by John O'Hara
“Especially if you win.”
“Especially if we win,” said Joe. “Well, first I must convince Mike Slattery that he must convince that State Committee that I’m the logical man for lieutenant governor. Logic. There is no such thing as a logical man for that job. But I suppose if logic had anything to do with it, I could be called the logical man on account of Grandfather Chapin.”
“What is there against you?”
“Against me? Well, first the State Committee has to decide on the governor, and not always, but usually, they allow him to have some say in picking his running mate. I don’t think Gifford Pinchot would want me as his running mate, for instance, but Gifford Pinchot won’t be nominated again. Then there are other considerations. I’m not a breaker boy, I’ve never pretended to be poor, and if having some money worries a voter I don’t see how he can vote for our friend. Our friend has a family place up the Hudson that—oh, well, you know. I’ve never believed that having money hurt a candidate. Mr. Hoover is a very rich man, very.”
“But he was defeated.”
“Before that he won,” said Joe. “What is there against me? Well, I’ll find out.”
Joe met Mike Slattery by appointment at the Bellevue-Stratford in Philadelphia. If they were seen together, what more natural than two Gibbsville friends running across each other in the city? If they were not seen together, so much the better for Joe’s first plan, which was to have an uninterrupted discussion in which he could sound out Mike. Mike came to Joe’s room, where lunch was served, and when the waiter was dismissed, the two men smiled at each other.
“Mike, I think my best strategy with you is to be completely frank with you,” said Joe.
“Well, I wouldn’t know about the strategy, Joe. But at least it’ll be a change from the way fellows usually approach me. Naturally you didn’t lure me to your room and give me a fine big lobster just for a change from Bookbinder’s.”
“For a long time I’ve been working at building up my contacts, as some people call them, and when I had my accident I was just getting ready to have this talk with you. But it’s taken me a long time to get on my feet again, you might say, but now that I am on my feet, both feet, I’ll put my cards on the table.”
“Right,” said Mike.
“Next year we’re going to have the two big state contests. For governor, and for United States senator.”
Mike nodded, but said nothing.
“I don’t want either of them.”
“You don’t want either job, is that it?”
“Yes.”
“I’m only making you say these things so there’ll be no misunderstandings. Some men who are somewhat less experienced might think we’ve already picked our candidates. But we haven’t.”
“I see,” said Joe. “Well, as I say, I don’t want either job, I don’t want either nomination.”
“But now that you’ve told me what you don’t want, you’re going to tell me what you do?”
“Yes,” said Joe. “I want the nomination for lieutenant governor.”
Mike leaned forward and took a tiny sip of his ice water. “Who knows that you want it?”
“Edith knows. Until now, no one else. Arthur has a pretty good idea. But that’s all.”
Mike whistled softly an unrecognizable tune, unrecognizable to Joe because it was the Stabat Mater. He uncrossed and recrossed his legs. “I’m not going to waste both our time by asking you a lot of questions that you’ve thought out the answers to. I’m sure they’re the right answers and good ones. You know you want the nomination, you have your reasons, going back, I suppose, to your grandfather. You’re pretty well convinced that your contacts will support you?”
“Yes and no. I’ve spoken to no one about what I want but I modestly believe that I could count on a great deal of support from my contacts, which by the way are in every county in the state. I’ve used my Bar Association connections to make a great many after-dinner speeches. It usually worked out that I’d go to some Bar Association function, then get invited back for something like the League of Women Voters, and various Republican organizations, and Boy Scout dinners—all sorts of things. I’ve never talked politics, or at any rate not the kind of politics we mean when we say we talked politics. I wasn’t actually running for anything, but I was, and I admit it, running in a sort of popularity contest, personal variety.”
Mike took another sip of ice water. “I haven’t heard much talk about lieutenant governor so far. To that extent you have nobody to compete with. However, there may be several fellows have their eye on the job and are waiting to see which way the blanket turns. You know how these things work. If we nominate a governor from this part of the state, you haven’t a chance. But if he’s from west of the Nesquehela, that’ll be in your favor. Speaking personally, and going only that far, I’d like to see you get the nomination, and not only as a friend. Joe, I’ll tell you this much. I’ve known for some time about your building up contacts, and I know you made an excellent impression. That doesn’t surprise me in the least. But you also know how it is in practical politics. Personal considerations, and attractive personality—they often mean less than nothing. And I’m a practical politician. I’m not a statesman. I’m a successful, fairly respectable ward-heeler. And if the rest of our fellows want somebody else, I’ll see it their way. If on the other hand, they have nobody ticketed, I’ll fight for you.”
“That’s what I hoped you would say.”
“Now. Practical politics. Are you going to ask friends to help with the finances? Henry Laubach? Arthur? People like that?”
“Not for the nomination. I’m willing to do that myself.”
“Are you sure you want to do that, Joe? Sometimes, in fact, usually, it’s a better idea to have a lot of people putting up moderate sums than one or two people putting up the whole war chest.”
