Gammage had first come to know Donald Cubbin well on one of those committees that are always being formed by the Federal Government in Washington. Cubbin had represented Labor and Gammage had represented Industry. They had hit it off together because neither was quite sure what the real purpose of the committee was, but only that its recommendations would be steadfastly ignored.
They had lunched a few times together in Washington after that because Cubbin could be a genuinely amusing companion, especially when he talked about other labor leaders and the early days of the CIO and the motion-picture industry and the peculiarities of various politicians. Gammage tried to remember whether they had ever talked about the contract that Cubbin’s union had with his industry and decided that they hadn’t, probably because neither of them was really interested in it and probably because both of them were equally bored with their jobs.
So after one of those lunches during which Cubbin had been particularly amusing, Gammage had felt that he would like to do something for him. Gammage seldom had been impulsively generous and he had rather enjoyed the feeling it gave him. He had asked Cubbin if he would like to become a member of the Federalists Club and Cubbin had made a small joke about it and Gammage had said that he would submit his name. He had, a week or so later, and he had been surprised and even a little mortified when Cubbin had been blackballed. He had been even more surprised by the letter that Cubbin had written him, that awful, begging letter that almost made Gammage squirm as he read it. With reluctance, Gammage had re-submitted Cubbin’s name after a suitable interval and after Cubbin had been accepted, Gammage had avoided the Federalists Club whenever he was in Washington.
“Well, that’s the story,” said the man who now sat across from Gammage’s desk.
“Cubbin’s letter is still in our files?” Gammage said.
“Yes.”
“How did Jake Jobbins get it?”
“I don’t know. It’s probably still in Cubbin’s file, too.”
“I see.”
The man who sat across from A. Richard Gammage was Nelson Hardisty, the company’s public relations director. Gammage looked at him and wondered whether Hardisty really thought that they were talking about something important. To Hardisty he said, “Well, what do we do?”
“It depends upon how the press reacts.”
“They will react, you think?”
“It’s a pretty hot story.”
“I fail to see how it could possibly interest anyone.”
“Politics,” Hardisty said, using the most knowing tone he could produce. “Union politics.”
“And you think I should have a statement prepared?”
“Well, that’s why I called you this morning—”
“Yes, at seven.”
“I thought it was important, Mr. Gammage.”
“I’m sure you did.”
“I could draft a statement for you, if you like.”
“No, I think I’ll dictate it.”
“Yes, well, it might be good if you got to it right away.”
“I’ll dictate it to you now.”
“Well, if you want to make sure the wording’s—”
“It’s only two words,” Gammage said. “‘No comment.’ Can you remember that?”
Hardisty flushed. “Yes, I can remember that.”
“One more thing.”
“Yes.”
“I would like a carefully reasoned memo on my desk by five o’clock tomorrow on why our public relations department should be abolished.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes. Completely.”
“Well, I really don’t think that I’m the one—”
“By five o’clock tomorrow, Hardisty.”
“Am I being fired?”
“It depends on how good a job you do with that memo.”
“I don’t think—”
“That’s all, Hardisty.”
After he had gone, Gammage swung his chair around and looked out over the dying lake. I wonder why I did that, he thought. It must have been because I enjoyed it.
Four men who desperately wanted Donald Cubbin to be either defeated or reelected had gathered by chance at National Airport in Washington that Friday morning and by the same chance, they were all going to Chicago on the same United flight. Three of the men were white and one was black. The whites were Walter Penry and his principal associates, Peter Majury and Ted Lawson. The black was Marvin Harmes. The whites wanted Donald Cubbin reelected; the black wanted him defeated and none of them had too many scruples about how it should be done, although Harmes was still not quite sure just how an election is best stolen.
Still, Harmes thought, stealing an election’s probably just like stealing anything else, the main thing being, like always, don’t get caught. There had been a lot of elections stolen in Chicago, Harmes told himself, and you’ve phoned for an appointment with the man who’s probably stolen more of them than anybody else and who’s agreed to see you this afternoon at three o’clock. So at three o’clock, Brother Harmes, you’re going to be calling on the nation’s top election stealer. You’re going to be calling on Indigo Boone.
The only one of the three whites to recognize Harmes was Peter Majury who, dressed as usual in his Afrika Korps trench coat, was slinking around the airport, trying to spot someone or something that should be noted and filed for possible future use. Majury always did this at airports just as he always tried to familiarize himself with anyone who someday might become an adversary or opponent. It was a task that kept him constantly busy, but he was diligent and he already had a comprehensive file on Marvin Harmes, both mental and on paper, which included such items as Harmes’s skill as a poker player (semipro, Majury had noted, but steadily improving).
Majury thought that it wasn’t particularly noteworthy that Harmes was flying to Chicago because that was his base and home. However, it might be interesting to learn what Harmes had been doing in Washington.
In the living room of the hotel suite that offered a view of Lafayette Park and, beyond that, of the White House, Coin Kensington was enjoying what he had described to his visitor as an “old-timey Kansas farm breakfast.” The breakfast consisted of steak and eggs and potatoes, but the steak was a three-inch-thick filet drenched with Béarnaise sauce, the four eggs were Benedict, and the potatoes were what the hotel chef called pommes de terre dauphinoise which meant that they were cooked in cream and butter and drenched with Gruyère. The toast was just ordinary toast and Kensington had ordered a “quart of coffee” to wash it all down. He had also asked his visitor to share the coffee, but nothing else.
Kensington’s visitor was a thirty-one-year-old man, conservatively dressed in one of the six look-alike suits that he had recently bought from Arthur Adler’s. He had a wide pale forehead, dark wavy hair, cunningly styled to look long, but not too long; a sharp nose, pink at its tip; a red, small mouth that somehow looked mean, but which may have been only firm; a bony chin that managed to appear ambitious; and dark, flickering eyes that seldom gave away anything he thought or felt except his impatience with those whom he regarded as slower witted than himself. He was flashing his impatient look at Old Man Kensington now and, of course, he was making a mistake. The thirty-one-year-old man’s name was Alfred Etheridge and not too many people called him Al because, first of all, he didn’t like it and secondly, he worked at the White House where he thought a certain amount of formality should be maintained. Old Man Kensington, not too much on formality and largely indifferent to White House protocol, had been calling him Al for the last ten minutes.
“Sure you won’t have some coffee, Al?” Kensington said.