Sparkman strikes the dresser with the flat of his hand. "Adlai, that was just white trash troublemakers, not the quality folks. Not the Sparkmans or the Bankheads." His glance touches his attorney general, but he does not include the Wallaces among the quality. If Wallace notices, he gives no sign. "Most folks down here," Sparkman insists, "they might not care to associate with the coloreds, but they never wanted to see them hung or burned out. Live and let live-"
"Separate," says Wallace, "but equal."
Stevenson doesn't think separate can ever be equal. One or the other would get shortchanged, and he doesn't think it would be the whites. The point is moot now, anyway. "That doesn't matter, John," he tells them. "Up north, John Q. Citizen isn't making any distinctions between the trash and the quality. The city machines don't think they can deliver for a Southern ticket, and you and I both know Boss Daley can deliver votes if he has to dig up the graveyard with his own two hands and drag the corpses into the polling booth. No, it's time the party put a northern man up."
"Party hasn't put up a northern man since Franklin," Tallulah points out. "And there was less there than met the eye. He sure enough brought the Glorious Twenties to a roaring halt."
Stevenson shrugs. "That was just bad luck, the market crashing when it did. After eight good years with McAdoo, Franklin expected the good times to-"
"Then he was naive," snaps Sparkman. "It cost us the White House and it let that… thatengineer, Hoover, take credit for the recovery."
It was only natural that people looking to rebuild America after the Great Panic should look to the man who had helped rebuild Europe after the Great War. But there is no point in picking over ancient history. "The point is, John," Stevenson says, "we don't plan to dig up Franklin and nominate him again. The Great Panic is all in the past, but this business down here-The Situation-that's happeningright now. Even if the League troops went home tomorrow, folks would still remember it was the South brought it on us come election time."
Sparkman's irritation shows in the pinch of his face. "Who, then?" the governor snaps. "You?" A speculative glint in Sparkman's eye and he cocks his head. "You and me," he says more thoughtfully. "Illinois and Alabama. A balanced ticket. It might work."
Stevenson recoils in horror. "I'm only a simple senator from the Midwest." And besides-although he does not voice the thought-as little as Stevenson relishes the role of president, he relishes the role of sacrificial lamb even less.
"Well, not that prancing popinjay from Massachussetts!" Wallace says in a belligerent growl. "Not that son of a goose-stepping Kaiser-kisser!"
"No, not 'Little Joe, either." Stevenson shudders at the thought of what might happen if presidents were chosen on their good looks and breezy self-assurance. "He's just the glove," he tells them. "His daddy's the hand, and none of us wanthim controlling the government. No, we've been talking up the junior senator from Missouri."
Sparkman shows surprise. "Truman? He's a Prendergast man. Why not just hand Big Jim the keys to Fort Knox? Besides, Missouri's a Southern state, too."
"No, John. I've worked with Harry in the Senate. Sure, he got his start with the Machine, but he's the only one of that crowd who everlost money in office. And Missouri is aborder state." He lets Sparkman think that over.
The governor is not happy, but he sees the point. "All right, we can pretend he's a Southern man and you-all can pretend he's northern. Maybe we squeeze out a few more votes that way." He runs his hand through his hair. "Republicans make up their minds yet?"
Stevenson shakes his head. "Still split between Taft and Warren. We may be able to exploit that. Divide the Republican vote the way Wilson did." Privately, Stevenson doubts they can pull it off. A solid run by a northern Democrat is all he asks for; something that will separate the Party from the clearings in the public mind. Afterwards… He thinks he can work with Earl Warren; but a congenial, cooperative term will only solidify the GOP's hold on the executive office, so he might as well butt heads with Taft for four years.
The four of them talk the pros and cons of Truman versus Warren or Taft. Sparkman promises to sound out the other Southern governors; but if the northern machines won't back a Southern man, he knows as well as Stevenson that they have no choice.
Wallace lingers after the other two leave and eyes Stevenson's bald pate. "You don't look like a man with much need of hair tonic," he says without preamble.
Stevenson hesitates, then closes the door, shutting the two of them in together. "So, you're the leader of-"
But Wallace holds up a hand. "I ain't leader of nothing. But maybe I know someone who knows someone. You wanted a meeting. This is it."
Stevenson takes a breath and walks to the other side of the room, where he leans against the dresser. He must reach deep down inside himself to pull the words out. "There has to be an accommodation," he tells the man who knows someone, "before it rips the Party in half."
Wallace grunts and crosses his arms. "Well, it's about time you-all got on board…"
"I beg your pardon?"
"… and we got some recognition for what we've done!"
The response startles Stevenson. The replies he had ready do not cover this comment. Again, he searches for words, but can do no better than to throw the same ones back. "Recognition? For what you've done?"
"Who's been fighting the Hun and his lickspittle, so-called 'allies' this past year-by ourselves? Generations of Southern men have bled and died so this land could be free. At King's Mountain, Yorktown, New Orleans, Pittsburgh Landing, Atlanta… We won't sit by idle while those Prussian pigs pollute it with every goose step they take. Even a Yankee should see that-if he can take his eye off the almighty dollar long enough."
"You have," Stevenson observes dryly, "an endearing way with words."
"But what do we hear from New York and Boston and Chicago? Silence, that's what. Where are the Northern boys now that our holy ground has been violated?"
"You need men," Stevenson guesses. The Germans must have cut deep into the nightriders' manpower.
Wallace juts his chin forward. "And guns."
"And what else?"
"And explosives!"
"And what else?"
"Some word of thanks from the rest of you sons of bitches!"
"Thanks? Thanks!" Some things Stevenson cannot swallow. "If it hadn't been for the clearings, none of this would be happening!"
Wallace is impervious to accusation. "Don't hand me that. Sure, there were some lynchings and things. Don't get me wrong-I never approved. A mob gets its dander up and they're likely to up and lynch the wrong nigra. That's not the American way."
"And lynching the right one is?"
"For murder or rape? Maybe not 'right, but not the same kind of 'wrong, either. But, like I said, I never approved. We would've worked things out. The coloreds and us, we been living side by side down here for a couple hundred years. We get along-as long as everybody knows his place. But then outside agitators come along and give folks uppity notions, fill them up with dreams their abilities can never achieve-so that they lash out like frustrated children and have to be spanked."
"I'd call what happened more than a spanking, Mr. Wallace."