(1964) The Man (47 page)

The policeman had halted, waiting for Abrahams, and then said, “Right through this door, sir.” Abrahams thanked him, took hold of the doorknob, realizing that while he had been inside the House Chamber many times, he had never visited the legendary cloak-rooms, where national decisions were supposed to be made by horse trading in secrecy.

He entered the Party’s cloakroom, not knowing what to expect and yet finding less than he had supposed he would find. The cloakroom was narrow and dimly lighted. There were a half-dozen soft sofas along the walls, about the same number of deep used leather armchairs, then the room stretched off behind the House and turned a corner. At the far end three men were assembled before a semicircular bar. Only when Abrahams approached them closer did he see that it was an innocuous ice cream and soft drink counter, with many telephone booths nearby.

He recognized Gorden Oliver, even though the Eagles lobbyist had his back to him. Identification was possible from Oliver’s distinctive high starched collar, navy-blue wool sport coat, gray flannel slacks, and brown metal brandy-flask cane (his trademark).

“Gorden—”

Oliver wheeled around at once, and when he did so, Abrahams could see that the Eagles lobbyist and the two others beside him were watching Dilman’s press conference on a television set.

“Hello, hello, Nat. I was beginning to worry whether you’d find the way.” Oliver pumped his hand, and then took him in tow. “Nat, I want you to meet two of our most influential House members—Representative Stockton, of Colorado, Representative Kramer, of West Virginia. . . . Gentlemen, this is Nathan Abrahams, Eagles’ answer to Rufus Choate.”

After the handshaking, Representative Kramer said, “Gorden here tells us you are a personal friend of the President, Mr. Abrahams.”

Embarrassed, Abrahams said, “Yes, the President and I have known each other since the Second World War. We were in the Judge Advocate’s Department together.”

Representative Kramer assumed a dour visage. “Well, if Dilman got out of the service uninjured, then he’s certainly earning a Purple Heart today. They’ve been grenading him for twenty minutes.”

Abrahams’ eyes went to the television screen, to Dilman’s worn expression as he listened to one more question. “Most people haven’t had a chance to find out yet, but President Dilman is very sharp,” Abrahams said loyally. “I saw some of the press conference on my way in. I think he can handle them. When you’ve made it all the way up to Congress as a Negro, you’ve been through worse inquisitions. He’ll survive.”

“We didn’t mean he won’t,” Oliver said hastily. “It’s simply that this is his first time out, and they’ve mined every inch of it with dynamite. You should have—”

“Quiet, Gorden,” Representative Stockton interrupted. He pointed to the television set. “The
Time-Life
man just asked him about the minorities bill.”

The four men directed their attention to the close shot of Dilman, gnawing his lower lip, fingering the blotter in front of him. “You want to know why I have not spoken out in favor of the Minorities Rehabilitation Program?” he was saying. “In reply, I remind you I have spoken neither for it nor against it. I have been examining the bill. It has much to offer minorities in this country, and can make a great contribution to bolstering our economy. At the same time, I think it would be a mistake to regard this bill as the cure-all for the civil rights problem. The bill may alleviate certain pressures brought down on minority segments of our population. Still, whether it passes into law or not, it must be supplemented by continued and unceasing efforts to secure for each and every citizen those equal rights guaranteed by our Constitution. I am closely watching the debate over the bill in Congress, and await seeing in what form it reaches me for signature.”

Gorden Oliver dug an elbow into Abrahams’ rib. “Cagey, Nat. Your friend is playing it cool and cagey.”

For an instant Abrahams was irritated, but he contained himself and kept his eyes on the screen, where Flannery had nodded to someone off scene. On cue, the correspondent from United Press International called out, “Thank you, Mr. President,” and the first press conference was over. As the picture on the screen dissolved to one of the Presidential seal, Representative Stockton turned the set off.

The Colorado Congressman addressed Abrahams. “Mr. Abrahams, since you know our new President personally, you might do well to inform him for us—since nobody else seems to be able to get to him—that we hope he doesn’t drag his feet on this bill or on putting that Baraza President in his place. Tell him that’s what the boys in the back room are saying.”

“You tell him yourself,” said Abrahams stiffly. “I’m afraid I have no influence over the President.”

