirety, looked at his quiet but very unhappy wife, and thought to himself, "I wanted this?"

He had, once. But he, Elias and Connie all wanted so much more and something different now.

Gen? She just wanted the peace she'd never find.

Goodbye, Cruel World

It was during one of "their" lunches, but like everything else, it was really about Genevieve. Beginning when Elias was 13, she would insist they dress and go to an expensive luncheon in Manhattan. "Just the two of us," she'd always say.

This year's version took place at Gen's current favorite for a fancy 2 or 3 hour midday meal, The Four Seasons. An architecture buff like his father, Eli could usually tolerate visits there because he loved the clean lines of The Seagram Building in which it was housed.

And also because he could drink as much as he wanted during lunch itself, including the expensive French wines his mother liked to be flirted into ordering by the intimidating and equally French sommelier. For a few years now, Gen had been on a razor's edge of her "diet" pills (amphetamines), her "sleeping" pills (barbiturates), and her vodka.

It was always a potentially flammable combination, and Thursday, March 14, 1963 was no different. This would prove to be one of the most important days in many people's lives, and none more than the mother and son making it through lunch at The Four Seasons.

Eli, who had been at the breaking point with his mother Gen for many years, lost it but he did last a full 15 minutes after Genevieve started with her normal rants. While they had made small talk about Johnson's ambitious "War on Poverty" and that smoking was now suddenly bad for you, things quickly got ugly. Which is to say: It was a normal interaction between this mother and son.

"Do you know what I've sacrificed for this family? And for what? So your father can lord over his big brownstone on Hudson, walk around Hoboken like he owns it, take his ferry to his office and his fireplace and boss a bunch of Blacks around? And then go out to his lunches and his affairs? And his business dinners and business trips and more affairs?

"Elias, do you know how many different women you're father has been with since we married? I lost count and all the while I was doing the books and taking reservations from goombas wanting a fancy car for a night out. And I never complained."

This diatribe continued long enough for Elias to summon the waiter for another martini. He tried to focus on the restaurant's stunning design, but his mother was now heading into dangerous territory and he had to look at her as her verbal bile escalated.

"And do you know I only stayed married to him because I happened to get pregnant with you and Connie? Twins - my luck! He was already screwing around early in our marriage. I've put myself through this for you and Connie. You two owe me everything."

That did it.

"Mother, would you please shut the fuck up for once!" Some sitting nearby spun around upon hearing such language in The Four Seasons.

"Must be from Jersey," a tuxedoed waiter observed quietly and correctly to another at a busing station.

"I have listened to you trash Dad my entire life and I've heard how he left you to deal with us and made you worry and on and on and on about everything else, forever. Would you please - please - get some help."

"Elias, you are a monster - I am not the one that needs help, it's you that needs help! Look at you - you booze, screw girls, live off us, and now you treat me like this? After everything I've done for you? Whatever you wanted, you got and this what I get?”

She didn’t stop. In Elias’s mind, she never did.

“As usual, you've let me down. Why can't you be nice to me? I've given you everything and I don't know why you side with your father and never me. You're a terrible person, Eli. And I haven't even mentioned how you almost killed a buddy of yours at FDU. I need help? Puh-leeze!"

Elias did not want to say what he did and it would end up being the end of his mother and for a while, Elias himself. He would look back and say he only had cracked after several more minutes of his mother's awful berating about the accident late last year that had gotten him expelled from college.

"Listen if you possibly can. Dad is not having affairs on you with women, he doing it with men."

Genevieve Spencer didn't conceal immediately reaching for her purse. She took out two from the green bottle, and gulped them and her vodka straight down.

All Gen could manage next was a stifled "Shut your filthy mouth. You don't know anything." She smoked another cigarette and blew the smoke in her son's face.

They both made it through the meal, mostly on alcohol, and in Gen's case, the alcohol and the tranquilizers. There was a silence between them that made the ice in the cocktail shaker of Elias's third martini seem warm.

Gen was chemically calmed but was seething when she said to Elias, after only picking at her Dover sole, "I want to get the hell out of here. And away from you. And away from everybody. Bobby - check."

Their waiter Bobby happily complied. Genevieve scribbled the Cosmo Cars account number and her signature on the bill, and they went outside into the cold, still-winter air.

Waiting was a car from the family's business, a 1959 Lincoln limousine. It and its driver would take the two of them through seedy Times Square, and past Penn Station, now being demolished.

Not unlike the lives of the mother and son inside the vehicle.

It was then into the jammed Lincoln Tunnel, and finally to the gorgeous brownstone on Hudson Street in Hoboken that Gen hated, despite having demanded its expansion and remodel in the first place. When she and Elias got out, Genevieve stood behind the car in a personal void for a long time, as the driver sat and patiently waited.

She made her decision then and there and noted the limousine's license plate.

By this point, Elias just wanted to get away from her, so he left her outside as he ran into the family home and upstairs to his own flat, which was in the back of the brownstone's top floor. He poured himself a Jack Daniels and then some more.

Elias had his own problems but it would never take him as low as his mother and as was his habit, he turned to music - and sour mash - to distract his hyperactive mind.

If only Genevieve had been able to distract herself away from herself somehow. But she never could.

Two days later, on Sunday, the only day Cosmopolitan didn't operate, she told Ben Jr. she was meeting friends at an Irish tavern in Jersey City to celebrate St. Patrick's Day. Ben was pleased to have time away from his bitter wife, although he didn't know then it would be forever.

Because Genevieve made her way not to Jersey City, but instead to Charles Street and the family garage. She had her own set of keys, of course, so let herself in and then opened the dispatch cage, where the keys to the limos were kept, on a long row of hooks. The cage reminded her of how she had felt for too long and she was minutes away from breaking out.

She found the set matching the license plate of the car that had taken she and Eli home the previous Thursday. She walked around the quiet, dark cars until she found the one that would be her "leather bathtub," as she had so elegantly told herself. She unlocked the car, and sat in the luxurious back seat.

"Elias stabbed me in the back!" she said out loud to an empty car. She had taken a whole bunch of pills and had already polished off a pint of vodka during the lengthy cab ride from Hoboken to the West Village.

In moments, Genevieve Laroux Spencer would slash her own wrists in the back seat of the same car in which she and her son had just ridden a couple of days before.

After Elias had confirmed her worst fears about her husband's sexual preferences. But she had known it since before they wed, and it had consumed her, their marriage, and nearly one of their two children, over the course of twenty years that felt like two hundred to Gen.

So she chose the day of their conception and one of her husband's prized cars very intentionally. And wearing white was also no accident.

She left a detailed suicide note, blaming her decision on Ben for the affairs, Elias for telling her they were mostly with men, Connie for being too good for her own good, and both twins for ruining her life. "You will all be happier now" were the last words of the note.

Many would not be for a while, beginning with a shocked Marcus Howard, who was the one who found her the next day and who had to call Ben Jr. He would wait for what seemed like forever for his arrival before he could do anything.

Including cleaning up Genevieve's blood, which was everywhere.

Chapter 7: Do Over

Connie awoke December 15, 1963, in her suite at the Alvear Palace Hotel in Buenos Aires, knowing what she was going to do. Her six-day-old marriage to Alvaro Carrión needed to end before it even began. But unlike her usual mastery over most things, this she didn't know how to do.

"One week," she whispered to herself. "One week and I already know."

Their honeymoon in Buenos Aires had revealed Alvaro's true character. What she had once interpreted as confidence was clearly arrogance. His charm, which had seemed so genuine during their courtship, was more the sheen of profound self-absorption.

The night before had been the final straw. They'd attended a formal dinner at the invitation of the hotel's general manager. When the host's wife, an accomplished architect, attempted to engage Connie in conversation about her engineering studies, Alvaro had cut in.

"My wife won't be needing her degree," he had said with a dismissive wave. "The Carrión name opens all the doors she'll ever need."

The woman had given Connie a look of genuine sympathy, and in that moment, Connie saw her future if she didn't get out, and sooner rather than later: Her ambitious mind gradually diminished by a husband who valued her mostly as a sophisticated - and White - accessory.

Alvaro stirred and opened his eyes. "Buenos días, mi amor," he said, reaching for her.

"I need to talk to you," Connie replied, moving away from his touch.

His expression darkened immediately. "Is this about last night? You're being too sensitive again."

"It's about everything, Al. This isn't working."

"Because of your drunk brother? I told you . . . "

"This isn't about Elias," Connie interrupted firmly. "It's about us. About who you are and who I am."

Alvaro sat up, his handsome face hardening into the expression she'd seen too often this week: impatient and dismissive.

"What are you talking about? We've been married for less than a week."

"I'm staying elsewhere in the hotel tonight. Tomorrow I'm flying back to New York. You can stay if you wish." Connie couldn't believe she was saying these words.

"You're being ridiculous," he snapped. "Where will you go in New York? Back to your parents? What will you tell them?"

"The truth," she said.

---

Alone in her new room, smaller but still elegant, Connie felt a strange combination of dread and relief.

She placed a call to her father in Hoboken, calculating the time difference. He answered, and Connie's resolve nearly broke at the sound of his voice.

"Dad," she began, and then faltered.

"Connie? Are you OK? I am surprised to get a call from you on your honeymoon," Ben Jr said honestly.

"Daddy, I made a mistake," Connie said, her voice steady despite the tears now flowing freely. "The marriage was a mistake. The worst mistake I've ever made."

There was a long silence before her father spoke again. "I see," he said finally. "Honey, are you safe?"

The question surprised Connie. "Yes, of course. Al hasn't . . . he wouldn't hurt me physically."

"But he's hurt you in other ways?"

"He's not who I thought he was. I can't build a life with him, Dad. I can't do it. I won't do it."

Ben Jr, his voice carefully controlled, asked specific questions about Alvaro's behavior, and about Connie's certainty. She told him about the constant belittling, the casual cruelty to service staff, the way he spoke over her and dismissed her ambitions. And Ben had already witnessed first-hand Alvaro's feelings toward her twin brother.

"I thought I could change him," she admitted. "But I can't, Dad. And I don't want to spend my life trying. Daddy, I already called a couple of my friends in New York and they told me that maybe I can get an . . . annulment. I don't really understand what it is beyond it makes it so it's like the marriage never even existed. That's what I want. I don't want to have the stain of a divorce at my age. Dad, you must understand and will you help me? Please, Daddy."

Her father sighed heavily. "You know an annulment won't be simple. There will be questions, gossip."

"I know. But this can't be my life. I know that after less than a week with him."

"Relax. I'll have our lawyer look into the annulment procedures immediately. And I'll book you on the next flight home."

"What about Al?"

"Let me handle Alvaro and his family. You focus on getting home safely."

---

The flight back to New York was long and lonely. While again on Pan Am, and again in first class, there was none of the fun of the flight down. Instead, Connie spent most of the many hours staring out the window, watching the clouds below and wondering how she would rebuild her life. At 21, she had already experienced a failed marriage - even if it had lasted only days.

Connie and her Boeing 707 landed at the newly christened John F. Kennedy International Airport, but it would be a while before most stopped calling it "Idlewild." Deplaning exhausted and anxious, she was surprised to find not just her father but also Elias waiting for her. Her brother rushed forward first, and grabbed her with a fierce hug.

He stepped back from his best friend and said, laughing, "I told you so. I knew that guy was wrong for you." She laughed, too, because only Eli could say something like that, and he had also been exactly correct. They had not seen each other since Alvaro had slugged Elias, but the distance the marriage had put between the twins was already lessening.

Her father was next, his embrace solid and reassuring. "The lawyers are already working on it," he told her. "We're pursuing grounds of fraud - that he misrepresented himself and his intentions. Given the brevity of the marriage, they believe we have a strong case."

"Will it be public?" Connie asked, even just off a flight dreading the thought of her humiliation being fodder for gossip.

"Some of it, inevitably," her father admitted. "But we'll go through it together."

That evening, after dinner, Ben Jr excused himself to make a phone call. When he returned to his study where he had asked Connie to wait, his expression was resolute.

"I've reached out to Pete's Uncle Paulie," he said quietly, closing the door behind him.

Connie looked up sharply. Uncle Paulie was by now the underboss of the Bonanno crime family. The Spencers rarely spoke of their connection to this world, but it had and continued to pay major dividends. All because Ben Sr spoke some Italian on Paulie's great uncle Gio Luizzi's doorstep in 1920.

"Dad, is that necessary?" she asked, her voice lowered instinctively.

Ben Jr sat beside her, his eyes softening. "Some things shouldn't drag on longer than they need to, Connie. The court system can be . . . inefficient. Paul knows people who can be sure the right papers get to the right desks at the right time."

"But . . ."

"Nothing illegal," he assured her, though his slight smile suggested some flexibility in that definition. "Just a little pressure in the right places. Some judges owe Paulie favors. Some clerks might find their workload lightened if your case moves quickly."

Connie studied her father's face. Behind his polished exterior was a determination she'd always admired - and occasionally feared. "You'd do this for me?"

"I'd do anything for you. Eli, too, although he's pushing me pretty far," Ben Jr replied simply.

"Besides, Paul was never fond of Alvaro. Said he had bad eyes - too calculating.

"And Connie, listen: I want you to be whoever you are, not what society thinks you should be."

After the holidays, the legal proceedings moved with surprising speed, thanks to her father's unorthodox connections and Alvaro's reluctant cooperation. Judges who were known for their backlogged dockets suddenly found time, paperwork that might have taken months to process appeared on the right desks within days. Once, Connie spotted a thick-necked man she recognized as one of Uncle Paulie's associates leaving the courthouse just as she and her lawyer arrived. The man nodded respectfully to her before disappearing into a waiting car - a Carey limo, in fact.

Alvaro's family, receiving subtle but unmistakable messages about the benefits of cooperation, feared scandal more than they desired his happiness with the white Connie Spencer. They pressured him to agree to the annulment without a fight.

And Uncle Paulie had gotten involved personally.

---

The fight between Sonny Liston and Cassius Clay on February 25, 1964 would in reality be a coming-out party for a man and his race. Indeed, the victor would soon only answer to Muhammad Ali.

Marcus Howard had already arrived.

Marcus and Ben Jr, even when it was uncomfortable for the races to mix, had been friends from the start. That led to baseball games together, family outings, and a quick realization by the white Spencers and Black Howards that people are people. Ben always paid Marcus an excellent salary, and after proving himself indispensable, even gave him a small equity stake in Cosmopolitan Cars, something unheard of at the time. He also let him hire (and fire) as he saw fit, an empowering distinction when few Blacks had any authority at White-owned businesses.

Ben's fairness and Marcus's hard work allowed the son of a Mississippi sharecropper to get out of the slums of Newark, marry, get into a place near Lafayette Gardens in Jersey City, and raise a lovely and prosperous family.

And their relationship extended beyond sports, picnics, and work.

When Marcus's daughter got accepted into Harvard, it was Ben who took Marcus aside and said, "I want that beautiful and smart girl of yours to go there. I don't care what it costs. I know she's getting a scholarship, but there will be expenses. You will tell me a number, I will give you a check, and that's that. You and I both know she'll more than hold up her end of the bargain."

Of course, it had also worked out in Ben's favor. Marcus ran the tightest garage in town, White or Black, and his team of crack mechanics, comprised entirely of proud professional Negroes like him, made the difference. The cars were kept in uniformly perfect condition, inside and out.

By the night of the fight and even well before, everybody in Manhattan knew that when you wanted the absolute best car, the best driver, and the best possible experience in a limousine, the only service to use was Cosmo. Marcus Howard was a big part of that, and both men knew it.

And both respected each other because of it.

---

Just a few days after the fight and before he was due in court where the merits of the annulment request would be decided, there had been a late afternoon meeting, in the back room at Luizzi's Tavern. The room had witnessed many meetings such as this, where an "agreement" was reached.

"Sit down, Alvaro," Paul Luizzi said as he gestured to the well-used leather banquette around the table. The room was darkly lit, with a solitary candle burning in the middle of the table, itself covered with the day's newspapers and emptied espresso cups.

"Joe, get us two."

After ordering refreshments for himself and his guest, Uncle Paulie - Mr. Luizzi to nearly everyone by now - briefly explained to Alvaro that it wasn't personal, but Connie wasn't happy and the annulment was going to move forward.

"One way or another," were his precise words.

"Now, Al, you have a decision. The Spencer family recognizes this is a shock and embarrassment to you and your family. So they've asked me to help you." Until then, Paulie had been looking out the window.

Now, he turned, looked directly at Alvaro and said, "But of course, you and your father owe us already."

Alvaro knew that was true. It had only been with the Mafia's blessing that Rafael Carrión had been allowed to establish a bank in Hoboken, let alone install his young son as its manager, in the first place. In fact, Alvaro's father had been laundering money for the Mafia in the Caribbean for a very long time, and it was beginning to appear it would be like father, like son.

"We are going to be doing a lot more in the American southwest, beyond Las Vegas. In fact, we see Dallas as a new regional base for our . . . operations."

"What? Dallas is despised now after what happened to the President," Alvaro protested. Even with one of New York's biggest and most powerful gangsters, Al was the expert.

"Not by everybody," Paul said with a glare that Alvaro instantly understood.

"I apologize for interrupting." Alvaro, while polished and educated now, still came from the streets of San Juan, Puerto Rico and was beginning to understand the gravity of the situation.

"Thank you for showing me some respect."

Others hearing those words over the years would soon have been dead, but this was Uncle Paulie doing his favorite nephew Gimpy a favor.

So instead of killing Al, or at least crushing his fingers, Paul Luizzi made a proposal that would, in just a couple of short years, make the young-ish Carrión scion even more rich and powerful.

But also gone from Hoboken and more precisely, away from Connie.

"Alvaro, so few people know what I'm about to tell you that it will be easy for me to know if you talk, and that will make me very unhappy. Capishe?"

"Yes, sir." Al, normally as cool as they come, could feel a bit of sweat beading up on his large forehead.

"We are going to be using Dallas as our financial center, so to speak. We've sorted things out with American and they'll never have a mechanics strike again, and our packages full of money we ship on them will never be looked at again, either.

"Alvaro, those bags of money are going to go to the branch of your family's bank you're going to open, with your father's blessing, in downtown Dallas. You will be the president of a perfectly upstanding institution.

"Your hands will be clean. In fact, they must be, and it's why we're asking you to do this in the first place. You are one of the most respected Latin bankers in America, and you're young, handsome, and articulate. You're the perfect face for our bank there.

"Let me be clear: There will be a single employee of ours in your bank - otherwise it will be - and from our perspective, must be - super clean. We want the Feds to be able to come and look and not worry. That's your job.

"You'll be rich, on your own, and all you have to do is simply agree to the annulment. There are no criminal or other penalties. The marriage and this conversation never happened. Your father knows all about this, and we're breaking ground next week. We can introduce you then, in Dallas."

And then with a dark grin, Paul said, "Or I can have Joey over here break your legs." His quiet laughter did nothing to lighten the mood.

And just like that, Alvaro Carrión agreed his marriage was over. He moved to Dallas and became known in certain circles as the "Mob's Banker."

And Connie would never see Alvaro again.

---

A few weeks later, on a crisp day late in March that same year, Connie stood on the steps of the courthouse, a free woman again. The annulment had been granted on the grounds of fraud and misrepresentation. Ben's attorneys had managed to twist Al's pushing them to go to Buenos Aires for their honeymoon to be more nefarious than it was, and it was just enough for a mob-compromised judge to agree to annul the marriage.

"What now?" Elias asked as they walked.

Connie took a deep breath of the spring air. "Now I go back to Stevens and finish my degree. I'm going to help Dad - and you, my formerly sodden pal - this summer. And then I go to Japan in the fall, as planned."

"Alone?"

"Yes. I can't wait and I have a great feeling about it. I haven't felt this good in a long time."

Elias, now over two months sober, hadn't either. He was doing well enough at Towns that they blessed an outing with the family in Hoboken, although he did have a curfew of 9PM.

That evening, the extended Spencer clan gathered for dinner at the big brownstone - a quiet celebration of Connie's - and Eli's - fresh start. Their grandfather raised a glass of his finest wine.

"To wisdom," he said, looking directly at Connie and then at Elias. "It's not about never making mistakes. It's about having the courage to correct them, and then learn from them."

He finished with his classic, "Now: May the most you want in life, be the least that you receive."

As the others echoed the toast, Elias enjoyed his iced tea and a quiet peace and calm unlike any he had felt in years.

That night, Connie thought about it all. The shame and regret were fading, and alongside that, a growing certainty. She had faced one of the hardest decisions of her life and made it on her own terms. Well, with her father's and Uncle Paulie's help, but still.

Later, as she prepared for bed in her childhood room, she considered what lay ahead. In May, she would graduate with her mechanical engineering degree. A summer of fun, working part-time in the office at the garage, and helping Elias get right. Next fall would bring Japan and a deeper immersion in her fifth language. From there, Connie didn't know - although she was certain 1965 would be an important year.

Alvaro had been wrong about so many things, but perhaps most importantly about her not needing her degree. Freed from a marriage that would have diminished her, Connie would for the rest of her life make her own decisions.

She switched off the light and smiled into the darkness. One week of marriage had been enough to show her who Alvaro truly was. Now, unencumbered, she would discover Constance Anne Spencer.

She loved the fact she no longer had to mention the Carrión part.

Chapter 8: Eli Picks Up Himself and The Car

Eli thought about the past 90 days and what lay ahead as he stared out the window of his room at Towns, awaiting his discharge. The hospital, which would be shuttered completely within a year, was showing its age, but it had done its job.

But the question remained whether Eli could do his on the outside.

His hands, which had been trembling already at his early age as recently as January, now rested steadily against the windowsill. 12 weeks had passed, the first easily being the worst, as he had had no idea how dependent upon alcohol he had become. Without it came the tremors, the sweats, and the hallucinations. He saw insects crawling beneath his skin, and heard voices that weren't there. The medical staff had sedated him through the worst of it, but nothing could fully shield him from the violent rebellion of his body as it purged five solid years of near-nonstop bourbon consumption.

He could blame his father and the events in July of 1959, right before his senior year in high school. He could blame his overbearing mother, who never missed an opportunity to point out how disappointing he was to her.

"Why can't you be more like your sister? Or even that Brian Lindsey?" being oft-asked questions. Eli had co-starred with Brian in a 9th grade play, and Brian had done better as an actor.

For some unknown reason, Genevieve rubbed that in his face going forward.

And clearly, the fact his mother took her life after he told her the reality of Ben Jr was at the center of the mess he had become. Even his midtown psychiatrist, Dr. Martin Newman, had acknowledged it was a lot for a young man to take on and he, like many, had chosen self-medication.

But that wasn't all of it, as he learned at Towns and with Dr. Newman. Yes, his mother had worn him down, but he himself knew he had squandered opportunity after opportunity, way before he saw his father performing oral sex on another man at Glen Ridge, or told his mother about it at The Four Seasons.

At Towns, but really with Dr. Newman then and in the coming months, Eli would see the problem was largely his and his alone.

It was not his "fairy father or my pilled-up mother" he nearly shouted at Newman during one particularly revelatory session. Nor was it the guilt from the car accidents or even saying the words that nudged his already-suicidal mother to action. Sure, he and Newman discussed plenty the impact of endlessly hearing "You and Connie ruined my life" from that same mother, but Elias came to understand that wasn't the big problem either.

The big problem was that Elias knew, deep down, he had much more ability in life than he had shown - ever. Always in Connie's shadow, but always told by his parents, counselors, and teachers that, "You're at least as smart as your sister, probably smarter, if you'd just apply yourself," he had never done anything with his skills. Or looks, for that matter, apart from bedding but rarely courting women from around Hoboken, FDU, and Glen Ridge.

By the end of his time at Towns, Elias had mentally put it all in convenient chapters, for a book he dreamed of writing someday. Chapter 1 was him of starting drinking as early as he could, as a sophomore in high school. Chapter 2 shows his alcohol intake gradually increasing, as Connie keeps getting accolades and he kept getting C's. Next, his drinking exponentially worsens before his senior year at Demarest with learning of his father's sexual proclivity for men, and he goes completely off the rails with the sports car and limousine accidents. Genevieve's carping - right up until she killed herself - was a constant theme.

Then: Recovery and growth.

"That would be a great book," Elias said out loud to no one as he sat, awaiting his well-earned - and hard-fought - departure.

Benjamin Elias Spencer III had cleaned up, got right, and was ready to get his life started. He had every advantage - Ben Jr had ensured that - but nobody, including Elias, knew for certain if he could maintain his sobriety, become a professional, and build a life.

But Elias did know this period - right now - was likely his last, best chance.

"Mr. Spencer," Dr. Lambert said from the doorway. "Your sister is here to take you home. Good luck."

Eli nodded, picking up his small suitcase. He'd arrived in February with nothing but the clothes on his back and a liver on the verge of surrender. Now, in late April 1964, he was leaving with something he hadn't possessed in years: hope.

He walked outside to a beautiful spring day in Manhattan. New York smelled different now that his senses weren't dulled by alcohol. Eli breathed in a complex mixture of exhaust, blooming trees, and the distinct scent of renewal that accompanied April.

Connie was right in front, with one of CC's new Lincolns and a driver, waiting to take Elias to his new home. Even though she had just seen him a couple of weeks ago, Connie gave him a big hug. She was cautiously optimistic for her brother's future based upon the past 3 months.

"You look better," Connie said, in her typical understated approach to emotional moments.

"Thanks for coming," Eli replied, and added, "So do you."

Connie, surprising herself, immediately confessed, "You were right on the beach the night before my wedding, and I knew it, but I felt trapped."

"I know. It's all over now."

That would be the last they'd speak of Alvaro or her now-annulled marriage. It was truly like it never had happened, although Connie would never allow herself to see it that way.

The driver, needing no instructions, drove them to Eli's new home in the heart of Murray Hill. As they drove south down Park Avenue, Elias, always the architecture buff, observed, "Damn, that new Pan Am building is really something."

While not quite as enamored with design as her father and brother, the engineer in her couldn't resist the boldness of constructing a skyscraper using the "air rights" above the world's most famous - if increasingly run-down - railroad station. "You're right, and there's a certain symmetry of the airline being above the railroad."

Which was true in another way: the airlines were instrumental in the demise of the railroad station's owner, the New York Central Railroad. Like Hoboken's docks, Grand Central Station was deteriorating rapidly, and many feared it could suffer the fate of the gone-forever Penn Station. Selling the air rights above it had given the New York Central a reprieve, albeit temporary.

But it was Eli's first dinner and night in his new place on their minds, not the collapse of America's once-mighty railroads. The driver did a U-turn at 34th, and they pulled up in front of 7 Park Avenue.

Connie had spent the last 3 months, with Ben Jr's money, furnishing Eli's new apartment and making it a proper home for someone that should belong there. It helped take her mind off of her marriage disaster, and gave her something to do other than study. She had created the perfect city apartment for a well-to-do 21 year old.

Eli just had to grow into it. And stay sober.

