The Ninth Wave (40 page)

"Calm down, John," Mike said. "Cutler's made his play early and it's
a good one. He oiled everyone up with free liquor and steaks and
confetti. But the votes haven't been cast yet. You're still in the
running."
"Don't kid me, Mike," Cromwell said. "It's all over. Cutler's got the
convention sewed up. I don't feel badly. It's all right. But I just
wonder how you ever thought we had a chance. Come on, Mike. Let us in
on the secret."
"Clara, call up room service and get some coffee," Mike said. "Look,
John, Cutler's trying to do it one way. But there are other ways."
"Don't kid yourself," Cromwell said and his face worked. "I'm a good
loser. I know when it's all over. And it's all over." He repeated it,
softly, unbelieving. "All over."
"Look, John, you're going to be nominated this afternoon," Mike said.
"And you're going to give the speech we worked out. With just one
alteration. You're going to attack the Communists."
Cromwell laughed. He looked around for the bottle. It was in Mike's
hand. He licked his lips, but he did not reach for it.
"It's all over, Mike," Cromwell said. "Even if it wasn't, I wouldn't
attack the Communist Party. I believe in all parties having a right to
put their program before the people."
"You're not going to attack the Communist Party," Mike said. "You're
going to attack a Communist."
"I don't know any Communists."
"I'll tell you about one. You're going to attack him in your speech
after you've been nominated."
"I thought you said it wasn't smart to alienate the Communist Party,"
Hank said. "You said you wanted to keep them neutral."
"It's all in how you do it," Mike said. "Pick the right Communist and
even the Communist Party won't care if you attack him. I'll pick the
right one." He turned and looked at Cromwell. When he spoke his voice was
hard. "O.K., John, snap out of it. You haven't got all day. Right after
lunch you'll be nominated and you'll win the nomination. I'm going to
give you one more shot of whisky to steady you down. Then you're going
to drink some black coffee. Then I'll brief you for the floor. You have
to play it just the way I say, understand?"
Cromwell took the bottle and splashed an inch of whisky in his glass.
Over the rim of the glass he stared at Mike, his face gray, his
nicotine-stained lips biting the edge of the glass. Hope washed across
his face. He barely tasted the whisky and put the glass down. He stood
up and faced Mike.
"Is there still a chance on the nomination, Mike?" he asked.
Mike nodded.
"What if I don't mention the Communist?"
"You don't have a chance," Mike said.
Cromwell looked at Clara and then at Mike. He stood very still, as
if he were listening for a signal. His mouth opened slightly and his
eyes watered.
They knew what he was thinking. He was thinking of the years that led to
this day. The meetings he had addressed, the countless petty letters,
the phone calls, the anonymous hands he had shaken, the innumerable
commitments he had made, the thousands of faces that had looked up
at him as he spoke. All of this was telescoped into a small, heavy
recollection. And he thought of the bottles of grappa he had drunk,
the empty bourbon bottles he had dumped into hotel wastebaskets,
the fashionable martinis he had drunk on the Peninsula and in Beverly
Hills and La Jolla, the endless meals of pizza and fried chicken and
potato salad he had eaten before he could speak. Aspirin, dirty sheets,
midnight caucuses, newspaper stories, telephones, political throw-aways,
radio microphones, stacks of precinct lists, ditto machines, billboards
. . . he thought of the debris of politics and how much of that debris he
had created. He thought of the hangovers, county fairs, trotting races,
finance committee meetings, county central committees, endorsements,
meeting in hot hotel rooms.
And today was the result. Like a tiny clear drop pressed out of a vast,
dirty, heaped-up, chaotic harvest this was the result: this day. The drop
trembled before him. He had to move it or it would fall, be gone forever.
He licked his lips.
"What is the Communist's name, Mike?" Cromwell said.
"I'll write it down for you on a piece of paper," Mike said. His voice
was empty of exultation or relief, as if he had known what the decision
would be. "Now all of you clear out. I have to talk to John about his
speech. He has to take a shower, brush his hair, put on a clean shirt.
They'll start the afternoon session in a few minutes.".
As they went out the waiter arrived with a pitcher of coffee.
CHAPTER 24
"As Men Grow More Alike . . ."
