“You mean with the envelopes and all?”
“Yeah, we got to have envelopes. And the envelopes got to have The Committee of Concerned Citizens in the upper left-hand corner.”
“No address?”
“No. Just The Committee of Concerned Citizens. How much would it be?”
“Well, how many would you want?”
“Oh yeah. Look, I don’t know right now. Could you sort of make it up and give me like a proof? Then I could tell you afterwards how many we’d want to print up.”
“Yeah, I could do that.”
Tony started for the door, and then stopped. “Hey, how about changing that sentence to ‘Do you care?’ You know, it makes it more subtle-like.”
“Sure. Tell you what, I’ll set it up both ways and you can see which you like best.”
“Swell.”
14
Howard Magnuson patted the papers spread out on the desk in his study and said to Morris Halperin, “I had a couple of chaps from my Boston office do a little research. I wanted to know how our salary schedule compared with those of other religious institutions. Some of the results are quite surprising. Were you aware that overall we pay our people a lot more than our Christian friends do theirs?”
Halperin nodded. He had the uneasy feeling that he was about to be treated to a display of Magnuson’s business thinking: If synagogue salaries were generally higher than church salaries, obviously money could be saved by cutting back. He thought to head him off.
“It’s the old business of apples and oranges,” he said easily. “You can’t compare the work of our teachers in the religious school, who are professionals and work a full week, with Sunday school teachers, who teach an hour or so a week. As for the job of cantor, I don’t know what you’d compare him to in a church. Maybe the leader of the choir. Again, there’s really no comparison.”
“I was thinking primarily of the rabbi,” said Magnuson. “Now there’s a reasonable comparison between the rabbi on the one hand and a minister or a priest on the other.”
“Only on the surface,” said Halperin. “The minister or the priest has a vocation; he receives a call to preach the word of God, something like the prophet Jonah.”
“So?”
“So he’s in the position of somebody who’s terribly anxious to sell something to someone who’s not particularly interested in buying. Which makes it a buyer’s market.”
“And the rabbi?”
“He’s under no such divine command. He goes into the rabbinate the way someone goes into law or medicine, and he goes to a congregation, not because he receives a call—unless it’s a telephone call from the head of the Ritual Committee—but because he’s offered a contract. So the law of supply and demand controls, and there just aren’t that many rabbis available.”
“You seem to know a lot about the rabbi situation,” said Magnuson.
Halperin grinned. “I ought to. We’ve got one in the family. My kid brother is a rabbi.”
“Oh yes? I see. Well, I just brought up the comparison with churches as a matter of minor interest. What I’m really concerned about is the difference among synagogues. For one thing, there seems to be a general difference between the three groups, Reform, Conservative, and Orthodox.”
“Sure, because it depends on the size and wealth of the congregation. A lot of Orthodox congregations tend to be small. Sometimes, they are what remains in the city when there has been a general move to the suburbs.”
“Yes, I was aware of that, but still it’s a little surprising. Salaries of teachers in the religious schools—taking in differences between cities and small towns—are remarkably similar. There is, however, a wide difference in the salaries of cantors.”
“There’s a wide difference in voices, too,” Halperin offered.
“Of course. But now rabbis’ salaries, once you make adjustments for size and social status of the congregation and so on, seem to be quite level.”
“Is that so?”
“Which is why I wonder at the salary we’re paying Rabbi Small. It’s considerably less than other rabbis in comparable situations are getting.”
“Maybe it’s because he never asked for a raise.”
“And others do?”
“I’m sure they do, or their party does,” said Halperin.
“What do you mean by their party? What party is that?”
Halperin leaned back in his chair and said, “Let me teach you something about rabbis, Mr. Magnuson. A rabbi is in a vulnerable position, like any public servant, like a mayor, or a school principal. There are always people in the congregation who don’t cotton to him because they were friends of the rabbi he succeeded, or because their wives think his wife is too hoity-toity, or because they don’t like the way he parts his hair, or for any other reason that people don’t like other people. He has a contract, but it’s a service contract which doesn’t mean too much. If they should want to get rid of him, they can, contract or no contract, by making things unpleasant for him. And since he’s apt to get involved in controversy just by reason of what he might say in some sermon, there’s always a group who’d like to get rid of him. So the smart operator, as soon as he comes to a congregation, sets about organizing a group of friends, associates, what have you—in effect, a party—preferably from among the important members of the congregation.”
“I see.”
“This party backs you and stands by you in a fight. On things like salary, they go to bat for you. If the rabbi is shy about asking for a raise, or for a sabbatical year in Israel, or whatever, they are the ones who raise the matter in the board.”
“I get it. And who is in Rabbi Small’s party?”
“That’s just it. He doesn’t have a party. Oh, there are people who like him, but that doesn’t prevent Rabbi Small from disagreeing with them, or fighting them on a particular question that he feels strongly about. Another rabbi would soft-pedal his opposition, compromise a little, for the sake of friendship and not to antagonize his supporters, but not Rabbi Small. You might say that he has no political sense whatsoever. Or you might say he just doesn’t give a damn.”
