Adler, Warren - Banquet Before Dawn Read online

  "I have your check here," he said. Marbury stopped, came back, and took it. He looked at it carefully.

  "That cover it?" Sully asked.

  "It covers most of the back bill, yes," Marbury said. "Now I have to ask you about the future."

  "You say you have to ask as if you had to make an immediate report."

  "I do."

  "Bill me," Sully said.

  "I'll tell you what I'll do." Having the check in his hand had softened him, as though he had never thought he'd really get it, as if it were all a big surprise. "I'll do just that. We'll bill you at the end of the month. But no credit on room service and no long-distance phone calls. That will minimize our exposure. I don't want to be unreasonable." He seemed to be currying favor now, a sense of guilt bubbling to the surface, into his pale eyes.

  "How generous," Sully said.

  "It is generous, Congressman Sullivan, and you know it. I'm just the agent, a middleman. There's no emotion in this on my part."

  "Don't tell me you're _sorry_."

  "No, I'm not sorry." Without another word, he walked to the door and let himself out.

  "Who says we don't pay our debts?" Sully shouted at the closed door. He wanted to fling his empty glass against it, wanted to see it smash into bits. Instead, he poured himself another drink. He knew he was beginning to get drunk, felt the slight numbing at the tip of his tongue. He rarely let himself reach that point. He wished he could stop, but he knew, he felt he knew, that there was something in his blood pushing him, taunting him.

  "There's goi to be a meeting in a little while, Congressman," April

  whispered. He felt her soft touch on the upper part of his arm, gentle and caressing. It was that touch, that kind of fluttery feeling that she could generate with her wonderful long pale fingers. She had hands like pure white marble. Somehow the little networks of blue veins that spread like a map of rivers and tributaries over much of her body could not be seen in her hands. He always kissed them when he made love to her. But even her hands could not arrest him now.

  "I'll take this slow," he said, lifting his glass.

  "Well, we're back where we were before," Perlmutter said.

  "We won't have any trouble once we get past the primary," Fitz pointed out. "You just watch."

  "Past the primary. That's like an impossible dream."

  "Hell, we've been in tight spots before."

  "We'll just play it as it lays and do our best," Perlmutter shrugged. "I just won't be a defeatist. My problem is what I'm going to tell people at this meeting coming up in a few minutes. We haven't any literature, and they've got to be subsidized. We've storefronts to lease, people to hire, literature to print, telephones to install, desks to rent…."

  "We'll find the money," Sully said. "We've just been hit with some special problems, that's all. And the times. Hell, the bastards fucked up all the fund-raising dodges. Used to be a corporation could bury the money in its expenses, pay a printing bill, put men on leave to help in the campaign, bloat expense accounts. Now that's all over, at least for the time being. Hell, they used to stand in line to do that for us."

  "We'll get 'em," Fitz said. "We'll make a list, and after the election when they come sucking around again, we'll rub their noses in it."

  "You can't blame them," Perlmutter pointed out, his glasses slipping down over an oily nose. "Trouble is, we didn't build a big enough base of small contributors."

  "Used to be able to tap the oil people, the milk people, the bank people," Fitz boiled. "They're scared now, the filthy bastards."

  "You're too hard on them, Fitz," Sully said. "They all help make the wheels go round."

  "What about Yomarian?"

  "His wife has money."

  "There are rules there, too. There's a limit on what can be contributed by relatives."

  Sully felt his interest waning as Perlmutter's voice faded, like a tape recorder with dying batteries. He wished he were back in Washington. He loved that city, especially in the spring, with all those blossoms popping everywhere and the white monuments glistening in the sun. He loved the camaraderie of the House. The members were people like himself — loquacious, persuasive, fun to be around. He felt at home in Washington, as he no longer did in his own district. Perhaps he had truly represented that first and second- generation Irish, Polish, Jewish polyglot that once made up this district. But now he had to ask himself who those black and Spanish faces, those empty buildings, those lost, sad people, were to him. And he found no answer. He finished his drink, faster than he had planned.

  ———— *10* HE had slept too long. He could tell by the way the sun fell on the tattered pull shade and the way the room was bathed in light. Squinting, he noticed that the door was shut. April was gone, but somewhere far away phones were ringing. Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes and, swallowing, felt the hardness in his throat, the sour backwash of too much booze.

  He could tell by the way his underclothes stuck to his body that they

  — someone — had put him to bed. The neat way in which his shoes stood on the floor with socks carefully bunched in each shoe confirmed it. He had gotten drunk. They had undressed him and put him to bed. Standing up, he had to find a wall for support.

  "You old Irish beggar," he said to his image in the mirror. The face that looked back was haggard, blotchy, the eyes heavy, red-veined.

  In the mirror, he saw the door open a crack. Tn April, looking bright, younger, with her hair tied close to her face, came in carrying a can of beer and a glass. She poured and handed him the glass. He drank it, feeling the coldness loosen his throat and reach down into his gut.

