We met them on a balmy summer evening at New York’s South Street Seaport.
In a place and time where the iconic twin towers still loomed tall and proud in the background. And where hoards of young singles, desperate to toss off the woes of a stressful work week, gathered amid the setting sun of New York harbor.
We stood among the after-work crowd that Friday evening, surveying the scene. As always, it was one of sheer jubilance. As my sister Anne and I sipped our “buckets of beer,” compliments of Jeremy’s Ale House, two shadowy figures stood directly opposite us in silence. They looked like any other nine-to-fiver in their dark gray suits and smartly polished shoes but there was something else. Something at the time, I could not quite put my finger on that set them apart. I think it was their eyes, keen and sharp, taking in the crowd not missing a single beat. Rather than a relaxed stance they stood alert, like sentry-men, studying, and without expression, examining the scene of merriment before them. Though there was a calmness in their manner.
Then suddenly, as if deciding to call it a day, their demeanor changed. And in unison, as if they had practiced this move for years, reached into their suit pocket and smoothly placed a pair of Rayban aviators upon their tanned faces as they approached.
“Mine,” was tall and lean with a neatly trimmed mustache, initially to my chagrin, as I generally preferred a clean cut face, yet he was good looking and smiled easily. He held out his hand in greeting and introduced himself as Johnny. I was immediately taken with his voice so velvety smooth which hinted at just a touch of a Midwestern accent when he said my name and certain other words. My sister Anne’s object of interest was William. He was very handsome with a dark, clear complexion and brown eyes so large and expressive, they made you forget he was somewhat short in stature.
As we checked off the laundry list that goes with a first meeting; where you lived, worked, hailed from, I could not help but notice a gesture, that both men made frequently. Leaning in as we spoke they would open their blazer, ever so slightly, just enough to allow a peek of a gun neatly tucked in its holster. I wondered if my sister had noticed their somewhat unusual accessory but I knew she had given the frequency in which they performed the action.
After several minutes of playing “Guess my Profession” which included Policemen, Bounty Hunters, Armored Car Security, and Private Bodyguards, my sister and accepted defeat. “What do you do?” we asked, our curiosity now peaked.
“We work for the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” came the reply.
Though originally from the Midwest, both men now lived in Manhattan, William ironically in the same East Side apartment complex as my sister and I. We chatted amiably for some time, then parted ways but not before exchanging phone numbers with the promise to get together soon.
Our double dates with the FBI Agents generally took place on a Friday evening. We did not return to the South Street Seaport venue but instead would often drive around the city in Johnny’s Chevy Convertible as he pointed out scenes of the most notorious crimes in the city. It was like having our own personal tour guides displaying the darker side of life. Some evenings we would drive slowly past the locale of one of the most famous mob murders in history; Crazy Joe Gallo at Umberto’s Clam House on Mulberry Street in Little Italy or stop curbside at the infamous Chelsea hotel where Sid Vicious of the Sex Pistols murdered his girlfriend, Nancy Spungen. Johnny and William where seasoned historians of these crime-laden landmarks, each bearing a sinister past. And Anne and I, a most captive audience.
Yes, our dates with the FBI agents were far from dull.
I still don’t know if I dreamed it but believe on one occasion, my sister and I may actually have been unintentionally involved in a stake out. We had just viewed the impressive Dakota Hotel on the Upper West Side outside of which John Lennon was tragically gunned down, when William’s pager buzzed. No words were spoken. Johnny simply turned the car around and raced downtown. Apologizing for the disruption he advised we had to make a brief stop. Pulling up to a deserted building, decrepit and dark, we sat curbside. We remained parked in silence for over thirty minutes while Johnny and William studied the building, which was definitely not on the tour. After our second query of “What are we doing here?” we decided it might be best to remain silent. On the ride home, they apologized for the impromptu interruption but never gave us a reason for the strange detour. “Just part of the job” was what I think they said. Both were clearly honorable and professional and would never put us in danger but still I wonder…
I loved their sharpness and intelligence. We could never put anything over on them. One day my friend Regina was visiting my apartment. While I was down in the laundry room, Johnny happened to call and Regina picked up the phone. When Regina told him I was not around, he asked “with whom am I speaking?” The cleaning woman,” came Regina’s sarcastic reply. “Really? came Johnny’s measured response. “Why its uncanny. You sound exactly like Kathy’s friend Regina!” He had met Regina just once for five minutes tops, but her voice never left him.
When my sister and I met Johnny and William for dinner the night before our four day trip to Ireland, they playfully remarked, “you girls better not go out with any Irish lads. We have already faxed a copy of both your photos over to our agency in Dublin. Just for safety. They’ll be looking after you…” I glanced at my sister who like me, had no idea if the comment was fact or fiction, but had no doubt as to the scope of their abilities.
Our dalliance with the FBI agents was brief, exciting and memorable. Several months after meeting them, a new assignment in Kansas City took them away from New York and out of our lives forever. We never kept in touch.
Just yesterday, I thought about Johnny and William. They were kind, clever, amusing, smart, capable, protective; a credit to their profession. And I have to admit, it is always fun to tell people I dated an FBI Agent.
I sometimes wonder, almost forty years later, what became of the two. What do they look like now? Where do they live? Are they still with the bureau?
I could look them up on Social Media, and in an instant find the answers to my questions.
Just one quick glimpse…
On second thought, I refrain.
Better to keep it classified.
Shangri-La 