The Ninth Wave (48 page)

"No. It's hopeless," he said. "Oh, I could tell you a few things. A lot of
technical things about the dream and what the trees and the hills and the
cats mean. But without knowing the man, without having him here, it would
not mean anything. I'm sorry."
Georgia thanked him. She handed him an envelope that contained a
hundred-dollar bill,
"It is not necessary to pay for such advice," he said. She knew he meant
it. She took the envelope back.
"Thank you for your time," she said.
"It's all right," he said.
He led her to the door. As he opened the door to let her pass, he put
up his hand.
"Just one thing, Miss' Blenner," he said. "Just one remark that is
really an intuition, a guess, a hunch. Do not attach much weight to
it; Do not figure it as important. But I feel that this man is a very
powerful person and that he is not disturbed. He sounds like a man who
is balanced. Almost, although it is very vague, I feel that he is a
good person."
"Good?"
"Don't ask what I mean by good. I do not know. Only that I feel it. This
person does not have evil intentions. He is independent. Maybe he hurts
people, but not deliberately. But do not take this seriously. It is just
a guess."
Georgia thanked him and walked out into the street.
CHAPTER 30
"A Power Absolute, Minute, Regular, Provident, and Mild"
"What happens today?" Hank said to Georgia.
She was driving and they had hardly spoken since she picked him up at
the hospital. They were driving through Seal Beach and along the highway
the old oil derricks were black and ancient. Underneath the derricks,
almost invisible, were small, well-kept engines that turned the pumping
arms and took a steady trickle of oil out of the ground.
"Mike's meeting with Notesteln's friends," Georgia said. "These are men
from the companies that pay Notestein for his political advice. Mike
says they won't be the real powerful men . . . they don't like to mess
with politics. They'll be bright young executives; men who've handled
some rough labor negotiation cases. That sort of person."
"They're crazy," Hank said. 'They ought to send out their heavyweights.
They send out their lightweights and the champ will just clean up on
them." His voice was bitter.
Georgia picked up speed. They drove along the wide strip of beach
that rum from Seal Beach to Balboa. The beach was broad, dirty and
untended. Thousands of beer bottles and beer cans stuck up out of
the sand and there were blackened holes where wiener-bake fires had
been built. They passed the first shack. It was built around an old
Buick. Stakes had been driven into the ground and then paper boxes,
plywood, newspapers and blankets had been hammered to the stakes. The
rear of the Buick stuck out of the shack, like a beast that had been
caught in some unsubstantial and improbable trap. A spiral of smoke
came out of the shack, was caught by the breeze and blown flat across
the highway. Three Mexican children crawled on the hood of the car. At a
water hydrant beside the highway an old Mexican woman was filling quart
beer cans with water. A little girl staggered back and forth from the
hydrant to the shack, a beer bottle in each hand. At the edge of the
beach, the waves came in fresh and blue and were corroded instantly by
tar, seaweed, discarded papers and bits of firewood.
"Morrie says that these people will be tough," Georgia said. "He says
they'll probably lick Mike. They're used to dealing with hard people."
Hank snorted. He sat with his head bent forward, held up by his hands. His
face was thinner; almost bony.
The road curved away from the beach and suddenly they left the dirty beach
and the greasy smoke and the beer cans behind. They came into Balboa and
it was bright with high masts, flags, sleek shops, the polished glass
of expensive shops.
They picked Mike up at a restaurant and then drove on to Balboa Island.
They parked behind a long fence. A sign over the gate said "Sea and Sand."
"It's one of those houses that big corporations buy for their executives
for recreation," Mike said. "It's deductible as a business expense. Nice
way to give your executives a free vacation."
They walked through the gate. The house was set well back from the white
beach that ran down to the bay. It was a long, low modern house with
blue-tinted windows in front and a wide porch covered with a bright blue
canvas awning. A short pier ran out from the beach and a forty-five-foot
sloop was moored there. A barefoot man was polishing brass around the
binnacle.
In the middle of the beach a group of women were stretched out around
a big umbrella. One of the women saw Mike and she said something. The
women rolled over and watched them.
The women were all between thirty-five and forty years old. Most of them
had loose pebbled skin around their thighs as if they had dieted recently.