"Oh, my God, Connie - I love it!" Elias was exuberant about his new place - as he should have been. Connie had done her typical job; the apartment looked like it was from a fancy magazine. She gave him a brief tour of his own home, and then they sat down in the compact but charming living room.

"I have something to tell you. The Mercedes has arrived. It's at the Port of Newark, ready for pickup on May 12th."

"It's here? It made it across the Atlantic?"

"All the way from Stuttgart. You'll need to handle the customs paperwork and Dad has the checks for customs and the final payment," Connie glanced sideways at her brother. He looked the healthiest he had in years but she still wasn't certain if he was right.

"Are you sure this is a good time for this, Eli? After everything? Jeez, I'm not sure I could do it," Connie said, although there was little she couldn't do. "You know, you could chat with Dad, and maybe he'll let you drive there. I have never understood why you're going to a different limo company. We have our own."

Over dinner that night, his first in his new place and cooked exquisitely in the galley kitchen by Connie, Elias explained to his best friend his entire plan. While it was pretty much their father's, Connie was happy to see Eli had taken it on as his own.

"I need this, Connie," Eli said quietly. "Something to build toward. Dr. Newman said having goals is important. And doing it away from Dad is equally important." Connie nodded, but didn't fully understand what Elias had meant by that last part.

"A twenty-five thousand-dollar automobile seems a bit excessive as a part of your sobriety."

Eli didn't argue. But his twin sister couldn't understand that the Mercedes represented a goal. It was tangible proof that he could still have a future - that everything wasn't lost. His father's somewhat ridiculous gesture of promising The Grand Mercedes would eventually be his had indeed given him a foundation.

The first step, picking up the most expensive car in the world and delivering it to Ed Carey, would happen in just a couple of weeks. It was not Elias's car, but it kind of was, as all of this could be, if he didn't screw it up.

He had two weeks to enjoy his new surroundings and get his bearings. He would then report to Ed Carey and his driver's training that had become fairly legendary.

"Training? Why the fuck do I need training? I grew up with that shit," Eli said that night but Connie didn't even need to correct him.

Because Elias knew he needed training and much more.

---

He had a lovely two weeks between leaving Towns and picking up the Mercedes. There were museums, long walks in Central Park and even longer therapy sessions with Dr. Newman. These weeks would prove to be among the most important of his life.

Because not only did Eli begin to truly "get it," he would also meet his future wife, Beverly Booth, at the Automat at 451 Lexington Avenue. They started chatting near the coffee urns, and he asked for her number.

Beverly, or Bevie as everyone called her, being the person she was, had no problem when Elias explained it would be two weeks before he called and asked her for a date.

"I have some important things to do, and I will tell you all about it when I take you out. Please say yes."

Miss Booth, a secretary at the advertising giant J. Walter Thompson, said yes, and she, the daughter of a prominent New York University professor, was in for quite a ride.

---

For decades, Hoboken had thrived as a working-class haven, its docks humming with activity, its factories producing everything from Maxwell House coffee - just a couple of blocks east from the Spencer brownstone on Hudson - to Lipton tea, a few blocks north. The sweet smell of roasting coffee beans often mingled with the salt air, a sensory reminder of the city's industrial might. Men with calloused hands and well-used overalls streamed to and from the waterfront each day, their livelihoods tied to shipping schedules and factory whistles. That still existed in 1964.

But just barely.

Change was already in the air, subtle at first, then unmistakable. The shipping industry was transforming. Containerization, a seemingly innocuous innovation in cargo transport, would soon render Hoboken's piers obsolete. The longshoremen, who had defined the waterfront for generations, couldn't see their extinction approaching, though the signs were there for those willing to look.

When the first shipping companies began relocating to the deeper ports of Elizabeth and Newark, few in Hoboken recognized the seismic shift underway. The local politicians assured their constituents that the departures were temporary setbacks, that prosperity would return with the next economic upswing.

They were wrong.

And that was the primary reason Eli had to go to the Port of Newark and not the Hamburg American Line docks in Hoboken on May 12, 1964 to pick up one of the first - if not the very first - Mercedes Benz 600 Pullman limousines to grace America's shores.

On the big day, Elias showered and put a suit on, for no other reason than he wanted to look the part as he picked up the most expensive car in the world. He looked at the paperwork confirming the Mercedes was processed and awaiting collection and carefully put the documents in his briefcase.

Alongside it lay a pamphlet from his most recent AA meeting, the Serenity Prayer printed on its cover. He'd been attending meetings twice per week since leaving Towns, finding surprising comfort in the routine and community. But truth be told, Elias was still doubting if the 12 step thing was for him, although that was separate from his desire to remain sober.

Before leaving, he looked at himself in the full-length mirror Connie had mounted on the inside of his closet door. While his reflection still showed a man bearing the markers of hard living, his eyes and skin were clearer now. But it was his attitude change that had been the most important.

With the counseling at Towns and with Dr. Newman especially, Elias had made a breakthrough. He now believed, "at a subconscious level," Martin Newman had explained, that the path his father had offered was his best chance to start over.

He had decided to apply himself. Like his twin sister.

---

Ben Jr, Marcus, and Connie had all volunteered to accompany Elias to pick up the Benz, but he had been clear. "I want to do this myself. I will pick up the car, and bring it to the Carey garage. But I want to experience it first myself. So I know what I'm shooting for."

He took the subway and then the PATH and, after a quick taxi ride, ended up at the rapidly growing Port of Newark, hard by Newark Bay.

"This is really gross," Eli thought to himself. "This is way worse than Hoboken." He had never bothered to go to Newark - why would he? - and what he saw now confirmed it. It was nasty and ugly, yet booming with new shipping traffic.

Elias could see right then and there Hoboken had no future.

The Port of Newark in May 1964 was a place in transition. Eli stepped from the taxi and paused, taking in the sprawling complex of piers, warehouses, and rail yards stretching toward the horizon. Massive cranes punctuated the skyline like mechanical dinosaurs, their long necks dipping into the holds of ships to extract cargo.

Eli's attention was immediately drawn to the northern section of the port, where a strange sight greeted him. Massive metal boxes - uniform in size - were being stacked like children's blocks by specialized cranes. These were shipping containers, the vanguard of a revolution that Connie - ever the engineer - had mentioned at a family dinner one night but Eli had been too immersed in his addiction to fully comprehend what it meant.

"Quite something, isn't it?" said a voice beside him.

Eli turned to find a weathered dockworker lighting a cigarette.

"Those containers," Eli said. "They're new?"

The man nodded. "Started showing up last year. That Malcolm McLean fellow's idea. They load 'em directly onto trucks or trains. No need to break bulk anymore." He gestured toward the traditional cargo area where longshoremen swarmed like ants, manually handling crates and pallets. "Half as many men doing twice the work over there. Writing's on the wall for the rest of us."

Eli understood immediately. Now, watching the efficiency of the process—one container after another being lifted and positioned with mechanical precision—he saw the future unfolding before him.

"I am here to pick up a Mercedes Benz. Do you know where I would go for that?"

"The Mercedes building is that way," the worker said, pointing toward a large warehouse down the docks, with a small three-pointed star displayed above its entrance, "But you need to stop at customs and pay the duties and whatever else first. It's right there."

Eli thanked him and walked toward the customs office, a nondescript building nestled among warehouses. Inside, a bored officer processed his paperwork, barely glancing at the substantial cashier's check Eli provided for the import duties and final payment.

"Pier 17, warehouse B," the officer said, stamping the final document.

Walking through the port complex, Eli felt conspicuous in his tailored suit among the dockworkers and sailors. Yet there was something invigorating about being here, surrounded by the commerce and industry with which he had grown up. The familiar smells of diesel, salt water, and machine oil brought back memories of accompanying his grandfather to Hoboken's docks as a boy, to watch the big ships come in.

The Mercedes warehouse was Teutonic in appearance and climate-controlled, a stark contrast to the industrial grit outside. A young man in a spotless Mercedes mechanic's uniform greeted Eli with European formality.

"Mr. Spencer? We've been expecting you. Your vehicle is prepared."

And there it was, positioned in front of curtains and under precisely directed spotlights - the 1964 Mercedes-Benz 600, the most technologically advanced automobile in the world. Nearly nineteen feet long, its midnight black exterior (factory color code DB 040, Schwarz) had a depth that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. The massive grille dominated the front end, flanked by stacked headlights that gave the car an expression of aristocratic disdain.

"Would you like to examine the features before taking possession?" the representative asked.

Eli nodded, still absorbing the magnitude of the vehicle. It was larger than it had appeared in the brochures, more imposing. As the representative led him around the car, detailing its engineering marvels—the hydraulic system that powered everything from the windows to the trunk closing, the air suspension, the separate air conditioning systems for front and rear compartments—Eli took it all in.

"I should have brought Connie," Elias mumbled, thinking how much his sister would appreciate the technology of the car.

"Excuse me, sir?" asked the Mercedes rep.

"No, please. Go on."

"The M100 engine is entirely new," the representative said, "developed specifically for the 600. Six point three liters, three hundred horsepower. It will accelerate from zero to sixty-two miles per hour in just over nine seconds—remarkable for a vehicle weighing nearly three tons."

When the representative opened the rear door, Eli caught the intoxicating aroma of leather and wood. The interior was finished in burgundy-colored (factory color code DB 1079, Rot) leather and burled walnut, with fold-down tables and privacy curtains for the rear passengers. It was a car designed to be driven by a chauffeur.

"Would you like to take the driver's seat, Mr. Spencer?"

Eli slid behind the wheel, his hands gripping the stout steering wheel. The dashboard was a masterpiece of German precision—every gauge and control positioned with ergonomic precision.

"The key, sir," the representative said, handing him a heavy Mercedes key with ceremonial gravity.

When Eli turned the key, the massive V8 engine awakened with a subdued rumble that seemed to originate from somewhere deep within the earth. The vibration was barely perceptible through the heavily insulated cabin.

"All the paperwork is complete," the representative said. "The vehicle is now yours. Congratulations, Mr. Spencer."

After a brief orientation to the controls, Eli was left alone in the car. He sat motionless for several minutes, absorbing the reality of his situation. Six months ago, he had been unconscious in a family limousine he had just crashed, killing himself one drink at a time. Now he sat in a masterpiece of engineering that represented the pinnacle of automotive achievement—and it belonged to him. Well, almost.

Yet the euphoria he had expected didn't materialize. Instead, as he put the car in drive and slowly navigated out of the warehouse, he felt something more complex—a mixture of gratitude, responsibility, and trepidation. He fell deep into thought.

Because being behind the wheel of this particular car indeed served to inspire Benjamin Elias Spencer III. The car was a huge expression of human accomplishment - from a country that lay in ruins only a few short years previously.

"Fuck it. If the German's can do it, so can I," he said out loud, surprising himself while at the same time, nearly rear-ending the car in front of him. The brakes worked very well; a good thing, as the car only had 6 miles on its odometer and having a pile-up now, no matter how innocent, would not have been a good beginning for his new life.

Eli guided the Mercedes onto the access road, adjusting to its substantial dimensions. The car moved with surprising grace for its size, the air suspension absorbing imperfections in the road that would have jolted a lesser vehicle. As he accelerated onto the highway, the power of the engine revealed itself—a seemingly bottomless reserve of torque that pushed the massive sedan forward with relentless authority.

The journey back to Manhattan and the car's and Eli's new home gave him more time to reflect and this time his focus was on the amazing machine he was piloting.

"I think people are really going to be at ease in this thing," Eli thought, correctly. It was silent, with a ride that relaxed its passengers in a way that no other car - not a Lincoln and certainly not a Cadillac - could.

The Mercedes attracted plenty of attention as he navigated through Midtown to the Carey Garage near Grand Central. He had purposely driven up Park Avenue, mostly because it felt right, but also because it gave him an opportunity to pull up and show it off to the doormen at his building.

With operations above and below ground, there were 4 garage doors, and Eli turned into the one marked "In/Up." That led to something his father was planning for Cosmopolitan's own garage: a car elevator. An attendant waved him onto the elevator's deck and off Elias went to this new life.

Even though everyone in Ed Carey's garage knew it was coming, each and every staff member, young and old alike, stopped when Elias drove off the elevator and into the garage proper. Some even pointed, and most had their mouths wide open.

These were all car people, and although it was a Cadillac shop, that didn't mean they couldn't appreciate the finest. When Eli got out, some asked to get in, but Ed Carey bailed him out.

"Hey - leave the kid alone, would ya, for chrissake? Let me talk to him."

"Hi Ed. Jesus, look at this thing."

Elias had known Ed Carey, the founder and owner of a business just like his own father's, his entire life. Ed and Ben, while competitors, shared a mutual respect, although Ed did resent somewhat the Spencer family's longtime friendship with the Luizzi's and the advantages it gave Ben. But the Bonanno crime family had been equally kind to Ed Carey, just in different ways.

"It is simply the most impressive car I've seen, and I've seen many. Let's get in, and I'll take you to its new home, and talk about what's next."

Ed directed Elias to again drive onto the car elevator, which took them and the car the 3 stories down to the ground floor. The elevator, with doors on each side, opened such that Eli could drive straight out. Ed told him to stop. Ed got out, and used a key, which in turn opened a large door to a garage that Elias would not have noticed otherwise.

Yet, on the other side was a space big enough for the car, a hydraulic lift, a complete set of Mercedes tool boxes, and factory service manuals for the 600. It was as clean as an operating room, and it even had couches and a wet bar.

"Look - I've dreamed about something like this for a long time, it's just that your father beat me to it. I've had this room set up for a a big Rolls-Royce, until your father approached me with his proposition. And your story. I want to help you.

"Since I showed this to him, and said he can hire his own guy to work on it, Ben agreed you won't have to take it to the Benz dealership for service. In fact, I think I heard on the street your Dad just brought a guy in from Stuttgart itself to do nothing but come here and keep it in perfect order."

Ed went on to talk about Eli's regular gigs driving Cadillacs, and the special ones, where he'd be able to take out the 600.

"But it all begins with my class. Tomorrow. 8AM. Don't be late."

Although this had all been put in place by Ben Jr, it was now Ed Carey that would play a major role in the rehabilitation and future of Elias Spencer.

Eli could have done worse.

Chapter 9: Beverly Elizabeth Booth is a Modern Woman

Although she had moved almost constantly while her father acquired ever more education, finally - finally - Beverly and her father, Dr. Devin Booth, were going to stay put. In 1957, when she was 14, he was offered a tenured professorship in American Literature at New York University, and the two of them moved to a lovely 2 bedroom flat on a tree-lined street in the West Village.

Her father, born to Scottish immigrants to Chicago who had built a life out of the gruesome meatpacking industry, had been determined from the get-go to do his work with his mind, not his hands or back. Always brilliant and always retaining a bit of a Scottish lilt in his voice from his own parents' much stronger brogue, Devin Booth had been the valedictorian of his high school class in Chicago, got his Bachelors of Science in Business Administration in Columbus at Ohio State, an MBA at Michigan in Ann Arbor, and finally, his doctorate from Columbia. Yes, they had been in New York while he was earning his doctorate, but they had been living in a cramped flat in Yonkers that was far from ideal.

Beverly - or Bevie as she was called - had been with him through all of it. Born on January 25, 1943, her father had been excused from serving in the war because of the illness of his wife and Beverly's mother, diagnosed with cancer about 6 months into her pregnancy. She would die in 1946, leaving just the two of them living in Columbus while Devin got his first college degree.

Bevie of course remembers none of the early days - she never remembered her mother or knew what having one was like. She would always retain the independence and maturity that came from being left on her own, beginning at an early age. There were nannies and school, but Beverly had grown up mostly alone, moving from place to place. Her background made her at ease in new environments and with new people, but at the same time, resistant to change, because she had dealt with so much of it as a child.

Having landed in the West Village, high school had been a pleasure. Bevie made many friends, and graduated from Washington Irving High School in 1961 with a strong B average. It was with two Washington Irving friends, Carol Taylor and Barbara Post, that Beverly would join that fall at The College of Saint Rose, upstate about 140 miles in Albany.

Founded in 1920 by the Sisters of Saint Joseph of Carondelet, St. Rose was a Catholic institution dedicated to women's education, with a strong liberal arts curriculum emphasizing professional training, particularly for teachers. By the time of the girls' arrival in September of 1961, it had expanded its focus to include preparation for business and other professions, reflecting the growing opportunities for women in post-war America.

Bevie, having grown up in and around Ohio State, Michigan, and Columbia, was clearly the campus pro of the group and had deemed it during a campus tour they took that summer as "actually very nice, especially for Albany." The 3 each had other options, but they decided to go to Albany as a group, to the College of St. Rose.

Their New York Central train, unfortunately like Grand Central Terminal where it departed, was sad in its lack of upkeep. Yet the uncleaned windows still could not diminish the beauty of the Hudson River and its namesake valley, at least to the 3 freshmen girls.

"I love it up here," exclaimed Carol as their train rolled north of Poughkeepsie along the banks of the Hudson. "Me, too," said Bevie, "But jeez, you're carrying on as if we're a thousand miles away!" They all laughed and resumed looking outside.

"Let's just hope Albany is this pretty," said Carol, although they all knew it wasn't.

Each was nervous in their own way about their futures, which were about to start for real in about 90 minutes, with their arrival at Albany's dreary Union Station. It, like Albany itself, had seen better days, and its rundown nature inside and out offered little comfort to the 3 young women.

Yet the girls were thrilled with St. Rose itself, or in the case of Beverly, initially thrilled. The campus, situated in Albany’s Pine Hills neighborhood, featured Victorian-era homes converted into student housing and offices, along with the newer buildings like St. Joseph Hall, a grand structure with Corinthian columns that housed classrooms, dining facilities, and a chapel. It was tree-lined and a very pleasant place to be; its sweeping lawns and omnipresent pine groves were impressive, even to 3 girls from Manhattan.

There was just one problem.

Although it had been explained to each of them - most definitely including Beverly - that a part of the academic rigor was discipline, as metered out by the nuns, its degree and severity had been unknown. And while Carol and Barb adjusted and fit in, the independent and strong-willed Bevie could only deal with so many raps on the knuckles by a woman in a hood.

Beverly persevered for that first semester, and the spring of 1962, too. She distracted herself with schoolwork and the dances arranged by the college with area men's schools like Siena and RPI.

It was after one of those dances that she brought a boy into her dorm room, and that was the beginning of the end of her time at St. Rose. Her first offense got her suspended and then she was expelled when she did it again, this time with alcohol involved. Beverly had always had the freedom to do as she pleased, but she had run into the brick wall of Catholicism and its strictures, which seemed to her mostly about controlling women.

Beverly wanted none of it and her actions away those first two semesters proved it.

Of course, being the daughter of Dr. Devin Booth, tenured NYU professor and now head of its Literature school, and being tossed out of a college a humiliation and embarrassment. A positive was that it did crystallize what she wanted in her own mind.

Her father was sympathetic, and had questioned her decision to go to St. Rose in the first place. He didn't bring that up, and certainly didn't when he could see that his only daughter and only child had been crying on her train ride back home.

Devin instead asked her the obvious question as he gathered her and her Samsonite bag at Grand Central: "What do you think you are you going to do now?"

Even Bevie was surprised at the clarity of her answer, and it came the instant finished his question.

"I am going to Gibbs and I am going to land a cool job on Madison Avenue as a secretary. And maybe more."

And that was exactly what Beverly Elizabeth Booth did.

---

"Hey, this missile thing in Cuba is scaring the wits out of me," said Bevie to a classmate. "Me, too - my husband says this could be end!" the plaid-skirted young lady seated at the desk next to Beverly's nearly shouted.

A nuclear war seemed all too plausible in October of 1962, but Beverly was trying to focus on her studies. The work at the prestigious Katharine Gibbs Secretarial School, widely regarded as the finest secretarial institution in New York City, perhaps the entire eastern US, wasn't easy.

Beverly first learned about the Gibbs School from a friend's mother, who had attended in the late 1940s and was now a successful paralegal at a big downtown firm.

"Remember, Bevie," the mother had said "a Katharine Gibbs graduate can work anywhere. Mrs. Gibbs made sure of that." She had even showed her a magazine clipping she had saved from when she had gone.

Indeed, the school's founder had built an institution with an unparalleled reputation. In 1962, the term "Gibbs Girl" was synonymous with excellence, refinement, and efficiency. Major corporations throughout Manhattan specifically requested Katharine Gibbs graduates, knowing they would receive not just a typist but a professionally trained woman who understood business protocols, carried herself with dignity, and could be trusted with confidential matters.

Beverly's first day orientation about one month ago had confirmed everything she had heard. The dean, a formidable woman with perfect posture and a penetrating gaze, had addressed the incoming class.

"Ladies, you are not here merely to learn shorthand and typing. You are here to become indispensable. The modern executive secretary is the right hand of power in American business. She must be unflappable, discreet, and three steps ahead of her employer at all times."

Beverly wrote this down in her new stenographer's pad, her handwriting neat and precise. The program would be rigorous—typing drills beginning at 60 words per minute and advancing to 90, Gregg shorthand, business English, accounting fundamentals, and the school's famous "Development Course" covering everything from proper telephone etiquette to the correct way to serve tea to international clients.

The strict dress code was legendary. White gloves were mandatory until noon. Skirt lengths were checked with rulers. Makeup was to be subtle, jewelry conservative, and posture impeccable. Beverly didn't mind; the structure was different from her bohemian high school days in the shadow of NYU, but she understood intuitively that these standards weren't arbitrary but strategic. In a world where women's professional options were still limited but changing, Katharine Gibbs was teaching its students to command respect.

In other words, the polar opposite of what was being foisted upon her at St. Rose, where the students were mostly taught subservience for no reason Beverly could ever understand.

As weeks passed, Beverly discovered talents she hadn't known she possessed. Her fingers flew across the keys of her typewriter, her shorthand became nearly automatic, and she developed an almost supernatural ability to anticipate needs before they were expressed. Beyond the technical skills, she absorbed lessons about navigating office politics and asserting herself quietly but effectively.

"Miss Booth," her typing instructor noted after a particularly challenging speed test, "you have excellent concentration. That will serve you well." Truth be told, it was instinctual and it came from her professorial father.

Not all of Beverly's classmates adapted as easily. Her classmate Julie frequently complained about the school's rigid requirements and obsession with minutiae. "Who cares if my gloves have a tiny smudge? I'm not having tea with the Queen," she would grumble while Beverly patiently explained that the standards weren't about the gloves but about attention to detail -the same attention that would prevent a misplaced decimal in a financial report or an overlooked appointment with an important client.

Midway through the semester, a representative from IBM visited to demonstrate their newest electric typewriter models, called the Selectric. Beverly watched, fascinated, as the machine executed perfect, uniform characters with just a light touch. The representative, noticing her interest, explained how businesses were increasingly relying on these machines to improve efficiency.

"The world is changing," he told the class. "And the modern secretary will need to master these new technologies to stay relevant."

Some of Beverly's classmates looked intimidated, but she felt a thrill of excitement. She had always loved puzzles and systems, figuring out how things worked. That night, while her fellow students made weekend plans, Beverly pored over the IBM brochures the IBM account rep had given her, imagining herself at the forefront of this office revolution. She even wondered about computers and if she would ever one day use one.

New York City had been Beverly's home for a while, but seeing it through the lens of Katharine Gibbs gave her a new perspective. During lunch breaks, she would sometimes sit in Washington Square Park, watching the contrast between the academic world of her father's university and the business professionals hurrying past. She loved observing the secretaries among them - recognizing another "Gibbs Girl" by her walk and the efficient way she carried her belongings.

As Thanksgiving approached, her father mentioned that his colleague, a professor who consulted for the prestigious Madison Avenue J. Walter Thompson advertising firm, had mentioned they were looking for a secretary to the creative director starting in January.

"I told him about your training at Gibbs," her father wrote. "He seemed quite impressed and suggested you apply. It would be an excellent position, Bevie—stable, respectable, and who knows? Perhaps more intellectually stimulating than you might find elsewhere."

Beverly smiled at her father's predictable academic perspective, but the opportunity intrigued her. The advertising world was dynamic, and she had heard that secretaries there often took on greater responsibilities than in more traditional offices. Some even moved into roles like media buying or account coordination if they proved capable.

That night, as she practiced her shorthand by transcribing an article about President Kennedy's economic policies, Beverly considered her future with newfound clarity. Katharine Gibbs was teaching her more than secretarial skills; it was teaching her to navigate a professional world still largely defined by men but increasingly shaped by capable women like herself.

She would apply for the advertising position, not as a steppingstone to marriage as many expected, but as the first move in a career she was beginning to envision for herself. Beverly Booth, Katharine Gibbs Class of '63, might begin as someone's secretary, but she was determined that would merely be the beginning.

Outside her apartment window, the lights of Manhattan sparkled with possibility. Beverly closed her textbook and smiled. At the end of 1962, with the missile crisis averted and the youthful aura of JFK growing steadily, a lot seemed possible, for her, the President, and the world.

---

In early 1963, Ben Jr received a call directly from Uncle Paulie, which rarely ever happened. Paulie typically liked to stay far removed from "the business," but this was important, so he handled it directly. Plus, he knew Ben Jr could be trusted.

"Hello, Ben, it's Paul Luizzi," as if he needed to introduce himself - his accent could have come from a gangster movie. "How ya doin'? Do you need anything? Everything going well at CC and at Penn Station?" He purposely had not asked about Gen's suicide in March, and Ben was learning to compartmentalize it himself.

"Well, apart from them fucking up one of the most beautiful buildings in the world, everything's going great. But what can I do for you, Paul - you rarely call."

"I need a personal favor, but it's easy. I know you rarely drive any more, but I have an associate coming in from New Orleans, and I only want you to deal with him. His name is Carlos Marcello. He's going to be coming to town a few times in the coming months, and I'd like to ask you to be his driver. He'll need airport transportation and he'll need you and a limo for an occasional night on the town. No monkey business, of course, although he will likely have women and other colleagues at times."

Of course, when Paul Luizzi says "I'd like to ask you" to Ben Spencer Jr what he really was saying was "In return for protecting you, your family, and your business, this is what you're going to do for me."

So it surprised neither of them when Ben Jr simply said, "Of course, Paul. Who will contact me with his schedule?"

"His associate in New Orleans, David Ferrie, will be in touch. Ben, please follow David's instructions, but I'll warn you, he's a real fag."

Paul had no idea of Ben's own attractions, and Ben Jr of course wanted it that way, so Paul thought nothing of Uncle Paulie using the slur for Marcello's associate.

But when David Ferrie first reached out, Ben found him effeminate to the point of satire, and it made Ben Jr uncomfortable. He had never liked that aspect of his sexuality - he was a man, and didn't want to be a woman, apparently unlike the very girlish-voiced Ferrie.

"Don't fuck this up," Ferrie implored him a voice that would have made him laugh if hadn't been so full of menace.

