Fluke

by Blinder, Martin;

Lowden399

  Wood425

  Lodge presides at the podium, aided by a hollow-sounding public address system that alternately booms, squeals, or, on occasion fades away entirely. As dictated by protocol, none of the candidates, save Chairman Lodge, is personally in the hall, but their campaign people are spread throughout, lobbying furiously for votes, shouting with variable success to be heard over the din.

  Those four extraordinary days in Chicago were among the most exhausting — and exhilarating — of my entire life. I got to witness ballot after ballot, always with the same result — deadlock. How fascinating to actually see America’s democracy in action. And here was I, right in the middle of it all. I think I lost ten pounds. I doubt if I slept the whole time.

  At her post by the dais as the fourteenth ballot nears completion, Nan is handed a message by Lodge’s fraying but still dapper campaign manager. She then weaves her way back across the floor in the direction of the thirty-three-strong Ohio delegation to make delivery, while Lodge, through the loudspeaker, calls out the last few states. With each response, the numbers on the board shift accordingly. “Utah?”

  Utah’s whip responds. “Mr. Chairman, Utah casts its 18 votes for Idaho’s great senator, William Edgar Borah.”

  “Washington?” asks Lodge.

  “Washington will continue to cast its entire 24 votes for General Leonard Wood,” bellows its whip.

  “Wisconsin?”

  “Mr. Chairman, we have 12 votes for Wood, 12 votes for Lowden, 2 votes for Hoover, 1 vote for Lodge.”

  The tally has changed slightly. Wood’s votes have fallen to 411, again nearly even with Lowden, now holding at 410. But Dan Wicker, manager of Lowden’s campaign, believing the momentum finally to be his, once more pushes through to the Ohio delegation’s whip, the band on his straw boater predicting “Lowden in 1920” darkened with sweat. “Hi, Billy.”

  “Status quo,” insists Ohio’s whip.

  “You know, Billy, with a mid-westerner in the White House, a lot of that Illinois gravy is going to spill over into Ohio . . .”

  Yeah, yeah. Look, Dan, we all like the governor, you know that, but we’re standing pat with Warren till Daugherty says ‘go.’”

  “The governor can’t wait much longer. If Wood should finally pick up one more big state . . .”

  “Ah — Wood’s stuck. Goin’ nowhere. Think he’s topped out.”

  “How about releasing five — just let me have five delegates — give the governor a little lift. You can do that much for an old friend, can’tcha?”

  Ohio’s whip gives that some thought. “Maybe. Gotta ask Daugherty. You haven’t seen him, have you?”

  In point of fact, no one on the convention floor had seen him because Daugherty divined early on that the votes he was going to need lay elsewhere; and over the last three days, every waking moment had been consumed by the challenge of securing 497 of them for his heretofore invisible candidate.

  Daugherty could never resist a speculative enterprise, though paradoxically, for much of his life, he had thought himself supremely unlucky. His adversities had begun in childhood. Raised Catholic, by the age of fifteen he understood that his sexual orientation would forever deny him the comforts of the church, and would almost certainly ensure a markedly constricted family life, to say nothing of eternal damnation.

  Then, after scraping through law school, Daugherty found he had neither appetite nor aptitude for working within a legal framework, that his real talent lay in ferreting out weaknesses in codes of procedure so as to circumvent the rules that governed, or — in his view — impeded men’s progress; unfortunately, this knack for obtaining special advantage also served to get him his license twice suspended for a year, and more recently brought him within a hair’s breadth of indictment and disbarment.

  As for financial matters, he was Midas inverse — touch gold and through some perverse alchemy it turned immediately to lead. All that a promising corporation required to precipitate bankruptcy was for Daugherty to invest heavily in its securities. He did no better in commodities; his bet on a bumper crop at the Mercantile Corn Exchange two summers past brought devastating drought followed by locusts. By contrast, the following year he single-handedly brought a bone-dry spell of some four months to an abrupt and torrential end simply by forgetting one night to put up the top of his Plymouth convertible coupe.

  At the track, his horses were never in the running; the last time he went with the favorite it had thrown its jockey, then had smashed against the inside rail and broken its leg.

