The Porkchoppers (25 page)

“Christ, yes,” Guyan said, “except you're making me feel a bit simple.”

“There's lots more in there,” Lawson said, indicating the manila envelope.

“You shouldn't feel simple, Charles,” Majury said. “If this were a regular campaign and you had full use of your own medium, which is, of course, television, then you would be perfectly matched against someone like Mickey Della. But in a print campaign such as this there is virtually no one who can match Mickey for sheer viciousness unless, of course, it's Ted and I. I think we've given you enough ammunition to finish the campaign, but if you run into any problem, just give us a call.”

“I'll do that,” Guyan said, deciding that if he must deal in slime, he might as well trade with the guys who owned the pit.

By four that afternoon, Ted Lawson and Peter Majury were sitting in Walter Penry's office, giving him a report.

“I think that Guyan will work out rather well after all,” Majury said. “Once he found that he was out of his depth, he called for help. That shows a certain amount of resourcefulness.”

“Good,” Penry said. “Can you think of anything else that we should do?”

“Nothing except in Chicago,” Majery said. “I'm having a very difficult time finding out just how they intend to steal it there.”

“Keep working on it,” Penry said.

“Oh, I intend to, but it will cost.”

“How much have we spent so far?”

“Nearly a hundred and fifty thousand,” Lawson said.

“And we gave Cubbin?”

“About four hundred and fifty thousand.”

“So we've got about fifty thousand dollars left?” Penry said.

“Yes.”

“Is that enough?”

“I—uh—think so,” Majury said. “That reporter wants ten thousand.”

“For one question?”

“Well, it's going to be a rather big question.”

“All right, pay him. When are they going to announce it?”

“Tomorrow. This is Friday so that will give them a day over two weeks to build up the publicity.”

“You're sure Hanks will accept?”

“Oh, yes,” Majury said. “He's been yelling for a debate with Cubbin.”

“But it won't be a debate?” Penry said.

Majury shook his head. “No.”

“Okay,” Penry said. “On Sunday, October fifteenth, Cubbin and Hanks appear on—Christ, I can never remember the name of the damn thing—”

“‘The Whole World Is Watching,'” Majury said.

“No wonder I can't remember it. All right, they appear on that, side by side, to be interviewed by a panel of distinguished newsmen, so-called. Both sides and the network will give it a big buildup because it'll be the only appearance of the two candidates together. And this program will make or break Cubbin's campaign.”

“Unless they manage to steal it from him in Chicago,” Lawson said.

“Yes,” Penry said, looking at Majury, “unless they steal it from him in Chicago.”

Majury smiled and again smoothed his hair. “For some reason,” he said, “I don't think they will.”

25

There were several reasons why the television program “The Whole World Is Watching” had proved to be surprisingly popular, the principal one being that it was scheduled one hour before the network's Sunday pro football game.

But the program had other features. It chose its controversies carefully and it always procured the two chief spokesmen for the opposing sides. Then, too, its panel of four newsmen had been selected for their overall nasti ness, and the program often disintegrated into a yelling match that delighted its pregame audience who got the comfortable feeling they were keeping up with public affairs without sacrificing entertainment.

The program's moderator, although “provocateur” would be a more accurate description, was Neal James, the syndicated political columnist who specialized in political muckraking and whose backlog of libel suits seldom totaled less than twenty million dollars. The more heated the discussion, the better James liked it, and if the program's pace flagged, James was always ready with an insultingly provocative question or observation that more than once had sent a guest into bitter ranting. On three occasions, fists had been used and this, of course, had served as a delightful appetizer for the nearly forty million fans who were settling down for a long afternoon of fairly mindless violence.

At ten o'clock the morning of October 13 in his suite in the Madison Hotel in Washington, Donald Cubbin was being subjected to a merciless interrogation by a team of experts led by Peter Majury. Others included Charles Guyan, Oscar Imber, two union economists, and the union's highly paid legal counsel, who at the last moment had decided to abandon his neutrality and back Cubbin.

