(1964) The Man

by Irving Wallace

  Dilman put down his prepared statement and looked up tightly. The distortion of the television screen made his Negroid features seem broader and blacker than they were.

  Dilman said, in almost a whisper, “That completes the news announcements, gentlemen. Do you have any questions? Hold up your hands, and Mr. Flannery will recognize you in order.”

  Like marionettes’ limbs jerked by strings, at least a dozen arms shot up and a dozen hands beckoned for recognition. Flannery acknowledged each with a nod, and scrawled the name of each on a sheet before him. Finishing his jotting, Flannery called out, “Mr. Blaser, of the Washington Citizen-American and Miller Newspaper Association.”

  Nat Abrahams searched the mass of reporters on the television screen, and then could make out a short, stocky middle-aged man with a high pompadour and an unattractive carbuncle of a face—“I don’t mind most of those reporters,” Dilman had told Abrahams at their last dinner, “but that Reb Blaser is like a toad in a flower bed.” Blaser was elbowing through the crowd of reporters to get closer to the table.

  “Mr. President,” Blaser began, his wheedling, oiled tongue seeking to cover his renowned cantankerous, liverish manner, “about your announcement of that dastardly Turnerite kidnaping in Mississippi—”

  To Abrahams’ surprise, Dilman leaned forward and interrupted. “Mr. Blaser, I did not announce that the kidnaping was done by any organization. I believe I made that point clear. We can make no accusations until our investigation is completed.”

  Blaser was smiling regretfully. “I beg your pardon, Mr. President. I assume—you see, our papers have information that the act was performed by a parcel of Turnerites—”

  “Then you should turn your information over to the Department of Justice,” said Dilman grimly. “If it’s not fiction, they’ll welcome it.”

  There was some laughter, but, viewing the exchange on the television screen, Nat Abrahams squirmed. Dilman was allowing himself to be baited. He was not standing aloof. Abrahams told himself that he must speak to Doug about this.

  Framed in a close-up on the television screen, Blaser’s face had lost its unctuous smile. “I’m fixing to have my editors follow your advice, Mr. President. Meanwhile, I would like to inquire what you instructed Reverend Spinger to find out about, in relation to this dastardly kidnaping. Also, how do you expect to get objective facts from the head of a Negro lobby pressure group, who goes into this with well-known prejudices?”

  The camera cut back to Dilman’s face, and Abrahams was relieved that it was outwardly passive and that he was considering his reply carefully.

  “I appointed the Reverend Spinger,” Dilman said, “because I felt that the kidnapers, if they are Negro, be they individuals or members of an organization, would trust him more than anyone else. I believe the Reverend Spinger is the best-qualified person I know to reason with anyone so involved, and to gain their confidence. As to his exact assignment, I think it would be unwise to disclose what I have ordered him to do, especially at a critical time like this. When the Attorney General and I have the facts, we shall act upon them without hesitation. . . . Next?”

  Flannery called out, “Mr. Paletta of U.S. News and World Report.”

  “Mr. President, concerning the New Succession Bill now on your desk. Do you expect to approve it or veto it?”

  Nat Abrahams felt someone touch his arm, and spun around. It was the burly young policeman again. “Sir, I’m sorry about keeping you, but I found out that Mr. Oliver did leave a message. He’s across the Chamber in the House Majority cloakroom. He said for you to meet him there. Will you follow me?”

  Reluctantly Abrahams turned his back on Doug Dilman’s excruciating ordeal by press, and followed the policeman out of the Reading Rooms and lobby, past the elevator, through the library, and into the rear of the mammoth House of Representatives Chamber.

  Treading as silently as possible behind the last row of leather-covered benches, Abrahams could see that the House of Representatives was about two-thirds filled with members, some slouched and listening to Congressman Hightower’s speech, others gathered in knotted groups whispering together, and still others reading the daily Congressional Record they had found in the compartments under their seats.

  Abrahams knew that the Minorities Rehabilitation Program Bill was in its climactic stages of debate. Congressman Hightower, representing the opposition party from a California district, was vigorously endorsing the seven-billion-dollar public-works bill, and especially the apprentice and job-training provisions designed for uneducated and unskilled Negroes, Puerto Ricans, and Americans of Mexican descent.

