(1964) The Man

by Irving Wallace

  Gorden Oliver, professionally hale and hearty, his ruddy New England features aglow, his brandy cane in one hand, an impressive manila envelope in the other, had arrived precisely on time. With the air of one Caesar conferring a laurel wreath upon another Caesar, he had handed the long-delayed final draft of the Eagles Industries employment contract to Abrahams. While Sue, bubbling and pretty in her rose sheath dress, had mixed the high-balls, Abrahams had sunk into a corner of the sofa to review one last time the legal language of a contract he had almost committed to memory during these past months.

  As he read on, Nat Abrahams had tried to shut his ears to the cheery conversation between Sue and Oliver, to the lobbyist’s political gossip and anecdotes and Sue’s merry, appreciative responses. Only once, when he had covered the paragraphs announcing his astronomical salary, bonuses, deferments, stock options, had he been forced to look up. Oliver had been patting his narrow-shouldered, tight-fitting, tailor-made suit coat importantly, and telling Sue that nothing was too good for the spouse of Eagles Industries’ soon-to-be-number-one barrister, and therefore it was only befitting to cap the occasion with a regal dinner at Billy Martin’s Carriage House in Georgetown, the swank restaurant on Wisconsin Avenue so renowned for its cuisine. Sue Abrahams had squealed with delight, and Nat had enjoyed seeing her so happy, and then returned to the contract.

  That had been his only distraction until he had finished his reading of the contract and raised his head to Gorden Oliver. “Okay,” he had said to the lobbyist, “this is it. Now you want my John Hancock?”

  “Sure do!” exclaimed Oliver, uncapping his gold fountain pen. He had handed the pen to Abrahams. “Historic occasion. Sign all copies where they’re x’d and initial in margins where stamped.”

  As Abrahams spread the numerous copies on the coffee table before him, and, with pen in hand, bent over the original, the second distraction of the evening had occurred.

  The telephone had started to ring.

  Sue had leaped to her feet. “I’ll take it,” she had said to her husband. “You go on and get that over with.”

  Yet Abrahams had held the pen poised over the contract, not touching the point to the sheet, waiting to hear whom the call was from.

  Sue had cupped her hand over the mouthpiece. “Nat,” she had said, “it’s the White House for you.”

  Abrahams had placed the pen on the table and quickly stood up. “I’ll take it in the bedroom,” he had said.

  And then, going into the bedroom, before shutting the door behind him he had heard Gorden Oliver cheerily call out, “Well, that’s the only other corporation I’ll give equal time to—even though Eagles is more solvent.”

  The call had lasted no more than three or four minutes, and Abrahams had mostly listened in the quiet room, his festival mood gradually receding and being replaced by one of serious concern.

  Now, as he stood at the hotel window, the call had become the dominant prodder of his judgment and conscience, and it was difficult to ignore it and resume the business awaiting him on the coffee table in the living room. Yet his wife was there, his new career partner was there, his future was there. With reluctance he left the solitude of the bedroom.

  He could see Sue’s wondering eyes, their gravity contradicting the curved smile of her lips, following him to the sofa.

  He sat on the sofa, fingers interlocked between his long legs, chewing the corner of a lip, looking past the pen and contracts.

  “Well, Nat,” said Gorden Oliver with hearty cheerfulness, “let’s get the formalities over with—and let me have the honor of taking one of the richest attorneys in America out on the town!”

  Abrahams hardly heard him. His gaze had gone to Sue and fixed upon her. He said, “That was the President on the phone.”

  “Doug Dilman?” she said with surprise. “I thought he was still off in—?”

  “He just flew back,” Abrahams said. “He’s decided to fight them. He’s decided to go on trial in the Senate and defend himself.”

  “Oh, no,” said Sue with a groan. “After that terrible impeachment? He hasn’t a chance, Nat. I hope you didn’t encourage him. I can’t understand it. Why, the rumor around town was that he’d resign rather than—”

  Abrahams’ eyes stayed fixed on his wife. “He’s not quitting, he’s fighting.” He hesitated, inhaled, and then he said, “Sue, he has asked me to take over his legal defense before the United States Senate.”