For two hours they fired questions at him and when they didn't like his answers, they told him what he should have said. They went into the Federalists Club affair, into his drinking, his personal political philosophy, his home life, his religion, his stewardship of the union, past, present, and future, and finally, why should an old man like you who's past sixty still want to clutch at power? They were bitter, cynical, extremely knowledgeable questions, and Cubbin answered most of them surprisingly well.

Over in Sammy Hanks's campaign headquarters at 14th and K Streets, Mickey Della was subjecting Hanks to a similar inquisition, except that the questions that Della and his crew asked were even nastier than those put to Cubbin. After two hours of it, Della signaled a halt, turned to Hanks and said, “You'll do.” Mickey Della never liked to praise anyone too much.

At a quarter to one, Coin Kensington was waddling back and forth in his hotel suite between the kitchenette and the coffee table, laying out the snack that he planned to munch on during the interview program and the game that followed.

It was going to be a long afternoon and Kensington didn't want hunger to make him miss anything exciting so he had decided to set out an ample supply. Arranged on the coffee table were half a pound of kosher salami, a pound box of Sunshine soda crackers, three half-pound chunks of Swiss, cheddar, and Monterey Jack cheese, two containers of Sara Lee Brownies, a pint of stuffed olives, an immense bowl of potato chips, a can of Planter's mixed nuts, half a loaf of sliced pumpernickel, a plate of fried chicken, and a quart container of potato salad. Kensington's final trip to the refrigerator was to get a quart of buttermilk and a jar of dill pickles.

At ten minutes to one Kensington went to answer a knock at his door. Standing there in a blue, double-breasted cashmere jacket, dove-gray trousers, and figured silk shirt was Walter Penry who, Kensington decided before he said hello, had sure come a hell of a long way from the FBI.

“Come on in,” Kensington said, “I was beginning to wonder if you'd be late.”

“Not a chance,” Penry said.

“Got a little something to eat here, if you get hungry,” Kensington said, making a vague wave toward the laden coffee table.

“No, thanks.”

“Got beer in the icebox.”

“I'll take a beer,” Penry said.

“You mind getting it? I been up on my feet all day.”

“Sure,” Penry said and took a can of beer from the refrigerator, deciding against a glass because he knew Old Man Kensington would like to see him drink it from the can.

He took a swallow of the beer and watched Kensington lower his immense bulk onto the sofa within handy reach of the coffee table. “If you'll just turn up the sound, we'll be ready to go,” Kensington said.

Penry walked over, turned up the sound on the 24-inch color television set, and then settled into a comfortable club chair.

“So you think it's gonna be an interesting program?” Kensington said.

“It had better be,” Penry said. “We spent ten thousand bucks to make it one.”

In his Baltimore living room, Truman Goff switched on the television set and went back to an article in
The New York Times
that was a wrapup of the battle between Cubbin and Hanks and ended with a paragraph describing how each candidate would cast his vote on Tuesday, Cubbin in Pittsburgh at Local Number 1 where he still maintained his membership, and Hanks in Washington at the Headquarters Local. Goff tore the article out and put it in his wallet.

His wife came in from the kitchen carrying two cans of beer. She handed one to Goff and said, “You gonna watch that talky program?”

“I thought I might.”

“All they do is scream at each other.”

“It gets pretty hairy all right sometimes.”

“What time you leaving tomorrow?”

“I don't know,” Goff said. “About ten.”

“Well, be sure to tell your mother hello for me when you get down to Lynchburg.”

“Okay. You need some more money?”

“No,” his wife said, “you already give me plenty.”

Donald Cubbin used the union-supplied limousine to drive out to the network studio in northwest Washington. Fred Mure drove with Kelly beside him. In the rear with Cubbin were Oscar Imber and Charles Guyan. On the jump seats were Peter Majury and Ted Lawson.

Mickey Della drove Sammy Hanks out to the studio in Della's five-year-old Ford Galaxie. “You're going to make Cubbin feel like a shit if you don't bring along a big crowd,” Della said.

