The Ninth Wave (41 page)

"That's it," Mike whispered. "Cutler's through. The thing a crowd like
this hates worse than anything else is to be foolish. And they feel
foolish now. And Cutler did it. All they needed was a preacher to tell
them and they all start writhing."
Hank looked at Mike, startled. He glanced around at the crowd. Most of
the women were staring at Cutler with hostility. The men looked dazed
and resentful. Cutler started to stand, saw the faces of the delegates,
and slowly sat down.
"The floor is open for further nominations," the chairwoman said.
Reverend Seaton's arm rose.
"I am going to put a name in nomination," he said. "I am going to put
this person in nomination, not because I know him or because I am his
special advocate. I am going to put him in nomination because he has
been much discussed at this convention. There are many of us who would
like to hear him. We must judge his qualifications as we must judge the
qualifications of all who ask our endorsement. For that reason, and no
other, I put in nomination the name of Mr. John Cromwell."
The hall was silent. The delegates carefully avoided looking at one another.
The Reverend Seaton waited, but no one seconded the nomination. He looked
over the hall and there was a fluttering of heads, a bobbing away, a refusal
to meet his eye.
Bellows seconded the nomination.
The delegates turned toward the empty seats surrounding Cromwell.
Cromwell's head was still in his hands.
"Mr. Cromwell?" the chairwoman said in a strained voice.
Cromwell lifted his head. He looked coldly at the delegates. His lip
curled. He stared for a moment at the chairwoman and she flushed. Her
fingers reached for the wilted orchid, slowly picked off small pieces
of the flower and dropped them to the floor. Absently one of her feet
scratched her leg. Cromwell's big, unruly head swung once more over the
crowd. He stood up slowly.
Even in a fresh suit he looked disheveled. As he walked down the aisle,
his Congress suspenders showed. The cuffs of his shirt stuck out from
his suit. They were frayed. His vest pockets were crowded with pens,
pencils, bits of paper, cigars. When he came to the stairs, he paused
for a moment. He put his hands on his hips and then slowly climbed the
stairs. He walked across the stage, turned and grasped the lectern with
his big knobby hands.
He looked out over the crowd with contempt and disbelief. He rubbed his
hand across his neck.
"There are some things more important than the Democratic Party,"
Cromwell said in a tired voice. "One thing that is more important than the
Democratic Party is common honesty. Another thing is common sense. Common
honesty would not let us come to this convention already committed
to a candidate." He seemed bored, idly removed. "For the purpose of
this convention is to select a candidate. Each of you represents a huge
voiceless mass of voters. They have asked you to search out a candidate
for them. They have given you a trust. In common honesty you must,
I feel, listen to all candidates."
A reflex, a shiver of tension went across the crowd. Cromwell moved his
big hands to the front of the lectern, pulled himself forward. He looked
unkempt, old-fashioned, pedantic, scornful. They watched him with a queer
resisting attention, as if they did not want to hear, but knew they must.
Hank watched the confusion vanish from the faces of the prosperous
middie-aged men.
"Common sense would have told you that you had fallen victim to a clever
campaign . . . so cleverly planned that you parade around with placards
that were printed months ago, glut yourselves on free cocktails and
canapés, and then persuade yourselves that your foolishness is spontaneity
and enthusiasm," Cromwell said. "I do not care that you are manipulated
by people who have laid a clever plot for you. But I am disappointed
that your common sense was not outraged."
Heads turned toward Cutler, tense with antagonism. The men, finally, had
found a common look and posture: they were angry. A voice cut harshly
across the silence.
"Come on, Cromwell. Tell us your program. We don't want a sermon. We can
go to church tomorrow," the voice said.
It was the second man who had stood behind Mike. He was now sitting in
the middle aisle.
Cromwell waited until the gasp from the crowd had died.
"Friend, you are acting for another candidate," Cromwell said. "That
is as it should be. Heckling is part of the American tradition. But
tonight I am tired and, I confess, somewhat sick at heart. I feel that
this assembly has already expressed its opinion. I do not wish to detract
from your unanimity. If your mind is made up, I shall step down and most
energetically support your selection."
A man stood up. It was Mr. Appleton. He was neat, brushed, and orderly.
