by Allen Drury
“Yes, I have,” Bob Leffingwell said, throwing off his depression with an obvious effort. “But it’s Orrin’s idea that you should conflict. What he means is that if yours comes first then he can attack what you say, and if his comes first you can attack what he says—so the fairest thing probably is to have them at the same hour. Which will annoy the press,” he said with the shadow of a smile, “no doubt. But I guess they can stand it.”
“So typical of Orrin,” Ceil said gently. “Worrying about fairness! Will the man never learn?”
“It seems eminently fair to me, too, Ceil,” her husband said mildly. “O.K., Bob, send out the word. Ten A.M. it is for both of us, and let them howl. I hope we will have some specifics to report by that time.”
“Oh, yes. We have some very good men with the delegations. I would say you have somewhere in the neighborhood of six hundred right about now. We’ll pin it down tighter by tonight.”
“Somewhere,” the Governor said dreamily, “in some column, news story, headline, program, broadcast, hint, rumor, marijuana jag, or pipe dream, I have seen the figure of six hundred for my distinguished opponent, too. Don’t tell me we go to the wire even.”
“You won’t go to the wire until Thursday. You won’t be even then.”
“I hope not,” the Governor said. “Now what?” he added in some annoyance as the sound of voices raised in bitter altercation sifted through the door. “Don’t they have orders not to let any—oh, yes,” he said, as they recognized the pompous, familiar tones. “I might have known. Come in, Walter!” he called loudly. “Let him in, out there! It’s all right.”
“Thank you,” Walter Dobius said, breathing hard and straightening a coat which had obviously been tugged at by somebody. “I must say,” he added, adjusting the red-ribboned PRESS badge which had also been knocked awry in the sort of tussle no philosopher-statesman should ever have to go through, “you have some ignorant and officious people out there. They didn’t even know who I am.”
“They were chosen for brawn, Walter,” Ceil said soothingly. “Obviously not for brains. Obviously. Have you been having a pleasant time covering the convention?”
“Conventions aren’t pleasant,” Walter said with a rudeness so obvious as to bring a sudden smile to her lips. “They are serious matters, involving the fate of a great nation.”
“I shall go to the foot of the class,” she said gravely. “With my little balloons and my little badges and my little banners.”
“What do you want, Walter?” Ted asked shortly. “Do you want to watch the opening session with us? We’re about to turn it on.”
“Certain people have come to me with offers of help for you,” Walter said calmly. “I want to discuss them with—you.”
“You are in the presence of my wife and my campaign manager. Discuss them.”
“Very well,” Walter said, sitting down and leaning forward, legs spread, hands on knees, in his characteristic posture. “You know that at a convention anybody can become a go-between at a moment’s notice. I seem to have been selected by a rather odd combination whose spokesmen first came to me two months ago on the day of the President’s decision.”
“Yes, I know, you told me. COMFORT, DEFY, and KEEP.”
“Yes. After that I thought the flurry had died down, as they didn’t approach me again. Did they you?”
“I had a letter from LeGage Shelby about two weeks ago promising the support of DEFY,” Ted said, “and of course Fred Van Ackerman has been on the horn several times. ‘Look, buddy’”—and his voice dropped into a savage imitation of the hypocrite-heartiness of the junior Senator from Wyoming—“‘we’ve really got to go all-out to elect the greatest Vice President this country’s ever had.’” He laughed with genuine delight. “Imagine launching a campaign to elect the greatest Vice President this country’s ever had! How esoteric can you get? As for Rufus Kleinfert,” he added, still laughing, “I haven’t heard from KEEP.”
“Last night,” Walter said, “all three of them called on me at my suite at the Hilton. It seems they want to take over the demonstrations for you. They’ll do all the organizing, furnish all the supplies, all the financing, all the people—all they ask is that Bob, here, coordinate things with them so that everybody will work together.”
“And so their plans will become our plans,” Bob Leffingwell said. “Not on your tintype. Isn’t that right, Ted?”
“Are they operating alone?” the Governor asked. “I got the impression from LeGage’s letter that most of the more active Negro groups are working with him.”
Walter nodded.
“They seem to have selected DEFY to spearhead it for them. I think what they do will pretty well decide where the bulk of the Negro vote goes, both now and—if they get the man they want, herein the future.”
