Adler, Warren - Banquet Before Dawn Read online

  faces, seeing them as a mass of eyes, noses, mouths, a mass taking sustenance from itself, feeding on its own excitement.

  Alby had carefully created this "happening" on this last frontier, this very edge of civilization. Suddenly, as though out of the mist, they had arrived — with rhythm-and-blues music blaring. Before Norman introduced Aram, three R and B groups had appeared, real crowd pleasers. The black preacher rose and exhorted the crowd to remove the devil from their hearts and bowels and livers and other human places of temptation and concluded by railing against Sullivan, calling down on his head all the fires of perdition. Aram wondered how much the campaign had paid for him.

  "I think he's a bit heavy," he whispered to Alby.

  "He's authentic." Alby paused. "Just look at them lap it up."

  When the preacher exhausted his library of mystic epithets, he raised his hands to the sky.

  "Let us pray. Now, Lord, in our hour of need, as we kneel here on God's doorstep, make this fine young man lead us in the House of Representatives of the United States of America. Let us suffer for him…."

  Norman sensed a long windup and tugged at the man's jacket. "Sit down, man," he hissed. Then he stood up and began to clap; others followed until the preacher joined in. After a few moments, Norman stepped up to the microphone. His voice was strong and confident, his message inspiring, filled with street idioms like "man,"

  "jive,"

  "brother,"

  "blood,"

  "soul."

  And then it was over, and the music turned louder. Aram stood up. He wanted to laugh. _The white Christ does not laugh,_ he thought.

  "Just stick to the script, baby," Norman had admonished not once, but repeatedly, through a broad smile. Alby had shrugged.

  "It's Norman's production. We're adrift in a Black Sea."

  "I want to earn the right to be your brother," he shouted into the microphone, feeling in his heart that he could believe it.

  "Can I earn that right?" he asked into the crowd. Sounds shot back, shouts of affirmation. Lights popped. Cameras ground. He clapped his hands. Waves of applause returned. The crowd began to grow in size.

  "I _will_ earn the right to be your brother," he shouted again. Sounds of affirmation washed over him again, resounding against the buildings, the concrete, rumbling along the asphalt into the flatbed truck and sending vibrations through the flooring into his legs, into the pit of his stomach.

  He felt the oneness of the crowd. Words somehow seemed less important than style, gesture, intonation.

  "I will earn that right," he shouted again, feeling it deeply.

  Suddenly Norman stepped to his side and grabbed the microphone.

  "Who is the man?" he shouted. "Yomarian."

  "Yomarian" came back from the crowd, echoing and rechoing in the street.

  "Who is the man?" Norman shouted again.

  "Yomarian."

  Then the music started again, louder than ever, drowning the din of the crowd. Directly in front of Aram a wedge began forming, almost imperceptibly at first, then enlarging as a group of well-dressed stony- faced black men made room, jostling the crowd, making it move and give way.

  "Now," Norman said, stepping into the wedge and moving toward the storefront. Aram followed right behind. Someone grabbed at his sleeve, pulling off a cuff link. A huge black man stepped beside him and eased the hand away. Whenram reached the storefront, someone handed him a

  bucket of fried chicken. He pulled out a leg and held it above the crowd.

  Then lines began to form, and he was handing out buckets of fried chicken and mugs of beer. The line was endless. He watched as the flatbed truck eased its way out of the crowd, three black men protecting it from a horde of black children trying to climb aboard.

  "In three minutes let's blow this place," Norman whispered to Aram. He then returned to the rear of the store and continued counting out dollars on the flats of outstretched palms.

  "What did all this cost?" Aram asked as they ducked out a side entrance into an alley that led away from the crowd.

  "Plenty," Norman said, returning to his normal way of talking. "But it was worth it," he added quickly.

  Later, sitting around one of the polished tables in Alby's library, they watched three portable television sets, the sound reduced to an unintelligible babble. On the table before them lay remnants of fried chicken, Cokes, coffee, the refuse of forced, hurried meals.

  Aram was still wound up. They had opened three more storefronts that afternoon, though with less fanfare. The big one had been staged for the media. By the end of the day even the loudspeaker had given out. The Yomarian girls who had not disappeared had wilted, their hair awry, their YOMARIAN FOR CONGRESS sashes wrinkled and sagging.

  Alby had "donated" his library as a kind of staging area for the campaign, a place to meet for strategy sessions, to assess results, evaluate ideas. Two secretaries banged endlessly on typewriters in a small alcove behind one of the library stacks.

  Aram had enjoyed this first big day of street campaigning. He was exhilarated, inspired by the response he got. Sandra worked strong fingers into the muscles of his neck, a special reflex on her part with beneficial effects for him. It gave her something to do at moments like this, waiting moments, moments between actions.

  "There, punch it up," she shouted as Aram's face suddenly appeared on the TV screens. There he was, walking through the streets, into buildings, shaking hands with the drunken black man. He was surrounded by crowds that seemed on camera to be even larger than they had been in reality. Then he appeared on the top of the flatbed truck. The camera zoomed back and forth. Aram barely heard what the TV reporter was saying about him. It was _him_ up there — _him_ on the tube. Suddenly, the camera zeroed in on a tight close-up of Aram waving a leg of fried chicken in the air.

