Aristocrat? Aristocrat like Franklin D. (D for Delano) Roosevelt? Don’t make me laugh. Folks came from the ass end of nowhere. Got to Fresno six months before he was born. He was a citizen years before they were. Father was a shoemaker. Did some farming later on, too. Mother tended house. That’s what women did.
They say Steele’s not the right name. Not the name he was born with. They say God Himself couldn’t say that name straight two times running. They say, they say. Who gives a good goddamn what they say? This is America. He’s Joe Steele now. Then? What’s then got to do with it? That was the old country, or near enough.
Franklin D. Roosevelt. D for Delano. And Joe Steele.
Chicago Stadium. Sweltering. Air-conditioning? You’ve got to be kidding. Not even in the hotels. You put on two electric fans when you go back to your room, if you ever do. They stir the air around a little. Cool it? Ha! Hell is where you go for relief from this.
First ballot’s even, near enough. Roosevelt’s got a New Deal for people, or says he does. Joe Steele? He’s got a Four-Year Plan, or says he does. Got his whole first term mapped out. Farms in trouble? Farmers going broke? We’ll make community farms, Joe Steele says. Take farmers, get ’em working together for a change. Not every man for himself like it has been. People out of work from factories? Build government factories for ’em! Build dams. Build canals. Build any damn thing that needs building.
Some folks love the notion. Others say it sounds like Trotsky’s Russia. Just don’t say that around Joe Steele. He can’t stand Trotsky. You put the two of ’em in a room together, Joe Steele’ll bash out Trotsky’s brains.
First ballot. Even’s not even good enough. Democrats have a two-thirds rule. Had it forever. Goddamn two-thirds rule helped start the Civil War. Douglas couldn’t get over the hump. The party split. Lincoln won. Five months later – Fort Sumter.
All the same, goddamn two-thirds rule’s still there.
Roosevelt’s back in New York. Joe Steele’s in Fresno. You don’t come to a convention till you’ve won. Out on that smoky, sweaty, stinking Chicago Stadium floor, their handlers go toe to toe. Roosevelt’s got Farley, Howe, Tugwell. Back-East people. People everybody knows. They think they’re pretty sharp, pretty sly, and they’re pretty close to right.
Joe Steele’s got a smart Jew named Kagan. He’s got an Armenian raisin grower’s kid named Mikoian. Stas Mikoian’s even smarter than Kagan. His brother works for Douglas, designs fighter planes. Lots of brains in that family. And Joe Steele’s got this pencil-necked little guy they call the Hammer.
A big, mean bruiser gets a name like that hung on him, he’s liable to be very bad news. A little, scrawny fellow? Ten times worse.
You think a smart Jew and a smarter Armenian can’t skin those back-East hotshots? Watch ’em go at it.
And watch the hotshots fight back. Second ballot, not much change. Third, the same. By then, it’s not nighttime any more. It’s a quarter past nine the next morning. Everybody’s as near dead as makes no difference. Delegates stagger out of Chicago Stadium to get a little sleep and try it all over again.
Second day, same damn thing. Third and fourth, same again. Ballot after ballot. Roosevelt’s a little ahead, but only a little. Joe Steele’s people, they don’t back down. Joe Steele doesn’t back down to anybody. Never has. Never will.
Fifth day, still no winner. Goddamn two-thirds rule. Papers start talking about 1924. Democrats take 103 ballots – 103! – to put up John W. Davis. Damn convention takes two and a half weeks. Then what happens? Coolidge cleans his clock.
Nobody quite knows what goes on right after that. Some folks say – whisper, really, on account of it’s safer – the guy they call the Hammer makes a phone call. But nobody knows. Except the Hammer, and he’s not talking. The Hammer, he wouldn’t say boo to a goose.
Albany. State Executive Mansion. Where the Governor works. Where he lives. Governor Roosevelt. Franklin D. (D for Delano) Roosevelt. Southwest corner of Engle and Elm. Red brick building. Big one. Built around the Civil War. Governor works on the first floor, lives on the second.
State Executive Mansion. Old building. Modern conveniences? Well, sure. But added on. Not built in. If they kind of creak sometimes, well, they do, that’s all. Old building.
Nighttime. Fire. Big fire. Hell of a big fire. Southwest corner of Engle and Elm. Fire hoses? Well, sure. But no water pressure, none to speak of. That’s what they say, the ones who get out. Awful lot of people don’t.
