The Ninth Wave

by Eugene Burdick

  Mike turned and winked at Georgia.

  "Let's go upstairs," he said. "I want to make a phone call. I'm going to call your brother Morrie."

  When they got to the room Mike placed the call to Morrie Blenner with the operator. He whistled as he waited for the call. In a few minutei the call came through.

  "How are things going in Fresno, Mr. Freesmith?" Morrie's small precise voice asked. "How is our candidate doing?"

  "All right, Morrie," Mike said. "Only one thing can lick him. If he gets over that he'll get the nomination."

  "What is it?" the tiny voice on the phone asked.

  "A reporter for the 'Los Angeles Post' named Grover," Mike said. "He has some articles attacking Cromwell." "Spell his name please, Mr. Freesmith," Blenner said. "G-R-O-V-E-R, Robert Grover."

  "I'll check it," Morrie said. "When will they make the nomination?" His words came tiny, jeweled, almost inaudibly to Mike's ear.

  "Tomorrow morning," Mike said. ,

  "It will be over by midafternoon tomorrow then?"

  "That's right," Mike said. "I'll give you a call when it's over. Don't worry about what you read in the papers. They don't know what's going on. All the reporters think Cutler is a sure bet for the nomination. But they don't know what's happening."

  Morrie chuckled.

  "I never believe the papers," he said.

  The phone clicked dead in Mike's ear. He hung up.

  CHAPTER 22

  "Bind Not the Madmen . . . "

  Mike woke up. He waited a moment and then put out his hand. Georgia was there. He sat up in bed and called room service. Georgia woke up and reached for a cigarette. Her naked body came up out of the covers and she sat yogi-style.

  "Send up a copy of the 'L.A. Post' and two grapefruit and a lot of crisp bacon and some buttered toast," Mike said. "You put the butter on the toast. Don't send those hard little chunks of butter. Lots of coffee. O.K.?"

  Georgia slid out of bed and stood in front of the mirror. Her figure was far from perfect. Her ribs showed and her wrists and elbows were knobby. Also her legs were too long and the knees showed the effects of being crippled. But her hips were round and firm, the flesh was without a wrinkle and the hipbone was soft and curved. Her breasts were full, but not large, just at the very edge. of being lush.

  Georgia was showered and dressed by the time Hank knocked on the door. She was putting on her lipstick when he came in. He looked at her without speaking and she flushed.

  "Did you se~ the story in the 'Post'?" Hank asked.

  "No. Read it to me," Mike called from the bathroom.

  "Fresno, March 15. Delegates to the Democratic Pre-Primary Convention in Fresno today were angered by reports that Richard Cutler, candidate for Democratic endorsement for governor at the primary, was preparing to blast John Cromwell, also rumored to be seeking endorsement, as being pro-communist.

  "Party leaders said that the Cutler charges were based on information that had long been discredited. It was felt that Cutler's chances would be endangered by such charges. Cromwell could not be reached for comment. There was an unconfirmed report that . . . "

  "O.K. That's enough," Mike said. He came out of the bathroom. The waiter came in with a large tray and put it on a coffee table. Mike picked up a piece of toast and put three pieces of bacon on it, rolled it into a bun and began to eat. "Now that's very helpful of the 'Post' to do that. Who wrote the article?" Hank looked at the paper.

  "Grover. Robert Grover." Hank said. He poured himself a cup of coffee. "Look, Mike, has Cromwell ever been a Communist?"

  "No."

  "Then why doesn't he just come out and say so?" Hank asked. "Just say he doesn't want their support; has never been for them."

  "You don't do it that way," Mike said through the toast and bacon. "See, there are about two thousand Communists in this state."

  "Let 'em go to hell," Hank said. "Just count on losing two thousand votes."

  Mike shook his head, chewed on the toast and bacon. He took a swallow of coffee. Georgia began to eat; not looking up from her grapefruit.