Ben Jr responded as he had had to occasionally over the years: He reminded David Ferrie of his relationship with Paul Luizzi, and that they - Ferrie or Marcello - had nothing to worry about.

Ben Jr would have Marcus Howard prep a Lincoln personally before each Marcello gig. Always an impeccable dresser, Ben Jr actually enjoyed putting on a driver's black suit and tie, and welcomed driving a bigshot, no matter how crooked he may be. Plus, he had done plenty of "Don Driving" as he came to call it, over the years already, and the fact that Paul called him directly told him all he needed to know: There was something big going on with Marcello and New York's 5 crime families.

At times, Marcello would arrive at Idlewild or LaGuardia by himself, while on other occasions, there'd be darker men, from Cuba it would turn out, with him. As the summer turned into the fall of 1963, Marcello's trips to New York grew less frequent, but he was now accompanied by David Ferrie, whose appearance was as foolish as his voice - he had painted eyebrows and sweated profusely under almost all circumstances, and often wore polka-dotted shirts.

Ben Jr couldn't possibly guess what was going on with this crew consisting of a flamboyantly gay man, the Don of the New Orleans Mafia, and a bunch of sketchy looking Cubans. In fact, he tried not to think about it, because it gave him a bad feeling he couldn't shake.

The last time Ben Jr saw Carlos Marcello was about a week before President Kennedy was killed. They were making small talk as they approached LaGuardia and as Ben Jr handed a redcap Marcello's bag, he asked where he was off to next.

"Dallas, Ben. That fucking Kennedy is going to get his."

Ben didn't have any idea what that meant, or that President Kennedy was even going to Texas.

Until he did just one week later.

It was a reminder - another - to Ben Jr of the power of Paul Luizzi and the Mafia.

---

For their first date, Elias asked Ed if he could take the Mercedes. He told him, "I want to wow her. I felt something when we started chatting at the Automat, and I think she did, too."

Eli was surprised but not really when Ed said yes.

"Look, you screw this up, and me and your old man are both going to kill you. But it's no secret you're nailing my class so why not? You deserve a reward, kid. You're doing great."

They both knew he could have added the words "for now" or "but you have a long way to go," but Elias was glad he didn't.

He found the Mercedes where he had last seen it, in a completely private and secured part of Ed Carey's garage complex. It was to be kept in perfect running and aesthetic condition at all times by the German guy Elias had yet to meet, and if anything, Elias found it more impressive than he had just a few days before, when picked it up at the Port of Newark.

Since he knew only he would be driving it, Elias was not surprised to find the driver's seat where he had left it. He settled in, brought the luxurious beast of a car ("My beast," Eli would come to say) to life and drove off to Beverly Booth's apartment in the West Village.

Both he and Bevie had laughed a little when she had given him her address when he called to confirm their date. On the phone, he briefly explained his father's business, and that he had grown up as a child in CC's garage literally right around the corner from where Bevie and her father now lived, at Bedford and Grove.

And of course, its proximity to the PATH subway station would prove useful for visits to Eli's family in Hoboken, because it looked like the days of ferries plying the Hudson between New Jersey and New York were ending.

More and more, it looked like the car had won, and things like railroads and ferries were being discarded.

Elias pulled The Grand Mercedes up outside the quiet and dignified building and luckily found a space to accommodate its prodigious length. At the Automat, Bevie had explained what her father did. "West Village - perfect for an NYU professor," thought Eli that warm spring Sunday afternoon in late May of 1964 as parked. It was a classic Village street - lined with both brownstones and trees.

It didn't actually look that different from the family's neighborhood on Hudson in Hoboken, although the two neighborhoods might as well have been different planets. Where the West Village had NYU and Washington Square Park, Hoboken had increasing amounts of arson and the disappearance of industry.

Bevie walked outside her and her father's building. She was dressed stylishly for a day out in New York and now at J. Walter Thompson for over two years, she was making good money and her fine clothes reflected that. There was an ease to her whole look that most men found very appealing, and Elias was no different.

Elias greeted her by putting her hand in his right, and covering it with his left as he said "It is so great to see you and what do you think? Something else, wouldn't you say?"

Beverly - who coincidentally was on the account of Thompson's most important client, Ford, actually loved cars, and was thrilled to see - and ride in - a car she had only read about in magazines.

"Oh, my! It is so huge - but it is so handsome. It has such presence - but I had no idea!"

"Get in. I have a picnic in the trunk for us - I thought I'd drive us around Central Park for a while, and then we can spread out a blanket and solve the world's problems. And if you're good, I'll even let you sit in the back while I drive. It's really something back there."

Beverly grinned, and said, "That sounds great!" as she sat down on the big leather front passenger seat, beautifully upholstered in a deep, deep burgundy. The only thing better than its appearance was its smell.

And with that, the two of them were off, together. With some hiccups, it would be for the rest of their lives.

Chapter 10: Drugs, War, Peace and a Big Party

Diversions

Eli's sobriety was the first thing Connie asked them about the following week, on their regular dinner together in Elias's one bedroom apartment at 7 Park Avenue. Connie had made pork chops and served them with fresh green beans, and the aroma filled the small living room where they were enjoying their drinks, she a vodka and tonic, he an iced tea.

"How are you doing it? You used to really get after the booze, Eli, and I am no Puritan myself," Connie said and it was that night he explained in detail to his best friend what had taken its place.

He emphasized how his psychiatrist, Dr. Newman, thought it was "a great idea - the scare tactics about grass are bunk."

Connie's mouth fell slightly open.

"It's perfect. I take a couple of puffs, and it takes away my craving for drinking. It's that simple, and I find I am listening to a lot more music," he said as he gestured at the beautiful Telefunken stereo his father had donated to the apartment. For the first time, she noticed the rather avant-garde music Eli was playing.

As close as they are, Elias didn't hold back and explained himself until Connie finally said, "I'm OK with it, but even happier your doctor is OK with it."

Connie would never smoke grass with her brother, but she didn't really care about it either; she was just thrilled he had stopped drinking. She had also been around enough to know that weed was no gateway to heroin or anything else - it wasn't her thing, but she didn't see what the fuss was about, either.

"Just promise me you'll never drive on that stuff. Jeez, I hear you're starting to drive around some big shots."

"Never."

The second topic was Eli's new girlfriend.

"Elias, tell me everything. Beverly Booth, that's her name?

"Yes, but she mostly goes by Bevie. Connie, she's beautiful, smart, kind and funny. She knows my whole story but likes me anyway!"

He went on and on and on. He told her about their first date in the big Benz, about how she got tossed from school, but nailed it at the Gibbs School and was on the fast-track at J. Walter Thompson.

"On Madison Avenue? You mean like one of those big advertising agencies? Wow!"

"But Connie, the 3 of us share something very important. We all lost our mothers. And Bevie never even knew hers. I don't know which is worse - what we went through, or what Beverly did."

Tears welled up in both of their eyes and they toasted to mothers, their own and others.

They steadied themselves, and turned to current events.

Elias asked, "Do you think the Civil Rights act will pass? I sure hope so."

War is Hell. For Some.

Ben Jr and two of his three best friends went off to war in 1943. Ben Jr was the luckiest.

"Gimpy" stayed behind, of course, the victim of a slight birth defect. It had left him with a left leg slightly shorter than the right, but also with an inborn determination to never quit. His father, Gio Luizzi, had done his job, and trained his only son Pete in the art and science of running a proper tavern. Indeed, both Gimpy and Luizzi's Tavern would come to be seen as an institution in Hoboken, and that began during the booming immediate post-war era in Hoboken.

Larry Weinberg would fight valiantly and win a Purple Heart and a Distinguished Service Medal for what happened in Salerno during Operation Husky. To this day, the normally affable Laurence Alan Weinberg refused to discuss the subject. What they did know was that what Larry saw, nobody should.

Except for Glen Doherty, who wished he had made it home alive. He had instead been blown to nothingness on D-Day by a German mortar that landed at his feet as he stood on his Higgins Boat, awaiting his turn to storm the beach.

Glen, like the other 3, was a native son of Hoboken and was mourned with the city's other fallen heroes who also had made the ultimate sacrifice for their country. In Glen's case, a memorial was placed in his honor - paid for by Ben Spencer Sr - at Beverly National Cemetery near Trenton.

Many families, like Glen's, had been shattered by their loss. When he returned from battle, Ben Jr, sometimes accompanied by his father, made it a point to look in on Mrs. Doherty.

But she grew frailer and more withdrawn and bitter to the point that he stopped.

"She reminds me of Genevieve. But Genevieve has nothing to complain about," Ben Jr commented one day to his father, after one particularly depressing visit. Ben Sr nodded but really tried to avoid the unpleasant subject of his daughter-in-law.

Larry Weinberg returned from the war, and unlike Ben Jr, opted to go back to college. But now, with his GI Bill bankroll, he would matriculate at Princeton's business school, studying accounting. Soon, he'd be in Manhattan and at the accounting firm of Ernst & Ernst. He'd stay there for the duration of his career, making partner in 1962.

The Spencer family? They were lucky across two World Wars. Like his father in the first World War, Ben Jr returned from the second unscathed but did find a troubled wife and two young children needing the love of a father they didn't know. He was still luckier than Glen, and Larry, too - who would be haunted by battle fatigue his entire life.

Gimpy was almost as lucky, although women tended to mother vs. love him, due to his small handicap. His friends understood his tavern was his sanctuary and shield, and thus why he spent most of his days and nights there.

Ben Jr's preference for men had not gone away while away from Genevieve, Connie, and Elias. But Ben Jr thought he wanted a fresh start. Back from a horrific war, he told himself he would re-commit to his wife, and leave the other part of him behind.

Somehow.

Connie Graduates from Stevens

Connie Spencer never stopped.

If she wasn't earning her bachelor's degree in mechanical engineering, with honors, she was creating the ideal bachelor apartment for her recovering brother, and helping her father at Cosmo and at home, too.

By late May of 1964, and now free of the defective Alvaro, Connie was ready for a completely new start, and it began with her graduation from Stevens Institute. She was especially ready for a great summer in Hoboken, and even more so in New York City. And then, Japan for the Olympics in the fall.

What came after that, nobody knew, although Connie had already started thinking about what she could do as an engineer that could speak 4 and hopefully, after her trip to Nippon, 5, languages.

The graduation ceremony was held in the Victorian splendor of the school's Edwin A. Stevens Hall, named for the Institute's founder. It was a hot and humid day outside, and the lack of air conditioning inside meant everyone was both ecstatic and sweaty getting their degrees.

Connie Spencer was as happy as anyone as she strode across the stage, festooned with multiple academic banners and flags, each representing a part of Stevens' storied and well-regarded history. Connie herself had a special cloak around her standard gown, signifying her graduating with summa cum laude honors.

Connie being the first Spencer to receive a college a degree, and a woman at that, brought a lot of pride to her father, Ben Jr, and her grandparents, Ben Sr and Chelsea, who were all in attendance. As was Elias, who was absolutely over the moon for his twin.

"It's like this is happening to me," he told her privately before the ceremony. "I am so proud of you and I am going to make you proud of me," although Connie's look in response was one more of hope than certainty.

Only out of Towns for a short period, Elias was off to a great start driving for Carey, and said he was bringing a date to Connie's graduation party later. But nobody knew what his future held.

On the other hand, everyone knew Connie would accomplish whatever she chose.

And her first choice after the commencement was a glass of Champagne at Glen Ridge Country Club, the scene of so many family moments - good and bad - over the years. This time, Ben Jr was throwing his only daughter a fantastic graduation party and everyone was in a celebratory mood. The sound system was excellent - Ben Jr was on the club's Facilities Committee, so he saw to that personally - and that - and the free-flowing drinks on Ben Jr's tab - had people dancing.

While it was sad and strange that Genevieve was not present to see her only daughter graduate from college, it also meant there were no vodka/pill-fueled meltdowns. Although several people at the party mentioned her absence, frankly she wasn't missed by many, including her closest family.

Indeed, nobody had put a rose out. Over the years, her increasing histrionics had worn very thin, and no amount of that old Gen charisma and sense of humor could overcome the angst she had brought - for years - to the family.

Also not missed was Elias's drinking. He passed his first major test with flying colors, enjoying iced teas throughout Connie's graduation festivities, and being a model guest, brother, son, and grandson the entire day and night. He even walked by that storage closet at Glen Ridge where he saw his father that one awful time, and then purposefully strode to the bar for another tasty iced tea.

He really felt no urge to drink, and it was accompanied by a sense of serenity from the marijuana that surprised him. But not his psychiatrist Dr. Newman, when he told him about it at that week's session.

"It's actually a depressant, but a very mild one. And its calming effect on you is ideal," Newman had observed. Newman had treated and lost many to alcohol, yet to date, had not seen anyone get into much trouble with marijuana.

Eli's alcohol sobriety was great because he would remember this very special evening. While the pretense was Connie's graduation party, it was also a celebration of her never having to utter the name "Carrión" again. She had made the biggest mistake to date of her life, but apart from the emotional distress, had emerged unscathed.

Less acknowledged but equally understood, at least to the immediate Spencer family, was that it was also about Elias beginning to get on track. He made it a point to make the rounds, chatting with everyone. He had done this plenty at previous Spencer blow-outs, just never sober since his sophomore year of high school.

"Wow, everybody's here," thought Eli, as he looked at the private dining room, which itself overlooked the tennis courts at Glen Ridge. It was mostly family, but a sprinkling of friends, too. And then there was Beverly Booth, proudly on Elias's arm, now a friend but perhaps more than that to Elias very soon.

This evening's party, already so meaningful, was also Bevie's coming out party with the Spencer's and the Laroux's. And the Luizzi's and Weinberg's, for that matter.

Because first up, Elias couldn't wait to introduce Bev to his "Uncle" Pete Luizzi and "Uncle" Larry Weinberg. Pete and Larry were his father Ben Jr's two best friends growing up on Hudson in Hoboken in the 1920's and 1930's. Now an adult, Elias was happy to call both his own friends, despite being 20 years their junior.

"You guys. What the fuck?" Elias said as approached, spreading his arms.

That night, he was specifically proud to be approaching Larry Weinberg. With his father's lobbying and refusal to accept the view of a few bigots, Larry and his lovely family had recently become the first Jewish members of Glen Ridge.

It had not been easy - the prejudice against Jews was something none of the Spencers could ever understand. At least antisemitism appeared to be in its waning days - Glen Ridge had been a WASP bastion since the 19th century.

Pete Luizzi? Well, Italians weren't particularly welcome at Glen Ridge either, but everyone within a 100 mile radius knew about Pete Luizzi's Uncle Paulie. As such, at least in North Jersey, Pete Luizzi was welcome pretty much everywhere.

"Gimpy," Elias said, using Pete's endearing nickname, "and Larry, I would like to introduce you to Miss Beverly Booth. Call her Bevie."

Both politely extended their hands, which Bevie shook.

Pete Luizzi went first. "Look atcha. I tell ya, Larry, this kid gets all da luck! My pleasure to meet you, Bevie, and welcome."

Pete was commenting on what everyone could see: Beverly was a put-together young woman, and going places. It was obvious from the style with which she carried herself.

"Charmed, Pete! Oh my gosh, Eli has already told me so much about you and Larry."

Larry Weinberg was next. Quiet and reserved in business, in social situations, Larry was effusive and welcoming. "Well, Bevie, this is so great. Elias says you're right in the middle of the action at J. Walter Thompson. We should have lunch - my office is in midtown - where are you?"

Elias joked, "Hey, watch it. First, you're too old, and next, you're too Jewish for Bev. Plus, she's mine, Uncle Larry!"

They all laughed, and then Bevie said, "420 Lexington, and maybe Elias will join us to keep an eye on me. I've always preferred men with darker skin, and look at how white Elias is!"

"Bev's fucking perfect," Gimpy said quietly to Larry as the two walked away, and Larry nodded and couldn't have been happier.

He took Bev on a tour of the club and it was then, in a shadowy part of the pool terrace, Elias and Beverly first kissed.

It was deep and long, and the best of Elias's life. Beverly was pretty thrilled, too, and at first resisted stopping, but of course both were old enough by now to know it was not a good look for them to be necking outside to the exclusion of all else. At a party where they were both, if not the, a center of attention.

"No, come on - this is just too perfect. My entire family is here, and they're all fun." Elias did not miss having to add "although my mother can be a handful."

But mothers were still a subject as they walked back inside. "Elias, you know I didn't even know my own mother and now's not the right time, but soon, I want to hear everything about yours."

"OK," he said, although lying because he knew he couldn't fully explain - not even to Bevie, at least not yet - why Genevieve had killed herself.

Having passed the big test already - seeing the closet, remembering his father's actions in it, and then all it triggered after - hanging with his Tupper Lake cousins, Craig and Bob Laroux was a breeze.

"Hey cuz," Bob said as they all embraced. "We're gonna miss ya at the bar, but everyone in Tupper is proud of you, Eli - keep it up."

"Damn fucking straight you former drunken mess. You don't want to end up like us," Craig said and he laughed just a little bit too loudly doing so. Both were doing fine in the Adirondack Mountains, but both would struggle with their own affinity for booze their whole lives.

Connie and Beverly, already growing close as Elias had hoped, returned together from the powder room and approached the three.

"Craig and Bob, please pull in your guts and put away the hunting rifles, because this is my new girl, Beverly Booth!"

"Always the city slicker! Look at you! Beverly, so nice to meet you, and we hope you can make an honest man out of Elias. We tried each summer for years and failed!"

"Hmm. By the looks of it," Beverly, now looking directly into Elias's dark blue eyes with her light green ones, said "I think the Spencer's and Laroux's should be proud."

Connie was sure - right then and there - Beverly Elizabeth Booth was perfect for her twin and best friend. She walked away, Champagne flute in hand, and sat down to chat with Pete and Larry.

Elias decided now was the time. He said to Bev, "I want you to meet my father," and with that, they walked across the room to the table at which Ben Jr was seated, presently alone.

"Mr. Spencer, it is an honor. Elias has told me all about your business and its great, great success. And oh my, I know you know he took me out in the Mercedes."

"What did you think?" were the first words Ben Jr spoke to Bevie.

"Well, I've never seen anything like it in my life. It is so quiet and serene inside, I think it's almost a different class of conveyance."

"What the fuck, 'conveyance?' See, Dad, I told you she was classy and smart!"

"Bevie, it is my pleasure to meet you, and I think you're exactly right. The car is so much more than I was hoping for. Have you seen Eli's apartment?"

"No not yet. Well, Eli?"

"It's a date!"

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Spencer!" as they started to head to the last people Beverly needed to meet that special night.

"Please, it's Ben," he said with a wink to Bev. His plan simply could not be going better, and that Elias had attracted a woman the caliber of Beverly Booth was all the evidence he needed.

"Pops and Nana, this is my new friend, Beverly, but please call her Bevie. Bev, these are my grandparents, Ben and Chelsea."

Chelsea surprised Beverly with both the big hug and her profanity, which had changed little over the years. "Well, I'll be Goddamned, but you are just beautiful. Ben, look at her!"

Both Ben Sr and Bevie were blushing. "Mr. and Mrs. Spencer! I can't believe this! I've been to your shop, and Mrs. Spencer, I think you rang me up at the register. Your place in Hoboken was one of the first things I heard about when we moved here, even in Yonkers. I must say, it was the best sandwich I've ever had."

Ben Sr said, "None of that - it's Ben and Chelsea - and thank you. We are so pleased you are here to celebrate Connie's graduation with us."

"Elias told me how close the two of you are, Ben, and how she's great at languages because of you," Bevie said, proud to show off her Spencer family knowledge this early.

"C'est si gentil de dire ça. Bienvenue dans la famille," hugged them both, and escorted Chelsea to Ben Jr's table.

On their way out, Elias and Bevie gave Connie one more congratulatory hug and told her what a great day and night it had been, and it was true.

Bevie did her best to repeat Ben's French words to Connie. While no linguist, Beverly knew a tiny bit of French, but still was not sure. "What did he say to me, Connie?" Bev asked?

"I'll tell you the important part. He said, 'Welcome to the family.'"

Chapter 11: Freedom and Riots

While the Spencer family was sorting itself out, the United States began to undo its own damage, that of Jim Crow. Despite the Union having won the Civil War, the bigots, racists, and others had set the tone.

And that tone was that Negroes were second-class. Maybe worse.

Yet on July 2, 1964, President Lyndon Johnson signed into law the Civil Rights Act, changing the status quo and upending American politics forever.

As New York's Borough Beat recounted the momentous event:

As the pen moved across the page, a nation held its breath. In that singular moment, the ghosts of a hundred years of struggle seemed to gather in the East Room—the echoes of Selma's marchers, Birmingham's fire hoses, and the sonorous dream that had rung out from the Lincoln Memorial just months before. The President's signature, flowing in black ink across the Civil Rights Act of 1964, was not simply the culmination of political maneuvering, but the grudging acknowledgment of a debt long overdue.
It was America finally beginning to cash the promissory note it had written at its founding, a nation reluctantly surrendering to its better angels after decades of resistance. As Johnson set down the pen, the room erupted in applause, but beneath the celebration lay the sobering truth that laws could be signed in moments, while the changing of hearts would demand generations.

Marcus Howard

"Goddamned right, Marcus!" said Ronald, raising his fist as Marcus arrived at Cosmopolitan Cars at 7 AM, the same time he had been arriving since the earliest days of the business. Even though today, July 3rd, was a holiday for most, the 4th of July weekend was among the busiest of the year, and his crew had a lot of Lincolns to get ready.

Although it was early, the humidity outside was already making it unpleasant. "Thank God Ben sprang for air conditioning," Marcus said to nobody as he made his way to his bay. Unique in the garage, Marcus had both his own lift and work area for servicing cars, as well as a smartly decorated office. It was small but functional, and it gave his staff something to which they could aspire.

Because the day after Johnson's signed the momentous legislation, at least there was hope - every black person in the United States had more pride in their step, and that included the black workers at CC, Marcus, too. At the same time, each quietly or otherwise knew the Civil Rights Act did nothing to immediately change the dynamic between black and white people in America. Even in New York City, race still mattered deeply.

But at CC, Marcus Howard had set such a standard that nobody even considered race, least of whom, Ben Jr. He would often say that hiring Marcus had nothing to do with him being a Negro, and that was true: He was exactly the right man for the job.

Marcus Howard was the consummate professional in the Cosmopolitan Cars garage, and he expected and received the same from his staff. From the newest hire to Ronald, the longest tenured after Marcus, each young black man saw the job for what it was: a steady profession with good pay and benefits, with heaping doses of self-respect as a bonus. Once hired, most had the good sense to stay for years and even decades now for Marcus, Ronald and a couple of others.

Virtually all of those who entered Ben Jr's shop seeking work had been born and raised in various ghettos in New York City and beyond. Yet each would elevate themselves, their families, and at times, even those around them, thanks to how Ben Spencer treated his "colleagues."

Referring to the Negroes who worked for him in his garage as colleagues earned Ben eyerolls at his competitor Carey and pretty much everywhere else. But it also meant his son Elias - raised to believe it was what people did that mattered, not the shade of their skin - was ready the day he drove one of his most important VIPs.

Bevie Booth

Beverly Booth happily lost her virginity to Elias over the 4th of July holiday. It made Monday, the 6th of July 1964 a better workday than most.

It was on Sunday afternoon, in Eli's Park Avenue apartment. He had had to drive for Carey the first three days, but his day off and their Sunday date had been greatly anticipated by both of them.

Because Bevie had gone on Enovid, otherwise known already, due to its significance, as The Pill.

Since their first date in May, Bevie and Eli had grown inseparable, seeing each other most nights, their passion intensifying until they both knew what was next.

"I am going to see a doctor and get it," she had said, in pretty much those same words, to Elias, as well as her father. It was the latter who helped her, getting an NYU medical school colleague to get her an appointment with one of the few gynecologists willing to prescribe the still-controversial drug.

None of it had been easy: getting the appointment and especially the personal intrusion of the doctor.

"These are new, but we think they're safe, Miss Booth. Enovid. You take one every day, starting on the fifth day of your cycle." He tore the prescription from the pad and held it just beyond her reach, his eyes suddenly stern.

"Now, this doesn't protect against diseases, understand? And I'm prescribing these because you've told me you're engaged. A respectable young woman doesn't need these otherwise." He paused, studying her face as if searching for some confirmation of virtue, then released the slip into her steady hand.

Beverly nodded, offered her thanks, and was off - the engagement ruse had worked, as she knew it would. In 1964 no doctor - not even friends of her father's friends - would offer an unattached woman sexual freedom.

She and Elias experienced what having that freedom meant on that special Sunday: They made love for hours. Although it was her first time, she was not frightened of becoming pregnant, and it was liberating. That, and Elias's gentle but passionate nature, made the afternoon something neither would forget.

So the next day, as she made her 30 minute commute on foot and by subway from Bedford and Grove to the tony offices of J Walter Thompson at 420 Lexington in Midtown, Bevie just couldn't wipe the smile off her face. She had not been in love before, and it showed.

"I guess at 21, you can afford to be happy. I hope you'll keep smiling while you book my trip to Japan for this September. Get us both a coffee and bring your pad, Bevie," her boss, Don Johnston directed. Johnston was one of the real up-and-comers at the booming ad agency and Bev idolized him. He had made his stylish arrival that morning as he did on every other, at 9:30 sharp.

Beverly still had a small smile upon her return to his office, with its views of the vertical sprawl of Midtown. She brought in his coffee first, and then returned with her own and her steno pad. She sat on the long, sleek banquette that lined the wall facing the office's expansive windows.

After explaining the Datsun and Toyota presentations he'd be making, Johnston turned and looked at his eager apprentice. She was expecting more precise instructions, as was his trademark. Instead, Sunday's thrills continued on into Monday.

"Look - don't get your hopes up, but if things go as I think they will, you might just be joining me in Tokyo. So get a passport."

An even bigger smile returned to Beverly's face.

Ben Spencer Sr

Now 64, Ben Sr would turn 65 on September 9th, now just a couple of months away. There were plans already afoot for both his retirement and a party at his son's Glen Ridge club in celebration of the same. He was ready and had earned it.

For 44 years now he had made a ridiculous number of sandwiches by slicing an even more ridiculous amount of Italian meat and cheese. And bread - Ben joked if he never saw the components of a sandwich again, it would be too soon.

But his toil had also resulted in Ben and his descendants living the archetypal American Dream. The question now for the elder Spencers was the quality of their retirement.

While he had started with a humble sandwich shop in Hoboken as a veteran of The Great War, his son was already a millionaire, and owned a very successful business in Manhattan. His granddaughter, Connie, freshly minted as one of the few women in the United States with a mechanical engineering degree, and from Stevens at that, was limited only by her imagination. They adored each other, and he couldn't be happier she shared his love of languages.

Even Elias seemed to be coming around, and Ben Sr was happy he was visiting more often, something he never did when he lived just a few blocks away. Now in Manhattan, he was making near-weekly visits to Hoboken, and often with his lovely new girlfriend, Beverly.

