Adler, Warren - Banquet Before Dawn Read online

  "See?" Fitz said from the driver's seat, pointing to posters and stickers along the route. "Yomarian's shit is everywhere."

  Sully closed his eyes.

  "I still say we tear them all down," Fitz went on.

  Through the closed lids, Sully could feel Fitz watching him. "Wait'll we get rolling, Sully. We'll smother the cocksucker."

  He must have slept. When he awoke, the car had pulled up in front of City Hall and he was emerging from some half-remembered dream. There must have been tranquillity in it somewhere, because his agitation seemed dissipated. He reached for a flask in a compartment on the dr and took a long suck on it, feeling the good scotch slide into the blotter of his gut.

  "I'm gonna do this alone," he told Fitz. "Face to face. Man to man." He gripped Fitz on the shoulder.

  "He owes us," Fitz said.

  It was the operative idea, Sully thought, getting out of the car and walking up the stairs. Smiling faces of recognition beamed back at him as he walked along the hall, gathering his strength, drawing himself erect.

  In the mayor's outer office, he noticed the beefy faces of bodyguards who stood about, and petitioners who waited anxiously on deep leather couches. A typical politician's outer office. A male receptionist sat formidably at a big desk.

  "Congressman Sullivan," he boomed at the man, the lack of instant recognition galling. The receptionist looked down at an appointment sheet where Sully could see his name pencil-squeezed into a space heavy with typed names. The receptionist picked at the telephone dial while Sully hovered over him, hoping that the sheer bulk of his presence was intimidating.

  "Congressman Sullivan," the man announced into the phone. There was a pause, an acknowledgment, and a nod. The man looked up and smiled.

  "Please have a seat, Congressman."

  Sully felt his eyes dart to the anxious faces, lined up on the couches. He felt disoriented and looked at his watch. It was five after two.

  "I had a two o'clock appointment."

  "It will only be a minute, Congressman," the man said with some effort at ingratiation. A Congressman, after all, had some rank. "It's just one of those days," he said with feigned exasperation.

  Somewhat reassured, Sully nevertheless refused to join the seated waiting line. He looked about him for a familiar face. As if he were reaching for a lifeline, he held out a hand to the nearest beefy guard.

  "I'm Congressman Sullivan," he said, pumping the man's reluctant hand.

  "Glad to meet you, sir," the man said with some embarrassment. From his swarthy complexion, Sullivan guessed he might be Italian. Peripherally, he searched for an Irish face. He found one near the door.

  "I'm Congressman Sullivan," he said, his hand darting out again.

  "Flannigan," the man said. "NYPD."

  "New York's finest," Sullivan responded, hoping the man would continue his conversation. He still held the hand and watched the receptionist.

  "Where do you live, Flannigan?" he forced himself to ask. He wondered if the man could sense his indifference.

  "Bayside."

  "Benson's district."

  "Yeah, I think so."

  "George is one hell of a Congressman."

  He heard the ring of the phone on the receptionist's desk and felt relieved. The receptionist listened, then looked around the room, his eyes avoiding contact with Sully's, alighting instead on the face of a sallow man sitting cross-legged on the couch.

  "You can go in, Mr. Carpenter."

  _Son of a bitch,_ as a voice exploded in Sully's gut. Was this happening? Was Lasser doing this deliberately? With a great effort of will, he placated himself. But his knees felt weak, and he yearned to sit down. He found himself noticing the indention the man had made on the couch. Stubbornly, he resisted the temptation. He walked back to the receptionist.

  "Would you please remind them that I'm waiting?" he said cautiously, hiding, he hoped, any hint of anxiety.

  "I'm sure it won't be long."

  "Just check for me, please." He was conscious of his request coming out as a command. The man redialed. When he discovered that the receptionist was whispering, he turned his eyes away, while his ears strained to pick up the conversation.

  "The mayor knows you're waiting. It's the damned schedule. Just not enough hours in the day." Sully looked at his watch again. He felt his courage running out of him with the sweat now pouring down the sides of his body.

  "Do I have time for the little boys' room?" he asked, forcing a tight smile. He had determined that he was definitely not gng to wait in that room with the rest of the sweaty-palmed horde.

  "Sure," the receptionist said.

  Sully turned away, still smiling, and made his way into the hall. He leaned against the wall for support. He stood there for a moment, feeling the full impact of the message Ben had sent him. He knew the game. Hell, he had played it many times himself, the subtle intimidation of waiting-room politeness, the deliberate ritual of the cooling of the heels. Straightening, he walked the full length of the corridor, walked it slowly, waiting for time to pass. He tried to look busy, possessed, as if he were working out an important problem. Passing the front entrance, he lingered a bit, looking into the driveway. He detected the policeman at the door stirring himself to ask a question. Turning away, he looked at his watch again. It was two thirty. He walked back into the reception room.

  He felt better when the receptionist called to him.

  "The mayor will see you now."

  He felt it appropriate to show his distaste, grimacing as he passed the receptionist's desk into the inner office. A secretary looked up from her typing and smiled. Maybe he was imagining it all.