"I am not a delegate to this meeting," Mr. Appleton said. "I have no legal
right to speak. But I represent a large number of senior citizens from
Southern California. I came to this convention as an observer. However;
I feel compelled to speak out. I must tell you that the senior citizens of
California will be outraged when they hear this. They will be shocked when
they discover that a great political party did not listen to all of the
candidates. They will be shocked when they discover the amount of money
that has been expended on liquor and gaudy buttons at this convention. I
say to you that a man like Mr. Cromwell, who has honestly and modestly
tried to put his name before you, deserves your attention." He paused
and shook his head. "I hope that none of you will feel committed by the
free liquor you have consumed or the free meals you have eaten."
Cromwell nodded at Mr. Appleton. He looked over his shoulder at the
chairwoman. He was tired.
"Easy now, John," Mike whispered. He watched Cromwell. "Very gently now."
"I don't know, Madam Chairman, whether it is any use for me to speak,"
Cromwell said. "Perhaps the convention has made up its mind in favor of
another person. Perhaps, to save time, I should sit down now."
He locked his hands together on the lectern, in full view of the audience.
The long fingers twisted together until the knuckles were white. The
chairwoman looked at Cutler and then at the delegates. She tried to read
the sentiment in the hall and the confusion showed on her face.
"Why, that's very considerate of you, Mr. Cromwell," the chairwoman said.
"The agenda is rather crowded and . . ."
"Railroad, railroad," someone screamed. "Cromwell's being railroaded. Give
him a chance to speak. The chairwoman is Cutler's person. Let Cromwell
speak. "Railroad."
The man who shouted was one of the men Mike had spoken to a few minutes
before.
The chairwoman stood paralyzed. Another person jumped up and shouted
"Railroad.". Suddenly the whole auditorium was on its feet shouting at
the chairwoman. "Let him speak. Railroad."
The delegates began to boo. Cutler stood up and the boos deepened. Cutler
sat down. The delegates began to stamp their feet.
"Mr. Cromwell will give his speech," the chairwoman shouted into the
microphone.
Her voice was heard, but the delegates continued to boo, as if the
offense called for further punishment. When Cromwell raised his hands
they finally fell silent.
"The first thing I shall do as governor is quite simple," Cromwell said.
His voice was still cold, but it was no longer condemning. "I shall end
the Communist menace in this state. Oh, I know. Everyone is against
Communists these days. But one must do more than merely be against
Communists. Words are cheap," and his voice was softly loathing. "But
actions are hard. And I intend to act. I intend to do very specific
and concrete things."
The delegates were rapt.
"I am going to start with one Communist professor who is infecting the
youth of one of our great universities," he said. He reached into his
vest pocket and spilled some papers on the lectern. He shuffled among
them and the thin rustle of papers came over the microphone. He selected
one paper from many. He held the paper up. "On this paper I have the
name of a Communist professor. I am not alleging this or suggesting
this or hinting this. I am telling you flatly and categorically that
this professor is a Communist. And he is teaching the youth of this
state." Cromwell paused, bent forward and spoke in a whisper into the
microphone. "And I shall give you his name."
He paused and there was a vast exhalation in the hall. He moved the
paper and the eyes of the delegates jerked.
"The professor's name is Professor E.T. Moon." There was a slow collective
sigh from the delegates. They did not know Moon, but they knew a decision
had been made. They were at the end of one kind of confusion. They
clapped and stood up on their seats.
"And this is only the beginning," Cromwell said.
The delegates howled. Someone pressed something into Georgia's hand. It
was a cheap white card. Scribbled on it with a pencil were the words
"Cromwell for Governor." It was carelessly and quickly printed. It looked
spontaneous. Stuck in one corner of the card was a pin. She pinned on
the card and noticed that all over the auditorium people were taking
off the Cutler buttons and putting on the white Cromwell cards.
The delegates beat one another on the back, pointed at the crude cards,
felt somehow that the person next to them had produced the cards.
Once a small group started a serpentine, but Cromwell stared at them and
they saw his unsmiling face and abandoned the attempt. They got back on
their chairs and applauded.
"All right," Mike said. "Let's get out of here. It's all over. Cromwell
will give his speech, but he can say anything. It won't matter. He's won
the endorsement."