And while the entire family had been shaken by Genevieve's grisly suicide, Ben observed that it was as if a weight had been removed from the shoulders of his son and grandchildren. Ben Jr specifically seemed liberated, and while only Elias truly understood, Ben Sr was among those beginning to have suspicions as to why.

His son's sexual preferences were not foremost on his mind, however.

Instead, it was the ongoing and seemingly unstoppable deterioration and outright collapse of Hoboken and its economy. What had once seemed a sure thing, selling his famous Spencer Specialties, and for "a pretty penny," now seemed like fantasy. Arson, and something the newspapers Ben and Chel read about called "white flight" seemed to be the order of the day. Businesses were shuttering, not opening.

Over time, it became clear nobody was going to buy Ben's shop in this environment, and that could have been catastrophic to their retirement. While they both knew their son would always be there for them, Ben Sr and Chelsea took a lot of pride in 1964 knowing they'd never have to ask.

Because of Ben Sr's "hero," President Franklin D. Roosevelt, and his Social Security program. At the time of the bill's signing, the president said:

The security of the men, women and children of the Nation . . . involves . . . sound and adequate protection against the vicissitudes of modern life - in other words, social insurance.

And:

These three great objectives - the security of the home, the security of livelihood, and the security of social insurance - are . . . a minimum of the promise that we can offer to the American people.

36 years old then, Benjamin Spencer Sr never forgot those words.

Now, 30 years later, the program Roosevelt had eloquently described would give them a degree of freedom in retirement previous generations lacked - even without being able to sell their business. Yes, they had saved some for their retirement, and $75,000 was no small sum, but it was the new-ish Social Security program - one so many had confusingly derided as either "communism" or "fascism" - that was going to make the difference.

Beyond the business now being an illiquid asset, they had not managed their money well, either. That $75,000 would have been $150,000 if they hadn't been as extravagant in their travels and doting on their grandchildren. But the two of them lived with no regrets and as September 9 approached, Ben Sr and Chelsea looked forward to life on their own terms.

"Ben, fuck it," Chelsea said with her usual profanity.

"We did what we wanted, and think of the things we've seen. And how the hell could our kid and his kids have turned out better? Now that crazy Gen is gone and Elias is off the booze, we're all set for a great retirement. Florida, here we come!"

"I know. And I think we might even get health care - for free. From Johnson. Can you believe that?"

Larry Weinberg

"Miriam, make sure David and Ira have nice clothes for after the pool," Larry Weinberg shouted across his family's vibrantly middle-class split-level home in the Clinton Hill neighborhood of Newark. He thought it was an innocuous request, but his wife knew otherwise.

"Honey, I wish you weren't being like this," she responded. Miriam Stein Weinberg, 3 years Larry's senior and much prouder of their Judaism, would hear none of her husband's kvetching.

"You're the CPA. You're a partner at Ernst & Ernst. You make $35,000 a year and drive the nicest car on our block. Your sons are near the top of their class at Weequahic, and I certainly love you. We are going to be ourselves, and that will be more than enough. To hell with a couple of goyim. It's our club, too.

"And damn it Larry, you fought for this country, and have suffered for it," referencing his battle fatigue, which had diminished but had never completely disappeared.

Although Miriam was confident, they all knew it was a big day, and that included their boys, Ira and David. It had taken all the influence Ben Jr - one of Larry's best friends, dating to childhood - could muster, but it had happened.

"Damn it, Sam, he's a partner at a Big 8 firm and a war hero. What is the problem?" had been his pointed question to the club's board chairman, Samuel Whiting. A known anti-Semite, Whiting had been the last at the club to concede the inevitable: Jewish Americans were as American as any other.

So it was that the Weinberg's of Newark, New Jersey became the first Jewish members of Glen Ridge Country Club. Today would be their first weekend visit as a family, and importantly, independent of any sheltering gentiles like the Spencers.

Despite Ben Jr's teasing about not buying a Lincoln, Larry had taken a rather large bonus he received in 1962 from the firm and bought his dream car, a sky-blue 1963 Cadillac Sedan de Ville, completely loaded. He loved driving it and no more so as on that 18th day in July of 1964; it was about a 30 minute drive from Newark to Glen Ridge.

He navigated the massive yet beautiful car up the long, tree lined entrance to the club. He glanced to his right, where Miriam sat straight beside him. Her hat was new, although she hadn't wanted anyone to notice.

The boys were in the back, and dressed exactly like the teenaged children of a successful family. Ira, the oldest at sixteen, looked out the window but tried not to show interest. David, only fourteen, pressed his face to the glass. Both had been there before, as guests and certainly not like this; even David could feel the gravity of the day.

He pulled the car onto the club's spacious forecourt. A valet came, Larry handed him the keys and nodded. It was hot, and the grass was very green, flanking both sides of the elaborate flagstone sidewalk. As he led the family to the club's main entrance and through its set of double glass doors, Larry Weinberg felt different now as a full member.

But some were not prepared to completely welcome these new members.

Larry Weinberg had already considered this likely and had a plan should the need arise, which it did. And to no one's surprise, it was Sam Whiting who refused to put out the welcome mat.

Standing by a potted palm with an Old Fashioned in his hand, despite it being only 11:15 in the morning, Whiting offered, "They've got the full Mosaic delegation here."

He said it somewhat quietly, but the words carried in the clear air, bouncing in a variety of directions, including that of the Weinberg's.

So Larry stopped. Then he laughed - a sincere, real laugh.

"Yes, and we've brought the tablets too!" Larry said loudly, patting his coat pocket.

"Ten Commandments, including 'Thou shalt not slice on the seventh fairway!'"

The people nearby - there were several other members observing - were initially quiet. But then they laughed, too, and also with sincerity. They apparently wanted the Weinberg's to feel welcome; indeed, one approached and offered to buy the adults a Bloody Mary and the boys Cokes.

Whiting had been quietly chopped down by Larry, but with humor.

The country club was theirs now, too.

Harlem

From the Sunday, July 19, 1964 edition of The New York Times:

Thousands of rioting Negroes raced through the center of Harlem last night and early today, shouting at policemen and white people, pulling fire alarms, breaking windows and looting stores.
At least 30 persons were arrested.
There was no estimate on the number injured. Scores of persons with bloodied heads were seen throughout the eight‐block area between Eighth and Lenox Avenues and 123d and 127th Streets, where most of the rioting occurred.
The riot grew out of a demonstration in front of the West 123d Street police station protesting the slaying of a Negro youth by a white police lieutenant last Thursday.
More than 500 policemen, including all members of the tactical patrol force on duty in Manhattan and Brooklyn, were called out to control the mobs. However, the crowds continued to grow as rumors of the rioting spread through the community.
Fire apparatus was brought in at 1 A.M. in an effort to block off streets in the riot area.
The Transit Authority sent extra policemen to stand guard at most of the Harlem subway stations. It also diverted buses from their regular routes.
By 3 A.M., five and a half hours after the riot started, the situation was not under control.
Police roamed the streets with revolvers drawn.

Ed Carey

By the summer of 1964, Carey Limousine had been successful enough that the divorced owner Ed Carey could afford a spacious flat in Beekman Place, at 450 East 52nd Street . He liked the 20 minute walk to his garage, but being a bachelor, the 10 minute walk to P.J. Clarke's on 3rd was even better.

Competitors since Ben Jr's entry into the nascent sedan and limousine business in 1950, both knew their place. Ed had taken control after his father J.P. suddenly passed in 1952, by which time his father had already told him, "Do what Mr. Luizzi tells you to do, and plan on paying him regularly.

"He will keep you out of trouble."

Ed was now paying Ben Jr's Uncle Paulie $1,000 a month for protection, although Ed could afford it and it was money well-spent. Thanks to the Bonanno family, Carey Limousine never had labor or supply problems, and also "owned" both Grand Central Station and now John F. Kennedy International Airport. Anyone wanting anything other than a taxi had few choices other than a Carey Cadillac sedan or limo at two of its primary gateways.

That had made Ed Carey wealthy and well-connected, and not just to the Mafia. His drivers transported a veritable who's who from every walk of life. Walter Cronkite. Leonard Bernstein. Even Marilyn Monroe, right before she died.

Because like Ben Jr, Ed Carey ran a very tight shop, albeit a completely white one. There was not a single Negro on the staff at Carey Limousine.

Which made Elias's assignment on July 29 even more extraordinary.

Elias Spencer

"Elias, I want to talk to you," had been boss Ed Carey's words to him upon his arrival that morning. It was a very hot and humid Wednesday, July 29th and worse, Ed was using a tone Eli wasn't used to.

"Look, I know what you and your dad think. 'Carey's a bigot. Carey won't hire the blacks.' I get it, but it's also not true. But the fact is, you know your Uncle and his friends as well as I do, and let's just say they've never encouraged me to bring any in."

"Uh, OK," said Eli, nodding while also thinking he'd never refer to people in that manner.

"Yeah, so your old man called me a few days ago. Knowing your father to be a friend to their kind, he got a call from that King Jr's people. It seems Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. needs a ride to the airport late this afternoon, and your father called me about it," Carey said King's name in a way that made Elias unsure what was next.

"Your father wants you to drive him. In the Mercedes."

"Why isn't he doing it himself? In one of his own cars? Or send one of his best drivers and one of the Lincolns? They're all perfect."

"Because your father wants King to feel like a big shot. And we both know nothing does that like that Goddamned car of yours. I mean, his - oh, whatever.

"Plus, I told him this kind of squares things. He agreed I can issue a 'Carey Limousine Picks Up Civil Rights Leader' thing to the press. I want to get on the right side of this, but I can't piss off your Uncle Paulie.

“Here are the keys. Go pick him up at the Waldorf in the Benz and take him to Idlewild," Carey said, using the airport's former, but still widely used, name.

"Wow. Wait, what? Don't you mean the Theresa in Harlem?"

"No. The real Waldorf."

---

Things had happened very quickly for Benjamin Elias Spencer III in 1964 since his father's crazy offer. He had progressed so far that driving the world's most expensive car to a top hotel in Manhattan to pick up a leader of King's stature seemed almost normal.

But only almost. He stayed sober, but only almost, and leaned on his marijuana crutch.

Sure, in Carey's Cadillacs, he'd already driven some celebrities, up to and including a drunken Frank Sinatra and Jackie Gleason from Toots Shor's to the former's waiting plane at Teterboro.

But this was far different and far more important.

He even felt unsure of the car for some reason, mostly because he had still yet to meet the German mechanic his father had hired. He didn't even know his name, and he never was there when Elias was. It was confusing, but as he unlocked the unmarked door and entered the 600 Pullman's lair, everything looked perfect. The room was immaculate, outmatched only by the appearance of the car.

"Jesus," Elias said out loud.

Elias had not driven it since taking Bevie out for the first time. His head was spinning as he fired up the magnificent machine, which was - literally - fit for a King.

He safely navigated himself and the stunning automobile to the service entrance of the Waldorf-Astoria, as he had been instructed. Thankfully, it was devoid of both other cars and the press.

He pulled up and waited. It was 4:45 and Dr. King was due to come down to the car at 5 PM. Which he did, with no fuss, including opening his own door, for he and his closest adviser, Ralph Abernathy, despite Elias's attempt to assist.

"Holy mother of God, Ralph, would you look at this car? A couple of years ago I couldn't hail a taxi, and now?" Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr was tired but exuberant after helping to bring calm to Harlem. He and Abernathy climbed into the luxurious rear compartment of the Mercedes.

"What's your name, driver?" Dr. King asked, before Elias had raised the partition.

"Elias, sir. Elias Spencer. I must say, this is an honor."

Abernathy laughed and said, "You ever been down south, son? Trust me, ain't no white guy picking us up in a car like this."

"Sir, may I say some of us think we need to put those days behind us."

With that, Elias raised the partition, but he did hear Dr. King telling Abernathy, "I told the Mayor to tell the New York Times to get off of Baldwin's balls. James Baldwin is the smartest cat out there, and . . . "

The partition shut tight, and Elias focused on the task at hand, that being getting one of the most important people in the world through the awful traffic and to John F. Kennedy Airport.

He did and before lowering the partition as they pulled up to the gorgeous TWA terminal, he audibly exhaled. That was an important drive, for many reasons, and he was glad it was over, and also completely proud.

Elias went to the back of the car on the curb side, and opened the door. King and Abernathy emerged, both smiling.

Dr. King spoke for both of them when he said, in a voice that was already famous, "That was the ride of my life. The quiet and smoothness put me at ease. Thank you, Elias Spencer, I hope to ride again soon in your impressive automobile."

Chapter 12: Going West and East

"I Took a King to JFK"

It was a day after meeting the nation's top civil rights leader. Eli had just got home from a day of driving various wealthy and almost-wealthy people around Manhattan and to and from JFK, in one of Ed Carey's Cadillac limos.

After showering, Elias poured an iced tea, and being very careful with the smoke, finished a joint from yesterday. He then put a new album on the Telefunken and sat down to unwind.

But the first track's ominous strumming had only just begun when his phone rang.

"Dad told me, but I want to hear about it from you. Bevie, too - my God, Eli - everybody's talking about you driving Dr. King to the airport!"

Connie Spencer couldn't have had a better summer, and this only added to it. She had received her diploma, and her fall trip to Japan was right around the corner. She had also been helping her father around CC, and keeping a sisterly eye on Elias.

Most importantly, Connie was unencumbered, man-wise, and she was loving her independence. It had been a "sporty" summer, as she described it.

But tonight, it was about hearing about Dr. King and spending more time with Bevie. Elias had confided already to his twin that he was in love with her, and was thrilled Connie and Bevie were hitting it off. They'd already gone to a couple of Broadway shows together, and now there was talk of them somehow connecting in Tokyo in October.

"Bevie suggested 'your' Automat, on Lex. She said you'd know where. 7:30. See you then."

---

He kissed Bevie on the lips and his sister on the cheek, and they went to collect their food. The engineer in Connie meant she had always loved the Automat, with row upon row of small, precise stainless steel and glass boxes, all in service of keeping a ham sandwich or slice of lemon meringue pie cold.

In between eating, Eli enraptured the girls with his story of driving Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr to the airport. After a nearly second-by-second story, Elias finished.

"I must say he is one handsome cat. And he was normal. Nice. It was nothing really, and I was just relieved I didn't have a pile-up - that damned Van Wyck is getting worse and worse. His voice was amazing!"

Connie was beaming at her brother, but not as much as Bev, who exclaimed, "You did it! I am so proud of you, we both are!"

"Very true. And dad," said Connie, "he is so happy this happened and also very proud of what you've done, Eli."

Eli finished the story.

"Dr. King said riding in the back of the Mercedes put him at ease. He said it was different than any other car and felt it was an honor even being in it.

"And being only 21 doesn't matter, right, Connie? I know that's why Dad did this and didn't drive Dr. King himself."

Connie knew that was likely true: He had always stressed "it's not your age, but your preparation. After all," Ben Jr would repeat over and over, "luck is the intersection of preparation and opportunity."

With his upbringing and Ed Carey's chauffeur bootcamp, Eli was prepared for when a most unusual opportunity had presented itself. And he was very lucky: He had driven someone who would become an icon, in a car that would, too.

It would not be the last time.

Connie's Lay(over) in San Francisco

On the flight which would start her momentous trip to Japan, Connie Spencer pressed her face to window, and remembered her father's voice back in Hoboken, late in the summer.

"First class, all the way to Tokyo and back, sweetheart. Call it a graduation present," Ben Jr had said, handing her the elegant Pan American ticket wallet. He had tucked in $100 in cash, too.

"But Daddy - you already blew so much on that stupid mistake I made with Alvaro. And first class? Again, like to Buenos Aires? With a night in San Francisco on the way?"

"Forget about it. You'll love Frisco. Plus, there's really no choice but a layover there - that's the only route Pan Am flies to Japan."

"Daddy, it's too much."

"Hush - buy me a kimono!" Ben Jr said, with a wink.

Despite the tragedy of his wife's suicide and then Kennedy's murder, 1963 had been a great year, business-wise, for Cosmopolitan Cars, and 1964 had been even better already. Ben Jr could afford to spoil both of his children, which he did in a lavish manner. Connie would have been lying to herself if she had said she hadn't enjoyed nearly every moment being his only daughter, and it had only gotten better in recent years.

The first-class cabin hummed with efficient luxury on Connie's flight to the West Coast. The stewardesses moved with precision and speed to clear away the remains of a five-course dinner, which had been served on fine bone china. Connie had savored every bite of her filet mignon, and enjoyed a couple of whiskey sours afterwards.

"We'll be landing at San Francisco International in approximately ten minutes, ladies and gentlemen," the captain announced over the intercom, his voice sounding like that from a movie. "The weather in San Francisco is clear and the current temperature is a pleasant 64 degrees."

Connie straightened her tailored skirt and checked her reflection in her compact's mirror. Stevens Institute of Technology hadn't prepared her for the glamour of international travel, but it, and languages, came naturally to her. And the four years of being one of three women in her program had taught her to move through male-dominated spaces - like the first class cabin of a Pan Am jetliner - with a unique and deliberate ease.

Upon arriving, Connie gathered her streamlined luggage and was among the first to deplane. The terminal at SFO was a marvel of modern design—all clean lines and soaring ceilings, of which Connie completely approved. She navigated her first airport west of Buffalo confidently, her heels clicking against the polished floors.

Outside, she hailed a taxi to The St. Francis Hotel, on Union Square. Her father had suggested either there or The Fairmont.

"First time in San Francisco?" the driver asked, eyeing her in the rearview mirror.

"Just passing through," Connie replied. "On my way to Tokyo for the Olympics."

"No kidding! You competing?" He grinned at his own joke.

"Just watching," she said with a crisp smile. "Though I did run the 400 meters in college."

"College girl, huh? What'd you study—teaching? Nursing?"

"Mechanical engineering," she replied, watching his eyebrows shoot up in the mirror. The reaction was so predictable Connie thought about starting to time it with a stopwatch.

"You don't say," he murmured, clearly recalibrating his assessment of his passenger.

The taxi threaded its way up the still in-progress Bayshore Freeway, and into the city proper. San Francisco in 1964 seemed poised between eras—part old-world charm, part Post War modernity.

The St. Francis Hotel stood as a monument to the former, and Connie captured it with a snapshot out the window of the taxi, as the driver took her up Geary towards Powell and the hotel.

The Yellow Cab pulled up in front of the hotel. Ding ding rang a passing cable car, in a friendly warning to the many well-dressed people nearby. Connie had only read about the city's unique mode of transportation in magazines and in an applied engineering class at Stevens. She thoroughly approved.

A gracious bellman opened her door and offered his greeting. It was a beautiful late afternoon in San Francisco, albeit with its typical bracing breeze.

"Welcome to The St. Francis and San Francisco, miss." Connie emerged, tipping him generously and commenting instantly, "The air is so fresh!"

"Yes, madam," the bellman knowingly said as he also nodded.

Inside, the lobby balanced traditional opulence with modernist touches—a massive abstract sculpture dominated one corner, its metal components reflecting the chandelier light in unusual patterns.

At the front desk, the clerk processed her reservation quickly. "Just one night, Miss Spencer? And continuing to Tokyo tomorrow on Pan American?"

"That's correct," she confirmed, accepting her room key.

"Room 1216. The elevator is to your right. Your baggage will be brought up momentarily. There's a Pan Am office across the Square should you need to make any changes."

After freshening up in the bathroom, with its white tile and fine chrome fixtures, Connie considered her options. She had changed into a simple black sheath dress and headed down to the Mural Room—the hotel's cocktail lounge that the concierge had recommended.

"Why not?" she thought to herself and mad her way to the elevator and a memorable evening.

The room was a study in calculated cool—low-slung furniture in deep blues and grays, with strategically placed lighting that sent shadows across the lounge's walls. A jazz trio played in one corner - Connie recognized the music as one of her father's favorites, Eli's, too.

Connie ordered a Gibson at the bar—gin with a hint of vermouth, garnished with a cocktail onion—and found a small table with a view of both the band and the entrance. She was halfway through her drink when a man in a sharply tailored suit approached.

"That seat taken?" he asked, gesturing to the empty chair across from her. He was perhaps thirty-five, with a lean build and intelligent eyes behind his horn-rimmed glasses.

"Help yourself," she replied, assessing him with a practiced glance. Well-dressed, well-groomed, likely well-educated.

"Robert Weiss," he offered, extending his hand. "Architectural engineering. I'm speaking at a conference here tomorrow."

"Connie Spencer. Mechanical engineering, recently graduated," she said with more than a dose of sarcasm.

His eyebrows lifted, but his smile remained unwavering. "Stevens Institute, by any chance?"

Now it was her turn to be surprised. "How did you know?"

"I gave a guest lecture there last spring." Connie hadn't attended, but that didn't mean she didn't feel a bit flushed at the moment.

Their conversation unfolded, and it was a flirtation, but between two engineers. They discussed the merits of various structural materials, the promise of new plastics, the engineering challenges of the soon-to-open Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, and its growingly notorious sponsor, Robert Moses.

"And Tokyo?" he asked. "Business or pleasure?"

"The Olympics and then a couple of weeks in Japan," she explained. "My father gave me the tickets as a graduation gift. He runs a car business in Manhattan—limousines. He insisted on first class," feeling compelled to verbalize her standing.

"He sounds like a man who appreciates quality."

"He built his business from nothing," she said, the sincere pride evident in her voice. "Started with one car after the war, now he has a fleet of twenty-three. He taught me about business, but mechanics first."

Connie finished her second drink. "I should turn in. My flight to Tokyo leaves at 3 PM, but I want to see some of San Francisco before I go."

"Don't." He gently touched her hand and it felt at that moment to Connie like an agreeable electric shock.

She was unattached and thanks to Bevie and her somewhat agreeable doctor, freer than ever. Robert was handsome and certainly not threatening.

He was married, sure, but the drinks had dulled her ethical compass. They went to her room and Robert Weiss cheated on his wife.

---

The next morning, with "Bobby" gone, Connie enjoyed a long bath and even longer breakfast in her room. She still had time for a quick cable car ride to Fisherman's Wharf and back. It was a clear and beautiful morning in the City by The Bay.

"I can't wait to come back to San Francisco," she said to Eli on a person-to-person call she splurged on from her hotel room. She had to call someone, and naturally, it was her best friend.

"Be careful on your big trip. I love you, sis."

At noon, she took a taxi back to SFO. Her Pan American flight to Tokyo was scheduled to depart at 3 PM, and Connie wasn't about to miss it.

The first-class check-in counter was staffed by a uniformed agent whose movements were as crisp as her perfectly pressed uniform.

"Tokyo, Miss Spencer? Your father called this morning to confirm your reservation and to request that the crew be notified of your engineering background. He thought you might enjoy a visit to the cockpit during the flight."

Connie smiled, imagining her father picking up the phone in his incongruously nice office within the CC garage, and making certain his only daughter was properly taken care of, even from 3,000 miles away.

As she settled into her first class seat for the flight across a vast Pacific Ocean, Connie felt a surge of anticipation. The Olympics and Japan were waiting.

Chapter 13: Rutger from Stuttgart

Earlier in 1964, Ben Spencer went to midtown and to the Carey Limousine garage.

"Ed, I'd like you to meet Rutger Krause," Ben Jr said as he and the 20 year-old blond West German walked into Ed Carey's office. During a call a few days prior, Ben had told Carey about Rutger, a Mercedes-trained mechanic for whom he had arranged a work visa. He was meeting in person the man to whom Ben Spencer Jr was entrusting the Mercedes Benz 600.

And to a lesser degree, his only son: Elias was going to be "driving that thing as often I can make it happen," Ben Jr had promised. Knowing his contacts via Uncle Paulie as well as Glen Ridge, Ed Carey had little reason to doubt Ben's words.

"Hello, Mr. Carey, it is a pleasure to meet you, and I appreciate this fine workspace," Rutger said, in fluent if accented English, as he gestured at what was now his workplace. In direct, Teutonic fashion, he went on, "I have only seen a facility like this at Mercedes itself," referring to the combination of a lift and fully-equipped area for servicing the car, complimented with a luxurious lounge and bar area.

"Jeez, call him Ed, Rutger. He and I go way back, and for fuck's sake, he's already hired your br- . . ." Ben stopped before he said too much.

Far, far, too much.

---

Benjamin Elias Spencer Jr. had been in Germany for four months by May of 1943 and it had been mostly awful. But for now, he was in the relative tranquility of a small rearward base, tasked with occupying a small village taken by the allies previously.

"Spencer! Mail call!" Sergeant Donovan shouted in his general direction in the barracks. Ben looked up from the letter he'd been writing to his parents, careful descriptions of weather and food and absolutely nothing that mattered.

Ben recognized immediately his wife's flowing script on the letter from home. Genevieve Spencer wrote weekly, with gossip about neighbors and complaints about first her pregnancy and then the twins. Ben tucked it into his pocket. He'd read it later, when he could be alone with the complicated feelings that always surfaced when he thought of home. He had yet to meet his children, but Gen's letters didn't exactly make him want to.

"Going out tonight, Ben?" Private Wilson asked, clapping him on the shoulder. "Some of us are heading to that bar near the train station. They've got actual whiskey. Well, something they're calling whiskey, anyway."

"Not tonight," Ben said, forcing a smile. "Got KP duty."

Wilson gave him a look of exaggerated disappointment. "All work and no play, Spencer. That's your problem."

If only that were my problem, Ben thought as he watched Wilson go. His real problem was more complicated.

Later that night, after KP, alone in a quiet corner of the barracks, Ben rubbed his temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache. He thought of Jack Reynolds, the communications specialist from their unit who'd been transferred to North Africa two months ago. The way Jack's eyes crinkled when he laughed. The brush of their hands when passing equipment back and forth. The one night they got drunk on contraband schnapps and almost - almost - acted on the energy between them before Corporal Harris had stumbled into their tent looking for cigarettes.

The memory burned, dangerous and sharp. Ben stood abruptly, grabbing his coat. He needed air and needed to walk until the thoughts quieted down.

Outside, the occupied village was quiet. Most of the civilian population had either fled or learned to become invisible after dark. Military patrols were the only other people Ben saw as he walked.

He noticed the small tavern, the one by the station Wilson had mentioned. Its windows were blacked out, but a sliver of light was visible under the door.

Ben hesitated only briefly before pushing the door open. The warmth hit him first, then the smell of bodies and cheap alcohol and something cooking - probably not meat, but meant to remind you of it. The place was dimly lit and half-empty. Behind a crude bar, an old man with one arm poured cloudy liquid into mismatched glasses.

Ben found a table in the back and ordered whatever they were serving. The drink burned going down but did its job, spreading warmth through his chest and dulling the edges of his thoughts. He was on his second glass when he noticed her.