Gorden Oliver emitted a false, cackling laugh. “Aw, Nat, don’t take it so seriously. None of us are worried about Dilman. He’s pledged himself to the Party platform and T. C.’s policies. We know he’ll deliver. . . . Say now, Nat, you’ve never been in this sacred sanctum before, have you? Well, have a gander down there, past those fourteen phone booths, and what do you see? A stretcher, yes, sir, and a first-aid kit. Know what? After those Puerto Ricans began holding target practice from the House gallery in 1954, wounded five of our members, the boys here became scared it might encourage more open-season hunting. Now they’re prepared. . . . What say we have our lunch? I’m starved. I’ve a table reserved at the Hotel Congressional down the way. . . . See you later, boys. I’ll tell Emmich you’re reading his breakdown.”

Gorden Oliver led Abrahams out of the cloakroom, through the rear of the House Chamber, still resounding to oratory on the Minorities Rehabilitation Bill, past Room H-209, which he pointed out to be the Speaker’s quarters, past the House Reception Room, and then downstairs.

They came out into the east front of the Capitol and started in the cold sunshine of midday toward the Hotel Congressional.

“It’s only a couple of blocks,” said Oliver.

But the few blocks, Abrahams soon realized, would take as long to traverse as a mile. Gorden Oliver knew everyone, and everyone knew him. It was not enough for him to greet each acquaintance with a wag of his metal brandy-filled cane. Each person met—a photographer for the Republican Party, a public relations man for the Democratic Committee, three Capitol policemen, two senators, four young giggling female secretaries going to lunch—was stopped, introduced to Abrahams, regaled with a warmed-over joke or bit of innocuous gossip, before being passed.

There was neither business nor political conversation between Oliver and Abrahams as they walked. The lobbyist’s eyes were scanning the pedestrians for more acquaintances, while he filled Abrahams with petty chatter about Washington and calumny about congressmen, past and present. According to Oliver, there was one congressman and his wife who, to save money, had set up and maintained living quarters in a corner of the House basement, until they were discovered and evicted. There was another who, to make ends meet, sold ready-made suits at a discount out of his office. There was a third who had enjoyed a reputation for hard work by staying on in his suite in the Rayburn House Office Building long after his colleagues had gone home, until it was discovered that he was using his suite to entertain call girls.

“Yet the work of government gets done,” said Oliver, as they crossed the street and entered the modest lobby of the Hotel Congressional. He halted, after waving his cane at the desk clerk and at two congressmen who had entered behind them, and he added, “I only wanted to show you, Nat, that you won’t be dealing with sacred cows but with plain, ordinary human beings, possessing their share of mortals’ frailties.” He poked his cane toward a sign to the right of the lobby, indicating the direction to the Caucus Room and the Filibuster Bar. “Caucus over food, Nat, or filibuster over drinks first?”

Abrahams held up his vest-pocket watch. “Sue’s picking me up here in an hour,” he said. “She wants to show me some houses she’s been—”

“Food it’ll be,” said Oliver.

Abrahams allowed the lobbyist to take his arm and guide him through a corridor, decorated on one side with framed photographs of the current members of Congress. They entered the spacious dining room, already nearly filled, and were shown to a reserved table next to the curved window overlooking the hotel’s lawn and garden.

As they were seated and given their menus, Oliver winked at Abrahams and said, “Best table in the room, Nat. Eagles Industries rates here, and so will you. Congressmen come and go, but Eagles stays on forever. . . . What’ll you have?” He began recommending dishes, but Abrahams ordered only a small green salad and a mushroom omelet. Automatically Oliver ordered a steak. “We’re on an expense account, you know, Nat,” he reminded Abrahams.

“I’m on a diet,” Abrahams replied. “I’m at my best when I’m lean and hungry.”

“Good, good—” the lobbyist said absently, his attention again diverted by his recognition of familiar faces. He began to salute diners at other tables, calling out, “Hi, Mike. . . . How you doing, Jim fellow?. . . Hello, Ruthie girl.” Then he excused himself, and for five minutes, cane in hand, he went table-hopping, ending each visit with an uproarious peal of laughter.

When he returned to Abrahams, who was eating his salad, he offered only an oblique excuse for his absence. “My trade consists of contacts,” he explained, “making them and maintaining them.”

“I’m not good at that, Gorden.”

