The Ninth Wave (37 page)

He stopped at a room just outside the entrance to the convention hall.
He knocked on the door and it opened. Inside were a half dozen men.
They looked like confidential clerks in a bank or stock house; neat,
well-dressed, modest ties, black shoes. Mike looked at Georgia.
"Keep Hank company," he said. "I'll be out in a few minutes. Got a few
things to talk over."
Inside the clerks were writing on pieces of paper with soft lead pencils.
They worked quietly, quickly, without smiling. The door closed behind
Mike.
"I'm worried," Georgia said. "Mike's so disorganized. Those Cutler people
will have all the delegates committed before Cromwell's campaign ever
gets rolling."
"Mike's not disorganized," Hank said. "He's beautifully organized. But
only on important things. The rest of the things, the unimportant things,
he just doesn't care about. If this endorsement is important for Mike
he'll be organized. He'll be organized to the last dot."
"He's not very well organized with me," Georgia said. "He's always late
for dates, forgets appointments, that sort of thing."
"That's because he's sure of you, Georgia," Hank said. He hesitated a
moment and then went on. "He's sure of me too . . . and his wife and
Cromwell and Clara. So he doesn't waste any time on us. He concentrates
everything on what he feels is important. The thing he's not sure of."
"He doesn't sound like a very nice person," Georgia said.
"But efficient," Hank said. "Mike doesn't worry about everything. He
just worries about what's important. Everything else he just forgets,
doesn't think of it. Then he concentrates on the few situations or
persons that he is not sure about; that are still important." Hank
turned and looked directly at Georgia. "Think back. I'll bet there was
a time when he devoted a lot of attention to you, when he appeared very
organized. And then, after something happened, he pushed you down under."
Georgia stared at him a moment and then realized what he was saying. Her
cheeks burned slightly, but she did not drop her eyes.
"You're right," she said. "Until one night at Santa Barbara I had the
feeling . . . "
"I don't want to hear about it," Hank said. "I'm not interested in your
love life. I just wanted to illustrate a point."
Hank's voice was harsh.
"I'm not sure I'm below the surface now," Georgia said. "I feel . . . "
"You feel you're very prominent in his mind," Hank said. "Well, you're
wrong. You're under the surface . . . just as I am. That doesn't mean
he can't love you. Maybe he does. Maybe he loves you very much. But he
just doesn't waste time on you. It's a wonderful thing about Mike. That's
why he can do so much. He's not like the average sharp young executive
who gives the impression of being highly organized and spreads equal
energies over his wife and kids and business and Rotary Club and college
reunion. Not Mike. Mike knows what he has to do. Exactly. He does it. The
rest he doesn't worry about."
Inside the hall the "Star-Spangled Banner" sounded. In a moment four
American Legionnaires came walking out of the hall. Only their hats and
jackets were uniform. Their pants were regular business slacks and they
wore natty two-tone sport shoes. The two men with the chrome-covered
rifles marched smartly, but the men with the flags were more heavily
burdened and they moved slowly as if their feet were tender.
Mike came out of the room across the corridor.
"Let's go on into the hall," he said. "They've just opened the floor
to nominations."
They walked in and sat in the rear row. The hall was almost full and
several people were moving around the platform. Behind the podium were
large pictures of Roosevelt and Truman. A tall fat woman in a mauve suit
was standing behind a lectern.
"The chair will recognize Mr. Ernest Eaton," the woman said. "A delegate
from the Lassen County delegation."
A tall, almost bald young man stood up. He had small and very shrewd
eyes that were lost in a pleasant face. He wore a plaid shirt and his
tie was pulled down from an unbuttoned collar. He stood with his hands
in his hip pockets.
"Up in Lassen County us Democrats aren't used to big-time political
doings," Eaton said. "Mostly we just sit around 'and talk and try to
win a schoolboard election or a few county offices and it's all peanuts,
I guess. But we'll learn pretty quick how you do things around here and
we'll probably be able to get along." Eaton rocked back on his heels,
looked broadly out over the hall. The delegates laughed.
"Eaton is one of Cutler's men," Mike said. "He's been in Lassen County
three years and you'd never think he went to Harvard Law School and has
twenty thousand a year of inherited money. He picked up that hayseed
pose very, very quickly."
