King Cole

by W. R. Burnett

  Read checked a few items on the list, then he leaned back in his chair and sat staring at the wall. Politics, what a game! You had to have a thick skin to play it. In the past, when he was young and green, he was always irritating somebody by balking at trifles: this was not dignified, that was not strictly true. The old-timers would look at him in amazement. They were calloused; used to playing the game according to the rules; they suffered from occupational myopia; all that they could see was the goal. Gradually Read had “settled.” Now he was fairly used to the impudent trickery, the absolute selfishness, the humiliating shifts, turns, changes of front. The true politician thought of but one thing: re-election. The voters were the suckers. Fundamentally there was but a slight difference between a confidence man and a politician. The two callings attracted similar types.

  But Read stood a little aside. He had learned to play the game; he had learned to ignore, or rather to pretend to ignore, the seamy side of politics. But essentially he was an anomaly and from the first had puzzled the newspapermen. He was neither a doctrinaire nor a crook. Though extremely shrewd, and his shrewdness had been recognized early, he was both honest and dependable.

  Read smiled and put the report aside; then he glanced at his watch: nearly twelve.

  “I must get shaved,” he told himself, getting up and putting on his coat and hat.

  He rang for Miss Wilson. When she came in he said:

  “I’ll be in the barbershop at the Massey for about half an hour; then I’ll be in the Crystal Room, eating my lunch. I won’t be back anymore today. Did you get in touch with Colonel Putnam?”

  “Yes, sir. He’ll be at the Armory at seven o’clock. The Chief of Police is sending twenty plain-clothes men. Is that all right, Governor?”

  Read laughed.

  “That ought to be enough.”

  He went to the door. The outer office was still packed. Read saw a group of newspapermen surrounding Austeen, who was talking quietly out of the corner of his mouth, his words drowned from time to time by outbursts of appreciative laughter. Read walked quickly through the crowd; some of the reporters followed him, begging him for a statement, but he merely shook his head.

  When he had disappeared into the rotunda, a reporter said:

  “They sure took the smile out of our pal, the Governor.”

  “And how!”

  “In spite of all the dough he’s got behind him I don’t think he’s got a Chinaman’s chance.”

  “Looks like Eagle Beak for Governor. Ain’t that the best laugh yet?”

  “Yeah. Eagle Beak’s funnier than all four Marx brothers.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. If he gets in, we’ll see some action. Cole just sits on the lid.”

  “That’s what we need. Eagle Beak will turn everything upside down. All the wealth is going to move out. No kidding.”

  They turned to Austeen, who was listening to them with a superior smile.

  “What do you say, Mr. Austeen? What’s your prediction?”

  “Really want it? I hate to disappoint you local boys.”

  “Sure we want it. Nothing disappoints us.”

  “George Washington is going to cross the Delaware in a canter.”

  “You really think…?”

  “Wait till tonight. Boys, I hate to admit it, but you’ve got a future President in the State House.” There was a commotion.

  “You mean it? I thought you didn’t like him.”

  “I didn’t like Coolidge. What’s that got to do with it?”

  “No fooling, Austeen?”

  “No fooling. Your favorite son is quite a boy. He thinks I’m a cross between Dillinger and Hauptmann; he loves me. But that doesn’t close my eyes. He’s just right. A pleasant exterior; a nice smile. No temperament. A superiority complex. He thinks the radicals are dirt. He hates the Jews. He hates foreigners. He’s all for preserving the status quo without being nasty about it. He’s from Ohio, and the big boys need Ohio. He can’t miss.”

  The reporters looked at Austeen with their mouths open. They had been seeing Read Cole off and on for years, and now here was a stranger telling them all about him.

  “No kidding?”

  “He’s the right man at the right time for the right place. He may get shot, however. Who knows?” Austeen nodded, stamped out his cigarette, and started out. Many of the newspapermen followed him; they wanted more. Spencer cried:

  “Austeen, I’ll buy a drink.”