  Having failed at everything else, his obvious course was to try for political office, only to find himself again stumbling into every pothole: in a race for city council, he managed to come in dead last in a crowded field; in a subsequent race run for State Assembly, he was disqualified even before leaving the starting gate when half the signatures on his nominating petition were found to have been penned by voters who had passed on some years before.

  But politics ultimately proved his salvation, for though Daugherty was utterly without vision for himself, he could perform flawlessly for others. Much like the sightless but brilliant musician who as compensation is able to master a complete repertory entirely by ear, in the last decade Daugherty had orchestrated with perfect pitch the election of several state senators and assemblymen, a lieutenant governor, two mayors, U.S. Senator William Foraker, and then, to the Democrats’ astonishment and chagrin, Senator Warren G. Harding. Today he was to bring all his political perspicacity and ambition-by-proxy to bear upon this, the darkest horse, the longest odds, the most improbable and least-willing presidential candidate in the history of the White House.

  At 10:05 in the morning of August 13th, Daugherty pushes into Lowden’s hotel suite at the Drake, jumping and buzzing as dozens of the governor’s people hustle in and out. He scans the room and after a moment spots the governor himself, working the phone, lips almost brushing the mouthpiece.

  “I’m well disposed to having Coolidge on the ticket,” Lowden purrs, with the confidence of a politician who has never lost an election. “How many delegates can he bring along? Not promise. Deliver!” The answer he hears elicits grudging approval. “Yes, all right. But Coolidge should understand that I need them now. Looks like Wood may be getting a second wind.” He listens again and seems satisfied. “Fine. Please, get right back.”

  He hangs up and is surprised to see the man he’s been trying to reach for the past two days standing directly in front of him. “Daugherty — when the hell are you releasing Ohio?”

  “Now you know, Governor, our first commitment is to Henry. Until he’s ready to make his move . . .”

  “Henry’s not going anywhere. Not in this convention, any more than the last convention, or the last three before that, or the next twenty. A senator he is, a senator he shall remain.”

  “I know, I know,” concedes Daugherty. “And Ohio is certainly keenly aware that its best interests lie in the Midwest with you.” It was time to roll the dice. “Tell you what. If — when you get right up to where Ohio’s votes would kick you over the top, I’ll give you everything we’ve got — Ohio plus a few others I’ve tucked away in Texas and California. I figure thirty-nine delegates all told. The moment you gotta have ‘em, they’re yours.” He pauses. “But not until you’re up there. You understand — no sense getting Henry all upset prematurely.”

  Lowden discerns that this is the best deal Daugherty can give him. “You’ll guarantee that they’re there when I need them? Because I will!”

  “They’ve already got your name on them. Engraved. You have my word.”

  “Harry, I’m in your debt.” A brisk handshake. “And you might mention to Harding that I never forget an obligation.”

  “That is a fact, Governor, a well known fact.” He pauses. “And, if I may ask? Suppose, just suppose that you can’t quite get far enough. Even with our support lined
up. You stall — begin to slip back, Wood starts picking up your defectors . . .”

  “I’d never allow that military neanderthal to . . .”

  “Just for discussion’s sake. We stand at the ready to help you stop Wood, of course, but try as you might, you still can’t make the magic 497. At last, you figure it’s over. We all wish to hell it wasn’t, but the worst has happened. With or without Ohio. Wood is poised to sweep the convention.” Daugherty chooses his next words with care. “Might you then release your people to us?”

  “Release my . . . ? You mean, to Harding?”

  Daugherty nods.

  Lowden laughs. “Warren Harding?! President of the United States?”

  Down on the convention floor, Lowden with 430 votes is fast pulling away from Wood whose delegate count has dropped to 391. None of the other candidates are showing any signs of life. Lowden appears unstoppable.

  Nan glances up at the scoreboard just as Wood slips further, to 378. Harding clings to Ohio’s 33 — exactly where he started out three days earlier.

  I was one of two dozen pages assigned to the convention. We could have used twice that number. I was on the go twelve, sometimes thirteen hours a day. Still, I didn ‘t mind. Whenever it seemed I couldn’t last on my feet another minute, I’d look up and see my darling’s name in lights, and I’d feel so proud and full of energy again. I could just picture Mr. Harding hunkered down in his campaign headquarters, working away on strategy.

