The Porkchoppers (16 page)

Afterward, there were those partisans who claimed that Boone's efforts had saved the nation from Richard Nixon, at least for a while. Illinois went Democratic by 8,858 votes out of the 4,746,834 that were cast for the two major parties. “Well,” Indigo Boone had said later, “when they called up and told me they needed some more Kennedy votes, why I just scurried around and got them some more, about nine thousand more, if I recollect right.”

Boone's stock shot up enormously downtown after the election and three weeks later he even got a letter from John Kennedy that warmly thanked him for “your in valuable efforts on my behalf.” Boone had the letter framed and hung it on his living-room wall and never failed to point it out to visitors when they came calling, even if they had already seen it a dozen times.

Marvin Harmes had never seen the Kennedy letter because he had never been in Indigo Boone's home before. So after the two had formally shaken hands, and the letter had been pointed out to Harmes, he had read it carefully, every word, because he felt that Boone might test him on it. While he read it Harmes felt Boone's eyes on him as they took in his ivory silk double-breasted suit with its twelve imitation black pearl buttons, his Sea Island cotton shirt with its tiny black and white checks, his knit black silk tie, and his ankle-high black calf boots that were so highly polished that they gleamed like patent leather.

Machine written and machine signed, Harmes thought as he read the letter for the third time, but I'm sure as hell not going to tell Mr. Indigo Boone that. Instead, he turned slowly from the letter and said, “Now that's really something. You must be mighty proud of that, Mr. Boone.”

Boone knew that the letter had been written by one machine and signed by another, but it served its purpose. It made some people think that he was a bit naïve, even simple, and that sometimes made them a little careless in their dealings with him and if they were, it usually could be worked to his advantage.

“Well, when I was just a raggedy-ass kid growin up in New Orleans, I sure didn't think I'd ever get a letter from the President of the United States of America.”

Harmes nodded understandingly, but thought, Don't try to torn me, man. You wouldn't really give a shit if that letter was signed by Jesus Christ himself, unless you could figure on making a quarter out of it. “I met his brother a couple of times,” Harmes said as casually as he could, thus establishing his own connection with the nation's departed royalty.

“He was a good man.”

“A good man,” Harmes agreed solemnly.

“Well, let's make ourselves comfortable,” Boone said, indicating a chair after deciding that Brother Harmes sure as hell don't give nothing away for free. He moved over to a closed mahogany cabinet and turned to look back at Harmes. “I'm going to have a little refreshment. You care for something sociable?”

Before Harmes could answer, Boone pressed a button and the top of the cabinet moved up and folded itself back revealing a wet bar with a sink, a small refrigerator, a couple of dozen bottles, and a variety of glasses.

Nice trick, Harmes thought. I'm impressed just like I oughta be. “Scotch on the rocks,” he said.

“That's my drink, too,” Boone said although he preferred bourbon.

While Boone mixed the two drinks, Harmes took in the room. It was worth a look, he decided, because a vast sum and much time had been spent in an attempt to give it a look of rich, quiet elegance. The room had been done in black and soft shades of brown that ranged from creamed coffee to cinnamon to dark amber. The ceiling was painted a light tan and the walls were covered with a faint brown material that was patterned in raised, dark brown fleurs-de-lis that looked like plush, brown plush, if there is such a thing, Harmes thought. Two black leather couches of an indeterminate, but comfortable design flanked the fireplace whose ornate mantel had been carved out of brown marble. Or maybe it's just painted wood, Harmes thought. If he got hold of the right Italians, they can do things to wood that would make you swear it was marble.

The three windows that faced out over the Midway were draped in dark brown velvet and the windows themselves had fringed, pale tan shades that were drawn half way down. Above the fireplace was a large sepia sketch of a New Orleans street scene in the French Quarter. There were some other chairs covered in tobacco browns that were carefully placed so as to make conversation easy. Against one wall was a dark walnut table that Harmes thought was probably an antique. It held a copper vase that contained some thoughtfully arranged chrysanthemums whose shade almost exactly matched the vase that held them.

And in one corner, all by itself, next to the door that led to the rest of the apartment, was the Kennedy letter in its plain black frame. That letter's the only white thing in the room, Harmes thought. I do think Mr. Indigo Boone is trying to tell me something.