She sat alone at a small table near the door, watching the room with careful eyes. Young—perhaps twenty or twenty-one—with dark blonde hair pulled back from a face that might have been pretty in peacetime. Now it was thin and sharp with hunger, but her eyes were alert and calculating. She wore a dress that likely once had been fine but was now mended in several places, and a coat that seemed too light for the winter chill.

When she caught him looking, she didn't look away. Instead, she held his gaze steadily, then lifted her glass in a small salute. There was nothing flirtatious in the gesture, just acknowledgment.

Before Ben quite knew what he was doing, he was crossing the room to her table.

"Darf ich?" he asked in his limited German, gesturing to the empty chair.

"Your German is terrible," she replied in accented but clear English. "Please, sit."

"Ben Spencer," he said, offering his hand.

"Ingrid Schmidt." Her hand was cold when it briefly touched his. "American soldier, yes?"

Ben nodded. "Corporal. For now."

"And back home?" she asked, studying him. It was obvious he wasn't career military.

"My father owns a sandwich shop." Strange how the family business seemed both impossibly distant and mundanely normal when described here, in this ruined village.

"And you will join him when the war ends?"

"No," Ben said, not adding any mention of a future neither of them knew they'd live to see.

There was something unbearably dignified about her, sitting straight-backed in her carefully mended clothes. Ben found himself ordering another round for both of them, then another. They talked of inconsequential things - the weather, the efforts to rebuild certain parts of the city, a book she had read before the library was bombed.

They did not talk about the war, or families, or friends. It was almost an unspoken agreement, an hour borrowed from reality.

When Ingrid stood and said, "I have a room near here," Ben knew exactly what she was offering. He also knew why. American soldiers had food, cigarettes, soap - luxuries in a broken city. This was a transaction, plain and simple.

He should have said no. He should have given her whatever money he had and walked away. Instead, he heard himself say, "Take me there."

It was a decision that altered several lives.

Her room was small, surprisingly warm, and also scrupulously clean. A narrow bed, a chair, and a small table with a basin of water. There was a worn rug on the floor. On the table, a single photograph in a simple frame - an older couple that Ben assumed were her parents.

Ingrid turned the frame face-down with deliberate care before removing her coat. "You don't have to look so worried, Corporal Spencer. I don't have expectations beyond the practical."

Ben swallowed hard. "I - I don't normally - "

"Neither did I, before the war," she said matter-of-factly. "None of us are who we were before."

She stepped closer, her expression neither inviting nor reluctant, but just resolved. When she reached up to unbutton his uniform jacket, Ben caught her hands.

"Wait," he said. "I can't - I mean, I don't - "

Understanding flickered in her eyes, followed by something like compassion. "Ah," she said softly. "I see."

Ben felt exposed and transparent.

"It's not uncommon," she said, her voice neutral. "Especially now. War makes people honest about what comfort they need."

"I don't . . . " Ben started, but didn't know whether to finish with "like men" or "like women."

"It doesn't matter to me what you are or aren't," she interrupted quietly. "We all have our secrets. I'm offering a warm room and human contact. Nothing more."

She didn't move away. Instead, she stood there, patient and mysteriously understanding, while something inside Ben crumbled.

"I just want to forget," he whispered. "Everything. Everything about . . . just for tonight."

"Then forget," she said simply. "We both will."

The night that followed was a blur of desperation and need and forgetting who they both were. Ben Spencer for a couple of hours forgot he was bisexual, but mostly a homosexual, and Ingrid forgot what her life had become during Hitler's horrific reign. Neither of them spoke much.

When it was over, Ben lay staring at the cracked ceiling, feeling neither guilt nor satisfaction, just a temporary calm, instead of his normal anxiety.

Ingrid smoked a cigarette, the American brand he had given her, and watched the smoke curl toward the ceiling.

"Your wife writes to you often?" she asked suddenly.

Surprised at her bluntness, Ben turned to look at her. "What?"

"The letter in your pocket. It fell out." She gestured toward his uniform jacket, draped over the chair. "The handwriting is distinctive."

"Yes," Ben admitted. "Every week or so. She wants me to come home and help her with our babies - she had twins after I shipped off." He gave a hollow laugh.

"And what do you want?"

The question caught him off guard. No one had asked him that in a long time, maybe ever.

What did Benjamin Spencer Jr want? To be free of the constant fear of discovery? To love whom he wanted without shame? To live honestly?

If he knew the answer himself, he wasn't prepared to offer it to an anonymous whore in war-ravaged Germany.

"I don't know anymore," he said instead.

Ingrid nodded as if this was the most natural answer in the world. "Neither do I. Before, I wanted to be a teacher. Now I want food and warmth and not to be afraid. Our dreams get smaller in wartime."

They lapsed into silence again. Eventually, Ben dressed and left some ration bars, cigarettes, and money on the table. They both pretended it wasn't payment.

Nine months later, Ingrid Schmidt gave birth to a son in a makeshift hospital in her village. She named him Rutger, giving him the last name of her mother, Krause, and also made a decision.

For now, she would tell no one who the father was, although she knew it was Ben. She would raise Rutger alone, during and after the war, with quiet dignity and fierce determination.

The years that followed the war's end were hard. Food was scarce, jobs more so. Ingrid took work where she could find it - cleaning for American officers' families who had moved into the rebuilt sections of the city, translating documents, eventually securing a position as a clerk in an import business.

Rutger grew into a serious boy with curious eyes and his father's jawline. He asked about his father sometimes, and Ingrid told him only that he had been an American soldier who had returned home after the war. It was enough, for a while.

In the winter of 1951, when Rutger was eight, Ingrid was sorting through a stack of American magazines that her employer had received as part of a trade shipment. One, a glossy business publication, had a cover story on a limousine business in New York City.

And there, in a photograph that made her heart stop, was Ben. Older, still trim, and dressed in an expensive suit, he was standing proudly next to what the magazine identified as a Lincoln Continental.

A caption inside identified him as "Benjamin E. Spencer Jr."

Ingrid stared at the photograph for a long time. Then, carefully, she tore out the page and took it home.

That night, after Rutger was asleep, she wrote her first letter to Ben Spencer, addressing it only with "Mr. Benjamin Spencer, Cosmopolitan Cars, New York City, USA," and hoping it would get there.

It did.

She wrote simply and directly, without accusation or demand:

Benjamin,

I hope this letter finds you well. You may not remember me—it has been many years since that winter night we spent together. I am writing to tell you that you have a son. His name is Rutger Krause, and he was born on February 17, 1944. He has your eyes and your build.

I am not writing to ask for anything. We are managing, and I have never told him your name. But I thought you should know he exists. He is a good boy, intelligent and kind.

If you wish to know more about him, you may write to me at the address below. If not, I understand, and I will not contact you again.

Ingrid Schmidt

She mailed the letter the next day, half expecting never to hear back.

Three weeks later, an envelope arrived, postmarked from Hoboken, New Jersey. Inside was a brief note and one hundred American dollars:

Ingrid,

I remember. I cannot acknowledge him publicly - surely you understand why. But I will help as I can. Tell me what he needs.

Ben

So began a strange correspondence that would span decades. Every few months, Ingrid would write to Ben about Rutger—his first day of school, his interest in mechanics, his growing talent for drawing. She never demanded acknowledgment or asked Ben to reveal himself to their son. She simply offered glimpses of the boy's life.

Ben's replies were always brief, and always accompanied by money. He never mentioned his life in Hoboken, nor a word of his German "family" to anyone.

As Rutger grew into a teenager, his questions about his father became more pointed. Who was he? Where in America did he live? Why had he never tried to find them?

"Your father has his own life now," Ingrid told him. "He sends money when he can. That's more than many do."

"I don't care about the money," Rutger would say, with the anger of youth. "I want to know who I am."

Ingrid never showed him the photograph from the magazine, never told him about the letters. Some truths, she believed, were better left untold. The world was not kind to boys like Rutger, born of desperation and necessity. And it was even less kind to men like Ben, trapped in largely false lives.

But she continued to write, sending updates about Rutger's progress through school, his growing fascination with automobiles, his talent for understanding mechanical things. She wrote because she sensed that her letters were Ben's only connection to a truth he had otherwise buried completely.

And Ben continued to send money, and brief notes that revealed little but suggested much. Reading between the lines, Ingrid pieced together the outline of his life: the successful business, the beautiful but troubled wife, and their twins. She wondered if he was happy, if the American dream had been worth the price he was paying.

In 1962, when Rutger was eighteen and had just finished his secondary education, Ingrid wrote what would be her last letter to Ben:

Benjamin,

I am writing with news that might interest you. Rutger has been accepted to the Mercedes-Benz mechanic's academy in Stuttgart. Out of hundreds of applicants, they selected only twelve young men. He leaves next week to begin his training.

It seems he inherited your affinity for fine automobiles, though he knows nothing of it. When he was small, he could identify every car on the street. Now he can take apart an engine and put it back together blindfolded. The instructors say they have rarely seen such natural talent.

I thought you should know that the money you've sent over the years has helped make this possible. He will have a good career ahead of him, thanks in part to you.

I will not write again. Rutger is beginning his own life now. He still asks about you sometimes, but less often. I think he has made his peace with the mystery of his origins.

I hope you have found some measure of happiness in the life you chose. I do not regret our night together. It gave me my son, who has been the joy of my life.

Take care of yourself, Benjamin.

Ingrid

She never received a reply to this final letter. But three weeks later, a package arrived from America. Inside was a perfect miniature model of a Lincoln Continental limousine - the same model featured in the magazine article - and a bank draft for a sum so large that Ingrid's hands shook when she saw it. There was no note, no explanation.

Ingrid put the money aside for Rutger and his time in Stuttgart. It meant he would not have to work during his off time, and that she could quit her second shift at the Bosch factory.

And she kept the model car for herself.

Some choices, Ingrid knew from experience, lasted forever; Ben knew that some secrets poisoned slowly, over decades.

And both knew some connections can never be broken, even with an ocean and a lifetime of silence between them.

---

In many ways, Ben Jr had avoided dealing with his sexuality as an adult by spoiling his children, and that included the one he fathered one very lonely and confusing night in Offenburg, Germany, during World War II. After Ingrid's letter, Ben had contacted Rutger directly and they began a communication that culminated in a work visa and a walk-up flat in Weehawken, all arranged by Ben.

"How the hell do I have 3 kids the way I am?" he would often ask himself.

But Rutger Krause, Mercedes Benz mechanic and half-brother of Eli and Connie, had a lot to learn in his new town. Fortunately, keeping the big Benz in perfect condition was not one of them.

Chapter 14: Summer Games in Fall

The airplane rattled as it made its final descent into Tokyo.

Connie Spencer gripped the armrests, not out of fear—she'd flown plenty—but from anticipation.

The Olympics. She'd anticipated this trip for a long time, although not so long ago, there would have been two on the trip. Now, Connie was solo - and loving it.

Beside her in the plane, a Japanese businessman in a gray suit put down his cigarette. "First time to Japan?" he asked, in English, albeit as a person for whom it was a second language.

"Yes, it is my first time," Connie replied in Japanese. She'd picked up the basics at Stevens in her Japanese studies, and also on her own: She had spent the summer with Japanese phrase books.

The man's eyebrows shot up, then he smiled with genuine pleasure and continued in Japanese, although Connie found him boring.

The plane touched down at Haneda Airport at 6:47 p.m. local time.

---

The New Otani Hotel had opened just months before the Olympics, eleven stark modernist floors of luxury in the Kioicho district. Connie checked in, handing over her passport and speaking in careful Japanese with the desk clerk. The lobby buzzed with different languages—German, French, Italian, English in various accents. She recognized a famous American swimmer from a magazine cover, standing near the elevator bank with his entourage.

Her room was small but immaculate, with views across the city toward the distant mountains, mountains she'd soon be visiting on the second part of her trip. Connie unpacked and put her carefully chosen wardrobe in the closet. She had been told that, as an American, it was best to dress conservatively, so she had left behind her more colorful pieces.

The telephone rang just as she was organizing her toiletries in the bathroom.

"Miss Spencer? There's a Miss Booth in the lobby asking for you."

Connie smiled. "Please send her up." Beverly Booth burst through the door moments later.

"You're here! I can't believe we're both here. It's like a dream."

They hugged. Over the summer, the two had become drawn closer as Bev's relationship with Elias had gotten serious.

Connie, greeted Bevie with a hug and said, "How was your flight? How's Mr. Johnston treating you?"

Bevie rolled her eyes and said, "Like a piece of furniture with legs. But never mind that. We're in Tokyo!" She twirled around the room, her pleated skirt flaring. "Johnston has meetings all day tomorrow with Datsun executives, but I checked the schedule and there's swimming tomorrow night. Women's 100-meter freestyle finals at 7:00. Can you get tickets?"

"Already have them," Connie said, reaching into her valise and producing two neatly folded tickets. "And for the men's gymnastics the day after."

Bevie clapped her hands together in delight. "You think of everything."

Already laughing, she confessed to Bevie the tickets were a gift from the West German delegation to Connie's father. They were a "thank you" for his purchase of the most expensive car in the world.

"But I am an engineer, and you have to think things through as one."

"Engineering," Bevie said with a small shake of her head. "I still can't believe you did it. I don't know what I really want, but I think Mr. Johnston might help me get there."

Connie sat beside her twin's girlfriend, suddenly serious. "And what do you want, Bevie? Really want?"

Bevie's smile softened. "I think I might be falling in love with your brother." She twisted the gold bracelet Elias had given her, her cheeks flushing slightly. "He wrote me the most beautiful letter before I left. He said he's never known anyone who makes him feel so alive. And I . . . I feel the same way about him."

Connie raised an eyebrow. "Really? Elias said that?"

"He can be quite poetic when he wants to be," Bevie said, not incorrectly.

The telephone rang again, piercing the quiet room.

"Miss Spencer? There's a call for Miss Booth from a Mr. Johnston."

Bevie sighed and took the receiver. "Yes, Mr. Johnston. Yes. I understand. Right away." She hung up and gave Connie an apologetic look. "Duty calls. Apparently, there's an urgent need to reorganize his presentation folders."

"Go," Connie said. "I'll see you tomorrow night. Wear something cool. October in Tokyo can still be warm."

After Bevie left, Connie stood at the window, looking out at Tokyo spread before her. Tomorrow, the Olympics would begin, but it was this moment—standing alone in a foreign country, answerable to no one but herself—that felt like the true beginning of something.

Connie Spencer instinctively knew Japan was going to inspire the next part of her life.

---

The Tokyo National Gymnasium was packed with spectators; Connie recalled a photo she had seen back home of the facility, famous in engineering circles for its unique design.

Fighting what had been explained to them as "jet lag," Connie and Bevie sat fanning themselves with their programs, watching as the female swimmers competed in heat after heat. The crowds cheered for the American competitors, but Connie found herself drawn to the Australian and Japanese swimmers, their movements exhibiting a different philosophy of the sport.

"It's like mathematics in water," she whispered to Bevie. "Look at the Australian girl—see how she calculates each stroke?"

Bevie nodded, but her attention was elsewhere. "Did I tell you what happened in the meeting today? Johnston actually used my concept for the Datsun slogan! 'Innovation through tradition' - I came up with that after reading about their manufacturing philosophy."

"That's wonderful," Connie said. "Did he give you credit?"

Bevie's expression brightened. "He did! He said, 'My associate Miss Booth developed this concept, and I believe it captures exactly what your company represents.' The Japanese executives were impressed - they asked me questions directly which Mr. Johnston said is unheard of!"

"That's amazing," Connie squeezed her friend's hand. "You're exactly where you need to be - you went from secretarial school to pitching ideas in Tokyo!"

"Johnston even suggested I might help draft some of the actual copy when we get back to New York," Bevie continued, her excitement palpable. "He said I have good instincts for what appeals to consumers."

As if on cue, the crowd erupted into cheers as the American swimmer completed her heat. Bevie and Connie applauded enthusiastically, caught up in the moment of national pride here in what not long ago was conquered American land.

"How is it," Bevie finally asked as the noise subsided, "that you always know what you want?"

Connie considered the question seriously. "I don't always know. But I know what I don't want. I don't want to be decorative. I don't want to be secondary. I don't want to build someone else's vision instead of my own. That was the crap Alvaro tried to pull," saying his name aloud for the first time in months.

The next swimmer took her position, a Japanese woman whose presence brought the home crowd to its feet. As she dove into the water, Connie found herself mesmerized not just by the swimming but by the respectful focus of the Japanese audience, their collective attention. She glanced around the stadium - at the meticulous organization, the courteous ushers, the sense of orchestrated hospitality that enveloped the event.

"Engineering is problem-solving," she said suddenly. "But so is this - creating an experience where a lot of people feel individually attended to."

Bevie looked at her curiously. "What do you mean?"

"I'm not sure yet," Connie replied, her mind racing ahead as it always did when an idea took hold. "Just thinking out loud."

After the event, they pushed through the crowds toward the exit. A Japanese couple stood nearby, consulting a program with confused expressions. The woman said something to her husband, who shrugged helplessly.

Without thinking, Connie approached them. "Excuse me," she said in Japanese. "Can I help you find something?"

The couple looked startled, then relieved. The woman explained they were trying to find where the medal ceremony would be held. Connie checked her own program and then gave them directions in halting but correct Japanese, adding suggestions for the best viewing location.

As they thanked her profusely and departed, Bevie stared at Connie with open admiration. "That was amazing. They looked at you like you were some kind of ambassador."

"I just answered a question," Connie said, but she felt a strange satisfaction warming her chest in addition to the humid evening air. It wasn't like solving an engineering problem. It was something else - the direct human connection, the immediate gratification of improving someone's experience.

They walked back toward the hotel; the streets of Tokyo were alive with Olympic excitement. Street vendors called out their wares, tourists haggled for souvenirs, and everywhere was the sensory bombardment of a culture Connie had only read about.

"I miss Elias," Bevie said suddenly. "I wish he could be here to see all this with us."

"Me, too," Connie said, thinking that she'd be sharing her best friend with Bev for a long time. And she was happy for both Eli and Bevie.

Because Connie wondered what it would be like to feel what Bevie was feeling - that pull toward another person that transcended distance and reason. She'd known admiration, respect, even animal attraction for Alvaro, but never gravitational certainty.

---

Don Johnston leaned back in his chair, reviewing the notes from the day's meeting with Datsun. "Your slogan concept really resonated with them, Miss Booth. Well done."

They were in Johnston's suite at the Imperial Hotel. It was more opulent than Connie's room at the New Otani, with a separate sitting area where they now sat reviewing the day's progress. Through the window, Tokyo Tower stood like an exclamation point against the evening sky.

"Thank you, Mr. Johnston," Bevie replied, careful to keep her voice professionally modulated despite her inner elation. "I believe I understand what they're looking for in their international marketing."

"You may have a talent for this," Johnston conceded, as if the admission cost him something. "When we return to New York, I'll speak with Jenkins about involving you in some of the creative meetings."

Bevie's heart skipped. Creative meetings were where the real advertising work happened - where concepts were born and campaigns shaped. Secretaries were never invited.

"I'd appreciate that opportunity, sir," she said, unable to keep the excitement entirely from her voice.

Johnston smiled slightly, perhaps remembering his own early days in the business. "Don't get ahead of yourself, Miss Booth. It's a long climb from sitting in on meetings to actually shaping campaigns."

"I understand," she replied. "But everyone starts somewhere."

"Indeed they do." Johnston glanced at his watch. "That will be all for tonight. We have the Toyota presentation at eleven tomorrow. Be ready."

"Of course."

---

After Johnston left to meet colleagues for dinner, Bevie sat at the hotel desk and wrote a letter to Elias Spencer. She told him about Tokyo, about the Olympics, about Johnston's unexpected praise and the possibility of advancement at JWT. But mostly, she wrote about how much she missed him, how seeing the wonders of Japan made her wish he was beside her to share them.

It was, she realized as she sealed the envelope, the first time she'd ever written those words to anyone:

I miss you.

I wish you were here.

This isn't complete without you.

---

Connie watched the men's gymnastics with technical interest, noting the strength differences between teams, the training techniques, the subtle adjustments in form that earned fractions of points from the judges. Beside her, Bevie was unusually animated, pointing out competitors from countries she'd only read about in school.

"You're chipper today," Connie observed during a lull between routines.

"Johnston is giving me a chance," Bevie said. "He thinks I might have a future in copywriting. Can you believe it?"

"Of course I can," Connie replied. "If you charmed my brother, you can certainly charm the rest of America!"

"Speaking of your brother, I mailed a letter to him this morning," Bevie added with a small, private smile. "I told him how I feel. Really feel."

Connie felt a strange mixture of happiness for her friend and something like envy - not for Elias specifically, but for the certainty Bevie seemed to have found. "I'm glad. Elias is lucky to have you."

"I'm the lucky one," Bevie said softly. "Do you know what he told me before I left? That when we're together, he feels the best he's ever felt in his life. That's how I feel too."

"I think that's called love, Bev," said Connie.

The Japanese gymnast took to the pommel horse, a blur of precision and controlled strength. The crowd gasped as he executed a particularly difficult sequence, then erupted when he dismounted with perfect form.

"I never thought I could feel this way about anyone," Bevie admitted. "Is that crazy?"

Laughing, Connie replied, "You're talking about my twin - I was in love with him way before you, Bev!" They both found it funny, and also true.

After the event, they wandered through Tokyo, eventually finding a small restaurant where Connie ordered for them in Japanese. The proprietor, delighted by her efforts with his language, brought them special dishes not on the menu and sat with them briefly, recommending places they should visit.

"How long will you stay in Japan?" he asked Connie.

"Two more weeks," she replied. "My friend leaves tomorrow, but I'm planning to travel south afterward."

The owner nodded approvingly and wrote something on a card. "My cousin owns a ryokan - a traditional inn - in Kyoto. Tell him Tanaka sent you."

Later, walking back through streets lined with Olympic banners and lanterns, Bevie said, "I wish I could stay too. See more of the Olympics and more than just conference rooms and hotel lobbies."

"You could," Connie suggested. "Change your ticket. Come with me."

"With what money? I am a glorified secretary and the daughter of a widowed college professor, not the rising star of a very wealthy family.

"I have enough for both of us if we're careful," Connie blurted out. "And you can pay me back when you get that copywriting job or whenever."

Bevie stopped walking. "You're serious."

"Completely serious. When else will we be here?"

For a moment, Bevie was tempted - the adventure of it, the freedom to explore without schedules or meetings. But then she thought of returning to New York, to Elias, to the possibility of a real future both personally and professionally.

"We both know I can't," she said. "Johnston's actually starting to take me seriously, and Elias . . . I need to see where this is going with him."

Connie nodded, understanding and knowing it couldn't really happen in the first place. "Your path is taking shape."

---

The morning of Bevie's departure, they had breakfast in the hotel restaurant. Johnston was meeting with the JWT Tokyo office executives, leaving Bevie free to enjoy her last few hours in Japan. She joined Connie at The Otani for their last meal in Tokyo together.

"I wish you were coming back with me," Bevie said, sipping her coffee, and sounding like the family she was quickly becoming. "I worry about you traveling alone. You're only 21!"

"I'll be fine," Connie assured her. "And I need this time."

"To decide if you want to be an engineer after all?"

"To decide who I want to be," Connie corrected. "The engineering is just one piece of it."

While Bevie only knew the little Elias had told her, it was clear the failure of her marriage to Alvaro still loomed large.

They embraced at the taxi stand, Bevie holding on a moment longer than usual. "Promise me something," she said into Connie's ear.

"What?"

"That whatever you discover here - whatever it is you're looking for - you won't settle for less than that when you come home."

Connie pulled back, studying her friend's face. "I promise."

---

Two days after Bevie's departure, Connie took a train south to Kyoto. She spent the journey studying her Japanese phrasebook and watching the landscape transform from urban sprawl to agricultural patchwork to mountains.

The train was impeccably clean, and the service attentive without being intrusive. When she asked a question about the schedule, the attendant bowed slightly before answering, a gesture of respect that delighted her.

As a mechanical engineer and far too accustomed to the dodgy train service in Hoboken and Manhattan, she also simply could not believe the speed and smoothness of the new Shinkansen - opened just in time for the Olympics. Traveling at 130 miles per hour, the Japanese whiskey in her glass barely budged.

Chatting with some fellow Americans onboard, Connie said, "I hear they're working on something similar back home," she said, thinking of the New York Central's doomed Aerotrain.

But she knew nothing was really happening. In fact, the opposite was true, and a copy of that day's International Herald Tribune said as much: "Pennsylvania Railroad, Once Largest in World, On The Brink."

---

The ryokan in Kyoto exceeded her expectations. Simple, elegant rooms with tatami floors; meals served in her room by kimono-clad attendants; hot springs where she soaked away the fatigue of travel. The owner, Tanaka's cousin, treated her with special consideration after she presented the card, assigning a young woman named Akiko to guide her through Kyoto's temples and gardens.

"You are engineer?" Akiko asked as they walked through Arashiyama Bamboo Grove, the towering bamboo creating a cathedral-like atmosphere.

"Yes," Connie replied. "But I'm not sure it's what I want to do forever."

Akiko nodded sagely. "In Japan, we say 'ichi-go ichi-e' - one time, one meeting. Each moment unique. Maybe today you engineer. Tomorrow, something else."

The phrase stayed with Connie through her travels - to Nara, where tame deer wandered temple grounds; to Himeji, with its majestic white castle; and finally, to Tokyo again, where she spent her last days visiting smaller, less touristy neighborhoods.

Everywhere she went, she found herself studying not just the architecture or the food or the customs, but the experience of being a guest. How did this restaurant make her feel welcome despite the language barrier? Why did that hotel's lobby invite lingering while another's felt merely transitional, or worse, transactional? What subtle cues communicated luxury, comfort, and belonging?

Her ride back to Tokyo, again aboard the marvelous Shinkansen, only convinced her further of the importance of quality and precision.

---

On her final night in Japan, she had dinner at a small restaurant recommended by the hotel concierge. The chef worked at an open counter, preparing each dish with a precision she'd never seen before this trip. When he learned she was a mechanical engineer, he showed her his knife collection, explaining the metallurgical properties of each blade with professional pride.

"The perfect tool for the perfect purpose," he said in halting English. "Like good machine."

"Yes," Connie agreed, watching him return to his work. "Exactly like that."

Later, walking back to her hotel through streets still festive with Olympic decorations, Connie felt a clarity she hadn't experienced before. The engineering problems that had once captivated her - the elegant solutions to mechanical challenges, the satisfaction of precision -now seemed abstract compared to the immediate human element of hospitality.

Creating spaces where people felt simultaneously special and comfortable, attended to without being smothered, celebrated without being scrutinized . . . that was an engineering of human experience.

In her hotel room, she wrote a long, unsent, letter to Elias, trying to capture the epiphany.

"I want to be the General Manager of a fine hotel," she wrote. "Not just any hotel - one that combines American efficiency with Japanese attention to detail. I want to create experiences, not just design engines. I want to build something where the human element is as important as the mechanical one."

