by Deaver Brown
“Does that woman think she can incite to riot and then escape the consequences by trotting off?”
The student of humanity had an alternative explanation.
“She’s not thinking at all. She’s gone off to chow down,” Charlie said wisely.
But if Madeleine had left, the fervor remained. Almost immediately an improvement on her suggestion was voiced.
“There’s some construction debris around the far corner,” one of the few men brandishing a placard shouted. “Let’s barricade Rugby’s.”
The cry was taken up with gusto and within minutes sawhorses appeared as well as a motley collection of two-by-fours, pieces of plywood, pipes, and battered planks. Ignoring the protests of newly arrived customers, the NOBBY contingent set to work with a will. Eager hands clutched at swinging loose ends, encouraging yelps resounded through the air, and a large, rickety fortification began to take shape.
Bemusedly watching the frenzied efforts, Charlie murmured, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking, John?”
Thatcher nodded.
“The lady’s reasoning contains a slight flaw. They shall not pass worked at Thermopylae because the Persians were coming from only one direction.”
Aristocrats like Thatcher and Charlie could largely govern the disposition of their time. But for the vast majority of wage slaves the noontime break represented a unique period of the workday, every moment of which was precious. Some might spend a leisurely hour in their company’s cafeteria, enjoying subsidized food and rampaging gossip. On a fine spring afternoon, others might carry their brown bags to the cemetery of Trinity Church to dine al fresco. But for many the location of choice was a fast-food restaurant, with the emphasis on fast. Fifteen minutes were allowed to bolt down a hamburger because they intended to squeeze in a half-hour workout at their health club, they planned to take advantage of local shopping facilities, or they were due for their semiannual dental cleaning. The group trapped inside Rugby’s discovered their plight and the consequent wreckage of their rigid schedules with varying degrees of dismay until the situation was brought to the attention of a heavyset bond clerk. Only two years removed from his college football team, he cast one contemptuous look at the obstacle and unleashed a bull-like roar.
“What the hell do they think they’re playing at? I’ve only got ten minutes to put my bets down.”
It was unfortunate that at the critical moment the manager of the franchise was in the stockroom. He would probably have organized some orderly retreat through the nether regions of the store into a back alley. The bond clerk had a different solution.
“One of you open the door for me and the rest of you stand clear,” he ordered, backing up to provide himself with a running start.
A young woman being denied access to a spectacular sale on pantyhose was only too ready to oblige.
The hero of the hour dropped a bulky shoulder and charged down the length of the runway, expertly adjusting his stride so that on the last step his right foot swung through an arc that brought his stout brogue crashing into the barricade, with the full weight of his powerful body behind it.
As the jerry-built superstructure began to collapse, the whole seething mass of humanity liquefied. Those inside Rugby’s streamed out to freedom, those outside still desiring a bowl of chili surged forward and, sandwiched between these determined forces, were the NOBBY volunteers rushing to reerect their barricade.
Collision and conflict were inevitable. Within minutes a length of two-by-four sailed through the air above the milling throng and smashed into one of Rugby’s plate-glass windows.
“Elmer is going to love this,” Charlie Trinkam muttered.
Thatcher, observing the patrol car returning to check on the bus, said, “I don’t think he’s the only one who will be objecting. It might not be a bad idea for us to move to the other side of the street.”
Matters were already well beyond the ability of two policemen to control. Summoning reinforcements on the radio, they simply turned a disenchanted gaze on the burgeoning riot and tried to identify particularly egregious offenders. But the heart of battle was hidden from their view, as it was from that of John Thatcher, in his new coign of vantage. He could hear yells of anger and screeches of indignation, he could see flailing arms appear above the struggling mass of humanity. Only on occasion, however, when a swaying group would suddenly shift position, did he catch glimpses of individual incidents.
