The Ninth Wave (16 page)

When he stepped into the restaurant he stopped and looked for the woman.
He was wearing an expensive suit that was almost ruined. The seams were
stretched so that the threads showed, buttons dangled, a pocket was
torn in one corner, the shoulder pads had slipped. The zipper on his
fly was stuck partly open. The suit was covered with tobacco ash that
fell in a light gray mist whenever he moved.
"Clara, where's Leo?" he asked. He scratched at his thigh and the motion
pulled his pants leg up. A sock dangled around his ankle. "Christ, that's
just no crowd at all. Leo said they'd have a mob. Where is he?"
"He said he'd meet us here," Clara said. "We're a little early."
Cromwell looked angrily around the room, stared for a moment at Mike's
table and then, quite suddenly, he relaxed. He stopped scratching and
he walked over to the small bar and asked the bartender to make him an
Irish coffee.
"Make it just right," Cromwell said. "Two ounces of Bushmill's, half
teaspoon of sugar, big slug of whipped cream."
Leo came in. He was a big, worried-looking man. He was wearing a
collarless shirt fastened at the top by a gold collar button that gleamed
deep from the fat of his neck. A small group of men stood outside the
restaurant window and looked in.
"Hi, John," Leo said. "You're a little early. The crowd will be bigger
a little later. Ifs a bad night. St. Mary's is having a bazaar, couple
of other things going on. But there'll be more people before you start."
Cromwell did not say anything. He took a taste of the Irish coffee,
looked up with a smear of whipped cream on his upper lip. Then, satisfied
with the taste he drank it off in two large gulps. He wiped his mouth
on his sleeve.
"What else is going on?" Cromwell asked. "Here, have a cigar," he said
before Leo could reply. He held out a handful of cigars. Leo took one,
bit off the end and lit it with relief.
"Good cigar," Leo said, letting the smoke float out of the corner of
his mouth.
"Baloney," Cromwell said sourly. "They're awful but I'm used to 'em. What
else is going on tonight?"
He was taut again, his long fingers picking at the back of his neck,
then scratching his ribs. Occasionally he held his hands quietly over
his chest as if he hoped in that way to keep them quiet. Then in a few
seconds they started to move again. Leo looked pained.
"Well, the North Beach Civic Club is having a steak and beer party
tonight," Leo said. "They've got money, you know. Free steak and
beer. That'll draw some of the people away."
"Clara, remind me to give the Civic Club a call on Monday," Cromwell
said. He stood for a moment, staring through the window at the crowd, one
finger carefully scratching the lobe of his left ear. He turned and looked
at Leo. "Leo, you should have told me earlier. You made a mistake."
"I know, Mr. Cromwell. I know I did," Leo said quickly. He shifted his
feet. "It just couldn't be helped."
"Anything can be helped, Leo," Cromwell said severely. "Whenever you
get into a jam like this let me know. I can do something about it."
"I know you can, Mr. Cromwell," Leo said and his face relaxed. "I'm
sorry. It won't happen again."
"Well, let's go out and get going," Cromwell said. He turned toward
the door.
"Fine, fine, Mr. Cromwell," Leo said. "I want you to meet the members
of our executive committee who organized the meeting tonight."
The little group of men outside the window had drifted into the restaurant
and they stood by the door, smiling at Cromwell.
Leo walked over to the men and started to introduce them.
"I don't want to meet them, Leo," Cromwell said. He ran his eyes over
the group. "They were supposed to do a job and they didn't do it. We
don't have anything to talk over. When they show me that they can do a
job we'll have something to talk about. Introduce me to them then."
He walked by the group of men. They stared after him. Their faces twisted
with anger. Leo's face was gaunt with surprise. He walked out into the
square and the men slowly followed him. Clara got up and walked out. She
was smiling.
"I can tell you one thing," Hank said as the restaurant became silent.
"That guy will never be a politician. He loses friends faster than
anyone I ever saw."
"Wait. Just wait," Mike said. He looked out the window.
Cromwell walked to the platform and stepped to the microphone. He looked
out over the square. He shot his cuffs, reached into his vest pocket
and took out a small paper bag of Sen-Sen. He shook a few pieces into
his hand and threw them into his mouth. He stared calmly out over the
crowd, thoughtfully sucked at the Sen-Sen. He reached down with one
hand and dug his fingers into his buttocks, scratched hard. Someone
in the crowd laughed and the laughter spread, rolled over the square.