  “You’re my man. But how about that football game? Got any tickets?”

  “I could let you have one for ten bucks.”

  “I want one for nothing.”

  Austeen was surrounded; several men offered him tickets. Harold came and, smiling his best smile, asked the gentlemen if they wouldn’t moderate their voices slightly.

  IV

  Read took the street stairs to the basement of the Massey Hotel to keep from crossing the long, crowded lobby. But things were just as active below. The corridors were jammed. There were at least a dozen men waiting in the barbershop; the beauty parlor and the stores were crowded and Read, glancing swiftly down the corridor, saw that there was a line outside the Corinthian Room; mostly out-of-town people, in Midland City for the big game, very talkative and gay. Young men predominated; young men in the latest hats and overcoats, glancing about them with superior smiles, Midland City their oyster. Read saw Kitten. She was helping a man with his coat, smiling politely. The man was grinning and talking over his shoulder. Read saw him tip the girl and give her hand a squeeze. Kitten smiled her best smile and nodded thanks. The man hesitated, took out a cigarette and lit it, then stood aside, waiting no doubt for a favorable opportunity to date the girl up. Read saw the men in line eyeing Kitten.

  But she stood there absolutely unconcerned, looking fresh and young in her dark, tightly-fitting dress.

  Read hesitated, unable to make up his mind. He kept glancing around to see if he was being noticed. Most of the people, however, were in high spirits; in no mood for prying or scrutinizing. He was elbowed, brushed aside.

  “No use to go to the barbershop,” Read told himself. “They’d make an exception, but I don’t want them doing that. No use going back to the office… I…”

  Suddenly he made up his mind. Taking off his overcoat and putting it over his arm, he walked quickly down to the entrance of the Corinthian Room, ignored the line, and stood at the door, pretending that he was looking for somebody. A man in uniform touched his arm.

  “Sorry. No tables. End of line, sir.”

  But Kitten had seen him. She ran over, breathless. Read turned. Kitten’s lips were parted; her eyes dilated. The man in uniform stared at her.

  “This is Governor Cole,” Kitten said loudly.

  There was a commotion. People began to crane their necks. Read was uncomfortable; he felt his face getting red.

  “Oh, my God!” said the man in the uniform involuntarily. “Excuse me, please, Governor.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “Check your coat and hat, Governor? They’ll find a table for you, don’t worry,” said Kitten, who looked as if she was going to sing or break into a dance.

  “Well,” said Read, wanting to take her in his arms and kiss her, “I was looking for Mr. Upham.”

  “Oh, he’s upstairs. He was in the barbershop and stopped to talk.”

  “Crystal Room?”

  “I think so. Shall we send somebody up for him? It’s just as crowded up there.”

  “Will you please?”

  The man in the uniform had got the headwaiter, who came on the run.

  “Yes, Governor? A table?”

  “If you please.”

  “For two? Right. We’ll set one up right away. We are very crowded, Governor. But we’ll fix you up.”

  “Sorry to trouble you.”

  “No trouble. It’s a great pleasure for us, Governor.”

  Kitten got a bellboy and sent him up after Gregg, then she came back and took Read’s coat and hat. Her face
was flushed and she kept her eyes lowered now. Read followed her to the check-rack.

  While she fumbled with a ticket she said very low: “I walked past the Mansion three times this morning.”

  “Why?”

  “Just ’cause. A Negro in a white coat came out and got the paper and looked at me, so I ran away.”

  “You mustn’t do that, Kitten.”

  “I know.”

  She wrote something on the check, then handed it to Read, who hurriedly stuffed it into his pocket.

  “Going to the game?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re speaking at the Armory tonight, aren’t you? I read about it. I didn’t like that picture in the Examiner. You looked too old.”

  “I am old.”

  Read turned away, flushing. Gregg was coming down the corridor, walking swiftly. He took in the situation with a quick intelligent glance.