  “When we have passage of this bill,” the Congressman was promising, “we won’t have repetitions of the sort of violence we saw in Hattiesburg, Mississippi, today. Our minority citizens will enjoy a law of restitution to make up for their educational and financial losses under slavery, under segregation, under bondage. They will be trained. They will be gainfully employed. They will be indemnified for their long history of inequality. Thus satisfied, they will know peace of mind, and we will all know the peace of harmony that comes with justice and economic improvement.”

  They are slugging the big bill through, Abrahams thought, and in two weeks, less perhaps, it will be on Doug Dilman’s desk. Poor Doug, he thought, how much these elected politicians are throwing at him, and how little time he has had to prepare for the deluge of vital legislation. Still, Abrahams thought, if Doug’s only going to get T. C.’s hat, he has no decisions to make. If he were going to fit a hat for himself, one of his own, that would be another matter. A pity, Abrahams thought, for if Doug Dilman remains as subservient to a ghost as he insists that he must be, his own keen intelligence and fine judgment will be wasted and the nation will never know its loss.

  Abrahams looked up at the press gallery above the Speaker’s rostrum, and then at the curved mezzanine of public galleries, almost filled, and he knew that the minorities bill had captured the national interest. It was the most crucial domestic legislation in years.

  The policeman had halted, waiting for Abrahams, and then said, “Right through this door, sir.” Abrahams thanked him, took hold of the doorknob, realizing that while he had been inside the House Chamber many times, he had never visited the legendary cloak-rooms, where national decisions were supposed to be made by horse trading in secrecy.

  He entered the Party’s cloakroom, not knowing what to expect and yet finding less than he had supposed he would find. The cloakroom was narrow and dimly lighted. There were a half-dozen soft sofas along the walls, about the same number of deep used leather armchairs, then the room stretched off behind the House and turned a corner. At the far end three men were assembled before a semicircular bar. Only when Abrahams approached them closer did he see that it was an innocuous ice cream and soft drink counter, with many telephone booths nearby.

  He recognized Gorden Oliver, even though the Eagles lobbyist had his back to him. Identification was possible from Oliver’s distinctive high starched collar, navy-blue wool sport coat, gray flannel slacks, and brown metal brandy-flask cane (his trademark).

  “Gorden—”

  Oliver wheeled around at once, and when he did so, Abrahams could see that the Eagles lobbyist and the two others beside him were watching Dilman’s press conference on a television set.

  “Hello, hello, Nat. I was beginning to worry whether you’d find the way.” Oliver pumped his hand, and then took him in tow. “Nat, I want you to meet two of our most influential House members—Representative Stockton, of Colorado, Representative Kramer, of West Virginia. . . . Gentlemen, this is Nathan Abrahams, Eagles’ answer to Rufus Choate.”

  After the handshaking, Representative Kramer said, “Gorden here tells us you are a personal friend of the President, Mr. Abrahams.”

  Embarrassed, Abrahams said, “Yes, the President and I have known each other since the Second World War. We were in the Judge Advocate’s Department together.”

  Representative Kramer as
sumed a dour visage. “Well, if Dilman got out of the service uninjured, then he’s certainly earning a Purple Heart today. They’ve been grenading him for twenty minutes.”

  Abrahams’ eyes went to the television screen, to Dilman’s worn expression as he listened to one more question. “Most people haven’t had a chance to find out yet, but President Dilman is very sharp,” Abrahams said loyally. “I saw some of the press conference on my way in. I think he can handle them. When you’ve made it all the way up to Congress as a Negro, you’ve been through worse inquisitions. He’ll survive.”

  “We didn’t mean he won’t,” Oliver said hastily. “It’s simply that this is his first time out, and they’ve mined every inch of it with dynamite. You should have—”

  “Quiet, Gorden,” Representative Stockton interrupted. He pointed to the television set. “The Time-Life man just asked him about the minorities bill.”