Roosevelt? Roosevelt’s in a wheelchair. How’s a man in a wheelchair going to get out of a big old fire? The time that fire’s finally out, Roosevelt’s dead as shoe leather. He’s done about medium-well, matter of fact, but that don’t make the papers.
Kagan? Kagan’s in Chicago. Stas Mikoian? Same thing. The Hammer? He’s in Chicago, too. None of ’em goes anywhere. They’re all there before, during, and after. Nobody ever says anything different.
Joe Steele? Joe Steele’s in Fresno. All the way on the other side of the country. Joe Steele’s hands are clean. Nobody ever says anything different. Not very loud, anyhow. And never – never – more than once.
Joe Steele is shocked – shocked – to hear about the fire. Calls it a tragic accident. Calls Roosevelt a worthy rival. Says all the right things. Sounds like he means ’em. Says the Democrats have got to get on with the business of kicking the snot out of the Republicans. Says that’s the whole point of the convention.
And the eyelids like shutters go down. And then they come up again. And you can’t see what’s behind them. You can’t see one goddamn thing.
So they nominate him. What else are they gonna do? John Nance Garner? Who the hell ever heard of John Nance Garner? Outside of Texas, John Nance Garner ain’t worth a pitcher of warm spit. Hoover might even lick him. No. It’s a moment of silence and a round of applause for Franklin D. (D for Delano) Roosevelt. And then it’s Joe Steele. Joe Steele! Joe Steele!
Joe Steele for President! John Nance Garner for Vice President!
Hoover mostly stays in Washington. When he goes out, he campaigns on his record. Proves how far out of touch he is, don’t it?
Joe Steele’s everywhere. Everywhere. Whistle-stops on the train. Car trips. Airplane trips, for crying out loud. In the newsreels. On the radio. Joe Steele and his Four-Year Plan! Drummer can’t shack up with a waitress without Joe Steele peeking in the window and telling ’em both to vote for him.
And if they’re like everybody else, they do.
November 8, 1932. Hoover takes Delaware. He takes Pennsylvania. He takes Connecticut. And Vermont, New Hampshire, Maine. Joe Steele takes the country. Every other state. Better than 57 per cent of the vote to less than 40. And coattails? My Lord! More than three-fifths of the seats in the Senate. Almost three-quarters of the seats in the House.
March 4, 1933. Joe Steele comes to Washington. Inauguration Day. Hoover’s in top hat and tails to go out. Joe Steele’s in a flat cloth cap, a collarless shirt, and dungarees to go in. Watch the flashbulbs pop!
He takes the oath of office. Herbert Hoover shakes his hand. Herbert Hoover sits down. He’s done. He’s gone. He’s out of this story.
Joe Steele speaks. He says, “We will have jobs. Labor is a matter of honor, a matter of fame, a matter of valor and heroism. We will have jobs!” Oh, how they cheer!
He says, “Yes, I admit I’m abrupt, but only toward those who harm the people of this country. What is my duty? To stick to my post and fight for them. It isn’t in my character to quit.”
He says, “We will do whatever we have to do to get the United States on its feet again. You cannot make a revolution with silk gloves.” He holds up his hands. He’s worked in his life, Joe Steele has. Those hard, hairy hands show it. More cheers. Loud ones.
And he says, “When banks fail, they steal the people’s money. Have you ever seen a hungry banker? Has anyone in the history of the world ever seen a hungry banker? If I have to choose between the people and the bankers, I choose the people. We will nati
onalize the banks and save the people’s money.” This time, the cheers damn near knock him right off the platform. Joe Steele looks out. The eyelids like shutters go down. They come up again. Joe Steele . . . smiles.
Congress. Special session. Laws sail through, one after another. Nationalize the banks. Set up community farms for farmers who’ve lost their land – and for anybody else who wants to join. Factories for workers who’ve lost their jobs. Dams on every damn river that doesn’t have any. That’s how it seems, anyway. Dams put people to work. Stop floods. And make lots of new electricity.
Joe Steele, he’s crazy for electricity. “Only when the farmer is surrounded by electrical wiring will he become a citizen,” he says. “The biggest hope and weapon for our country is industry, and making the farmer part of industry. It is impossible to base construction on two different foundations, on the foundation of large-scale and highly concentrated industry, and on the foundation of very fragmented and extremely backward agriculture. Systematically and persistently, we must place agriculture on a new technical basis, the basis of large-scale production, and raise it to the level of an industry.”
