by Jake Tapper
And now, standing in the same spot just a few weeks later, looking up at the immense painting that filled the entire wall, he felt both small and acutely aware of MacLachlan’s absence. He had tried to project strength to Henrietta MacLachlan, but he felt as though they both knew she would soon be a widow. Street lightly tapped Charlie’s shoulder, seeming to know the reason behind the moment of melancholy, and they resumed their journey.
Street led the way and they found two seats in the House Chamber. Charlie sat right behind Congressman Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Charlie thought about the two men and their wildly different approaches to dealing with the ubiquitous racism Charlie had only really started to notice since becoming Street’s friend. Street had told him that after Powell was elected to Congress in 1944, Speaker Rayburn had cautioned him not to push matters too quickly. “Adam, everybody thinks you’re coming down here with a bomb in each hand. Maybe you are. But don’t throw them. Feel your way around. You have a great future.” That had lasted all of eight weeks, until Powell stood on the House floor and called for the impeachment of a Mississippi Democrat who said nigger and kike almost as often as he said hello and good-bye.
Beyond their race and job, Street and Powell had not much in common. For one, no one would ever mistake Street for a white man, as happened with Powell. In that, Street’s election by the good people of Chicago’s North Side—academics and liberal Jews in addition to a sizable black population—was a radical act for an era when Lena Horne was considered exotic. At Colgate, Powell had been able to “pass” and join a white fraternity. Street, who attended Morehouse, couldn’t and wouldn’t.
In a way, Charlie thought as he tuned out the Canadian governor-general, Street conducted himself according to the stark black-and-white limitations of newspaper photographs. Powell thrived in his world of ethical and moral grays; he was on his second marriage, to a Trinidadian singer, and was rumored to live in a Long Island estate far from his Harlem district, enjoying a chauffeur-driven limousine of mysterious provenance. But beyond his fondness for drink, which was common to most of the veterans Charlie knew, Street was the picture of moral rectitude. When poker nights devolved into bawdy tales of grateful or desperate French or Filipino women, Street would shake his head and focus on the game. Unlike many of the other young veterans, including Charlie, Street had not added any postwar padding.
Charlie couldn’t imagine what it was like for Isaiah to have risked everything for his nation in war and then return home and be treated not just as a lower caste but a potential menace. They had known each other for only two months, but Charlie’s glances at the world through his friend’s eyes had been revelatory. He was shocked by the disregard and hostility shown to Street by their fellow congressmen. Congressman Howard Smith of Virginia was one of the worst offenders, a man who would proudly proclaim his bigoted views from his perch on the Rules Committee. He automatically blocked any legislation that might help blacks and often pompously declared that the good folk of the Commonwealth of Virginia had “never accepted the colored race as a race of people who had equal intelligence to the white people of the South.” He said this within yards of Powell and Street and was applauded by his fellow Southern Democrats for doing so. After a particularly egregious display in which Judge Smith said that Truman’s move to desegregate the army meant the United States would never again win a war, Charlie had tried to stand and register a protest, but Street, seated nearby, caught Charlie’s eye and shook his head slightly, motioning for him to stay seated.
“That kind of thinking isn’t going to be defeated by you taking on Judge Smith,” Street said at the time as they walked from the House floor. “Remember what Branch Rickey said to Jackie Robinson: ‘I’m looking for a ballplayer with guts enough not to fight back!’” Street and Charlie rarely talked about race, but it was the subtext of many policy debates, not to mention the culture. Charlie suspected that Street’s stoicism came at a price. Just as Jackie Robinson did not naturally possess the patience of Job, just as Second Lieutenant Jackie Robinson had nearly been court-martialed in 1944 for refusing to move to the back of a military bus, Street seemed to struggle with the notion that a black man had to tolerate abuse to be seen by whites as noble. India had gained its independence from the British, Street noted, but Gandhi had had to take three bullets to the chest. And an “uppity” Jackie Robinson would never have been voted Rookie of the Year, Street assured Charlie drily.
