America 1929: John F. Kennedy, the Great Writer

Chapter 112 The ball was ruined before even entering the door.

8 PM, Plaza Hotel lobby.

The light from the crystal chandelier shone on the gold-plated walls, illuminating the entire hall as if it were daytime.

The band sat in the corner, playing "Happy Days Have Come Again".

The long table was laden with caviar imported from Russia, roast goose from France, and a small mountain of imported fruit.

Jimmy Walker stood at the top of the spiral staircase, looking down at the crowd in the hall, his signature smile on his face.

They are coming.

Not everyone he wanted came, but enough people did.

The hall was bustling with people, their gowns and jewelry shimmering under the lights. From the outside, the ball looked no different from any other year.

Walker took a deep breath and walked down the stairs.

He first approached Gerald Strauss, the owner of Macy's.

Strauss was standing by a colonnade, holding a glass of champagne, talking to someone next to him who he clearly didn't know very well.

Walker patted him on the shoulder and said with that smile he'd practiced for decades, "Gerald, thanks for coming tonight. Is your throat feeling better?"

Strauss turned his head, glanced at Walker, and, as if he didn't want anything to do with him, reluctantly said, "Thank you for your concern."

After he finished speaking, he turned his gaze back to the person next to him and continued saying the same thing that he had been saying, though he didn't know where he was going with the conversation.

Walker stood there, his outstretched hand frozen in mid-air, with nowhere to go.

He turned to the other side and found Harold, the heir to the Vanderbilt family.

Walker smiled and said, "Harold, how has your father been lately? Last time we were—"

The young man glanced at him and nodded politely.

Harold said, "He's fine, thank you."

Then he turned around and joined the conversation of another group of people next to him, his back view clean and neat.

Walker stood in the open space between the two men, his smile frozen on his face, looking somewhat embarrassed.

He began to realize that there was something in the hall that he couldn't see, creating a thick barrier between him and these people.

Those people were there, but they were unwilling to get close to him.

They drank, chatted, and laughed, but none of those smiles were directed at him.

McGuire followed behind him, lowering his voice to say, "Mayor, the reporters are pressing us, asking when the speeches will begin."

Walker took a deep breath and walked onto the stage in the banquet hall.

He raised his glass and cleared his throat. The buzzing in the hall gradually subsided.

Walker began to speak of the difficult times in New York, the significance of charity, and the city's undying hope.

His voice echoed in the hall; it was a highly trained and penetrating voice that could make people stop and listen to him in any situation.

But tonight, their minds weren't on his speech. Their gazes drifted elsewhere, to the wine glasses in their hands, to the bow ties of the people next to them, to the crystal chandelier on the ceiling—they weren't listening to him at all.

Walker spoke for about five minutes. He paused, raised his glass, and said, "Cheers to New York."

Someone in the audience raised their glass, but it was perfunctory. A few scattered claps followed.

Walker looked at the faces below the stage and felt a strange sense of panic.

Those people looked at him as if he were a complete stranger, someone who had wandered into the room by mistake.

An unimportant passerby.

He stepped down from the stage, and McGuire approached him, lowering his voice to say, "Mayor, none of the reporters are of any importance willing to stand beside you for a joint interview."

Walker was stunned, then felt angry and helpless.

How could this happen? What do these people mean?

At 10 p.m., a reporter finally found a guest who was willing to be interviewed.

He was a small construction contractor who made a living from municipal contracts and had no influence in New York social circles. He was notified directly by the Tammany Association tonight.

-

When asked by a reporter how he felt about the evening, he said into the microphone, "Very good. The mayor's speech was excellent, and the charity ball was a great success."

The reporter pressed further, "Did you attend this ball voluntarily?"

He paused for a moment, then quickly replied, "Of course, of course it's voluntary."

The reporter wrote down two words in the interview notebook and did not ask any further questions.

McGuire stood not far away, watching the scene unfold, his expression growing increasingly grim. He knew how that interview would be used tomorrow.

Before midnight, people began to leave the hall one after another.

Walker stood by the long table laden with exquisite food, surrounded only by a few of his own people from the Tammony Association, and a few low-level merchants still trying to get on his good side.

Three-quarters of the hall was empty. The waiters began to clean up the mess.

McGuire walked over and handed Walker the negatives of the photos taken that evening.

Walker took it and looked at the first one.

-

It was a panoramic photo of the hall. The lights were brilliant, and people were bustling about, making it look incredibly lively.

But if you look closely, you'll find that all the people in the photo form a stable, empty circle centered on Walker's location.

Walker placed the negative face down on the table, not wanting to look at a second one.

McGuire said softly, "Tonight's fundraising totaled about $23,000. As planned, the money will be donated tomorrow."

Walker didn't speak. The number was pitifully small.

Twenty-three thousand dollars. This is the result of the nearly one hundred thousand dollars he spent on a dance party.

More importantly, he dared not even think about how the content those reporters gathered tonight would appear in the newspapers tomorrow.

He gazed at the nearly empty hall; the band had put away their instruments, and the light from the crystal chandelier was beginning to seem superfluous.

Walker spoke in a low voice: "Did Kennedy come tonight?"

McGuire shook his head.

"He didn't come in. He stood at the door for a while, then was stopped by security. He said a few words to the reporters, gave them some kind of document, and then left."

Walker asked, "They just gave us a document? What did it say?"

McGuire took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it over. It was a stenographer's note on the spot, recording Arthur's words at the Plaza Hotel entrance, and the timetable he had given to the reporter.

Walker read the paper from beginning to end, his face gradually darkening.

The timetable clearly listed the tax office, fire department, regional planning commission, and all events that occurred this afternoon, including the time, agency, and parties involved.

Walker gripped the paper tightly in his hand, and said angrily, "That bastard! He didn't even get in the door and he ruined the whole evening."

McGuire didn't dare to respond to that.