Adler, Warren - Banquet Before Dawn

by Banquet Before Dawn [lit]

  "A stab wound," he said, shaking his head. "When?"

  Norman put a hand over the receiver and looked at them.

  "Sullivan's been stabbed."

  "My God," Aram said breathlessly.

  "He's okay, though," Norman added quickly. He talked into the receiver again. "Yeah, go on." They watched him react to the voice at the other end of the wire. Norman nodded and occasionally made grunting sounds to underline his listening presence. Finally he hung up.

  "The stupid bastard has got himself stabbed. A nurse at the clinic, the free clinic around the corner from the Dutchman, says one of the doctors just came back from stitching him up. Apparently the idiot went for a stroll in Mau Mau country."

  "Has it been reported?" Alby asked, always the pragmatist.

  "Apparently not. As a matter of fact this doctor told the chick that he had been urged that it not be reported," Norman said. "Now why would they do that?"

  "That's obvious," Aram said. "He's going to make it a happening, build a PR thing around it. Hell, he might even accuse us of inspiring it." Aram paused. It was a random thought that merely slipped into his speech, frightening him. He paused and searched their faces. "Goddammit, I hope we had nothing to do with it."

  "Are you crazy?" Norman said.

  "There would be no currency in it," Alby remarked with disgust. "You're getting paranoid, Aram."

  "Am I?" he said coolly, conscious that he had, at last, put them on the defensive. "Just put it all together from Sullivan's point of view."

  "It could create a problem," Alby said, picking up Aram's implications.

  "That's right," Aram said. "He could tell the press that this was just one of a series of little happenings created by the opposition, by us, to scare him out of the race."

  "Aram, you're getting quite Machiavellian in your old age," Alby said, smiling.

  "It is a possibility, Alby. You've got to admit it."

  "I admit it. And a good possibility. The strategy of the victim. A great gambit if they're smart enough to pick it up. And we've got to assume that they are."

  "How do we respond then?" Norman asked, shaking his head.

  "We need to do something quickly," Alby said. "We need something, a statement now, right now, timed and dated, to make our own denial credible."

  "Like a telegram," Aram interjected.

  "Just something to have in readiness in case he tries to use it, something to take the edge off. Like an expression of sympathy for a … a senseless act. That's always good … 'senseless act.' We could also play on the theme of hopelessness and frustration, the need for new ideas to stop these senseless acts from continuing. Yes, that would be the theme. We'll make it appear as if in his twenty-odd years of representing this district, this is what happened to it, and now he is indeed the ultimate victim …"

  "…and part of the cause," Norman added.

  "Jesus," Aram said, "why not?" He was smiling.

  "What do you know, Alby?" Norman said. "We've gained approval. A thousand thanks."

  "If they're clever," Alby continued thoughtfully, "they'll use it. It's got dra, pathos, good human interest. We sure as hell would make good use of it if it were us."

  "You don't think the telegram will help neutralize it?" Norman asked seriously.

  "Of course it will," Alby said. "It's the classic response. But I'm more concerned with the press coverage Sullivan caught. It could stretch out, be on the front pages for more days than it should. Sullivan could keep it alive. There's a big difference between the image of a victim and that of a loser."

  Aram suddenly felt depressed. He felt awkward, remembering his little tantrum of a few moments before. Of course he wanted to win. At any cost? _Well, within reason,_ he told himself.

  Alby sat down at the table and began to scribble the text of the telegram on a sheet of yellow legal paper. Aram leaned over, a hand on his shoulder trying to decipher his writing.

  "They should have killed the bastard," Norman said, banging a fist into a palm. Aram looked up, started to say something, then checked himself. Hadn't he thought the same thing? he admitted.

  ———— *14* HE lay there in the uncomfortable lumpiness of the bed. Through the tear in the window shade, he could see that it was night, moonless night, as if the blackness had been painted in murky strokes with a brush. Stirring, he felt the pain, first near his shoulder, where the skin had been slashed, then radiating outward along the row of stitches. As he worked himself into a sitting position, he felt the stretching and tightening, then throbbing and pain once again.

  He became conscious of an aching in his gut, and in his arms and legs which had finally given way under the tension. The strain of his confrontation in the alley called upon aging and long-unused muscles to work beyond their normal capacity. The pain resurrected the memory. Anger, raw and agitating, welled up in him as he saw himself confronted in the alley, running into the crowded street, dragging the boy's agonized body, his fingers gripped like a vise around his throat. Clutching for survival, for life, like a cornered animal.

  He had stumbled homeward, chest aching, the blood congealed on his back, his clothing hanging in shreds. Clutching grimy walls, leaning against battered garbage cans and parked cars, he clawed his way along filth-ridden cement squares, pushing toward the towering red-brick ancient ruin of the Grand Dutchman, which rose in the distance.

  People glanced at him briefly, then averted their eyes. He was actually thankful for his anonymity. What could they do for him?