Charlie had come to conclude that Street was less visible but more radical than Powell. Congressman Powell embraced the employment opportunities offered by the new plant that General Kinetics wanted to build north of 125th Street. Perhaps he was truly a believer that any job was a good job; perhaps he was beholden to General Kinetics in one way or another—graft and corruption were certainly not new terrain for members of Congress of any race. Street seemed to be fighting more stealthily than Powell while giving his enemies no ammunition.
“Who knows what Powell’s reasoning is,” Street suddenly whispered to Charlie after making sure no one could overhear them, randomly picking up the conversation fifteen minutes into the Canadian leader’s droning speech. “It’s like trying to figure out why a lion takes a left. And it’s irrelevant. I need you to see if there’s some way you can quietly block permitting for the plant.”
“What did you say about Mosstown—”
“Mossville. Louisiana.”
“Yes. That.”
“I’ll explain if this guy ever stops talking,” Street whispered back.
At last the Canadian governor-general finished his speech, to polite and sustained applause. After a few minutes, as Street and Charlie walked back to the House Office Building, Street elaborated. His wife had been raised in Mossville, and her family still lived in and around the town, in Calcasieu Parish, Louisiana. General Kinetics all but ran the parish, since it owned a number of plants there—oil and gas refineries, factories that produced synthetic rubber, ammonia, magnesium, salt cake.
“Sounds like it would be booming.”
“It is,” Street agreed. “A lucrative express train to the cemetery.”
After the plants had been operating for a few years, the scent of the air changed. No one who lived there noticed; the change came gradually. But those who visited from outside the parish would note the vinegary scent in their nostrils and the odd flavor in the backs of their throats. Tap water soon took on a smoky aftertaste.
“First to die were the mud lizards Renee and her brothers used to catch as children,” Street said. “The kids would find piles of their dead bodies on the shores of the bayou. Then came the herons and gulls and pelicans. Bloated corpses just floating by the dozens. Then the livestock followed: chickens and cattle and horses. Then Renee’s grandparents got sick.
“These plants are booming now, Charlie,” Street said as they reached the top of the stairs. “But that sound you hear isn’t just the engine of capitalism. It’s also a ticking time bomb. Might not go off for twenty, thirty, even forty years. But it’s going to go off.”
On the fourth floor, they prepared to go their separate ways. “I’ll do whatever I can to help block the plant, Isaiah,” Charlie said. “I don’t know that I can do much, but I will try.”
The rest of his day was spent catching up with work he’d let fall by the wayside, returning calls and going over memos with Leopold. “Senators Kefauver and Hendrickson’s offices both called this morning to see if we’ve arranged for a venue in Manhattan for the juvenile delinquency hearing,” she said. She made no secret of her irritation; for weeks, he’d declined to give her the go-ahead to do so.
From behind his desk, Charlie bit his lower lip; Leopold stood before him, refusing to indulge his ambivalence.
“Congressman, if you don’t mind my saying so, you’re going to end up doing this, so you might as well do it now and get the credit for it,” she observed. “I’m going to exit this room and call the Foley Square Courthouse. Unless you physically block my path, this is what’s
going to happen.”
She left his office. Charlie remained in his seat, staring glumly at the closed door.
The sun had already set by the time Charlie drove himself from Capitol Hill to Dent Place in Georgetown, parked, and walked up the steps of his brownstone. Turning the key and entering quietly so as not to wake Margaret, he was surprised to see the lights on in the foyer, the living room, and upstairs in the kitchen, where he found Margaret drinking tea at the kitchen table. He looked at his watch; it was after eight p.m.
“You’re up late,” he said with a smile, bending over to kiss her on the back of her head as he reached for the day’s stack of letters.
Margaret put her hand on top of his. “I have two things to tell you.”
“Okay,” he said.
“Strongfellow just called from the hospital.” Charlie sensed what was coming. “I’m really sorry, Charlie, but Mac didn’t make it.”
He stood frozen for a second.
“I’m so sorry, honey,” Margaret said, now gripping his hand tightly.