  "You don't get it," Mike said. "The political parties in California are like two icebergs floating around in the ocean. Most of them underwater; just a little tip of each one sticking above water. Most voters won't change parties come what may. They're underwater and they're happy. At the top, like ants, are the ones that might change; milling around looking for some reason to jump from one iceberg to another. I don't know why the icebergs are about the same size, but they are. Now the trick is to keep them from changing or to control the change. Or make just the right ants jump from just the right iceberg at the right time. Control, my boy, that's the answer. Control."

  Mike grinned. Georgia looked up from her grapefruit. Hank watched her.

  "What's all that got to do with the Communists?" Hank asked.

  "One thing about a Communist . . . he's a hell of a good worker. He'll do anything: precinct work, address envelopes, haul people to the polls, ring doorbells, make phone calls. Just as a rule of thumb you can assume that any good worker, in any party, can bring in about fifteen votes . . . he can drag fifteen people up from the bottom of the iceberg and make them jump with him, So multiply fifteen times two thousand and you get thirty thousand votes. That's too many. It might win an election. So Cromwell won't say anything about Communists in this election."

  "So Cromwell's going to try for Communist support?" Hank asked.

  "I didn't say that, my boy," Mike said. "You don't listen. He just wants to keep them underwater; make sure they don't come out onto the tip of the iceberg and dance around; make people nervous. Don't rock them icebergs, Hank, unless you know what you're doing. That's the art of the politician. The Communists won't support Cromwell whatever he does. What we want to do is just keep 'em neutral."

  "Oh, Mike, they couldn't hurt you anyway," Georgia said. "You're just being melodramatic."

  Mike shrugged his shoulders. He picked up three more pieces of bacon, rolled them in toast. He sucked the grease from his fingers.

  "They could hurt Cromwell if they wanted," Mike said flatly. "Or Cutler or anyone. What would happen if you had two thousand people who went around quietly pulling your quarter-cards down or saying in Jewish delicatessens that they heard Cromwell was anti-Semitic or asking in a Negro liquor store if it were true that Cromwell came from a long line of Mississippi plantation owners? Or say that they came out with a recommendation in the 'Daily Worker' for Cromwell . . . the Republicans would smear it all over the state. It would be a real deadly kiss."

  Hank watched Mike closely as he talked. Georgia was squeezing the juice out of the grapefruit, watching the spoon intently.

  "Mike, aren't you afraid that you or some other guy will calculate things like this and discover you've made a mistake and you've put a Hitler in power?" Hank said. "Look at Gemany in 1933. Everyone was trying to play everyone off against everyone else and the result was that Hitler got in."

  Georgia hesitated, sat still with the juice dripping from the grapefruit. The spoon filled and then overflowed onto the carpet. She looked down and quickly swallowed the spoonful of juice.

  "Sure. It might happen any day," Mike said. "But what of it? Is that bad? Look, Hankus, the first law of politics is: you can't give the people something they don't want. That's true in Russia, Germany, Japan or Timbuctoo. It's true in a dictatorship or a tyranny or a democracy. If the Russian people didn't want Communism it would be over in a week . . . finished, kaput, gone. But they want it; so they get it. So don't worry, Hank. Everything is for the best."

  "You know, Mike, for the first time I'm beginning to worry about you," Hank said. "Not a lot, but a little."

  Georgia started to say something, but Mike said they had to go to the meeting hall. In the corridor, people were moving slowly, talking loud. Several of them had large "Cutler for Governor" buttons on their lapels.

  "The Cutler people are organized, Mike," Hank said. "You'd better get moving, I haven't seen a C
romwell sign yet."

  "All in good time," Mike said. "That high-pressure stuff can be overdone."

  He stopped at a room just outside the entrance to the convention hall. He knocked on the door and it opened. Inside were a half dozen men. They looked like confidential clerks in a bank or stock house; neat, well-dressed, modest ties, black shoes. Mike looked at Georgia.

