Adler, Warren - Banquet Before Dawn Read online

  "Quite an achievement," Aram said. "In any man's book," he added as if the cliche were expected.

  "I'm afraid though it's the last hurrah for John J. Sullivan. The last hurrah. And it breaks my heart." Aram imagined that the man's eyes, encased as they were in pockets of wrinkled flesh like the eyes of a chicken, were glistening.

  "You know, of course, that it is not the policy of the central committee to take sides in a primary fight. It is definitely not our policy."

  "I know."

  "But we are realists. We are realists." He repeated the phrase as if it were a measure of his resignation.

  "Politics has its own realities," Alby said suddenly. Aram guessed from his tone that this was not the first conversation he was having with Frank Kessler.

  "Yes, it has. Yes, it has."

  It was suddenly plain to Aram that the way had already been cleared, and that this meeting was purely _pro forma_ and designed merely to reinforce the ego of the fat pol.

  "We want to win big, Frank," Alby said with assurance. "We want to establish from the beginning that Aram is a big vote getter. We want the win to be not only unexpected, but dazzling."

  Kessler's flat nostrils twitched. He had surely caught the strong, familiar effluvia of political ambition.

  "There is some residual Sullivan loyalty among some of the back-room boys."

  "You mean there are back-room boys in the Eighth District?" Alby asked. The question was thrown directly, like a spear, and it found its mark.

  "Some," Kessler said. "After all, it's a district in tremendous transition. Tremendous transition."

  "It's a shadow constituency," Alby interjected. "It's the last frontier of political organization. We both know that, Frank."

  Kessler puffed deeply on his cigar. He seemed impassive, encased in protective layers of fat. "We still can deliver in the Eighth," he said at last, as though he had been forced to admit something distasteful. "As long as you don't need dollars, which are at a premium. A premium."

  Again Aram sensed that the matter had already been discussed.

  "We need whatever you can deliver," Alby said. "The important thing is that we have your full support later."

  Kessler smiled. He was an old pro. "Yomarian," he said, "you have a tenacious adviser. Tenacious."

  "I know."

  "In a primary fight, party support, Establishment party — that is, the power structure — is essential. Essential." Kessler was lowering his guard slightly, revealing the shrewdness that had made him a party boss. "Only registered Democrats can vote. We can put out the word … either way."

  "But among the rank and file Sullivan's support is eroded," Alby pointed out.

  "That, my friends, is why I'm here."

  Kessler was there, Aram began to understand, for his own insurance. He was there because it was no longer politically acceptable to support Sullivan. Kessler was, in effect, soliciting Yomarian's support.

  "But what specifically can you do?" Alby pressed. "The Eighth is a jungle."

  "We have people in the jungle, too," Kessler said ominously. "And let's face it, we do have clout on the state level. Patronage. Jobs. Grants."

  "Anything … anything," Aram said, prompted by a glance from Alby and smiling inwardly at his own use of the repetitive, "will be greatly appreciated."

  "Measurable support," Alby said with special emphasis. Kessler lifted his huge bulk from the chair and shook Aram's hand, once again transferring the cigar from hand to mouth.

  "You're formidable people," he said. "Formidable people. We need formidable people."

  "We count on your support after the primary," Alby emphasized.

  "And we yours," Kessler said.

  Alby accompanied him to the door while Aram watched. _Alby me it all so simple,_ he thought.

  "And that, friend Aram, is that," Alby said when he returned. He poured himself a cup of coffee and slumped into a chair, putting his feet on the polished table. "We left him no other choices," Alby said. "We just made it easy for them, and they have cut Sullivan adrift."

  "Do you think Sullivan knows it?" Aram asked.

  "Of course he does, Aram. This is a game for realists only."

  Norman had been silent during the previous interview and had left quietly before Kessler. Now he returned with a balding and graying black man in tow.

  "Hoby Smith, Laborers' Union," Norman said. In contrast to Kessler, Smith made no pretense to charm. He looked Aram and Alby over severely, almost contemptuously. As he did so, Norman looked at the ceiling as if to say, "Have patience. Let him do his thing."

  "Hoby will decide how the unions will go. COPE will react to whatever Hoby says," Norman explained frankly, almost as though the man were not there.

  "Yeah. So what's new?" Smith said, confident in his arrogance, used to dispensing authority. Aram took a limp noncommittal hand and pumped it with brittle sincerity.

  "I've heard an awful lot about you," Aram said. _Indeed, I've heard absolutely nothing at all about you,_ he thought to himself.

  "The way it works is simple," Norman continued. He was crisp and businesslike and apparently did not feel the need to resort to his usual street charade. "Hoby is now the decider on how union money is spent politically in his district. They call it affirmative action; right, Hoby?" Hoby nodded. "Even at the bottom there's a power base."

  "I was telling Norman here," Smith said, "that you worry me, man."

  "Worry you?"

  "You don't need us like you should."