Some people think Joe Steele’s just plain crazy. Soon as the laws start passing, the lawsuits start coming. Courts throw out the new laws, one after the next. Joe Steele appeals. Cases go to the Supreme Court. Supreme Court says unconstitutional. Says you can’t do that.
Don’t tell Joe Steele no. Bad idea. There’s a young hotshot in Washington. Fellow named J. Edgar Hoover. Smart. Tough. Face like a bulldog. Headed the Justice Department Bureau of Investigation since before he was thirty. Not even forty yet. Knows where the bodies are buried. Buried some himself, folks say.
Joe Steele calls him to the White House. He leaves, he’s smiling. You don’t want to see J. Edgar Hoover smile. Trust me. You don’t. Back in the Oval Office, Joe Steele’s smiling, too. Here’s somebody he can do business with.
Three weeks go by. Supreme Court calls another law unconstitutional. “These nine old men are hurting the country,” Joe Steele says. “Why are they doing that? What can they want?”
Three more weeks go by. Arrests! Justice Department Bureau of Investigation nabs Supreme Court Justice Van Devanter! Justice McReynolds! Justice Sutherland! Justice Butler! Treason! Treason and plotting with Hitler! Sensation!
Habeas corpus denied. Traitors might flee, Joe Steele says. Anybody who complains sounds like a goddamn Nazi. No ordinary trials, not for the Gang of Four (thank you, Walter Lippmann). Military tribunals. They’ve got it coming.
J. Edgar Hoover has the evidence. Bales of it. Documents. Witnesses. Reichsmarks with the swastika right there on ’em. But some people – you just can’t figure some people – don’t believe it. They figure the Justices’ll come out in court and make J. Edgar and his boys look like a bunch of monkeys. Even if they’re in military tribunals, they’ll get to speak their piece, right?
Right. They will. They do. And they confess, right there in front of the whole country. On the radio. On the newsreels. In the papers. They confess. We did it. We were wreckers. We wanted to tear down what Joe Steele’s building up. We wanted to see the USA go Fascist. Better that than what Joe Steele’s doing.
Oh. And we got our marching orders from Father Coughlin. And Huey Long.
More arrests!
Father Coughlin ’fesses up in front of a military tribunal, same as the Supreme Court Justices. More radio. More newsreels. More newspaper headlines. Huey Long? They shoot the Kingfish trying to break out of Leavenworth. That’s how they tell it. Shoot him dead, dead, dead. Show off what’s left of him on the screen and in the papers.
Then they shoot Van Devanter. And McReynolds. And Sutherland. And Butler. It’s treason. They’ve confessed. Why the hell not shoot ’em? Sunrise. Blindfolds. Cigarettes. Firing squads. No last words. Die for treason and you don’t deserve ’em.
Father Coughlin goes the same way. Somebody gets his last words, though. Order to fire goes out right between “Ave” and “Maria.” Ave atque vale. And a hell of a volley to finish him off.
Joe Steele picks four new Justices. They sail on through the Senate. You think the Supreme Court’ll say unconstitutional again any time soon? I sure as hell don’t. Don’t reckon Joe Steele does either.
J. Edgar Hoover goes to the White House again. All of a sudden, it’s not the Justice Department Bureau of Investigation. It’s the Government Bureau of Investigation. The GBI. J. Edgar’s got a face like a bulldog, yeah. He comes out of his talk with Joe Steele, he’s wagging his tail like a happy little goddamn bulldog, too.
They’re made for each other, J. Edgar Hoover and Joe Steele. Trotsky’s got Beria. Hitler’s got Himmler. And Joe Steele? Joe Steele’s got J. Edgar.
When 1936 rolls around, folks wonder if the Republicans will run anybody against Joe Steele. They do. Alf Landon. Governor of Kansas. “The Matter with Kansas,” some folks call him, but he’s got to have balls. More balls than brains, running against Joe Steele.
Are folks that much better off? Any better off? Who knows for sure? But Joe Steele’s doing things. So they’re a little hungry on those community farms? So they don’t grow a hell of a lot of crops? So what? Somebody cares about ’em, cares enough to try and find something new.
And after Van Devanter, and McReynolds, and Sutherland, and Butler, if anybody’s unhappy, is he gonna say so? Would you?
Joe Steele says he’s got himself a Second Four-Year Plan. Says it’ll be even bigger than the first one. Doesn’t say better. Says bigger. Is there a difference? Not to Joe Steele, there’s not.