“Not on your tintype, Ted,” Ceil remarked, to no one in particular. “Isn’t that right?”
“And what about COMFORT and KEEP?” the Governor pursued, his eyes intent.
“The Committee on Making Further Offers for a Russian Truce?” Walter said thoughtfully, as though the others were not in the room, which for all the practical purposes of this discussion they were not. “It was never stronger now that the President is getting us mired deeper and deeper in Gorotoland and Panama. Fred Van Ackerman tells me they’re planning a series of full-page ads in the New York Times and twenty other major papers across the country, together with a program of TV spots, between now and Election Day. He says they’ll be largely devoted to supporting you, providing you can establish a position close enough to Harley’s to get by, but independent enough so that they can hold the hope that you may throw your weight against him once you’re in the Administration—and take a different course if you should become President.”
“A nice trick if you can do it,” Ceil observed brightly to Bob Leffingwell, who was staring at Walter with a disturbed expression. “And, I should say, an open invitation to somebody to assassinate the President right after Election Day.”
“How many members has COMFORT got right now?” the Governor asked.
“Fred tells me at least three hundred thousand, a lot of them in communications, the unions, the schools, and the churches. It’s become very respectable since Gorotoland. I’ll wager you every time another American boy dies, COMFORT picks up another thousand members.”
“Good for the boy,” Ceil said. “Good for him!”
“As for KEEP,” Walter said thoughtfully, “they’re still afraid of your domestic record, which Rufus Kleinfert still considers Communist-tinted if not outright Communist-controlled.”
“Then how—?” Ted asked in a puzzled voice.
“It’s that boy,” Ceil explained to Bob Leffingwell.
“Rufus told me last night,” Walter said, “that any candidate who would stop what he called ‘this insane plunge into overseas war and endless international involvement at the behest of Communist tricksters’ would have their support.”
“There you are,” Ceil said triumphantly to Bob Leffingwell, who gave a hopeless little shrug.
There was a silence in which a band far below, stripped by distance of its melodies, sent up a solid, thumping beat.
“You can tell them,” the Governor said slowly at last, “that any assistance they deem me worthy to receive will be welcome.”
Walter stared at him blankly for a moment.
“That isn’t as specific an answer as they are expecting, I believe.”
“I’m afraid it’s as specific as they’re going to get,” Ted said pleasantly. “Where else can they go if they don’t support me—anywhere? Why, hell, Walter, my friend, try to look at this for a second objectively. The responsible Negro vote—yes, I want that. The genuine idealists who join COMFORT and oppose the Administration, as distinct from the Communists and the fatheaded far-out fools who join it for their own egomanic purposes—yes, I want them. The genuinely troubled conservatives in KEEP, as distinct from the insane reactionary weirdos like Rufus Klein
fert—yes, I want them. But to let them control my campaign? To sell myself to them in return for their support? I won’t do it.”
“But you won’t repudiate them, either, will you?” Ceil asked softly, and finally her husband looked at her and replied with an almost defiant impatience.
“No, I won’t, because this is politics and it’s a practical business and I need their help. But I’m going to get it on my terms, because I’m in a position to do it that way. They need me more than I need them. There isn’t any alternative to Ted Jason: there are plenty of alternatives to them. They can be split. A lot of them will go for me, anyway. Now, Bob,” he said, abruptly all business, “I want you to sit down with that unholy three sometime later this afternoon and coordinate plans with them. And get in the College Kids for Jason, the Volunteers for Jason, the Former Knoxmen for Jason, and the rest of them, and all of you sit down and get it organized. I think we should have virtually around-the-clock demonstrations from now on. Somebody should be whooping it up for Jason in a definite, organized fashion somewhere in this city every minute of every day and every night. The first thing is a big show at the Palace of Fine Arts before, during, and after Dolly Munson’s party tonight. Have a few people crash it, if they can, but keep it under control. I don’t want any rough stuff, and you can impress that on Fred and his friends. O.K.?”
“I believe,” Walter Dobius said, “that they would like to talk to you personally about it.”