“I’ll take all the help I can get after I get the nomination, but whatever I have to spend before the nomination I’ll do myself.”
“It may be a considerable sum.”
“I know.”
“You may spend a considerable sum and not get the nomination.”
“That’s why I don’t want my friends to give me financial support till I know they’re going to get a run for their money.”
“Now by a considerable sum, Joe, I mean a considerable sum. You may find yourself spending money, your own money, where another fellow that wants the nomination won’t be spending anything because he’s an organization regular. Remember, you’re new at this, and it can be an expensive education.”
Joe reached in his pocket and took out a long envelope and laid it in front of Mike. “You want me to look at this?” said Mike.
Joe nodded.
Mike emptied the envelope on the table. “I think I see twenty thousand dollars.”
Joe nodded again.
“Do you want me to put this in my pocket?” said Mike.
Joe nodded again.
Mike smiled. “Joe, don’t worry about a dictograph being hidden somewhere. If there’s one here, which I doubt, we’ve said enough already.”
“I haven’t said anything in any way incriminating,” said Joe.
“Have it your own way,” said Mike. He got up and went out into the hall and beckoned to Joe to follow him.
“There’s no dictograph out here, we can be sure of that,” said Mike. “Don’t be too suspicious, Joe. Money changes hands all the time. Now as to this money, I’ll see that it gets where it’ll do the most good. And I’ll time it right. I’ll wait till our fellows begin asking about money before they see a cent of this. Is that satisfactory to you?”
“Perfectly.”
“Fine, now let’s go back and have another cup of coffee and forget political intrigue.”
Joe laughed. “Mike, you’re a wonder.”
“Oh, well,” said Mike,
not entirely displeased. “At least you didn’t call me a smart Irishman.”
“Only because I forgot to.”
“I like it when people forget that,” said Mike. “You’ll be hearing from me in about a month, not before. If it’s a big fat no, that’ll end it for good. But if it isn’t a no, just a perhaps, will you want me to continue trying?”
“As long as there’s a good chance,” said Joe.
“I’ll almost guarantee you that much. As to this—” he tapped his coat pocket—“you understand you’ve kissed that good-bye.”
“I understand,” said Joe.
In about a month Mike telephoned Joe: “I’m a day or so late,” he said. “But I just wanted you to know. I told you if there was a big fat no, that’d end it. Well, there hasn’t been a big fat no or a little thin one, but I was right. A couple of other fellows think they’d like the same thing you’d like.”
“Are they important?”
“Oh, more or less, but they can be dealt with. I’ll call you again in three or four weeks.”
Edith tried to persuade Joe to exact more detailed reports from Mike, but Joe argued against it. “The less we know of Mike’s maneuverings at this stage of the game, the better off we are.”
The next call from Mike was a week later than he had said he would be. “Do you remember what you handed me in Philadelphia?”
“Of course,” said Joe.
“How many times would you be willing to multiply it? In other words, is your limit twice that? Two and a half times it? Or five times? What is your outside limit?”
“I’d have to know a lot more than I do know before answering that question,” said Joe.
“I understand. Well, do you want to run into me at the club in about an hour or so?”
“I’ll be there,” said Joe.
Mike was reading his New York Herald Tribune in a back corner of the reading room. “Why, hello, there, Joe. As the Indians say, long time no see.”
“May I join you for a minute or two?” said Joe.
“Well, we’ve made it casual,” said Mike. “Have a seat. The fellows want to know this: how much is Chapin willing to spend on the campaign as a whole, and take his chances on the nomination?”
“I could spend a hell of a lot and never get anywhere.”
“Exactly,” said Mike. “But that’s what they want to know, and they want me to find out. They won’t make a single promise, not a single one. The twenty thousand, that’s in the war chest. You’re credited with it, but it had no strings attached to it.”
“I fully realize that.”
“They argue this way, Joe. Whatever you contribute, you’re going to be taken care of somehow, proportionately to what you give. But they want to know are you going to hold out money in order to get a handshake deal on the particular job you want. If that’s the case, they won’t do business. You see, voting being what it is, they’re not going to shake hands on lieutenant governor if you don’t qualify for the ticket. You have to make a strong ticket, and you personally may not make it strong because of where you come from, or your background, or any number of things. That’s only right, Joe. That’s the way it works in politics. But what they will guarantee you is that they’ll take care of you, although it may not be lieutenant governor.”
“But that’s the job I picked. What else is there?”
“Governor, and United States senator. And you won’t get either one of those. A million dollars wouldn’t get you senator. Now I don’t say you’re not going to get lieutenant governor but we’re not going to—I say we, I mean they—they’re not going to promise you something they may not be able to deliver.”
Joe thought a moment. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll go five times as much as I have gone. In plain language, up to a hundred thousand, but with the understanding that that will also be my campaign contribution if and when I get the nomination. In other words, a hundred thousand between now and the primaries, but after that nothing. If my friends want to contribute, all right, but no more from me. If I don’t get the nomination, no more contributions for twenty years.”
