(1964) The Man (50 page)

Suddenly he realized that he was standing before the Walk Inn. No more last night’s dreams. No more last week’s accidental meetings. He was here, now and today, because he had planned it. He had even left the Nash for Gertrude, being gracious and considerate about it, announcing that he would take the bus (because he did not want the car parked so dangerously long in front of the nearby tavern). He had planned everything. His first assignation.

He went inside, past the clanging pinball machines, and headed straight for the horseshoe bar.

He stopped in his tracks. There were three men at the bar, two colored, one a white laborer, but there was no Ruby. His disappointment was as sharp as if he had received a physical blow. He had started toward the bartender, Simon, who was busily drying his glassware, when the flutter of a distant brown hand crossed his vision. He stood on tiptoe, elevating his bulk to its utmost height, and peered over the bartender’s bent head. The hand fluttered still, and then he could see it belonged to Ruby.

Quickly Beggs made his way between the bar and the wooden tables and chairs, to the farthest of the three leatherette booths hidden deep in the rear of the tavern. She was waiting for him in a corner of the dark booth, fingering the rim of her drained glass. What perplexed him was not that for the first time she was waiting in the intimacy of a booth, but that for the first time she was not in a white uniform.

As he clumsily slid into the booth, he could not help but gape at her across the table. Since he had never seen her out of the dental uniform, he had not imagined that any different garment could improve her good looks. This instant he could see that he had been wrong, that a new dimension had been added to her. She wore a ruffled pink chiffon blouse, one that almost indecently revealed the well-filled pink lace brassière beneath, and could not adequately contain her breasts. Her waist was tied tightly with a red flowered sash above her red skirt. She was ravishing.

She smiled timorously, showing him even white teeth and a deep dimple. “I was hopin’ y’all be comin’, Otter,” she said. The first time that his Otto had become her Otter, it had made him squirm, reminding him that he was white and she was not, but the intimacy of it had quickly appealed to him, as it did now. “ ’Cause,” she went on, “I didn’t wanna be made to feel foolish, ’cause I done come here ’specially today expectin’ you to come, like it was an occasion.”

“Ruby,” he said, “where’s your usual outfit, the uniform?”

“Doc done come down with the flu bug last night, and we been cancelin’ the customers. So today’s off for us-all, an’ I been fixin’ an’ messin’ ’round the apartment, and done some shoppin’ for records, but still thought to git me here case you come, too.”

His head swam, and last night’s fantasies began to grow real in the daylight. “That’s awfully nice of you, Ruby. I guess you knew I’d, well, I’d be hoping to run into you for a drink.”

“You were ackin’ like you was meanin’ it day ’fore yesterday.”

He opened his hands. “Here I am,” he said. “You been here long?”

“One drink’s worth.”

He felt expansive and rich. “Well, have another.”

“You gonna?”

“I’ve got to go on duty, but—what the hell—one beer never made anyone cockeyed.” He twisted, raised his arm and snapped his fingers. “Simon! One J and B on the rocks, and one tap beer. Bring some pretzels, too.”

She reached for her folded coat to find a cigarette, but he took one from his pack, handed it to her, and then put a match to it.

“I was thinkin’ ’bout you last night, Otter.”

“If it was something bad, don’t tell me.”

“I was thinkin’ how I hopes you don’t go sellin’ real estate land. Maybe I should hush my big mouff, but—”

“No, go ahead, Ruby, please.”

She set her elbows on the table, and stared at him. “I been thinkin’ you is too much man—Lordy, too much man—to be givin’ up bein’ a hero and protectin’ our Pres jes ’cause of extra money. Bein’ a richcrat ain’t no more impo’tant than what you is.”

“Well, I don’t know that I’m so important, Ruby—thank you, anyway—but I do think the job is certainly important. I’m beginning to feel the way you do about giving it up. But my pay’s sure not up to what I could make in real estate, and everybody can use extra money.”

“Bet if you eggs ’em ’bout leavin’, Pres Dilman would git you a raise but fast. Bet he wouldn’t wanna lose you.”

He wanted to tell her that Dilman probably did not know he was alive, but he did not want to run himself down in her eyes. “Maybe,” he agreed. “You think a lot of Dilman?”

