Adler, Warren - Banquet Before Dawn Read online

  "Now why can't _you_ have that attitude," Sully said wistfully, turning to Marbury.

  "I wish I could," Marbury said.

  "Why can't you just wait …" Fitz began. Then checked himself.

  "Gentlemen, please. It just won't do you any good."

  "You're a mean man, my friend." Sully said, finishing off his glass.

  "Real mean," Fitz repeated.

  "I don't think you should put this on a personal level."

  "Hell, everything is on a personal level."

  "Congressman Sullivan," Marbury said. "I know you have a great deal on your mind, and you might consider this a mere detail. But this is a business. I have investors to satisfy. I have bills to pay, commitments to meet. Now, for five years, in deference to your distinguished position, we have refrained from taking any legal action. I'm afraid we can't wait any longer."

  "I do understand your position. But the fact is, Mr…."

  "Marbury."

  "…we're not business. The matters with which we wrestle require our very sinews, our very sinews, for they affect our survival as a nation.

  True, sometimes we might be remiss in business matters. Pure oversight. Probably bad office priorities. And certainly, in the press of a campaign, bookkeeping difficulties arise. Now…."

  He was deliberately becoming expansive. Words. Words. His only recourse, like good friends, unfailing.

  "I don't mean to interrupt, Congressman," Marbury said. He was getting testy. Collecting back bills was an art form to which Marbury obviously was no stranger. "But as we see the situation, we have got to have payment. I am perfectly willing to start legal proceedings, especially now since this conversation. It simply can't be ducked anymore. Five years is a long time. Frankly, I approved your moving back to the Dutchman for the campaign so that I could at least get you to listen to our side. So" — Mr. Marbury slapped his hands down on his thighs with an air of finality — "I want ten thousand dollars now. I've locked you out of your rooms. I fully intend to start legal proceedings against you with all the attendant publicity. I know you're going to have a tough primary fight on your hands, and it wouldn't be nice, no, not nice at all, for you to be c haracterized as a deadbeat. Congressman, have you ever seen a credit check on yourself?"

  The game was up, and Sully knew it. Perhaps it was simply too early in the morning to think straight. He could only surrender now. It would be better if he were fresh.

  He stood up. He was going to lose this contest, but he would do it his way. Besides, what were his alternaves? His suit was rumpled, his collar soft and wrinkled. Surely, there were black sweat stains inside the band.

  Sully was tall, heavy, and had overlong gray hair, still steely but obviously heading swiftly toward pure white. Like Fitzgerald, his cheeks were laced with networks of veins, most probably that irrevocable condition of the thin Irish skin and an appetite for whiskey that could reasonably be called a tribal condition, perhaps even a genetic certainty. When he smiled, as he was doing now, a deep dimple etched itself beside his chin, and the skin around his light-blue eyes crinkled. It was just one other curse of the race, that quintessential charm in his eyes, in the way his mouth curled upward around the teeth, his stance, a kind of skeletal dignity like a posed Edwardian tintype, and beyond all, the tongue, plumbing poetic depths of imagery, words summoned somewhere deep in his Gaelic mind, activated by booze, a strange aberration of chemical change.

  "Do you know how Congress works, Mr. Marlin?" _I'll be fucked if I acknowledge that man's identity_, Sully thought.

  Marbury let it pass.

  It was obvious that he was not connable. But the words, even in defeat, were necessary for him to say.

  "Congress is like a little stock exchange. The currency is, well, favors. He helps me. I help him. There's a lot of little mental IOU's passed around. And when you've been in Congress for going on fourteen terms, you've got pockets full of IOU's. Why, a little research will show you just exactly where I stand on the various committees, and you'd be surprised how many friends we have right here in Brooklyn, right here in my own little country. This is my country, you know. This little Congressional district. You'd be surprised how many judges owe me favors, and even little fellows like zoning officials, building inspectors. Why, would you believe I number among my close acquaintances even people who work for the Internal Revenue Service? How did I meet those people, Fitz?"

