by Jim Lynch
Most of his asides tend toward jokes so dry he has to emphasize them by stomping his foot, everyone then roaring on cue, desperately striving for the appropriate response in hopes of bathing even briefly in his royal approval. A prince, a goddamn prince!
Roger’s mother’s fixation with the Brits has always seemed excessive to him. She mimicked the accent and favored English movies, poetry and theater, and always wanted him to call her Mummy. After hearing the prince ask her if he didn’t detect a familiar accent, Roger excused himself.
He finds a P-I in the bathroom and trudges up to the observation deck, spinning on gin. He’s heard about it, but it looks different in print: Teamsters boss Dave Beck was sentenced Wednesday to two years at the McNeil Island Penitentiary for grand larceny and four counts of evading taxes totaling almost $330,000.
A seaplane lifts off Lake Union, a 707 floats southbound over the city, another jet airliner heads east—every day, more planes in the sky. Maybe it’s his hangover, but he feels like everything’s slipping out of his control. He can’t sleep nor resist the card rooms now, much less summon the nerve to call off Linda’s elaborate wedding preparations, though their engagement has become his daily lie.
He drifts to the southern deck, where people are packed eight deep behind the coin-operated telescopes—taking in the homely backside of downtown, acres of car lots, windowless warehouses, rusty fire escapes and gas stations. He imagines how pathetic, even ghastly, it must look to people from Paris or London or even New York.
He calls the office on a Needle phone to get the latest dozen messages, including one from Malcolm Turner. He tries to resist glancing at the job site, though it’s hard to miss that huge vacant lot and the only construction crane in sight.
Returning to the table, he finds Prince Philip politely insisting that his mother pay him a visit the next time she’s in London, by Jove. Then he shares a story over tea about his son, Charles, sneaking out in his sports car, which ends in a toast to the charming recklessness of children on this gin-soaked afternoon in a revolving restaurant in the bright sky. The prince stomps his foot again, and Roger feels the Needle sway with laughter.
Back at headquarters, he scans the latest consultant report: The average fairgoer spends $5.19 a day—two bucks for admission, fifty cents for the monorail and $2.69 for food, rides and games. Expenditures double or triple that if they have a meal in the Needle. The consultant suggests offering more music, clowns and outdoor activities, arguing that people spend most of their time between exhibits. And so on. He flips through the stack of new complaints. The movie in the French exhibit is atrocious and should be canceled immediately! Almost $7 for crab legs in the Space Needle restaurant!? There’s also a letter signed by more than half of the burlesque proprietors, pleading for lower leases.
He puts everything aside and heads out early to clear his head before meeting Teddy for dinner. He’d tried to get out of it, but Teddy had insisted. Roger feels a scolding coming and knows he deserves it. He’s not even trying to keep up with the workload now and has visited the card rooms just about every night. Part of it is his growing obsession with this other Seattle; the more he sees, the more he wants to see. The rest of it is what he’s avoiding—Linda.
Dazed with self-loathing, he doesn’t notice a thing in the dozen blocks he walks to the Pike Place Market, where he browses through the clothes, jewelry and produce, then loiters beneath the big clock to read the fresh fish menu: kippered salmon, scallops, steamer clams, Pacific oysters, lingcod, mussels and more. Ten minutes later, he’s enjoying the closing bustle, falling prices being called out before the rustle and clank of everything getting packed away for the night. He catches a thin, pale man staring at him, then ambling off before risking a furtive glance back over his shoulder. Who the hell is he? The wind shifts, now carrying the stink of raw fish. Turning to go, he hears someone shout “Dawkins!” in his direction. He flinches at the sound of his family name, but keeps walking. It might’ve been Hawkins. Realizing he was already late, he hustles down First until he’s breathless, then slows down and braces himself for Teddy’s lecture. He’s sweating so profusely by the time he gets to Rosellini’s that his collar is soaked, and the large crowd and raucous applause all make it instantly clear that this isn’t just an unpleasant meal with Teddy.