  “You?” Her hand had gone to her mouth. The fun and frivolity had disappeared from her eyes. “But, Nat, how—? What did you tell him?”

  “He wouldn’t let me give him a yes or no right off. You know Doug. You know how sensitive he is, how reluctant he is to make demands on anyone, or ask a favor, or impose on anyone. It took him all the way from Sioux City to here, and then a couple of hours more, to get up the nerve to—to lift the phone to tell me he would stand trial, and explain his problem. Even then he didn’t ask me right out. He said he desperately needed the best attorney in the country—preferably me, but if it couldn’t be me, then anyone I might suggest. I suspect he must have been awfully scared and—and lonely—after making his decision—to call me at all. . . . No, he wouldn’t let me give him an answer. He asked me to give it some thought, and call him soon as I could, and if my answer was no, he’d understand, because he knows how tied up I’m going to be. So I said I’d get back to him later this evening. That’s the gist of it, Sue. That’s it.”

  Abrahams became conscious of the third person in the living room. The New England lobbyist’s expression had lost its bluff cheerfulness and had become intent.

  Abrahams decided to bring Oliver into it. “Of course, Gorden, if I did this for the President, I’d need a short leave of absence to—”

  “If you did this?” interrupted Oliver, his face a portrait of incredulity. “You’re kidding me, Nat, aren’t you?”

  “I’m not kidding you or anyone,” said Abrahams. “I’m thinking out loud. I said if I represented the President in this impeachement trial, I’d—”

  “Nat, whoa, wait a minute, wait a minute.” Gorden Oliver held the arms of his side chair and crouched forward. “You can’t be serious about giving Dilman’s request two seconds’ serious consideration?” He searched Abrahams’ face, then said, “Because—if you are—you’ll have to realize there’s only one answer you can give him, no matter who he is, no matter what your relationship with him has been. There’s only one answer, and that is no—no, you can’t do it, you wish you could for a friend, but first things first, and so sorry, old chap, no.”

  Abrahams felt his back arch, but he controlled himself. “I think you’re a little out of line there, Gorden. I hadn’t said either that I would defend the President or that I would not. In fact, I haven’t made up my mind yet. But frankly, Gorden, I don’t feel anyone has the right to make up my mind for me.”

  “Under the circumstances, maybe I can claim the right,” said Oliver. “Considering your situation—your obligations—I don’t think it’s proper for you even to entertain the idea of going before the Senate and the whole country on behalf of a politician whose behavior leaves much wanting and who is under criminal indictment. Chrissakes, Nat, of all things—I don’t want to quarrel with you—with anyone in Eagles—we’ve gotten along so perfectly up to now. Look, I can understand how this can be upsetting to you—the fact that he’s been your friend, throwing himself on your mercy, the fact that he’s an underdog, a Negro besides—but that’s all by the way. Life goes on. You’ve got to think of yourself first, and your first responsibility is to—to us—to Eagles.”

  Abrahams knotted his fists more tightly in his lap. He measured his every word. “Maybe I don’t know all the facets of the position I’m to have with your corporation. Maybe there is more I should know, and right now. My responsibility to you in this matter—what is it, Gorden? You’d better—”

  “Please, Nat,” Sue called out frantically, “don’t get so—”

  “Come on, G
orden,” Abrahams persisted, “let’s have it. Lay it out on the table right beside those contracts. Tell me about the clauses that haven’t been written in.”

  It fascinated Abrahams then to see Oliver’s face take on a look he had never seen there before. The winning charm, the howdy-hi geniality, had disappeared, and what remained was the granite rock bed beneath.

  “We’re not keeping any secrets from you, Nat. By now, you should know all there is to know of what Avery Emmich expects of you. If you don’t, I’ll be only too glad to make it clearer.”

  “Do just that,” said Abrahams. “Make it clearer why you won’t let me defend Doug Dilman, if I choose to do so.”

