Irving Wallace - The Man

Abrahams looked up at the press gallery above the Speaker’s rostrum, and then at the curved mezzanine of public galleries, almost filled, and he knew that the minorities bill had captured the national interest. It was the most crucial domestic legislation in years.

The policeman had halted, waiting for Abrahams, and then said, “Right through this door, sir.” Abrahams thanked him, took hold of the doorknob, realizing that while he had been inside the House Chamber many times, he had never visited the legendary cloak-rooms, where national decisions were supposed to be made by horse trading in secrecy.

He entered the Party’s cloakroom, not knowing what to expect and yet finding less than he had supposed he would find. The cloakroom was narrow and dimly lighted. There were a half-dozen soft sofas along the walls, about the same number of deep used leather armchairs, then the room stretched off behind the House and turned a corner. At the far end three men were assembled before a semicircular bar. Only when Abrahams approached them closer did he see that it was an innocuous ice cream and soft drink counter, with many telephone booths nearby.

He recognized Gorden Oliver, even though the Eagles lobbyist had his back to him. Identification was possible from Oliver’s distinctive high starched collar, navy-blue wool sport coat, gray flannel slacks, and brown metal brandy-flask cane (his trademark).

“Gorden-”

Oliver wheeled around at once, and when he did so, Abrahams could see that the Eagles lobbyist and the two others beside him were watching Dilman’s press conference on a television set.

“Hello, hello, Nat. I was beginning to worry whether you’d find the way.” Oliver pumped his hand, and then took him in tow. “Nat, I want you to meet two of our most influential House members-Representative Stockton, of Colorado, Representative Kramer, of West Virginia… Gentlemen, this is Nathan Abrahams, Eagles’ answer to Rufus Choate.”

After the handshaking, Representative Kramer said, “Gorden here tells us you are a personal friend of the President, Mr. Abrahams.”

Embarrassed, Abrahams said, “Yes, the President and I have known each other since the Second World War. We were in the Judge Advocate’s Department together.”

Representative Kramer assumed a dour visage. “Well, if Dilman got out of the service uninjured, then he’s certainly earning a Purple Heart today. They’ve been grenading him for twenty minutes.”

Abrahams’ eyes went to the television screen, to Dilman’s worn expression as he listened to one more question. “Most people haven’t had a chance to find out yet, but President Dilman is very sharp,” Abrahams said loyally. “I saw some of the press conference on my way in. I think he can handle them. When you’ve made it all the way up to Congress as a Negro, you’ve been through worse inquisitions. He’ll survive.”

“We didn’t mean he won’t,” Oliver said hastily. “It’s simply that this is his first time out, and they’ve mined every inch of it with dynamite. You should have-”

“Quiet, Gorden,” Representative Stockton interrupted. He pointed to the television set. “The Time-Life man just asked him about the minorities bill.”

The four men directed their attention to the close shot of Dilman, gnawing his lower lip, fingering the blotter in front of him. “You want to know why I have not spoken out in favor of the Minorities Rehabilitation Program?” he was saying. “In reply, I remind you I have spoken neither for it nor against it. I have been examining the bill. It has much to offer minorities in this country, and can make a great contribution to bolstering our economy. At the same time, I think it would be a mistake to regard this bill as the cure-all for the civil rights problem. The bill may alleviate certain pressures brought down on minority segments of our population. Still, whether it passes into law or not, it must be supplemented by continued and unceasing efforts to secure for each and every citizen those equal rights guaranteed by our Constitution. I am closely watching the debate over the bill in Congress, and await seeing in what form it reaches me for signature.”

Gorden Oliver dug an elbow into Abrahams’ rib. “Cagey, Nat. Your friend is playing it cool and cagey.”

For an instant Abrahams was irritated, but he contained himself and kept his eyes on the screen, where Flannery had nodded to someone off scene. On cue, the correspondent from United Press International called out, “Thank you, Mr. President,” and the first press conference was over. As the picture on the screen dissolved to one of the Presidential seal, Representative Stockton turned the set off.

The Colorado Congressman addressed Abrahams. “Mr. Abrahams, since you know our new President personally, you might do well to inform him for us-since nobody else seems to be able to get to him-that we hope he doesn’t drag his feet on this bill or on putting that Baraza President in his place. Tell him that’s what the boys in the back room are saying.”

“You tell him yourself,” said Abrahams stiffly. “I’m afraid I have no influence over the President.”

Gorden Oliver emitted a false, cackling laugh. “Aw, Nat, don’t take it so seriously. None of us are worried about Dilman. He’s pledged himself to the Party platform and T. C.’s policies. We know he’ll deliver… Say now, Nat, you’ve never been in this sacred sanctum before, have you? Well, have a gander down there, past those fourteen phone booths, and what do you see? A stretcher, yes, sir, and a first-aid kit. Know what? After those Puerto Ricans began holding target practice from the House gallery in 1954, wounded five of our members, the boys here became scared it might encourage more open-season hunting. Now they’re prepared… What say we have our lunch? I’m starved. I’ve a table reserved at the Hotel Congressional down the way… See you later, boys. I’ll tell Emmich you’re reading his breakdown.”

Gorden Oliver led Abrahams out of the cloakroom, through the rear of the House Chamber, still resounding to oratory on the Minorities Rehabilitation Bill, past Room H-209, which he pointed out to be the Speaker’s quarters, past the House Reception Room, and then downstairs.

They came out into the east front of the Capitol and started in the cold sunshine of midday toward the Hotel Congressional.

“It’s only a couple of blocks,” said Oliver.

But the few blocks, Abrahams soon realized, would take as long to traverse as a mile. Gorden Oliver knew everyone, and everyone knew him. It was not enough for him to greet each acquaintance with a wag of his metal brandy-filled cane. Each person met-a photographer for the Republican Party, a public relations man for the Democratic Committee, three Capitol policemen, two senators, four young giggling female secretaries going to lunch-was stopped, introduced to Abrahams, regaled with a warmed-over joke or bit of innocuous gossip, before being passed.

There was neither business nor political conversation between Oliver and Abrahams as they walked. The lobbyist’s eyes were scanning the pedestrians for more acquaintances, while he filled Abrahams with petty chatter about Washington and calumny about congressmen, past and present. According to Oliver, there was one congressman and his wife who, to save money, had set up and maintained living quarters in a corner of the House basement, until they were discovered and evicted. There was another who, to make ends meet, sold ready-made suits at a discount out of his office. There was a third who had enjoyed a reputation for hard work by staying on in his suite in the Rayburn House Office Building long after his colleagues had gone home, until it was discovered that he was using his suite to entertain call girls.