  "Don't say it," he said.

  "I know, the punishment is enough."

  He sat down on the bed, feeling suddenly tired, drained. His paunch, bloated, rested on his thighs as if he had a huge balloon on his lap. He pressed his temple with his fingers.

  "You'd better have a clear head today," April cautioned. He held out his hand to her. She took it, held it, kissed his fingers.

  "Sully, I don't want to sound like the voice of your conscience or your mother or some Irish ghost come to haunt you, but you're not going to be able to fight with a glass in your hand all the time."

  "I overdid it," he said. "Deegan set me off. Then not hearing from Ben Lasser." He paused, his mind cranking.

  "Ben Lasser?" He turned his unfocused eyes on her. He caught the loose outline of a smile.

  "His secretary called back."

  "And?"

  It was her way of savoring a good moment, husbanding a little joy in the suspense.

  "You've got an appointment with him this afternoon."

  "See?" he said. "Old Sully knows his buddies. Why didn't you wake me earlier?"

  "You needed the time. You needed a clear head."

  He knew she was right.

  "Bath ready?"

  "Yes."

  He sat down on the bed again, fought nausea, dizziness, then drank down the beer. It steadied him. He looked at his watch, then stood up again.

  "My God, it's after noon."

  "Your appointment's at two."

  Perlmutter knocked on the open door. "Did you tell him?"

  "About the mayor," she said hurriedly, an urgent finger to her lips. Sully caught the gesture.

  "Was there something else?"

  "Why not get set first?" April said, patting his bare arm.

  "There _is_ something else. Isn't there?"

  "Might as well tell him," Perlmutter said.

  "Not yet."

  "Tell me what?" Sully asked.

  "I wanted him to have his bath first," April insisted.

  "Everybody's worried about old Sully. Tell me what?"

  "The _New York Post_. It seems that all of Fountain's research is in it this afternoon." Perlmutter waved the tear sheet in front of him.

  Sully patted his underwear for his glasses. April handed him his half- specs.

  It was a large headline, unusual for a Congressional campaign in
New York.

  SULLIVAN IN TROUBLE IN BROOKLYN. The words raged across the top of the page. He noted the by-line "By Guy Petrucci." _Guinea bastard,_ he thought.

  John J. Sullivan is in trouble in Brooklyn's Eighth District, a victim of changing times, ennui, and indifference. His troubles may be a microcosm of incumbentitis, a now-common disease, inflicting many of the nation's most entrenched politicians.

  For years, the Eighth District has been considered safe for Sullivan,

  a gregarious Brooklyn Irishman with a middle-of-the-road record, a unique backslapping, hail-fellow-well-met style and an old-school oratorical punch that preceded television.

  The Eighth District, once an Irish, Polish, Italian, and Jewish stew, an "unmeltable" melting pot, with each ethnic group tied to the old country by custom, language, cooking, and prejudices, is now a darker mash of blacks, Puerto Ricans, aging ethnics, young white transients, and some brave young couples attracted by the possibilities of restoration and lower property costs and rents. In some parts of the district, whole neighborhoods have been wiped out and have become a treeless jungle for warring gangs, junkies, the cruel, and the lost. Even the police leave the turf to those who hold the neighborhood, like some medieval warlord's mercenary army.

  According to research gathered by Ed Fountain Associates, John J. Sullivan appears "irrelevant" to district voters, who perceive Sullivan as "unresponsive" to their needs.

  "Just look around you," one voter pois out. "There is nothing here but dry rot. This is where civilization ends. How good has Sullivan been for us? He stinks like all the rest of them."

  Such is the prevailing view, according to recent interviews conducted in the district that support Fountain's research. The alternative to Sullivan is an intense young lawyer of Armenian descent, Aram Yomarian. Rugged and attractive, he is in his late twenties and comes over as a compassionate, interested challenger who relates to the problems of the district. He appears to have growing black and Puerto Rican support, an excellent campaign organization, and an energetic cadre of volunteers.

  Although Fountain's research does not contain "horserace" results, a very difficult thing to do in a primary race, it indicates that support for Yomarian is stronger than for Sullivan among those Democrats who are familiar with his name. However, name identification shows a low level of awareness for both candidates, probably because of general indifference and the fact that the battle for survival here is far more relevant than the battle for providing information.

  In compiling this story, we talked to many political leaders, incumbents and challengers, past officeholders and professionals. All acknowledge that this is definitely not the year for the incumbent, especially in the big cities. Sullivan, they say, is more vulnerable than others…. The story continued, but Sully's eyes had blurred. Besides, he could see the transparent bias. "More vulnerable than others," he repeated to himself, especially vulnerable now that he could see the strategy of the attacking forces. The story stripped the last remaining illusion from his mind. They were reaching for his political jugular and would stop at nothing. He knew all the signs of behind-the scenes power tactics: leaks of confidential information to the press, all the grating evidence of money power, payoffs, buy outs. They were most certainly buying workers, protection, advantages. He knew the game, had practiced it himself in the early years. But things were different then. The scale was less grand. There seemed less viciousness about it somehow.

