“Miss Watson, get out of here.”
Her hands released him, and she recoiled, looking at him with disbelief. For the first time, his face was set in pure black anger.
There was one thing left. She’d had her elementary school in Negroes. She knew them too well. “You’re afraid of me, that’s all,” she heard herself say. “You’re afraid of getting in trouble because I’m white, Southern white, and somebody, and you’re colored. Don’t—don’t be that way. I’ve known plenty of Negro men. I consider them to be like—like anybody else—and when they get to know me, they appreciate me. Now you know, so—”
She halted, frightened by the way his red-rimmed eyes protruded and blazed at her.
“You’re a drunken, silly, sick young lady,” he said. “You get out of here, and you stay out of here, and never show your face in this house again.”
As her self-assurance faded, her face became contorted by humiliation and rage. “You—you throwing me out—?”
He turned his back to her, picked up her purse, took the index cards from the bed, fitted them into the purse, and placed the bag in her hand. “I’m throwing you out, Miss Watson. I’m sure Mr. Eaton will take you in.”
She glared at him, reeled past him to the door, held the knob, and over her shoulder considered him contemptuously. “You hypocritical pig,” she cried shrilly. “You—with that nigger girl you’ve got stashed away—I know—I’m not forgetting—no low nigger is going to insult me. You’re damn right I’m going to Arthur Eaton. He won’t be forgetting either. . . . Enjoy this house while you can, because, mister, your lease is running out, and from now on we want only gentlemen on the premises, nothing lower—you hear? No more of your indecent kind, only two-legged beings, you hypocrite!”
Reluctantly Arthur Eaton reopened the concealed wall bar of his Tudor living room and took down the bottles and glasses. He prepared a Jack Daniel’s, with water, for Senator Bruce Hankins, and poured a generous amount of sweet liqueur from the Grand Marnier decanter for Representative Zeke Miller. Behind him, he knew that the elderly Hankins had settled on the sofa across from Wayne Talley, while Miller remained on his feet, spread-legged, in the pose of a public speaker impatient to begin a harangue. Talley, Eaton had observed, still had two-thirds of his Seagram’s whisky, and required no refill.
About to take the two drinks to his recently arrived guests, Eaton, who had not been drinking, reconsidered his own need. The sight of the newcomers definitely left him with a bad taste in his mouth. To remove this taste, a counter-potion was required. Eaton studied the two rows of bottles on the shelves of his bar, brought down the Remy Martin cognac and an amber-tinted snifter that Kay had long ago purchased in Vienna, and he covered the bottom of the glass with the cognac.
His eye caught the Roman numerals of the early English lantern clock on the mantelpiece of the fireplace. It was twenty-three minutes after eleven, too late for this, and too late for Sally Watson. When Talley had come over, after dinner, they had quietly reviewed the entire Baraza situation, from start to the present, as well as the withholding of the single CIA warning from Dilman. They had justified their act, one to the other, and Talley had been reassuring about the safety of their position. Sally’s precious news that Dilman had found out, or at least suspected what they had done, had been useful in alerting them to possible trouble. However, more important would be the degree to which Dilman could confirm, through the Director of CIA, exactly what they had withheld. If Scott was uncooperative or vague, Dilman would have no evidence with which to endanger the peace of the country. (If new evidence came—better, worse—the problem could then be handled by them openly.) On the other hand, if Scott had been informative and explicit this afternoon, Dilman might be foolhardy enough to act both against Talley and himself, and against the Russians, and the rift in foreign policy would have to be taken to the public—T. C.’s public still, he trusted.
Eaton had hinted to Talley that Miss Watson had indicated she had means of learning what had transpired between the President and Montgomery Scott. Also, she had indicated that she might have the information for them this evening. Fortunately, Talley, who was anything but well-bred, had accepted this with delicacy. He had not questioned why Miss Watson should trouble to help Eaton, or, indeed, what her relationship was with Eaton. Of course, Eaton guessed, Talley knew about Sally Watson and himself. Eaton was never one to indulge in self-deception. There were few personal secrets anywhere between Foggy Bottom and the Hill. Yet, to Talley’s credit, he had behaved like a gentleman, an unnatural behavior no doubt induced by Talley’s realization that his own future was insecure and entirely linked with Eaton’s future.
Without discussing it further, they had waited, both of them, for Sally Watson’s telephone call. At eleven o’clock, when they were discouraged and had talked themselves out, the telephone had finally rung. Hopefully, Eaton had answered it, only to find that the caller was not Sally but Representative Zeke Miller. If Eaton had not known of Miller’s temperance, he would have thought him intoxicated, so excited and unrestrained had been his outpouring.