She brushed the air with her long thin hand. “Aw, Otter, I don’t mess ’round much studyin’ politics or race stuff an’ nonsense like such. Like my mothah always used to be sayin’—‘Sweetheart, live an’ let ’em live, and don’t fuss ’round none with such p’ofessional matters.’ Sep, ’course, I wanna git an education an’ be smart so’s I kin live good an’ be right for the right man, but I don’t fuss my mind with Dilman this and Dilman that—I jes mostly wanna have me a good time, swing it ’round a little, ’joy my days.”

Beggs had tried to assess what she was saying, and wondered if it was meant to be provocative. Since he was not certain, he said pedantically, “You have a healthy attitude, Ruby.”

The drinks had come, and she drank hers and he drank his, and then she said, “ ’Course my not messin’ with politics don’t mean I’m not fascinated ’bout your impo’tant job. Otter, what you do day ’fore yesterday when you left here, an’ what you do yesterday?”

He was on, and liking it, and he went on and on, without interruption, except for a reverent “Sure enough?” or “Ain’t that somethin’!” from her occasionally. He narrated his activities of the day before yesterday, and of yesterday. He told her of his colleagues and their duties. He presented her with the highlights of the history of the Secret Service. He described the West Wing offices and the people and life in them, and he described what sections of the White House he himself had visited, with himself always in the foreground of these descriptions.

She listened raptly, and drank, and exclaimed or clucked her admiration.

His monologue took him a half hour, and when he was done, he was hoarse and happy. “Christ, Ruby, I’ve been bending your ear to death. You shouldn’t let me go on that way.”

“You-all a good teacher, Otter. I was lovin’ it.”

He finished what was left of his beer. “What about you, Ruby? What have you been up to today?”

“Like I told you, nothin’, ’cept sleepin’ too long this mornin’ to git me my naycher back full stren’th—nothin’, Otter—”

But then she went on about her hi-fi set, and the fun she’d had shopping for rare jazz records to add to her collection of classics. With enthusiasm she evoked names little known or unknown to him, mystical names like Bix Beiderbecke, Joe Oliver, Fats Waller, Muggsy Spanier, Bunk Johnson. She spoke of Storyville jazz and gut-gone bands and Bessie Smith’s “St. Louis Blues” and King Oliver’s Creole combine belting out “Froggie Moore.”

After ten minutes she stopped. “You diggin’ it, Otter? No, you ain’t, you not with it, you a orfan from the blues. You need educatin’, Otter.”

He swallowed. “I’m always open to improvement, Ruby.”

“Man, you gonna go limp when you hear what I bought me this mornin’—know what?—piano solo of Jelly Roll doin’ ‘The Pearls.’ You gotta hear that, an’ then you gotta come up to my place an’ hear Duke Ellington an’ his Wash’tonians doin’ ‘Rainy Nights’—listenin’, you ain’t ever gonna be exactly the same, Otter, you gonna be no more orfan, you gonna join up an’ belong like Ruby Thomas here.”

He had been holding his breath. Now he let it go with a wheeze. “Are you extending an invitation to me for a musical concert in your apartment, Ruby?”

Her almond eyes held on him a moment. Then she said softly, “You always been welcome, Otter. Fact is, my machine needs some adjustin’ an’ I ain’t got the money for it yet, but you always sayin’ you got mechanical ways—”

“I’m a wizard with a monkey wrench, Ruby. I’ve never tinkered with a hi-fi, but I bet I’ll have yours perfecto in two seconds and a jiffy. That’s a deal, if you say so. I’ll bring a bottle of J and B, and some tools, and you can give me my first jazz lesson.”

She pushed her glass aside. “You done got a deal. When you wanna come up?”

Before he could reply, a hollow, echoing voice intruded upon their conversation, coming from the left. He looked off. A well-dressed Negro customer had walked through the door, holding a transistor radio, and was making his way to the bar. The radio’s volume was on high, and an announcer’s voice boomed, “—gave his first press conference in the Cabinet Room of the White House today. President Dilman told fifty reporters very little that they did not already know. He sidestepped any direct commitment to the Minorities Rehabilitation Program, was evasive about reporting the results of his conversations with the visiting President of Baraza, and would make no comment on the New Succession Bill. However, the President did speak of reopening a summit conference with the Russians. He came under greatest fire, during the questioning period, over his appointment of the Reverend Paul Spinger, director of the Crispus Society, to investigate the electrifying kidnaping, down in Mississippi, of—”

As abruptly as the radio news program had assailed him, it now ended. Beggs could see that Simon had leaned across the bar to speak to the customer, who had then lowered the volume.