"I'm here today to do just one thing," Eaton said. He scratched his
head. "That is to place before you the name of a candidate who can win
the governorship of California for the Democratic Party in November. He
can win for three reasons. First, because he's never been associated with
any group or person which has been in the least sympathetic to Communism
. . . foreign or domestic. And that's important to California voters."
He paused as a ripple of applause went through the hall.
"Secondly, my candidate is a self-made man. He's met a payroll; he knows
the problems of the working man; he knows the problems of business. He
doesn't live on inherited wealth or from clipping coupons. He is a man of
action," Eaton said. "Thirdly, the person whose name I am going to place
in contention has been a lifelong Democrat. He hasn't wavered from party
to party; from candidate to candidate. He has always gone right down the
line for the Democratic platform and for Democratic candidates." Eaton
paused and his big, egglike face creased in a smile. "And that can't be
said of all
the names you will hear today."
Mike smiled and whispered.
"He means Cromwell," Mike said. "Cutler's really taking out after
Cromwell. He's sore because I didn't come around and talk about Cromwell
running for lieutenant-governor."
Eaton went on talking, but Mike did not listen. He looked around the hall.
He nudged Hank and pointed at a little group of eight people sitting
in the rear of the hall. They were older people and they sat primly in
their seats. The women were dressed in cheap dark clothes. The men wore
black suits. They sat quietly, listening to Eaton talk.
"They're the pension people," Mike said. "They aren't delegates; they're
observers. Up from Long Beach probably. They represent the senior Citizens,
the Ham-and-Eggers, the Townsendites. The pension people send a group to
every political meeting in the state. They just sit and watch and then
report back what happens. They've got a lot of votes. No one knows for
sure, but it's probably, a hundred thousand . . . maybe more."
Mike pointed to a small dark Jew who was sitting off by himself. He
was a small man and only his eyes, the top of his head and a cigar
showed. He studied the tip of his cigar very carefully and then looked
up at the ceiling.
"Who is he?" Georgia asked.
"That's Notestein, he's the political agent of the public utility
companies," Mike said. "That's not his title and he doesn't even have
a position with the utility companies. But he's their man. Lately he's
become the political man for the, oil companies too. They're starting
to worry about the state gas tax getting too high. Oil consumption is
starting to go down so the oil people are getting back into politics."
"Who's that big red-faced man?" Hank asked. He pointed at a man sitting
in the front row.
"That's Wilson, an AFL man," Mike said. "We won't see much of him. Trade
unions don't mean much in this state; not in politics. But we'll see some
of the others. Come on, let's get out of here. We'll go up to the room.
This will go on for five or ten minutes and then Cutler will give a
speech. We can miss all that."
They stood up and walked up the aisle. Hank looked at the rows of
identical, round, prosperous faces. They were attentive and alert. They
gave off an aroma of Odorono, Aqua Velva, Old Crow, good perfume and
tobacco. When they stepped out of the hall, at once Hank caught the old,
familiar cheap odor of the hotel.
Mike walked over to the little room across the hall and knocked on the
door. One of the neat clerkly looking men opened the door. Mike spoke
to him. The man nodded and went into the hall.
When they got to the room, Mike took off his coat. "Call up and order
some beer," Mike said. He went to his briefcase and began to haul out
documents. Georgia ordered the beer and some chicken sandwiches. Almost
at once there was a knock on the door. Mike went over and opened the door.
"Hello, Mr. Appleton, come right on in," Mike said.
Mr. Appleton was a small thin man. He had a long thin neck with red skin,
folded like turkey's skin into tough slanting rolls. He looked as if he
had once been much fatter and his bones and cartilage had simply shrunk
inside the bag of his skin. He had bright glittering eyes, hard with
suspicion. His shoes were very shiny and when he sat down he carefully
pulled up his pants legs to save the press. His shoes were high. He
wore a white shirt, but the points of the collar were tiny and yellow;
the kind of yellow that comes from home washing and long careful storage
and putting mothballs in linen drawers.
Mr. Appleton was followed by a woman whom he introduced as Mrs. Sweeton.
She was formless in a black crepe dress. She wore a long string of coral
beads around her neck and they hung to her waist. The beads were large
and yellow, like the aged teeth of some large animal. Her fingers never
left them alone.