For some reason many of the belligerents had adopted classic stances. A middle-aged woman, every inch the shot-putter, had grasped the strap of her heavy shoulder bag and was swinging it around her head. A bearded youth had tangled with a customer and the two men were squirming on the ground in a fine display of Greco-Roman wrestling. Not to be outdone, an enterprising bus boy appeared in the doorway carrying a vat, then, with fine impartiality, he heaved its load of ketchup on all and sundry. Things were at their worst when a young woman, alighting from a cab at the corner, suddenly pelted down the sidewalk and dashed into the fray, screaming, “No! No!” Just as she clutched the arm of a volunteer waving a shattered piece of sawhorse, there came the sound of a second plate-glass window cracking.
Finally reinforcements arrived, complete with paddy wagon. Bull-horns brayed, police charged in, and the young woman from the taxi managed to achieve sole possession of the sawhorse at precisely the wrong moment.
The police plucked combatants from the melee and began herding them into the paddy wagon, the manager of the franchise emerged screaming curses, several women were weeping and, in the background, a late-arriving television crew scrambled for strategic spots from which to film the whole sorry spectacle.
• • •
The damage they recorded included shattered windows, a scarred frontage, and construction debris littering a wide area. To heighten the graphic impact, the cameras lingered lovingly over every sinister red splotch, then panned to paramedics loading a stretcher while a policeman, blood trickling down his cheek, was led away. By the time this footage was aired over local stations, angry voices had been added.
One of the shrillest belonged to Sal Piemonte of the Piemonte Construction Company.
“Who do these people think they are?” he snarled. “That was my stuff they stole. They owe me for the material they ripped off, for all the damage they did at the site, and for my crew’s down time. I intend to see that they pay.”
Then there was the young woman who had been en route to a pantyhose sale. She had been hurled off her feet in the first onslaught and was caught later that day hobbling out of the emergency room on crutches.
“I’m supposed to get married next week,” she wailed. “Now look at me. How am I going to get down the aisle? Somebody has to make this up to me.”
But the most passionate complaint came from Elmer Rugby.
“They didn’t just vandalize my premises, they sent one of my counter kids off in an ambulance.”
He too, was shown at a hospital, where he was trying to console a fragile-looking girl in a wheelchair.
“Thank God Theresa Dominguez is going to be all right,” he continued in a basso profundo. “But I’ll teach NOBBY a lesson they’ll never forget, if I have to sue those slimeballs for every cent they’ve got.”
The underlying theme behind all those messages was not lost on NOBBY’s board of governors. Within minutes of the first bulletin they were on the phone to each other.
“My God, we’ll be in court for years,” one of them groaned. “And why the hell isn’t Madeleine making some kind of statement?”
“Because nobody can find her,” snapped Peggy Roche, chairman of the board. “I’ve tried the office and her home. She can’t know what’s going on.”
But Peggy was wrong. Perched in a hotel room high above Manhattan, Madeleine Underwood had settled herself to watch the news, at first with suppressed anticipation, then with genuine astonishment and finally with unalloyed gratification. When she turned off the set she was nodding happily.
&n
bsp; “Well, I wanted to get their attention,” she murmured to herself, “and they haven’t seen anything yet.”
Chapter 11.
Full-Bodied
Predictably Dean Kichsel was on the phone to John Thatcher bright and early the next morning.
“In view of the appalling events at Rugby’s yesterday, I intend to make a severe protest to the committee as to the advisability of permitting NOBBY to continue its testimony,” he said fussily. “I know that George would ordinarily wish to be present, but his wife tells me the poor fellow is feeling worse than ever.”
Once again it was time for Lancer’s proxy to put his shoulder to the wheel.
“What time do the hearings start?” asked Thatcher with resignation.
“At ten-thirty.”
Accordingly, two hours later Thatcher dutifully trudged into the appointed building. The energy level in the hall outside the hearing room fell short of the heat of battle, but nonetheless there was a throb of excitement rarely generated by congressional hearings. There were knots of people huddling intently, self-important staffers speeding about with self-important documents, late arrivals eagerly hailing colleagues. Undeniably the pack was closing in for the kill. While interrupting Thatcher’s breakfast, Dean Kichsel had spoken in the most elevated terms, but the pro-Quax forces had scented an opportunity to finish off their opponent.