“You?” said Oliver, with pretended horror. “We can’t waste a genius like yours on this sort of Rotary-Kiwanis activity. My rounds are the National Press Club, Burning Tree Golf Club, Metropolitan Club, and right here. That’s for me, not you. Avery Emmich wouldn’t be paying you what he is paying you—hell, my salary is picayune tip money beside what you’re going to get—for public relations. He’s hiring your brain, Nat, not your glad hand.”

“As long as that’s understood, that’s all,” said Abrahams.

The lunch proceeded into the entrée, and Oliver spoke less and became preoccupied with his own thoughts. Abrahams searched the Caucus Room, trying to match faces to headlines he remembered, and then, finishing the omelet, he stared up at the rough yellow-and-white textured plaster ceiling and speculated on the reason for this lunch.

While the lobbyist was drinking his Sanka, Abrahams sipped his hot tea and decided to make certain that the meeting had nothing to do with the contract.

“Gorden, last night you said you wanted to see me about my first duties here in Washington, not about the contract. Are you sure?”

Oliver’s ruddy, weather-beaten Vermont countenance immediately offered an open expression of distress that his motive should even be questioned. “Nat, I told you, the contract is routine. It’ll be in final draft shortly. The delay has been caused by Emmich’s visit to Dallas for a speech before the National Association of Manufacturers.”

“Well, I’d like to be able to send Sue home and let her close up shop.”

“Send her, by all means, send her. But you’d better hang around here for the final reading of the contract and the signing. After that’s done, you can get back to Chicago for a week and turn over your keys.”

Glancing off, Abrahams caught the time on the wall clock. “Okay, Gorden. Then what did you want to discuss with me? I’ve only got fifteen minutes.”

Oliver blew across the rim of his cup, drank the Sanka, and then set the cup down. “Nat,” he said, “you heard the little speech Congressman Stockton made to you in the cloakroom.”

“About what? You mean the President dragging his feet on the minorities bill and Baraza? I sure did.”

“Well, I think he was really concerned about the minorities bill. That’s a big thing. Nobody gives much of a damn about that little African football field.”

“Soviet Russia does,” said Abrahams.

Oliver took his cane, which had been leaning against the table, and began unscrewing the top. “Oh, you know what I mean. The minorities bill is the thing that counts right now for the boys on the Hill. A wrong move can lose a lot of votes back home. That’s what matters to them.” He paused. “I know that Stockton got your dander up a bit, but he means well. He was only trying to tell you how the majority of both parties in the House feel.”

“Why tell me?” said Abrahams.

“Because he heard you knew the President and—” Then, as if to prevent Abrahams from interrupting him, Oliver went on more urgently, in a rush, “Look, Nat, listen, the boys on the Hill—forget the Southern bloc—the others, they’re not too worried about Douglass Dilman. He’s behaved well. He’s made it clear he’s standing on the Party platform and listening to T. C.’s best minds. Only one curious fact gives them pause. The single major legislation the President has made no private or public commitment on is this minorities bill, the very bill he should be behind hot and heavy. It’s the only pacifier we have to stop the racial unrest in this country. Once it is law, all rioting and demonstrations will cease. No more repetitions of what happened down in Mississippi today. The Negroes will be too occupied and prosperous to complain. We’ll have solidarity.” He considered Abrahams a moment, and then he asked, “Have you read the MRP Bill yet?”

“No,” Abrahams answered flatly. He felt vaguely irritated again and put upon. He had guessed, at once, what Gorden Oliver was leading up to, and he wanted to make it difficult for him. “No,” he repeated, “I haven’t. Should I?”

Oliver screwed the top of his brandy cane tightly, and leaned it against the table once more. “Only because it is a vital piece of public works legislation, and a great part of your job for Eagles Industries will be to advise Emmich on any new bills affecting his interests.”

Abrahams was more determined than ever to be difficult. He forced his eyebrows upward, ingenuously. “Is the minorities bill of that much concern to Emmich?”

Now it was Oliver who was irritated and trying to control his feelings. “Really, Nat, you must know what passage of this bill can mean to Eagles. There’s a seven-billion-dollar—
billion
, mind you—Federal pie to be cut up among private industry. Eagles wants its share, and is ready to underbid all competition. And Eagles can do the job. We’re strong in the South, strongest there, where much of the money will be spent. We have the know-how and equipment to build those new vocational trade schools, those highways, those housing tracts, those factories. Sure we’re concerned, damn concerned. Nothing is more important to Emmich right now. I thought you knew that.”