"It's your meeting, Mr. Freesmith," Mr. Appleton said. "You asked for
it. So tell us what's on your mind. Mrs. Sweeton and I will talk to any
politician that wants to talk to us. We represent the Senior Citizens
Clubs of Long Beach, Gardena, Seal Beach, and San Pedro. So what's on
your mind?"
"I'm not a politician," Mike said. "I'm just a lawyer."
"That's right, you're just a lawyer," Mr. Appleton said and laughed a
dry thin acid laugh. "But maybe you represent a politician. So get on
with it."
Mr. Appleton sat with a simple proper arrogance, his back not touching the
chair, his feet squarely on the floor. There was something mathematical,
precise, clean and unattractive about him.
"How do your people feel about Cutler?" Mike asked.
"Don't know yet. Haven't seen his pension planks yet. Next question?"
"What would you like to see in a platform, Mr. Appleton?" Mike asked.
"You know that. A pension that senior citizens can live on, an act
by the legislature that will make pension funds the first obligation
on state funds, the administrator of the pension fund to be a friendly
person. It's all on the record. We've said it before. We'll say it again.
It's all on the record. Next question?"
Mr. Appleton sat calmly in the chair, rigid with confidence.
There was a knock on the door and it swung open. A waiter walked in with
a tray on his shoulder.
"Six Pabsts, chicken sandwiches. That right?" the waiter said. He swung
the tray down onto a table. Mike pitched him a half dollar.
"Like a bottle of beer or a sandwich, Mr. Appleton?" Mike asked.
"Don't drink," Mr. Appleton replied crisply. "Go right ahead, though. Go
right ahead."
"Mrs. Sweeton, excuse me," Mike said. "Would you like a glass of beer
or a sandwich?"
Mrs. Sweeton's brown round eyes moved for the first time since she
entered the room. She had been sitting quietly, her fat smooth hands
manipulating the jagged coral beads. Since the tray came in the room,
however, she had been staring out the window. Now her eyes focused on
the sandwiches, examined the soft white bread, the green lettuce, the
rich mound of potato salad On each plate, the brown heap of potato chips.
As if she were remarking on something novel and unique and quite unrelated,
she said, "It's been so long since breakfast," and after a quick look at
Mr. Appleton she stared out the window again.
Georgia picked up a plate and passed it to Mrs. Sweeton. Staring out the
window, quite obliviously, Mrs. Sweeton took the plate and her soft sure
fingers quickly grasped the sandwich and put it to her lips. She turned
her head away so that they could not see her take the first bite.
"Would you like me to send out for some tea or milk, Mrs. Sweeton?"
Georgia asked.
The gray hair moved quickly and she looked up at Georgia.
"Oh, don't send out for anything. I'll just drink whatever you have here,"
Mrs. Sweeton said.
She did not look at the glass of beer as Georgia pressed it into her hand.
She took a deep drink of the beer and then put a wisp of a handkerchief
to her lips to wipe away the foam.
"Go on, Mr. Appleton," Mike said. "You were saying that your aims were
all on the record. Do you think Cutler is in agreement with those aims?"
"Can't tell, I said," and his voice was as cool and thin as shredded
ice. "If we ever get him on record we'll know what he stands for."
"Your people would not approve him though on what you know now?"
Mr. Appleton brought the tips of his fingers together in what was clearly
a gesture of pleasure. "No," he said. "No. We wouldn't approve him or
any other pie-in-the-sky, big-bellied lying politician. Not until we
saw their platform in black and white. If his pension plank is right
we'd support him. But we wouldn't really believe him until we saw the
right laws roll out of Sacramento." Mr. Appleton paused a moment. He
glanced coolly at Mrs. Sweeton, at the big attractive tray of beer
and sandwiches, at the big suite of rooms. "We're not as stupid as we
were ten years ago, Mr. Freesmith. And we're a hell of a lot better
organized. We don't buy very easily now. We've got a program and we're
going to get it. Franklin Roosevelt framed us, Upton Sinclair framed
us. But we ain't fools,anymore. We're organized."
He stopped abruptly. Like a man who has already said too much. He stopped
tapping his fingertips together and twisted his hands together into a mass
of thin fingers and white knuckles.
Mrs. Sweeton was frightened and she put the glass of beer down on the
table. She continued to nibble at the sandwich. Her teeth worked deftly
and minutely at it, wearing it down with nervous small bites so that
she chewed incessantly.