The Ninth Wave (36 page)

She turned and walked back down the corridor; not waiting for an answer.
"Can you get it for him, Mike?" Hank asked when they were in the elevator.
"Sure, sure. If he'll just do what I say."
"Mike, those Cutler people are awfully weLl organized," Georgia said
doubtfully. "Maybe you should have some cocktail parties and posters
. . . things like that. After all it's not a question of money. Father
said he'd pay for anything reasonable."
"Look, just leave it to me," Mike sald. "These posters and buttons and
free drinks don't mean a thing. Everybody does it because they believe
they ought to. Nobody knows if it really helps. You just forget about
your daddy's money and leave it to me."
They stepped into the lobby and walked over to the Cutler headquarters.
The lounge was called the "Room of the Dons" and the walls were hung with
thick green gold curtains. Huge pictures showed columns of Spanish Dons on
tossing horses moving toward a distant mission. On one of the hangings a
huge Catholic monk with a crucifix around his neck was blessing a crowd
of Indians who were kneeling at his feet. At one end of the room some
tables had been converted into a bar. On other tables were stacks of
campaign literature, boxes of shining buttons and quarter-cards with
pictures of Cutler on them. The room was crowded with people.
A man walked toward them. He took Mike's hand. Georgia recognized him. It
was Cutler.
"Mike, it's good to see you," Cutler said. His face was flushed with
excitement. He looked much older than his pictures. His face was wet.
"Things are happening, boy. Really moving. I never thought I'd pick up
support like this. Really, Mike, I'm as surprised as anyone."
"I'll bet," Mike said and smiled.
"Really, Mike," Cutler said. "Jesus, all the northern counties have already
caucused and they're for me . . . Shasta, Alpine, Modoc . . . lots more."
"They're little counties, Dick," Mike said.
"Jesus, we've got two thirds of the delegates to the convention in here.
I've already got commitments from over half of the delegates to go for
me on the first ballot," Cutler said.
"What do you want me to do, Dick?" Mike asked. "Congratulate you?"
"Quit kidding, Mike," Cutler said. "I've got the nomination for
sure." Cutler opened his big red hand, closed it slowly and held the
fist up for Mike to examine. "But I'd like to get it on the first ballot
and I'd like the party united behind me. So I've been thinking about the
lieutenant-governor's spot. Why doesn't Cromwell come in with me on the
lieutenant-governor's spot? It'd be a strong ticket. I'll win without him,
but I like Cromwell and it's a chance to get party unity."
"Dick, you'd make a good governor," Mike said. Cutler's tongue came
out of his mouth, ticked at the corners d his mouth and a slow grin was
suppressed on his lips.
"Don't kid me, Mike," Cutler said. "Cromwell wants the governorship. But
he hasn't got the votes. He might just as well face the fact. I'm giving
him a chance to be lieutenant-governor. If he doesn't take it, hell with
him." The grin went off Cutler's face and he looked carefully about the
room, made himself grin again, but when he leaned toward Mike and spoke
his words were threatening. "Don't try anything funny, Mike. Let me know
before the first session if Cromwell wants a joint ticket. If he doesn't,
don't try and foul me up. I'll break your wagon, Mike, if you try and
stop me."
Cutler smiled, his automobile salesman's smile, all white teeth and
pink skin and the faint odor of Aqua Velva, but the words were tough and
hard. Underneath the prosperous fat and the doublebreasted suit, Cutler
was still muscular and strong. Cutler smiled over Mike's shoulders at
delegates and occasionally his hand went up to wave at them. But his
other hand was knotted into a ball and was jammed into his pocket.
"Cutler's making a mistake," Hank said in Georgia's ear. "He's getting
tough with the wrong guy. When you get tough with Mike it's like giving
him permission to ruin you. Did you ever noticethat Mike can't get tough
with gentle people?"
"No. I never noticed," Georgia said.
She turned and looked at Mike. He was grinning.
"All right, Dick, you've got the votes. You've told me that," Mike
said. "But don't try to scare me."
"No one is trying to scare anybody, Mike," Cutler said. Cutler waved
at a woman with a big blue and gold "Cutler for Governor" button on
her lapel. "But Cromwell is soft, Mike. He's not good on the Communist
issue. He's been running around the state for years talking to all
those foreign-language groups and Wobblies and the rest. He looks like
a radical to a lot of people."
"So did Roosevelt to a lot of people," Mike said.
