King Cole (3 page)

“It’s not a pretty world.”

“Oh, a philosopher. What next! You’ll be going to literary teas in striped pants.”

“Maybe.”

There was a long pause. Gregg and Read regarded each other a little uneasily; truths had been spoken which had better been left unsaid. They were both a little worried.

Read finally broke the silence.

“I want your advice, Gregg.”

“All right. It’s yours.”

“Well, I don’t talk about the straw vote much, but, between ourselves, it looks very bad in the farm districts.”

“Very bad.”

“Eagle Beak is going to get the radical vote and it is very big right now, especially in the industrial centers like Cleveland and Youngstown. It won’t elect him, however. Neither will the disgruntled Democratic vote. Parkinson will get most of the Democrats. But he doesn’t count.”

“Quite right.”

“If Eagle Beak gets the farmers he’ll be elected. I know that. But he’s not going to get them. I’m going to scare them to death. They’re going to vote the straight Republican ticket as they usually do.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to make all the radicals, Communists and all, declare openly for Fielding. I’m going to threaten martial law if there is a general strike or any important strikes during or before the election.”

Gregg stared at the Governor for a long time.

“I see.”

“The farmers won’t like the hookup at all. They’ll bolt to me. They’re good Americans at heart, not radicals at all.”

“This all sounds very suspicious to me. This is Fascism, you know.”

“I don’t know what it is. But it would be a great calamity for the State if Eagle Beak got into the State House. I’m going to stop him.”

Gregg studied the Governor, as if he were a stranger. He saw the calm gray eyes, the massive determined chin; there was set purpose apparent in all the lines of his face. Gregg shrugged.

“Do you really want my advice?”

“Yes.”

“There are hungry men in this State.”

“I don’t understand.”

“This isn’t just an ordinary election. This is nearly a revolution. Old Eagle Beak wouldn’t have a chance in normal times.”

“Precisely.”

“I see. A counterrevolution. Read Cole, the liberal.”

Read lowered his eyes and stared at the shining white tablecloth. He was a little shaken. Things did sound bad, as Gregg put them.

“I hope,” said Gregg, “that behind that worldly exterior you’re not hiding a man with a mission. I hope you’re just trying to get yourself elected like any ordinary politico. Sometimes I feel pretty sure that I don’t know anything at all about you.”

“Why did you say that there are hungry men in this State?”

“That’s simple. Think how disappointed some of the boys are going to feel if you beat Fielding with strong-arm methods. You’ve been shot at. In France. How do you like it?”

“I’ve been shot. I’m not going to worry about that.”

“Well, Hitler, best of luck.”

Read flushed.

“Don’t say that.”

Gregg reached across the table and they shook hands.

“I’m your friend,” said Gregg. “I’m beginning to realize that you’re just a narrow-minded, bigoted, stuffed-shirt American, but I’m your friend. Let’s go. It’s getting late, and I’ve got tripe to write.”

They got up and crossed the long dining-room side by side silently. Suddenly, Read looked up. The check-girl! He’d forgotten all about her. There she was smiling, showing her pretty, white teeth; looking provocative and young and lovely. She had the Governor’s coat and hat ready for him. Her manner was entirely different. She looked at him with round respectful eyes. “She is charming and a damn little fool,” Read told himself, glancing away.

She helped him on with his coat.

“Imagine me not recognizing you, Governor,” she said in her rather husky, coaxing voice. “Gee, you’d think anybody would have more sense than that.”

Read said nothing. He tipped her fifty cents. The girl said:

“Excuse me, Governor; but would you please give me your autograph? I got a little brother who…”

“Some other time,” said Read, turning away.

“Here, here,” said Gregg, clapping his hands. “A little service, please. After all, I’m the Governor’s

best friend. Would you like to get better acquainted with the Governor’s best friend, my dear?”

The girl got Gregg’s hat and coat.

“Well, I…” she said.

Gregg laughed and tipped her; then he and Read started across the long lobby.

“Goodbye, Governor,” said the check-girl.

Read nodded without turning.

“Looks as if you’ve made a hit, Governor,” said Gregg with a laugh. “I think it was mighty mean of you not to give her an autograph. After all, she’s pretty hot stuff.”