  "Keep Hank company," he said. "I'll be out in a few minutes. Got a few things to talk over."

  Inside the clerks were writing on pieces of paper with soft lead pencils. They worked quietly, quickly, without smiling. The door closed behind Mike.

  "I'm worried," Georgia said. "Mike's so disorganized. Those Cutler people will have all the delegates committed before Cromwell's campaign ever gets rolling."

  "Mike's not disorganized," Hank said. "He's beautifully organized. But only on important things. The rest of the things, the unimportant things, he just doesn't care about. If this endorsement is important for Mike he'll be organized. He'll be organized to the last dot."

  "He's not very well organized with me," Georgia said. "He's always late for dates, forgets appointments, that sort of thing."

  "That's because he's sure of you, Georgia," Hank said. He hesitated a moment and then went on. "He's sure of me too . . . and his wife and Cromwell and Clara. So he doesn't waste any time on us. He concentrates everything on what he feels is important. The thing he's not sure of."

  "He doesn't sound like a very nice person," Georgia said.

  "But efficient," Hank said. "Mike doesn't worry about everything. He just worries about what's important. Everything else he just forgets, doesn't think of it. Then he concentrates on the few situations or persons that he is not sure about; that are still important." Hank turned and looked directly at Georgia. "Think back. I'll bet there was a time when he devoted a lot of attention to you, when he appeared very organized. And then, after something happened, he pushed you down under."

  Georgia stared at him a moment and then realized what he was saying. Her cheeks burned slightly, but she did not drop her eyes.

  "You're right," she said. "Until one night at Santa Barbara I had the feeling . . . "

  "I don't want to hear about it," Hank said. "I'm not interested in your love life. I just wanted to illustrate a point."

  Hank's voice was harsh.

  "I'm not sure I'm below the surface now," Georgia said. "I feel . . . "

  "You feel you're very prominent in his mind," Hank said. "Well, you're wrong. You're under the surface . . . just as I am. That doesn't mean he can't love you. Maybe he does. Maybe he loves you very much. But he just doesn't waste time on you. It's a wonderful thing about Mike. That's why he can do so much. He's not like the average sharp young executive who gives the impression of being highly organized and spreads equal energies over his wife and kids and business and Rotary Club and college reunion. Not Mike. Mike knows what he has to do. Exactly. He does it. The rest he doesn't worry about."

  Inside the hall the "Star-Spangled Banner" sounded. In a moment four American Legionnaires came walking out of the hall. Only their hats and jackets were uniform. Their pants were regular business slacks and they wore natty two-tone sport shoes. The two men with the chrome-covered rifles marched smartly, but the men with the flags were more heavily burdened and they moved slowly as if their feet were tender.

  Mike came out of the room across the corridor.

  "Let's go on into the hall," he said. "They've just opened the floor to nominations."

  They walked in and sat in the rear row. The hall was almost full and several people were moving around the platform. Behind the podium were large pictures of Roosevelt and Truman. A tall fat woman in a mauve suit was standing behind a lectern.

  "The chair will recognize Mr. Ernest Eaton," the woman said. "A delegate from the Lassen County delegation."

  A tall, almost bald young man stood up. He had small and very shrewd eyes that were lost in a pleasant face. He wore a plaid shirt and his tie was pulled down from an unbuttoned collar. He stood with his hands in his hip pockets.

  "Up in Lassen County us Democrats aren't used to big-time political doings," Eaton said. "Mostly we just sit around 'and talk and try to win a schoolboard election or a few county offices and it's all peanuts, I guess. But we'll learn pretty quick how you do things around here and we'll probably be able to get along." Eaton rocked back on his heels, looked broadly out over the hall. The delegates laughed.

  "Eaton is one of Cutler's men," Mike said. "He's been in Lassen County three years and you'd never think he went to Harvard Law School and has twenty thousand a year of inherited money. He picked up that hayseed pose very, very quickly."

