Sammy Hanks put down the second section of The Washington Post’s comic strips and tousled his daughter’s blond hair. “That’s all, honey. Why don’t you run out and play in the street?”
“I’m not supposed to play in the street.”
“You’re not?”
“No.”
“Where are you supposed to play?”
“In the yard. You know that, Daddy.”
“I guess you’re right. Okay, why don’t you go out and play in the yard?”
It was an old joke between father and daughter and both of them still liked it. He also liked to watch her play, sometimes with other children in the neighborhood, and sometimes with her imaginary friends. Marylin hadn’t minded introducing her father to her imaginary friends because she knew that he would treat them with grave respect.
“We oughta get her a dog, a big one,” he said as his daughter wandered out into the backyard.
“A St. Bernard or a Great Dane?” Sybil said.
“I mean a big one. One of those Irish wolfhounds.”
“Who do you want it for, you or Marylin?”
Sammy Hanks smiled his charming smile at his wife. “For me, I guess.”
“You never had a dog?”
The smile vanished. “No,” he said. “I never had a dog or a cat either.”
Sybil recognized the danger signals and quickly shifted the topic because Sammy’s childhood was something they had spoken of only twice and both times he had gone into raging tantrums. The first time she had asked casually about his parents. The second time she had done so purposely, to see what would happen, and when she found out she had never mentioned his parents again. Instead, she mothered Sammy a lot because he seemed to like it.
“When do you have to leave?”
“I have to be out at Dulles by three so I’d better leave here around one forty-five.”
“Who’s going with you?”
“Just Mickey Della.”
“Is he as good as you thought he’d be?”
“Uh-huh. He’s better than what Cubbin’s got.”
“I should call her, you know.”
“Who?”
“Sadie.”
“What the Christ you wanta call her for?”
“Because she’s a good friend.”
“She was a good friend.”
“Just because you and Don are in a fight is no reason that Sadie and I have to be.”
“What’re you going to do, call her up and say isn’t it just terrible how the boys are behaving? For Christ’s sake, Sybil, I’m going to have to teach you how to hate.”
“I don’t hate Sadie.”
“Well, learn.”
“And you don’t hate Don.”
“I don’t?”
“No.”
“Well, I’m going to take his job away from him so I might as well hate him. It’ll make it easier.”
“We used to have some fun together.”
“Who, you and Sadie?”
“The four of us.”
“I don’t remember any good times.”
“Well, I do.”
“Cubbin was always sloshed.”
“Not always.”
“Well, I hear he is now.”
“Poor Sadie.”
“Poor Sadie, my ass.”
“What’s he going to do?”
“Who?”
“Don.”
“When?”
“When it’s over.”
“Get drunk and stay that way probably.”
“I don’t know, but it just doesn’t seem fair.”
“What doesn’t?”
“He’s dedicated his whole life to the union and—”
“Jesus, you sound like his campaign stuff. He hasn’t dedicated his life to the union, he’s worked all his life for the union. There’s a big difference. Christ, most of the time it’s bored him silly. It still bores him. I don’t think he even really cares if he’s reelected or not. He’s just going through the motions.”
“Then what are you so worried about?”
“Because no matter what else I might say about him, Mr. Donald Cubbin’s a damned good actor and if he just goes through the motions of trying to get reelected, he’ll put on a campaign that’s a hundred percent better than anybody else around.”
“But you can beat him,” Sybil said, making it a statement rather than a question because she knew that her husband would prefer it that way.
“I can beat him because I want it. I want it so bad that—” Hanks broke off. “Hell, I sometimes ache when I think about it.”
Sybil put her hand on his arm. “That’s just tension, honey.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
They were silent a moment and then Sybil said, “What if he wanted it as bad as you do?”
“Don?”
“Yes.”
Hanks thought about it for a moment. “If he wanted it even half as much,” he said, “I wouldn’t stand a chance in hell.”
21
Sunday was feast day for Mickey Della. It was the day that he rose at seven to devour The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Sunday Star, The Baltimore Sun, and the New York Daily News in approximately that order.
Della lived in the same large one-bedroom apartment on Sixteenth Street N.W. that he had lived in since 1948. It was an apartment from which two wives had departed and whose goings Della had scarcely noticed. Now he lived alone, surrounded by hundreds of books, some mismatched but comfortable enough furniture, and six green, five-drawer filing cabinets that were crammed with articles and features that Della had ripped from newspapers and tucked away for future possible reference.
The apartment was cluttered, but not messy. The ash trays were all clean, except for the one that Della used as he read his twenty-five pounds or so of newspapers. Only one coffee cup was visible. An old wooden desk with an equally old typewriter in its well had no litter on its surface. Della had cooked his own breakfast at seven-fifteen that morning, but there was no evidence of it in the kitchen. His bed was made and his pajamas were hung neatly behind the door of the bathroom whose tub was innocent of a ring. It was the apartment of someone who had lived alone long enough to learn that it was easier to be neat than not.
At noon Della crossed to the phone and dialed the home number of the man he bought his liquor from. “Mickey Della, Sid... I’m fine. Sorry to bother you on Sunday but I want to place a standing order with you and I’ll be out of town for a few days... Yeah. What I want is a fifth of real cheap bourbon, I don’t care what kind, to be delivered personally and gift wrapped to the same guy every day for the next month. And I want the same card to go with it each time. Now he’s going to be out of town most of the time so you’re going to have to arrange it with American Express or Western Union or whoever you work through... Yeah, it’s kind of a joke. I want it to start today, if possible. He’s in Chicago. Okay. Now I want the card to read, ‘Courage, a Friend.’ That’s all. Hell, I don’t remember whether they sell booze in Chicago on Sunday. It’s not famous for its blue laws... Yeah, well, the guy I want you to send it to every day for the next month is Donald Cubbin. Today and tomorrow he’ll be at the Sheraton-Blackstone in Chicago. Thanks, Sid.”
Della chuckled as he went back to his newspapers. Later there would be other needling harassments that would be far better and much more vicious. But it was okay for a start and just right to set the tone for another Mickey Della campaign.
At Baltimore’s Friendship Airport Truman Goff pulled his Oldsmobile Toronado up to the entrance and turned to his wife. “I’ll be back in about a week,” he said.