  At last he stumbled through the lobby and slapped his palm against the elevator button, sounding a raucous buzz through the cavernous lobby. The black porter, his breath reeking of booze, half dragged, half carried Sully into the elevator and propped him against the stained walls of the car, then helped him into the suite.

  "Mother of God," April screamed when she saw him, his face ashen, his eyes fixed in a catatonic stare as he concentrated on drawing breath.

  Fitz, who had been glancing over the morning papers, ran to him and helped the porter place him sideways on the couch, revealing the clotting wound.

  "Where did you find him?" Fitz whispered.

  "He jes walked in. Jes like that."

  April swiftly took off Sully's ragged shirt while Fitz poured him a drink and held it to his lips. Sully gulped, felt the hotness of the booze on the back of his throat, coughed, then swallowed deeply. His breathing stabilized, and a faint color began to return to his cheeks.

  The porter stood, tentatively watching the scene and waiting listlessly for some word or gesture to signify that he could go. It was Perlmutter who saw it. He gave him a five-dollar bill and ushered him out.

  Blood began to ooze again from Sully's wound, and it dripped onto the faded couch.

  "Should I get an ambulance?" Perlmutter asked.

  April had begun to clean the wound with a towel. Sully turned his face toward them.

  "No ambulance," heaid weakly.

  "Get a doctor," April cried. She looked at the wound. "It seems a clean cut." She held the towel over the wound, pressing it lightly.

  Fitz, his eyes brimming with tears, dashed out of the suite. Perlmutter poured another drink and urged it down Sully's throat. He

  drank, gagged briefly, then sipped and swallowed.

  "You're gonna be all right, Sully," April said severely. It was her way under stress to be severe. "I guarantee it. You tough old Irish bastard." She looked up at Perlmutter, anguish in her eyes.

  "Why did they do this?" Perlmutter asked quietly, as if it were to be assumed that "they" were their opponents.

  "Not 'them,'" Sully stammered weakly, understanding the implications. It had, of course, occurred to him at the very first moment of the attack. But he rejected the thought once he realized that his antagonist was on the verge of committing murder.

  "Who then?" April asked. She propped Sully's head up on the armrest of the couch. He felt his eyes drooping with exhaustion.

  "Our … our constituents," he mum
bled.

  "Constituents?"

  Exhausted in body, Sully, nevertheless, found his mind racing. He knew it now, understood it. No civilization was left here in this patch of damnation that was "his" piece of geography, his place, his district, his people. _What have I done to them?_ he thought.

  "I feel so tired," he said aloud. April gently stroked his forehead and kissed his lips.

  Fitz returned in less than fifteen minutes. A tall white-coated black doctor walked behind him, carrying his medical case. He walked immediately to where Sully lay and gently removed April's hand and, with it, the towel she had been holding on the wound. He observed the slashed skin and the semiclotted blood still oozing from it, probed on either side with practiced hands, then opened his case.

  "Not too bad," he said, swabbing it with alcohol. Sully winced. The doctor talked cheerfully as he cleaned the wound.

  "This agitated fellow walked into the free clinic down the street, literally dragged me out of there. He was a bit incongruous in that setting. I figured it had to be something really important if he had come in there in the first place." The doctor talked quietly, good- humored, as he worked preparing a hypodermic needle. "He kept babbling something about a dying Congressman."

  "They don't kill us Sullivans so fast. We suffer a lot first."

  "Congressman Sullivan. Of course."

  "See, Sully?" April said. "A constituent."

  "Sorry. I don't live here." The doctor turned and looked at her. "Would you?"

  "Your people did this to him," Fitz said. "They could have killed him."

  The doctor ignored Fitz's remark. He worked methodically, pointing the hypodermic needle upward and squirting a drop from its point before holding it above the wound.

  "This will hurt," he said. "But we've got to deaden it for a stitch- up." He plunged the needle into the redness. Sully felt the jab of pain wash over him, strangely enervating.

  "You be careful, Doc," Fitz hissed, seeing the needle strike. He must have seen it as an act of brutality. Sully turned his head and looked into the doctor's smiling face. He had skin the color of cocoa, a thin black mustache, and sprinkles of gray in his hair.

  "He's a testy old Irish bastard," Sully said. "A little in his cups."

  "I had that impression," the doctor said.

  Fitz shrugged and walked to the sideboard to pour himself another drink.

  "It's not exactly a healthy place in which to walk around," the doctor said, putting together his stitching device. "I come here once a week to do the free clinic."

  "You really don't live here?" Sully asked.

  "Lord, no," the doctor said. "No one quite 'lives' here. People only suffer here. This hurt?"

  Sully felt nothing. He shook his head. The doctor began to stitch the wound. His fingers worked lightly.

  "I come here once a week. I live on Long Island. I guess it's way to pay my dues. My wife thinks I'm crazy. The worst part is I can't see any end to it. No end at all. It's getting worse. You can't imagine the cases that come to the clinic. It really is beyond belief."