  "I'm here today to do just one thing," Eaton said. He scratched his head. "That is to place before you the name of a candidate who can win the governorship of California for the Democratic Party in November. He can win for three reasons. First, because he's never been associated with any group or person which has been in the least sympathetic to Communism . . . foreign or domestic. And that's important to California voters."

  He paused as a ripple of applause went through the hall.

  "Secondly, my candidate is a self-made man. He's met a payroll; he knows the problems of the working man; he knows the problems of business. He doesn't live on inherited wealth or from clipping coupons. He is a man of action," Eaton said. "Thirdly, the person whose name I am going to place in contention has been a lifelong Democrat. He hasn't wavered from party to party; from candidate to candidate. He has always gone right down the line for the Democratic platform and for Democratic candidates." Eaton paused and his big, egglike face creased in a smile. "And that can't be said of all the names you will hear today."

  Mike smiled and whispered.

  "He means Cromwell," Mike said. "Cutler's really taking out after Cromwell. He's sore because I didn't come around and talk about Cromwell running for lieutenant-governor."

  Eaton went on talking, but Mike did not listen. He looked around the hall.

  He nudged Hank and pointed at a little group of eight people sitting in the rear of the hall. They were older people and they sat primly in their seats. The women were dressed in cheap dark clothes. The men wore black suits. They sat quietly, listening to Eaton talk.

  "They're the pension people," Mike said. "They aren't delegates; they're observers. Up from Long Beach probably. They represent the senior Citizens, the Ham-and-Eggers, the Townsendites. The pension people send a group to every political meeting in the state. They just sit and watch and then report back what happens. They've got a lot of votes. No one knows for sure, but it's probably, a hundred thousand . . . maybe more."

  Mike pointed to a small dark Jew who was sitting off by himself. He was a small man and only his eyes, the top of his head and a cigar showed. He studied the tip of his cigar very carefully and then looked up at the ceiling.

  "Who is he?" Georgia asked.

  "That's Notestein, he's the political agent of the public utility companies," Mike said. "That's not his title and he doesn't even have a position with the utility companies. But he's their man. Lately he's become the political man for the, oil companies too. They're starting to worry about the state gas tax getting too high. Oil consumption is starting to go down so the oil people are getting back into politics."

  "Who's that big red-faced man?" Hank asked. He pointed at a man sitting in the front row.

  "That's Wilson, an AFL man," Mike said. "We won't see much of him. Trade unions don't mean much in this state; not in politics. But we'll see some of the others. Come on, let's get out of here. We'll go up to the room. This will go on for five or ten minutes and then Cutler will give a speech. We can miss all that."

  They stood up and walked up the aisle. Hank looked at the rows of identical, round, prosperous faces. They were attentive and alert. They gave off an aroma of Odorono, Aqua Velva, Old Crow, good perfume and tobacco. When they stepped out of the hall, at once Hank caught the old, familiar cheap odor of the hotel.<
br />
  Mike walked over to the little room across the hall and knocked on the door. One of the neat clerkly looking men opened the door. Mike spoke to him. The man nodded and went into the hall.

  When they got to the room, Mike took off his coat. "Call up and order some beer," Mike said. He went to his briefcase and began to haul out documents. Georgia ordered the beer and some chicken sandwiches. Almost at once there was a knock on the door. Mike went over and opened the door.

  "Hello, Mr. Appleton, come right on in," Mike said.

  Mr. Appleton was a small thin man. He had a long thin neck with red skin, folded like turkey's skin into tough slanting rolls. He looked as if he had once been much fatter and his bones and cartilage had simply shrunk inside the bag of his skin. He had bright glittering eyes, hard with suspicion. His shoes were very shiny and when he sat down he carefully pulled up his pants legs to save the press. His shoes were high. He wore a white shirt, but the points of the collar were tiny and yellow; the kind of yellow that comes from home washing and long careful storage and putting mothballs in linen drawers.