  "I don't understand." Aram looked to Norman for an explanation.

  "He means that you don't need the money that badly."

  "For the campaign?"

  "For anything."

  "So?"

  "So union support is less important, less needed. We like our people to go down the line with us," Hoby said. Aram felt a brief flare of anger.

  "The unions, gentlemen," Norman said. "They don't give money for their health."

  "It's the same with big business," Hoby said. "Nobody gives money without reasons. Our money comes off the sweat of our people. We're buyin', not givin', man."

  Aram could see the raw power of the man, comfortable in his imperiousness. He detested him. He looked at Alby, who swallowed deeply, his Adam's apple rising and falling like a swallowed peach pit in his long, scrawny neck.

  "So what's the point of this meeting, Norman?" Alby said. Obviously, it was a carefully rehearsed response. Norman answered quickly, as if he had detected a rising tension in the room.

  "Basically, Hoby is here to discuss your philosophy, your point of view with respect to the labor movement, blacks in general, and your social philosophy. Let's face it. He's the one who passes on it. That's the way it works."

  "Anything you want to know," Aram said, conscious of a slight bite of sarcasm.

  "Norman's got it right," Hoby Smith replied. "I want to find out if you're worth supporting. That's all there is to it. If I like — we support. If I don't — we don't."

  "Tell me what you want to know," Aram said.

  "Man. You are somethin'." He turned to Norman. "He don't know what I want to know." He turned back to Aram. "I want to know if we got a problem. You're where it's at. What the hell you think we want to know?"

  As he spoke, Norman had edged behind him slightly. He motioned with his hands, a kind of invisible patty-cake motion that signaled them to take it easy. He also shrugged his shoulders. That's the way he is, take it with a grain of salt. Let him go through the routine.

  "I … uh." Aram hesitated. He wanted so much to tell the man to go fuck a wooden duck. "My stand will not be inconsistent "Oh, shit, Norman." Hoby Smith turned around in his chair a faced Norman.

  "He's on _your_ side, Hoby," Norman said. Aram had never seen Norman so nervous.

  "I'd like to know what I'm supposed to say," Aram said. He was fighting to maintain his calm.

  "You didn't tell him who I am, who I represent, Norman. You didn't tell him good." He got up as if to leave.
Aram saw it immediately as showboating. He knew that Alby saw it, too. Apparently they had not maintained the right demeanor. It had something to do with the man's sense of himself.

  "Have I offended you, Mr. Smith?" Aram said, trying to placate the man. "No offense was intended, I assure you."

  Smith sat down again and sulked.

  "Man," he said after a while. "Man, you are dumb. We are the Laborers' Union. I run that union. In the Eighth District that's important. In the state that is important. In the U. S. of the A. that's important." It was a kind of controlled tantrum, without reason.

  "How many votes can you deliver in the Eighth, Mr. Smith?" Alby said quietly, in a measured cadence that indicated that he, too, was holding back his anger.

  Hoby Smith looked up, his lips curled in contempt. Norman rolled his eyes and shrugged. "How many Democratic votes can you deliver in the Eighth District?" Alby repeated.

  "Plenty," Smith spat.

  "Give me numbers."

  "I won't give you nothing."

  "You won't or you can't," Alby said quietly.

  Hoby Smith looked at Alby impassively. "You want my support, man?"

  "You want to talk business?" Alby said, pausing. "Or you want to talk bullshit?"

  Smith turned to Norman. "Who the hell is he?" he asked.

  "He's the co-campaign director," Norman replied. "_My_ co-director." Hoby Smith leaned back in his chair and smiled. It was a toothy, contemptuous smile. Aram saw that Alby was warm now and that nothing Hoby Smith could say or do would have any effect.

  "Don't overexaggerate your importance to us," Alby continued, in control of the situation now. "True, you do have some clout in terms of union dollars. But you knew when you walked in here that we didn't need

  your money. We don't give one crap about your money. Votes. You can't control the votes of your members, and you know it. We know it, too. You want to throw your support to Sullivan? Do it. He's washed up. You know it. We know it. Don't get me wrong. We want your friendship. We want your support. But we're not going to kiss your ass for it. We don't have to. The best you can do is kick us in the butt next go-round. For the present Aram Yomarian is going to be elected to Congress from the Eighth, and we've got plans, big plans, for a big future. We're going to do it quick. So let's cut this crap out and get onto substantive matters."

  Hoby had listed intently, one ear cocked. When Alby was finished, he shook his head and smiled again. He was silent for a long time, puzzling, it seemed, over the sudden attack, not quite certain of his course of action.

  "You're tough guys," he said finally.

  "Not at all," Alby said, apparently thankful for the opportunity to soften his stance. The tension drained from the room. "We're just trying to be realists."

  Norman also seized the opportunity to make peace. "Alby Winters is our political mastermind and resident genius, Hoby," he said. "Listen to him. He's a smart cat."