  In the mayor's ornate office, Ben got up from behind the big desk and walked toward him, a big smile on his face. He put a small hand into Sully's and grabbed a biceps.

  "Sully, you old bastard. God, it's good to see you again."

  "And you, Ben." He pumped the little hand vigorously. On the mayor's desk, Sully caught a glimpse of the article in the _Post_. It appeared that it had been hastily covered — or was that his imagination? Ben pointed toward the sitting-room section of the office. Following Ben's arm, Sully saw someone else already slumped in a chair.

  "You remember Artie Crenshaw."

  He looked into the black man's face, the faintest memory stirring of some background flunky.

  "Artie's our new deputy mayor."

  Crenshaw extended a big black paw.

  "Good seeing you again, Congressman."

  Sully settled into a central spot on the couch, while the mayor took a facing chair. The bastards had him surrounded, Sully thought. Lasser didn't have the guts to face him alone.

  "Ho w's the campaign going?" Crenshaw asked. They were getting right to the jugular, foreclosing all the necessary small talk, the gropings toward making the human contact beneath the business.

  "It looks like a tough one," he said, looking at Ben. "You look great, Ben. How's Beatrice?"

  "Great," Ben said. "I'll send regards." The mayor hesitated a moment. He knew how things stood between Jean and Sully.

  "And yours?" he asked with deliberate vagueness.

  "Fine."

  "It sounds like a tough go," Crenshaw said, bringing them back to the campaign.

  "It gets tougher every time out," Sully acknowledged, trying to ignore Crenshaw's presence. "How are you enjoying mayordom, Ben?"

  "It's got me hopping. I'm working like a demon. They've got me programmed like a top. I never stop spinning."

  "It was a hell of a long road getting here," Sully said.

  "So Yomarian's tough competition?" Crenshaw interrupted, his persistence obvious now.

  "Sully's tough," the mayor said. Was Sully conscious of some softening? "You can't write off John J. Sullivan." Despite his cheeriness, Sully could detect the doubt and the embarrassment. He saw Ben steal a glance toward the big grandfather clock in the corner. A telephone rang somewhere in the outer office.

  "It'll turn when we get the
big guns going. Fund raising is not what it used to be." Ben coughed discreetly. "New York's changing," Sully said too abruptly, staring at Crenshaw.

  "Signs of the time," Crenshaw responded. Sully sensed gloating in the black man's smug face. "We've got an administration responding to change."

  It seemed a signal.

  "It's a different ball game, Sully," the mayor said. "We're running out of money here, running out of credit. We're pretty much behind in everythg, overwhelmed by people's needs. Everybody wants more. Being mayor is a juggling act. The balls just keeping coming." He apparently enjoyed the image and seemed to expect a reaction to his profundity. When none came, he continued: "We're in serious trouble here."

  "I can tell by my own district."

  "We've got plans for it," Crenshaw said, watching the mayor's face. "But you can't cure decades of decay with stopgap, short-term measures."

  What the hell were they talking about? Sully thought, the tide of panic returning. _Ben,_ he whispered to himself, _I need help. Can't you see the wounds?_ Crenshaw continued to talk. Sully wasn't listening. He was looking into Ben's eyes, staring him down, trying to make him see. The mayor averted his eyes, turned toward the clock again. A buzzer rang on his desk. He got up and picked up an intercom phone, nodding and whispering a reply. Crenshaw continued to make sounds.

  Sully watched as the mayor talked quietly into the phone, his interest further deflected. Neither of them seemed suited to his role, Sully as the hesitant petitioner, the mayor as the reluctant dispenser. It was obvious to him that Crenshaw was the device to keep the humanity separated, like the cellophane that keeps sticky candies apart.

  A secretary came in and whispered into the mayor's ear — another familiar device. The mayor, he knew, would now invoke the tyranny of time. Sully could feel a choking cry for help expand in his chest. But before it could be ejaculated, the mayor and Crenshaw stood up. He caught the faint double slapping of hands on thighs, a gesture of finality.

  "This job will kill me yet," the mayor said pleasantly. "Got to get back to the grindstone."

  He could feel Crenshaw grip him on the biceps and force his hand into his own.

  "I wish you luck in the campaign," he said hollowly. Sully sensed laughter underneath. "I'll need lots of that," Sully replied, the tremor in his voice revealing the weakness within, the half-stifled cry. He knew the mayor had detected it, despite a cough.

  The mayor grabbed Sully under the arm and walked him toward the door. He could feel the mayor's pressure forcing him along. As they neared the door, the mayor whispered, "Sully, I wish I could help. I really do. But I've got to be neutral. It's an interparty thing. Nothing personal. Just business."

  Sully stopped and looked into the small face. He saw the anguish.

  "You think I'm licked?"

  "You … you can't predict these things." In the hesitation lay the conviction of defeat.

  "So you think old Sully's down the tube."

  "You're in a tough spot, Sully."

  "Why the fuck do you think I'm here?"

  "I can't help, Sully," the mayor said firmly. "You can take it any way you want. But it has nothing to do with the way I feel about you. We've been through a lot together."