“Don’t be vulgar.” Read was extremely irritated and upset, and held himself in by an effort. He wanted violently to bawl Gregg out. He hated his glibness, his easy assurance with women. He also envied him.

“I’ll keep her in mind for future reference,” said Gregg meditatively.

Read snorted.

“Gregg, I wish you’d be a little bit more careful how you act around women when I’m with you. After all, I’m the Governor and have a certain dignity to maintain. I don’t like to have you dating up a cheap little check-girl right under my nose.”

“Excuse me, Your Honor.” Gregg laughed, but when he noticed the expression on Read’s face, he said: “I’m sorry, Read. She’s the kind of girl that asks for attention without saying a word. I spoke automatically. Good Lord! Look—Eagle Beak himself!”

Read glanced up. Asa Fielding, looking shabby and rural, though he was a city lawyer and a smart one, was coming down the stairs from the mezzanine with two of his henchmen. He saw Read and stiffened slightly, then he smiled and came over.

“How do, Governor.”

Read shook hands with him, bowing slightly. Fielding’s face was hawklike and sunburnt; his huge, beaked nose projected far beyond his heavy, straggling, gray mustache. His eyes were pale and shrewd and a little too bright.

“How are you, Mr. Fielding?”

“Fine, fine. Governor, you better get the Mansion all swept up and cleaned because I’m moving in shortly.”

Read flushed slightly.

“You’ll find it a very nice place to live in, very comfortable.”

“Hate to move, don’t you?”

“Oh, no. I don’t care where I live.”

Gregg was pale with anger but lowered his eyes from the grinning faces of Eagle Beak’s henchmen and said nothing.

“Well, that’s the right spirit,” said Fielding. “As a matter of fact, I ain’t going to live in the Mansion.

Too expensive. I’m going to stay in one room. I’ll rent the Mansion and turn the rent back to the State.”

“Yes,” said Read, “you might feel a little out of place there. Goodbye, Mr. Fielding. Very glad to have seen you.”

When Read and Gregg reached the sidewalk, Gregg said:

“Let me shake hands with you, Read Cole. Sometimes I have my doubts about you. But that was perfect.”

That night at dinner, while Read was finishing his dessert, his daughter, Jean, rushed in all out of breath and began to talk very fast. She had on whipcord riding breeches and tan boots. She looked very young and flushed and excited.

“I’m so sorry, Dad,” she cried. “But Fred’s car broke down when we were coming in from the riding school and we were a long ways from a filling station or anything and we… so…”

“In short, you’re late for dinner again. Well, sit down.”

Jean pulled up a chair and sat looking at her father anxiously. Boyle, the Negro butler, came in with her soup. She picked up her spoon and took a sip, then she laid down her spoon and said:

“Dad, I’ll tell you the truth. Fred and I ran away to get married and I lost my nerve. I was so afraid that… with the election and all… you…”

“You what?’’ Read was genuinely startled. He studied his daughter’s face. She looked like her mother, only prettier. She was in fact very pretty indeed and looked much younger than she really was. Let’s see; she must be twenty-two. She had her mother’s copper hair and her full lips and her blue eyes. She was also very impulsive as her mother had been; easily moved to tears and to anger. There was a certain instability about her that worried Read at times.

“We wanted to,” said Jean; then she put her head down and began to cry. Read saw a tear fall into her soup.

“Jean,” he said sharply, “for heaven’s sake, control yourself. You’re crying into your soup like a barfly into his beer. What’s all the excitement?”

“Well, Fred’s mad at me because I didn’t go through with it. He says he’ll never speak to me again.”

“Oh, that’s silly.”

Boyle came in, glanced at Jean, and went out.

“It isn’t silly. Fred has a terrible temper and he’s stubborn as a mule.”

“He’s just a plain damn fool. That’s all.”

“He isn’t. He’s a darling and I should have married him when I said I would. Oh, you don’t know how I feel. I wanted a big church wedding and all that but he didn’t. He thinks that’s hooey. So I said I would… and here I…”

“You did quite right. After the election, you can have a big church wedding.”

“That’s what I told Fred. We got clear up to the door at the justice of peace’s… well, the… you know what I mean. And I backed out. I told Fred there’d be headlines and everything and you wouldn’t like it on account of the election and…”

“I’m glad you showed some sense. What’s all the hurry, anyway?”

