King Cole (7 page)

“Any of you reformers ever play the stock market?”

There was a pointed silence, then Baylor got up and knocked out his pipe into the fireplace. The others were irritated. They had heard this same observation many times before. It struck them as irrelevant. The stock market was an institution; accepted by everybody. To play it wasn’t gambling at all in the sense they understood it.

“Quite a few boys blew their brains out and jumped out windows in ’twenty-nine if I’m not mistaken,” said Baylor, sitting down and reloading his pipe. “Fine boys, too,” he added, heavily ironic.

Read looked at Baylor with interest. Why would a man like that let his daughters run around with a gilded gigolo like Vince Riquetti? Probably wasn’t quite as masterful among his womenfolks as he was with the male plutocrats of Midland City. Then suddenly Read remembered that his own daughter had gone to the hockey game with Riquetti that afternoon; he smiled grimly.

“Don’t hurt a man to bet a little now and then,” said Sky’s-the-Limit Sullavan, feeling a little more assurance now that he apparently had Baylor on his side. “As long as he’s careful. Of course, it’s bad for the little fellow. He’s the one that gets hurt.”

“Damn the little fellow,” said Baylor. “You can’t make wise men out of fools. If a man hasn’t got enough sense to value his own money, making laws about it isn’t going to help him any. A man has got to look out for himself in this world; pick his way carefully if he’s going to end up with anything. A fool’s a fool. Run it wide open, I say, and let the State control it. You can’t change human nature. That’s the trouble with this country. Prohibition, poor old Prohibition: dead now, thank God; antigambling laws: ostrich legislation! I’ll bet none of you fellows will admit that whores are necessary to a country. We’ve got them; you know we’ve got them, but you’ll hardly admit it. No, you’ve got to break up the red-light districts and scatter the women all over the town. If you don’t see it, it isn’t there.” He paused and relit his pipe. “How we’ve all kept going as long as we have, I don’t know. The Americans just haven’t got any guts anymore. If they had, we’d have been liquidated long ago, like the Kulaks. Old Eagle Beak talks sense now and then. “

They stared at him, appalled. Read wanted to laugh, but refrained. Ed Sullavan, out of his element, horrified, sat looking at Baylor in amazement.

“Well, by God,” he said, finally.

The Major recovered first.

“Why, John Baylor,” he said, “that’s a fine way to talk with our Governor sitting there. I…”

“Read Cole understands what I’m talking about, I think. The rest of you don’t.”

“Oh, yes, we do,” said Freytag, puffing loudly. “We understand.”

Yardley Meadows laughed his sour laugh.

“I think Mr. Baylor would object to being liquidated. And what a nice way to put it!”

Baylor looked sideways at Yardley Meadows, who did not seem as stupid as the rest.

“Of course I’d object. I do object. I intend to hang on to mine. Yes; I do object. That’s why I’m here.”

This threw a slight chill over the gathering. They began to look at Read as if to say: “Governor, if it’s as bad as that, you’re our one hope!”

“No use for us to kid ourselves,” said Baylor. “If that lunatic of an Asa Fielding is elected we’d better all leave the State. He’d put the hooks into us nicely.”

“You bet,” said Sullavan, suddenly waking from his stupor. “This State is American. Of course, we got our radicals but we’re sound. What we need is two more years of Read Cole.”

Baylor laughed, but said nothing.

The Major smiled blandly and getting up, bowed facetiously in Read’s direction.

“Governor, will you take the floor?”

Read smiled slightly and rubbed his chin; then he began to talk. He explained to these rich men the condition that the State was in. The farmers, owing principally to the South County business, had lost confidence in the present administration and wanted a change. The radical element, which was growing—all the very poor, the dispossessed, the restless—wanted Old Eagle Beak because he promised them the moon and they saw visions of a paradise where there were no rich men, no social distinctions, nobody working and the State Government paying the bill, God knows with what! The party Democrats, of course, wanted their own man in and would move heaven and earth to beat Read Cole. Some of the liberal element in the Republican party was wavering.

“In short, gentlemen,” said Read, “we’re in very hot water. Two weeks ago I began to get worried. The straw vote, which you’ve all seen, convinced me that I had been right to worry. If we don’t get the farmers we’re sunk.”

“Yes?” said Baylor. “Are you going to get them?”

“I am,” said Read, and then he explained how. The rich men sat hardly moving. They were afraid.