  “Will I ever see you?” Kitten asked, standing close behind Read. But Read paid no attention.

  The headwaiter was at the door, beckoning. Gregg said:

  “This is something new. Getting more democratic, I see. Want to try eating with the hoi polloi, eh?”

  “Never mind.”

  The headwaiter guided them to their table and they sat down and ordered. Around them people were shouting and laughing, all talking football. Gregg was silent for a long time, then he said:

  “All my fault, too.”

  “What are you mumbling about?”

  “I never should have brought that little hot shot up to the apartment. Read, please have some sense.” Read’s face darkened. He sat looking at the table, saying nothing for a long time, then he looked up and smiled.

  “I’ve put too much restraint on myself, and now I’m paying for it.”

  Gregg snarled.

  “Don’t be romantic! I never thought I’d hear you say anything like that. You’re not like most men; always in some kind of jam. You do what you like. You run your life sensibly. Don’t give up.”

  “I’m not as perfect as all that. How about yourself?”

  “I’m not running for Governor. Read, for God’s sake, why pick on a little pushover? She’s got sore throat from saying yes. She’s got callouses on her shoulder blades.”

  “Don’t be nasty.”

  “And I always talk about ascetic Read Cole! Goes for the first little draggle-drawers that looks at him.”

  “Gregg, did you ever get punched in the nose?”

  Gregg scratched his head carefully.

  “I’m quiet. If that’s the kind of shape you’re in, I’ll save my breath. Got a match?”

  Read began to fumble through his pockets.

  “Waiter,” shouted Gregg, “an ash tray and some matches.”

  Read pulled out a book of matches and handed it to Gregg. When Gregg reached for it, a piece of cardboard fell to the table. It was a blue hat-check. Gregg picked it up to hand it back, glancing at it absentmindedly. Under the number was written in a childish scrawl:

  I Adore You

  Read put the hat-check back into his pocket without looking at it.

  V

  Sitting on the flag-draped stage of the Steelton Armory, Read was a little uneasy. Before him was a sea of faces. Senator Greeley was speaking, his bass voice echoing through the building, which was as big and bare as the train shed at the Union Station. The audience was restless and there was a continuous low murmur, punctuated by the scraping of feet, coughing, the rustling of newspapers, and the occasional shrill voice of a heckler. Greeley droned on; he was a typical orator, saying nothing at great length. The crowd got more and more impatient. Finally somebody cried:

  “We want Read Cole.”

  The Senator smiled and nodded.

  “In just a moment, my man. Let me conclude.”

  Gregg leaned forward and whispered to Read:

  “He’s going to conclude. That only means another hour.”

  Behind Read were seated all the notables of the Steelton District, deadly serious, nodding from time to time in agreement with some dismal platitude. The professional politicians, including the Lieutenant Governor, Senator Bacon, several State Representatives, Colonel Putnam of the State Militia, and some smaller fry, sat staring vacantly out into the mammoth audience, paying no attention to Senator Greeley; they’d heard all this bunk before, in fact they’d used it themselves.

  The audience got more and more restless. Gregg leaned forward;

  “That old windbag’s going to kill this meeting, Read.”

  “We want Read Cole!” the heckler insisted.

  Finally the Senator concluded, introducing Read. There was a wall-shaking tumult. The Senator turned and went back to his seat, muttering to himself.

  Read stood in the middle of the stage, waiting for the uproar to die down. He was neatly dressed in a gray business suit. He looked young, healthy and alert. Gregg watched him with a smile, thinking:

  “They think he’s a paragon. I know better. But he’s one good guy. I’ve got to do something about that little twist.”

  Read began quietly. The Armory was deathly still now and it worried him a little. Before him in the first row he saw the cynical faces of the newspapermen. Austeen was on the aisle, immaculate in a blue serge suit, with his legs crossed and his arms folded.