She could already hear her dead mother's criticisms: Hotels are for people with hospitality degrees, not engineers. Women don't run hotels; they run households. What a waste of your education.

But she could also hear her father's voice: Then they're all idiots. And Connie will show them.

She sealed the letter, put it in her valise, and then packed her suitcase for the journey home.

Whatever waited for her in New York - society's expectations, the job market's limitations, life's prescribed roles - she would face it with the same determination that had carried her through engineering school. Her mother's suicide. And a marriage annulment.

And a long trip - mostly solo - in Japan.

Now, there was one more night in Tokyo and then it was home to begin building something new. Connie had a plan, including where she'd be spending 1965 and beyond.

Chapter 15: 3 Days in 1965

Not a King

It was with some trepidation on Sunday, February 21 that Eli drove Ed Carey's best Cadillac limo to the New York Hilton in Midtown ("of all fucking places," Ed Carey had said), where Malcolm X was staying. "Don't fuck this up," were Ed's words.

He wouldn't, but Mr. Shabazz would not live another day.

Elias actually enjoyed driving the big Caddies. They wafted over the road, vs. being attached to it like a Lincoln, and while both were an order of magnitude below the big Benz, he found more hotel and restaurant valets welcomed the sight of a Cadillac vs. his father's beloved Lincolns.

But today was different - he didn't really care what he was driving. Since chauffeuring Dr. King, Elias - like all of the civil rights-minded Spencers - had been closely following the Negros' push for equality. He had even started reading the works of James Baldwin, whom he found radical but also correct.

But it was Malcolm X at the top of Black Power movement, as it was now called. And although that term was not his, to many white Americans, including enlightened ones like Elias Spencer, Malcolm X was the face of the outright demand (vs. Dr. King's kinder request) by Negroes for the same privileges as whites.

All of this was on Elias's mind as navigated the giant machine into the Hilton's

porte-cochère, where he noted both news cameras and protesters, with a nearly equal amount praising and defaming Malcolm X. Unlike with Dr. Martin Luther King and the Mercedes 600, there had been no special instructions, so Eli just pulled up front and waited.

A few moments later, there was a tap on the front passenger window. Outside, Benjamin Karim, Malcolm X's Chief of Staff, was signaling for Eli to lower the window, which he did.

"What is your name, young man?"

"Elias Spencer, sir. My boss, Ed Carey, gave me specific instructions to pick up Mr. - er - Mr. X in our best car, and take him to The Audubon Ballroom."

Elias did the sincere service/servile thing as well as anyone. He had learned the importance from both his father and Ed Carey.

"Right on," Karim said. "Please stay here. Wait 5 minutes, and then open the rear door, but lock the one on the other side, and the passenger door."

And monitoring with his wristwatch, he waited precisely 5 minutes, and then opened the rear door. He had some concern as the cameras and protesters started paying attention, but soon enough, Karim and the civil rights icon Malcolm X soon appeared.

Elias was assisting the fastidiously attired men into the car's voluminous rear seating area when Malcolm Shabazz turned to him, held out his hand and said, "Good afternoon, Mr. Spencer, my name is Malcolm. Thank you for driving me today, and what a lovely car."

"It is an honor, sir." In Eli's mind, Malcolm X's stature had risen immeasurably when he began separating himself a year ago from that "crackpot" - as his grandfather Ben Sr called him - Elijah Muhammad and his Nation of Islam.

And with that, Elias Spencer drove Malcolm X to the last speech he'd ever give. He would receive several shotgun blasts and gunshot wounds from at least 2, and some say 3, assassins.

It was all witnessed by his wife Betty and their daughters.

---

That night, Elias went to a meeting with a grieving Marcus Howard and his father, at Ben Jr.'s garage. Closed on a Sunday, Ben's luxurious office and its fireplace-given warmth was as good a place as any for reflection.

They were soon joined by Connie and Bevie and after hugs, Ben opened his bar and poured drinks. After Elias's recounting of some of the last moments in the life of Malcolm X, Marcus offered a brilliant review of his complex life and story. It was hearing the emotion in his partner Marcus's voice as he explained what Malcolm had meant to his race that Ben Spencer made a decision.

"We're closing all week, in honor of this great man. Marcus, please call all the guys, and tell them to enjoy a week's paid vacation."

"Dad, that's crazy - that will cost you a fortune," offered Connie, but it just as easily could have been Elias. They both knew equally well what this level of benevolence - typical of Ben - was going to cost him.

"Yeah, Ben - it's too much. It would mean the world to me and the guys if we can close for tomorrow, in honor Mr. Malcolm X. But that's enough and it will be more than any other white business does."

He was right. Reactions were decidedly mixed, and no white businesses closed.

That included Carey Limousine, with whom Malcolm X took his final ride. Ed Carey took Ben's call that Sunday night, where Ben informed Ed of his plans, asking him to do the same.

"It's the right thing, Ed," Ben said.

"Maybe, and I told you I want to be on the right side of this, but I ain't closing - I don't have your kind of money.

"But I will pick up your bookings with my guys, and if I have to pay any double-time so be it."

"Thanks, Ed."

"And Ben, one last thing. I already bought black armbands for all of my drivers to wear tomorrow, to honor Malcolm X and the sad fact we drove him to his death."

---

Elias returned to his Park Avenue apartment, smoked a joint, put on the saddest album in his collection, and wept.

To date, this was the closest he had come to grabbing a bottle of Jack.

A King

It was two weeks before the rematch.

"Marcus," he had said, watching his partner meticulously clean his hands in a ritual that followed every day. "How'd you like to see the next Ali - Liston fight?"

Marcus had looked up from the industrial sink, soap suds still clinging to his dark forearms. "In Maine? Ben, that's three hundred miles - "

"Four hours, maybe five with traffic. We'll drive up in the morning, catch the fight, stay overnight, drive back." Ben had shrugged with the casual air of a man who owned a fleet of luxury automobiles. "Besides, after what happened to Malcolm, I figure we both could use some time away from the city." Three months had passed since Malcolm X's assassination, and the weight of that Sunday still pressed on both men.

Now, the morning of what would become one of the most infamous fights in American history, Marcus emerged from his Newark brownstone carrying a small leather satchel, Ben felt the familiar satisfaction of a spontaneous plan coming together. Marcus slid into the Continental's passenger seat with the easy familiarity of a man who had ridden in every car Ben owned.

"You sure about this?" Marcus asked, though his grin suggested he was already committed to the adventure.

"Hell no," Ben replied, firing up the Lincoln's 430-cubic-inch V8. "But I bought us ringside seats from a guy who knows a guy who knows Uncle Paulie, and we're going to see history."

The drive north unfolded like a meditation on America itself. They passed through the Bronx as the city awakened, then into Westchester County where manicured suburbs gave way to genuine countryside. Marcus had brought a thermos of coffee and a bag of Danish from the bakery near his house, and they fell into the comfortable rhythm of two men who had spent years working side by side.

"You know what I can't figure," Marcus said somewhere around Hartford, "is why they moved this fight to Maine of all places."

Ben had been reading about it in the papers. The original venue in Boston had fallen through when Massachusetts officials got cold feet about Liston's alleged connections to organized crime, and criticism of Ali for his Black Muslim connections was growing. Lewiston was the smallest city to host a heavyweight title bout since Jack Dempsey fought Tom Gibbons in Shelby, Montana in 1923.

"Same reason we're driving four hours to see it," Ben replied. "Sometimes you end up where you're supposed to be, not where you planned to be."

Marcus was beginning to understand what Ben Jr meant when he said things like that.

The landscape outside their windows had changed from concrete to rolling hills dotted with farms and small towns that looked like they hadn't changed since the 1940s. Benjamin Elias Spencer Jr watched it all with the absorbed attention of a man who rarely left Manhattan.

"Different world up here," he observed.

"Different, but not necessarily better," Marcus said. "Malcolm used to say the most dangerous racist was the one who smiled while he oppressed you.

"That's why you're different: you don't oppress me, but you also don't smile!"

They both thought it was the funniest thing either had heard in quite some time, as evidenced by the hearty, sincere laughter they shared.

They reached Lewiston just after two in the afternoon, the Lincoln purring through streets lined with three-story tenements and mill buildings that spoke of a city built on the backs of French-Canadian immigrants and their descendants. The media had moved into the state for the fight, and Liston had set up at the Poland Springs Resort, but Ben had made reservations at the smaller Lewiston Hotel downtown.

The hotel lobby buzzed with an electric tension that had nothing to do with the fight itself. Reporters clustered around the registration desk, and Ben caught fragments of conversations about rumors that followers of Malcolm X intended to kill Ali in retaliation for Malcolm's murder. The words hit him like ice water.

"Jesus," Marcus murmured, overhearing the same whispers. "Think there's truth to it?"

Ben shrugged, but his jaw had tightened. He hated this part of his relationship with Marcus: Always the tension about race. Between friends. Between citizens.

Their room on the third floor overlooked Lisbon Street, and from their window they could see the arena where the fight would take place - a junior hockey rink that seemed impossibly small to host the heavyweight championship of the world.

At dinner in the hotel restaurant, they found themselves sharing a table with a sports reporter from the Boston Globe and a photographer from Sports Illustrated magazine. The reporter, a thin man named Sullivan, was full of theories about what the fight meant.

"It's not really about boxing anymore," he said, cutting into his steak with focus. "It's about what America's becoming. You got Ali - young, loud, Muslim, black - against Liston, who's everything America used to be afraid of. The mob, the underworld, the dangerous Negro who doesn't know his place."

The photographer, whose name was Neil Leifer, would go on to have a historic night of his own, but for now, he sat in observation.

Marcus had been listening quietly, but now he spoke up. "Maybe that's what the country needs. Something new."

Sullivan looked at him with interest. "You think Ali wins tonight?"

"I think," Marcus said carefully, "that whoever wins, we're all going to be different tomorrow morning."

By seven o'clock, Lisbon Street had transformed into something approaching a circus. Crowds moved toward St. Domenic’s Arena like pilgrims, and Marcus found himself thinking of the many Freedom Marches - the same sense of history being made in real time.

But here it was compressed into the confines of a mill town that had never seen anything like this.

The arena held a paltry 4,500 people, and every seat was filled. Ben and Marcus found their ringside spots. Ben's connection had been as good as promised, and they settled in to watch the preliminaries, albeit with some thinly-veiled sneers aimed at Marcus; his was the only black face this close to the ring, apart from the boxers and their teams.

The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the particular electricity that comes when too many people are packed too closely together, all waiting for something momentous. The preliminary bouts finally ended. It was time.

Ali entered first, dancing and shadowboxing, his white robe gleaming under the harsh lights. Even from ringside, Ben could see the tension in the young champion's shoulders, the way his eyes constantly scanned the crowd. The assassination rumors had clearly reached him too.

Liston came second, moving with the deliberate menace that had intimidated a generation of heavyweights. But there was something different about him tonight, something that Marcus noticed first.

"He looks tired," Marcus said.

Ben studied the former champion's face and saw what his partner meant. Liston looked like a man going through the motions, playing a role of which he'd grown weary.

The bell rang at 10:46 PM.

What happened next would be debated for decades. Ali knocked out Liston with a first-round right hand to the head that became known as the "phantom punch". From their ringside seats, Ben and Marcus saw it clearly - or thought they did. Ali threw what looked like a short, chopping right hand. Liston went down as if shot.

The confusion was immediate and total. Half the crowd was on its feet cheering, the other half was booing and shouting "Fix!" The referee seemed as bewildered as everyone else. Ali stood over the fallen Liston, his face a mask of rage and vindication.

It was there that Neil Leifer took the photo of his lifetime. And that of many others. too.

"Did you see it?" Marcus shouted over the noise.

"I saw something," Ben shouted back, but he wasn't sure what.

Several sports writers insisted it was a phantom punch, implying the fight was fixed. Others swore they saw a legitimate, devastating blow. In the end, it didn't matter what anyone saw.

What mattered was what it meant.

As they pushed through the crowd toward the exits, Ben caught sight of Ali being hustled toward the dressing rooms by his handlers, still shouting, still defiant. In that moment, the young champion looked less like a boxer and more like a revolutionary, someone who had just declared war on the world's expectations.

"Whatever just happened in there," Marcus said as they reached the street, "nothing's going to be the same."

"Didn't you say that in Miami, after the first one?" asked Ben, correctly.

"We just watched the future happen."

Ben nodded, thinking of Malcolm X, of the civil rights movement, of an increasing commitment to fighting a war in Vietnam. The phantom punch wasn't really about boxing. It was about power - who had it, who wanted it, and who was willing to take it.

"The future's going to be interesting," Ben said, wondering if Uncle Paulie and his colleagues had influenced the fight.

As they reached the city limits of New York, the morning sun reflecting off the Lincoln's hood. Both men knew they had witnessed something that would outlive them all. Ali hadn't just defended his title in that little hockey rink in Maine.

He had announced himself as the voice of a generation that refused to fight quietly or disappear gracefully.

Bevie and Eli and Love and Darkness

"What a year," exclaimed Elias, rolling over to his side of the bed with a simultaneously relaxed but anxious sigh. It was a frightfully cold November 9 on Park Avenue and his apartment was barely keeping up. He and Bevie had just made love, despite her walking through the front door only minutes earlier, she having left JWT early and Elias being off that day. Neither thought 5 in the afternoon was unusual for expressing themselves to each other: They were passionately, madly in love.

Both would remember 1965 as the year their love fully evolved.

But it was also the year of Malcolm X's assassination, "Bloody Sunday" in Selma on March 7, the Voting Rights Act passing in August, followed by the terrible riots in Watts in LA immediately afterward.

"All anybody is talking about is getting drafted to go to Vietnam. Johnson is doubling down. Dad says all of the black guys at CC are especially concerned. Shit, I'm scared," said Elias, who by now had donned a robe and had put on something still quite controversial.

By 5:30, the lights started dimming on their own, and the Telefunken, rather than spinning the disc at 33 & 1/3 RPM, began playing slower and slower.

Until it all went dark.

For seemingly a decade, at least for Hoboken and New York City.

And much of America, too.

Chapter 16: Cover Stories

Bevie Spencer, now a creative director at JWT, got it done. She played tennis with an editor at Time-Life, and "the story wrote itself," her friend said.

Indeed, the Spencers and their story were an integral part of Time magazine's July 14, 1975, cover story.

"I don't fuckin' believe it," had been Chelsea Poe Spencer's predictable words, upon receiving her copy and seeing her name, and every other important person in her life, in print in arguably the biggest magazine in America.

"Oh, Chelsea, aren't you proud?" was Ben Spencer Sr's response.

And of course they were. How could they not be? Sure, it was a puff piece, but frankly, they all deserved it, in one way or another.

---

"Hoboken? I've got to go to Hoboken for a lot of this story?"

That had been the Time interviewer and writer Don DeFord's first reaction to being assigned the Spencer family part of the cover story in January of that year. By this time, Hoboken was mostly known for abandoned and dilapidated steamship piers, complemented by increasing arson. Hoboken, the source of a bastion of capitalism? Nobody was thinking that.

But Bevie's friend had told her boss, the managing editor of Time, about the Spencer family and their various accomplishments. He was intrigued, and the story had depth.

"There's a story about capitalism with both the family and the fires - go figure it out," had been the marching orders from the managing editor. "Plus, you get to begin with a nice trip to Florida. And you're going to have to go to San Francisco, too. Looking out the window, you should be thanking me, instead of bitching."

DeFord called Ben Spencer Sr and arranged to visit their home the following week in Del Webb's Sun City Center, about 30 miles south of Tampa. He had been taken by the elder Spencer's warmth and generosity of spirit. And he clearly loved his wife.

"My wife, Chelsea, is at the center of everything my family and I have accomplished, but I'll warn you, she swears like a sailor. We can't wait to meet you, Mr. DeFord."

"Please call me Don," and he hung up, and called the Time/Life travel office.

Don DeFord would later transform the cover story he wrote into a novel, and then a movie. He would end up wealthier than any of the subjects of his story.

----

When he arrived at the Spencer condominium at Sun City, he was welcomed at the door by both Chelsea and Ben.

"Please come in!" they almost sang as he arrived.

After some small talk, DeFord explained the concept of the cover story and the little he knew about Ben and Chelsea, their son, and grandchildren. He explained he mostly wanted their story now, and would be interviewing each member of their family in person in the coming weeks and months.

Chelsea dove right in and, in an expletive-laced hour, told the story of not just her and Ben, but everybody.

She started by explaining how they had first met, at church in Hoboken way back in 1920. About how she and Ben Sr had run a successful sandwich shop in Hoboken for 44 years. How Ben could speak English, Italian, and German fluently, and how big a deal that had been to their - and now their granddaughter Connie's - success.

She then went on to discuss her son, Ben Jr. She spoke at length about what he had done both to build repeatable processes at the sandwich shop and his entrepreneurship in launching Cosmo. But then she went too far.

"Look, he had a fucked-up wife and marriage," Chelsea said. "We just couldn't be prouder of the way it all turned out after Genevieve slashed her wrists in one of his limos in '63."

"Chelsea!" exclaimed Ben Sr. "Some things are off the record, Don, and how my daughter-in-law died is one of them."

"Understood," said DeFord, who still made a mental note to follow up on this interesting thread of the story back in New York.

But when she said "the way it all turned out," Chelsea was of course referring to the fortune that Ben Jr and then Elias had built and enlarged over time, as the owners and operators of Cosmopolitan Cars. But she was also referring to the role both had played in the civil rights of blacks. Ben Jr and his partner Marcus, and Elias, too, had set a standard unmatched by any other business of significance in terms of treating black men and women as equals and as valuable members of the team.

"Hell, Marcus is an owner and partner. 'Colleagues', my son would always call the black fellows who worked in the garage, and he took a lot of grief for that for years, but he was always ahead of his time," Ben Sr said.

Chelsea and Ben Sr left out the other civil rights movement in which Ben Jr was actively involved: gay rights. They felt it best that he decide whether to share that information with a national magazine.

While by now they knew the full story (a drunken father/son night by a Sun City Center Pool brought Ben Jr to spill the beans), neither Ben nor Chelsea was going to talk about Rutger. While he still worked for Ben Jr and took care of the Mercedes, it had gotten quite strange a few years back when he had expressed an interest in dating Connie. At that point, Ben Jr hadn't told anyone that Rutger was his son and that Connie dating him was not an option.

In fact, before the interview, Ben and Chelsea had agreed that the less said about Rutger, the better.

But they did go on about Elias and Connie, their beloved grandchildren, now grown adults of 32. This time, it was Ben Sr.

"I believe you know Elias's wife, Bevie - she's amazing and gives our Connie a run for her money, success-wise. She and Connie are like sisters themselves, and Elias and Connie have always been best friends.

"Elias is amazing. He turned it around after a rough patch in college, and he's never looked back. He needed time away from Ben Jr, and my son arranged it so he could work and rebuild his life at Carey. Hey, you know, you really should look up Ed, too.

"But Eli did just that: He straightened up, started driving for Ed, met Bevie, went to that Rolls-Royce school in Crewe, and that was that. He runs CC now and has some big ideas about new markets and computers. We love how he and Bev decided from the get-go that they never wanted children. The life they lead in Manhattan!"

"And holy shit, get a ride in that Goddamned Mercedes of his!" Chelsea added.

"But oh, my Connie!" Ben Sr's tone changed and became even brighter when he mentioned his granddaughter.

He went on to explain her two degrees, one a Bachelor of Science in Mechanical Engineering from the Stevens Institute of Technology back in Hoboken, and the other, a Bachelor of Science in Hotel Administration from Cornell University, which she earned - summa cum laude - in 1969.

"She picked up my love of languages and really ran with it - she speaks 5, fluently!"

Ben Sr explained to the now-enraptured writer DeFord that it was the last one she learned, Japanese, that made all the difference in her landing at The Fairmont Hotel in San Francisco. They hired her directly out of Cornell as an assistant general manager, and it was only a couple of years before the word "assistant" was removed. Connie was the general manager in charge of one of the most famous hotels in the world.

Now two hours in, Don DeFord asked a few more general, background-type questions, and thanked Ben Sr and Chelsea for "a most interesting and informative" afternoon. He flew back the next morning from Tampa to LaGuardia.

Back in New York, he next called Elias. DeFord would meet Elias and Bevie for two different interviews, the first at their 7 Park Avenue apartment.

It was there that Elias told the tales of driving for Ed Carey and the celebrities he had met doing so. It was funny to Elias: They were just people, and it had become more so over the years.

But he still enjoyed listing some of the boldface names who had been in the back of Ed Carey's Cadillacs and his dad's and his Benz.

"Let me see. Sinatra. Jackie Gleason - he was a hoot. Marlon Brando, who would never shut up about Hoboken. The times I've driven Mr. Leonard Bernstein, oh my - being a music guy like Dad, that's always been an honor. Truman Capote and Elizabeth Taylor. She's kind of an ass. Walter Cronkite - DiMaggio. Led Zeppelin . . ." His voice trailed off.

"Do you mind if I play some music?" As happened often with Eli, his mind changed to music.

"Of course not," said the Time writer.

On came Eli's album du jour, via a cassette playing on Elias's new Nakamichi tape deck.

Trying to get the interview he needed, DeFord pivoted from the impressive sound and said, "That's quite a list. And I know you have some other ... types of customers."

"Look, the Benz is special. I knew that from the minute I drove Dr. King. I will say more, but it is strictly - and I mean fucking strictly - off the record."

Off went the tape recorder. "Of course," said DeFord.

"Look, the most powerful people in the world want the best. And if they must ride in a car in Manhattan, that means my Mercedes-Benz 600 Pullman. So yes, my father and now I have a relationship with a variety of different types of people."

"Don't you mean the Don of each of New York's 5 Mafia families? Don't you, and your father before you, personally drive them and their wives out to dinner and special events in New York, in the Mercedes?"

"Yes. And I will tell you this. My father made a deal with the organization a long time ago that they've stuck with: No monkey business when we're driving. I don't think they've even spilled a drink in the back of the car over all of these years, and I'm serious. Nope, I have nothing but respect."

It didn't hurt the story when, indeed, DeFord got a ride in the Mercedes, in the back. Elias and Bevie drove he and his wife around Central Park, and Bev had put a bottle of Champagne on ice in the back for them to enjoy. They did.

"Astounding," had been the DeFords' only words upon exiting. His wife even snapped a picture, which she later sent to Elias. He kept it forever.

Don DeFord had two more interviews to conduct. He would fly next week to San Francisco to meet Connie. But first, he'd sit down with Ben Jr.

Benjamin Elias Spencer Jr shared with DeFord many of the same stories his family already had. But when DeFord brought up him being a widow, and asked if he'd be willing to discuss Genevieve and the circumstances of her death, Ben Jr. explained everything.

Every single last detail.

Ben Jr made no secret of his sexuality in 1975 to the Time magazine reporter. Because of that, he'd be featured twice in Time that year. In the July 14 issue, with the family.

And then in the September 8 issue, too, although someone else was on the cover.

Chapter 17: Fire and Ice

Eli Drives a Fired Brother

It had been Eli, of the two of them, the marijuana smoker and thus more connected to what was being called "the counterculture," who couldn't believe his ears.

"Tom and Dick Smothers are calling someone 'Goldie Kief?' on their show? On a skit called 'Have a Little Tea with Goldie?' Wow, the TV bosses are either very cool or very dumb. Those are major pot references, and it's surprising that they got by the censors."

Bevie was perplexed. They had just finished their dinner on a very cold Sunday night in late January of 1969. They had turned on their new Sony color TV and cozied up on the couch at 7 Park Avenue to watch The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour. This had become their ritual.

"What do you mean, honey?" While Bevie was foursquare behind the civil rights movement, and completely against the terrible war in Vietnam, she had been sad to see 1967's "Summer of Love" transmogrify into more riots in Newark, followed by the even worse political violence of 1968.

Eli, having already sneaked out onto the fire escape for a small toke of the same, laughed and explained, "The whole thing! 'Tea' means grass. 'Goldie' means grass. And for fuck's sake, 'Kief' means grass. It's hysterical, and I can't believe they're getting away with it.

"Things are crazy."

---

So perhaps the confluence of what happened next to Eli was no surprise. Eli had no idea who Robert Wood was, but did what he was told when Ed Carey told him "Hey, don't fuck this up. He's a big shot at CBS, and I want to do more business with them."

While Lucy and Desi would separately request the big Mercedes, and so Eli had driven them in the 600 Pullman, most of the other business with driving CBS brass was handled by Ed's regular Cadillac fleet.

But today, due to mechanical problems, Elias was not driving one of Ed's fine Caddy limos, instead a standard - if still opulent - Fleetwood Brougham. It was very large and in its deep black, to many, it was a limousine. But it wasn't, and it most definitely did not have a glass partition.

The gig was to arrive at 51 West 52nd Street - CBS HQ and known to everyone as "Black Rock" for its intimidating black granite cladding - precisely at 1 PM, and to drive Mr. Robert D. Wood, president of CBS, and an unnamed colleague to The Colony. The uptown restaurant was, in early April of 1969, the choice of many an executive for an expensive lunch on the company.

The drive went as planned. And Wood and the one other executive with him didn't say much, going to The Colony or coming back. Neither man drank, so they weren't any more or less talkative before or after, whereas many have 3 martinis and call it a day.

No, there wasn't very much special about the ride. But one thing did stick out. Wood just kept saying things like, "It's over," "Fuck them," "What do they expect?" "I'm no fool!" "We can live without their ratings."

He said that going to The Colony, and said it coming back. It turned out he had dictated a bombshell of a telegram there, and had sent it to Dick Smothers.

---

Not long after, Ed Carey got a call from someone important. He was asked to please help Dick Smothers. The performer needed to fly back to Los Angeles immediately, and being in a terrible state of mind, might the Mercedes we've heard about be available to take him from The Drake Hotel to JFK?

"And does it have a phone?" had been the last question.

So when Eli brought the Fleetwood back to the garage and sat down to fill out some expense reports and review the next day's assignments, Ed asked him to change his plans.

"Rutger's got it all set. It hasn't been out in a while, but he said he just flushed the hydraulic system for the hell of it. Quite a guy, that Rutger."

"Yes," said a distracted Eli.

By this time, a working telephone had been installed by Rutger and a Bell System rep in the back of the Mercedes-Benz 600, for passenger use. It turned out to be important.

As he put Dick Smothers's luggage into the cavernous trunk, he could hear him talking to his traveling companion, "I've got to get Tom on the phone. Driver, will you show me how to use the telephone?"

"There's nothing to it, sir. When we're off, please pick up the receiver off its cradle - you'll find the phone in the walnut box between the rear seats - when you hear dial tone, simply dial '0.' An operator will come on and ask you for the telephone number, and that's it. All calls are person-to-person, and we'll just add what the phone company charges us to your invoice.

