The Ninth Wave

by Eugene Burdick

  Matthieson smiled, There was no humor in his smile and no fear.

  "Maybe you should just tell us what Cromwell wants to do if he becomes governor," Matthieson said.

  Mike looked around the room at the young executives. He moved the cigar into the corner of his mouth; a quick expert motion of strong teeth and lips. He bit the cigar hard and for a few seconds he did not speak. He just looked at the men.

  He's sore, Hank thought, He's angry because they fired Notestein.

  "Cromwell will do what's necessary to stay in office," Mike said.

  "That's no help, friend," the man with the sunburned knees said, "That could mean anything."

  Mike turned his head and stared at the man. Then he grinned.

  "Well, take your case, just as an example," Mike said. "Your name is Johnstone and you're public relations director for Cortez Agriculture Corporation. Twelve thousand acres in Imperial, seven thousand in San Joaquin, a few ranches around Salinas. Lettuce, sugar beets, some cotton, lots of beef. You're a subsidiary of a New Jersey holding corporation and you pay wages that are eight cents an hour less than most other big farming outfits."

  "That's right, friend," the man said, "You've got me tagged."

  But he's not scared, Hank thought and he felt assured. This is different from Fresno. This is different from a scared Hungarian Jew. This is power, money, experience. This is organization.

  "And every trade union and agricultural worker in California hates your guts," Mike said. "So maybe Cromwell introduces a bill making the minimum wage for agricultural workers one buck an hour." He took the cigar out of his mouth, looked at the moist end. "Or maybe he introduces a bill saying that corporations owned by out-of-state people have to pay a special tax . . . say five dollars a year for every person they employ."

  "We'd block it in the legislature," Johnstone said, "We've gotfriends there."

  "So the bill would lose," Mike said very softly. The Filipino had stopped stirring a pitcher of martinis, as if he had received a signal. "The bill would lose the first time Cromwell submitted it. But just by submitting it, just by attacking Cortez Corporation, he'd pick up a hundred thousand votes among agricultural workers."

  Johnstone smiled and leaned back in his chair.

  "But most agricultural workers don't vote," Johnstone said. "They move around the state too much to establish the minimum time for residence requirements."

  "You're so stupid," Mike said. "Don~t you see the next step? Do I have to tell you? Cromwell would introduce a bill providing that agricultural workers didn't have to meet the residence requirements. That if they lived all year round in California that, would be enough." He stuck the cigar in his teeth, clamped down on it and spoke harshly. "And the legislature would have to pass that. Because it's democratic, it extends suffrage, it would be popular. And then, Johnstone, Cromwell would have you by the short hair."

  Johnstone stopped smiling. He leaned forward and put his hands over his sunburned knees. He looked at Matthieson.

  "There's no sense getting emotional," Matthieson said quickly. "A hundred thousand votes isn't going to get Cromwell in office or keep him there. You know that."

  Mike grinned and did not answer. He puffed on the cigar.

  Matthieson went on to say that wages were higher in California than in most other western states; that the workers were loyal to their companies; that everyone in business had to make a profit.

  Mike said nothing. Hank felt the sharp pleasant edge of his gin and tonic vanish. He looked around at the young executives. He hoped the drink had dulled his perception. But he knew it had not. Their toughness was dissolving. Their faces suddenly were covert, protective, sly. The toughness was still there, but it was shattered.

  Mike stood up, ignored Matthieson's words. He walked over to the big tinted window and looked across the channel. The room became quiet.

  "Outside that window, right across the channel, Los Angeles County begins," Mike said. "Four million voters. Incompetent, restless, discontented. They're the political bosses. You'd like to think that F.D.R. was the political boss that punished the hell out of you for twenty years. But you're wrong. It was those people across the channel. He sensed what they would allow him to do. They gave him permission. And with ninety-five per cent of the newspapers against him, with all of the good and responsible people hating his guts, with all the big money against him he won . . . four times."

  Matthieson cleared his throat. He looked confused; as if he did not know how the conversation had gotten sidetracked.

  "What's that got to do with the governor of California?" Matthieson asked.

  "Maybe a lot, maybe a lot," Mike said with satisfaction. "The boss is out there. In the big cities, towns, farms, trade union halls, beer parlors. Millions of him. But the governor is their executive and, if he's really good he can take all that antagonism and resentment out there and channel it through the legislature, the committees, commissions, research groups, the legislative auditor, federal bureaus and a thousand others. And he can make it expend itself that way. So that when it comes up to the surface again it's tamed and manageable. Or, if he wants, he can give the great big restless mass a kick in the ass. And when they turn around he can point his finger at you and say you did it. You, Wall Street, the big boys, the plutocrats. What you want, gentlemen, for governor, is a man that will not point the finger at you."

