Irving Wallace - The Man

Eaton had winced at the bluntness of the last. Nevertheless, it had been useless to resist further. “Very well. You and the Senator come right over. I have Governor Talley with me.”

“All the better. See you in a jiffy.”

And now they were here in his living room, awaiting his full attention. Wondering what was so “vital and factual,” Arthur Eaton carried the lacquer tray of drinks to the sofa. He held the tray out to Senator Hankins, and followed the elderly lawmaker’s horny hand as it took the Jack Daniel’s and brought it up to his pickerel face. Eaton did not know Hankins intimately, but only as a thirty-year public legend on the Hill who had been at once a thorn in T. C.’s side in matters of domestic legislation and an asset to T. C. and Eaton himself in matters of foreign policy.

Hankins wore a wavy gray toupee, so cheap that the hairpiece appeared pasted on with schoolboy’s glue. His ancient sad eyes, moist nostrils, flaccid puckered lips were surrounded by curlicues of deep wrinkles. The broad black silk ribbon to which his pince-nez was attached dangled from under his high starched collar. Unlike the younger Zeke Miller, he was not vocal. He was a senior citizen given to long silences and grave nods, which had conferred upon him the mistaken reputation of having wisdom. Since he had a son and grandson serving the government abroad, and because he enjoyed Congressional junkets to London, Madrid, Tokyo, he had come to consider himself a specialist on international affairs. He led foreign-aid programs and treaty agreements and was pleased to read often that he was a progressive Southerner. Where he was not progressive, however, was in his attitude toward the Negroes in his state and in the Black Belt beneath the Mason-Dixon line.

For Senator Hankins, the elevation of Douglass Dilman to the nation’s highest seat had been a trauma that would have been comparable only to seeing General William Tecumseh Sherman ascending to the Presidency of the Confederacy. To Hankins, the nigger President was beneath human contempt, an abomination and eyesore on once-beautiful America.

Yet, until now, he had not led his colleagues in the fight against Dilman. It was as if he would not dignify Dilman’s position by voicing his disgust. He permitted the yeasty young Miller to lead the Christian forces, letting it be known that he was in his palace, ready, available to come down into the field to administer the final coup.

“Well, Mr. Secretary,” he said now to Eaton, after gingerly tasting, then relishing, his Jack Daniel’s, “looks like you been to Tennessee to oversee the proper distilling of this celebrating libation.”

“You feel we have something to celebrate, Senator?” Eaton asked, as he took the tray to Zeke Miller.

Senator Hankins nodded. “As I was relating to Governor Talley, I’m a mighty cautious old coot, Mr. Secretary. These eyes of mine and ears of mine have seen and heard too much fable to be unwary of those bearing good tidings. But what I witnessed and heard a few hours back gives me hope we will be able soon to see the last of our nigger tenant on Pennsylvania Avenue, and restore prideful Christian government to this land of the Founding Fathers. Zeke there, he’ll tell you what is in our possession, and like ourselves, you will sleep easier tonight… Tell the Secretary, Zeke. Tell him and the Governor.”

“Well, goldarnit, Senator Bruce,” Miller said, “I’ve only been waiting for Secretary Eaton’s undivided attention, like not wanting to open a Christmas present till everyone’s all assembled round the tree.”

Miller had taken the liqueur glass, and without tasting it had immediately put it down on the coffee table. His lipless mouth curled apologetically at Eaton as he slicked his bald spot. His wiry frame appeared to dance with eagerness and restlessness, although he remained stationary on his spread legs.

Dismayed by this unattractive pair, yet increasingly curious as to what they had learned, Eaton set the tray down, retaining his cognac, and then sank into the sofa beside Talley, opposite Hankins.

“I am quite ready for you now, Zeke,” said Eaton.

Talley bent forward and pleaded, “Make it good, Zeke. For the country’s sake, we need something to control our-our President.”

Zeke Miller’s thin nostrils jumped, and he grinned, baring his yellow teeth. “This is no lasso we found, to tie our Nigra down. This here is a regular blowtorch we got, to singe his black behind and send him high-tailing back where he come from.”

“Tell them, tell them,” Senator Hankins grunted, “before my kidneys give out. This isn’t the House Chamber, Zeke. Make it short and sweet and factual .”

Zeke Miller moved a few feet nearer to Eaton. “While I deplored, much as you, that assassination attempt, it gave us a clear mandate to proceed against Dilman. It showed us he not only has no white support-South, North, East, West, except for a handful of liberal-Commie punks and bleeding hearts-but he’s got none of his brethren Nigras behind him neither. So Senator Bruce here and I, and the party leaders both sides of the aisles, been yakking around, casting about, then meeting to see what we’d come up with. Till tonight, not much. We had some information he might be locked into the Crispus Society, giving his pal Spinger and those law-spouting darkies certain advantages over the rest of us. I’ve had my legal beagle, Casper Wine, looking back into some of Dilman’s old court cases for possibilities of unethical practices, and checking back into his campaigns and elections to find out if there’s anything that smells fishy-like. Sooner or later, I figured we’d come up with something concrete to hold over his head, and make him resign like he should. Then, the way Senator Bruce says, tonight the facts fell right plunk in our lap.”

“God sake, boy, quit being garrulous,” said Senator Hankins testily. “Tell them, boy, tell them.”

Irritated at the prodding, Miller snapped, “I’ll tell them in my way.” He yanked out his maroon handkerchief, honked into it, returned the handkerchief to his hip pocket, and looked squarely at Eaton and Talley. “Ever hear of a lad named George Murdock, gentlemen?”

Talley said, “The reporter? Yeh, he’s Miss Foster’s boy friend.”

“Right and o,” said Miller. “And who is Miss Foster but Dilman’s private and confidential white secretary, yes? Okay. So one night not so far back, the two of them are dating, real cozy, and Murdock proposes marriage, and Miss Foster, who’s an old maid, like comes apart, gets plastered with booze in her joy, and begins to spill the goods on our Black Mose in the White House. Hold your hats, Arthur, Governor, but here’s the goods.” He paused dramatically, grinning. “Fact one. Dilman’s got a daughter in New York passing for white-hear that?-the President’s daughter deceiving, subterfuging, passing for pure Aryan white, and she with blood black as ink in her veins. Fact two. Dilman’s got that scrawny son up at the Nigra school in Trafford-and you know what?-the President’s son was and is a bona fide, one hundred and one per cent, all-out, scummy underground member of the Commie Turnerite Group. Fact three. Dilman’s wife died of booze, and he was an alcoholic with her, and spent time drying out once in a drunk tank of a sanitarium with her, and there’s evidence he’s a boozer now, which can best explain some of his behavior since-”

Eaton’s original astonishment on hearing these charges was now replaced by doubt. The accusations that Zeke Miller was announcing sounded as intemperate as the conduct of the one who conveyed them. Eaton came out of his slouched posture, sitting erect as he interrupted the Congressman. “One second, Zeke. That is almost too much to believe. No one, I am sure, has a spotless background or life, not you, not I, and quite possibly Dilman has his shortcomings and made some errors in the past. But until now, if he had nothing else, Dilman, at least when he was a senator, had a reputation for sobriety and commonplace decency. Now you would have us believe-”