“Surprise!” everyone shouts in unison.
Most of the day’s illustrious lunch crew—minus the prince, thank God, but including his mother—is here, as well as the mayor, the prosecutor, five councilmen, three legislators, assorted businessmen, a dozen fair staffers and a smattering of wives, all of them grinning and snorting as if seeing him sweaty and unhinged was high entertainment. What the hell? It’s not his birthday or the anniversary of anything that he can recall. Regardless, he wishes he’d showered, shaved and changed, and that he had a few more moments to manufacture an appropriate response.
Finally, Teddy’s cigarette breath closes in. “Sorry, Rog, but the guv ordered me not to warn you. I told everyone to make sure Linda heard about this, but I haven’t seen her yet.”
Looking hopelessly now for his fiancée, Roger finally understands that some honor has arrived at the least appropriate hour. He’s lost control of his expressions, his wits, his galloping heart.
“You look less than thrilled,” Teddy whispers as a waiter slides a tumbler of Old Crow into Roger’s palm. He spills some and gulps the rest, and the world softens enough for him to kiss his mother and give her the detached British hug that she prefers. He can tell by the sudden hardening of her eyes that Linda has in fact arrived and is standing right behind him. He turns around and feels so grateful she’s here that he almost weeps—her eyes glittering, her hair luxuriously curled, her sleek yellow dress flared at the ankles.
Governer Lopresti starts the evening off by joking that people who insist that Roger would make such a terrific governor need to realize there’s a little-known age minimum of thirty-five, “so the kid can’t run for another four years. Plus, from what the papers say, this summer he’s making more money than I am anyhow.” He then haltingly reads telegrams from congressmen who clumsily assert that Roger’s imagination and determination woke this city up and made the fair possible, that he’s earned a spot in Seattle’s history books. Everybody’s eyes are fixed on Roger, gauging his reaction to each and every compliment, dig and quip. Fortunately, by now he’s composed himself and is able to look grateful and humble and good-humored about the whole thing. The mayor, the senator, Teddy and others then take turns toasting and roasting him while the guests polish off their crêpes Martinique and roast tenderloin of beef. Finally, it’s Roger’s turn.
He thanks the usual suspects, lingering on his deceased mentor and boss, Jackie Vaughn, though moving on before he calls him the father he never really had. He takes a long breath and widens his stance. He’s been crafting this speech in his head since before the fair opened, figuring he’d wait until the final days to deliver it, yet this is the perfect audience. “As grand as it is, this is just a fair. One hell of a fair, but just a fair. We’re still such a young city, and pretty soon it’s gonna be important to figure out what we want to be when we grow up. Everybody has their own vision, but it’s clear to me that if we invest in downtown, the rest will follow. We need better schools and safer streets and less reliance on Boeing. We need swimming pools, a new aquarium, a multipurpose stadium. And we’ve gotta continue cleaning our lakes and give mass transit a chance. What I’m saying is that this fair can’t be the pinnacle of our community resolve, but rather an example of a new way of getting things done.”
Even the waiters are listening now, cradling bottles of champagne, not wanting to break the spell he’s casting. “We need to keep and preserve what we love and what needs to be kept, like the Market,” he says slowly, then waits out a few boos and grumbles. “We also need to seriously consider expanding this monorail up to Everett and down to Olympia. We need a city that lives up to its setting without losing its soul or this’ll soon fe
el just like any other impersonal western city. We need to strive to not only be a hub for world commerce, but for technology and innovation and culture too. What we have right now is a green light, and hopefully the inclusive spirit, to build a city unlike any this world has ever seen.” He scans the faces in front of him, most rapt, some confused, and a few people start clapping. “Wait a minute,” Roger jokes. “You think I’m done talkin’ already?” After a final flurry of observations and ideas, he realizes he’s on the brink of announcing that he eventually intends to run for mayor, but instead he simply raises his empty glass.