  As Lowden is on the verge of taking the nomination, Harding’s strategy is to take a nap. Alone in his “campaign headquarters,” he lies on the bed of a small hotel room, jacket off, vest unbuttoned, tie loosened. He could use a shave. On the nightstand, a small electric fan blows ineffectively. The room is decorated with a single, forlorn “Warren G. Harding for President” poster.

  There’s a knock on the door as it opens, and Charlie Forbes enters carrying a brown paper bag. He sets it down on the table next to the phone and extracts a pint of bourbon and bag of pretzels. “I swear,” says Charlie, “this town’s practically out of booze. Had to hit five liquor stores to find one lousy pint. ‘Old Tulip Mash.’ Who the hell’s ever heard of ‘Old Tulip Mash?’”

  Harding rouses himself, sits up, nods and stretches. “I think, pal, I’m about ready to ask Harry to release our boys. So we can all go home. What’s the latest?”

  Charlie shrugs. “Same. Lowden, Wood. Wood, Lowden. Still a stalemate, though Lowden’s got the edge. He just might make it this time.”

  “Fine. Lowden it is. We’ve done our bit. See if you can reach Harry.”

  Charlie nods and picks up the phone.

  But Harry Daugherty is not about to let anyone reach him — not till his mission is complete. And he now faces the most delicate and difficult leg — striking a deal with a man who doesn’t deal, who sees political give and take as beneath him.

  He saunters into General Wood’s hotel suite, no less crowded than Lowden’s but relatively quiet, orderly, and with a clear chain of command. Wood, out of uniform, looks stiffer yet in coat and tie. As Daugherty approaches he spots Coolidge’s campaign manager there ahead of him, hawking his wares.

  Wood’s not buying. “There’s no way in hell I’m going to use the selection of the man a heartbeat from the presidency as a bargaining chip,” sniffs the general. He turns away dismissively.

  Coolidge’s man tries again. “The governor would be quite content with Secretary of Commerce. How ‘bout Interior . . .”

  Wood turns back to him sharply with a Medusa stare. “How about dog catcher? Tell Governor Coolidge I don’t make deals.”

  “Yes, sir!” He leaves in a huff, shooting past Daugherty.

  Clearly not the best time for Daugherty’s proposition.

  Unfortunately, the only time. Daugherty steps forward. “General?”

  “Yes — what?” Wood does not recognize Daugherty, but then rarely does he remember civilians.

  “I’m Harding’s man — Harry Daugherty. Ohio’s favorite son — Warren Harding? Been looking forward to seeing you again, sir.”

  “Ah yes, Harding. I’d thought he’d have declared for Lodge by now. Or gone over to Lowden.”

  “It’s pretty clear neither of them is going to make it, General. We both know that.” Daugherty puts a toe in the water. “Not unless a massive number of your delegates switch allegiance . . .”

  “My delegates will hold the line. To the last man.”

  “Of course, of course. But you may never have quite enough of them. Fourteen ballots, and — forgive me, sir — you’re still coming up short.” Daugherty pauses, then gingerly takes the plunge. “Might you consider a modest proposal?”

  “I very much doubt it.”

  “One I’m sure you can live with.”

  Wood looks at Daugherty as if he were the target at a shooting range. “Well?”

  “I’ll release delegates promised me in Texas and California — thirteen in all — to you. At once. And I’ll keep Ohio’s thirty-three away from Lowden.”

  Wood’s eyes narrow. “And in return?”

  Cautiously, Daugherty lays it out. “Should you and Lowden remain deadlocked, if it became clear that neither of you can break out —.”

  “Well?”

  “I would ask that you think of Warren Harding.”

  Wood absorbs Daugherty’s proposal, his face impassive. “There’s not a whole lot there to think about, is there? Nothing against the man personally . . .”

  “General, if you can’t be the nominee, could you in good conscience endorse any of the others? Lowden?”

  “Certainly not. He’d auction off his children for a few votes.”

  “I can’t see your people mending fences with Lodge . . .”

  “Not on his death bed . . .”