As Boone came toward him with the drinks, Harmes could see why his parents had named him Indigo. He's sure one black nigger, Harmes thought, and if black is beautiful, he must be the most gorgeous thing in town.

Boone was black, as black as ebony and just as smooth except for his short, kinky hair that had turned dove gray on top and nicely white at the sides. He was a big man who was a little surprised to find himself gray and running to fat now that he was just past fifty. But he covered his stomach up with double-breasted vests and Harmes, who knew a lot about clothes, estimated that the beautifully cut gray worsted suit that Boone wore could have cost no less than $400. I'm gonna have to ask him who did it for him, Harmes decided. I might not ask him anything else, but I'm sure gonna ask him that.

“I was just thinking,” Boone said as he handed Harmes his glass, “I was just thinking that it's funny we never ran into each other before.”

“We don't socialize much,” Harmes said. “Whenever I'm not traveling the wife and I sort of like to stay home.”

Boone nodded his understanding. “Well, the older you get the less you mix and mingle, I spect. Of course, if you're into politics, then you almost have to get out and move amongst ‘em. And I do believe you wanted to see me about something that's got to do with politics?”

Well, he led into it smooth enough, Harmes thought as he nodded yes and then took a swallow of his drink, automatically noting that the Scotch probably cost twelve dollars a fifth, at least that.

Boone smiled; it was big, white, and warm, the professional kind that goes with an expert salesman or politician and Boone was both. “Well, I can say that I'm just a little disappointed,” he said.

“Why?”

“I was sort of hoping that you'd dropped by to see me about a life-insurance policy with your mind all made up and convinced so that all I'd have to do is just provide the pen.”

He's not only smooth, Harmes decided, he's slick. “Well,” he said, “now that you mention it, it is a kind of insurance that I'm interested in.”

Boone nodded and smiled again. “You know something, I didn't pay much attention to life insurance until I was about your age.”

“Well, what I'm really interested in is both insurance and politics. What I mean is that I'd like to find out if I can take out some insurance on an election.”

“Uh-huh,” Boone said, his voice flat and totally empty of anything.

“I've heard you're the man.”

“Uh-huh.” This time Harmes thought it sounded even more empty, if that were possible. Well, you'd better sweeten the pot, he told himself.

“Of course, I'm prepared to pay for advice and counsel.”

The two men stared at each other. Neither was in the least awed by what he saw, but neither particularly wanted the other as an enemy. I bet that boy's come a long way to be sitting where he is now in that ice-cream suit of his, Boone thought, and because he was an essentially curious man, he asked, “Where you from?”

“Alabama. Little town called Sylacauga.”

“That's a pretty name.”

“Nothing pretty about the town.”

“Uh-huh,” Boone said. “What's Sylacauga, Indian?”

“Must be.”

“Know what it means?”

Harmes split his dark, hard face with a white, hard grin. “I never bothered to ask.”

Boone grinned back, this time using his real one, not the professional kind that he put on for show. “Well, now, how much, Mr. Harmes, do you think my advice and counsel might be worth?”

Harmes studied his drink for a moment and then looked up. “We might manage the going rate.”

“The going rate's five thousand.”

“I'm sure that a rich candidate with a whole tree of money would pay that and gladly, Mr. Boone, but I'm representing a poor candidate who's got to depend on the one-dollar bills and four-bit pieces that he collects from working stiffs. We got hard times now and we can't possibly go any higher than twenty-five hundred.”

Not bad, Boone thought. He knows what he's doing. “Well, I'm a reasonable man and I'm sure that your candidate's cause is more than just, Air. Harmes, or you wouldn't be associated with it, so I'm prepared to reduce my fee to four thousand.”

Well, by God, that's white of you, Indigo, Harmes thought, but without bitterness. “We got men out of work, families going hungry, and to tell the truth, there's just not any money around. If we scraped up every last cent we got, it wouldn't be no more than three thousand dollars.”

“We got hard times, Mr. Harmes, I do agree because I feel it myself, every day. In fact, things are getting so bad that I'm willing to risk my professional standing and make you my last offer of thirty-five hundred providing you swear you won't tell nobody.”