Mike started to push up the aisle. Hank reached out and grabbed his arm.
"Just a minute, Mike," Hank said. He stepped close to Mike. "Seaton was
your man, wasn't he, Mike? You arranged it, didn't you?"
"Sure. That's right."
Hank looked at Mike for a moment. Then he smiled. He reached back and
took Georgia's hand and led her through the crowd.
Outside in the corridor, Clara was leaning against the wall. She was
smiling, but when she saw Mike her eyes hardened like splintered
agates. She put the scarred side of her face against the wall. Mike
walked over to her.
"Well, we did it," Mike said.
"Sure. You did it. You son of a bitch," Clara whispered.
"Stay away from him today, Clara," Mike said. "Cutler might make trouble.
Might try to block John's nomination on grounds of moral turpitude. Stay
away."
Through the cigarette smoke her splintered agate eyes looked at Mike. She
turned and walked for the elevator.
Mike watched her walk away. He turned and grinned at Hank.
"I'll tell you something else, Hankus," Mike said. "Remember Bellows,
the delegate from Satt Bernardino who made the motion to make Cutler
the unanimous choice? Well, he was our man, too."
"And so was the guy who started to yell 'railroad,'" Hank said. "He was
your man too, wasn't he?"
"That's right," Mike said. "We needed that little touch to persuade the
delegates that Cutler and the chairwoman were trying to take something
away from them. Funny thing, Hank, try and take something away from
people and all of a sudden that's the thing they want."
Hank looked from Mike to Georgia. For some reason he felt an intense
anger with Georgia. He was angered by the blank, unknowing way in which
she looked at Mike. He wanted, very badly, to shatter the look; to make
her share his sense of outrage.
"And the little cards and pins with Cromwell's name on them?" Hank
asked. "Those were your idea too. That's what all those clerks were
doing in that room. They were printing out those little cards with soft
pencils so that they would look real spontaneous and homemade."
"That's right," Mike said. "The delegates had to feel that Cromwell was
their man. The cards helped."
The look on Georgia's face did not change. Hank felt his stomach tighten.
Inside the hall Cromwell was speaking and the strong, harsh inflection
of his voice carried into the corridor although the words were lost
and garbled.
"I'm going to go get my bottle now," Hank said. "I'll see you in the
morning."
Georgia started to say something, but he had already turned and was
walking away. He did not turn around.
CHAPTER 25
Two Calm Men
Robert Grover, head political reporter for the 'Los Angeles Post,' walked
down the inner quadrangle of Stanford University. He was forty-two years
old, proud of his leanness and tended to dress in very severe double-breasted
suits. He was also proud of the fact that no one ever took him to be a
reporter. On the city desk they said it was one of his great advantages;
that he looked like a bank clerk. No cigars, no hat with a press card
stuck in the band, no fast talk, no soft lead pencil and wad of yellow
paper, no boozy last-minute reporting. He carried a big old Sheaffer pen
in the inner breast pocket of his suit. When he took notes he wrote them
in a small black loose-leaf notebook and he took them in shorthand.
Not good to leave Fresno before the convention is over, he thought, but
this story is worth it. Mike Freesmith had told him what Cromwell would
say in his speech so it didn't matter if he was there or not. This Moon
business would be the big story of the convention anyway.
Still, he hated to be away from the convention. He liked the rich
environment of political conventions. He liked to stand in a crowded
room, a glass of ginger ale in his hand, and listen to the boozy loud
talk of the politicians and the would-be politicians and the fixers and
the people that thought they were fixers.
Because he was completely trustworthy, he usually knew more about what was
happening at a political meeting than any single participant. One of the
keenest thrills, the thing that made the job worthwhile, was to listen to
the boastful, extravagant talk of a politician who did not yet know that
his throat had been secretly cut by more powerful people. The fact that
he was privy to such information, that he knew who was dangling and who
was solid, was the reason that Robert Grover liked political reporting.
He came to a door with "Classics Department" printed on it in faded gold
letters. He went into a corridor and saw several closed doors. Each of
them had a card thumbtacked to it. He found Professor Moon's office and
knocked. There was a rustle of paper from inside the room, the sound of
a chair scraping and then a voice called softly, "Come in."