“Country-club unionism,” Guyan said in a musing voice.
“Huh?” Cubbin said, lifting the bottle to his lips again.
“Country-club unionism. That’s what I’d call it.” A true professional, Guyan grew mildly enthusiastic about a good idea, no matter that it could wreck his client’s hopes. “Christ, I’d dig up every picture I could find of you with a golf club or a tennis racket in your hand. ‘What Kind of Deal Will This Man Make for You on the Seventeenth Hole?’”
“That’s not bad,” Imber said.
“It wasn’t a country club,” Cubbin said weakly.
“It doesn’t matter,” Guyan said. “All Sammy had before was some vague kind of charge that you’d lost touch with the rank and file. Now he can pinpoint where you lost it.”
The liquor had begun to come to Cubbin’s rescue. His face had taken on a deep flush. “Look, fella, you’re working for me — not Sammy Hanks. So instead of sitting there shelling out ideas about how he can beat me, why don’t you come up with a few for our side? That’s what I’m paying you for and I’m getting pretty goddamned sick and tired of listening to you tell me what a wonderful campaign you could do for Sammy Hanks.”
“I was just trying to anticipate what he’s going to do.”
“Well why don’t you try anticipating what I’m going to do?”
“Because you’re on the defensive, Don. You’re the incumbent and to get your job Sammy has to attack and you have to defend. If you know how he’s going to attack, then you not only defend, but you also counterattack.”
“You sound like some goddamned general.”
“You’re the general, Don,” Guyan said, “I’m just a lieutenant colonel a little overage in grade.”
“Yeah, well, Colonel, you’d better come up with something that’ll make Sammy... uh... sound a retreat, that’s what.”
“I’ll work on it.”
Cubbin emptied the half-pint into his mouth. “Give me the other one,” he said to Fred Mure.
“That’s all there is, Don.”
“Don’t give me that shit, just give me the other bottle. I can still count.”
Mure sighed loudly and handed Cubbin the last of the four half-pints. Imber and Guyan watched glumly as he unscrewed the cap, tipped up the bottle, and drank.
“You got any more of them around?” Imber said.
“Any more of what, these?” Cubbin said, waving the bottle a little.
“Any more skeletons in your goddamned closet is what I mean.”
“Let me tell you something, sonny boy,” Cubbin said, turning his deep baritone into a harsh, grating noise. “I’m the fuckin president of this fuckin union and if you want to keep your fuckin job you’d better start worrying about how long I’m gonna be president because if I’m not, you’re gonna be out on your ass.”
“I worry about it all the time, President Cubbin, sir,” Imber said, not trying to keep any of the sarcasm out of his tone. “I worry about it so much that I make myself sick, but not half as sick as I’ll be if we’re slipped another little surprise like we were slipped tonight. That’s why I asked about skeletons. Have you got any more of them banging around anywhere?”
Cubbin’s face was flaming by now. “Just what d’you mean by that, Oscar, that I’m some kind of a freak, maybe some kind of a closet queer or something, is that what you mean?”
“I don’t know what I mean, Don,” Imber said. “Let’s forget it; it’s late.”
Cubbin turned around in his seat, the scarlet fading from his face as he took another drink. “Well, there’s nothing wrong with me, nothing bad anyhow. I might have made a few mistakes in my life, but hell, who hasn’t? But that doesn’t mean a man has to be turned inside out in public just to see whether he’s fit to be president of some fuckin labor organization. Christ, I shoulda gone to the coast that time when I had the chance.”
“You’da made a damn fine actor, Don,” Fred Mure said as he smoothly slid the car to a stop in front of the Sheraton-Blackstone.
“Who the hell asked you?” Cubbin said.
“Well, I got my own opinion and I think you’da made a hell of a good actor, that’s what I think.”
“What are you just sitting there for?” Cubbin growled. “Why don’t you go in and get the goddamned elevator ready?”
“Sure, Don,” Mure said. “I was just going.”
Cubbin continued to sit in the car while Mure went into the hotel. He tipped the bottle up, drained most of it, felt a little better, and turned to the two men in the back seat. He grinned at them. He was all good humor again. “I wonder what I’d do if I didn’t have that dumb cluck to kick around?” he said and then turned back still grinning, but not expecting an answer.
By the time Cubbin reached his twelfth-floor suite he had drunk the last of the four half-pints of Ancient Age, making his total consumption for the day a drink or two over a quart.
He was still on his feet, still talking, and apparently still lucid when he strode into the suite demanding a drink.
“Come on, Don,” Fred Mure said. “Let’s go get your pajamas on while Sadie fixes you a drink.”
Cubbin turned to his wife. “You mad at me, honey? These guys are mad at me,” he said, indicating Oscar Imber and Charles Guyan.
“I’m not mad at you, darling,” Sadie said and went over and put her arms around him.
Cubbin looked at Guyan and Imber over his wife’s shoulder. “I want you guys up here at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. We’ve got a lot of work to do. Eight o’clock. We’ll have breakfast.”
“Sure, Don,” Imber said, “eight o’clock,” and thought, you’ll be lucky, fella, if you’ve finished throwing up by ten. He looked past Cubbin and his wife, who were still involved in an embrace, to Fred Mure who stood by the door to the bedroom. Imber lifted an eyebrow and Mure nodded.
“Well, we’ll let you get some sleep, Don,” Imber said.
“Eight o’clock,” Cubbin said. “We’ll have breakfast.”
“Sure, Don,” Guyan said.
After the two men had gone, Fred Mure said, “Let’s get those pajamas on, Don, and then we’ll all have a drink.”
Cubbin looked down at his wife. “You saw it, huh?”
She nodded and smiled. “I saw it.”
“I fucked up, didn’t I?”
“Get your pajamas on and we’ll have a drink and then we can talk about it.”
“Come on, Don,” Fred Mure said.
Cubbin turned slowly from his wife and moved carefully toward Fred Mure. He now had to concentrate on moving his feet so that he wouldn’t weave and stagger. When Mure reached for his arm, Cubbin jerked it away and snarled, “I can make it.”
“Sure, Don.”
When he came out of the bedroom a few minutes later, he was dressed in a scarlet-silk bathrobe, pale blue pajamas, and fleece-lined black slippers. He was also walking steadily, with long, firm strides. Sadie estimated that that would last for all of five minutes.
She handed him a glass that contained three ounces of whiskey, three cubes of ice, and two ounces of water. If she was lucky, he would never finish it. Cubbin took the drink and gulped at it. “That’s better,” he said and looked around for some place to sit. He chose a deep armchair and lowered himself into it.
“You saw me on that shit’s program, huh?” he said to his wife who was handing Fred Mure a drink.
“I saw you.”
“How was I?”
“You were good, darling, but his questions were unfair.”
“He’s a louse. You know I’ve done that guy favors. Lots of favors. He didn’t have any cause to—”
There was a knock at the door and Cubbin broke off. “What time is it?”
“A little after two, Don,” Fred Mure said.