“Make it thirty-two fifty and your secret's safe as churches,” Harmes said.

Boone decided that Harmes had learned a trick or two from that union of his. He squeezes for the last dollar and I bet he gets close most of the time, Boone thought as he stuck out his hand, his professional smile back in place. “You got yourself a deal,” he said.

Harmes accepted the hand and then both men smiled at each other, Harmes because he had expected to pay at least $4,000 and Boone because he had anticipated a fee no higher than $3,000.

“Now then,” Boone said, “I believe you've got an election coming up in that union of yours.”

“That's right.”

“And you'd sorta like to insure its outcome, huh?”

“That's the idea.”

“Well, maybe you'd better tell me about it.”

“Where you want me to start?”

“Tell me when, where, and how you do the voting. After that, you can tell me who's running and who you want to win and maybe I can tell you what you're gonna have to do to make sure that he does.”

15

While Marvin Harmes was learning how to steal an election in Chicago, the man that he wanted to steal it for was giving a press conference in Washington. It was only the second press conference that Sammy Hanks had called since his campaign began, the first being the inevitable one to announce his candidacy.

This time he was suggesting, urging, and even demanding that Donald Cubbin resign the presidency of the union and quit the race for reelection.

Hanks didn't really expect to get anywhere with his suggestion except onto the three network news programs that evening and perhaps onto page six or seven of those newspapers who thought that he had enough members among their readers to make the printing of his demand worthwhile.

The basis for Hanks's demands on Cubbin were the revelations contained in the previous night's television program, “Jake's Night,” a transcript of which had been furnished the gathered press along with a prepared statement that Hanks was now reading for the benefit of the TV cameras. Hanks was virtually accusing Cubbin of having sold out the union in exchange for membership in the Federalists Club whose other members were all right-wing, big-business types who hated blacks just like Cubbin did.

Sammy Hanks didn't say it quite like that, but it was still strong stuff carefully written in an awful, florid style to make sure that it would be both broadcast and printed.

“In summary,” Hanks read, “I must reluctantly call for the resignation of Donald Cubbin as president of this union because of the shocking facts revealed in the television program that I discussed earlier. I charge Donald Cubbin not only with racial bigotry but also with industrial sycophancy—”

“That's a good word,” the Associated Press man muttered to a reporter from
The Wall Street Journal.
“The membership will think that old Don's come down with a new kind of clap.”

“—which endangers the collective bargaining effectiveness of this union. If Donald Cubbin is half the labor statesman that he claims to be, he will resign—for the good of the union, for the good of the country, and for the good of himself. The evidence is perfectly plain—”

“If he'd said ‘crystal clear,' I'd have given him four points,” the AP man said. “‘Perfectly plain's' only a two-point cliché.”

“Why don't you get a job with Sammy?”
The Wall Street Journal
reporter said. “I hear he pays well.”

“I already work for a nut,” the AP man said.

“—perfectly plain,” Hanks went on, “that Donald Cubbin intends to drag this great organization of ours down the path to country-club unionism with all the vicious racist overtones which that term implies. This must not happen. This will not happen.”

Sammy Hanks sat down to the scattered applause of a few of his own sycophants who didn't know any better than to clap at a press conference.

“Who writes this crap for Sammy?” the AP man asked
The Wall Street Journal
reporter.

“Mickey Della, I guess.”

“I thought so.”

“Why?”

“Only a real pro could make it so bad.”

After answering a few perfunctory questions, the press conference ended and Sammy Hanks left the large hotel room on Fourteenth and K Streets and headed down the hall followed by a heavy, stooped, shambling gray-haired man whose bright blue eyes flittered balefully from behind bifocal glasses with bent steel frames. The man had his usual equipment consisting of a Pall Mall cigarette parked in the corner of his mouth underneath a stained, scraggly gray mustache and a newspaper tucked under his arm. He was never seen without either a cigarette in his mouth or a newspaper under his arm because he was addicted to both. He smoked four packs of Pall Malls a day and bought every edition of every paper published in whatever city or town he happened to be in. If asked about his addiction to newspapers—he could never pass a stand or a street seller without buying one—the man always said, “What the hell, it only costs a dime and where else can you buy that much bullshit for a dime?”