“Remember, Arthur, how I was telling you, after that there Nigra vetoed the minorities bill, that we were setting out to put him in a kennel where he belongs? Well, Arthur, we were dibble-dabbling here and there, digging up a case or two, when tonight we cracked it wide open. Yayss sir, my friend, cracked it open with a Jim Crowbar.” Miller had cackled with glee over the telephone. “We were having a caucus, five or six of us on the Hill, me and Bruce Hankins presiding, when this certain information about our Nigra President fell plumb in our laps, came right to us, dropped down in our laps like manna from the sky. Yayss sir. This is it, Arthur, and me and Bruce are scooting right over to Georgetown to share our intelligence with you in person.”
Eaton had meant to protest that he was expecting someone else, but then he decided that Sally would not be heard from tonight. Still, he was in no humor for Miller’s white-supremacy pipe dreams. “Zeke, I appreciate this, but it is terribly late. If this is some idea or plan of yours, can’t it wait until tomorrow?” Yet, considering the precariousness of his own position with Dilman, he had been unable not to leave the door slightly open to a possibly ally. “Of course, Zeke, if you are not being carried away by wishful thinking, if you have some information that is vital—”
“Vital and factual!” Miller had shouted. “Important enough to make our Nigra tender his resignation, and to make you, as next in line, the President of the United States.”
Eaton had winced at the bluntness of the last. Nevertheless, it had been useless to resist further. “Very well. You and the Senator come right over. I have Governor Talley with me.”
“All the better. See you in a jiffy.”
And now they were here in his living room, awaiting his full attention. Wondering what was so “vital and factual,” Arthur Eaton carried the lacquer tray of drinks to the sofa. He held the tray out to Senator Hankins, and followed the elderly lawmaker’s horny hand as it took the Jack Daniel’s and brought it up to his pickerel face. Eaton did not know Hankins intimately, but only as a thirty-year public legend on the Hill who had been at once a thorn in T. C.’s side in matters of domestic legislation and an asset to T. C. and Eaton himself in matters of foreign policy.
Hankins wore a wavy gray toupee, so cheap that the hairpiece appeared pasted on with schoolboy’s glue. His ancient sad eyes, moist nostrils, flaccid puckered lips were surrounded by curlicues of deep wrinkles. The broad black silk ribbon to which his pince-nez was attached dangled from under his high starched collar. Unlike the younger Zeke Miller, he was not vocal. He was a senior citizen given to long silences and grave nods, which had conferred upon him the mistaken reputation of having wisdom. Since he had a son and grandson serving the government abroad, and because he enjoyed Congressional junkets to London, Madrid, Tokyo, he had come to consider himself a specialist on international affairs. He led foreign-aid programs and treaty agreements and was pleased to read often tha
t he was a progressive Southerner. Where he was not progressive, however, was in his attitude toward the Negroes in his state and in the Black Belt beneath the Mason-Dixon line.
For Senator Hankins, the elevation of Douglass Dilman to the nation’s highest seat had been a trauma that would have been comparable only to seeing General William Tecumseh Sherman ascending to the Presidency of the Confederacy. To Hankins, the nigger President was beneath human contempt, an abomination and eyesore on once-beautiful America.
Yet, until now, he had not led his colleagues in the fight against Dilman. It was as if he would not dignify Dilman’s position by voicing his disgust. He permitted the yeasty young Miller to lead the Christian forces, letting it be known that he was in his palace, ready, available to come down into the field to administer the final coup.
“Well, Mr. Secretary,” he said now to Eaton, after gingerly tasting, then relishing, his Jack Daniel’s, “looks like you been to Tennessee to oversee the proper distilling of this celebrating libation.”
“You feel we have something to celebrate, Senator?” Eaton asked, as he took the tray to Zeke Miller.
Senator Hankins nodded. “As I was relating to Governor Talley, I’m a mighty cautious old coot, Mr. Secretary. These eyes of mine and ears of mine have seen and heard too much fable to be unwary of those bearing good tidings. But what I witnessed and heard a few hours back gives me hope we will be able soon to see the last of our nigger tenant on Pennsylvania Avenue, and restore prideful Christian government to this land of the Founding Fathers. Zeke there, he’ll tell you what is in our possession, and like ourselves, you will sleep easier tonight. . . . Tell the Secretary, Zeke. Tell him and the Governor.”