November comes around again. Joe Steele comes around again. Even bigger massacre than against Hoover. (Herbert, not J. Edgar. J. Edgar’s massacres are different.) As Maine goes, so goes Vermont.
The rest? It’s Joe Steele. All Joe Steele.
He takes the oath of office again. Chief Justice is real careful around him. Everybody notices. Nobody says boo, though. You want to watch what you say where Joe Steele can hear. Or J. Edgar. Or anybody else. J. Edgar’s got snitches like a stray dog’s got fleas. Run your mouth and you’ll be sorry.
Somebody takes a shot at Joe Steele a couple months after the second term starts. Misses. GBI shoots him dead. Fills him full of holes like a colander. They say his name is Otto Spitzer. Say he’s a German. Say he’s got Nazi ties. Joe Steele cusses and fumes and shakes his fist at Hitler. And the Führer cusses and fumes and shakes his fist back. And neither one of ’em can reach the other. Ain’t life grand?
Not much later, GBI raids the War Department. Newsreels full of tough guys in fedoras carrying tommy guns leading generals and colonels out of the building with their hands in the air. Hardly any guards at the War Department. Who’d think you needed ’em?
Treason trials. Again. General after general, colonel after colonel, in bed with the Germans. Evidence. Letters. Photos. GBI shows ’em off. They must be real. Some confessions. They must be real. Convictions. Sentences. To be shot. Doesn’t get any neater than that.
Congressman Sam Rayburn gets up on his hind legs. Asks where the devil we’re going. Asks what the devil Joe Steele thinks he’s doing. Looks like we’re heading for hell in a goddamn hand-basket. Two days later, big old goddamn traffic smashup. Sam Rayburn dies on the way to the hospital.
“A loss to the whole country,” Joe Steele calls it on the radio. The eyelids like shutters go down. They come up. This time, maybe you do know what’s back there. We’re going wherever Joe Steele damn well pleases. And Joe Steele thinks he’s doing whatever he damn well pleases.
And you know what else? He’s right.
Treason trials start for real a few weeks later. Not just Justices. Not just generals. Folks. Doctors. Lawyers. Professors. Mechanics. Bakers. Salesmen. Housewives. Anybody who talks out of turn. Even GBI men. Joe Steele and J. Edgar take no chances. Miss no tricks.
Conviction after conviction after conviction. Where to put ’em all? What to do with ’em all? You thought a lot of stuff got built the First F
our-Year Plan? Take a gander at the second one. Dams again. Highways. Endless miles of highways. Canals – all dug by hand. More town buildings than you can shake a stick at.
Waste a lot of people that way, you say? So what? Plenty more where they came from. Oh, hell, yes. Plenty more. And when the camp rats who live finish out their terms, what do you do with ’em? Send ’em to Alaska. Send ’em to North Dakota or Wyoming or Montana or some other place that needs people. Tell ’em they’re fine, long as they stay where they’re sent. They don’t stay? Back to the camps. That, or they get it in the neck.
Most of ’em stay. Most folks know, by then, Joe Steele means business.
Europe. War clouds. Hitler. Trotsky. Appeasement – France and England shaking in their boots. Joe Steele? Joe Steele’s neutral. Blames half the troubles in the USA on the goddamn Nazis. Blames the other half on the godless Reds. That takes care of all the blame there is. Any left to stick to Joe Steele? No way. Not a chance.
Bullets start flying over there. Joe Steele goes up in front of Congress. Makes his famous “plague on both your houses” speech. “We have stood apart, studiously neutral,” says Joe Steele. “We will go on doing that, because this fight is not worth the red blood of one single American boy. The USA must be neutral in fact as well as name. Neither side over there has a cause worth going to war for. No, sir. The greatest dangers for our country lurk in insidious encroachments for foreign powers by men of zeal. As long as we stamp that out at home, everything will be fine here. And as long as we stay away from Europe’s latest foolish war, everything will be fine – for us – there.”
But in the end, Joe Steele can’t stay away. When France falls, he sees even the Atlantic may not be wide enough to keep Hitler away from the doorstep. He starts selling England as much as it needs, as much as he can. “If the Devil opposed Adolf Hitler, I should endeavor to give him a good notice in the House of Commons,” Churchill says. “Thus I thank Joe Steele.”
The Mammoth Book of Best New SF 17 Page 68
