Irving Wallace - The Man

Leroy Poole patted his belly. “I’m not built for the muscle part of it, Burleigh. I’m strictly a word man. Words can be fists, too.”

Thomas made two hamlike fists. “Not like these, no words like these. Okay, Leroy, you do your doings your way, I do them mine.” He went to the door, wrenched the knob, but turned back before opening it. “Maybe you’ll have a change of heart. If you do, I’ll be here a few days. If you want to talk, you can always get hold of me through my kid sister. She’s a good kid. Leave a note for her at the Walk Inn-that’s a booze joint on Seventeenth-and say you want me to call. Just leave a note for my sis.”

As he opened the door, Poole called out, “What’s her name, Burleigh?”

“Ruby-same last name like mine-Ruby Thomas. She knows where I am every minute.”

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Office of the White House Press Secretary

THE WHITE HOUSE

FOLLOWING THE ORDERS OF THE WHITE HOUSE PHYSICIAN, ADMIRAL OATES, THE PRESIDENT IS SPENDING THE DAY ABOARD THE PRESIDENTIAL YACHT “FREDDIE BOY.” THE YACHT DEPARTED FROM THE WASHINGTON NAVY YARD DOCK AT 9 A.M., EDT. EXCEPT FOR CONFERRING WITH SECRETARY OF STATE EATON ON THE FORTHCOMING CONFERENCE WITH PREMIER KASATKIN, AND REVIEWING THE FINAL MINORITIES REHABILITATION PROGRAM BILL DELIVERED TO HIM BY CONGRESS, THE PRESIDENT WILL DEVOTE HIS TIME TO DEEP-SEA FISHING AND RESTING.

BY ONE o’clock in the afternoon, Douglass Dilman knew that the cruise was a mistake, and that he was in for another fiasco.

When Admiral Oates had suggested the brief nautical outing, his need for a relaxed day away from his office, especially because of the agitation induced by the Trafford University incident and the slight flare-up of his blood pressure, Dilman had not been able to reject the idea. Somehow, he had felt, it would make him lose face in front of Governor Talley, Secretary Eaton, and several other advisers in his office at the time. With feigned enthusiasm, he had agreed to the cruise. He had not told any one of them that except for one trip on a Great Lakes steamer and several ferryboat crossings to Staten Island, he had never been on a boat, and he had never in his life been on one that went out to sea.

His apprehension had been somewhat alleviated in the early morning, after he had been piped aboard and been made welcome by Commander Chappell, and been saluted by the six enlisted men on deck. As the ninety-two-foot yacht-once christened Eisenhower’s Barbara Ann and Kennedy’s Honey Fitz , and last and still T. C.’s Freddie Boy (so lettered in bright gold on the stern)-proceeded down the Anacostia River, and into Chesapeake Bay, Dilman had been taken on a tour of the vessel by Admiral Rivard, the veteran Navy Chief of Staff.

Hardly conscious of the rocking of the yacht, the steady creaking of the timbers, Dilman had admired the white, mahogany-trimmed ship from stem to stern, from port to starboard-or was it starboard? Wasn’t it aft? Or fore? Or bow? He had been as baffled by the Admiral’s language as he would have been by Latin or Hebrew, in fact, more so. Nodding constantly, to display his pleasure and comprehension, Dilman had covered not only every inch of the deck, but the Commander’s cabin where the helm could be seen, and then he had gone down the companionway-or was it hatch?-no, companionway, absolutely-between the nauseating, freshly painted walls to the cabins below. He had visited the dining room, which seated forty, and the large Presidential stateroom or bedroom with its two bunks, and the attractive lounge with its green carpet, chairs, television set, radiotelephone, and Currier and Ives nautical prints.

On the afterdeck-he was sure Admiral Rivard had called it the afterdeck-Dilman had gratefully settled into a bamboo chair on the hemp rug. He had tried to be attentive to Secretary Eaton, as the Secretary reported on his recent conversation with Soviet Ambassador Rudenko. Dilman had assimilated the gist of it-three-day summit conference to be held at the château in Chantilly, twenty-six miles north of Paris, with the final meeting capped by the French President’s farewell banquet, to be held in Versailles Palace-and all the while he had been hypnotized by the yacht’s rising and falling rail over Eaton’s shoulder. Dilman had measured, secretly, the distance the rail heaved above the horizon line and dipped beneath it. The upward motion had taken in two inches of perfectly blue and cloudless sky. The downward motion had taken in three inches of pea-green, sea-green water. The more his stomach gurgled, the more his gorge heaved toward his throat, the more attentive he had tried to be to Eaton’s voice.

He had not known how long his Secretary of State intended to go on, but he had been thankful when Edna Foster interrupted him with a shore-to-ship message. After that, Commander Chappell announced cheerfully that they were in the Atlantic, in the open sea, and the fishing tackle was ready for him on the port side. To Dilman, the obstacle of locating the port side (without daring to ask) through this floating maze, and the sickening knowledge that they were bouncing about in the middle of the ocean had given him the courage to state that he was not prepared to fish yet.

“I’ve got too much work,” he had said.

The Commander had persisted. “Mr. President, you ought to take advantage of a warm windless day like this. Not many this time of the year, I’ll tell you. But look there, the sun, not a breeze, sea smooth as glass, and some channel bass and marlin waiting to be caught.”

“Thank you, Commander, soon as I can.”

He slunk off, making a pretense of finding Miss Foster, but when he reached the companionway, Sally Watson had intercepted him. The sea change had made her more exuberant and prettier than ever. Her blond hair, swept back, was partially covered by the hood of her brightly striped Italian sweater. Her slim hips, as she walked, moved provocatively under her snug white raw-silk slacks.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” she had asked joyously, lifting her sunglasses.

“Fine, fine,” he had said.

“I’m utterly famished. The salt air really gives one an appetite. But we’re not allowed to eat lunch, Mr. President, until you lead the way. The steward is all set.”

“Lunch already?” he had said, and inside, his stomach again climbed toward his gullet. “Too early for me. You tell the steward I’ll eat later. Go right ahead, and let everyone know they can get started.”

While the others went below to be served by the white-jacketed messboys, Dilman had remained on the deck alone. For a while he had sat in a deck chair, warm in his gray wool suit coat and constricting starched collar, shutting his eyes to the slight roll of the yacht, trying not to think of the work that awaited him in the lounge, wondering if Nat Abrahams had received his message last night and would be able to come out and visit him.

Too quickly an hour had passed, for he could hear the chatter of the diners as they came out on the deck, and he had pushed himself to his feet. He had not wanted to be found slumped in a deck chair, wilted and ailing. It would have been embarrassing and un-Presidential. The least that he could do, he had decided, was to assume some casual, more presentable pose. He had walked unsteadily to the bow section of the ship, and propped himself with elbows upon the rail, striking an attitude of deep meditation.

And he was at one o’clock, suffocated with nausea, increasingly dizzy and bleary, and sorry for himself.

From the corner of his eye he could see Arthur Eaton, so natty in his white yachting cap, foulard, brass-buttoned Navy coat and immaculate white trousers, joining Sally Watson at the prow, joking, laughing, enjoying this perfect day on the water. For the first time, the very first time, Dilman envied Arthur Eaton, not because Eaton was white and he was black, but because Eaton had had the advantage of being raised to this kind of life, being a natural part of it, belonging to it. Eaton was to the Presidential yacht born. Himself, he was strictly a ferry commuter, a Chicago elevated or New York subway type.