  "Probably because you're the second-ranking member of the House Banking and Currency Committee, the committee that has to approve all that money the government spends," Fitzgerald pointed out.

  It was the beginning of the full routine, like a vaudeville act.

  Marbury stood up and poured himself a drink. The facade of solicitude

  he had carefully maintained fell away, leaving the formidable bill collector.

  "Please cut out all this horseshit, Sullivan. You're not talking to one of your ass-kissing constituents. Just tell me you're going to pay me by tomorrow and I'll see that you're let into your rooms and you can all go to sleep. And if I don't get paid by tomorrow, I'm going to throw your ass right out of this hotel. It's just too goddamned late to listen to your intimidating bullshit."

  Sully looked into the man's hard eyes. The sense of panic returned, washed over him. He felt like a swimmer before the onslaught of a giant wave.

  But the panic receded. Yes, a lawsuit in the middle of the campaign could be more than an annoyance. It could sound the clarion for all the other bloodsuckers, all the others, who could descend on him like vultures. The sky would be thick with them, and no amount or quality of words would work against them. He knew that like he knew the map of his own face.

  He could, of course, move the campaign headquarters out of this fleabag hotel. But his headquarters had always been here. It was more than a tradition. How many testimonials had he received here, in the Dutchman's ornate wood-paneled ballroom? How many cold chicken dinners had he eaten here? And the rousing speeches, with his words rolling over that sea of good old red, boozed Irish faces, deep, dark Italian faces, wide-jawed Slavic faces, grandiloquent phrases roaring over the never- quite-balanced PA system. "That great statesman and pearl of humanity, Joseph Patrick Corcoran" — or was it Carmine Belldosa or Zoltan Wyshokowski? And later in the big suite, in the clouded perfume of good car smoke, the great old political talk and the booze, the sweet old booze roaring into the Irish gut — even, cliche of cliches, the sweet old Irish songs complete with red-rimming tears. There was only one place for John Sullivan's campaign headquarters.

  "You've got your crust, Maynard," Fitz began. "This is not a hotel. It's a hot-bed joint, and it's in violation of every conceivable housing code in the city of New York. It's a shit house, that's what it is, and, frankly, the only thing that gives it any value at all is the fact that every two years we make it Sullivan for Congress headquarters."

  "Don't do me any favors," Marbury said.

  "We could have this place closed down tomorrow, Sully. There's enough violations here to fill an encyclopedia."

  "I strongly advise that you keep that can of worms closed, gentlemen," Marbury said.

  Fitz hadn't yet realized that their hand was played out, that the intimidation hadn't worked its magic. He picked up the scotch bottle and poured himself a stiff shot, pouring two inches into Sully's glass as well. Sully drank deeply. He knew many men like Marbury, hard men. They were the bottom-liners. Humorless men. Somehow, he'd have to find the money by tomorrow.

  "I really don't think I can raise it all by tomorrow," he conceded at last. He could still be a dignified loser. "Have you any idea how much it costs to run a campaign in this district?"

  "All I know, Congressman, is that you owe this company ten thousand three hundred seven dollars and forty-seven cents, and I want ten thousand tomorrow."

  "This is not exactly a banner year for political contributions," he said. As a matter of fact, it was a disaster year. Worse, he was facing what appeared to be stiff primary opposition from
a do-gooder political novice. What was his name again? Yomarian. Aram Yomarian. All day he had seen his posters, the swarthy smiling face. Aram Yomarian, a goddamned Armenian, a twenty-eight-year-old hotshot. In his pictures he had tight curly hair over a low forehead. _Like an ape_, Sully thought, knowing it was not true at all, because Yomarian had a fine, pleasant face.

  "You've made your point," Sully said, rising again. "Thanks for the drinks. It's been an enlightening discussion. I've really learned a great deal about the avarice and mendacity of the human animal. I must say that from now on this old monument to the glories of the past will somehow never seem the same."