“Well, goldarnit, Senator Bruce,” Miller said, “I’ve only been waiting for Secretary Eaton’s undivided attention, like not wanting to open a Christmas present till everyone’s all assembled round the tree.”
Miller had taken the liqueur glass, and without tasting it had immediately put it down on the coffee table. His lipless mouth curled apologetically at Eaton as he slicked his bald spot. His wiry frame appeared to dance with eagerness and restlessness, although he remained stationary on his spread legs.
Dismayed by this unattractive pair, yet increasingly curious as to what they had learned, Eaton set the tray down, retaining his cognac, and then sank into the sofa beside Talley, opposite Hankins.
“I am quite ready for you now, Zeke,” said Eaton.
Talley bent forward and pleaded, “Make it good, Zeke. For the country’s sake, we need something to control our—our President.”
Zeke Miller’s thin nostrils jumped, and he grinned, baring his yellow teeth. “This is no lasso we found, to tie our Nigra down. This here is a regular blowtorch we got, to singe his black behind and send him high-tailing back where he come from.”
“Tell them, tell them,” Senator Hankins grunted, “before my kidneys give out. This isn’t the House Chamber, Zeke. Make it short and sweet and factual.”
Zeke Miller moved a few feet nearer to Eaton. “While I deplored, much as you, that assassination attempt, it gave us a clear mandate to proceed against Dilman. It showed us he not only has no white support—South, North, East, West, except for a handful of liberal-Commie punks and bleeding hearts—but he’s got none of his brethren Nigras behind him neither. So Senator Bruce here and I, and the party leaders both sides of the aisles, been yakking around, casting about, then meeting to see what we’d come up with. Till tonight, not much. We had some information he might be locked into the Crispus Society, giving his pal Spinger and those law-spouting darkies certain advantages over the rest of us. I’ve had my legal beagle, Casper Wine, looking back into some of Dilman’s old court cases for possibilities of unethical practices, and checking back into his campaigns and elections to find out if there’s anything that smells fishy-like. Sooner or later, I figured we’d come up with something concrete to hold over his head, and make him resign like he should. Then, the way Senator Bruce says, tonight the facts fell right plunk in our lap.”
“God sake, boy, quit being garrulous,” said Senator Hankins testily. “Tell them, boy, tell them.”
Irritated at the prodding, Miller snapped, “I’ll tell them in my way.” He yanked out his maroon handkerchief, honked into it, returned the handkerchief to his hip pocket, and looked squarely at Eaton and Talley. “Ever hear of a lad named George Murdock, gentlemen?”
Talley said, “The reporter? Yeh, he’s Miss Foster’s boy friend.”
“Right and o,” said Miller. “And who is Miss Foster but Dilman’s private and confidential white secretary, yes? Okay. So one night not so far back, the two of them are dating, real cozy, and Murdock proposes marriage, and Miss Foster, who’s an old maid, like comes apart, gets plastered with booze in her joy, and begins to spill the goods on our Black Mose in the White House. Hold your hats, Arthur, Governor, but here’s the goods.” He paused dramatically, grinning. “Fact one. Dilman’s got a daughter in New York passing for white—hear that?—the President’s daughter deceiving, subterfuging, passing for pure Aryan white, and she with blood black as ink in her veins. Fact two. Dilman’s got that scrawny son up at the Nigra school in Trafford—and you know what?—the President’s son was and is a bona fide, one hundred and one per cent, all-out, scummy underground member of the Commie Turnerite Group. Fact three. Dilman’s wife died of booze, and he was an alcoholic with her, and spent time drying out once in a drunk tank of a sanitarium with her, and there’s evidence he’s a boozer now, which can best explain some of his behavior since—”
Eaton’s original astonishment on hearing these charges was now replaced by doubt. The accusations that Zeke Miller was announcing sounded as intemperate as the conduct of the one who conveyed them. Eaton came out of his slouched posture, sitting erect as he interrupted the Congressman. “One second, Zeke. That is almost too much to believe. No one, I am sure, has a spotless background or life, not you, not I, and quite possibly Dilman has his shortcomings and made some errors in the past. But until now, if he had nothing else, Dilman, at least when he was a senator, had a reputation for sobriety and commonplace decency. Now you would have us believe—”
“Let me finish,” Miller interrupted.
