Georgia looked down at the paper.
Economic Worries 43% Personal Worries 49% National Worries 5% International Worries 3%
"I don't believe it," Georgia said. She stared at the. paper. "Only eight per cent of them worry most about war and depression and the atom bomb. The rest are worried about their jobs and themselves. I don't believe it." Mike laughed and she knew he did not believe her. "What can you do with this information?"
"Wait till you look at the Third Question," he said. He put the paper on the sill. "The Third Question was 'What group, in general, do you think is most dangerous to the American way of life?' Any guesses about the results?"
"No," Georgia said. "Not anymore."
"The answers always fall into five categories," Mike said. "Just like clockwork. First, the people who say Big Business or Wall Street or the Bankers or Rockefellers or General Motors. I call that the 'Big Business' category. Second is the 'Trade Union' category. That's obvious . . . anyone who says trade unions or Walter Reuther or John L. Lewis; Third is the 'Communist Conspiracy' category. Fourth is a category you won't like much. It's the 'Jewish Conspiracy' category. That's where you put the people who say the Jews or International Jewry or Bernard Baruch. The fifth group is the 'Religious Conspiracy' . . . people that say the Pope or the Catholics or 'those snotty Episcopalians' or 'those Mormons and all their wives' . . . that sort of thing."
Georgia looked down at the paper.
Big Business 32% Trade Unions 22% Communist Conspiracy 11% Jewish Conspiracy 21% Religious Conspiracy 14%
"What does it mean, Mike?" she whispered. "How do you make politics out of it?"
"That's the end of the scientific part of it," Mike said. "To make politics out of it you use your common sense, your intuition."
"Sure. But what do you do? How do you use the answers?"
The dentist bent forward and his back tensed. The woman's legs suddenly went rigid, lifted off the footrest. Her hands tightened on the armrests. Then she relaxed. The dentist stood back with a bloody tooth held in heavy forceps. The woman sat up and spit into the bowl. She was very pale. Georgia fell some plug of anxiety pull loose in her mind; she felt almost gay. She was ready for Mike's answer.
"I tell them what to be scared of," Mike said. "It's as simple as that."
He picked up the ten per cent of the cards left in the box. He held them in his hand like a small club and slapped them hard on the window sill. They made a loud cracking sound. Georgia twitched as if she had been hit on the spine.
"Scared?" she asked.
"Sure . . . scared. That's what the rest of than are afraid to do; the politicians, the professors, the clubwomen, the bureaucrats, all of them. They're afraid to ask the questions I asked and if they did they'd be afraid to use the answers. But I'm not. And it's so simple. Most of the voters don't care about politics. They're bored. It's faraway, distant, meaningless. They vote out of habit, because they've been told to vote. And they always vote Democrat or Republican. Everybody knows this, but the more obvious it becomes the more everyone feels that they have to tell the voter that he's smart and has a lot of power . . . that he's important. But the really important ones are the eight, or ten per cent that're scared. They're the real independents, the people whose vote can be changed."
"Can you change their vote?" she asked.
"Yes. I can."
She looked at Mike. Then she looked out the window. The dentist's chair was empty. A neat nurse was laying out fresh aseptic linen, shining new tools.
"I want to see you do it, Mike," she said.
He took her arm to lead her out of the room and through the thick soft material of the coat he could feel a slight shivering.
CHAPTER 21
The Convention
The road to Fresno was lined with vineyards. Clumps of tiny green grapes hung from the branches. Occasionally a spray rig moved down the rows, the mist drifting from the nozzles in great glittering shreds and making the vines glisten wetly under the sun. Once they passed a winery and saw a railroad tank car backed up to the building. Wine, a huge thick red gush of it, poured from a hose into the tank car and a pink spray rose from the opening; tinctured the air. Far away the hills were green and fresh, but they simmered in the thin heat of early spring. The sunny slopes were already turning brown; very softly and slowly.
"When we get to Fresno, I'm going to get a bottle," Hank said from the back seat. "I need some relaxation. So don't count on me for the convention."
Georgia did not turn around, but Mike nodded.
"Do whatever you want," he said. "I don't give a damn. I just want to get you out of the hospital for a little while."
Hank narrowed his eyes and watched the vines in the distance turn from a green mass into separate vines, separate into rows and then suddenly snap by the window of the car. He was irritated.
"Why don't the Democratic bosses just decide by mail who the candidate will be?" Hank said. "Save the expense of a convention."
"Hankus, you've got bosses on the brain," Mike said. "There aren't bosses anymore in politics. Wait till you see this bunch in Fresno. They aren't bosses."
"Who says there aren't bosses?"
"I say. That's old stuff; Lincoln Steffens stuff. The party boss depended on two things: graft and immigrants. All the immigrants would come trooping into a town; couldn't speak the language and too dumb to find work. So the boss would give them a job wiping blackboards in a public school or a pick-and-shovel job and they give him their votes. With the votes he'd put his people in office and then collect whatever graft was around."
"And I suppose that's all changed?" Hank said ironically.