The sand around them was dotted with bottles of sun lotion. Their flesh
was pink and glistened with oil.
Mike walked toward the porch of the house, and Hank and Georgia followed
him. A group of men were sitting on the porch. They stood up as Mike
approached. He stepped onto the porch.
"I'm Mike Freesmith," he said.
He stood stolidly, his legs apart, somber and citified in his suit. Sand
poured in little streams from his shoes and cuffs and fell on the hemp
flooring. The men watched him uncertainly and then a man with a mustache
stepped forward.
"Yes, yes, yes," he said. "We've been expecting you. This is a great
pleasure. We didn't know you were bringing friends."
He raised his hand, anticipating an apology from Mike and ready to wave
it away. Mike did not apologize. He did not say anything.
The man with the mustache flushed and then stepped up to Mike.
"My name's Matthieson," he said. "Why don't we go inside and talk? The
glare is bad out here."
Mike did not introduce him to Georgia and Hank. They walked in and sat
down in a room full of rattan chairs and couches. In one corner was a
bar and a Filipino boy in a white jacket. Matthieson put Mike in front
of a low table that held a box of Bering cigars, a large ashtray, and
a box of matches.
The other men walked in from the porch and sat down. There were eight
of them. Matthieson did not introduce them to Mike. Most of them wore
hula shirts decorated with flowers, sharks, leis and surfboards. Some of
them had on denim pants and some wore shorts. All of them had rounded,
but not prominent bellies. Their fat was well controlled.
"How about a drink?" Matthieson asked. Mike took a gin and
tonic. Matthieson picked up the box of cigars. "And a cigar."
The box was completely full. Mike looked down at it for a moment. Then
he grinned up at Matthieson.
"Can't talk politics without a smoke-filled room, eh?" he said. Matthieson
flushed again. He jabbed at the cigars to loosen them. "O.K., I'll take one."
Mike took a cigar and lit it.
Matthieson raised his eybrows in the direction of the other men. Obediently
three of them stepped forward and took cigars. They sat down and inexpertly
began to light them. In a few minutes the room was blue with smoke.
"It was very good of you to come down here to talk to us about California
politics, Mr. Freesmith," Matthieson said. Hank had a feeling that
Matthieson was the most prominent man in the room, the most promising. He
was so promising that he could afford the eccentricity of a mustache. He
was that sure of a vice-presidency. "After all, our companies have to
live and grow and make a profit ]n California. So we're interested in
everything about California. And especially politics, became this is an
election year."
"I didn't come to give you a lecture on California politics," Mike said
without taking the cigar from his mouth. "I came to talk to you about
John Cromwell's campaign for governor."
His voice was rude and sharp. He looked straight ahead.
Here it comes, Hank thought. You well-nourished, successful, ambitious
young executives have got your fingers in the wringer now. You'll come
out flattened; squashed out flat.
Hank took a gin and tonic from the Filipino and sat back in his chair. His
stomach was tight. He looked around at the young executives. With a quick
shock of excitement Hank realized that most of them were smiling. The three
who had been dutifully smoking cigars reached forward and ground them out,
as if Mike's rudeness had released them from a courtesy. The tentative look
was gone from their faces.
They're tough, Hank thought. These boys are really tough. Under those silly
hula shirts and Bermuda shorts are some very tough characters. These boys
are on the make. Maybe they can handle Mike.
"O.K., tell us about Cromwell's campaign," Matthieson said. "Can he win?"
"I thought Notestein told you that already," Mike said. "I told him how
we were going to win."
"Who's Notestein?" a man with sunburned knees said. His face was blank. He
looked at Matthieson.
"Oh, he was a sort of consultant to some of the vice-presidents interested
in this political situation," Matthieson said in a low, quick voice.
"What do you mean 'was'?" Mike asked.
"They let him go a few days ago," Matthieson said. "The senior
vice-presidents felt that his judgment wasn't all that it should be in
this sort of thing. You know, he's a foreigner. A Geman Jew, something
like that. He really doesn't understand California politics too well."
That's two, Hank thought. First Moon and now Notestein. He remembered
Notestein's hurried, frenzied, panicked scurry across Santa Monica
Boulevard; his shoulders hunched, his body shrunken in the sport coat.