They heard the tumbrils distantly rolling. They sat flushed and intensely absorbed while Read talked. When he had finished, Baylor got up.

“Read Cole, let me shake your hand. You’ve got guts. You may be only a practical politician, as they say, but you’ve got what it takes. Good luck. I hope you don’t get shot. I wouldn’t vouch for your safety in some parts of Cleveland when you cut loose.” He paused and turned to the others. “And now, gentlemen, much as I hate to say it, I believe it’s time for us to take the strings off our money bags and kick in. Mr. Sullavan, let’s talk turkey.”

It was nearly eleven o’clock when the conference showed signs of breaking up. Sullavan, discussing money matters with the rich men, and meanwhile taking three or four pretty stiff drinks, had regained his poise and was sorry now that it was time to go. He wanted to sit for a while longer with guys like Lamont Jones and Yardley Meadows listening to him talk. Boy, was he getting some place! Wouldn’t he lay it on when he got home! “Why, they just sat there with their mouths open, men like that,” he’d say to his wife and son; “I surely told them a few things they didn’t know before. They’re not the only smart guys in this town.” Sighing, Sullavan got up. Read was already shaking hands all around and smiling in that quiet, self-possessed way of his.

“Governor,” said John Baylor, reloading his foul old pipe for the tenth time, “I’m glad I came down here today. Tell you the truth, I didn’t think this would amount to much. I’ve changed my mind. You’re all right.” He paused and grinned cordially. ”If they beat you, Governor, come up to Cleveland and see me. I’ll give you twice what you’re getting now just to sit in with this bunch of gorillas I’m associated with. Maybe I wouldn’t get my pocket picked so often if I had you around.”

The others looked on in silent disapproval. Baylor simply would not play the game! Always coming in with some unconventional suggestion or remark. Lord knows what the outsiders thought of him.

Baylor shook hands with Sullavan.

“If you’re ever up in Cleveland drop round to the Lake Erie Club. We have nice little games there of an evening and you don’t have to worry about the little fellow.” Baylor laughed and lit his pipe.

The Major followed them out into the hall. A servant was waiting with their hats and coats.

“Many, many thanks for coming, Governor,” said the Major. “You’ve got our wholehearted support. I’ll start the State Income Tax row tomorrow. Gregg will handle it nicely. What we want to do is scare the middle class. Make them think the wealth will move out if Eagle Beak gets in and starts riding us. It may, too. Who knows?”

Sullavan shook hands cordially and even managed a little bow. Read smiled.

“I’m scheduled to talk at the Steelton Armory tomorrow night. You’ll have a front-page story for Sunday morning. I promise.”

The Major rubbed his chin.

“You didn’t pick out a very good locale, Governor.”

“I think you’re wrong. I think it’s the very place to start a row.”

“I see. Well, have plenty of bodyguards. You may need them. My best to you, Governor.”

The Major smiled and went back into his den. Read walked down the long, elaborate hallway with Sullavan, glancing at the big oil paintings, the gilt, the enormous staircase. What a house! Was it really possible to feel at ease in such surroundings? Did a man really learn to take sumptuousness for granted? He glanced at Sullavan, who was also looking around him with awe. Their eyes met. Sullavan seemed to read his thoughts.

“Some dump,” said Sullavan. “I’d just as lief live in the Union Station. How do they heat this place?”

“It makes the Mansion look small,” said Read. The servant opened the front door for them. Read stopped and stared. Eileen, in evening clothes, was coming up the steps with Vincent Riquetti. They were walking arm in arm, very much absorbed in each other, or so Read thought. Read and Sullavan stood aside to let them enter. Coming in the door, Eileen glanced up and saw Read. Her smile faded.

Riquetti took off his top hat and bowed in Read’s direction.

“Good evening, Your Excellency!”

The Italian’s ironic politeness, his deliberately satiric use of a foreign mode of address, his lean, dark, foreign face, all irritated Read almost unbearably. He got a little pale; his gray eyes had a glint to them.

Eileen said:

“Oh, hello, Read. Is the conference over? Vince and I went to hear Sokoloff. It was a nice concert. Vince slept through the Beethoven. He wants Puccini or nothing.”

“Please,” said Riquetti, laughing a little.

They had been drinking: Read caught a faint odor of alcohol; Eileen’s eyes were too bright.