"Hank, they have machines in Sacramento that would turn up graft money in two minutes. Just take roads. The boss used to let the contract go to his brother or uncle and they'd put in lousy material and overcharge the state. Nobody was the wiser. But now all construction jobs are publicized, bids are solicited, opened publicly and then awarded to the lowest bidder. And the immigrants stopped coming . . . or they started making two-fifty an hour screwing bolts on Fords and they own cottages in the suburbs. No immigrants, no graft, no nothing."
"So nobody gets anything out of politics today?"
"I didn't say that," Mike said. "Hell yes, some people get something out of politics. Take Georgia's daddy. If all goes well he'll benefit. But not by grafting; not by having a boss who's his friend and does him a favor. He'll benefit by changing the law. The law will be changed publicly; out where everyone can see it. That's not graft. That's making something legal that you want to do. Or making something illegal that you don't want done."
Hank saw Mike's grin in the mirror; twisted squat and huge by the distortion in the glass. Georgia looked back at Hank; her face expectant.
Hank started to reply and sensed that it was useless. Not if the laws were changed publicly by the representatives of the people.
"What kind of people come to this convention?" Hank asked.
"Middle-class, college-educated people," Mike said. "Doctors, lawyers, professors . . . maybe a few do-gooding housewives. They're the ones that remember their civic lessons when they grow up: be a doer, an activist . . . work hard and keep politics out of the hands of the bosses. You'll see."
Ahead of them a low-slung truck was moving down the highway. It was heaped high with freshly picked carrots and a few of the carrots spilled out onto the highway, left a-green and orange track behind the truck. Mike rushed down the trail of carrots, exploding them under his tires with a sharp popping sound. Behind the Cadillac the carrots were turned into little mashed heaps of orange fiber. Mike swung around the truck, and the highway was clean and unblemished. He went faster.
They came to the big clover-leaf intersection outside of Fresno and ten minutes later they arrived at the Hotel Conquistador. Over the marquee of the hotel was a large cloth sign that said "Welcome Democrats."
When they walked through the lobby they saw a huge blown-up photograph beside one of the lou
nges. Over the entrance to the lounge a sign said, "Dick Cutler for Governor HDQ'S." The face on the blow-up was round and honest like the face of a very fat child. The picture was so huge, however, that the pores on Cutler's nose, the hairs in his ears and a wart along his chin looked outsized. His face looked as if it were wet.
"That's the competition," Mike said. "He's a big car dealer from San Fernando and he's got lots of money."
Mike had reserved three adjoining rooms for them. When they registered, he had their bags sent up and then asked what room Cromwell had.
Only Cromwell and Clara were in the room. Clara was sitting in a chair in the corner. She lit a cigarette, held it in her fingers, her hand cupped over her cheek. She glared at Mike over her knuckles.
"Cutler's already made his move," Cromwell said as the door closed. "His people are giving cocktail parties in every motel in Fresno, they've passed out lapel buttons and you saw that blow-up picture when you came in the lobby. He's going to beat us, Mike."
Cromwell stopped pacing, stood rigidly in one position and scratched his nose. He stared suspiciously at Hank and Georgia and then ignored them.
"Don't worry, John," Mike said. "Things are going to be all right."
"Whadda you mean, all right?" Clara said. "No pins, no cocktail parties, no banners, no placards, no quarter cards, no nothing. And he says don't worry. This isn't a League of Women Voters meeting, Mike. This is the real thing."
Cromwell started to pace again. He searched his pockets for a cigar, could not find one. He picked up a cigarette from a table, stuck it in his mouth. A shred of paper stuck to his mouth. His tongue licked at it.
The cigarette came apart in his mouth, pieces of wet tobacco flecked over his lips. He wiped his mouth harshly. The grains of tobacco were black against the fabric of his sleeve. He dropped the ruined cigarette on the rug and stepped on it.
"It's going to be all right," Mike said. "You just do two things, don't drink too much and don't be seen with Clara." Cromwell wheeled and looked at Mike. His hands trembled across his vest pockets, vainly searching for a cigar. His eyes were angry.
"Listen, Mike, don't go too far," he said. "I'm not . . . "
"At a convention like this people get all concerned about personal morals," Mike said. "Some of them might think that Clara's your mistress. There's been talk about that before."
Clara sat motionless in the chair. She pushed her hand flat against her birthmark, as if it were suddenly hot.
"I'll stay out of sight," Clara said.
"That's a good girl," Mike said. "Now I'm going to go out and scout around a little."
Mike led Hank and Georgia out to the elevator. As they waited for the elevator they heard a door open and Clara came down the corridor. She stopped a few feet from Mike. She carefully looked away from his face.
"Look, Mike. You get him that nomination, understand?" she said. "You said you would. You told him. He left everything to you. Now you get it." Her voice was fierce.
She turned and walked back down the corridor; not waiting for an answer.
"Can you get it for him, Mike?" Hank asked when they were in the elevator.
"Sure, sure. If he'll just do what I say."
"Mike, those Cutler people are awfully weLl organized," Georgia said doubtfully. "Maybe you should have some cocktail parties and posters . . . things like that. After all it's not a question of money. Father said he'd pay for anything reasonable."