AFTERWARD, he’s hugging everyone, his faith in himself at least temporarily revived. He knows that a half-true rendition of his life story will now be passed around like brandy. How he waited tables at Vaughn’s while going to the university, then dropped out to manage restaurants for Jackie V., who made him VP and dragged him into his World’s Fair pipe dream once his throat cancer spread. How, the more meetings he ran, the clearer it became that he had the persuasive powers to pitch the dream. And how, after the governor appointed him fair president in ’60, his enthusiasm spread like an epidemic and he sketched the idea of the Needle on a cocktail napkin late one night. Amazingly, he still lives with his mother and is engaged to that knockout right over there.
He feels bigger than his daily self, as if, at this very moment, he could address and inspire thousands. Even Victor Rosellini shuffles over for a photo. As the owner’s arm settles across his shoulders, Roger realizes he’ll soon join the luminaries—the actors, athletes and politicians—whose autographed pictures hang on these walls. And that years later, he’ll walk in and wince at how young and confident he looked; or, worse, not find himself at all. Talking with three women at once now, floating on whiskey, he feels their heat, the proximity of their breath, eyes, lips and breasts, the warmth and ease of their hands on his forearms. This anarchic desire to show married women a good time is something he doesn’t like to admit, even to himself.
Teddy corners him to suggest that he have a chat with the senator about the U.S. attorney’s ridiculous gambling inquiry, an opinion that he hasn’t softened even after Roger shared a bit of what he’d seen on his late-night forays. “You must’ve gone to the biggest joints on their busiest nights,” Teddy had grumbled.
“Tell him the timing stinks,” he says now. “It’s not just the fair we’re worried about. We’ve got all these relocations hanging, right? Tell him about that. And remind him that grand juries are unpredictable as hell. There’s just a U.S. attorney telling jurors to charge people with crimes. A good one could indict Jesus.”
“Why don’t you tell him?”
“You’re his boy.” He winks. “Plus it’s your night, not mine.”
Minutes later, waiting for the senator to finish a conversation, Roger overhears his mother lying about where he’d grown up and things he’d said and done as a child. Across the room, Malcolm Turner is chatting with the police chief, and apparently he feels the scrutiny because he suddenly turns and salutes him.
Then the senator pivots and smiles. “Hell of an impromptu speech you fired off there.” He clinks his glass against Roger’s. “Been meaning to ask what you made of LBJ.”
“He farts like a bugle.”
Caught off-guard, the senator spittle-mists the air between them with laughter.
Roger resists mopping his face, then says, “Do you know anything about the new U.S. attorney here, Senator?”
“Stockton? He’s a go-getter.” He smiles, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with a hanky. “Kind of like you.”
Roger rephrases Teddy’s concern that gambling headlines could cost the city its wholesome reputation at the worst possible time. The senator studies him, having no doubt heard every direct and obtuse pitch and plea a thousand times by now. He tilts his glass until ice clanks against his teeth, then mutters something about blue laws creating more problems than they solve.
“Maybe there’s someone in that office who could at least keep me posted,” Roger ventures, his voice tightening. “Just until the fair closes.”
The senator’s head bobs so slightly it could be an affirmation or just the jostling of his pulse before they’re interrupted by the tipsy governor.
Roger accepts another whiskey and watches these successful men interact woodenly, as if they’re still developing skills he himself never had to learn. And with this revelation comes the notion that perhaps running for mayor is thinking too small. Sidestepping away now, he finds the fair’s arts director blocking his path with a hand on her hip.
“Tuesday nights, at six,” she says, “right after closing, you could get some quiet time with the mods.” There’s nothing in Meredith Stein’s voice or face beyond a collegial friendliness, but in Roger’s mind it’s provocative nonetheless, especially with his fiancée cackling nearby. Meredith arches her neck, causing her breasts to lift beneath the satin. She’s just stretching, but she might as well have been pressing up against him.
“I’ll definitely keep that in mind,” he says.
