PRESCOTT(Gerald E. Sheagren) It looked like another boring date until Prescott took me to La Grenouille, one of the newest, chicest and most expensive restaurants in New York. To say that I was surprised would have been the biggest understatement of the year. The food was scrumptious, the vintage Bordeaux even better and, quite unexpectedly, I had the most enjoyable evening of my life.

Perhaps I’ve gotten a bit ahead of myself, here, and should let you know who I am and how I had met Prescott. As far as telling you who Prescott Simms was – who he really was – I’m not able to do that and I probably never will. He was a complete mystery in many more ways than one. But here I go again. Let me start at the beginning.

My name’s Chloe Cunningham. Back when this story takes place – 1962/1963 – I was a fairly attractive woman with my father’s blue eyes and easy smile and my Mom’s blonde hair and shapely figure. I was no Marilyn Monroe, mind you, but I was far from being a Phyllis Diller. At that point in my life, I was sick and tired of men, especially those within my age group who I invariably met in bars. They were banal and self-possessed and most of all – cheap. If they so much as bought a woman a drink, they expected a romp in the sack as repayment. Finally, I gave them up altogether, preferring to stay at home, curled up with a good book, or watching What’s My Line on the boob tube. If it meant becoming an old maid, so be it.

Prescott lived in the same building as me: three apartments down on the opposite side of the hall. He was a nerdy-looking guy with black horn-rimmed glasses perched on a pug nose and this weepy sort of moustache, streaked with premature gray. And his mode of dress was nothing short of outlandish: feathered fedoras, tweed sports coats with suede elbow patches and the weirdest assortment of bowties that you’d ever want to see. I didn’t know very much about him, other than the fact that he was quiet and unassuming and that he worked as an accountant for some plumbing distributor.

When we happened to pass in the hallway, or share the elevator, the only thing that passed between us was either a nod or a quick hello. He didn’t seem interested in me and I was certainly not interested in him. So you could have knocked me over with a feather when – out of the clear blue sky – he knocked on my door one December evening in ’62 and asked me out on a date. My first impulse was to laugh and slam the door in his face, but then I thought to myself, Hey! Why not? Could he be any worse than some of the other bozos I’d dated? Give it a shot, Chloe girl. What have you got to lose?

And was I ever glad that I accepted, for that first date took us to La Grenouille and I came to find out that Prescott was not only intelligent and witty, but he also knew how to treat a lady with dignity and respect. It took me less than an hour to feel totally at ease in
his presence and a little more than an hour to share my deepest thoughts and innermost secrets. When he asked me that night if I would be interested in going out again, I accepted in a heartbeat.

We had two more dates in 1962 and numerous others throughout much of ’63: friendship dates with nothing more physical than a peck on the cheek. I didn’t think there was anything secretive or overly strange about Prescott until I agreed to fly with him to Las Vegas to watch the Floyd Patterson/Sonny Liston rematch on July 22, 1963. I was somewhat surprised by the invitation, because if he was interested in sports – which I had no idea he was – I certainly would have never expected boxing. Even more surprising was the fact that he had somehow managed to get two seats, front-row-center. What happened next, I would have never expected in a hundred years. Correction: make that a thousand years.

As we sat there in the cigar smoke and pre-fight noise, I heard a commotion and when I looked to see what was up, my eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. There, coming in our direction was none other than the Rat Pack: Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Junior, Peter Lawford and Joey Bishop! In the flesh! My heart fairly leapt into my throat when old Blue Eyes stopped and bent over, giving Prescott a playful nudge to the chin.

“Hey, Prescott, what’s happening? Long time, no see.”
“Hi, Frank. It has been awhile. How’s your Mom doing?”
“She’s her usual self: still dressed in black and cussing up a storm.” Sinatra’s eyes took me in, approvingly. “Who’s the lady?”
“This is Chloe. Chloe, I’m sure you know who this is.”
When I accepted Sinatra’s hand, goose bumps shot straight to my shoulder. “Uh --- uh --- hello, Mister Sinatra.”
“Call me Frank.”
“Yes, of course, uh --- Frank.”
“Prescott always had an appreciative eye for the pretty ladies.” With that, Sinatra gave Prescott another gentle cuff to the chin. “Did you see my latest movie, Come Blow Your Horn? I play lead, Dean plays a bum.”
“Yeah, I happened to catch it. You did a great job as Alan.”
“Hey, the next time I’m in New York, we’ll have to get together.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
Sinatra looked at me and winked, as he continued on his way. “And bring the little lady.”

Dean Martin walked past, offering us his best Dino smile, and then Sammy and Prescott did a little hand jive, using palms, thumbs and knuckles. Joey Bishop gave us a thumbs-up and Peter Lawford patted Prescott on the shoulder and tucked a Cuban cigar into his breast pocket.

I was nearly breathless when I leaned in close to Prescott. “My God, how do you know those guys? I mean --- I mean --- you know: you’re just an accountant.”
He gave a shrug. “Ah, we’ve crossed paths on a couple of occasions. No big deal.”
“No big deal, baloney. Sinatra greeted you as if the two of you were long lost friends.”
Prescott gave another shrug, dedicating his attention to the fight program.