  Then there was only the face of the correspondent standing in front of the crowds: "… But one thing is certain. Yomarian has made an impact here. And if reports are to be believed from within the district, Congressman John J. Sullivan has been confronted with the toughest opponent in his twenty-four-year political career."

  "Nearly three minutes on CBS," Norman pointed out. He was back in his accustomed role as Mr. Cool. "You couldn't buy it."

  Sandra clicked the screen dark.

  "That was fantastic," she agreed.

  "And if that's any indication, can you imagine what the press reports will be in the morning?" Norman said. "Sullivan will want to jump out of the nearest window."

  "You fellows are unbelievable," Sandra squealed.

  "Kudos for this one go to Norman," Alby said, feigning modesty.

  "I accept," Norman said. "But I must say our candidate really outdid himself. That thing with the fried-chicken leg was wild."

  Aram chuckled, thinking about it again, remembering the heat and passion of the moment. But why did he raise a chicken leg?

  "Think of it as some sort of symbol," Norman said. He bent close to Aram. "Aram, we are making waves. We are winning. Just do your thing."

  "Just follow the script, you mean," Aram said. It all seemed so phony,

  contrived. But it was effective. It worked. And that was the long and short of it. Could it be wrong? he wondered with a momentary twinge ofonscience.

  "Right on." Norman grinned at him. "Just follow the script."

  Then Aram's face appeared on another of the TV screens, and he cut off his sense of guilt. There was more film of faces in the crowd, shots of black men shouting, of older women clapping their hands, of a crowd caught up in its own vision of hope. Above all this loomed Aram's voice, and he marveled at its strength and resonance.

  Suddenly, in devastating counterpoint, the tired face of John J. Sullivan appeared on the screen. It was a gray, aging face, and jowly. Sullivan stood against the backdrop of the Sullivan banner that swayed wanly in the breeze in front of the Grand Dutchman Hotel.

  "Do you consider the challenge from Aram Yomarian to be effective?" a voice asked.
/>   "The challenge is effective only if it succeeds," Congressman Sullivan said. He smiled broadly, edging back the grayness, a brief flicker of strength, fading again when the voice stopped.

  "Don't you believe Mr. Yomarian can succeed?"

  "When the people know the facts, they will in their good judgment make up their minds. This is only a primary, you understand. I don't think I have to apologize for my service to the Democratic Party and to this district."

  "Mr. Yomarian says you are an anachronism, no longer relevant, not truly representative of the changing aspects of the Eighth District."

  "He can say what he pleases," Congressman Sullivan said, a touch of bitterness in his tone, quickly dispelled but briefly glimpsed. Aram saw it, understood it. The man had the look of a trapped animal.

  "I stand on my record and on my feeling for the needs of the people of this district and of all America. The people will make their judgment, and I have confidence in that judgment." He smiled again, holding the edges of his mouth apart with effort, a transparent media smile, exposing him to a special kind of nakedness. Then the scene shifted to a commercial.

  "A little ice cream on the cake," Norman said.

  "The media brought home the message," Alby said. "I hope our dear Congressman Sullivan is watching."

  Sandra stopped kneading Aram's neck muscles for a moment, then said thoughtfully, "Will people feel sorry for the man?"

  "Some will," Alby said. "That's exactly what he wanted them to feel. This Sullivan is a sly old fox. He's a professional at this sort of thing. Watch him."

  "My mother would positively flip for him," Sandra said. "She dotes on compassion in the abstract. As long as the dirt doesn't hit her in the face."

  "She's not alone," Aram said, desultorily, thinking that he, too, felt that damned compassion. If only he could develop and sustain a level of anger. Anger sustained could keep him going.

  "If you feel sorry for him now, just wait," Norman said.

  ———— *12* SULLY was not a moody man, but when a black Irish gloom descended, it came like a thick, murky fog, crawling into every joint, every sinew, every cell of the brain, until no hint of optimism or light could be felt or seen.

  He recalled being dragged along from tavern to tavern by his father as the older Sullivan took his solace in alcohol and cursed the world. He would sit on a stoop propped against an abandoned wooden keg, elbows on his knees, waiting to see his father's heavy work shoes clump away from the tavern's wooden, spittle-stained floors.

  His father would take him through an endless maze of streets, across trolley-car tracks, through parks, past stores, into crowds — a relentless movement toward nowhere until, thankfully, they were back on

  their own street and the heavy clumping shoes climbed the steps toward their rooms.

  Perhaps it was that childhood memory or simply the legacy of generations of Sullivans — that restless need for movement. Now, walking those same chipped and broken sidewalks, Sully saw the city as his father had seen it, an alien land.

  The morning was cloudy, and chilling even for fall. In the semidarkness, he had thrownn overcoat over his shoulders. Now, feeling the coldness, he put his arm through the sleeves of the overcoat and turned the collar up. He felt his chin. He hadn't shaved, and the bristles felt reassuringly rough against his fingers. It had been many years since he had walked these streets alone.