  “Borah?”

  “Egomaniacal windbag.”

  “Hoover? Coolidge . . . ?”

  “All right. Point taken. So far as I’m able to tell. Your man’s pretty damn quiet . . .”

  “Like you, General. Warren is a quiet man. Thoughtful, unassuming — and presidential. Have we an understanding?”

  But however skillful Daugherty’s machinations, it may be too late. Back on the convention floor Lowden is finally about to pull it off. Flashing up above Lodge and his campaign manager, the scoreboard now gives the Illinois governor 440 votes — just a scant 51 to go. Wood has slipped, doubtless fatally, to 331. Lodge and the other impecunious hopefuls remain stalled at double digits — 55 for the chairman, 35 for Hoover, a steadfast 33 for Harding, 22 for Borah, a mere 19 for Coolidge. Everything is going Lowden’s way, though he is not quite secure; to achieve the summit he must still corral a last handful of delegates beyond the prospective gift from Daugherty.

  Nan scurries to the podium with a Lowden envelope. Lodge’s manager tears it open and reads quickly, just as Lowden’s supporters begin a rhythmic chant — “Lowden, Lowden” — softly at first, then louder and insistent as, one by one, other delegates across the floor get caught up. Lodge’s manager shakes his head. “Wood’s fading, Senator. Looks like Lowden’s gonna pick up some of his boys.”

  “Never,” insists Lodge. “Any Wood delegate makes a move toward Lowden, he’d face a firing squad.”

  “Henry, the delegates have been at this three days! It’s 150 degrees in here. They just want to choose someone, anyone, and get the hell home. It’s going to be Lowden. The next ballot.”

  “Mm. We’ll see.” He flips on the microphone, and his voice reverberates throughout the hall, drowning out the chanting. “Ladies and gentlemen. The Chair calls a brief recess.”

  The whole of the Illinois delegation and several hundred other enraged Lowden supporters respond with cries of “No!” “Fraud!”

  Lodge is unmoved. He whacks his gavel and stomps off.

  16.

  In
their hotel room a few blocks from the coliseum, Harding and Charlie Forbes concentrate on gin rummy, indifferent to the crisis on the convention floor, to them a world away. They have but two discernible problems — they’ve been unable to locate Daugherty so as to officially pull Harding’s hat out of the ring, and they’ve polished off the last of the liquor.

  Charlie slips a watch from his vest pocket and checks the time. “I’ll try down there again.” He picks up the phone, dials, listens for a moment and shakes his head. “Tuh. Still busy.”

  Harding stands and heads for the bathroom. “Well, pal, I’m tired of hanging around up here, missing all the fun. I’m going to pop in there, personally track down Harry, and tell him to pack it in. Then say hello to some old friends. I believe Al Fall’s on the floor somewhere.” He smiles. “And a certain young lady.”

  “Hey, aren’t you supposed to wait till you get the nomination — then make your triumphant entrance?”

  Harding stands at the sink and wets his shaving brush. He chuckles. “Get the nomination. Sure. That’s exactly what I’m gonna do, too. President Harding. The same day palm trees bloom in Siberia.” He lathers up.

  In a dimly lit corner of the convention hall, Lodge and his manager are going through the motions with deal makers for both Hoover and Coolidge. Lodge conjures up a final bit of bravado. “Don’t bother releasing me your people when I’m breaking 400. I won’t remember your names.”

  The two aides do their best to look cowed, nod and depart just as Daugherty approaches. Lodge turns to him. “Daugherty — where the hell have you been?”

  “Just sitting tight, Senator.”

  “Well time to get off your kiester. I’m going to stop Lowden. Ohio ready to go?”

  Daugherty doesn’t bat an eye. “Ohio is all yours, sir. Just been waiting for your nod.”

  “I’m cashing in.” They start for the convention floor. “And Daugherty — tell Warren I owe him.”

  Flushed by the heat and a still impressive level of blood alcohol, Harding strolls the five blocks from his hotel to the convention hall. Off in the distance, a clock strikes midnight, its chime muffled in the muggy air. Arriving at the coliseum, Harding attempts the front entrance, only to be stopped by a security guard.