"Look, just leave it to me," Mike sald. "These posters and buttons and free drinks don't mean a thing. Everybody does it because they believe they ought to. Nobody knows if it really helps. You just forget about your daddy's money and leave it to me."
They stepped into the lobby and walked over to the Cutler headquarters. The lounge was called the "Room of the Dons" and the walls were hung with thick green gold curtains. Huge pictures showed columns of Spanish Dons on tossing horses moving toward a distant mission. On one of the hangings a huge Catholic monk with a crucifix around his neck was blessing a crowd of Indians who were kneeling at his feet. At one end of the room some tables had been converted into a bar. On other tables were stacks of campaign literature, boxes of shining buttons and quarter-cards with pictures of Cutler on them. The room was crowded with people.
A man walked toward them. He took Mike's hand. Georgia recognized him. It was Cutler.
"Mike, it's good to see you," Cutler said. His face was flushed with excitement. He looked much older than his pictures. His face was wet. "Things are happening, boy. Really moving. I never thought I'd pick up support like this. Really, Mike, I'm as surprised as anyone."
"I'll bet," Mike said and smiled.
"Really, Mike," Cutler said. "Jesus, all the northern counties have already caucused and they're for me . . . Shasta, Alpine, Modoc . . . lots more."
"They're little counties, Dick," Mike said.
"Jesus, we've got two thirds of the delegates to the convention in here. I've already got commitments from over half of the delegates to go for me on the first ballot," Cutler said.
"What do you want me to do, Dick?" Mike asked. "Congratulate you?"
"Quit kidding, Mike," Cutler said. "I've got the nomination for sure." Cutler opened his big red hand, closed it slowly and held the fist up for Mike to examine. "But I'd like to get it on the first ballot and I'd like the party united behind me. So I've been thinking about the lieutenant-governor's spot. Why doesn't Cromwell come in with me on the lieutenant-governor's spot? It'd be a strong ticket. I'll win without him, but I like Cromwell and it's a chance to get party unity."
"Dick, you'd make a good governor," Mike said. Cutler's tongue came out of his mouth, ticked at the corners d his mouth and a slow grin was suppressed on his lips.
"Don't kid me, Mike," Cutler said. "Cromwell wants the governorship. But he hasn't got the votes. He might just as well face the fact. I'm giving him a chance to be lieutenant-governor. If he doesn't take it, hell with him." The grin went off Cutler's face and he looked carefully about the room, made himself grin again, but when he leaned toward Mike and spoke his words were threatening. "Don't try anything funny, Mike. Let me know before the first session if Cromwell wants a joint ticket. If he doesn't, don't try and foul me up. I'll break your wagon, Mike, if you try and stop me."
Cutler smiled, his automobile salesman's smile, all white teeth and pink skin and the faint odor of Aqua Velva, but the words were tough and hard. Underneath the prosperous fat and the doublebreasted suit, Cutler was still muscular and strong. Cutler smiled over Mike's shoulders at delegates and occasionally his hand went up to wave at them. But his other hand was knotted into a ball and was jammed into his pocket.
"Cutler's making a mistake," Hank said in Georgia's ear. "He's getting tough with the wrong guy. When you get tough with Mike it's like giving him permission to ruin you. Did you ever noticethat Mike can't get tough with gentle people?"
"No. I never noticed," Georgia said.
She turned and looked at Mike. He was grinning.
"All right, Dick, you've got the votes. You've told me that," Mike said. "But don't try to scare me."
"No one is trying to scare anybody, Mike," Cutler said. Cutler waved at a woman with a big blue and gold "Cutler for Governor" button on her lapel. "But Cromwell is soft, Mike. He's not good on the Communist issue. He's been running around the state for years talking to all those foreign-language groups and Wobblies and the rest. He looks like a radical to a lot of people."
"So did Roosevelt to a lot of people," Mike said.
Cutler hesitated, his tongue flicked again at the corners of his mouth.
"Can I talk in front of your friends here?" Cutler said, and glanced at Hank and Georgia.
Sure. Say anything you want."
"I wasn't going to say anything about it, Mike," Cutler said. "But we've got plenty on Cromwell. We've got sworn affidavits that he spoke to Communists, Syndicalists, radical trade union people. Even anarchists, Mike. Think of that. Maybe you don't know it, Mike, but
one of those Italian vineyard workers groups that Cromwell spoke to in the 1930's was an anarchist outfit."
"All Cromwell did was talk to them," Mike said softly.
Hank sighed. Georgia looked at him. He turned his head and whispered to her.
"This Cutler is a sap," he said. "Really a sap. Why doesn't he stop talking? He's just asking for it."
"You know Grover, political editor of the 'Los Angeles Post'?" Cutler asked. "Well he's got a series ready to go attacking Cromwell on this radicalism stuff. The other papers will have to pick it up if the 'Post' does, Mike. Look, you better go talk to Cromwell. Tell him he can still run for lieutenant-governor."
A group of women came over and pulled Cutler away. In their midst was a tall calm Negro woman.
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