“I’m not ready to talk to them yet. Starting tomorrow morning I’m going to have to be talking to fifty delegations as well as a lot of other people, and somewhere along the line I’ll talk to them. Right now, I’m going to stay aloof and get a little rest. I didn’t sleep very well last night and I intend to get a nap before Dolly’s party.…You’re welcome to stay, however,” he added politely to a Walter becoming increasingly watchful and still, “to see the opening with us. Bob, turn it on, it must be almost time.”
And time it was, as in his office and in his opponent’s, all over the city, all over the country, all over the world, suddenly on the screen the convention took form. First came the shots of the outside of the Cow Palace, the banners flying, the flags snapping, the delegates and spectators hurrying and pushing in. There was a small Knox parade, a small Jason parade. There were placards, not terribly inspired, but willing: CONSCIENCE MUST DECIDE THE ISSUE: END WAR WITH JASON … HAS GOVERNMENT GOT YOU BILIOUS? TAKE EX-KNOX—TRY JASON! … KNOX EQUALS HONOR—THEY GO TOGETHER … WE’LL STAY FREE WITH KNOX FOR V.P.! There were souvenir stands and barkers and long, sleek limousines driving up. There was fog beginning to come over the hills from the ocean. There was excitement.
And then inside to the great hall itself, the orchestra playing “Dixie,” the faces of Hudson, Knox, and Jason dancing everywhere on poles and placards in time to the music, the banners flying, the streamers stretching across the rafters, the escaped balloons floating around them, the party dignitaries gathering on the long ramp out to the podium, the enormous pictures of the party’s heroes on the wall, the spectators in the galleries eager and ready, the delegates taking their seats on the floor, the newsmen and TV cameramen jamming the aisles, moving restlessly up and down, the hissing, rustling sound of a thousand typewriters, the electric tension and excitement, the insistent, incessant, pulsating roar of sound—sound—sound …
And then the temporary chairman and keynoter, veteran Governor of Kentucky grown gray in his party’s service, raising the gavel and bringing it down with a thundering crash; and the mellow tones of the Bluegrass bellowing, “I hereby declare this great convention of this great party to be in session!” And a roar of applause, quickly silenced as the band played the national anthem, the vast assemblage stood silent, and the first churchman—a Jew, who would be followed in due course at later sessions by a Protestant, a Catholic, and a Mormon, so that all God’s chillun would be happy—delivered the invocation.
Then the ritual disposition of minor details of necessary business, the resolutions of thanks to the host city, to the arrangements committee, to the chairman of this and the chairman of that, the resolutions of praise and tribute to the departed great, the chance to reward all the good little party workers, each of whom in his or her turn was allowed to step to the microphone and shout his little portion of the ritual into the great sea of faces before him and receive its good-natured, perfunctory applause.
And the waves of competing applause and boos, still basically good-natured but with an increasing edge to them as the convention moved inexorably forward, when the names of Jason or Knox were tossed slyly out by their partisans at the podium. And the applause—“dutiful, troubled, and uneasy,” Walter and his friends gravely interpreted it for the millions who were watching—that rolled up at each mention of “our great President” or “our great leader.”
And the only really solid opportunities for partisanship, the arrivals of the families: Patsy, Valuela, Selena, and Herbert taking their seats in a box on one side to great shouts, cheers, spotlightings, and picture-snappings; and Beth, Crystal, and Hal taking theirs in a box on the other side, to great shouts, cheers, spotlightings, and picture-snappings. And surprisingly and electrifyingly, her entrance causing great excitement in the press and among the more knowledgeable delegates, startled wonderment and concern in two headquarters which found her appearance completely unexpected and quite disturbing, (for who knew what it meant at this particular early moment)—Lucille Hudson, all alone, rosy, dimpled, and smiling, waving to the roar of greeting that went up as she was led forward to the podium to take a bow.
Then the last minor resolution offered by the last minor party-worker-to-be-rewarded, and the voice of the Bluegrass once again: “This convention will now stand in recess until 2 P.M. tomorrow!” And everybody pouring out into the late afternoon sharpness to go back over the freeways to the city, to the banging bands, the great hotels, the lobby conferences, the corridor gossip, the drinks, the comparings of notes, the guesses and speculations and rumors; the exciting knowledge that tomorrow the real blood-letting would begin; and then, finally, the going out, showered and lotioned and dressed to the nines, into the cool foggy night, the drive to the Palace of Fine Arts, and Dolly’s party.