  “All right, then, if you’re putting me on the spot, if you refuse to understand, if you want it the hard way, all right, there’s no time like the present.” Oliver glanced at Sue, with no smile, then pointed the unyielding face back to Abrahams. “Nat,” he said, “when I say I or we, I mean Emmich and Eagles, right? Okay. We contributed heavily to T. C.’s campaign and election, because we knew he was our friend. We paid for four years of his friendship, and we’ve received only two-thirds of our investment back. To put it crudely, we paid for a blue-chip stock, and then at the end it turned black, and, for our purposes, worthless. Dismayed as we were with the succession of Dilman to President, we were assured by Governor Talley that he was sensible and tractable and would stay in line. Then he double-crossed us. Talley said it would never happen, but it did. We wanted that Minorities Rehabilitation Bill passed into law. It was Emmich’s pet, important to all of us with Eagles. Instead, your Mr. Dilman wrecked it. We knew what we had on our hands then, someone we couldn’t trust or depend upon. Still, we figured that Congress would pass the bill a second time, over his veto, and we’d salvage something. We didn’t figure those labor unions would swing enough weight to force the bill back into committee for a rewrite, but they did, and there it’s bogged down, all because of Mr. Dilman. Well, look, Nat, I’ll tell you straight out, there’s nobody in the United States big enough, powerful enough, to cross Avery Emmich or work against the best interests of this country he loves. Emmich swore that if it was the last act he could perform as a patriotic citizen, he would get rid of Dilman and get the country back on the road to peace and prosperity. Well, I guess other equally patriotic citizens had the same feeling, because Emmich didn’t have to lift a finger. Our friends in Congress took matters into their own hands. The House impeached your bumbling friend, and the Senate will convict him. And we’ll be rid of him.”

  Abrahams had listened, hand massaging his chest as if to keep the heavy beat inside from his wife’s ears.

  “You seem pretty sure Emmich will have his way,” Abrahams said.

  Gorden Oliver’s smile was frosty. “I am positive Emmich will have his way.”

  The whole thing was clear to Abrahams now. It would have been clear to a child. The powerful head of one of America’s largest corporations had pitted himself against a weak head of state. The president of Eagles had more allies in the Senate than the President of the United States possessed. The president of Eagles could dispense more patronage than the President of the United States. The president of Eagles had secret weapons and the President of the United States had none. For Nat Abrahams there was one mystery: how was it done? What masks did bribery wear? Was the disguise a future campaign contribution? A gift of bonds and stocks to a grandson? The annuity of an apartment building investment? A year of prepaid call girls? A silent partnership in an oil lease? A lifetime membership in an exclusive golf club? A high-paying, permanent job for a brother-in-law? Or simply the gentlemanly request for a favor in return for an IOU to be cashed in on some distant, needier day?

  Still, Abrahams told himself, if he did not know how it was done, here was one more clear implication that it was being done. The largess of the lobbyists was there, no question now. Were there takers in the Senate? Of this Abrahams was less positive. When you counted one hundred men, you could expect that most of them were decent men, else the penitentiaries of the land would have standing room only. Abrahams was satisfied with his textbook view of history. No Senate could be bought. Only some senators. And Oliver was wrong. Emmich was big and Eagles was big, but neither was bigger than the Presidency and the United States itself. Still, the armies of Eagles were on the move, and Dilman was the object of their assault, and now Oliver’s dismay was understandable. Abrahams had pledged his allegiance to the armies of Eagles, and yet had dared request a leave of absence to help build the defenses of their enemy. But then, in fairness to himself, he had not realized until this moment the extent to which Eagles was dedicated to liquidating Dilman. Now he knew.

  “I didn’t know,” he heard himself say to Oliver, “how set you were on opposing Dilman.”

  “Now you know,” said Oliver flatly. “Now you can understand how flabbergasted I was that you even considered siding with that man.” Oliver softened slightly. “Look, Nat, I don’t want to be impossible, to go against the grain. We’re not asking you to join in our active opposition to Dilman during the trial. What the devil, you’re a friend of his. All we’re asking is that you don’t oppose us, take our money with one hand and expect us to let you punch us in the nose with the other. We just want you neutral in this matter.”

  “There is no neutral, Gorden. Either I help the President or I don’t. If I do, yes, I’ll be in opposition to you with every ounce of my strength. If I don’t, I’ll be depriving the President of the counsel he needs to help save him, and in that way aiding you, actively aiding you.”