Cromwell looked up in surprise.
"He looks like Charlie Chaplin," Connie said. "All that scratching and
jerking. Mike, he's just hopeless."
Mike did not reply. Standing in the weak light, Cromwell's figure was
caught in sharp outline and he did look antic; half serious. There was
something elaborately portentous in the way he scratched himself, the
deliberate motions of sucking the Sen-Sen.
Mike replied, finally, to Connie without taking his eyes from Cromwell.
"Look, Connie, imagine that you're one of those wops out there. You've
heard of the Cromwells. You've heard that they own the biggest bank of
San Francisco and rice fields around Sacramento and, in general, they're
loaded. You come out to hear Cromwell because you've heard about all the
money and power. And you see Cromwell scratching his butt and picking at
his ear. Suddenly he's like someone you know; he's like your father or
uncle or grandfather. Scratching, worried, messy looking. Would it make
you like him or loathe him or . . . "
Mike stopped talking, for Cromwell had put his hands into his pockets
and stepped forward to the microphone.
"Si č fatto un gravissimo errore e voi ne siete i responsabili," Cromwell
said in perfect Italian.
His voice thundered out over the square. He pointed a finger at the crowd.
His voice was mocking.
"Yes, a great injustice has been done," he said in English. "And you,
all of you, are to blame."
The laughter of the crowd was chopped off. An old man took the butt of
a cigar out of his mouth, stared slack-jawed at Cromwell. In the back
of the square a pregnant woman slowly stood up on one of the benches,
her pear-shaped silhouette caught in the light.
"I know, I know. You're happy, you go to work, you get enough to eat,"
Cromwell said. "Sheeplike, ignorant and happy you go along your way. Well,
you've been duped. While you drank your wine and ate your. spaghetti
something was taken away from you, you were cheated. 'Vox populi, vox
Dei.' That's what the Romans used to say. The voice of the people is
the voice of God. Your ancestors said that. And they meant it. But not
you. Not anymore. Now you're content to let someone else do everything
for you. And they cheated you. While you were looking at your plate of
spaghetti or guzzling your wine it happened."
Cromwell stopped and mauled his ear with his closed fist. The crowd stirred
restlessly. A murmur of anger came from the rear of the crowd. The sounds
that came out of the loudspeakers were like strands; almost like lashes,
making the crowd shuffle forward in protest.
A woman stood in the front row. She was middle-aged and dressed in a
thin black coat that she held tightly about her body. Her upper lip
was dark with hair and she held her mouth in a suspicious pout. Her
gray-streaked hair was dirty. She stared at Cromwell with outraged eyes,
her face livid with hostility.
"What, you ask? What has happened?" Cromwell went on. "What did we miss
while we were sleeping off a binge? Well, friends, let me tell you that
while you were going on your comfortable way here in San Francisco, our
president, consulting no one, working in secret, gave fifty destroyers to
Great Britain. Now think for a moment how much of our national treasure,
our wealth, the sweat of our own American men, the tons of our steel,
the hundreds of our cannon, went into those fifty destroyers. Were you
consulted when these millions of dollars were given away? Don't make
me laugh."
The crowd stirred. Their faces were blank, confused, uncertain. The
gaunt woman in the first row looked over her shoulder, stared at the
crowd and then turned her angry eyes back on Cromwell.
"You weren't consulted on this gift of destroyers to Great Britain, and
there are a lot of other things that you are not being consulted on,"
Cromwell said. He leaned forward, his voice dropped slightly. "I am
told, by people who had better remain unnamed for their own protection,
but I can assure you that they are reliable. I am told by these people
that even more monstrous deals are being negotiated at this very moment.
More of the treasure of America is being given away, more of our ships
and planes and tanks and munitions are being given to a nation which got
itself into a war and now wants us to bail them out. And do you know where
those destroyers will operate? They will operate in the Mediterranean,
they will roam the length of Italy, sinking innocent fishing boats,
denying movement of legitimate cargo in and out of Italy."
Cromwell paused, scratched behind his ear. This time no one laughed. The
faces in the crowd were losing their indefinite look.