Turning back to Ruby, Beggs suddenly realized that he had lost all track of time. The radio program reporting on Dilman’s press conference reminded him that he was to report for duty, to guard Dilman, at four o’clock. He looked at his watch and was horrified that it was seven minutes to four.

“Ruby, what time do you have?”

“Five to four.”

“Christ, I’d better find a cab.” He pushed free of the booth and jumped to his feet. Fumbling for his wallet, he found it and laid down three dollars. “Sorry to run out on you like this, Ruby.”

She smiled. “Like I was sayin’, you is doin’ man’s work. But, Otter, you ain’t answered my lil question—when you fixin’ to come up an’ see me?”

The haste went out of him. Impulsively he reached down and touched her hand. “Soon as I can, Ruby. My first free day off. Tell you what, see you here same time, day after tomorrow, and we’ll set a—a rendezvous.”

“I’ll be waitin’, Otter dear.” She turned her palm upward, caught and caressed his fingers, then released them. “I wanna be with you.”

He winked at her, started away, turned once to wave back, and then hastened outside to hail a taxi. For the first time in the Secret Service, he would be late on the job. Yet he did not give a damn what Agajanian said or Gaynor said, or in fact what President Dilman might say. All that mattered was what Ruby Thomas had said: Otter dear, I wanna be with you.

Sighting the parked taxi down the block, he hummed to himself as he hurried toward it. The girl had said that she wanted to educate him. Great. Nothing suited him more. He had reached the time in his life where he wanted action, action and a little more learning. Whatever Dilman did with that colored broad of his, if he did, he could do better, if he dared.

“The White House, Pennsylvania entrance,” he ordered the cab driver. “Half a buck extra if you make all the lights.”

He was moving again, he was rolling, Jelly Rolling along, and everything was good, real good, once more.

Edna Foster and George Murdock ate an early and hasty dinner at the Chez François on Connecticut Avenue near H Street, and by five-thirty they had left the modest French restaurant and headed in the direction of Lafayette Square.

Edna had not enjoyed the rushed meal. She liked the comfort gained from leisure with George, their time for small talk and confidences, and she resented any deadlines imposed upon their dinners. Lately she had been more and more burdened by work, so that she often stayed on at night to clear her desk for the following day. Not that President Dilman was being more demanding than T. C. had been, for, in truth, he was almost diffident about summoning her for dictation or special assignments. No, it was not Dilman per se, but rather the atmosphere of conflict and tension that his presence in the Oval Office had created. Her desk, it sometimes seemed, had become a fort (her typewriter a machine gun), a surrounded outpost in an alien land, vainly trying to survive the cannonading and strafing of an overwhelming enemy.

More difficult than the upsetting atmosphere was the concrete problem that she was no longer a
personal
secretary to the President alone. Under T. C., she had worked for him and no one else. Under Dilman, a subtle change had occurred. She worked not for the Commander in Chief exclusively, but for his aides, his staff and allies as well. It was as if a half dozen of them did not trust Dilman to perform solo, and intruded themselves as a chorus (so there might be less likelihood of detecting a sour note). Edna found herself doing what Dilman wanted, little enough, and also what Talley, General Faber, Eaton, to think of only three, wanted done for Dilman.

Tonight would be one more night for her to reduce the overload of work. Besides, Dilman was having his last conferences with Kwame Amboko before and after his first State Dinner, and Flannery and the wire-service men and syndicated columnists (like George) would be standing by in the press lobby. She might be required to help Flannery and his girls if there were any press releases, which she did not mind as much, since indirectly she would be helping George.

But more than the haste of their dinner, what disturbed her right now, as they strolled hand and hand toward the square and the White House across from it, was George’s mood. Whatever his shortcomings—no one is perfect, her father always used to say, although it does not hurt to try—George Murdock was almost consistently cheerful and lighthearted. Rarely was he pensive. When he complained, and usually he did it in a joking way, it was not about the $150 a week he earned from Tri-State Syndicate, but about the fact that the twelve newspapers in his string were small, obscure, and so no one in Washington ever saw his stuff. As a consequence, he had no permanent slot in the Press Room off the West Wing entrance, and no standing among his colleagues or with the administration. This indignity, added to the chore of having to be his own photographer, sometimes became a matter of annoyance to him. Yet most of the time he enjoyed his work, what standing it did give him, and he lived economically in his bachelor’s quarters, his only extravagances being his numismatic collection, Indian-head coins his specialty, and his gifts to Edna.