On the morning of June 11, 1975, a pack of rubbernecking New Yorkers gathers on West 52nd Street. They're standing outside the venerable "21" club, a former speakeasy turned posh canteen to presidents, plutocrats and Hollywood grandees, drawn there by the steady drone of a police helicopter overhead -- and, no doubt, by the conspicuous gaggle of bulky gentlemen in telltale dark suits, sunglasses and coiled wire earpieces monitoring the entrance.
As some onlookers speculate about the identity of the eminence du jour -- Frank Sinatra? Jackie O? Elizabeth Taylor? -- inside "21," a mosh pit of 200-plus reporters, cameramen and photographers waits impatiently for something to happen.