  "The shit you say," Hoby Smith said, drawing a cigarette from a fresh pack.

  Aram watched the byplay with some detachment. He knew he was holding back from a short fuse and hoped he could handle it in the future. _Good old Alby_, he told himself.

  "We know how the game is played, Hoby," Alby said. "And we didn't invite you here to put you down. I can assure you that Aram can be useful, provided that his cause coincides with yours. But it's our option."

  "How do I know you're not going to screw the unions?"

  "You don't," Aram said. "Besides, what the hell does one freshman Congressman mean in the scheme of things?" His posture of humility galled him. _This is wrg_, he thought, searching for the right stance, the right words. Norman looked at him and scowled. You got him, he seemed to say. Leave it alone.

  "We'll accept any help you can give us," Norman said. "Right, Alby?"

  "Of course."

  By then Aram had tuned them all out. He walked to the other end of the long library and began to busy himself with a sheaf of irrelevant papers that lay on one of the tables. He was angry, frustrated at his own feeling of impotence, conscious that he was caught in a squeeze of powerful personalities.

  "For crying out loud," Norman said, after Hoby Smith left. Aram had ducked behind a library stack to avoid having to say good-bye to Smith.

  "Ego involvement, Aram. It's destructive," Alby said. "It's nonproductive. We acted as your seconds. That's what we're here for."

  "I felt so goddamned stupid," Aram said, still repressing his anger.

  "Feel nothing, Aram."

  "Smith was playing a role, that's all," Norman reasoned.

  "But _you_ knew how to handle him." Aram was pointing at them, gesturing heavily.

  "Like I said, that's why we're here." Alby's voice was rising.

  "You got a problem, man," Norman said.

  Aram knew he was sulking, understood his actions as his own kind of tantrum. Yet understanding it didn't help. It had always plagued him this way, this damned feeling of inadequacy. The damned thing lurked inside him like some beast that would not die.

  "Don't you understand, man?" Norman said, sitting down and fingering his cigarette as if it were a feather. "We are making you a fucking Congressman. We have developed a method, a strategy, to make you a

  fucking Congressman."

  "You're the beneficiary, Aram," Alby said. "And it doesn't end here." He stepped close to him, looking him straight in the eye. "Aram, we can help make you something beyond your wildest dreams. We are a team. This is a team effort. Just don't worry about the back room. Leave the back room to Norman and myself."

  "It's all a game to you guys," Aram said.

  "Gamesmanship," Alby said. "Exactly right. The whole process is a game."

  "There's a human equation I didn't quite bank on," Aram said. "My own reactions, for example. Let's face it. We're doing some pretty offbeat things."

  "All within the rules of the game," Alby said. "It is essentially a joust between unequal forces. No holds are barred, and those that are are subject to a referee's judgment.

  "It is simply hard for me to accept the methods," Aram said.

  "Get used to them. Or get the hell out now while the getting is good," Norman said.

  "He's right, Aram."

  Aram knew that. He also knew what the stakes were. Above all, he now wanted to succeed. The ambition had begun to pester him, to gnaw at his innards. It lapped at the far reaches of his soul, an inarticulate craving. Perhaps it was, after all, only revenge. At times he could taste the sweetish thickness of his father's halvah and see it splattered over the storefronts of shabby Atlantic Avenue. He tried to calm himself. Alby and Norman talked about him as if he were simply a piece to be moved, activated by his own ambition or greed, or need for revenge.

  "Just ask yourself the question, Aram," Alby said. "Is this what you want or isn't it?"

  "You're right about that question, Alby. And the answer is that I guess I do." Of course that was the answer, even if the "guess" sounded too tentative.

  "If that is what you guess, Aram," Norman said sarcastically, "then for crying out loud, let us do the job that is required. As far as we're concerned, the bottom line is getting you elected."

  "That's it, Aram. Everything else is irrelevant … including the way you feel. In fact, we have to be your partners down the line."

  "What does that mean?" Aram added, although he understood their meaning. Both Alby and Norman were thinking leaps ahead, far beyond the office for which he was running. Up to now they had made no miscalculations. Other peoe in Aram's position might be grateful.

  "I guess I'm just uptight," he said, smiling with some effort, but noting to himself that it was coming across as spontaneous, open, warm, a smile of surrender.

  "Listen to us, kid. We've got it all worked out," Alby said.

  "Yeah, just listen to us."

  "I'm listening," he conceded. And he knew he would try.

  A telephone on the polished table buzzed abruptly, and Norman picked it up.

  "Uh-huh," h
e grunted, not yet jogged out of his previous train of thought. He looked blankly into space and scowled, as his long finger punched a lighted button.

  "Uh-huh," he said again. Aram heard muffled but urgent sounds emanate from the receiver.

  "Say that again," Norman said, loudly putting his hand up to urge silence — a kind of reflex, since there was no need for the action.