"Sir, may I say it's not inexpensive. 15 minutes might cost you $30. I doubt you care, but Mr. Carey, and I, too, frankly, want you to know we don't mark it up."

"Thanks - I appreciate that. But I must make this call."

They drove off. Dick Smothers did indeed place that call, and it was to his brother Tom, himself in San Francisco investigating the possibility of moving their show to the Bay Area's more counter cultural-friendly environment.

In this case, Elias Spencer didn't hear much; the Mercedes partition was said to be bulletproof, which also made it impenetrable to sound.

But the news was everywhere, very soon, for all to hear: In a clear display of establishment power, CBS had shit-canned Tommy and Dickie Smothers and their fun if darkly irreverent TV show.

Indeed, it was such a sensation that Esquire magazine would publish the contents of the firing memo in their October 1969 issue.

”Trained in Crewe”

The Rolls-Royce factory in Crewe was everything Eli had imagined and nothing like he'd expected. The facility stretched across hundreds of acres, a complex of brick buildings and modern additions where some of the world's finest automobiles took shape. But it was the training center that captured his attention—a purpose-built facility that looked more like a gentleman's club than a driving school.

"Mr. Spencer," said the impeccably dressed man who greeted him. "I'm James Worthington, Director of Chauffeur Services. We've been expecting you."

Worthington was perhaps fifty, with silver hair and the kind of accent that suggested Eton and Cambridge. Everything about him spoke of understated authority, from his perfectly knotted tie to his handmade shoes.

"Your father spoke very highly of your dedication," Worthington continued as he led Eli through the facility. "We understand you've had considerable experience with Mercedes-Benz vehicles?"

"The 600, primarily. I've been driving it for Ed Carey in New York for the past six years."

"Excellent machine, the 600. We have enormous respect for German engineering. But I think you'll find our approach rather different."

The training center was unlike anything Eli had seen. There was a classroom with leather chairs and a massive fireplace, a garage filled with pristine Rolls-Royce models from the Silver Shadow to the Phantom V, and what Worthington called "the track"—a complex course designed to simulate every possible driving condition from London traffic to Scottish mountain roads.

"The program is comprehensive," Worthington explained. "Mechanical systems, route planning, security protocols, passenger psychology. We train chauffeurs for heads of state, titans of industry, and members of the Royal Family. Our graduates don't simply drive cars, Mr. Spencer. They manage experiences."

Eli thought to himself, "Jeez, didn't Connie say that's what she's doing?" thinking of her sister and her rapidly unfolding career in the hospitality industry. Over the years, they'd find their actions, while always different, also always bore some kind of resemblance.

Eli was introduced to his fellow students—eight men from around the world, including a former military driver from Germany, a Frenchman who'd worked for the Rothschilds, and an Englishman who'd been personal chauffeur to a duke. They were serious men, professionals who understood that driving at this level was about far more than getting from point A to point B.

His lodging was in what had once been a country manor house, now converted into comfortable quarters for students. Eli's room overlooked the Cheshire countryside, all rolling hills and stone walls. It was peaceful in a way that neither New York nor Hoboken had ever been, and for the first time in years, he found himself sleeping through the night. While he missed Bevie, he hadn't been this refreshed or motivated in years.

The coursework was intensive. Mornings were spent in the classroom, learning the intricacies of Rolls-Royce engineering, studying traffic patterns in major cities, and memorizing the protocols for handling VIP passengers. Afternoons were spent behind the wheel, practicing maneuvers that Eli had never imagined—high-speed evasion techniques, how to change a tire in under three minutes, the precise method for opening a car door for a woman in a formal gown.

"Smooth as silk, Mr. Spencer," Worthington would say during driving sessions. "The passenger should never feel the engine downshift, never sense the moment of acceleration. They should simply find themselves transported, as if by magic."

Eli threw himself into the work with an intensity that surprised even him. For six years, he'd been rebuilding his life one day at a time, following the somewhat crazy path his father had laid out. But here, for the first time, he felt he was pursuing something that was truly his own.

The first call came on a Thursday morning during his second week. Eli was summoned from breakfast to take an international call in Worthington's office, where a heavy black telephone sat on the mahogany desk.

"Spencer here," he said, lifting the heavy receiver.

"Eli!" Beverly's voice crackled across the Atlantic, tinged with static but unmistakably warm. "Can you hear me? This is amazing—I'm sitting in my office at J. Walter Thompson and you're in England!"

"Bevie! God, it's good to hear your voice, I miss you so, my love. How are you? How's New York? Tell me everything."

"Everything's wonderful. The connection is better than I expected, though the operator warned me we have about four minutes before it gets too expensive even for a Madison Avenue salary or business titan. How's the training? Are you learning to be properly British?"

Eli laughed. "They're trying. I can now identify twelve different types of English accents, and I know the proper way to address a duke's wife, should the need arise."

"Very useful skills for New York traffic," Beverly said with a laugh. "Listen, darling, your father stopped by last night. He's so proud that he's telling everyone at the club that his son is studying with Rolls-Royce. He said Ed Carey asks about you constantly."

"Tell them both I'm working hard. The other students here are incredible—there's so much to learn."

"I have to go—the operator is making hand signals at me. I'll call again in ten days. I love you, Eli."

"I love you, too. Give my—" But the line had already gone dead with a decisive click.

Eli held the receiver for a moment, amazed by what had just happened. He had spoken to his wife in New York from a desk in Cheshire, their voices carried instantly across 3,400 miles of ocean. It was 1969, and the world was becoming a smaller place.

Her name was Catherine Ashworth, and she taught the course on passenger psychology. She was perhaps thirty-five, with dark hair that she wore in a chignon and intelligent brown eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. She had the kind of understated elegance that English women seemed to possess naturally, the ability to look perfectly put-together while appearing to have made no effort at all.

"The relationship between chauffeur and passenger," she explained during Eli's third week, "is one of the most intimate professional relationships that exists. You will know their schedules, their preferences, their private conversations. You will see them at their most vulnerable—tired, emotional, perhaps intoxicated. Your discretion is not simply professional courtesy. It is a sacred trust."

Eli found himself staying after her lectures, asking questions about human behavior, about the psychology of service. Catherine seemed genuinely interested in his background, his experience with difficult passengers, and his thoughts on the differences between American and European approaches to luxury.

"You have an unusual perspective," she told him one evening as they walked across the training center grounds with several other students. "Most chauffeurs come to this work from working-class backgrounds. But you understand both sides of the relationship—the passenger's expectations and the professional's obligations."

Catherine became something of a mentor to Eli, helping him understand the more nuanced aspects of high-level service. Her insights proved invaluable as he worked to master not just the technical skills but also the psychology of dealing with demanding clients. He would go on to instill this first at Carey, and then, more permanently, at CC, when he took over from Ben Jr.

"Remember," she would tell him during their professional discussions, "you're not just providing transportation. You're providing peace of mind. Your passengers need to trust that you'll get them where they're going safely, discreetly, and with absolute professionalism."

It was advice that would serve him well in the years to come.

The telephone calls from Beverly became the highlight every ten days. Each call was precisely timed, never more than four minutes, but packed with news and encouragement.

During the third call, in early September, she reported: "I've been taking driving lessons, if you can believe it. I figured if I'm married to a professional chauffeur, I should at least know how to handle a car properly myself. The instructor says I'm a natural, though I think he's just being kind."

"That's wonderful, Bevie. What kind of car are you learning on?"

"A little Ford Falcon. Very different from your Mercedes - I think two might fit inside it! Oh, and the strangest thing—everyone at the agency is fascinated that I can call you in England. They keep asking what it costs and how clear the connection is. Some of them have never made an international call."

In October: "Your father wants to know if you've driven any Rolls-Royces yet. I told him you're probably working up to that gradually, but he's convinced you're already chauffeuring the Queen around London."

"Not quite yet, but I did drive a Silver Shadow yesterday. Incredible machine—like floating on air. Tell Dad I'm learning to appreciate British engineering. They even had left-hand drive models for us from non-Commonwealth nations."

"He'll love that. Autumn is beautiful here—all the trees around Park Avenue are turning. I walk through Central Park every morning thinking about you."

In November: "Everyone at J. Walter Thompson is still amazed by these calls. My boss asked if we could use the international telephone service for a client campaign—something about bringing the world closer together. I said I'd ask my husband, the expert, since he's the one traveling the world."

"Hardly the world, just England. But it does feel like the future, doesn't it? Talking across the ocean like we're in the same room."

"Almost the same room. I can hear the static getting worse—I think our time is up. I love you, Eli."

Each call ended the same way, with the sudden click of disconnection and Eli holding the receiver, marveling at the technology that let him hear Beverly's voice across thousands of miles of ocean.

Eli threw himself into the final weeks of training with renewed focus. The comprehensive examinations covered everything from hydraulic systems to diplomatic protocol. His practical driving test involved navigating London traffic while maintaining composure as the examiners threw increasingly difficult scenarios at him.

"Remarkable improvement, Mr. Spencer," Worthington said during his final evaluation. "You arrived here as a skilled driver. You're leaving as a professional chauffeur of the highest caliber."

The graduation ceremony was held in the training center's main hall, with representatives from Rolls-Royce management and several prominent clients in attendance. Eli received his certificate with genuine pride, knowing he had earned it through months of demanding work.

But it was Beverly's regular calls that had sustained him throughout the training. Her voice arriving across the Atlantic every ten days, crackling with static but clear with love and encouragement every time.

The final call came three days before his departure:

"Eli, I can hardly believe six months have passed. I feel like I've been right there with you through all these calls. I'm so proud of what you've accomplished."

"I couldn't have done it without knowing you were there, Bevie. These calls have kept me going."

"The apartment is perfect and waiting for you. I've been working on some changes that I think you'll love. Your father stops by weekly to check on me and to brag about his son studying at Rolls-Royce to anyone who will listen. He's impossible, but in the best way."

"Tell me about the changes."

"Well, I may have turned the second bedroom into a proper office for you."

Before their wedding, they had moved into a 2-bedroom apartment, still at 7 Park Avenue, but much larger, and with a terrace, something almost unheard of in New York.

"Complete with a desk, filing cabinets, and a wall map of Manhattan with all the best routes marked. I figured you'd need a command center for when you take over Cosmopolitan Cars."

"Have I mentioned lately that I love you?"

"Not nearly often enough. And you have six months to make up for. I'll be at Idlewild when your flight arrives on December 22nd. I can't wait to see the confidence I can already hear in your voice.

"Come home to me soon, Eli."

The line went dead with its familiar click, but this time it felt different. This time, it meant the next voice he heard would be Beverly's in person, welcoming him home.

The flight home gave him eight hours to think about what came next. Ed Carey had been more than patient, keeping Eli on the payroll while he was away, maintaining the Mercedes in its underground garage. But they both knew his time at Carey Limousine was ending. The training at Crewe had prepared him for something bigger.

Cosmopolitan Cars was ready for new leadership, or at least to start the transition. Ben Jr had built the company into New York's most exclusive transportation service, but he was entering a new phase in his life, a more politically-focused one. He (and Eli) also knew things were changing, and fast, in terms of both the technology and the market.

Eli now understood both the business and the craft. He could discuss engine specifications with mechanics and diplomatic protocol with ambassadors. The Rolls-Royce training had given him credibility that no amount of family connection - even the unique kind via Uncle Paulie - could provide.

As the plane crossed the Atlantic, Eli made his plans. He would sit down with Ed and his father and discuss the timetable of Eli's (and the Mercedes's) departure from what was now called Carey Transportation.

He would then expand Cosmopolitan's fleet, sticking with Lincolns for the "normal" cars, yet adding carefully selected Rolls-Royce models to complement the Mercedes. He would establish training programs for their drivers, raising the standard of service across the industry. He also knew that computers were going to play a role, although he wasn't clear about what a computer could even do for a business such as CC.

The customs officer at Idlewild barely glanced at Eli's passport before stamping it and waving him through. American soil felt different beneath his feet after this much time away—solid, familiar, full of possibility.

Beverly was waiting beyond the customs barrier, elegant in a navy coat and pearls, her red hair perfectly styled despite the December cold. When she saw him, her face lit up with a smile that made the six months of separation disappear instantly.

"Hello, husband," she said as he dropped his bags and swept her into his arms. "Welcome home."

"Hello, wife. God, I missed you. Your calls kept me going."

"I have so much to show you. The apartment, the changes I made, everything that's been happening while you were becoming the most qualified chauffeur in America."

As they walked toward the terminal exit, Eli caught sight of himself in a shop window—taller somehow, more confident, carrying himself with the assurance that came from mastering something difficult and important.

The broken young man who had crashed his father's limousine in a drunken stupor was gone, replaced by someone who had earned his place in the world.

As they walked, Bevie told Elias that Ed had insisted on sending her in one of his cars to fetch Eli at the airport and take them home. So, after collecting his bags, they jumped in the back of a waiting Fleetwood 75, one of Eli's favorites.

The driver did a fine job navigating the familiar route from Queens into Manhattan, although Eli already could see he was not at the level of someone trained at Crewe. He felt the satisfaction that comes from completing a long journey.

"Tell me about the apartment changes," he said as they drove through the Midtown Tunnel.

She told him, and they went home, and they did not sleep all night. 6 months apart had been a long time for both of them, and they expressed that to each other that night.

Tomorrow, he would meet with his father to discuss the future of Cosmopolitan Cars. Next week, he would begin the delicate process of transitioning from Ed Carey's employee to Ben Jr's partner. But tonight, he was simply a husband coming home to his wife, ready at last to build the life they had both been waiting for.

The education of Benjamin Elias Spencer III was nearing completion.

Chapter 18: Ben Jr Wants Liberation

There was so much going on. Connie's graduation, with honors, from Cornell University and its College of Hospitality, the previous week on Saturday, May 31, 1969, had already become a memory. Because coming up were the nuptials of Elias and Beverly, to be held on June 14, at Glen Ridge Country Club, where Ben Jr remained a member, although he'd be resigning soon.

But the really big thing was Elias's Rolls-Royce class in Crewe. He'd start that immediately after kissing Bevie goodbye at Heathrow after a seven nights' honeymoon in a suite at The Savoy in London, a gift of Ben Jr. Although neither he nor Marcus had ever tallied it, if they had, they would have seen that Ben had spent almost as much on his kids - including Rutger - as he had on CC. Yet, he and everyone around him had done fantastically well, including - and especially - Marcus.

It was anticipated by all involved, including Ed Carey, that Eli would be leaving Carey Transportation and joining his father at CC after completing the rigorous six week course in "Blighty," as Ben Sr liked to call his homeland. Everybody was ready.

"Goddamned, I'm going to miss seeing that Benz," said Ed on one of the many occasions the subject had been discussed in advance. But this had been part of his grand bargain with Ben Jr and Uncle Paulie all along, so he was fine with it. Mostly.

But first, Ben Jr wanted to have dinner with his children, as it was very unusual nowadays to have them all in town at one time. That included Bevie, who, while not yet officially his daughter-in-law, might as well have been. Apart from what she and Elias were building together, Bev and Connie had become ever closer over the years, too. Bev (sometimes with Eli, but often not) would visit Ithaca at least once per semester, and then there were Connie's holidays and summers home.

Ben Jr knew what was happening with his family now meant it was time to clear the air about himself. While his sexuality was by now a somewhat open secret among the family - including Bevie - Ben Jr had had it with any kind of secrecy, open or otherwise. He had chosen tonight to "come out," as was the term now.

The 4 of them gathered for dinner Thursday night, June 5, at Luizzi's Grandevous. This was the nice Italian place Gimpy had bought at 200 Grand in Downtown Hoboken in the late 1950s. Despite the demise of Hoboken in general and downtown specifically, the Grandevous had consistently thrived, and not just because it was a go-to for Uncle Paulie and his friends. The food "is killer," Pete Luizzi liked to say, although only two people to date had been killed there; it wasn't from the food.

Gimpy hugged them all, and sat them at a semi-private table in the back.

The Spencer family was talking so fast to one another that it was hard to decipher, but the family did have a certain rhythm. It was during a break in that rhythm that Ben Jr tapped his refilled wine glass, and said, "Hey! Hello. I would like to have everyone listen to me. For a change."

That brought knowing giggles from everyone at the table, and an outright guffaw from Elias, who had, more than anyone, listened to him for a long time now.

"OK, look." His tone and relaxed demeanor completely changed. "What I'm going to say is easier said by reminding you of something. Did you now the American Psychiatric Association still considers people like me to have a psychiatric disorder? As a gay man, I have been deemed crazy."

"Dad! Wow - what?" Elias was astounded. In 10 years, his father had openly addressed his homosexuality exactly twice: on that horrible day in 1959 at Glen Ridge, and then in early 1964, right before Elias started getting himself right - with Ben Jr's ridiculously generous assistance.

Connie and Bevie sat there in silence, but not stunned silence. Elias - with Ben Jr's blessing - had over the years explained everything to both of them. The details of Genevieve's death were just too intertwined with Ben's sexuality to be kept from Connie, nor Eli's soon-to-be-wife, Bev, for that matter. Still, it was a surprise to hear it come up, and Connie wondered why now.

Naturally, her twin Elias then said, "Dad, why tell us now?"

"Look. I've had it. It's 1969. We are making progress on rights for blacks and you know where I stand on that. But what about people like me? I am tired of living a lie, and I certainly don't have a 'psychiatric disorder.'"

Although the silence only lasted 10 seconds, it seemed more like 10 minutes.

Finally, Connie said, "We know, Dad, and I think I can speak for everyone at this table when I say we don't care, you're not sick, you're our father, and we love you."

Bevie started to tear up. Ben Jr grabbed her hand and started crying, too. It was a beautiful, special evening, one that none of them would forget.

---

Ben Jr was having lunch, the famous burger, at his favorite Greenwich Village spot, Julius' on West 10th. It was Saturday, around 2 PM on June 28. While the dust had settled in Ben Jr's life, with the wedding a perfect success, Eli in England until Christmas, and Connie interviewing at hotels on the west coast, things in the gay community of New York City were just heating up.

His friend - and truth be told, occasional lover - behind the bar at Julius', Bobby, had tipped him off and said there was going to be action at The Stonewall Inn, and he didn't mean hot men.

He decided to go check it out. "Hell," he thought to himself, "Why not? I am out now."

Ben walked around the corner to the Stonewall. The "riots," as they were being called by the press, had been going on since the police raid there had gone wrong. Instead of the usual docile acceptance, the patrons at The Stonewall Inn had fought back.

The sounds reached him before he could see what was happening. Shouting, singing, and the occasional crash of breaking glass. As he turned onto Christopher Street, Ben stopped short. The scene before him was unlike anything he had ever witnessed. Where he expected to see cowering figures dispersing at the first sign of authority, he found instead a celebration of defiance.

Young men with perfectly coiffed hair and tight jeans stood arm in arm, facing down police officers who looked as bewildered as they did angry. Drag queens in elaborate makeup and sequined dresses gestured dramatically, their voices carrying across the crowd with authority. Someone had spray-painted "GAY POWER" on the side of a building in bright red letters.

Ben found himself pressed against a storefront. A young man, perhaps twenty-five, with dark hair and wearing a leather jacket despite the heat, noticed him standing there.

"First time?" the young man asked, his voice carrying the slight accent of someone from the outer boroughs.

Ben nodded, not trusting his voice.

"I'm Tommy," the young man said, extending his hand. "Tommy Ricci. From Brooklyn."

"Ben," he replied, shaking the offered hand and feeling the calluses of someone who worked with his hands for a living.

"This is it, Ben," Tommy said, gesturing toward the crowd. "This is the moment everything changes. No more hiding. No more pretending. No more letting them make us feel like criminals for being who we are."

"I am ready," Ben said quietly.

Tommy studied him, taking in the expensive clothes, the careful grooming, the obvious signs of wealth and respectability. "You're married, aren't you? Or were?"

"Widowed," Ben said. "My wife killed herself when she found out about . . . me."

"Wow. Sad, but not unheard of. Kids?"

"Three. Grown now. They're great and are on our side. Well, two of them are."

Tommy nodded with understanding, but then went darker. "My old man would disown me if he knew. Hell, he might actually kill me. But you know what? I'm tired of living his life instead of mine."

Before Ben could respond, the crowd's energy shifted. Someone had started singing, and others were joining in. Not a protest song or an anthem of revolution, but something softer, more personal. Ben recognized it as a song that had been popular a few years earlier, but hearing it sung by dozens of male voices in the middle of Christopher Street gave it an entirely different meaning.

"Come on," Tommy said, tugging at Ben's sleeve. "Let's get closer."

They moved through the crowd, and Ben was struck by the diversity of the men around him. There were young artists with paint under their fingernails, construction workers still in their work clothes, men that looked a lot like him, and then college students with their hair grown long in the fashion of the times. Some were holding hands openly, defiantly. Others, like Ben, seemed to be there more as observers than participants.

Near the front of the crowd, Ben found himself face-to-face with the police line. The officers looked tired, frustrated, and fully unsure how to handle a situation that had clearly spiraled beyond their control. One of them, a sergeant with gray hair visible beneath his cap, made eye contact with Ben.

For a moment, Ben saw recognition flicker in the man's eyes. Not recognition, but recognition of type. Here was someone who belonged to the same world as the sergeant - the world of social respectability. What was Ben doing here, among the fags, freaks and queers? That's how the sergeant saw it.

The sergeant's gaze moved on, but the moment stayed with Ben. He realized that his presence here was its own form of rebellion. Every "regular" man like Ben who stood with the crowd was a crack in the facade of normalcy that allowed society to pretend that gay men didn't exist.

As the night wore on, Ben found himself drawn into conversations he never could have imagined having. A drag queen named Miss Tina, who during the day worked as an accountant named Robert, talked about the exhaustion of living two lives. A young man from Queens described being kicked out of his family home at seventeen and making his way in the city with nothing but determination and the clothes on his back.

"The thing is," Miss Tina said, adjusting her wig as she spoke, "we're not asking for the moon here. We're just asking to be left alone. To live our lives without constantly looking over our shoulders."

Now very late, the crowd had largely dispersed, but Ben remained. Tommy had given him his phone number, scrawled on a napkin from a nearby diner. But it wasn't a pick-up.

"There's going to be more," Tommy had said as they prepared to part ways. "This isn't ending here. We're organizing. Real organizing. There's going to be meetings, demonstrations, maybe even a formal march. You should come."

Ben had taken the napkin but made no promises. Now, standing alone on the empty street, he looked at the phone number and tried to imagine himself at a meeting, speaking openly about things he wouldn't even say aloud a few years ago.

---

Three months later, Ben found himself in a church basement on the Upper West Side, sitting in a circle of folding chairs with two dozen other men. The Gay Liberation Front had grown out of the Stonewall riots, and Tommy had been persistent in his invitations. Ben had finally accepted.

The meeting was unlike anything he had expected. Instead of the furtive, shame-filled gatherings he associated with homosexual men, this was political, organized, and purposeful. The men here talked about strategy, about media representation, about changing laws and most importantly: hearts and minds. They were building a brand around the concept of gay liberation.

That had been no coincidence: behind the scenes, Ben Jr had enlisted the help of J. Walther Thompson, via Bevie, who was becoming quite powerful - at least for a woman - there.

"The goal," said a thin man with wire-rimmed glasses who seemed to be one of the organizers, "is visibility. We can't change attitudes about something that people pretend doesn't exist. Every gay man who lives openly, who refuses to hide, makes it easier for the next one."

Ben, while having come out of the closet to family members, to date hadn't gone much farther. For instance, he hadn't told Marcus, his business partner. But then again, Ben Jr knew blacks did not see his struggle similar to their own.

After the meeting, Tommy approached him. Since Stonewall, they had developed an unlikely friendship. Tommy was everything Ben was not: young, working-class, unencumbered by family or business responsibilities. But he was also thoughtful in ways that surprised Ben, and he had become something like a guide to this new world.

"You don't have to do anything you're not ready for," Tommy said as they walked toward the subway. "But you should know that there are others like you. Businessmen, professionals, guys with a lot to lose. They're finding ways to help without putting themselves at risk."

"What kind of ways?"

"Money, mostly. These organizations need funding. Lawyers don't work for free, and neither do printing presses. There are guys who can't march in parades or speak at rallies, but they can write checks."

Ben considered this. Money was something he understood, something he could control. He decided he'd do both. Donate a bunch of money, and get involved where it made sense.

Over the following months, Ben became what the organizers called a "partner." He provided financial support for legal challenges, helped fund the first gay newspapers, even paid bail for activists who were arrested during demonstrations. He used his business connections when possible, always carefully and indirectly, to help other gay men find employment or housing.

The work gave him a sense of purpose he hadn't felt since building his business from nothing after the war. But it also created new tensions in his life. The more involved he became with the movement, the more aware he became of it distracting from his work at CC.

---

The first Christopher Street Liberation Day march was scheduled for June 28, 1970, exactly one year after the Stonewall riots. Ben had helped fund the organizing efforts, but he had no intention of participating. He was too busy bringing Eli and Rutger up to speed at CC.

Tommy had other ideas.

"Look," he said over coffee at a diner near Ben's garage, "I get it. You've got a business to protect, and its reputation to maintain. But this is history we're making here. Twenty years from now, you're going to wish you had been part of it.

"And you might not have a soul if you don't."

The words stung because they contained a grain of truth that Ben had been trying to ignore. One was either fully out, or not really out at all. That included making time for the cause when it wasn't convenient.

On the morning of the march, Ben dressed carefully and made his way to Manhattan.

"Fuck, I miss the ferry," he said under his breath on the PATH, which stopped for no reason, two different times, mid-tunnel.

His plan was to position himself somewhere along the parade route where he could observe without getting too deep in the crowds. But as he walked through the Village, he encountered something unexpected.

The march was larger than anyone had anticipated. Instead of the few hundred participants the organizers had hoped for, there were thousands of people lining up on Christopher Street. Ben saw men he recognized from the business world, teachers, construction workers, students, drag queens, and leather-clad bikers. The diversity was staggering.

Near the front of the procession, he spotted Tommy, wearing a "Gay Liberation Front" t-shirt and carrying a rainbow flag. When Tommy saw him, his face broke into a grin.

"I knew you'd come," Tommy said, jogging over to where Ben stood on the sidewalk.

"I'm just watching, not marching" Ben said quickly.

"Sure you are." Tommy handed him a small rainbow pin. "In case you change your mind."

As the march began to move, Ben found himself walking alongside it, staying on the sidewalk but keeping pace with the marchers. The energy was infectious. People were singing, chanting, holding signs that proclaimed "Gay Is Good" and "Out of the Closets and Into the Streets."

Somewhere around 14th Street, Ben noticed a commotion ahead. A group of counter-protesters had gathered, shouting slurs and holding signs with Biblical verses. The marchers slowed, and Ben could see tension rippling through the crowd.

Then something remarkable happened. Instead of responding with anger or violence, the marchers began to sing. It started with just a few voices, but soon hundreds of people were singing together, their voices drowning out the hate with something more like love. Not many could sing, but it didn't matter.