The chairwoman called the meeting to order. Her orchid was wired and
only the throat of the flower was still purple. Her suit was stained
with sweat. The delegates fell silent.
Mike was sitting with Hank and Georgia in the rear row. Behind Mike two
men were leaning against the wall. Cutler was sitting near the front
of the hall. Cromwell sat in the middle of the auditorium, in a little
island of empty seats. He bent forward with his chin on his hands and
looked somberly out over the crowd.
"You will recall that the name of Richard Cutler was put in nomination
this morning," the chairwoman said.
A wave of applause started. Cutler's head came up out of the crowd and
he half stood. He grinned and then, at a loss, made a V-sign with his
fingers. The applause deepened.
Cromwell rubbed his eyes and then buried his face in his hands.
The chairwoman raised her hand. The applause died. "The chair now declares
the floor open to receive any further nominations for endorsement by the
Democratic Party for governor," she said.
There was a sudden silence in the hall. Then a man raised his hand and
stood up. He was a short man with a round mouth.
"Madam Chairman, I am Jim Bellows from San Bernardino County," the man
said. "The purpose of a political meeting is to ascertain the will and
desire of the delegates. It is my feeling that this meeting has reached
unanimity. I saw that we are agreed that Dick Cutler is the man we want
for governor. I move that the nominations be closed and Dick Cutler be
made the unanimous choice of this convention."
The hall was very quiet. The delegates looked up at the chairwoman. The
chairwoman stared at Bellows for a moment. Then a look of relief crossed
her face. At once the uncertainty vanished from the faces of the delegates.
A roar went up from the delegates. A few of them stood up in their
seats. The Cutler posters began to wave above the crowd. The delegates
along the aisles spilled out of their seats. The round prosperous faces
opened and shouted. A serpentine formed and began to circle the hall. It
grew thicker as people spilled out of their seats. Noisemakers appeared
and long bright streams of confetti floated loosely above the crowd. At
once the temperature in the hall rose and the faces of the delegates
began to sweat. The serpentine grew and thickened and the noise rose to
a bellowing din. Someone began to sing "Hail, Hail, the Gang's All Here"
and the identical mouths opened and roared out the song. Hands reached out
from the serpentine and pulled people into the stamping, shuffling crowd.
A woman darted from the crowd and leaned over Mike. Her face was perspiring
and excited. She shouted something and he shook his head. At once her
face went flat with suspicion and anger. She turned and threw herself
into the crowd; was swallowed up, disappeared.
Mr. Appleton and his group of old people sat in their seats, staring
stonily at the stage. Notestein was slumped down in a seat, studying
the tip of his cigar. Cromwell had his head on his arms. The rest of
the delegates were in the serpentine or milling around Cutler.
The chairwoman smiled down damply on the crowd.
"Mike, they can't do that," Georgia said: "They haven't even heard
Cromwell speak yet. It's not fair."
Mike was slumped down in his seat. He shrugged.
"They can do whatever they want," he said. "That's democracy. Whatever
the majority wants they can have."
"For Christ's sake, Mike, stop them," Hank said. "These people are
on a jag. They don't know what they're doing. Go up and tell the
chairwoman. that they have to listen to Cromwell."
"I'm not a delegate," Mike said. "I can't."
"I'm going up and tell her to stop it," Hank said. "This is rotten."
Georgia looked up at him. His thin face was pale. "Do something, Mike,"
she said. "If you don't do something, Cutler's won. And they haven't
even heard Cromwell yet. They won't even listen to him."
Mike looked at her. There was a pitiless, angry tear in each of her
eyes. Her jaw was hard. Mike reached up and pulled Hank down by the
coat tails.
"Sit down," he said. "Don't do anything rash. The chairwoman wgn't listen
to you anyway. She's one of Cutler's people. She didn't expect the motion
for unanimous nomination, but she was glad to hear it. She won't listen
to you. Why should she? This is pure democracy, Hankus. The will of the
people is being expressed."
"Knock that crap off, Mike," Hank said. "This makes me sick. I hope they
clobber Cromwell, but they ought to listen to him first. God damn it, Mike,
you can make her stop it. Talk to her."
"Not me. Not when the will of the people is being expressed."
"Mike, look at Cromwell," Georgia said. "This is killing him. You've
got to do something."