Thatcher was not surprised that the first face he recognized belonged to Elmer Rugby, hard at work on a young man he had backed into a corner.
Rugby, his eyes skewering his quarry, was conversing in the strangled, hard bursts of a big dog on a short leash. As soon as he caught sight of Thatcher, he imperatively waved him over, without interrupting his diatribe.
“What more does your bunch want?” he was demanding. “Yesterday proves that Rossi’s been taken in. He’s using taxpayer money to promote a bunch of goddamn lawbreakers. Hell, it’s un-American, and you can tell him I’m going to make it my business to let people know.”
“Leon Rossi is conducting a fair and impartial inquiry. You can’t hold him responsible for a pack of weirdos.”
“Oh, can’t I? That’s exactly what everybody is going to do. Just ask John, here.”
But Thatcher, who favored more informative introductions, merely extended his hand and said, “John Thatcher from the Sloan.”
“Congressman Harry Hull.”
Rugby was not letting anybody duck the most significant identification of all.
“From Texas!” he snorted. “That’s some state delegation we’ve got.”
“Now look here, Elmer,” Hull said crisply. “You know damn well that I was proposing some investigation of Quax long before you got involved in its sale. That didn’t stop you from tying up with Kichsel. And I’m not letting the fact that you’re Texas-based stop me. As far as that protest yesterday goes, I’ve got more to complain about than you do.”
Rugby was almost gobbling.
“Trashing restaurants! Scaring customers! Calling out the riot police! And you call that a protest?”
“I call it a dangerous menace. But the point is, you’ve come out of this a victim. Those of us who want to approach the whole Quax issue on a reasonable, thoughtful basis are going to be smeared by this lunatic fringe group.”
Before Elmer could go up in smoke, Thatcher stepped in. “Surely there are ways of disassociating yourselves from them.”
“What do you think we’re all talking about in the backroom? Why do you think the opening gavel’s being delayed?” asked Hull with a grim smile. “The way Leon sees it, he gave that woman a chance to express her views and, in the middle of her testimony, she goes out and deliberately foments a riot. There’s no way in hell he’ll continue giving her a platform.”
It sounded to Thatcher as if Dean Kichsel had already achieved his objective, but Rugby was a long way from satisfied.
“He ought to end the whole farce, and if he hasn’t thought of it, why don’t you suggest it?”
“Will you just hold your horses until you know how things work out, Elmer?” Hull said wearily. “Frankly, Leon seems to be leaning toward an indefinite adjournment right now. That way he keeps his options open. He can either let the whole thing die a slow death or he can reconvene after the smoke has settled, without any reference to NOBBY.”
Before Rugby could favor them with his views on this pusillanimous strategy, Hull announced that someone was signaling him and departed with a final flap of the hand.
Still champing at the bit, Elmer Rugby soon spied another possible pressure point and stomped across the hall. Thatcher, instead of following, remained where he was in order to survey the growing assembly. As a possible source of entertainment it was far less promising than a real cross-section of humanity. Everybody present, apart from some lowlier members of the press, wore the apparel and facial expressions that obliterated distinctions of age, sex and alliance. Only the background hum of dozens of conversations enlivened the scene. And from overheard snatches Thatcher discovered that, thanks to last night’s television, Madeleine Underwood and her numerous shortcomings formed the main topic of the day.
One cheerful soul was regaling his companions with a rollicking description of Paul Jackson’s courtroom triumph.
“That dumb dame picked a kid who started on the hooch the minute he was out of diapers.”
A more serious student was reviewing every folly Mrs. Underwood had uttered during the last hearing.
Yet another had the latest tidbit straight from the committee clerk.