He gave her hand a slight squeeze, then let it go. Suddenly he was a world away. Private Rodriguez had ripped off his gas mask, which was of no help. His nose was streaming mucus; his eyes were red, and tears ran down his cheeks. His body, pinned beneath the beam, began bouncing off the floor in convulsive spasms. Death was seizing Rodriguez and dragging him away, and there was nothing Charlie could do.
The wall clock in the Marders’ Georgetown kitchen delivered its tinny half-hour chime and returned Charlie to the present. He looked bleakly at Margaret, shaking his head in disbelief.
Through the window, which was cracked open, came the sound of a swallow chirping. It was interrupted by the vroom of a car, its radio blasting one of the latest from Frank Sinatra.
A foggy day in London town…had me low and it had me down.
They sat in silence for one minute. Two minutes.
“How’s the baby?” Charlie finally asked.
“She’s good,” Margaret said.
“She?”
“He. It. Whatever.” She rubbed her stomach. “He-she-it is great.”
Charlie smiled sadly.
“Good,” he said, his gaze drifting out the darkened window.
“Honey?”
“I’m okay. I knew he wasn’t going to make it.”
“It’s horrible. Just awful.” She stood and embraced him. But he patted her absently on the back and broke away.
“I have to go to a meeting,” he told her.
“A meeting? At eight thirty at night?”
“A reception. At the Mayflower.”
“Really?” she asked incredulously.
“Believe me, it’s the last thing I want to do.”
She stared at him as if she didn’t recognize him.
“Thanks for waiting up to tell me about Mac,” he said.
They were maybe five feet away from each other, but it felt like a mile.
“What’s the second thing?” he asked her.
Through the fog of his grief, Charlie could sense Margaret wanting to say more; her disappointment in him had lingered between them for weeks now. It was a conversation he would not be able to face tonight.
“Nothing,” she said.
“Okay,” Charlie said. He went upstairs, changed into his tux, came back down, and grabbed his car keys from the counter.
And without another word to his pregnant wife, he walked out of the room, down the stairs, and back onto their chilly Georgetown street.
The Mayflower was a popular venue for DC events, and Charlie had already been there half a dozen times. Its first-floor bar, the Mayflower Lounge, was nicknamed the Snake Pit; on Friday nights, it became a rogues’ gallery of politicians, lobbyists, captains of industry, and local women eager to make their acquaintance. Until tonight Charlie hadn’t known the hotel had a penthouse, and what he encountered when the elevator deposited him there made the Snake Pit look like a Boy Scout meeting.
Standing in the foyer, facing two immense oak doors, Charlie could hear the muted blare of a trumpet and the deep roar of a party in full swing. A young curly-haired woman dressed like a chorus dancer at a burlesque show greeted him with a smile and asked him to remove his shoes.
“My shoes?” he asked
“Yes, please, sir,” she said. “Connie feels it helps everyone relax.”
Charlie reluctantly surrendered his shoes and, feeling surprisingly disarmed by their loss, squared his shoulders as she opened the door, flashed a bright and possibly flirtatious smile at him, and ushered him inside.
Chapter Fourteen
Thursday, March 4, 1954—Evening
Mayflower Hotel, Washington, DC
The immense room was dark and rich with a bouquet of sinful aromas—cigars and cigarettes and grain alcohol and fruity cocktails being enjoyed by a roomful of older men and younger women. Thanks to DC’s restrictive 1899 Height of Buildings Act, the Mayflower stood as the tallest building in the neighborhood, so the ceiling-high windows offered revelers a clear panoramic view of the city at night—the floodlit Capitol Building on the far left, the glorious White House straight ahead, the Washington Monument and Lincoln Memorial farther toward the horion. A dozen or so beautiful waitresses—nubile was the word that sprang to Charlie’s mind—glided around, tending to the men’s drink and food and conversational needs. Charlie accepted a martini and made his way into the room.
Je cherche un millionnaire, avec des grands Cadillac car, sang Eartha Kitt through the hi-fi speakers.
“I wish I knew French,” said an unusually gregarious Chairman Carlin, sidling up to Charlie. “That Eartha Kitt is something else.”