Cutler hesitated, his tongue flicked again at the corners of his mouth.
"Can I talk in front of your friends here?" Cutler said, and glanced at
Hank and Georgia.
Sure. Say anything you want."
"I wasn't going to say anything about it, Mike," Cutler said. "But we've
got plenty on Cromwell. We've got sworn affidavits that he spoke to
Communists, Syndicalists, radical trade union people. Even anarchists,
Mike. Think of that. Maybe you don't know it, Mike, but one of those
Italian vineyard workers groups that Cromwell spoke to in the 1930's
was an anarchist outfit."
"All Cromwell did was talk to them," Mike said softly.
Hank sighed. Georgia looked at him. He turned his head and whispered
to her.
"This Cutler is a sap," he said. "Really a sap. Why doesn't he stop
talking? He's just asking for it."
"You know Grover, political editor of the 'Los Angeles Post'?" Cutler
asked. "Well he's got a series ready to go attacking Cromwell on this
radicalism stuff. The other papers will have to pick it up if the 'Post'
does, Mike. Look, you better go talk to Cromwell. Tell him he can still
run for lieutenant-governor."
A group of women came over and pulled Cutler away. In their midst was
a tall calm Negro woman.
Mike turned and winked at Georgia.
"Let's go upstairs," he said. "I want to make a phone call. I'm going
to call your brother Morrie."
When they got to the room Mike placed the call to Morrie Blenner with
the operator. He whistled as he waited for the call. In a few minutei
the call came through.
"How are things going in Fresno, Mr. Freesmith?" Morrie's small precise
voice asked. "How is our candidate doing?"
"All right, Morrie," Mike said. "Only one thing can lick him. If he gets
over that he'll get the nomination."
"What is it?" the tiny voice on the phone asked.
"A reporter for the 'Los Angeles Post' named Grover," Mike said. "He
has some articles attacking Cromwell." "Spell his name please,
Mr. Freesmith," Blenner said. "G-R-O-V-E-R, Robert Grover."
"I'll check it," Morrie said. "When will they make the nomination?" His
words came tiny, jeweled, almost inaudibly to Mike's ear.
"Tomorrow morning," Mike said. ,
"It will be over by midafternoon tomorrow then?"
"That's right," Mike said. "I'll give you a call when it's over. Don't
worry about what you read in the papers. They don't know what's going
on. All the reporters think Cutler is a sure bet for the nomination.
But they don't know what's happening."
Morrie chuckled.
"I never believe the papers," he said.
The phone clicked dead in Mike's ear. He hung up.
CHAPTER 22
"Bind Not the Madmen . . . "
Mike woke up. He waited a moment and then put out his hand. Georgia was
there. He sat up in bed and called room service. Georgia woke up and
reached for a cigarette. Her naked body came up out of the covers and
she sat yogi-style.
"Send up a copy of the 'L.A. Post' and two grapefruit and a lot of
crisp bacon and some buttered toast," Mike said. "You put the butter
on the toast. Don't send those hard little chunks of butter. Lots of
coffee. O.K.?"
Georgia slid out of bed and stood in front of the mirror. Her figure
was far from perfect. Her ribs showed and her wrists and elbows were
knobby. Also her legs were too long and the knees showed the effects of
being crippled. But her hips were round and firm, the flesh was without
a wrinkle and the hipbone was soft and curved. Her breasts were full,
but not large, just at the very edge. of being lush.
Georgia was showered and dressed by the time Hank knocked on the door. She
was putting on her lipstick when he came in. He looked at her without
speaking and she flushed.
"Did you se~ the story in the 'Post'?" Hank asked.
"No. Read it to me," Mike called from the bathroom.
"Fresno, March 15. Delegates to the Democratic
Pre-Primary Convention in Fresno today were angered by
reports that Richard Cutler, candidate for Democratic
endorsement for governor at the primary, was preparing
to blast John Cromwell, also rumored to be seeking
endorsement, as being pro-communist.
"Party leaders said that the Cutler charges were based
on information that had long been discredited. It
was felt that Cutler's chances would be endangered
by such charges. Cromwell could not be reached for
comment. There was an unconfirmed report that . . . "
"O.K. That's enough," Mike said. He came out of the bathroom. The waiter
came in with a large tray and put it on a coffee table. Mike picked up
a piece of toast and put three pieces of bacon on it, rolled it into
a bun and began to eat. "Now that's very helpful of the 'Post' to do
that. Who wrote the article?" Hank looked at the paper.