  "It's a shit house, Sully, an old broken-down shit house."

  "I'll be staying over until six tomorrow evening," Marbury said. "I know you will find the money." He picked up the phone and called the desk man, who appeared quickly and escorted the two men back to the lobby.

  April Garner and Marvin Perlmutter were sprawled across two ancient threadbare couches. Sully shook April gently. She rose automatically, and Perlmutter, as if by telepathy, shook himself awake and followed them into the broken-down elevator. It smelled of urine.

  ———— *2* "I'M really beat, guys," April said as the desk clerk closed the door behind them in the main suite. "If I don't get some sack time, I'll be out of it tomorrow." She waved, opening the door leading to their bedroom, then waved again, moving her fingers. Sully knew it was a special wave for him. Years ago, they had given up the charade of separate rooms on out-of-town junkets.

  In Washington it was more complicated. There he theoretically shared an apartment with Jean, all for form's sake and political image. A practical marriage. But he rarely slept in their apartment. Jean ran her boutique in Georgetown and seldom complained. They even went together to social functions, especially those at the White House. The arrangement was not uncommon in Washington.

  Sully, still in another room, removed his pants, jacket, and shirt and carefully threw them over a threadbare wing chair. Then, having poured himself another drink from the jungle of bottles on the sideboard, he sank deeplynto an upholstered chair, his paunch, white and heavy as a watermelon, slipping over the elastic ring of his boxer shorts.

  "Quite a day," he concluded, sipping the scotch.

  "Edward Fountain will be up about ten tomorrow to fill us in on the research," Perlmutter volunteered. The research assignment, a new twist for Sully, was to be the heart of the matter, telling them how they would have to angle their campaign, how the voters perceived the Congressman, what was on their minds, how they felt about Aram Yomarian.

  "For eight thousand clams payable in front, that research had better be good," Fitz said.

  "It's not a question of simply good," Perlmutter said. "It's a question of necessity. In the context of today's environment you can't formulate campaign strategy without the kind of research that Fountain will have for us." Perlmutter, who had been with them five years, was campaign manager.

  "We've gone through thirteen goddamned campaigns without that kind of shit," Fitz said. "Hell, Sully, we used to go in there and give them the double whammy. We know what these people think."

  "Not anymore, Fitz," Sully said. "You saw them out there today. All those spics. Blacks. I don't know what the hell they've got on their minds. The days when I could pat Mrs. Murphy on her plump arm and ask about Pat and the kids are done and gone." He hummed. "Done and gone!"

  "We'll kill this Yoman," Fitz said.

  "Yomarian," Sully interjected. "Aram Yomarian. He's an Armenian."

  "That's like a Turk," Fitz said. "Never trust a Turk."

  "I don't know much about him," Sully said, "except that he seems to like to put his picture everywhere."

  "He could be troublesome, Congressman Sullivan," Perlmutter said. "Yomarian is smart. His wife's family has money, and he seems to be getting good advice."

  "You can't beat experience," Fitz said. "Wait'll we get cranked up."

  "It's still best to run scared," Perlmutter said.

  "I always try to," Sully agreed.

  And now he was really scared, bone scared. His walk through those neighborhoods today had shown him just how scared he should be. Not that what had been happening to this district was a new thing. He had moved with the times. Hell, he had three blacks on the staff. And Ramirez, who could program the robotypes in Spanish and handle the Spanish case load. Christ, he voted with all the fucking liberals, on all the big giveaways. On paper, as they say, he was one hell of a responsive Congressman. He could get things done or fixed, because of his seniority. Hell, John Kennedy used to call him all the time, and Lyndon had come into the district twice to turn 'em on. The niggers really loved Lyndon.

  But he knew in his heart, old Sully knew in his heart, that he was up against it this time, in a sea of strangers, especially now that some hotshot would be telling them about how old Sully was yesterday's dishwater and how he, that Armenian pimp, would bring all these losers to the land of milk and honey. Even that was all beside the main point, which was that Sully had to win, just had to. There was no place else to go now. No place.