  Read talked slowly and carefully. Gradually the audience sat back; the murmuring began again; several people coughed loudly; a man got up and went out. Read felt nervous; he wasn’t getting any place. He stopped and took a drink of water. Then he began again, outlining his future program. Again he hesitated, looking down at his apathetic audience. The newspapermen were getting restless; they had begun to glance at one another. The Governor was pretty dull; almost as bad as Gasbag Greeley; and they had expected fireworks!

  Presently they got them. Read, in speaking of Asa Fielding, suddenly stopped, threw out his right arm and cried:

  “An irresponsible demagogue! A danger to the State! Making promises he can’t keep. Deluding the poor. He’s come to the end of his rope…”

  There were jeers, catcalls, then an organized disturbance, which lasted for half a minute. Read waited, smiling slightly.

  “As Governor of the State of Ohio, I have the power to cause Asa Fielding’s arrest. Don’t worry, people. I don’t intend to arrest him. I intend to beat him. But he’s been warned. His last speech was a perfect example of irresponsible radicalism. It won’t do. We won’t stand for it. He doesn’t want an election, he wants a revolution…”

  There was a prolonged disturbance. Men from the steel plant stood up and yelled:

  “So do we! So do we!”

  “You won’t get it,” Read cried. “You’ll get a square deal, nothing more.”

  “A square deal, that’s a laugh!”

  “You’ll get what I call a square deal,” said Read. “I’m the Governor. What you call a square deal doesn’t matter!”

  “Fascist!” shouted somebody. “Heil Hitler! The rich have bought him up.”

  Read waited, his arms extended.

  “We’ve got a great emergency in our State at this minute. The worst radicals are taking advantage of the atmosphere of uncertainty, fear and suspicion created by Fielding. A false situation. Fielding will stop at nothing to be elected. He wants strikes, turmoil, bloodshed. In the north there are three big strikes at this moment. In the south the coal miners are threatening to walk out. There has been talk of a general strike. In Cleveland three members of the I.W.A. were arrested on a bombing charge… Friends, this is all the work of Fielding. Holding out false promises of future prosperity, he is trying to make every worker dissatisfied with his lot… he wants disorder, rioting; he hopes to see the breakdown of organized law and order… In short, he’s willing to create misery, to risk murder, to be elected… Do you want a man like that?”

  “Yes, yes,” cried a man in the back of the hall.

  Read went on, speaking firmly, slowly but heatedly. The Steelton politicians were no
t nodding in agreement now; they were as horrified as the professionals, who had begun to look nervously for a way out. From time to time Senator Greeley mopped his forehead with a big white silk handkerchief.

  There was a steady uproar in the Armory now. Men from the steel plant stood up and shook their fists at Read Cole, their former champion. Suddenly Colonel Putnam got up and went out.

  Read was getting ready to conclude.

  “Just a minute! Just a minute!” he cried above the uproar. “There are only a few days left till election day. We all want a fair election. We want the people’s choice in office. That’s what Democracy means. Well, you’re going to get a fair election. If the strikes aren’t settled by Monday midnight; if there are the slightest signs of rioting and disorder; if the radicals hold disorderly mass meetings; if, in short, things are not as they should be, I, as Governor of the Sovereign State of Ohio, am going to declare a public emergency. I’m going to declare State-wide martial law. There’ll be troops at the polls, friends.” Read rose on his tiptoes and shouted above the uproar: “I want all radicals to hear me: We don’t want you here… get out… this is a solemn warning, Enemies of the State…”

  He was completely drowned out. Fights started all over the Armory. There was the tearing crash of breaking furniture. The politicians dashed for the nearest exit. Read was instantly surrounded by plainclothes men. Below, the huge place was a mass of screaming, tangled humanity. Suddenly, there was a bugle call, loud and shrill. The big doors at the back burst open and a platoon of Militia marched in, headed by Colonel Putnam.

  The uproar subsided almost immediately. There was the dead silence of fear over the Armory, then people began quietly to file out.