I was hardly over my shock when I was introduced to another. Floyd Patterson, who’d been dancing around the ring and jabbing at the air with his gloves, came to a sudden stop and leaned over the ropes with an ear-to-ear smile.

“Prescott, my man: I’m happy you used those tickets I sent you.”
“Yeah, thanks a lot, Floyd. I appreciate it. And good luck.”
Patterson’s eyes beamed as bright as his pearly whites. “A good luck from you is all I need. Did you bet a bundle on me?”
“That’s for me to know.”

The bell clanged and the two fighters went to the center of the ring to converse with the ref. I again leaned in close to Prescott, trying to get his attention off the program. "Let me guess. He’s another guy you just happened to cross paths with on a couple of occasions.”
He nodded. “That’s right. Chance encounters.”
“Honestly, Prescott: you’re the most secretive man that I ever met.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

I gave an exasperated sigh and settled back to watch the fight, which ended before it had really gotten started, with Liston knocking out Patterson in the first round. As Liston was dancing about with his arms raised in victory, he spotted Prescott and leaned over the ropes, extending his gloves. Smiling, Prescott stood and struck each of the gloves with a fist.

“How was that for a quick one-two, Prescott?”
“You’re the champ, Sonny.”
“We’re having a victory party, later. Why don’t you and the lady come on over and join us? Everyone would be happy to see you.”
“I think I’ll take a pass. I want to take Chloe on a quick tour of Vegas.”

We hit the Aladdin and Stardust casinos, where, during the course of the night, Prescott got a smile and wave from a young newcomer by the name of Wayne Newton. All of the casino managers seemed to know Prescott and we were treated in high style, receiving free drinks and a five-star meal.

Upon returning to New York, the thought of Prescott knowing so many famous people dogged me for days. How was it possible? How could an unpretentious little guy, living in a so-so apartment and working at a ho-hum accountant’s job, be such good friends with the likes of the Rat Pack, Floyd Patterson and Sonny Liston? It was totally mind-boggling. But if I expected to get the answers from Prescott, I was sadly and suddenly mistaken. On September the second, he was struck and killed by a taxi while crossing Madison Avenue during rush hour traffic. Gone! I would never, ever, experience his quirky ways and sardonic humor again. I don’t think that I ever cried so much in my entire life. And, if Prescott hadn’t surprised me enough while alive, his wake would totally knock me out of my shoes.

When I entered the funeral parlor, I couldn’t believe the number of floral arrangements: big and beautiful, of every size, shape and form, their array of colors absolutely magnificent. Checking the sender cards, I was shocked to see the names of John Wayne, George Burns, Bobby Kennedy, Bob Hope and Mickey Mantle! Noticing a giant red, white and blue display, shaped in the form of an American flag, I checked the card to find – With our deepest sympathy - John F. Kennedy and family. Another read – Farewell dear friend - Lyndon and Lady Bird Johnson. There was a spectacular bouquet from J. Edgar Hoover and equals from Elvis Presley, Ed Sullivan, and Alfred Hitchcock. At this point, I was a bit dizzy-headed, my legs feeling as though they were made of Jello. Impossible! This was absolutely impossible!

When I mustered enough composure to view Prescott, I saw that he was laid out in a gorgeous tuxedo, with his face made up so well that I could swear he was alive. A card had been strategically propped against his shoulder. It read – Clothing supplied by Oscar de la Renta. Make up by Max Factor.

I won’t even get into everyone that attended the wake, because it would take me a good hour to remember and recite their names. There were actors and actresses, sports figures, senators and congressmen, and media personalities: the rich and famous, the movers and shakers, the crème de la crème: a virtual who’s who of America. Was this reality or was it a fairy tale? After the wake - being the absolute last person in the room - I walked up to the stern-faced funeral director, who was standing at attention next to the coffin.

“Excuse me. What time should I be here, tomorrow? Will I get a number to mark my place in the funeral procession?”
“Oh, I guess you haven’t heard.”
“Heard what?”
He glanced at his watch. “In just about an hour, Mister Simms’s coffin will be flown to Washington D.C.. Tomorrow, Bishop Fulton J. Sheen will conduct a funeral mass at Washington National Cathedral and following, Mister Simms will be interred during a special ceremony at Arlington National Cemetery.”
“Bishop Fulton J. Sheen? Arlington National Cemetery? You have got to be kidding me.”
The man tilted his head and closed an eye, glaring at me with the other. “Madam, I am not in the habit of kidding.”

It wasn’t until the fall of the following year that I was able to travel to Arlington to visit Prescott’s grave. It was located perhaps five-hundred feet behind that of President Kennedy, who’d been assassinated a little over two months after Prescott’s funeral. With teary eyes, I knelt before his simple marker, placing a single red rose and tracing my finger along the grooves of his name.

“Who were you, Prescott, really? How could anyone have possibly known the people that you did?”

At that point, a brisk wind picked up, flapping my coat and rustling leaves across the ground. It figured: because to ask Prescott a question was akin to asking the wind. Turning up my collar, I took the long walk back to my rental, with the Lincoln Memorial, the Washington Monument and the Capitol lined up perfectly in the distance.

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