“I bet you will,” she says. He blinks first.
“Go easy,” Teddy whispers as he and Judith interrupt to say good night. “Pace yourself.”
Roger nods, his nose deep in Judith’s hair with her long, lovely arms around his neck. “As always,” he whispers for her amusement.
He walks Linda to the curb half an hour later, her anger with his growing evasiveness still mercifully suspended. Obviously tired, she resembles her mother around the eyes, which always makes him uneasy. But it’s not her looks that concern him, rather a lack of curiosity or insight that he fears might also be genetic. He has to stay to the bitter end, he explains, but promises he’ll get to her apartment as soon as he can. He kisses her once on the forehead, once on the lips, and lights her cigarette. They wait patiently, small-talking like strangers until a cab rolls up and he opens the door.
He watches closely, trying to imagine living with her forever, as she carefully sits on the seat and swings her heels in high enough over the door frame that she won’t risk ruining her stockings.
An hour later he’s loping down James Street into Pioneer Square with a roll of twenties in his front pocket. It’s busier than ever, with the buzz and stink of a carnival, people of all stripes spilling in and out of honky-tonks—sober, drunk, shouting, sulking, laughing. He bounces in and out of three card rooms—the Turf, the Occidental and Bob’s Chili Parlor—sticking around in each just long enough to blow a twenty and ask the gamblers and managers, as casually as possible, if anyone knew where to find Charlie McDaniel or Robert Dawkins these days, getting little in return but conversation-killing glances.
It’s hard to pinpoint when these outings veered from curiosity to investigation. Maybe right from the beginning. Yet that’s part of what intrigues him, not knowing, for once, exactly what he’s up to. He’d spent the past decade climbing ladders, working seventy-hour weeks, right through holidays and weekends. He tells himself he’s making up for lost time. At least his nights are his own now.
One card room offers strippers behind a side door, coin-operated nudie reels near the bathroom, and, by the sound of it, prostitution upstairs. He settles into another game of five-card stud while on the far side of the room people are pouring dimes into boisterous pinball machines.
“Can you believe this?” he finally asks the clear-eyed, sunburned man next to him who just won a hand. “We’ve got cards, pinball and porno in here, and some cop out in the street’s joking with the hookers.”
“That’s the beauty of it,” the man says without looking at him. “The city’s wide open, but nobody knows it.”
He wins enough, loses enough and hangs around long enough to ask where he might find some older high-dollar gamblers. When that subject dead-ends, he takes a chance. “Know how you were saying everything’s wide open?”
The man carefully stacks his chips.
“That interests me,” Roger tells him.
“Whaddaya
mean?” the man asks, restacking the same chips while the others sneak looks at him.
“Well, I teach sociology at the U.”
A gambler slides his chair back and leaves the table.
“I just like to understand the way things work, you know?” Another player departs.
“I’d like to talk to people like that tavern owner who claimed the cops were shaking him down.”
The man restacks his chips again. Cards get shuffled. The manager sends two new players to the table.
A couple hands later, the chip stacker says, “Tried the J&M?”
“What?” Roger says.
“Might find Charlie there.”
An hour later, he’s staring at himself through a pyramid of liquor bottles stacked against the mirror behind the bar at the J&M Café while the short, bearded bartender paces like a penned dog, acting as if he didn’t hear or doesn’t care. When Roger starts to introduce himself again, the man says, “Got a card, Professor?”
“In fact, I do.” Roger pulls out the one given to him in Club 21, crosses out the office phone, writes his home number below it and hands it over. Then he roams the square.
A man asks him for a dime, and after giving him a quarter, Roger tails him back to a pack of men who look like they’ve been camping in doorways. He offers them Lucky Strikes. They light their cigarettes and study him, waiting for the catch.
“How long you guys been here?”
“You a cop?”
“No, are you?”
They love that.
“Been here three weeks,” says the tall one. “Beats the hell out of Spokane.”
“Why’s that?”