There were a great many, of course, who were not invited; who went out into the excited streets, in the sharp, exhilarating night, under the scudding fog-black skies, to ride the Powell Street cable car to the Top o’ the Mark or the outside elevator at the Crown Room of the Fairmont, and then on to Fishermen’s Wharf, there to stand in line for hours waiting to eat; who met one another, laughing and exchanging cordial greetings or cordial hostilities depending upon who wore which campaign button, at Ernie’s or the Blue Fox or Jack’s or Tadich’s or Omar Khayyam’s or Johnny Kan’s or Mingei-Ya or Ritz Old Poodle Dog, or whatever; who then emerged to wander along the streets or back to their hotels, well-oiled, raucous, good-natured, and happy.
These were what the press liked to refer to as “rank-and-file delegates,” already, though they would have been offended to know it, statistics: carefully annotated cards in files at Knox and Jason headquarters, impersonal digits on big charts where numbers were written excitedly, erased forlornly, put back with whooping joy, erased with growing disillusion, put back with—
These were the dark, mysterious, unknowable herd, whose motivations the analysts thought they could understand, whose reactions the experts thought they could predict, whose final decision the managers thought they could rely upon—who yet remained, right down to the very last minute, no matter how analyzed, no matter how interpreted, no matter how predicted, dark, mysterious, and unknowable, possessing the power, at any second of wild emotion or bitter reaction, to overtime all plans, cancel all triumphs, blast all hopes.
Tonight, unaware of many things moving beneath the surface of the waters, they were generally happy and lighthearted; and of course quite a few of them did get to Dolly’s party, some by invitation, some (like the rather disorganized group of Jason d
emonstrators who swirled angrily out of the night, forced their way through the door, and were promptly overwhelmed with drinks and food ordered by their quick-thinking hostess) in less formal fashion. There they were privileged to socialize with many a famous figure.
Mary Buttner Baffleburg of Pennsylvania and her three lovely sisters were there, Lizzie Hanson McWharter of Kansas stunning in a stringy gown of yellow, Anna Hooper Bigelow of New Hampshire smashing in a gaunt-sized purple sheath, Esmé Harbellow Stryke of California eye-stopping in a black silk-and-sequin concoction as pursed and pinched and expensive-looking as she was. The Smitters, the Smatters, the Smutters, and the Smotters were there (the Smetters had relatives in Berkeley and had to cross the Bay for dinner but would be back later, Vangie assured Dolly); Roger P. Croy of Oregon was sidling about, Senator August and Representative Swarthman came in together, the Maudulaynes, Krishna Khaleel, and Raoul and Celestine Barre could be seen circulating busily with others of the diplomatic corps. All in all, it was a striking, distinguished, and significant group, “the cream of the convention” as the San Francisco Examiner put it, who gathered more than fifteen hundred strong in the handsome room where two orchestras played softly, and where the constant yelps of greeting, the rising babble of voices, and the steady clink of ice against glass gave proof through the night that the political processes of the world’s greatest democracy were functioning smoothly and well—that The Opportunity Was Being Seized, The Challenge Was Being Met, The Future Was Being Faced, and The Great Problems Which Confront Us Were Being Successfully Overcome.
If there were some attending who had a more serious aspect—if the Speaker and the Majority Leader looked, now and then, a little worried—if Tom August and Jawbone Swarthman looked a trifle belligerent—if the two candidates for Vice President and their families watched one another somewhat warily behind the outward show of cordiality they presented to the avid, insistent eyes of all around them—if everyone appeared to be treating Lucille Hudson as though she were a case of dynamite being passed gingerly from hand to hand around the room—these were things of which the happy revelers in the heart of the city, and even a good many at the party, were entirely unaware. Tomorrow in the newspapers and on the air they would learn surprising things about the evening and would ask one another with an envious dismay, “Was that going on? We didn’t know about that!” But it is unlikely that, even had they been sober enough to notice, they would have known about it. This was the inner business of the convention, the sort of thing that always takes place behind the screen of rollicking bands and roistering delegates, behind the backs and only rarely before the eyes of the innocent or at least uninformed pawns in the game who get moved about by its masters—as long as they allow its masters to move them.