  He let the gloomy thought slide back into the muck. For this was the time of special joy, sitting here now half naked, a drink in his hand, mulling it over with good old Fitz and Perlmutter. He loved old Fitz! It was Fitz who broke him in on the old Brooklyn _Eagle_, taught him how to cover the police beat. Everything happened for the best — the mysterious ways of the Lord were infallible. The _Eagle_ folded. They set up the weekly. Then he slid into Congress when Pat McGarrity died. Twenty-six fucking years. As for Perlmutter, he was one smart-assed Jew boy, a brainy bastard. Could hold his liquor, too. He liked Perlmutter, but he could never bring himself to call him Marvin, and of course, Perlmutter would never, ever, be able to call him Sully. Not that he'd give a rap. Only it would probably stick in Perlmutter's gullet. He drank again, feeling the warm scot slip down his throat.

  "What the hell are we going to do about that ten thou, Sully?"

  "We'll think of something tomorrow."

  "Think he was bluffing?"

  "No, I don't think so. I know these types. How much money we got in the kick, Perlmutter?"

  "Twenty-five thousand in the account. And we need another sixty-five thousand fast."

  "We'll just have to put the arm on the labor boys. How much will we get from the state committee?"

  "They're broke."

  "Bullshit. They're always broke. Should be good for five, maybe ten. But I don't want to talk about figures tonight, boys. We'll figure it out in the morning."

  "They should make it so that we run every four, maybe even six, years. This two-year crap is beginning to wear me out," Fitz said. He was nearly five years older than Sully, pushing sixty-five.

  "Oh, come on, Fitz," Sully said. "We've had one hell of a time campaigning, one hell of a time. We'd be bored to death without it."

  "Yeah," Fitz said. "But suppose we lose, then what?"

  Sully watched Fitz, his cheeks, like bright-red apples, his stubby legs crossed, faded gray trousers up around his shins, revealing that speckled bleached skin above the white socks. In the inside pockets of his open jacket was a row of cheap cigars, like bullets in an ammo belt.

  There was so much of Sully's own father that emanated from Fitz, like the glow of a streetlamp on a foggy night. His short-fingered, white, hairless hands had the same warm look and feel that his father's had.

  A six-year-old sprout would view a hand like that in an enlarged perspective — clutching it like a lifeline in a choppy sea of overcoated giants along the route of the Armistice Day parade down Eastern Parkway.

  It seems that the good sweet days of Sully's childhood revolved around that hand, as they trekked to other miraculous parades, especially St. Paddy's Day on Fifth Avenue, to Prospect Park, to merry-go-rounds and hot-dog stands and the endless steps into the head of the Lady of Liberty. You walked everywhere in New York in those days, an infinite kaleidoscope of discoveries, even for his fath
er, whose brogue, recalled now, floated out of the cloud of time like a symphony.

  Even the lesser joys, like supporting his staggering beer-soaked father back from Flannigan's or Leary's to the cabbage-smelling two rooms that were home, had to do with the hand. Sometimes, in the night, he could see that hand come out of the clouds and reach out for him, and he would reach and reach, but always it would pull back. And there were days when he needed the feel of that hand to guide him along the streets of New York, to the endless parades, to the Prospect Park Zoo, into the lost clang of the open-air trolley car.

  About the time he was fourteen, the hand somehow disappeared, although the face of his father remained, ruddy and indifferent, the breath from his mouth a stench of beer and vomit, his presence acknowledged in an interminable harangue by his mother, blunting the lyrical brogue into silence at last. Shoes with holes blocked by newspapers, a threadbare buttonless jacket with a turned up-collar, a soul-screeching hacking cough like a jackhammer that punctuated the night. Then silence at last, and a beaten rouged body in the parlor. The last of the memories of his father.