  They saw what it had to do with the governor of California. They looked out the tinted windows, across the pink scented backs of their wives, through the rigging of the yacht, and beyond that was The City. And in The City were the People. Millions of them. On the faces of the young executives was the sudden knowledge of how slight was their protection against the People. The yacht, the beach house, the cool executive offices, the clean children, the maid, the second car, the precious incredibly wonderful sense of being "in" . . . all this was separated from the brutish, pawing, powerful hands of the masses by the thinnest, most translucent, most narrow of barriers. They had taken it all for granted, but now, by some subtle appreciation of Mike's words they realized how slight was their protection, how easily the barrier could be ripped aside and the People could come pouring in.

  On their faces was a sudden wonderment that it had not happened before; that all of the things that separated them from the People had not maddened the People into action; had not teased the jealous, tortured, restless Masses into revenge. And when they looked away from the Balboa Hills that protected them from Los Angeles and glanced at Mike, they were different men. They knew he could push his finger against the barrier and it would open and let all of this pour in on them. And they wondered why it had not happened before.

  "Assume that Cromwell could win," Matthieson said. "What would he want from us? If he thinks we're going to finance a whole damned campaign he's crazy, we won't."

  Matthieson's voice was firm, under control, but Hank was not deceived. hey were defeated. Old habits of control and negotiating still remained; the retreat would be orderly; it would not be a rout. But Mike had won. No one in the room was in any doubt about that.

  Inside of Hank something collapsed blackly and softly; formed a small hard knob of despair in his mind. Some insulating, protective illusion was gone and he knew that some sort of decision had been made. He knew the last defense had crumbled.

  "Mike, I have to go," Hank said. He stood up. The men diminished, fell away into a tinted blue-green shadow, the gin and tonic roared in Hank's head. Then everything took shape again. They were gaping at him; not in surprise, but in relief. "Have an operation in the city. Just have time to make it back."

  "I'll go with him," Georgia said. They stood up and walked out of the room. They heard Mike's voice rise, start to outline the terms.

  As they went by the umbrella, the women looked up. Their faces were resentful, flushed, too pink. The talks had taken too long; it was late for lunch; and, dimly, they sensed that their husbands had lost. As if the smell of defeat had drifted across the porch,
down the steps, delicately across the sand and to their sensitive nostrils. They watched Hank and Georgia dully.

  Neither of them spoke as they drove out of Balboa Beach, past the dirty beer-can-studded beach, through Seal Beach and up onto the Harbor Freeway. Then Georgia spoke.

  "I don't understand what he wants from them," she said. "Father said he would give all the money that was necessary: He said he would underwrite all the expenses. Then Cromwell wouldn't be obligated to a lot of other people."

  The brakes on the car screeched. Hank pulled over to the side of the road, parked on the soft shoulder.

  "Did your father really say that to Mike?" Hank asked.

  "Yes. He's made arrangements for Mike to have all the money he needs."

  "Are you sure Mike has plenty of money?" Hank asked. "Be sure, Georgia. Are you absolutely sure?"

  "I'm absolutely sure. I checked it with Morrie. Mike has all the money he needs."

  Hank licked his lips, his lean face seemed gaunt. He started the car and moved slowly with the traffic

  "It means Mike's gone over the edge," Hank said. "He didn't talk to them because he needed money. He talked to them because he wanted them to know that Mike Freesmith was a big tough guy. That he had power. That he could beat them. He doesn't need their money, but he needs. their surrender . . . he needs to see that frightened look in their eyes. He'll win without their money. But because they resisted him he had to show them. He knew they were opposed to him; he knew they had power; they were tough. And so he went out and beat them. And he didn't have to."

  He looked over at Georgia. For a moment she stared at him and then she knew he was right. Her lips worked as if she might laugh; her fine white teeth showed. But she did not laugh. An anguished sound came from her lips. She bit her knuckles to hold it back. In a few moments she could speak.

  "That was the last chance, Hank," she said. "They were the last ones that could stop him. They were confident and they had power. I was sure they'd stop him. And he just had to be stopped once. Just once he had to be beat and then he could be resisted. But they couldn't," she said. She closed her eyes. "Hank, did you see the look on their faces when he talked? He made them feel that there were four million Mike Freesmiths out there in Los Angeles County; four million hard, tough people waiting to get at them. And they knew that Mike was the only person that stood between them and the four million. He broke them, Hank. Just as if he had picked them up and broken their backs across his knee." She opened her eyes and looked across her knuckles at Hank. "Now what happens, Hank?"

  "I don't know," Hank said. "Now we try, I guess. Can you stop him?"

  "I don't think so, Hank," she said. "He won't stop because of anything I do. If I threaten to leave him he'll laugh. Maybe a month ago if Father had withdrawn his money it would be a threat. But not now. Now he's past that. He doesn't need Father's money. See, Hank, it doesn't make any difference now whether Mike is right or not about how people act in politics. He's persuaded enough people that they act in a certain way . . . and now, they're acting the way he believes they do."

  "I don't know if I can stop him, now," Hank said. "Maybe no one can."

  He picked up speed. The car rushed down the freeway; like a corpuscle caught in a rushing, busy artery, swept along by thousands of other corpuscles, they rushed toward the great roaring viscera of the City.