  The four men directed their attention to the close shot of Dilman, gnawing his lower lip, fingering the blotter in front of him. “You want to know why I have not spoken out in favor of the Minorities Rehabilitation Program?” he was saying. “In reply, I remind you I have spoken neither for it nor against it. I have been examining the bill. It has much to offer minorities in this country, and can make a great contribution to bolstering our economy. At the same time, I think it would be a mistake to regard this bill as the cure-all for the civil rights problem. The bill may alleviate certain pressures brought down on minority segments of our population. Still, whether it passes into law or not, it must be supplemented by continued and unceasing efforts to secure for each and every citizen those equal rights guaranteed by our Constitution. I am closely watching the debate over the bill in Congress, and await seeing in what form it reaches me for signature.”

  Gorden Oliver dug an elbow into Abrahams’ rib. “Cagey, Nat. Your friend is playing it cool and cagey.”

  For an instant Abrahams was irritated, but he contained himself and kept his eyes on the screen, where Flannery had nodded to someone off scene. On cue, the correspondent from United Press International called out, “Thank you, Mr. President,” and the first press conference was over. As the picture on the screen dissolved to one of the Presidential seal, Representative Stockton turned the set off.

  The Colorado Congressman addressed Abrahams. “Mr. Abrahams, since you know our new President personally, you might do well to inform him for us—since nobody else seems to be able to get to him—that we hope he doesn’t drag his feet on this bill or on putting that Baraza President in his place. Tell him that’s what the boys in the back room are saying.”

  “You tell him yourself,” said Abrahams stiffly. “I’m afraid I have no influence over the President.”

  Gorden Oliver emitted a false, cackling laugh. “Aw, Nat, don’t take it so seriously. None of us are worried about Dilman. He’s pledged himself to the Party platform and T. C.’s policies. We know he’ll deliver. . . . Say now, Nat, you’ve never been in this sacred sanctum before, have you? Well, have a gander down there, past those fourteen phone booths, and what do you see? A stretcher, yes, sir, and a first-aid kit. Know what? After those Puerto Ricans began holding target practice from the House gallery in 1954, wounded five of our members, the boys here became scared it might encourage more open-season hunting. Now they’re prepared. . . . What say we have our lunch? I’m starved. I’ve a table reserved at the Hotel Congressional down the way. . . . See you later, boys. I’ll tell Emmich you’re reading his breakdown.”

  Gorden Oliver led Abrahams out of the cloakroom, through the rear of the House Chamber, still resounding to oratory on the Minorities Rehabilitation Bill, past Room H-209, which he pointed out to be the Speaker’s quarters, past the House Reception Room, and then downstairs.

  They came out into the east front of the Capitol and started in the cold sunshine of midday toward the Hotel Congressional.

  “It’s only a couple of blocks,” said Oliver.

  But the few blocks, Abrahams soon realized, would take as long to traverse as a mile. Gorden Oliver knew everyone, and everyone knew him. It was not enough for him to greet each acquaintance with a wag of his metal brandy-filled cane. Each person met—a photographer for the Republican Party, a public relations man for the Democratic Committee, three Capitol policemen, two senators, four young giggling female secretaries going to lunch—was stopped, introduced to Abrahams, regaled with a warmed-over joke or bit of innocuous gossip, before being passed.

  There was neither business nor political conversation between Oliver and Abrahams as they walked. The lobbyist’s eyes were scanning the pedestrians for more acquaintances, while he filled Abrahams with petty chatter about Washington and calumny about congressmen, past and present. According to Oliver, there was one congressman and his wife who, to save money, had set up and maintained living quarters in a corner of the House basement, until they were discovered and evicted. There was another who, to make ends meet, sold ready-made suits at a discount out of his office. There was a third who had enjoyed a reputation for hard work by staying on in his suite in the Rayburn House Office Building long after his colleagues had gone home, until it was discovered that he was using his suite to entertain call girls.

  “Yet the work of government gets done,” said Oliver, as they crossed the street and entered the modest lobby of the Hotel Congressional. He halted, after waving his cane at the desk clerk and at two congressmen who had entered behind them, and he added, “I only wanted to show you, Nat, that you won’t be dealing with sacred cows but with plain, ordinary human beings, possessing their share of mortals’ frailties.” He poked his cane toward a sign to the right of the lobby, indicating the direction to the Caucus Room and the Filibuster Bar. “Caucus over food, Nat, or filibuster over drinks first?”