“Why, we’re so crazy about each other, that’s why. We’ve got to do something. I guess it’s better to get married than to…”

“Jean!”

“Well, I’m telling you the truth.” She began to cry again. “Fred says goddamn the old election, and I say so, too.” She jumped up and ran out of the room, crying. Read heard her climb the stairs.

He rang the bell. Boyle came in.

“My coffee, please.”

When Read had finished his coffee, Boyle brought him a stack of personal mail which had come that afternoon. He glanced through it hurriedly and picked out a small envelope with “Benton Military Academy” printed in the upper left-hand corner. It was from his son, who wrote once a week dutifully and, Read could not help thinking, painfully. He knew very little about his son, who was taciturn and at times a little sullen. He always seemed much older than his age. Read often told himself: “Why, when I was eighteen I was as callow as could be.” His son, Johnny, did not seem callow at all. He hardly ever had anything to say; he’d sit with a slightly superior smile on his face, making everybody uncomfortable. Jean said he was just bashful.

Dear Dad:

Well, here I am right on the dot. I’m in study hall writing this. We’re not supposed to write letters at this time but I’ve got all my lessons. So I guess it won’t hurt anything. It’s been very cold here and the ground is frozen. I knocked all the skin off my knuckles at football practice this afternoon as the ground is so hard. I guess you know we beat Stivers High 14 to 0. I caught a forward pass and made a touchdown. I had thirty hours of quad and the Prexy was so tickled he canceled it. I went out to get some sandwiches just before tattoo and got caught; hence the, quad. But I’m always hungry down here. They don’t feed you enough. Well, will close as study hour is almost up. Tell Jean hello and ask her if she got rid of that punk, Fred Martin, yet. He gets in my hair. 

Your loving son,

Johnny.

Read smiled and glanced through the letter again. The phone rang in the hall and Boyle went to answer it. He came back in a moment.

“For Miss Jean,” he said. “She took it on the extension.”

“Mr. Martin?”

“Yes, sir.”

Read smiled to himself and got up.

“Boyle, is Charley coming over tonight?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell him to take care of this mail. I’m going out.”

“Will you want the Cadillac, Governor?”

“Yes. O’Leary, too. Is he back yet?”

“I think so, sir. Will you be dressing?”

“Not tonight.”

Boyle went out. In a moment, Jean burst into the room. Her eyes were shining. Read paused on his way to the hall.

“Well?”

“It was Fred. Oh, was he hot and bothered! He begged me to forgive him, Dad. Isn’t that swell? Oh, I’m so happy. Isn’t it great to be alive?”

“You didn’t think so a few minutes ago.”

“I do now.”

Read looked at her a little enviously.

“When you get a little older you won’t be up and down so much.”

“So what? Give us a kiss, Dad. I’m sorry for what I said about the election. I want you to be elected, Dad, and you know I didn’t mean what I said. After all, I backed out on Fred on your account.”

Read kissed her lightly.

“I never pay any attention to you. It’s kisses one minute and screams the next. You ought to be more like your brother.”

“That icicle!”

“By the way, I got a letter from him.”

“His weekly weather report! How’s the weather at dear old Benton?”

“Cold. He told me to ask you if you had got rid of that punk, Fred Martin, yet.”

“Why, he’s nothing but a punk himself. Fred thinks he’s the snootiest kid he ever saw. Fred doesn’t like him at all.”

“Well, Fred’s marrying you, not the family. Does he approve of me?”

“Sort of.”

Read laughed. Jean wasn’t joking. Fred Martin was all the world to her. If Fred didn’t like her father, why, then her father would have to be eliminated. It was the way of the world. Read remembered how he had disliked his wife’s brother and how she had listened docilely while he panned him. Once the bug had bitten a woman nothing meant anything to her except her current man. Jean was no exception, far from it. Read didn’t resent this at all. He wanted his daughter to be like other women!

“Dad,” said Jean, “are you and Eileen going over to the Joneses tonight?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Well, Fred and I are going, too. Eileen’s ex brother-in-law, or whatever you call him, is going to be there.”

“What!”

“That’s what Lydia Jones told me. He’s visiting the Baylors in Cleveland and they’re driving down.”

“Is he a Count, too?”

“I wouldn’t know. His name is Vincenzo but they call him Vincent. Did you know that he was a direct descendant of Mirabeau?”