  CHAPTER 31

  The Last Green Hump

  The October storm waves came thundering in. In the far distance they were blue, heavy and innocent. But as each wave reached the shallows it turned green, its huge bulk rose into the air, it turned a concave face toward the beach. There was a moment when the wave seemed frozen, motionless. It stiffened and along its back appeared short, striated lines of power, like muscles tightened. It was sleek and smooth with force. Then a line of white spume, as solid as cream, appeared along the top of the wave and it curled forward. With a crash the whole wave broke. The green mass was gone and the wave disappeared and was replaced by a huge white seething wall of foam that roared in to the shore.

  The waves piled in without pause. They were the edge of a storm that was thousands of miles away. They were huge. From the breaking point to the sand, the sea was foaming white, roiled with splintered waves, twisted by undertow, streaked with clouds of sand.

  Hank took one board from the rack on top of his car and walked to the edge of the cliff above the cove. The place was deserted; the beach was empty. As he walked down the path he noticed that the ice plant was dried out and brown, waiting for the winter rains. The path was drifted over where the wind had gnawed into the soft soil of the cliff and made miniature landslides. He walked slowly, feeling his way carefully over the drifts, balancing the board on his shoulder. Halfway down he stopped and rested. Then he went the rest of the way.

  The storm waves had narrowed the beach. It was only fifteen or twenty feet wide. Hank put the board down. For a moment he squatted in the sand and looked out to sea. Here, with his eye almost at water level, the long sweep of ocean to the horizon was invisible. He could see to the shallows but no farther. There his vision was blocked by the slow, regular, inevitable heaving of the ocean as the newest wave was formed. The waves reached into the sky, blotted out the sky and the Channel Islands.

  The waves exhausted themselves just at Hank's feet. He reached down and touched the last thin edge of the waves. They hissed softly against the sand, turned it gray, and then slid backward.

  Hank stood up. He started back up the cliff.

  Ten minutes later he had the second board on the beach. He brushed them both off, set them carefully on their sides. He took his pants and shirt off and stretched out on the send in his shorts.

  The early winter sun was very thin. The surface of the sand was warm, but not like the summer sand. Just below the surface the sand was chilled, slightly wet. And there were no sand fleas.

  Once Hank opened his eyes and looked at the sun. It was yellow and pale. A thin corona, like a black line, traced its shape.

  He thought of the summer sand, the deep swelling warmth that seemed to come from the interior of the earth. He rolled over on his stomach, laid his cheek against. the sand. The grains were instantly cool. He turned again on his back.

  A gull came in from the sea, kaaing as it slid down a smooth layer of wind. Hank was looking straight up into the sky and saw it for a moment. Its white shape and the pink feet scarred the blueness of the sky and the yellow light between the sky and earth. It looked very small

  He forgot how long he lay there, pulling the heat from the sky, feeling the coldness of the beach against his back. But finally he heard the sound of a car at the top of the cliff. He sat up. He saw Mike's head, and then Georgia's peer over the side of the cliff. Then they started down the path.

  Hank picked up one of the boards and stepped to the edge of the water. He waded in until the water reached his ankles. In a well-remembered motion he swung the board into the water and forward and, at the same time, landed on the board while it still had motion. He squatted on the board and began to paddle.

  The board chunked into the first shattered wave. It was a wall of foam only a few feet high. The board cut up through the foam, diced through empty air and then whipped flat. Hank eased his weight onto his arms, lifted his knees slightly from the board and when the board slapped against the water began paddling again.

  The next three waves were easy because they were almost spent. But between the waves the water hissed and boiled in a way Hank had never seen. The water moved in quick senseless eddies, was checked by other pressures and tossed aimlessly. The board cut across the eddies, making a slicing neat sound that came minutely to his ear, cutting through the larger sounds.

  The fourth wave was difficult. It came combing down on him, four feet of foam, laced through with green strands of water. He paddled hard, with his cheek flat on the board. As the nose of the board hit the wave, he slid his weight back to raise the board, and then, instantly, pushed forward. The board wh
iplashed into the foam; crashed into the wave with a motion that was arclike, but moving forward. The wave sucked at him, he lost way and then, almost as he stopped, it released him. His eyes were full of water but he was already paddling. He blinked his eyes clear and looked ahead.

  This is the moment, he thought. The moment when you see the ocean's worst face, when you are most evenly matched.

  Twenty yards in front of him a big wave was forming. It rose silently, steeply, without effort. The mound of water started to peak, to raise itself into the air.

  Hank paddled in deep powerful strokes. His whole body was bowed into the effort. He stared at the wave, watched the line of spume suddenly thread along the top. The wave turned concave; became a huge forward-bending wall. He felt a pressure in his ears and knew the wave was about to break. He paddled savagely and just as the tons of water curled down, he shot into the concave green substance. He cut through the middle of the wave; he locked his arms around the board. He felt the wave crash down on his ankles; the board shivered for a moment, was almost dragged backward and he heard a great rumbling savage noise as the wave hit the surface of the ocean. Then he was released. He slid out past the surf line.