Notestein knew it would happen then; knew he was caught.
Matthieson's face was not apologetic or defensive. And Hank pushed
away the memory of Notestein's bunched and fearful body and hoped that
Matthieson's face would not change.
"That was a mistake," Mike said. "Notestein was a good person. He understood
California politics."
"That was a decision that our people felt competent to make," Matthieson
said. He changed the subject. "Maybe you could tell us what you told
Mr. Notestein."
"No. I won't tell you that," Mike said. "I told Notestein and he told
your bosses. They decided to fire him because they didn't believe what
he said." Mike paused and grinned at them. "So if you go back and tell
them the same thing maybe they'll fire you."
Matthieson smiled, There was no humor in his smile and no fear.
"Maybe you should just tell us what Cromwell wants to do if he becomes
governor," Matthieson said.
Mike looked around the room at the young executives. He moved the cigar
into the corner of his mouth; a quick expert motion of strong teeth and
lips. He bit the cigar hard and for a few seconds he did not speak. He
just looked at the men.
He's sore, Hank thought, He's angry because they fired Notestein.
"Cromwell will do what's necessary to stay in office," Mike said.
"That's no help, friend," the man with the sunburned knees said, "That
could mean anything."
Mike turned his head and stared at the man. Then he grinned.
"Well, take your case, just as an example," Mike said. "Your name is
Johnstone and you're public relations director for Cortez Agriculture
Corporation. Twelve thousand acres in Imperial, seven thousand in San
Joaquin, a few ranches around Salinas. Lettuce, sugar beets, some cotton,
lots of beef. You're a subsidiary of a New Jersey holding corporation
and you pay wages that are eight cents an hour less than most other big
farming outfits."
"That's right, friend," the man said, "You've got me tagged."
But he's not scared, Hank thought and he felt assured. This is different
from Fresno. This is different from a scared Hungarian Jew. This is power,
money, experience. This is organization.
"And every trade union and agricultural worker in California hates your
guts," Mike said. "So maybe Cromwell introduces a bill making the minimum
wage for agricultural workers one buck an hour." He took the cigar out
of his mouth, looked at the moist end. "Or maybe he introduces a bill
saying that corporations owned by out-of-state people have to pay a
special tax . . . say five dollars a year for every person they employ."
"We'd block it in the legislature," Johnstone said, "We've gotfriends
there."
"So the bill would lose," Mike said very softly. The Filipino had stopped
stirring a pitcher of martinis, as if he had received a signal. "The bill
would lose the first time Cromwell submitted it. But just by submitting
it, just by attacking Cortez Corporation, he'd pick up a hundred thousand
votes among agricultural workers."
Johnstone smiled and leaned back in his chair.
"But most agricultural workers don't vote," Johnstone said. "They move
around the state too much to establish the minimum time for residence
requirements."
"You're so stupid," Mike said. "Don~t you see the next step? Do I have
to tell you? Cromwell would introduce a bill providing that agricultural
workers didn't have to meet the residence requirements. That if they lived
all year round in California that, would be enough." He stuck the cigar
in his teeth, clamped down on it and spoke harshly. "And the legislature
would have to pass that. Because it's democratic, it extends suffrage,
it would be popular. And then, Johnstone, Cromwell would have you by
the short hair."
Johnstone stopped smiling. He leaned forward and put his hands over his
sunburned knees. He looked at Matthieson.
"There's no sense getting emotional," Matthieson said quickly. "A hundred
thousand votes isn't going to get Cromwell in office or keep him there.
You know that."
Mike grinned and did not answer. He puffed on the cigar.
Matthieson went on to say that wages were higher in California than in most
other western states; that the workers were loyal to their companies; that
everyone in business had to make a profit.
Mike said nothing. Hank felt the sharp pleasant edge of his gin and
tonic vanish. He looked around at the young executives. He hoped the
drink had dulled his perception. But he knew it had not. Their toughness
was dissolving. Their faces suddenly were covert, protective, sly. The
toughness was still there, but it was shattered.
Mike stood up, ignored Matthieson's words. He walked over to the big
tinted window and looked across the channel. The room became quiet.