Hanks and Cubbin met face to face for the first time in two months on the steps of the studio. They looked at one another warily, each suspicious of the hidden knife, until Cubbin growled, “Hello, Sammy.”

“How are you, Don?”

“Who you betting on?”

Hanks looked slightly surprised, but grinned hastily and said, “Me, of course.”

“I meant the ball game, stupid,” Cubbin said and brushed on past.

Mickey Della fell into step with Peter Majury. “I'm surprised that you decided to crawl out of the woodwork where the light can get at you,” Della said.

“Ah, Michael, it's good to see you up and about,” Majury whispered. “I'd heard you were in a rest home.”

Neal James met his two guests, shook hands with them, and then sent them off to makeup. The girl who worked on Cubbin told him that he looked like an actor. After he caught the one who was assigned to him biting her lip, Sammy Hanks said, “What do you say we try a paper bag?”

After Cubbin came out of makeup, Charles Guyan drew him aside. “Just one word of advice, Don. Keep your answers short and don't let them needle you.”

“What about making a little joke when I'm introduced? You know, something about since I've been accused of spending most of my time at country clubs, maybe I should have brought along my golf clubs.”

Guyan couldn't keep the pained expression from his face. “No, Don, please. No jokes. Just be dignified.”

“You don't think it's funny?”

“No, I don't think it's funny. Sorry.”

“Yeah, sure,” Cubbin said and decided to make the joke anyway if he got the chance. It would help ease the tension, he thought.

Peter Majury sidled up to Cubbin and tugged him away from Guyan. “Be kind to Sammy, Don,” he whispered. “Don't be too hard on him.”

“What do you mean don't be too hard on him? I'll be as hard as I can on the son of a bitch.”

Majury smiled sadly. “Just remember what I said, Don, please. Be kind. Compassionate.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Majury shrugged and again smiled sadly. “Just remember what I said.”

After Cubbin was ushered onto the set, Ted Lawson moved over to Peter Majury. “You give him the word?” Lawson said.

“I told him as much as I could.”

“It's sure as hell an iffy thing.”

“It'll work,” Majury whispered, as though trying to convince himself. “I just know it'll work.”

Kelly Cubbin sat next to Fred Mure, watching on a monitor as the guests and the reporters were seated on the studio set.

“Old Don looks great on TV, don't he, Kelly?” Mure said.

“Fine.”

“And he's only had two drinks today, too. I offered him one just before he went in there, but he didn't even want it.”

“You're nothing but kindness, Fred.”

Mure nodded comfortably. “I try to look after him.”

On the set four reporters, nicknamed “The Cutthroats,” sat behind a curved table on a raised dais, looking down on the guests, or victims, as Neal James sometimes called them. The two guests sat in plain, straight, armless chairs that gave them no place to rest their hands other than in their laps, which made them look silly, or folded across their chests, which made them look frightened. However, Cubbin knew what to do with his hands. He sat straight in his chair, his chin up, his legs crossed, his right arm casually resting on his crossed left leg, his left hand loosely grasping his right wrist. He looked attentive, casual, relaxed, and above all, dignified, and he knew it.

Sammy Hanks used the only weapon he had, his delightful smile. He turned it on and kept it on except when he thought it would be better to look serious and concerned. As for his hands, he forced them to hang straight down at his sides and Mickey Della thought it made him look like a man waiting to be strapped into the electric chair.

Neal James sat on a raised podium behind a small desk between his two guests. He had a round, almost cherubic face that made him look younger than forty-six. He also smiled frequently and the smile was at its sweetest just after he had asked a particularly nasty question.

James had chosen his panel of reporters more for their abrasive personalities than for either their looks or their journalistic abilities. Before they had started appearing regularly on the program, they had been small-time Washington correspondents with cubbyholes in the National Press Building who worked for various newspapers in states such as Louisiana, Texas, Idaho, and Nebraska. Now two of them, Ray Sallman and Roger Krim, had their own syndicated columns and the other two, Frank Felix and Arnold Timmons, were getting requests for articles from such magazines as
Playboy
and
Esquire,
although Timmons didn't think he was getting his share.