“Wait, you allow me to finish,” Eaton said. “Suddenly, overnight, you are painting him as a secret drunkard, as a bad family man and a discredit to his race, as a Negro in public life who would permit his daughter—if there is a daughter—to pretend that she is white, condone her deception and disavowal of him and of her heritage, as a father who would let his son, utterly dependent economically on his favor, be a secret terrorist. Zeke, I—”
“You’re doggone right his son’s a terrorist,” said Miller indignantly. “Why else do you think Dilman thwarted the Attorney General, stalled on banning the Turnerites, until one of them murdered a good and decent helpless judge? Dilman’s more responsible for Judge Gage’s murder than that ape Hurley—and the public will say so, too, once the facts are out.”
“My God, these facts could change—” Talley had begun.
Eaton’s hand silenced Talley. Eaton fixed his gaze on Miller. “Facts,” he said. “Facts depend on sources. What are your sources, besides some unknown reporter who is used to contriving stories for his keep, and a foolish secretary full of liquor? You’ll have to do better than that, Zeke.”
“I can do better than that!” Miller said angrily. “Give me a chance and you won’t be questioning me no more. The source for all these facts is Douglass Dilman himself, in person, no other. Miss Foster monitors most of his calls, as she did with T. C. Once, or a couple of times, Dilman forgot to tell her not to monitor, and she listened in to him talking to his son. That’s how she found out about that daughter, Mindy, passing for white, and about his wife and him being in that Springfield sanitarium for drunks. Miss Foster’s no maker-upper. She’s even got it all set down in black and white in a diary, believe it or not. Drunk or sober, it’s there in writing for us to demand, if
we need it.”
Eaton continued to frown. “And what about that Turnerite nonsense?”
Miller’s wiry frame danced again. His veiny nostrils quivered. “Okay, now the rest of it. . . . Look, Arthur, I’m not ready to give credence to just any old defamation or garbage that comes my way. I want proof, good proof, too. When Reb Blaser brought this Murdock kid to me tonight, and said, ‘Congressman, this is the reporter fellow you wanted me to keep an eye on, and now he’s come up with a zinger of a story he wants to sell you,’ I heard Murdock out, and was about as downright skeptical as you and maybe the Governor are now. But when he finished the whole thing, and then backed it up for me, I was ready to buy. I said to Murdock, ‘Okay, kid, what’s your price?’ He said, ‘A permanent editorial job on your Washington paper, starting $200 a week, and going up, with a contract for five years.’ Know what, Arthur? I said, ‘Murdock, you’re too smart not to be in our camp. You’re hired. We sign and seal the deal on Monday.’ That’s what I think of his evidence.”
Senator Hankins had a fit of coughing, hacking and wheezing, and Miller quickly moved to help him with his drink. When Hankins recovered, he sputtered, “Thanks, boy, but damnations, tell them the whole of it.”
Eaton waited, sipping his cognac, trying to assess the possible accuracy of what he had already heard, and the value of these revelations to all of them if the evidence could be proved. He heard Miller blowing his nose, and he looked up. “Is there more?” he demanded.
“When this George Murdock got this information from Miss Foster, who got it from Dilman himself, he kept his head. That’s what impressed me about the lad. He didn’t come to me or anyone else half-cocked. If he had, we’d probably have thrown him out. No. Smart kid. He went out on his own, to verify what his girl friend told him. He went to New York last week and just came back today. Know what he did in New York? Listen. He’d remembered the two names Dilman’s daughter had—her real nigger name, and her phony white name. Her nigger name is Mindy Dilman, and her white name is Linda Dawson—how do you like that? Linda Dawson, ever hear anything whiter? So Murdock looked her up, and went calling on her, and right off rocked her back on her heels, greeting her with ‘Hi there, Mindy.’ That nigger-white girl sure let him in fast. I won’t go into details now, except Murdock said she was practically white, sure enough, and a looker, a good-looker, but sarcastic and mean, and twisting and squirming away from what he knew. But, tough as she was, she finally caved in and confessed it. Then she started fussing and weeping. If Murdock let it out, she kept saying, her life was ruined. Said she’d been white since being grown up. Said she had a white boy friend who was with a brokerage house in Wall Street, and they were almost engaged, and all her friends were white, and this was the end of everything. Said why did anyone pick on her, when she only wanted to be lost and did no harm to anyone, least not like her brother Julian, with his rotten Nigra friends and his Turnerite hoodlums. Well, now, Arthur, you bet our Mr. Murdock pricked up his ear high as a radar beacon.”
(1964) The Man Page 61