“We stopped at the Massey for a cocktail on our way home,” said Eileen. “Music always makes me thirsty. I want another drink, don’t you, Vince?”

“Of course. Always another drink.”

“Stop for a drink, Read?”

Read’s lips were tight; he could hardly open them to speak.

“No, thanks. I’m tired. Eileen, this is my campaign manager, Ed Sullavan.”

Sullavan didn’t know whether to offer his hand or not; suddenly he was all thumbs again. This handsome, elegant woman with her top-hatted, remotely smiling Italian dismayed him. Sullavan’s hand stopped halfway; he dropped his hat.

“How do you do, Mr. Sullavan.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Sullavan, bending down to get his hat. When he straightened up his face was an apoplectic red. Riquetti looked at him a little uneasily as if he thought Sullavan was going to explode.

“Read, you’re surely going to stop a minute,” said Eileen.

“Sorry. It’s getting late. I’ve got work to do.”

“I envy you,” said Riquetti, with a sigh.

Read glanced at him, then bowed slightly and started out. Sullavan turned awkwardly:

“I’m sure I’m glad I…” He went out.

Eileen called:

“Read, won’t you stop for even one little drink?”

“Sorry.”

The servant shut the door. Sullavan puffed a little, keeping step with Read.

“Pretty girl, Eileen Bradley,” he said, trying to sound as if he was in the habit of meeting Eileen Bradleys every day.

Read said nothing. He was terribly upset. Just to see her with that European lounge lizard made him

tremble with rage and jealousy. And, by the way, what was she doing with him?

Barney held the door open. Read got in without a word; then Sullavan followed.

“Excuse me, Governor,” said Barney; “there was a young guy hanging around here all evening. He was trying to pump me. Newspaper guy, I guess.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Well, I thought…”

Barney shrugged, got into his seat, and drove off. He could tell by the tone of Read’s voice that something was up.

They rode in silence for a while, then Sullavan said:

“That was the biggest deal of your life, Governor.”

Read spoke with an effort.

“Yes, I guess it was.”

“You don’t seem very cheerful about it.”

“I’m tired.”

“Well,” said Sullavan, “you’ve sure got a right to be tired. But don’t let it get you. Anyway, it’ll soon be over.”

Read dropped Sullavan at his old-fashioned brick house in an East End suburb, then he spoke to Barney:

“Let’s go home.”

It was nearly midnight. Read felt very tired and put his head on the back of the seat and closed his eyes. There was so much to do. He still had his Saturday night speech to finish; and it was time he started thinking about the speech he was to deliver at Memorial Hall the night before the election. He racked his brain for an opening paragraph but he hadn’t an idea in his head. He felt stale. Suddenly he wanted to see Gregg.

“Barney, I’ve changed my mind. Mayflower Arms.”

“Yes, Governor.”

Good old Gregg; what would he do without him! They bickered incessantly, always had; but when Gregg was your friend he was your friend. Wait! Hadn’t Gregg said something about a shindig? Read hesitated, then shrugged. No matter; anyway, a shindig, lots of talk, however silly, might pep him up a little.

As Read approached the door of Gregg’s apartment, he heard the noise. There was a radio going loudly inside; people were laughing and talking and shuffling about to the music. Read hesitated, nearly withdrew; then, shrugging, he rang the bell. A little fun might be good for him; he was getting to be quite a stick-in-the-mud!

The door opened at once. A woman with shining blond hair thrust her head out and cried: “Surprise!” Then she started, recognizing Read, and said: ”Oh, excuse me, Governor. Won’t you come in? I thought it was Gregg.”

“Gregg! Isn’t he here?”

“No, he isn’t. But he’ll be right back.”

This woman was pretty. Read began to thaw. “That’s a funny way to give a party.”

“Oh, Governor, it’s a long story. Please come in. Let me take your hat and coat. Gregg’s Jap boy is so busy dragging in drinks he…”

“Thank you.”

He went in. She closed the door, then took his hat and coat and put them on a chair in the little hallway. Beyond, Read saw the usual bunch milling about to the radio music, laughing, singing, gesticulating.

“Governor, I don’t believe you remember me.”

“Now wait. Don’t tell me,” said Read, smiling, very friendly.

“No, really. I only met you once. Gregg took me to lunch at Louis’s and we saw you there.”

“Of course,” said Read, not remembering at all. “Shall we dance?”