The empty seats around Cromwell had grown. Somehow he looked smaller;
crouched antlike in his seat, remote and protective, trying to shut out
the sound of the crowd.
The chairwoman spoke into the microphone. Her words boomed out over the
hall, shattered against the crowd and were unheard. Her voice became
more shrill. The screaming voice pleaded in enormous sharp sounds and,
finally, pried a few groups loose from the serpentine. They stood, their
faces flushed, staring up at her. Gradually the serpentine broke up;
like a segmented collective animal it broke down. The shouting began
to die away. There was a moment when the serpentine trembled and then,
in an instant, the noise was gone and the people were all individuals
again; separate and personal. Reluctantly they began to walk back toward
their seats, their faces still tense with excitement.
"It has been moved that the nomination be closed and this convention
unanimously endorse Richard Cutler as Democratic candidate for governor,"
the chairwoman said. "Is there a second to that motion?"
Several voices shouted "Second" from the floor.
"The motion is now open to discussion," the chairwoman said.
On the far right a tall thin man stood up. He wore a dark suit and a white
clerical collar. He had a sharp face and the wide cruel eyes of a child.
"The chair recognizes the Reverend John Seaton from Altadena," the
chairwoman said.
Mike turned and signaled to one of the two men standing against the wall.
The man bent forward and Mike whispered something to him. The man started
down the left aisle.
Seaton stood for a long moment without speaking. His eyes ran over the
crowd, stopped briefly on groups that were talking and waited them into
silence. When the entire hall was quiet he spoke. The words fell from
his lips without changing the severe expression on his face.
"I am-curious to see how immoral a political assemblage can become
without being aware of the fact," he said bitterly. "We have gathered
to hear the various people who wish to represent the Democratic Party
at the polls. As I understand it, it is our task to hear all of the
candidates and then to select the one we feel best qualified."
He paused briefly and looked at the chairwoman. The delegates stirred
in their seats and a murmur of voices protested. There was a brittle
hostility in the air.
"We have been given a task to do by a large number of party members,"
he went on. "That they selected us as delegates indicated their faith
in our judgment." He paused and went on in a voice that was suddenly
thundering. "And we have betrayed their trust. We have not listened to
all of the candidates. We have no way of knowing whether we might not
make a better selection. We have acted like excitable children; wild
with emotion, swept off our feet. Is this what we were selected to do?"
The delegates were silent. They stared at the Reverend Seaton with an
odd intensity. It was the women who reacted first. Female hands flicked
at clothes that had become disarranged in the demonstration; elbows were
neatly tucked back against bodies; the women sat up straighter. Pieces
of Kleenex were passed over moist faces; handkerchiefs were pressed
against foreheads. The men watched Reverend Seaton stubbornly, bull-like,
impatiently.
"Friends, I do not care who you select as our candidate today," Reverend
Seaton said. "We have an abundance of excellent candidates. I have no
objection to the name that has been put in nomination. I know it is the
name of an honest and God-fearing man. But, friends, we have a duty. And
we are not doing that duty. We are indulging in an emotional binge . . . "
and he smiled wryly, tolerantly, " . . . and we shall have to suffer an
emotional hangover."
There was a sigh of laughter.
The men looked aimlessly around the hall. They looked at the chairwoman,
their eyes searched for Cutler, and finally came back to the tall figure
of Reverend Seaton. Most of the men shifted in their seats, looked down
at their hands, fingered the badges on their lapels. They were impatient
to make the nomination; they were angry with the minister.
Reverend Seaton finished. He stood for a moment and looked at the crowd.
His lips moved as if he were praying. Then he sat down. The hall was
quiet. A hand went into the air.
"The chair recognizes Mr. Bellows from San Bernardino County," the
chairwoman said.
Bellows' face was solemn. He turned and looked in the direction of
Reverend Seaton.
"Madam Chairman, I have been deeply moved by what the Reverend Seaton has
said," Bellows said. "I now believe that I was mistaken in my motion. We
should instead hear everyone. That is our clear duty. I was swept off
my feet, carried away. I apologize to this group. With the consent of
the person who seconded my motion, I shall withdraw my motion."
The crowd stirred. Several people said they would withdraw their second,
The chairwoman looked confused.