By the time they reached Central Park, Ben was no longer walking on the sidewalk. Somehow, without making a conscious decision, he had joined the march. The rainbow pin Tommy had given him was fastened to his lapel, a small but unmistakable declaration.

As the crowd gathered in the Sheep Meadow for the rally that concluded the march, Ben felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to find a man about his own age, well-dressed and professional-looking, with graying hair and kind eyes.

"First time?" the man asked, echoing Tommy's question from a year earlier.

Ben nodded.

"It gets easier," the man said with a smile. "I'm David, by the way. David Rothschild. I own a small publishing house in Midtown."

"Ben Spencer," he replied, and then, after a moment's hesitation, added, "I own a limousine service."

They shook hands, and Ben realized that this was the first time in his adult life that he had introduced himself to another gay man using his real name and profession.

The sky didn't fall.

---

The years that followed brought both progress and backlash. Ben continued his financial support of gay rights organizations while gradually becoming more open about his involvement. He attended fundraisers, served on the boards of several organizations, and even occasionally gave interviews to gay publications, though always carefully and protective of his business interests.

The balancing act was delicate but not impossible. Many of his clients were themselves leading double lives of one kind or another, and the discretion that had always been Cosmopolitan Cars' calling card served him well in this new context. Ben learned to read people, to understand who could be trusted with the truth and who could not.

Later, Connie, perhaps because she had inherited her father's talent for reading people, began asking more direct questions.

"Dad," she said, home from San Francisco for a few days' off in the spring of 1973, "are you happy?"

The question caught him off guard. They were sitting in the dining room of his Hoboken brownstone, the same apartment where he had lived with Genevieve and the children all those years ago.

"What do you mean?" Ben asked.

"I mean, are you happy? Really happy? You've got Eli running the business, you've got us, you've got more money than you know what to do with. But I look at you sometimes, and you seem . . . I don't know. Lonely, I guess."

"I'm fine, sweetheart," he said finally. He honestly didn't know whether he was happy.

"And Connie, what is happiness?" Connie could do nothing but laugh. She was happy, if stressed, as the general manager at the Fairmont Hotel in San Francisco.

But later that evening, after everyone had gone home, Ben sat in his study with a glass of whiskey and thought more about Connie's question.

Having been impressed with Eli's Nakamichi cassette deck in he and Bev’s Park Avenue apartment, Ben Jr had gotten one for himself, and by now, had a beautiful stereo system, with the finest amplifiers and speakers available.

He put on one of his favorite cassettes, and sat in his favorite chair, the Eames he had custom-made last year, and pondered Connie's question.

Was he happy? The question seemed almost beside the point. He had built a successful life, raised two children (3, if one included the often-excluded Rutger), survived the death of his wife, and the constant strain of maintaining his secret for a very long time.

But as he sat there, surrounded by the trappings of his success, Ben realized that something had changed over the past few years. The work with the gay rights movement, the gradual expansion of his circle of gay friends, the simple act of using his real name in contexts where his sexuality was not a secret – all of this had created space in his life for something that might actually be happiness.

It wasn't the uncomplicated joy he saw in young activists like Tommy. But it was something. A lessening of the constant tension, a sense that he was finally living some version of an authentic life, even if it was still carefully managed and strategically deployed.

The phone rang, interrupting the music and his thoughts. It was Tommy, calling to tell him about a new organization that was forming, one focused specifically on helping older gay men who had spent decades in the closet.

"I thought you might be interested," Tommy said. "They need people with experience, people who understand what it's like to live with secrets for so long."

Ben looked around at his study, at the photographs of his children, at the awards from business organizations, at the carefully curated life he had built. Then he looked at the small rainbow flag that now sat on his desk, a gift from the march organizers.

"Tell me more," he said.

Outside, Hoboken was settling into another quiet night. But for Benjamin Elias Spencer Jr., the conversation was just beginning.

Chapter 19: Time Magazine Interviews Connie in San Francisco

"Frisco? I don't know. I went in '67 and the scene seemed new and fresh. When I went back two years later to do a follow-up, Haight Ashbury was a mess and littered with druggies. I love the weather, though."

As he did often, Don DeFord had stopped at his favorite watering hole, P.J. Clarke's, for a drink or two after work.

It was a 15 minute walk from his office on 6th, but he preferred it to Costello's and other ink-stained wretch spots for that very reason: He was more likely to bump into ad agency people or friends like Ed Carey there, vs. some idiot newspaper columnist.

Which is just what happened, and the retired Ed Carey and DeFord sat at the bar, enjoying martinis. DeFord was flying to the West Coast, specifically, San Francisco, the next afternoon, and chatting about the trip with his friend.

Ed Carey, now in his late fifties, hadn't changed much in retirement. Still fit and still handsome, he came to P.J.'s often and for the same reasons he always had: He had made many a female friend over the years in the storied Midtown bar.

But tonight, eligible middle-aged women were not his focus; rather, he was laughing at the absurdity of it all. Here was a drinking buddy of his, Time Magazine's top feature writer, heading to San Francisco, to interview the sister of his former employee and rehabilitation project, Elias Spencer. And Ed had known Don's interviewee, Connie Spencer, longer than he had known Don himself.

"You know, I've never been there. I don't see the point," said Ed. Always the New Yorker, in all of his years, he'd never ventured farther west than Buffalo.

"Well, you're a fucking jackass, but that's fine. What can you tell me about Connie, either on or off the record?"

"What, you're fucking working here?" Ed joked. There really were no secrets about the nearly perfect Constance Anne Spencer. Ben Jr had eventually even talked about the annulment of her first marriage, because as she kept racking up wins, Ben would say, "Who gives a shit? What she's done speaks for itself."

But Ed did go on. His relationship went back to the late 1940s with her father, so he had known, or at least observed, Connie, most of her life.

"Well, I knew her before she and Elias were 10 years old. Already, she was about perfect and Elias a handful. That didn't change."

Don interrupted. "I know all about Eli. He told me about his so-called "rough patch" and Connie's role in helping him through it. I've interviewed him and Beverly - Bevie - twice. My God Ed, that fucking Mercedes!"

"I know. But do you want to talk about Connie or the 600?"

"Bite me, Ed, but please do go on about Connie."

And he did, explaining her exploits at Stevens. At Cornell. In languages, 5 and counting. And now, in leadership: She managed one of the best hotels in the world.

"Connie Spencer is the real deal, Don."

DeFord, knowing he'd be interviewing her himself very soon said, "OK, thanks, my friend - that's great background for me. Now, what about the guy I keep hearing about, Rutger? Didn't he work on the Mercedes in your shop, and then go with Eli when he took over Cosmopolitan Cars? What happened to him?

Did he have anything to do with Genevieve?"

Ed shifted uncomfortably in his seat and stammered, "No-n-no, but I won't go there, Don. Nothing about him and nothing about Genevieve, but I will say there's no connection. Ask Connie, but I will say nothing about any of that stuff. Kevin, two more."

With that, the two changed their focus to another round of martinis and a discussion of the exploits of the young Fred Lynn, rookie outfielder for the Boston Red Sox, who was now on the small color television sitting at the bar's end. "I'm sure he's going to fuck-up our Yankees this year, Don," said Ed Carey, who by now had returned to surveying the women at P. J. Clarke's, in addition to the baseball's next Rookie of The Year.

Carey, while not having quite the relationship with the Bonanno's that Ben Jr did, still heard everything, but there were some things that weren't talked about. Genevieve and her suicide was old, but personal, news. Rutger's demise was something different, and the word from Mr. Paul Luizzi was to forget he had even existed.

Much less talk about Ben Jr's third child to a Time Magazine reporter.

---

The United Airlines DC-10 touched down at San Francisco International Airport with the kind of heavy thud that reminded Don DeFord why he preferred the old days of trains. It was about 4 PM Pacific Time on a Tuesday in late April, and the California sun made his eyes water after the dim cabin lighting.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to San Francisco," the captain announced over the intercom. "Local time is 3:57 PM, and it's a beautiful 65 degrees."

DeFord gathered his leather briefcase and the manila folder containing his notes from the Spencer family interviews. The folder had gotten thicker since Florida, and he suspected it would be thicker still after his meeting with Connie Spencer. The Time managing editor had been right about one thing - this story had legs. What he hadn't mentioned was how complicated those legs would turn out to be.

The walk through SFO's relatively new terminal felt endless, but he finally reached baggage claim. There, he spotted his name on a placard held by a driver in a crisp black suit, featuring the script "F" Don DeFord recognized as the crest of the Fairmont Hotel.

"Mr. DeFord? I'm Frank Castellano, your driver. Miss Spencer arranged for the car."

"Please, call me Don." DeFord extended his hand, noting the firm grip and the slight Italian accent that reminded him of his grandmother's neighborhood in Brooklyn. He'd learn Castellano lived in San Francisco's North Beach, an Italian neighborhood that wouldn't be out of place in Brooklyn.

"Pleasure, Don. Let me get your bags."

The late 1960s Lincoln Continental sedan waiting at the curb was immaculate - not quite the Mercedes-Benz 600 that Elias Spencer had shown him in New York, but impressive nonetheless. DeFord made a note to ask Connie Spencer about the car, which appeared to be a not-so-subtle nod to the family business in Manhattan, from her new one, in New York.

"Miss Spencer thought you might want to see a bit of the city on the way," Frank said as he held the "suicide" rear door open. "I will take you on a brief tour. Please enjoy a drink, and feel free to turn on the stereo. I am going to raise the partition so you have privacy."

"That won't be necessary. I am a magazine writer. I like to talk." They both laughed. DeFord was nothing if not a man of the people.

He settled into the leather seat, more like a sofa, in the back, noting the bar setup and the small television mounted in the partition. He remembered the Mercedes didn't have a television, which he liked, only the fine Blaupunkt stereo.

"Look at me: limo expert now," he said to himself as Castellano drove them away from SFO's chaos and onto Highway 101, the bay spreading out to their right. Frank navigated the Continental onto the already-jammed freeway.

"First time in San Francisco?" Frank asked, glancing in the rearview mirror.

"Third," DeFord replied, pulling out his notebook. "But it's been a few years."

"City's changing fast. All these computer companies down south, in Silicon Valley. Lot of young people with money they don't know what to do with. Good for business, though.

Castellano took his passenger on a nice, if brief tour of the city, including a stop at the Palace of Legion of Honor. DeFord got out and snapped this photo, but not before opening both doors, which made Frank Castellano laugh.

"That's the Transamerica Pyramid," Frank pointed out as they passed through the Financial District, gesturing toward the distinctive triangular tower that had been completed just three years earlier. "Lot of people hate it, but I think it's kind of beautiful. Different, you know?"

The limousine began its ascent up California Street, the Continental's engine working harder now as they climbed Nob Hill. Cable cars clanged past them, tourists and locals alike hanging off the sides.

"Almost there," Frank announced as they turned right off of California and onto Mason Street.

The Fairmont Hotel rose before them, its Beaux-Arts facade almost proud in the late afternoon sun. Both the flags atop the hotel and the bellmen in front of it stood at attention as DeFord's sedan made its way into The Fairmont's spacious auto plaza.

As Frank helped him with his luggage, DeFord thought about the story he was here to tell. The Spencer family had built something remarkable - not just a business, but a kind of American dynasty that spanned generations and geography. From a sandwich shop in Hoboken to the pinnacle of San Francisco hospitality, where he was now standing.

"Mr. DeFord?" One of the bellmen, apparently the boss, approached. "Miss Spencer is expecting you. She's asked me to escort you to her assistant in the lobby. I will bring your bag to the room."

DeFord nodded, thanking and tipping Frank, and then watched the Lincoln disappear down the Mason Street hill. He was three thousand miles from home, but he could feel the pull of the story now, the way it was starting to fit together. The Spencer family saga was bigger than he'd imagined, and Connie Spencer - the woman who ran one of the world's most famous hotels - was about to add another chapter.

He picked up his briefcase and, following the bellman, walked through The Fairmont's ornate entrance, ready to meet the last part of this unusual family.

---

For the second time in about as many minutes, Don heard the words "Mr. DeFord?" A young woman in a crisp navy suit walked towards the two of them in the lobby.

"I'm Margaret, Ms. Spencer's assistant. She's waiting for you in her office." The doorman nodded at Margaret, and took DeFord's bag up to the fine suite Connie had selected personally.

They took the elevator to the administrative floor, and walked the hushed hallway to a door labeled "General Manager." Margaret opened it and Connie was waiting.

"Mr. DeFord, welcome to San Francisco. I hope your flight wasn't too turbulent—the weather's been unpredictable this week." DeFord detected an East Coast accent only somewhat softened by a few years on the West Coast.

"Please, call me Don. And thank you for making time for this. I know how busy you must be running a hotel of this caliber. Tell me about that Lincoln Continental - a coincidence?"

Connie laughed sincerely. "Most certainly not. Dad almost made me get one for the hotel. I do like it, although, like us all, it's getting a bit long in the tooth."

The graying and rapidly aging DeFord could only smile.

Connie gestured to a seating area near the window, away from her desk. "I have to admit, when Bevie told me about the Time story, I was skeptical. Our family isn't exactly typical magazine material. But Grandpa and Grandma were so excited about it, and after hearing about your interviews with them and Elias, I'm curious to hear what you think of our family.

"Why don't you tell me as I give you a brief tour of the hotel? You can't understand The Fairmont from an office."

She led him through the hotel's grand corridors, past the ornate lobby with its marble columns and crystal chandeliers. "This is our crown jewel," she said, gesturing toward the elegant dining room. "And The Venetian Room hosts some of the biggest names in entertainment. Just last month we had Tony Bennett, and next week Ella Fitzgerald opens a two week engagement. The acoustics in here are perfect—we spent months fine-tuning them when I first arrived.

"But it's really Mr. Swig and his son, Melvin. They're the best," referring to owner of the hotel since 1946, Benjamin Swig, and his son.

"Any tension with them? Interference from them?"

Connie smiled and said, "Only the best kind. They own this hotel and act like it. They make my job easy, because they want perfection, and I do, too. We want the same things, and they back it up with cash."

They took the elevator to the top floor, where Connie unlocked a door to reveal the hotel's real crown jewel: The penthouse suite, complete with its wraparound terrace overlooking the entire San Francisco Bay.

"We call this the Penthouse, obviously, but it's really a private residence in the sky," she explained, stepping out onto the terrace where the afternoon fog was beginning to roll in from the Pacific. "Foreign dignitaries stay here, Hollywood royalty, captains of industry. Last year we hosted the Shah of Iran's advance team for three weeks while they planned his visit to California.

"The engineering challenges of a building this size are fascinating," Connie continued as they descended back toward the lobby. "We're constantly upgrading systems—new elevators, improved climate control, modernized kitchen equipment.

But the real engineering is invisible: how guests move through the space, how service flows from behind the scenes, how we anticipate needs before they become problems. Every detail matters, from the height of the front desk to the placement of the house phones."

She paused at an elegant desk positioned prominently in the lobby, where a distinguished gentleman in a morning coat was helping a guest with theater tickets. "That's Tom Wolfe, our concierge—we introduced the service last year, the first hotel in America to do so. He's quickly become indispensable. Tom knows every important person in the city, every restaurant worth dining at, every show worth seeing. It's another layer of personalized service that sets us apart. The St. Francis just got their own, and Bill next door said they're interviewing now."

As they returned to the lobby, DeFord was struck by how Connie moved through the hotel—greeting staff by name, pausing to straighten a flower arrangement, adjusting the angle of a chair with the automatic precision of someone who saw everything.

"I've got a surprise for you," Connie said. "We're going across the street, to my other favorite hotel, The Mark Hopkins. I've always been a Pan Am gal, so I'm predisposed to Intercontinental's hotels.

"Plus, Bill and I kind of watch out for each other, and their view is better. It won't be crowded at 4 PM, and we can talk without me being distracted by anything here."

"Bill?" asked DeFord.

"Bill Sherman. He's the GM at The Mark Hopkins. We are staunch competitors, but there's nothing we won't do to help each other. I am just glad the Stones are staying with him and not us!"

They stepped onto the express elevator to the hotel's top floor.

"The Rolling Stones? They're on tour, correct?"

"Yes, they're playing The Cow Palace in July and I love them. But I would much rather they have their fun at Bill's. They rented out two floors."

With that, they stepped off the elevator and into the famed Top of The Mark, with its legendary views.

While he didn't gasp, Don DeFord did mutter, as only a New Yorker can, "Well, I guess I can see why this place is so famous."

They sat at Connie's favorite table, and a moment after, a tuxedoed waiter appeared.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Spencer. Always a pleasure welcoming you. What may I offer you and your guest?"

DeFord nodded at Connie, who said, "I'll have a Gibson, up."

DeFord said, "Two," and then pulled out his notebook and tape recorder. "Would you mind if I record this? It helps me capture the nuances."

"Of course." Connie settled into her chair, crossing her legs and folding her hands in her lap. Despite her relaxed posture, there was an alertness about her, as if she were constantly monitoring multiple conversations and situations simultaneously—a skill that DeFord imagined was essential in her role.

"Let's start with what might seem like an unusual path," DeFord began. "You have a mechanical engineering degree, then you went to Japan for the Olympics at twenty-one, and somehow ended up with a hospitality degree from Cornell. How did that evolution happen?"

Connie's laugh was warm but carried an edge of steel. "It wasn't as random as it sounds. I planned to be a traditional engineer. But something went wrong for me, and then Japan opened my eyes to something I'd never considered. The precision, the way they anticipated guests' needs, the flawless execution of complex operations - it was engineering, but applied to human experience rather than machines."

She paused, looking out at the city below. "When I came back from Tokyo, I knew I wanted to create those kinds of experiences for people. Cornell's Hotel Administration program was the perfect bridge between my engineer's mind and this new passion for hospitality."

"And then you had to convince the hotel industry to take you seriously?"

"Exactly. When I graduated from Cornell in '69, I had interviews with several hotels in New York. The responses were . . . predictable. 'We don't really have positions suitable for young ladies.' 'Perhaps you'd be interested in our events planning department?' That sort of thing.

"But the Fairmont was desperate," she said with a grin. "They needed someone who could communicate with their increasing number of Japanese business travelers and tourists. My Japanese by now was fluent, and they were willing to overlook my gender for my language skills. I started as an assistant manager, thinking I'd learn the business and eventually move to a larger hotel in New York."

DeFord made notes as she spoke, impressed by her directness. "But you stayed."

"I love it here. The city, the hotel, the challenges. And I realized I was good at this—really good. Not just the languages, but the whole operation. Understanding what guests need before they know they need it. Managing staff who often have more experience than I do. Balancing the traditions of a grand hotel with the realities of modern business. It's engineering, really."

"Your grandfather mentioned your degree from Stevens, and also that pivotal trip to Japan. It made that much difference in your career's path?"

Connie's eyes lit up. "Japan changed everything for me. I went to the Tokyo Olympics in 1964 thinking I'd be an engineer forever, but I became fascinated by something else entirely - the engineering of human experience. Again, the way they created these flawless guest experiences, the precision in service, the attention to detail that made every visitor feel special - I knew it was for me. I am kind of obsessed with this stuff."

She leaned forward slightly. "I realized that hospitality is just another kind of engineering. Whether it's the mechanics of keeping hot water flowing to 600 rooms or the logistics of serving 2,000 meals a day, it's all about understanding how complex systems work together. But unlike traditional engineering, the end product isn't a machine - it's how people feel."

DeFord noticed how she spoke with her hands when she became animated, a trait he'd observed in her grandfather, father, and brother. "What's been your biggest challenge here?"

"Respect," she said without hesitation. "Not from guests—they generally don't care about my age or gender as long as their experience is flawless. But from some of the staff, especially the old-timers who've been here since before I was born. They weren't used to taking direction from someone who looked like their daughter."

"How did you handle that?"

"I learned everyone's name, and I learned their jobs. I spent time in the kitchen, the laundry, the maintenance shop. I worked a few shifts at the front desk. I wanted them to know that I wasn't some college girl playing dress-up. I understood their work, I respected their expertise, and I expected them to respect mine."

DeFord found himself genuinely impressed by her approach. "And it worked?"

"Mostly. There were a few holdouts who I transferred to other properties, but the majority came around. Now some of my strongest advocates are the people who were the most skeptical initially."

As the interview continued, Connie shared stories of managing celebrity guests, navigating the complexities of union negotiations, and implementing new technologies to improve guest services. She spoke about the hotel's role in San Francisco's social and business life, hosting everything from society weddings to international business conferences.

"The Fairmont isn't just a hotel," she explained. "It's an institution. People have honeymoons here, celebrate anniversaries, hold family reunions. We're custodians of their memories, and of their traditions. That's a responsibility I take very seriously. We all do here."

When DeFord asked about her family's influence on her career, Connie grew thoughtful. "My grandfather always said that success in any business comes down to treating people right and never compromising on quality. That's true whether you are making sandwiches in Hoboken, driving the rich and famous in New York, or managing a luxury hotel in San Francisco. The scale changes, but the principles don't."

As the afternoon wore on, DeFord realized he was witnessing something remarkable—not just a successful businesswoman, but someone who had found a way to honor her family's values while carving out her own path in a world that hadn't necessarily welcomed her.

Connie had already gone into plenty of detail about herself. But Don DeFord wanted to hear more.

"I have to ask about your sister-in-law, Bevie. I understand she's also broken some barriers in her field."

Connie's face brightened with genuine affection. "Bev is extraordinary. Early on in her relationship with Eli, we connected in Tokyo—she was working as an assistant for JWT then—she was already showing signs of the creative force she'd become. She went from fetching coffee to pitching campaign concepts to the biggest of the big. She's a creative director at one of the most prestigious agencies in the world."

"That must have been quite a climb."

"It was, and not an easy one." Connie's expression grew dark. "We've both dealt with . . . let's call them workplace challenges that women face. Men who confused professional relationships with personal opportunities. Supervisors who made advancement contingent on things that had nothing to do with our abilities."

DeFord leaned forward, sensing an important thread. "How did you handle those situations?"

"Direct confrontation, documentation, and solidarity with other women facing the same issues. Bev actually taught me a lot about that—she's had to deal with more of it in the advertising world than I do in hospitality. The key is never accepting that it's just 'the way things are.' We refuse to let other people's behavior limit our potential."

"Speaking of changing the way things are, I've heard you're involved in some political activism?"

Connie nodded firmly. "I'm actively supporting the Equal Rights Amendment. Constitutional equality for women isn't radical—it's overdue. I testify before committees, organize fundraisers, write checks, and speak at rallies. It's not enough to succeed individually if the system remains rigged against the women who will follow us."

"Your father is also involved in civil rights work, I understand."

"He is, though in a different area. Dad's been quietly supporting gay liberation efforts—organizing, funding, connecting people with resources. He understands what it means to fight for the right to exist authentically in a world that would prefer you remain invisible." Connie paused, choosing her words carefully. "We both believe that equality isn't just about individual achievement—it's about changing the structures that create inequality in the first place."

"Just a few more questions," DeFord said. "Where do you see yourself in ten years?"

Connie smiled, the same confident expression that had greeted him hours earlier. "Right here, making The Fairmont even better than it is today. This isn't a steppingstone for me, Don. This is my calling. But I also hope to see a world where young women don't have to fight as hard as Bev and I did to be taken seriously in their chosen fields."

"Ms. Spencer, Connie, thank you again for your time. But before I go, will you comment on your brother, Rutger?"

"What? Who?" Connie had not expected this. Perhaps something about her mother, or the mob, or even Alvaro. But not a question about Rutger Krause Spencer.

"Your brother, Rutger. He mysteriously disappeared, correct?"

Connie looked out at the sun setting behind the Golden Gate Bridge. The beauty had been spoiled, as had her mood.

"Don, this interview is over. I have nothing to say on or off the record about that. I am sorry, and now, I must get back to my own hotel. I've really enjoyed this. I know you'll enjoy your suite - it's on me, as is your dinner. Enjoy yourself and I hope you enjoy The Fairmont. Don't miss The Tonga Room!"

With that, Connie Spencer shook DeFord's hand and then calmly, if quickly, departed for the express elevator and the sanctity of her own office. Connie did not like the subject of Rutger, for many reasons.

It was an odd end to an interview that DeFord would otherwise look back on as one of his best.

Because as DeFord packed up his recorder and notes, he knew he had found the perfect capstone to the Spencer family story—a young woman who embodied both the entrepreneurial spirit and the commitment to excellence that had defined three generations of her family, while also representing the changing roles of women in American society.

But also a woman that had some secrets, beginning with Rutger. And add what Chelsea had blurted out about Genevieve "slitting her wrists," and the Spencer family story grew only more intriguing.

"I think there's a novel here," DeFord would later tell his agent.

And he was right, although it would be 10 years before his book made the bestseller lists, and then another 5 for the movie to be released. For which, along with others, he’d receive an Academy Award for Best Adapted Screenplay.

Arthur

Mar 22

Best chapter yet, I like the dialogue and depth of characters.

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1 reply by Portico Darwin

Mar 15

Botany 500; that's what Don Adams wore in 'Get Smart'! The name always struck me as weird when I saw it in the credits as a kid. I see it's from the supplier, Botany Mills, but what's biology got to do with cloth?

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Ride of Your Life

The Story of a Family and a Country

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: Brits, Italian, Germans, and Puerto Ricans

Cooking and Language School

The Wedding of Constance Spencer, Act 1

Chapter 2: A Punch Up at a Wedding

Ben Gets Lucky

A Großer Mercedes

The Wedding of Constance Spencer, Act 2

Chapter 3: Love and Other Things

A Closet, A War, A Wife, A Son, A Daughter

Alvaro at The Alvear

Chapter 4: Cars For Kids

Chapter 5: A Car (& Much More) For a Kid

Chapter 6: Doors Opened and Closed

A Day at Glen Ridge Country Club

Goodbye, Cruel World

Chapter 7: Do Over

Chapter 8: Eli Picks Up Himself and The Car

Chapter 9: Beverly Elizabeth Booth is a Modern Woman

Chapter 10: Drugs, War, Peace and a Big Party

Diversions

War is Hell. For Some.

Connie Graduates from Stevens

Chapter 11: Freedom and Riots

Marcus Howard

Bevie Booth

Ben Spencer Sr

Larry Weinberg

Harlem

Ed Carey

Elias Spencer

Chapter 12: Going West and East

"I Took a King to JFK"

Connie's Lay(over) in San Francisco

Chapter 13: Rutger from Stuttgart

Chapter 14: Summer Games in Fall

Chapter 15: 3 Days in 1965

Not a King

A King

Bevie and Eli and Love and Darkness

Chapter 16: Cover Stories

Chapter 17: Fire and Ice

Eli Drives a Fired Brother

”Trained in Crewe”

Chapter 18: Ben Jr Wants Liberation

Chapter 19: Time Magazine Interviews Connie in San Francisco

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