  Abrahams held up his vest-pocket watch. “Sue’s picking me up here in an hour,” he said. “She wants to show me some houses she’s been—”

  “Food it’ll be,” said Oliver.

  Abrahams allowed the lobbyist to take his arm and guide him through a corridor, decorated on one side with framed photographs of the current members of Congress. They entered the spacious dining room, already nearly filled, and were shown to a reserved table next to the curved window overlooking the hotel’s lawn and garden.

  As they were seated and given their menus, Oliver winked at Abrahams and said, “Best table in the room, Nat. Eagles Industries rates here, and so will you. Congressmen come and go, but Eagles stays on forever. . . . What’ll you have?” He began recommending dishes, but Abrahams ordered only a small green salad and a mushroom omelet. Automatically Oliver ordered a steak. “We’re on an expense account, you know, Nat,” he reminded Abrahams.

  “I’m on a diet,” Abrahams replied. “I’m at my best when I’m lean and hungry.”

  “Good, good—” the lobbyist said absently, his attention again diverted by his recognition of familiar faces. He began to salute diners at other tables, calling out, “Hi, Mike. . . . How you doing, Jim fellow?. . . Hello, Ruthie girl.” Then he excused himself, and for five minutes, cane in hand, he went table-hopping, ending each visit with an uproarious peal of laughter.

  When he returned to Abrahams, who was eating his salad, he offered only an oblique excuse for his absence. “My trade consists of contacts,” he explained, “making them and maintaining them.”

  “I’m not good at that, Gorden.”

  “You?” said Oliver, with pretended horror. “We can’t waste a genius like yours on this sort of Rotary-Kiwanis activity. My rounds are the National Press Club, Burning Tree Golf Club, Metropolitan Club, and right here. That’s for me, not you. Avery Emmich wouldn’t be paying you what he is paying you—hell, my salary is picayune tip money beside what you’re going to get—for public relations. He’s hiring your brain, Nat, not your glad hand.”

  “As long as that’s understood, that’s all,” said Abrahams.

  The lunch proceeded into the entrée, and Oliver spoke less and became preoccup
ied with his own thoughts. Abrahams searched the Caucus Room, trying to match faces to headlines he remembered, and then, finishing the omelet, he stared up at the rough yellow-and-white textured plaster ceiling and speculated on the reason for this lunch.

  While the lobbyist was drinking his Sanka, Abrahams sipped his hot tea and decided to make certain that the meeting had nothing to do with the contract.

  “Gorden, last night you said you wanted to see me about my first duties here in Washington, not about the contract. Are you sure?”

  Oliver’s ruddy, weather-beaten Vermont countenance immediately offered an open expression of distress that his motive should even be questioned. “Nat, I told you, the contract is routine. It’ll be in final draft shortly. The delay has been caused by Emmich’s visit to Dallas for a speech before the National Association of Manufacturers.”

  “Well, I’d like to be able to send Sue home and let her close up shop.”

  “Send her, by all means, send her. But you’d better hang around here for the final reading of the contract and the signing. After that’s done, you can get back to Chicago for a week and turn over your keys.”

  Glancing off, Abrahams caught the time on the wall clock. “Okay, Gorden. Then what did you want to discuss with me? I’ve only got fifteen minutes.”

  Oliver blew across the rim of his cup, drank the Sanka, and then set the cup down. “Nat,” he said, “you heard the little speech Congressman Stockton made to you in the cloakroom.”

  “About what? You mean the President dragging his feet on the minorities bill and Baraza? I sure did.”

  “Well, I think he was really concerned about the minorities bill. That’s a big thing. Nobody gives much of a damn about that little African football field.”

  “Soviet Russia does,” said Abrahams.

  Oliver took his cane, which had been leaning against the table, and began unscrewing the top. “Oh, you know what I mean. The minorities bill is the thing that counts right now for the boys on the Hill. A wrong move can lose a lot of votes back home. That’s what matters to them.” He paused. “I know that Stockton got your dander up a bit, but he means well. He was only trying to tell you how the majority of both parties in the House feel.”