  April had awakened while he was still dressing. "You okay, Sully?" she whispered, still foggy with sleep.

  "Yeah."

  "Sure?"

  "Yeah."

  She knew, though, that he was definitely not okay, and in her own way she tried to soothe him. And he wanted her to feel she had succeeded, even for the moment at least, deflected his rage. But even scotch the night before had failed to provide the old magical power, and as he had lain there in bed while April sought to uplift his spirit and his body, he had felt only cold and old. It was a new experience for him to feel imprisoned in himself, and in his mind he had continued probing, seeking one single open doorway from his cell.

  "We've been up against tough things before," April said as he finally prepared to leave for his walk. "All campaigns start out this way," she told him. "Remember Riley and McPherson and Stratton. In the end you finished them off." But they both knew that this was truly the toughest it had ever been. He had never in all those campaigns had an opponent that he had doubts about licking. But this Yomarian …

  Sully crossed a street that was still almost devoid of activity at this early hour and stopped to gaze along its length at the trees, once so hopefully planted along its curbs, all of them now stunted or dying in the filth-laden air.

  Briefly, the raising of the banner on the marquee of the Dutchman had cheered him, although the material had not worn well in storage. Its edges were fraying, and the banner had been ripped again during installation. He had stood across the street and watched it swaying in the breeze.

  "Now we'll show them," Fitz had said. "Now we'll show the bastards."

  That was before Ramirez had come back from monitoring the Yomarian rallies, before Sully and Fitz had combed the last of the campaign-fund sources, before they all had seen the television coverage.

  "They put on a good show," Ramirez said of Yomarian's rallies, but knowing Ramirez, Sully could easily see he was holding back. Ramirez threw the Yomarian campaign literature on the table, as though the carelessness of his gesture could downgrade it.

  "It's good stuff," Perlmutter observed. "Slick and expensive."

  "A lotta bull," Fitz retorted contemptuously, picking up a brochure and turning the pages.

  "In English and Spanish," Perlmutter continued. "Four colors. All the demographics covered. It looks like a supplement of _Life_ magazine."

  The feel and extent of it all had been enough for Sully. There was also a press kit, bios, pictures, a copy of a speech, press releases. Very professional.

  "Were there big crowds?" Perlmutter asked.

  "Yes, big crowds."

  "What else?"

  "Music. Entertainment."

  "Come on, Ramirez."

  Ramirez looked at Sully, his eyes betraying his reluctance to go on.

  "Fried chicken. Beer. A flatbed truck. It was a big show. A very big show."

  "How badly did they knock us?" Perlmutter asked gently. He knew how hard it must be on Ramirez.

  "Was the press there?" Sully interjected.

  "Yes."

  "Cameras? TV? Still cameras?" Perlmutter asked.

  "Yes," Ramirez repeated.

  "And how big were the crowds?"

  "Very big, especially in one place."

  "Ramirez, we sent you there to tell us the truth," Sully finally said, getting up to pour himself a drink.

  "In one black neighborhood, they put on a very big show," Ramirez said. "Looking like two thousand people there, maybe three."

  "Three thousand?" Sully turned, bottle in hand.

  "Maybe."

  "The sons of bitches," Fitz said, his face getting redder. "I think you're exaggerating, you dumb spic."

  Same olSully. By now the coldness of the morning had begun to revive Sully's energies. He paced alone the sidewalks with a steady, if still slow, rhythm, seeking to draw from the once-familiar neighborhoods of his youth some remnants of an earlier strength. He let his mind continue to roam at will over the events of the previous day.

  After Ramirez's report, Sully and Fitz and Perlmutter had settled to a final review of the fund-raising lists. In earlier days, when Deegan was treasurer, they were able to call ten, twenty people and pick up an easy twenty-five thousand dollars. Sully looked over the list carefully. Feeney. _Hell, I got his kid into West Point,_ he thought, knowing at the same time that Feeney had long ago paid that debt. Had _all_ favors been returned for _all_ the little niceties a Congressman could provide? Thomas. _Four tickets to the Kennedy Inaugural Ball_. Schwartz, Goldman, and Ginsburg. Hell, he had also voted right for the Hebes. Aid to Israel. A "No" vote
on McCarran-Walter, a "Yes" on all those liberal giveaways and all the other bills that the Jews felt were good for the Jews. Bozza and Carmelino. He had always been at their block parties, always marched in their parades with their banners and crosses and smell of wine and garlic. Simpson. How many doors had he opened for Simpson to sell his fucking war gadgets? Prince. He had hired Prince's son as an intern for three months every summer. Where was he now? Some clever shyster. Murphy. _Good old Murph. He used to squeeze the girls' tits at the office and get drunk in the Congressional Hotel_. Smith. Sully remembered a black face. Hadn't he overcome with them in their goddamned protest marches and listened to their endless bleating about rights? Alpert, head of the downtown merchants' committee. "Help us get more police protection, Congressman Sullivan." He had to lean on the mayor for that one, and it cost him plenty in trade. And the unions. Hell, he had voted for them down the line. Now George had to clear it all. They were writing him off.