Irving Wallace - The Man

Dilman had not minded Trig Cunningham, the rough and fearless star of a half-hundred swashbuckling and soldiering epics, or Betsy Buckner, the sinuous national Love Object, or Tilly Reyes, the rubber-featured lady clown, or Rick Wade, the disheveled guitar-strumming adolescent. They were white. His objections were to two other members of the troupe, Herbie Teele, the lanky, fork-tongued comedian known for his acid integration monologues and his coterie of young white female worshipers, and Libby Owens, the magnificent singer of sad blues songs. They were Negro. Dilman did not want them, not so soon, not the first day after the national mourning ended. But President Amboko wanted them. So did Sally Watson, apparently. And so they were here and in the wings.

“Yes, it’ll be interesting,” he found himself saying. “I hope they exercise some caution. President Amboko may be a little touchy about certain jokes.” He meant himself and not Amboko, but he could not bring himself to be so naked in front of this girl. He hated Negro jokes told by Negroes, and Negro songs sung in public by Negroes.

“Oh, don’t worry, Mr. President. Mr. Illingsworth’s assistants are attending a rehearsal at the Hilton this afternoon.” Sally was busy with her bundle of papers. “The routine for the dinner has finally been worked out.”

“Go ahead.”

“All but the honored guests will arrive by the south grounds-go through the South Portico entrance to the first-floor corridor, where the Marine Band will be playing. I’ll be there with my staff, and we’ll show everyone the seating plan and give them their escort cards. Then we’ll get them into the East Room. They’ll have about twenty minutes there before your arrival.”

The elevator had stopped. Quickly Sally opened the door, and waited for Dilman to step out before following him. Dilman, whose mind was on the press conference briefing, walked hurriedly, so that Sally had to skip every few steps to keep beside him. As they traversed the ground-floor red carpet, she continued to speak.

“President Amboko and his entourage, with Mr. Illingsworth, will come in by the Pennsylvania Avenue side-the North Portico entrance-around five minutes after eight. You will welcome them in the Yellow Oval Room, and have perhaps ten or fifteen minutes to chat with President Amboko. After that, all of you will go down the stairway. Photographers will be permitted to take pictures-”

“Is that necessary?”

“I’m told it is the custom followed by T. C. and most others before him.” She glanced at Dilman, who nodded assent, and then she went on. “The Marine Band will be playing ‘Hail to the Chief’ as you take Amboko into the East Room. Then, since we’ve been forced to combine the reception with the dinner, you, Mr. President, and Amboko, and his entourage, will form the receiving line, and as guests file past, they will go on to their tables-one main table, and smaller ones-in the State Dining Room and wait for you to take your seat. You will offer the first toast, after the dessert.”

A White House policeman had sprung forward to open the door, and Dilman emerged outdoors with Sally onto the colonnaded walk that went past the indoor swimming pool, and turned toward the West Wing executive offices. He sniffed the air, cold and invigorating, peered at the blue-gray cloudless metallic sky, and resumed his march to the briefing.

“According to Mr. Illingsworth,” Sally was saying, “after dinner you can lead President Amboko upstairs for a private conversation in the Yellow Oval Room, while the other guests go into the Red, Green and Blue Rooms for champagne. Then, Mr. President, you will show him to the East Room for the performance.” She slowed, searching her papers, and Dilman slowed his stride with her. “The final total-we sent 104 invitations and admittance cards-”

“Is everyone coming?” Dilman asked.

“Ninety-six have accepted,” she said. “The others are either out of town or ill or-oh, yes, there is one guest-no, two-I haven’t heard from. Senator Bruce Hankins-”

“I predicted that. I told Talley we shouldn’t bother, but he wanted to play politics.”

“-and Miss Wanda Gibson. She and the Reverend and Mrs. Spinger were invited together. I heard from the Spingers, but I have not heard from Miss Gibson.” She looked up. “I’ll telephone Miss Gibson-”

“No,” said Dilman, and at once, from Sally’s inquisitive eyes, their widening, he knew that he had uttered his order too hastily and too strongly. He sought to rectify it. “You needn’t bother. She lives with the Spingers, and I am sure she assumed their acceptance was her own.”

“Very well.” But he could see that Sally was reluctant to drop it. He wondered if she would go further. She said, “I think I am acquainted with all of the guests, or at least know about them, except Miss-Miss Wanda Gibson. Since I want to be as useful to you as possible, Mr. President-you know, introductions, making outsiders feel at home-is there anything I should know about the lady?”

Dilman cursed himself for having added Wanda’s name to the invitation list. He had known the hazard of doing so. He had done it only to prove to Wanda that he was not afraid to see her in public. He had expected questions from Illingsworth and received none, and Sally Watson’s curiosity caught him momentarily off guard.

He halted before the French doors leading into his Oval Office, returned the greeting of a Secret Service agent, and then confronted Sally as casually as possible. “You needn’t fret about Miss Gibson,” he said. “As a senator, preparing for committee hearings, I sometimes found her a valuable information source. She is employed by a Liechtenstein corporation, the Vaduz Exporters, in Maryland. I believe her firm carries on a good deal of trading with African nations, Baraza among them, and I thought that President Amboko and his Ambassador-what in the devil is his name?-Wamba, yes, Wamba-that she’d be one more person for them to talk to. That’s all. You needn’t bother about her tonight. She’ll be well taken care of. The Springers will have her in tow. And Mr. Abrahams-you met him-I think he knows her slightly, professionally, and he’ll pitch in.”

He realized that he had explained too much, and that Sally Watson had been listening too closely.

He said, “Is that all? I’ve got to-”

She said, “Well, there are a couple of minor-”

“You take care of the rest of it, you and Illingsworth. I haven’t time to be nervous about tonight. I’ve got to save my anxiety for the press conference. Forgive me, Miss Watson. You’re doing wonderfully on your own.”

“Thank you. And I’m sorry, Mr. President. I didn’t mean to distract you. Good luck, if I’m allowed to say so.”

He turned to the closest French door, and could see Tim Flannery holding it open. He thanked his press secretary and went into the office, which was agreeably warm. Talley, making corrections on the typed pages in a loose-leaf folder, began to rise, but Dilman signaled him to remain seated.

After taking his place behind the desk and apologizing for his tardiness, Dilman said, “Well, gentlemen, I’ve been doing my homework the last couple of nights. What’s next?”

“This,” said Talley, closing the vellum folder and holding it up. “I’ve tried to anticipate every question that might be put to you in the press conference. Then Tim here kind of had drinks with some of the boys, and picked up a few clues as to what you might expect. We listed the questions, circulated them to every department, and each one sent over lengthy replies on policy, supplemented with facts and figures. Tim and I condensed this to five typewritten pages. I don’t think we’ve missed a trick.” He came out of his chair and handed the folder to Dilman. “You have enough time to go over them by yourself now. Most of it will be familiar, but if anything puzzles or confuses you, we can talk it out right here.”