Irving Wallace - The Man

Julian’s brow wrinkled, once more wary, and his pointed English shoe dug at the carpet. “What else did I join? I don’t get you, Dad.”

Dilman edged forward toward his son, until his knee hit the coffee table. “All right, cards on the table, Julian. I forget how many days ago-the night after the FBI caught Hurley-I received a call from the young man you so much admire-from Leroy Poole-pleading Jefferson Hurley’s case for self-defense and begging me not to ban the Turnerites. I said I’d have to ban them. Do you know what he said?” He watched his suspicious son carefully now. “He said to me, ‘You indict the Turnerites for criminal subversion, and you indict your own son.’ He said ‘Julian is one of us, stealing information from the Crispus people, getting statistics about persecutions in places like Hattiesburg.’ To that effect. That’s what he said.”

Julian’s face was filled with wrath. “Leroy Poole? He said that to you?”

“That and more. Yes, Julian. And I told him he was a rotten liar. He said, ‘Okay, ask Julian.’ ” He paused. “I’m here, Julian. I am asking you.”

“Asking me what? You mean you even listened one minute to that sonofabitchin’ smelly satchel-mouth? Him? He said all that?”

Dilman had never heard his son use such language before. Yet he was relieved by the boy’s indignation. “I’m quoting him almost exactly. I told you I did not believe him. I came here to make sure.”

Julian was on his feet, agitatedly wringing his hands. “That bastard, that dirty troublemaker.”

“Julian, I wouldn’t press this further, but obviously there’s a lot at stake for both of us. Were you ever, even for a day, for a minute, a secret member of that Turnerite Group? Just give me a simple yes or no, and that’s it.”

“No, I never was. I swear to it. Now are you happy?”

Dilman stood up. “I’m not happy. But I feel better. I’m glad you had the good sense for which I always gave you credit.”

“I never belonged,” said Julian shrilly, “but that doesn’t mean I don’t think they’re righter than you are.”

“I’m not interested, Julian. Thanks. Be well. I’ll see you soon in Washington.”

He tried to go to the door, but Julian blocked his way. “Dad, you can be President or whatever, but there’s a lot who put more faith in Jeff Hurley’s ideas than yours.”

“I told you I’m not interested.” He went around his son to the door.

“You’d better be, you’d just better be!” his son shouted.

He refused to be baited or engaged further. He had come here to ask his son for a plain answer. He had heard his son’s answer and it was satisfactory. That shone bright as a jewel on a dismal day. He would not allow this tiny gem of happiness to be tarnished so soon.

FOR RELEASE AT 8:00 P.M. EDT

Office of the White House Press Secretary

THE WHITE HOUSE

PRESIDENT DILMAN RETURNED FROM NEW YORK CITY AT 6:30 P.M. HE SPENT A HALF HOUR CONFERRING IN HIS OFFICE WITH ATTORNEY GENERAL KEMMLER AND SECRETARY OF HEALTH, EDUCATION AND WELFARE MRS. CUMMINS.

AT 7:15 P.M. THE PRESIDENT MET WITH THE REVEREND PAUL SPINGER AND DIRECTORS OF THE CRISPUS SOCIETY. FOLLOWING THE MEETING, THE PRESIDENT MADE AN IMPROMPTU STATEMENT TO THE PRESS.

PRESIDENT DILMAN: The unfortunate incident that took place on the campus of Trafford University this morning, after my announcement of the banning of the Turnerite Group, underlines the necessity…

“ ‘-for every American citizen to be alerted to the subversive dangers of extremism, from wherever it originates,’ President Dilman told the White House press corps gathered about him in the West Wing lobby earlier this evening. Showing no ill effects from the egg-throwing episode at Trafford, which is creating controversial headlines abroad, the President went on calmly to tell his listeners that he was taking further steps to align Negro moderates alongside-”

A voice from the far corner of Leroy Poole’s motel room bellowed, “Shut that goddam fink announcer off!”

Immediately Poole got out of his chair and hopped to the transistor radio propped against the bag of fruit, and with a roll of his thumb muted the news report.

Pocketing the tiny radio, Poole wheeled to face the others, who were sitting or lolling about the large motel room he had rented the morning after the night he had put the zinging old filial arrow into that bastard Dilman. Once having revealed to Dilman that the kidnaping had been an official Turnerite action, and having zinged him with the news of Julian’s secret membership, he had begun worrying that Dilman might sic the FBI bloodhounds after him for more information. Losing no time, Poole had borrowed a car and removed himself and his effects from his hotel in the center of Washington to this obscure second-class motel on Canal Road, near Fletcher’s Boat House, three miles from Georgetown.

Since then, Poole had decided that he probably was not being sought for more information after all. Most likely, for fear of compromising his kid Julian, the President had told no one of the call from his biographer. Finally Poole had felt safe enough to let the word of his whereabouts be known to those who mattered. One by one they had converged outside Washington, the last of the Turnerite leaders, to determine what could be done for Hurley and for the survival of their organization.

There were seven of them here-Poole excluded himself-and they had been gathered for at least four hours, drinking beer and eating cheese and ham sandwiches. They had reported, they had debated, they had speculated, taking breaks to listen to the news broadcasts, and the time had come for a settlement.

Frank Valetti, Hurley’s second-in-command, product of a Negro-Italian interracial marriage, who resembled a bronzed Indian brave (and was the most persuasive and sophisticated among them, excepting Leroy Poole himself), had informally presided. He had already burned the membership records and minutes of meetings. He had accounted for the cash on hand and suggested how it be spent. The vote had been seven to one in favor of Valetti’s proposal that the funds be turned over to a white leftist lawyer, a good headline maker in Manhattan, to be used to reinforce Jeff Hurley’s defense. The lone dissenter had been Burleigh Thomas, one of the two men who had assisted Hurley in the kidnaping of Gage, and who had gotten away unrecognized, to be the last arrival at the motel. Burleigh Thomas, a constantly fuming, short-tempered, squat and muscular truck driver with matted hair, a low broad-bridged nose, a cleft chin and an abrasive voice, had wanted most of the remaining Turnerite funds held out to support further underground violence.

“Jeff Hurley’s a stuck pig, scalded, skinned, and ready to be cooked,” Burleigh Thomas had said. “Why throw the dough down the drain? Let those of us who wants to, go on and use it for getting in a few more licks against the whiteboys.”

Valetti had replied reasonably that Dilman’s banning had left them disorganized, in danger, and further activist resistance was pointless at this time. Later, perhaps, but not now. Leroy Poole had added that Jeff Hurley was not dead yet, that there were means to save him, that it was their duty to try, and to make a good propaganda campaign for their ideals along the way. This would take what was left of the money. And so the vote had gone seven to one.

Settlement time had arrived. Disposition of the corpus sine pectore .

“Well, gang,” said Valetti, uncrossing his legs and bringing his hands together, “I guess that does it. I think we’re all of a mind to disband. Our head man is gone. Our records are gone. Our funds are disposed of. We’re through-at least for now.”

“What are you going to do, Frank?” Poole asked.