Magnuson nodded. Then, smiling, he said, “You know, I think the first thing I ought to do is see to it that Rabbi Small gets a raise.”
Halperin looked his surprise.
“And not just a token raise,” Magnuson continued, “but a whopping big raise that will put him on a par with other rabbis in comparable congregations. I have in mind a raise of about six thousand a year.”
“But—but—I don’t get it.”
Magnuson smiled broadly and leaning back in his chair, he said, “Let me teach you something about business management, Mr. Halperin. When you take over a company, it’s important that you get complete control of the entire management team. Anyone you sense is not devoted to you and your interests, you get rid of. The trouble with that is that you may lose some awfully good talent. So you try to convert them. Sometimes you exert a little pressure. Fine, if it works, but I have found that you get better results by giving the man a raise. If he’s a gentleman, he’ll always remember that he owes you one.”
“You think the board will go along?”
“Oh, I think so. I can count on your vote and your support, can’t I?”
“Oh sure.”
“That’s fine.” He reached for the phone. “So now I’ll call the rabbi.”
“You mean you’re going to tell him before we’ve voted on it?”
“Of course not. I’m just going to call to tell him that I’d rather he didn’t come to the next meeting of the board.”
15
Tony D’angelo watched Al Cash’s secretary, an estimable woman of sixty who had been with him for years, leave the Prescott Building in Lynn’s Central Square. Then he mounted the stairs and entered Cash’s real estate and insurance office.
Without waiting for an invitation, D’Angelo sat down in the visitor’s chair. “Hullo, Al,” he said genially.
“
Er—hullo,” Cash replied, nonplussed. “What brings you here?”
“Took the lady friend shopping. Hey, you ever go shopping with your missus? They don’t just go and buy what they need, even if they see exactly what they’re after. They got to go to all the other stores, and see if maybe there’s something they want even better. So I said I’d meet her afterwards. Which gives me some time to kill, so I’m right in the neighborhood, and I thought I’d drop by and pass the time of day.”
“Haven’t seen you around the statehouse lately,” Cash remarked.
D’Angelo nodded. “That’s a fact. I’ve been taking some time off.”
“Moriarty sent you?”
“His Nibs? Well, let’s just say I’m here on my own.” D’Angelo favored Cash with a conspiratorial smile.
“I see. He doesn’t want to be involved. Okay, what is it?”
D’Angelo’s smile disappeared as he leaned forward and stared hard at the man behind the desk. “You’re in a threeway race. Would it help you if it were a two-way race?”
“Who’s the two?”
“You and Scofield.”
“You mean Baggio might drop out? You got something on him?”
D’Angelo folded his arms across his chest and remained silent.
“Why should the Majority Whip want to get involved in Republican politics?” asked Cash suspiciously.
“He don’t want to get involved, but you can understand that he might be interested.”
“I see. So that’s why you’re here”—he smiled—“on your own.”
“Uh-huh.”
“All right. So why does Moriarty want me to win? I voted against the Harbor Bill, and ah—he wants me to vote against reconsideration. That’s the quid pro quo, isn’t it?”
“You vote any way you want.”
“I don’t get it.”
“What’s to get?”
“I’ll tell you what’s to get. Why should the Majority Whip—yeah, I know you say he’s not concerned, but we both know better, don’t we?—why should he be interested enough in my winning the nomination to want to do something about it when it isn’t even his party? And he knows I’ll be voting against him most of the time. And what’s more, when it was me who led the fight against the Harbor Bill and almost made it. And furthermore knows that I’m backing reconsideration and have a good chance of bringing it off. Did he fall out with Atlantic Dredging and wants to show them that he can pass their lousy Harbor Bill or unpass it if he wants to? Is that it? He wants to show Atlantic Dredging that they don’t own him?”
“Just because he backed the Harbor Bill don’t mean he takes orders from Atlantic Dredging,” said D’Angelo coolly, “anymore than you take orders from Northeast Fisheries because you opposed it.”
“I have no connection with Northeast Fisheries,” said Cash coldly.
“Sure, that’s what I’m saying,” said D’Angelo affably. “Just like you got no connection with Northeast Fisheries, His Nibs got no connection with Atlantic Dredging.”
“Then why does he want to do me a favor for nothing?” A thought struck him. “Or is it Baggio he wants to get?”
“I didn’t say it was for nothing,” said D’Angela “It’ll cost you.”
“What will it cost me?”
“Oh, nothing very much. Just a few thousand dollars—for expenses.”
“What do you call a few thousand?”
D’Angelo shrugged elaborately. “Three, four, five thousand at the most. Whatever it comes to.”
“Ah, I’m beginning to see daylight. For some reason, you people don’t want Baggio. I can’t imagine what you’ve got against him. He’s nobody. Unless it’s his brother-in-law on the Election Commission you’re thinking of, maybe on account of the paisanos he controls. So you come to me to help you ditch him. Why? Because on no account must the Majority Whip appear to be interfering with who the opposition is picking to represent them. So you come to see me not as his agent, but on your own with an offer of straightforward, honest skullduggery.” He rubbed his hands. “All right, what have you got?”