“Oh, they’re not going to like that last part. Do you really want me to tell them that? It sounds as though you were trying to give the orders.”
“Not the orders. The money,” said Joe. “And don’t forget, Mike, I didn’t say it was my final contribution for twenty years if I do get the nomination. I only said that if I don’t get the nomination, I’ll stop contributions for twenty years. It’s like a life membership in a club. I usually give about five thousand a year to the organization. And to tell you the truth, I have been giving it for so long that I could argue that I shouldn’t spend anything like a hundred thousand to get the nomination I want.”
“What you gave in the past was the contribution of a regular party man. A lot of fellows in your circumstances give that much and more without wanting anything in return. And, Joe, I hate to bring this up, but there’s that matter upstate, the thing I took care of with that justice of the peace.”
“I always knew that would be brought up sooner or later.”
• • •
A laudatory page-one piece in Bob Hooker’s newspaper—two-column measure, 12-point Ionic on a 14 slug—was so skillfully done that many citizens actually asked Joe Chapin if he approved of Bob Hooker’s article. Since Joe had read the piece as soon as it came out of the typewriter, and had reread it in galley proof, the question was not hard to answer. But among the older friends of the Chapin family a publicly active participation in politics was still regarded as a relinquishing of one’s privacy. Mr. Taft was said to be a gentleman, Teddy was a gentleman, Woodrow Wilson was probably a gentleman, Gifford Pinchot was a gentleman but a strange one, and there had been other gentlemen who ran for political office, but as a rule, as a good, sound general rule, it was better to stay out of politics when politics meant running for office. It was all very well to be a strong supporter of the party, and to accept, say, a Cabinet office, but it was not all very well to ask people to vote for you. What was to be gained? On the evening that Bob Hooker’s Call to Arms was sounded there were, therefore, quite a few older people on Lantenengo Street and South Main who characterized the editorial and its author as “fresh.” They agreed that the party, as Bob Hooker said, needed a man like Joseph B. Chapin, but they were sorry that Bob Hooker had taken it upon himself to specify not a man like Joe Chapin—but Joe Chapin!
The telephone at 10 North Frederick began ringing at about six-thirty, and the first calls were politely indignant. But after Edith had told various friends that Joe had seen the editorial, was flattered by it, and felt that if that was where his duty lay . . . On the following day Joe’s statement was published. It was a nice combination of modesty and forthrightness.
“I was highly complimented to read the editorial which urged me to campaign for the high office once held by my grandfather and namesake, Joseph B. Chapin. I have always believed that the office should seek the man rather than the reverse. At the same time, I believe that good citizens of whatever party affiliation are becoming increasingly aware of the danger to the American way of life which is now threatening us in the national capital; and it is my conviction that no man or woman can shirk the performance of any task, great or small, which may contribute to the restoration of the fundamental principles on which this country was founded and which have made it great. If it should fall to my lot to be chosen to fight for those principles in a campaign for high office in our beloved Commonwealth, I shall accept the charge and carry our message to the people of Pennsylvania. If this be done, if the people are acquainted with the conditions which are leading us down the road to state socialism, the issue can never be in doubt. Suffice it to say that as an American and as a Republican I shall campaign to the best of my ability.”
In several homes on Lantenengo and South Main and West Christiana, the head of the hous
e was moved to say: “Good for Joe Chapin!”
In Collieryville, in the home of the district attorney, Lloyd Williams, that public servant exclaimed: “Oh, dear.”
“What?” said Lottie Williams.
“Oh, dear. Dear me.”
“What?” said his wife. “What are you oh-dearing about?”
“Oh, I don’t like to see a thing like this happen to a nice fellow like Joe Chapin.”
“What’s happening?”
He tossed her the newspaper. “Read it.”
Lottie was a slow reader of items longer than four lines, and when she finished Joe’s statement she looked at her husband inquiringly. “What are you worrying about? It’s an honor, isn’t it?”
“It’s an honor if you call letting Mike Slattery make a horse’s ass out of you an honor.”
“Oh,” said Lottie. “You mean he’s not going to get elected?”
“That’s some consolation,” said Williams.
“That he won’t get elected?”
“That he won’t get nominated. At least he won’t be making a horse’s twat out of himself all over the state,” said Williams. “He’s an honest son of a bitch that hated Roosevelt and let himself get sucked in.” He slapped the newspaper with the back of his fingers. “From here I’d be inclined to say that that statement cost Chapin about twenty-five thousand bucks.”
“Really?”
“For openers. That damn Mike Slattery’s a real bastard to do this to Joe Chapin. I don’t know, God damn it, I’m all for taking it away from the rich and giving it to the rich politician but there’s such a thing as common decency. Well—maybe that’s asking too much in politics. But he could have done it to Henry Laubach. Or could he? No. Not that cold fish. He’s too smart. Not too smart. Too unfeeling. He wouldn’t know how to hate Roosevelt the way Joe Chapin does.”