"Grover. Robert Grover." Hank said. He poured himself a cup of coffee.
"Look, Mike, has Cromwell ever been a Communist?"
"No."
"Then why doesn't he just come out and say so?" Hank asked. "Just say
he doesn't want their support; has never been for them."
"You don't do it that way," Mike said through the toast and bacon. "See,
there are about two thousand Communists in this state."
"Let 'em go to hell," Hank said. "Just count on losing two thousand
votes."
Mike shook his head, chewed on the toast and bacon. He took a swallow
of coffee. Georgia began to eat; not looking up from her grapefruit.
"You don't get it," Mike said. "The political parties in California are
like two icebergs floating around in the ocean. Most of them underwater;
just a little tip of each one sticking above water. Most voters won't
change parties come what may. They're underwater and they're happy. At the
top, like ants, are the ones that might change; milling around looking
for some reason to jump from one iceberg to another. I don't know why
the icebergs are about the same size, but they are. Now the trick is
to keep them from changing or to control the change. Or make just the
right ants jump from just the right iceberg at the right time. Control,
my boy, that's the answer. Control."
Mike grinned. Georgia looked up from her grapefruit. Hank watched her.
"What's all that got to do with the Communists?" Hank asked.
"One thing about a Communist . . . he's a hell of a good worker. He'll
do anything: precinct work, address envelopes, haul people to the polls,
ring doorbells, make phone calls. Just as a rule of thumb you can assume
that any good worker, in any party, can bring in about fifteen votes
. . . he can drag fifteen people up from the bottom of the iceberg and
make them jump with him, So multiply fifteen times two thousand and you
get thirty thousand votes. That's too many. It might win an election. So
Cromwell won't say anything about Communists in this election."
"So Cromwell's going to try for Communist support?" Hank asked.
"I didn't say that, my boy," Mike said. "You don't listen. He just
wants to keep them underwater; make sure they don't come out onto the
tip of the iceberg and dance around; make people nervous. Don't rock
them icebergs, Hank, unless you know what you're doing. That's the art
of the politician. The Communists won't support Cromwell whatever he
does. What we want to do is just keep 'em neutral."
"Oh, Mike, they couldn't hurt you anyway," Georgia said. "You're just
being melodramatic."
Mike shrugged his shoulders. He picked up three more pieces of bacon,
rolled them in toast. He sucked the grease from his fingers.
"They could hurt Cromwell if they wanted," Mike said flatly. "Or Cutler
or anyone. What would happen if you had two thousand people who went
around quietly pulling your quarter-cards down or saying in Jewish
delicatessens that they heard Cromwell was anti-Semitic or asking in
a Negro liquor store if it were true that Cromwell came from a long
line of Mississippi plantation owners? Or say that they came out with a
recommendation in the 'Daily Worker' for Cromwell . . . the Republicans
would smear it all over the state. It would be a real deadly kiss."
Hank watched Mike closely as he talked. Georgia was squeezing the juice
out of the grapefruit, watching the spoon intently.
"Mike, aren't you afraid that you or some other guy will calculate things
like this and discover you've made a mistake and you've put a Hitler in
power?" Hank said. "Look at Gemany in 1933. Everyone was trying to play
everyone off against everyone else and the result was that Hitler got in."
Georgia hesitated, sat still with the juice dripping from the grapefruit.
The spoon filled and then overflowed onto the carpet. She looked down and
quickly swallowed the spoonful of juice.
"Sure. It might happen any day," Mike said. "But what of it? Is that bad?
Look, Hankus, the first law of politics is: you can't give the people
something they don't want. That's true in Russia, Germany, Japan or
Timbuctoo. It's true in a dictatorship or a tyranny or a democracy. If
the Russian people didn't want Communism it would be over in a week
. . . finished, kaput, gone. But they want it; so they get it. So don't
worry, Hank. Everything is for the best."
"You know, Mike, for the first time I'm beginning to worry about you,"
Hank said. "Not a lot, but a little."
Georgia started to say something, but Mike said they had to go to the
meeting hall. In the corridor, people were moving slowly, talking loud.
Several of them had large "Cutler for Governor" buttons on their lapels.
"The Cutler people are organized, Mike," Hank said. "You'd better get
moving, I haven't seen a Cromwell sign yet."
"All in good time," Mike said. "That high-pressure stuff can be overdone."