“. . . trying to have a letter introduced into the formal record. It was from some woman who had a sister who had a friend who’d heard of some college kid drinking beer after a year on Quax. She was insisting that was real solid evidence. It just goes to show what—”
Abruptly ruder sounds interrupted the genteel buzzing. All heads, including Thatcher’s, turned as a noisy altercation approached from afar with the fanfare of a marching band.
First to come into view was Alec Moore, striding along with his eyes fixed straight ahead. Hurrying in his wake, Madeleine Underwood appeared, her red suit a flicker of flame in the sea of drabness.
“Oh, sure, try to run away now that the truth is coming out,” she declaimed challengingly.
Stopping so quickly that she cannoned into him, Moore turned with a contemptuous scowl. “You wouldn’t know the truth if it bit you in the face. Your idea of thinking is to fabricate facts out of thin air.”
Onlookers lining the route hastily stepped aside just in time for a third arrival. Claudia Fentiman, clicking along on her high heels, ranged herself at Alec Moore’s side.
“You’re a fine one to talk about facts,” Madeleine snapped, oblivious to her audience. “You’d say anything in order to sell Quax to kids—and you’re scared to death I’m going to stop you.”
“Crap!” he thundered blightingly. “You just want to play God.”
“We don’t have to do a damn thing to stop you,” Claudia came rallying to his support. “You’re doing a fine job on your own.”
Madeleine’s voice was now ringing through the hall. “You think I don’t know all about you, but I’ve had you investigated. I’ve found out your dirty little secrets.”
The most appalling aspect of the quarrel, from Thatcher’s point of view, was the sheer relish Madeleine was deriving from every exchange.
“After your performance at Rugby’s I wouldn’t put anything past you,” Alec shot back, “including manufacturing whatever seems convenient.”
“You think you’re going to go on the stand and give us a lot of garbage about how concerned you are for young people, how you campaign against drunken driving. Well, I can show them the kind of people Kichsel has peddling its fine product—people unfit to be near children, people ready to infect anybody with their poison.”
White-faced, almost gibbering with rage, Moore snarled, “Don’t try and get on some moral high horse with me. After yesterday we know all about the kind of tac
tics you resort to.”
Madeleine’s head rose proudly. “That was an expression of deep concern by my supporters. Something people as corrupt as you wouldn’t understand.”
By now Claudia was grasping Moore’s arm to restrain him. “Cool it, Alec,” she said urgently. “This woman has as much credibility as the population of Attica.”
“Just wait,” Madeleine said defiantly. “I’ve got proof positive of the kind of people trying to silence me.”
Obedient to Claudia’s pressure, Moore had begun to turn aside. “Why don’t you take a look at your own little ego trips first?” he suggested over his shoulder.
“And at the same time I can demonstrate to the world that my campaign is moved by nothing except a genuine concern for our young people,” she declared with a fervor worthy of Joan of Arc.
Then she turned on her heel and stalked magnificently away, leaving Moore free to continue his progress. Only Claudia remained on the field. Gazing coldly at the receding red-suited figure, she delivered one loud and clear syllable.
“Bitch!”
Thatcher felt the final comment was unnecessary, but his views were not shared by another bystander.
“Right on target, I’d say,” he announced, turning from his companion. “We met at the tariff dinner the other night, Thatcher. Roger Vandermeer.”
“Of course.” Thatcher nodded. “You represent the Soft Drink Institute. I can see how you have an interest in this issue.”
“We have a legitimate interest in the marketing of Quax,” Vandermeer said hastily. “We have absolutely no interest in crazy broads who want to tangle with the cops.”
The young man at Vandermeer’s side groaned. “But that’s the whole point of what I’ve been saying. Madeleine’s past history now. Hell, she was on her way out even before the riot. It won’t take the board more than a couple of days to bounce her.”
While Cushing continued his theme, Thatcher reflected on the varying degrees of disassociation. Most of the anti-Quax elements, like Harry Hull and Vandermeer, were simply drawing away from contamination by NOBBY. Cushing had a more difficult row to hoe. He had to sound as if it were possible for NOBBY to disassociate itself from Madeleine Underwood.