"And in our papers, friends, do you ever hear a mention of Il Duce? Do
you ever hear a mention of the man who has cleared the swamp lands of
Italy, reunited a divided people, forged the will of a nation into unity?
Of course not."
"What is he trying to do?" Hank asked. "Tell them that Mussolini is a
nice guy? The dirty bastard."
The words from the loudspeaker came distinctly into the restaurant,
and were made round and distinct; as if the square were a sounding board.
"Mike, he's insulting them," Connie said. "I've never heard anyone insult
a crowd like that. They hate him. You can see it in their faces."
Mike waved his hand at Connie to be quiet. Without looking away from
Cromwell he answered her.
"Wait until he finishes before you make up your mind," Mike said. "All
the regular politicians never try to offend anyone, but Cromwell always
starts out by insulting the audience. I can't figure it out, but it
works. Wait a while."
"Friends, why are you so hopeless against these termites who infiltrate
our government, against those small gnawing animals who chew away at
our independence and freedom?" Cromwell said. "Why do you sit back and
let clean Italian youths get killed with American steel in a war in
which we are not involved? Because you are lazy. Because you are not
interested. Because you are bored."
Cromwell paused, took the package of Sen-Sen out of his vest pocket,
popped a handful of the small black bits into his mouth. Over the
loudspeakers came a moist sucking sound. Cromwell carefully put the
package back in his pocket.
"He's crude, Mike. Really crude," Connie said. "Just plain offensive."
"Sure, sure," Mike said impatiently. "You're not telling me something
I don't know. But maybe they like him that way."
The woman in the front row had released her grip on her coat. She was
wearing a dirty dress. Her thin breasts hung limply under the cloth,
her nipples making two dents in the cloth. Her mouth opened and her
small white teeth, separated by wide gaps, gleamed. She was mumbling
and her lips moved as Cromwell talked.
Cromwell's voice thundered over the square, broke and came echoing back.
The sound came from all sides, harsh and critical, heavy with scorn.
The sound battered the crowd together. Isolated, unneighborly, mostly
strangers, they huddled together in their antagonism to Cromwell, pushed
forward into a tight interlocked crescent around the Garibaldi statue.
When Cromwell's finger jabbed at them the crowd flinched and then drew
closer together.
Once a person at the fringes of the crowd started to leave and even
took a few steps away. Then as if caught between the fierce magnetisms
of anger, curiosity and fear the person wavered; his face contorted
and became indecisive. Then the sound drove him back into the crowd;
he shoved fiercely in, fought to the warm huddled middle of the people.
"Why do they stay and take it?" Mike asked in wonderment. "Why don't
they go?"
He looked at Connie, searching for the answer.
Connie did not answer. She was crouched forward in her chair, her eyes
glittering, utterly absorbed.
"He's awful. He's really awful," she said and she was unaware that her
face was taut with curiosity. Unconsciously she whispered. "Why don't
we go?"
"Friends, maybe you are right to be bored by all this," Cromwell said.
"Right now we are going through an evil cycle of history. Behind our
public leaders, the big politicians, a Satanic group of fanatics, the
real leaders, are determined to see that the cycle runs its dire course.
Things are going to be done that we know nothing of; we are going to be
manipulated; we are going to be used. Things like the free gift of our
destroyers to the British are going to be repeated and repeated. Some of
them you will hear about; more of them you will not hear about. And you
will not hear about them for a simple reason: it is dangerous to talk
about them. They don't want them talked about. Why, in this audience
tonight there are people noting down what I say and sending it along to
the enemies of our people."
The crowd shifted, nervously. The gaunt woman looked sharply over her
shoulder, stared bitterly into the crowd.
"That son of a bitch is a demagogue," Hank said. "He's a fraud. I'm
leaving."
"Go ahead, leave," Mike said.
Hank got up and walked out of the restaurant. He turned down the side
of the square and disappeared.
The crowd mumbled in a broken collective voice. They crept closer to the
statue of Garibaldi and a buzz of anger rose in the warm air. Cromwell
stared out over their heads.
"Maybe it's hopeless," he said and now his voice was weary. "Maybe we
are opposed by forces too evil and too powerful. But we must still fight
back. It is the job of Christian Americans to fight back. We must find
our enemies, pick them up by the scruff of their neck and hold them up
to public view; the way a housewife holds up a rat before she smashes
it against a rock."