  Fitz came into the bedroom now. "I told you that research was a bunch of bullshit," he said, beating a meaty fist into his palm.

  "I called Fountain," Perlmutter added quickly. "He was out."

  "There's no mystery," Sully said, his head clearing quickly, as if the anger had changed his body chemistry. "They bought it, bought Fountain or someone on his staff. Such is the way of the world."

  "The bastards," Fitz exploded. His anger was more defined, predictable.

  "I guess that's why everyone is acting so strangely," Perlmutter said. "At the meeting last night, five people showed. It was like an organization meeting of the lame and the halt. You're quite right, Congressman, it all hangs together. First Marbury, then Deegan, then

  Fountain. They're really moving fast."

  "You don't need a score sheet to guess their strategy," Sully said. Dizziness and nausea had receded. He opened another beer can and drank deeply.

  "Their strategy is obvious," Perlmutter said. "They want you to resign before the primary. A lot cheaper that way."

  "The message is loud and clear."

  "We haven't even cranked up yet, Sully," Fitz said. "Hell, wait till they see our speed."

  Sully put a flabby arm around Fitz's shoulders and shook him warmly.

  "Good old Fitz, you feisty Irish bastard."

  "You bet your ass," Fitz replied, smiling. Sully felt new energy flowing in him.

  "Do you think I'd let them make _me_ resign?" he bellowed.

  "Not a black Irishman like you, Sully," Fitz encouraged.

  But through the exhilaration of his anger, Sully knew that brave talk was of little use to him now. He began pacing and thinking feverishly.

  They had indeed narrowed his alternatives. It would be hard to adjust quickly to the new conditions. If only it had not happened so fast. If only he had more time to absorb thsituation. If only he had known sooner, started earlier. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have let things slide so badly, deluded himself so thoroughly? He found himself at the window. The exhilaration left him in a rush as he stood looking out over the bleak landscape.

  He suddenly felt hatred for this place, this district, this sewer of a location.

  Washington, the flavor of Washington, was so different. It was far removed from this decay, this despair. He rarely ever saw a letter from a constituen t. April handled all that. He was busy with greater issues, far more elegant matters. He wished he could go back now, get out of this place, if only to replenish the energy of his flagging spirits. In Washington, he enjoyed the emoluments of prestige, the kind that came with longevity and gray hair. He had paid his dues for that. And now these terrible people were going to take it all away.

  "Frankly, Congressman Sullivan, I don't know how we are going to cope with all this," Perlmutter said. "At the moment it seems overwhelming. They have caught us by surprise. I had no idea they were this formidable."

  Sully sat down on the edge of the bed again. He put the cold beer can against his cheek. He felt old.

  "They've got money," Perlmutter went on. "Obviously, good leadership. Good political sense, good advice, good contacts. Formidable as hell."

  "Class will show. Sooner or later class will show," Fitz said. He jabbed Sully in the shoulder. Sully lifted his head. The nausea of the hangover returned. He felt weak again, slightly dizzy.

  "You're not going to resign, are you, Sully?" Fitz asked, the panic giving his voice a strident quiver.

  "No, Fitz. I'm not going to resign. There's a place to resign from, but I'm afraid there's no place to resign to."

  He knew he was saying it to give himself courage. They had always said old Sully was stubborn. From somewhere deep inside himself, he searched for some still-unravaged place. He found a tiny pocket of hope in his impending meeting with Ben Lasser. Hell, the mayor held the reins of power, and he understood the meaning of old ties, old friends, old loyalties. A party man. Was he investing too much hope in the possibility?

  "You're all waiting for old Sully to get off the mat, eh?" He looked up at the three anxious faces. "I can hear the ref counting," he said, standing up shakily.

  "See?" he said. "On his feet at the count of nine."

  The bath in the old tub, a couple of more beers, and the feel of a

  cool fresh shirt, the smell of Aqua Velva, soon restored, if not his courage, at least his will.

  "A man like Ben, who has tasted the bitter dregs of defeat, will understand," he told his image in the mirror. "Christ, the son of a bitch cried in my arms." He could dete
ct his Irishness in this lingering over lost causes, wallowing in memories of the soul's defeat. It made him insecure again to remember that Ben wasn't Irish. But, hell, weren't the Jews just as sentimental about the tragic muse? Weren't they always mooning over their anguish? Sully was betting an awful lot of his life on this shared pain. When a man cries in your arms, that counts for something, a bond, a brotherhood of common pain.

  Settling into the plush softness of the limousine, he watched the wasted jungle of Brooklyn recede, the faintly familiar landmarks grown ashen with neglect.