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seats down front.
    Benny was the lead comedian. He appeared in a number of sketches, then did a monologue.
    â€œHerb,” Jack said quietly as they walked up the aisle to the exit, “that man is not funny.”
    â€œI disagree with you, Jack. I think he’s the funniest man I’ve heard in a long time.”
    â€œIs there any way to get out of this dinner?”
    â€œI don’t see how. That’d be very awkward.”
    Forty-five minutes later they sat down at a table in the Stork Club with Jack Benny.
    Benny had just celebrated his thirty-seventh birthday. Jack saw a certain appeal in his innocent, open face and in the flat, hesitating manner in which he delivered his gags; but he simply could not see that the man was funny.
    â€œTwo Jacks,” said Herb. “That makes conversation a little awkward, doesn’t it?”
    â€œYou can call me Ben,” said Jack Benny. “My real name is Benjamin Kubelsky.”
    The Stork Club was a speakeasy. The proprietor, their host, was an ex-convict named Sherman Billingsley, who had served time in an Oklahoma prison before he came to New York and became the bootlegger to café society. He knew Jack Benny and came to the table to welcome him and his friends.
    â€œPleasure to see you here, Jack,” said Billingsley. “And to see you, too, Mr. Lear, Mr. Morrill.” He nodded toward the bottle of Johnnie Walker sitting on their table. “That’s on the house, gentlemen.”
    â€œThank you, Sherm,” said Jack Benny. “Anybody interesting in the joint tonight?”
    â€œYou might be interested in the gentleman over there,” said Billingsley, nodding discreetly at a table where a tall, distinguished-looking man sat smoking a cigarette and talking earnestly to a diminutive girl.
    â€œWho’s he?” Benny asked.
    â€œThat’s General Douglas MacArthur, Chief of Staff, United States Army. The girl is his mistress. She’s a Filipina.”
    Jack Benny shrugged. Apparently General MacArthur didn’t interest him.
    â€œDon’t turn around and look, whatever you do,” said Billingsley, “but the swarthy fellow two tables back—the one with the eyes of a wolf—is Lucky Luciano.”
    â€œWho’s Lucky Luciano?” asked Jack Lear.
    Billingsley’s chin and brows rose, as if he could not believe anyone did not know the name of Lucky Luciano. “He’s the head man of all the mobs in the States. He and his guys took over everything not long ago. They just killed off their rivals.”
    Jack Benny did not turn and look at Luciano. He didn’t seem any more interested in the gangster than he was in General MacArthur. His focus was on showbiz people, and nobody else made much difference to him.
    â€œTell ya what, Jack,” said Billingsley. “Look to your left. Lucille LeSueur, lately known as Joan Crawford.”
    â€œAha,” said Benny, and he turned and looked, catching her eye.
    â€œAha is right,” said Jack Lear.
    â€œAsk you something, Mr. Lear?” said Jack Benny. “Radio. I got in trouble with the following joke. What would happen if I told it on your radio station? I come onstage carrying a girl in my arms. I say to the man in overalls, ‘Mr. McDonald, your daughter fell in the river, but don’t worry, I resuscitated her.’ And the farmer says, ‘By golly, you resuscitate her, you gotta marry her!’”
    Jack chuckled. “I’d get shrieks and tears from the Legion of Decency. But off the record I’ll tell you how I feel about the Legion of Decency. Fuck ’em.”
    â€œSaying ‘Fuck ’em’ and making it stick are two different things,” said Herb. “The Babbitts of this country are really taking over.”
    â€œI’m not sure I agree,” said Billingsley. “I predict that Prohibition will be repealed within two years.”
    â€œWhat happens to you then,