“I got a snapshot.”
16
Several times Laura had been on the point of giving up. It was stubbornness as much as anything that made her continue. She had thought it all out so carefully, and she refused to admit that she might have been wrong. In her judgment Scofield was the right candidate and, under the conditions as she read them, he could win. Except that he didn’t seem to want to. That was something she hadn’t counted on.
She was also driven by curiosity. Why was he so uninterested? Not only in the campaign, but seemingly in her? True, she had held him at a distance, to keep their relationship strictly business during the campaign. Nevertheless, she was piqued that he had made no effort to get to know her better. She was sure there was no other woman. Was he then entirely normal? Was he perhaps gay? One heard so much about that sort of thing these days. Of course, if he were, then he was useless as far as her long-range plans were concerned. But although she herself was beginning to lose enthusiasm for the campaign because of his lack of interest, she was determined to continue to the election, if only because she had started.
And then one day, a few weeks before the primary, it happened. He came into their headquarters early in the afternoon and announced, “I can win this election, Laura. You just tell me what I have to do, and I’ll do it.”
“Swell! Look, you’ve got to get yourself known. Your name is known in town, but you’re not. So you’ve got to go where there are people, to meetings, hearings, forums, lectures, panel discussions. If there’s a question period afterwards, you get up and say something. Usually they ask you to identify yourself, so that’s what you do. ‘I am John Scofield. I’m a candidate for the office of state senator. I should like to point out …’ or ‘I should like to ask the speaker …’ I can arrange for you to be invited to various private homes to speak to small groups, informally. We’ve had a lot of requests. Later on, you’ll have to go to shopping centers and hand out cards. You might even like it.”
She eyed him appraisingly. “There’s one thing we’ve got to settle early. Are you John or are you Jack?”
“What’s the difference?”
“A Jack is different from a John. He dresses differently and he talks differently. Let’s try it both ways.” She took on the role of chairman of a meeting, and walked to the other end of the room. “The speaker is willing to answer some questions from the audience. Yes, that gentleman in the corner. Do you have a question? Please state your name.”
He grinned at the make-believe. “My name is John Scofield, and my question is—”.
“Mm, no. Let’s try it the other way. The gentleman in the corner. Please state your name.”
Still grinning, he said, “I’m Jack Scofield, a candidate for the Senate for the Essex District—”
“That’s it,” she interrupted. “You’ll be Jack Scofield from now on. You’re a little stuffy as John.” She looked at him critically. “That tie and that suit …”
“What’s wrong with them?”
“All right if you’re going to a funeral, but—”
“I was in court today before Judge Levitt who’s a very conservative guy.”
“All right. So in court you can be John Scofield, but afterwards you’ll be Jack and dress accordingly. More informal.”
“Jeans?”
“Certainly not. You’re taking the conservative position, remember? ‘Let’s keep things the way they are.’ I suggest gray flannels and a tweed jacket. And a shirt with a button-down collar.”
“I get it,” he said enthusiastically.
“Then let’s try it out tonight. There’s a hearing on voter registration at the town hall. They want to put the deadline for registration forward a couple of weeks. I think we should oppose it. There probably won’t be many there. Maybe a couple of dozen at most, but it’ll be good experience. Why don’t you go home and change and I’ll meet you there.”
“Wha
t time is it called for?”
“Eight o’clock.”
“Then how about having dinner someplace first?”
“I’ve got a dinner date,” she replied quickly. She didn’t have one, but it was important to show him she was not readily available. When his face fell, she relented. “We could go somewhere afterwards for a drink or for coffee.”
They went to the hearing, and at one point, he did indeed get a chance to say, “I’m Jack Scofield, candidate for the Senate from this district, so I have a special interest in this hearing. I should like to point out that …”
Laura thought he sounded impressive. Unfortunately, there were candidates for other offices present who took issue with him, and in the interchange he did not come off as well.
Later, over coffee, he said, “I guess I didn’t do so good tonight, did I?”
“Well, they were prepared and you weren’t.”
“You mean I’m a dope,” he said bitterly.
“No such thing. But you can’t depend on ideas that come to you on the spur of the moment. You have a tendency to do that. But there’s no telling where they might lead to. What you need is well-thought-out positions on all major issues. I’ll start to work on it tomorrow morning.”
He looked at her in frank admiration. “You know, Laura, you’re something else.”
17
The rabbi replaced the receiver, and in answer to Miriam’s questioning look, he said, “That was our president, Mr. Magnuson.”
“Oh? What did he want?”
“He called to tell me not to come to the board meeting Sunday. It was nice of him to call early enough in the week so that I could make other plans for Sunday morning if I cared to.”
“Did he say why he didn’t want you to be there?”
The rabbi shook his head. “I presume it’s because he wants to discuss something he doesn’t want me to hear.”
“You mean you think he wants to talk about you?”
“I suppose.” He returned to his seat and picked up the book he had laid down.
But Miriam was concerned. “Do you get along well with him, David?”
Someday the Rabbi Will Leave Page 8