  "I'm surprised you remembered." But Sully knew. No man could forget the baring of his soul.

  They moved through the outer office, the mayor reluctant to let go of his arm. Startled faces turned their way. He felt the grip grow tighter on his arm as it propelled him toward the corridor. Passing faces nodded toward the mayor, who ignored them.

  "I know that you're going to feel that I let you down."

  "Well, as a matter of fact…."

  "Look at it this way, Sully. What's the worst that can happen? If you lose, so you lose. It's not the end of the world."

  "Yeah, I remember how gracefully you took your defeats."

  "I learned to live with it. Yesterday a defeat. Tomorrow a victory. You'll get over it."

  It was maddening to feel the man's warmth again. Lasser's sincerity restored Sully's equilibrium, softening the blow of disappointment. But Sully felt the stab just the same, cutting him, loosing a trickle of venom.

  "The rats are leaving the sinking ship," he said.

  They stopped walking, and the mayor faced him without releasing his arm.

  "Sully, you're an old pro. You know thame … better than I do."

  He looked into the mayor's eyes, saw the genuine sadness, the fear, the guilt. Then the growing cry in his gut exploded.

  "You cried in my arms, you son of a bitch." He felt his face redden as he backed away from Lasser, annoyed with himself for his sudden lack of control, his revelation of self-pity.

  "You'll get over it, Sully." He heard the mayor's voice, almost as an echo in the corridor, as he walked out of the door, hoping that his shoulders looked square and that his exit had, at least, some dignity.

  ———— *11* ARAM stood on a flatbed truck festooned with flags and posters. Huge YOMARIAN FOR CONGRESS signs fitted along the length of its sides. Loudspeakers blared from the top of the cab and the rear of the

  flatbed, carrying his words to the crowd.

  Seated behind him, watching intently as he spoke, were Sandra, Alby, Norman, and a black preacher. Beyond the crowd, TV cameras and brilliant beams of light were aimed directly at him. At the edge of the crowd, under a huge red and yellow YOMARIAN FOR CONGRESS banner, attractive girls wearing YOMARIAN FOR CONGRESS sashes began to pass through the ranks, handing out brochures. Inside the storefront, workers lined up boxes of fried chicken and styrofoam mugs decorated with the YOMARIAN FOR CONGRESS logo.

  It was the fifth speech of the day, and Aram was feeling the power rising inside him as if each speech had fueled the one after. Alby had arranged the day in a kind of racial chronology. He had opened the first storefront in a predominantly white neighborhood, one that was futilely trying to pass from shabby genteel into genuine chic as the young with- it couples began gobbling up the real estate. Then he moved into the darkening orbit of the Hispanic neighborhoods and on into the black ghetto. Alby observed that the decay deepened with the darkness of the skin.

  One area was covered by a walking tour. It began precisely at 11:30

  A.M. Cameras appeared as if on cue. Several young black men in jackets and ties formed a protective semicircle around Aram and Norman while still another, clearly a self-confident black, acted as point man and led them into nondescript hallways heavy with foul smells, up broken staircases, into crumbling rooms. The cameras followed, their lights revealing, embellishing the stark decay. It was a vast garbage dump. Empty beer cans, rotting apple cores, broken soda bottles, chicken bones picked clean, empty tuna cans, bread wrappers, broken liquor bottles — all lay scattered. In one room an old, gnarled black man lay on a stained mattress partially covered with old newspapers. The bright smiling face of a girl in a cigarette ad looked up from his midsecton. The old man opened heavy, veined eyes as they walked in, a descending mob that must have caused him to think for a moment that he had at last passed through the gates.

  "It's all right," the point man said, patting the man on the back of his craggy knuckles.

  Aram looked into filmy, empty eyes.

  "Are you sick, old man?" he said, the words mechanical. He held out his hand to shake, but the old man looked at him without moving. Little flashes of light popped from the electronic gear of the cameraman. The old man blinked, then began to stir. He reached under his filthy mattress and pulled out a flat amber bottle of cheap whiskey, sat up, and drank deeply, wiping his mouth slowly, drunkenly, after he swallowed. Finally he stood shakily, held out an arthritic, work- roughened hand, and smiled a broad, totally toothless grin. The handshake was recorded in a burst of lights. Aram took the old man's hand tentatively, feeling somehow that he had sunk his fingers into slime, a thought reinforced by a quickly spreading dark stain on the crotch of the man's faded and tattered pants. He turned away quickly, wiping his hand on his jacket as if the act o
f rubbing would eliminate the fee ling that somehow his hand had touched the very edge of despair.

  "Jesus Christ," he hissed to Norm. "What did you get me into?"

  "Jes' meetin' some of the blood," Norman replied. Aram had already noticed that Norman's normally dramatic manner of speaking had changed radically to "street talk" for the day's excursions. Norman was doing his thing.

  Back on the flatbed truck, with the rhythm-and-blues music filling the air and the YOMARIAN FOR CONGRESS banners rustling in the light breeze, Aram recovered his pace. This was all for _him,_ this concoction of excitement and adulation. Even knowing it was fabricated did not distract his sense of power over the crowd. He looked down into their