“She’s singing, um, ‘I’m looking for a millionaire with big Cadillacs,’” Charlie translated. He paused, took in more of the lyrics. “‘Mink coats, jewels up to the neck, you know?’ I think that’s the gist.”
“Sounds better when she says it,” Carlin said, lighting a cigarette and flagging down a waitress. “Darling, can I trouble you for another Glenfiddich single-malt?” She smiled and touched his cheek affectionately. “Man, I do love Connie’s parties,” Carlin said, more to himself than to Charlie.
“All this just to thank us for helping him get cheap Mexican labor?”
Carlin shrugged. “He likes his braceros. I prefer to think of it as a demonstration of appreciation from a constituent. And with hotels all over the country, he’s basically everyone’s constituent.”
Abruptly, Carlin looked at Charlie with an expression close to a sneer, then walked away. Charlie looked around to see if someone other than himself had been the focus of that disdain. Nope. Such an odd man, Charlie thought.
He stepped deeper into the throng. Members of the House and Senate mingled with business leaders and young women who were cocktail waitresses or guests. There was a slight undercurrent of carelessness, an atmosphere even freer than the Snake Pit twelve floors below them. They were safe—no journalists, no gossips, no wives, no one uninvited.
“I didn’t know they let dogfaces in here!” Congressman Pat Sutton, the navy man and Kefauver challenger, slapped Charlie on the back with more aggression than seemed necessary. Half of Charlie’s martini spilled onto his pants and the thick Oriental carpet.
“Hello, Pat,” Charlie said, annoyed, surveying the damp damage below.
“Charlie, you tell your friend Kefauver that I am going to whip his ass!” Reeking of gin, Sutton wrapped the crook of his elbow around Charlie’s neck and pulled him closer, then kissed the top of his head. Charlie concentrated on preserving what was left of his martini.
“Good luck to ya,” Charlie said. “Unseating an incumbent is tough for anyone, let alone in a primary. But what do I know, I’m new here.”
“Oh, you know stuff, Charlie,” Sutton said earnestly, mistaking Charlie’s false modesty for legitimate humility. “Your book was a great read!”
“Thanks.” Charlie seriously doubted that Sutton knew the book’s title, much less that
he had cracked its spine. “Listen, have you really thought this through? Kefauver has a national following. Why not wait for a better moment? Why risk ending your trajectory so soon?”
Sutton snorted. “Charlie, Kefauver isn’t going to know what hit him. I’m getting tons of support from folks who want to send that pansy packing.” He pointed vaguely toward the crowd. “You see that man with the waxed mustache? Made a killing when General Kinetics bought those defense contractors after the war. He told me I could travel the state using his helicopter! They’re lining up to back me. And believe me, a lot of cash is going to come my way from Chicago. Estes made a lot of enemies there during his last crusade!” He held up his tumbler in a salute, then poured the remaining whiskey down his throat and stumbled off.
Information was ammunition in Washington, Charlie thought, and Sutton had just given him some that could be used against him. It was amazing how foolish, how reckless, people in this town could be. The copious amounts of booze with which politicians regularly pickled themselves played a significant role in this, of course.
He looked around the room, surveying the other guests. A leather-faced politician from out west, bearing more than a slight resemblance to the desert tortoises indigenous to his congressional district, sat on a cushiony sofa, his enormous gut protruding over his crotch. Charlie watched as he grabbed a passing waitress and pulled her onto what little lap could be found. She tried to laugh it off, but her eyes revealed her revulsion.
I’ve got the world on a string, sittin’ on a rainbow, Sinatra sang over the suite’s hi-fi system.
Charlie walked to one of the immense windows and stood staring out at the White House, five blocks away. Should he tell Kefauver what Sutton told him? Saying cash would flow in from Chicago was essentially a confession that Sutton would find his campaign coffers filled by mobsters still angry with Kefauver for his hearings against organized crime. Charlie was trying to ingratiate himself in this world and Sutton had just sloppily handed him the coin of the realm.