  "Jungle monkeys," Fitz said bitterly. "Mau Mau land."

  "Please, Fitz," April said.

  "Don't upset yourself," the doctor continued. "It's the price you pay in people's minds, minds like that florid gentleman over there. Perhaps that's why I'm here once a week. Am I hurting you?"

  "No, Doctor …"

  "Linford." He paused, continued to stitch the wound. "On the one hand, I feel responsible. My wife, a very perceptive woman, thinks it's guilt. She's probably closer to the truth." He finished sewing and bandaging the wound. "Not bad. Not bad at all. A bit of fancy stitching. How do you feel?"

  Sully sat up so that he could face the doctor less awkwardly. He still felt drained.

  "Teach you to go walking in bad neighborhoods," Linford said cheerfully.

  "The beauty part," Fitz said as he poured another whiskey from a bottle into his emptied glass, "is that he represents these people. Represents them in Congress. Shit, he works his ass off for them. Ungrateful bastards." He paused and gulped down his drink. "Goddamned niggers."

  "He's not a harmful man, really," Sully said, quickly. He watched the doctor coolly ignore Fitz's outbursts.

  "Neither are they out there," the doctor said calmly.

  "Fitz, you're embarrassing the hell out of us," April admonished. "Please, Doctor, we're terribly sorry."

  "No need to apologize, young lady," Linford said, smiling. "I have heard that word before, you know…. I'm going to give you a sedative," he said to Sully. He took a vial out of his case and snapped the case shut. "Your own doctor ought to see you to remove the stitches."

  He stood up and April took his hand.

  "We appreciate your time, doctor," she said.

  "No sweat. Hippocratic oath and all that." He reached out and took Sully's hand. Sully pumped the doctor's hand and held on.

  "I do have one favor, Doctor."

  "Sure, Congressman."

  "I don't know what the procedure is on reporting this. Is there one?"

  "As a matter of fact, there is."

  "I would appreciate your not reporting it."

  Perlmutter, who had watched them silently, suddenly erupted.

  "It should be reported. It's important to you, Congressman, that it be reported. It has tremendous PR implications to you. It dramatizes your position."

  "You sound like you engineered it yourself, Marvin," Sully said, smiling.

  "Really, Congressman. Can't you see the currency in this for us?" Perlmutter asked. "First, you were nearly killed. Second, you identify immediately with all the poor frightened souls that live in constant fear of the same fate, intimidated by the violence. It's good newspaper and TV copy. And it doesn't cost a penny. I can't understand why you want to keep this a secret. In its own ghoulish way, it's a lucky break."

  Sully knew, of course, that Perlmutter was correct and that in the past he would have jumped at the opportunity. Lord knows, he was never one to miss an opportunity. But he knew now that it was all pointless. Irrelevant! The experience of the morning had wrought some changes in

  the way he looked at things. He searched his mind for an explanation that could be articulated. Instead, he could just bring himself to offer a conclusion.

  "It just doesn't make any difference anymore, Marvin."

  "You mean you're just going to lie down and accept defeat."

  "To everything there is a season." Sully chuckled.

  "I'm serious, Congressman."

  "I know, and I'm sorry, Marvin, genuinely sorry."

  Sully watched the doctor, standing over him, ramrod straight, towering in his white jacket and reassuring in his professional demeanor. Dr. Linford smiled.

  "For your information, the one thing that I avoid in this area is the paperwork. If I were to report all the cuings — they call it cuttings here — I could spend all my time in court."

  "You're not going to report it then?" Perlmutter asked.

  "No," Linford said, emphatically, "I would resist it."

  "Good," Sully said. "Now that that's settled, how about a drink?"

  "Thank you," Dr. Linford said, "but the least I can give them is a clear head." He waved and started to the door. Hand on the door handle, he stopped and turned.

  "You don't really represent these people, you know, Congressman."

  "I know," Sully said. "It's a big howl, isn't it?"

  "Not too many people are laughing," Dr. Linford said, walking out the door.

  When he had gone, Sully lay down again on his side, facing them. He watched their faces: April, as always white as alabaster, her eyes dark- ringed and anxious; Fitz, beet-red, pouting as he upended his glass; Perlmutter, his eyes feverish behind thick lenses. Sully felt another wave of exhaustion engulf him.

  "Goddamned superior black son of a bitch," Fitz hissed, the anger hardening in its focus on the doctor.

  "You're an asshole, an absolute asshole," Perlmutter said, turning to face him.r />
  Sully listened as they bickered. His thoughts were still concentrated on his exchange with Dr. Linford.

  Even in his tiredness, his mind had grasped that he had met the doctor on the same plateau of guilt, had understood the corrosiveness of the emotion, its power to obliterate all layers of protection.

  April handed him a glass of water and two capsules from the vial the doctor had left.