  “Nat, my God, he can obtain a hundred other counselors, black or white. They’ll welcome the chance for the headlines. Look, I’m not saying you’re not better than the others available. If you weren’t, we wouldn’t be hiring you. I’m saying in a special trial like that, he can get all the help he wants.”

  “True enough, except for one thing,” said Abrahams. “He wants me.” He considered that a moment, and then added, “I don’t think it’s because he believes I’m more skilled than the others. I think it’s because I’m one of the few human beings on earth he trusts completely.”

  Oliver’s brow had contracted ominously, and he said, “You mean, after what I’ve said, you’re still seriously considering going over to that man?”

  “I’m considering it.”

  Oliver rose, started to speak, then agitatedly circled the room. He came to a halt beside Sue.

  “All right, Nat, consider it,” he said. “But then I think I’ve got to tell you—I hate telling you this, but I’m speaking for the company now and not myself, I’ve got to level with you—if you go to the mat for Dilman, you can consider yourself out of Emmich’s camp, for now and forever. If you agree to defend the President, I will be able to see no other course than to withdraw our offer to you.” He waited. “Does that help you make up your mind?”

  “I’ll make up my mind when I’m ready to do so, Gorden, and not a minute before.”

  “Okay,” said Oliver, “you give me no choice but to pick up my marbles and go home, and wait to see if you’re ready to play the game by the rules.”

  He went to the coffee table, retrieved the copies of the contract and the pen, then slipped the contracts back into the manila envelope. He looked at Sue. “Under the circumstances, I don’t imagine any of us has too much of an appetite. Maybe we’ll have cause to—to hold our celebration tomorrow.”

  He found his coat and hat, as Sue ran to the door to see him out. At the open door he offered Sue a courtly bow. “Thank you, Sue. Do your lobbying best.” He considered Abrahams. “We’ll wait for you to call us, Nat. I hope you think straight. At this stage in your life, you owe nothing to anyone on earth except yourself and your family.” He held up the manila envelope. “This would be an awful lot of boodle to throw away—like throwing away ten years of life. Good night.”

  Abrahams did not move from the sofa. He watched his wife shut the door, then saw her sag and lean against it, her cheek pressed
to the panel.

  When she came away toward him, her face was drawn and pale, and he knew that she was fighting tears.

  He averted his eyes as she came nearer and stood over him, but he could avoid her no longer. “All right, Sue, you’ve heard Oliver and you’ve heard me. What do you say?”

  “What do I say? Do you care for one second what I say?” she said, voice rising. “Gorden Oliver said everything for me.”

  “Even after hearing that rotten stuff about Emmich and Eagles?”

  “You wouldn’t have to be mixed up in that. He promised you. I heard him.”

  “You want me to sit by, up there in the Senate gallery, as an employee of Eagles, watching my fellow hatchet men go to work on the body, and tell myself I’m not their accomplice, I’m only an innocent bystander? That’s not like you, Sue.”

  “What is like me? Do you know? Do you bother to try to understand? You’ve spent your life, and your health, in musty back halls and dirty courtrooms giving everything you have for people who’ve had nothing to give you—or us. You’ve spent years putting every underdog who whined for help ahead of Roger and David and Deborah and me—yes, me. I didn’t complain. I didn’t obstruct you. In fact, I encouraged you, because I was proud of your love for others and because I loved you for that and for yourself. But I was glad when this Eagles offer came up. I never forced it on you, but I was glad, because I felt at last you were getting what you deserved, and you’d have your health, and we’d have a better life together for years ahead, and live it normally like other people. And now, suddenly, when we’ve got it, you turn your back—you want to think—now, suddenly, Eagles is dirty—what isn’t dirty as well as clean, what business, what profession?—and now, suddenly, Doug Dilman is lost without you, and you’ll throw over everything, your future, your wife, your sons and daughter, to help him—to help a lost cause—when you know and I know that he hasn’t the chance of a snowball in hell, and if he has, as Gorden said, there are dozens of attorneys who can defend him as well as you. You want to know how I feel? That’s how I feel!”