The Ninth Wave Read online

  "Good morning, Miss Blenner," Notestein said. He held the hat a few inches in front of his belt and turned it slowly with his hands. "Ve never met, but you I recognize from der picture in society page. Dis man I never met, but it is a pleasure."

  "Shake hands with Hank Moore," Mike said. "Hank, this is the only really honest man in California."

  Notestein rolled his eyes modestly.

  "He jokes," Notestein said. "California is full mit honest men. Lots I meet every day. An honest man is not so hard to find."

  "No, Terence is really honest," Mike said. "He represents all sorts of people on all sorts of things and never has a contract. He just gives his word and says how much it will cost to do a certain thing and he does it. Absolutely trustworthy. Never betrays a confidence."

  Notestein sat down. His suit wrinkled and the motion forced the tips of six Bering Ambassadors, in aluminum tubes, out of his breast pocket. He glanced down and picked one out. Neatly and quickly he opened the tube, took out the cigar, threw the debris in the wastebasket, bit off the end of the long cigar and lit it.

  "I von't offer you cigar," he said quietly to Hank. "I never giff or accept little giffs. Or big giffs for dat matter. Only exactly vot was agreed. Giffs can be misunderstood. Look, dis crazy investigation in England. A big government man is persecuted because he takes a bottle whisky and a toikey from a friend who vants a license or something. And the toikey only weighed seven pounds. Dey should make toikeys that little? You can nefer tell ven dey'll vant to know if you took any favors from Terence Notestein. Now you can say no. But if you took a cigar from Notestein and someday dey put you on de vitness stand, dey vould keep screaming about dat cigar and vould discover it vas an expensive cigar. Ver der are expensive cigars people vill think der is expensive booze and ver booze is der might be girls and ver girls der might be big money. Now I don't giff you a cigar and you can say no, I never took a ting from Terence Notestein."

  Notestein sat quietly while Mike filled the beer glasses again.

  "How does the convention look, Terence?" Mike asked. "Think Cutler will get it?"

  "Can't tell," Notestein said. "Dese tings are crazy. Cutler looks strong now. But you haven't moved Cromwell. I'll vait and see how you handle Cromwell's nomination. Den I tell you."

  "Notestein, you're an old hand at this game," Hank said. "You tell me. Has Cromwell got a chance?"

  Notestein rubbed his cheek and then leaned toward Hank with his finger alongside his nose.

  "Look, Mr. Moore, just in dis room I tell you someding," he said in a grotesquely loud whisper. "It's like a crazy chess game in vich the pawns get excited and can jump around. Dose delegates are the pawns. Excitable people. Cry easy, laugh easy, easy to make enthusiastic. The queen, king, knight and rooks . . . all sensible pieces, all able to deal with one another. But the pawns get excited, jump from square to square, advance too fast, retreat too soon, jump crazy sideways. You can't win unless you make the pawns do the right things. Maybe that's democracy. I don't know. How vould a Hungarian Jew refugee know?"

  Notestein fluttered his fingers and drew a crazy erratic pattern. He put his hands over his ears and shook his head from side to side, moaning.

  "Your people going to support Cromwell?" Mike asked.

  "Not my people, Mike," Notestein said. His face was pained. "I don't control what they do. I just giff advice. But you esk a question, I giff an answer. Cromwell won't get the support that Cutler gets. My friends would giff more quickly to Cutler. After da primary dey giff to both candidates . . . Republican and Democrat. But dey would giff more to Cutler."

  "Why?" Mike asked bluntly.

  Notestein looked steadily at Mike.

  "Cutler is the more steady man, Mike," Notestein said.

  He said it as bluntly as Mike asked it. Hank felt warmness for Notestein; a quick admiration for his directness. He leaned forward and whispered to Georgia.

  "This guy's tough," he said. "He won't roll over like those old-age people."

  She looked up at Hank and nodded, but he could not tell what she was thinking. He thought she looked frightened.

  "What difference does it make that Cutler's more steady?" Mike asked.

  "Mike, dese are hard times for businessmen. Especially businessmen in the oil business," Notestein said. "All kinds risks. Terrible risks. What if gas tax goes up another cent or two? Maybe people stop driving their cars so much. Z .. u .. t .. ," he hissed and drew his hand across his throat. "End of profits in the oil business. Or what if the oil companies don't get the offshore oil. Z .. u .. t. Or what if the mineral exploitation clause is cut out of the tax law. Z .. u .. t. Profits gone, men out of work, equipment obsolete. Awful business."

  "They want to be reassured?" Mike asked.

  Notestein smiled. His accent had thinned out; was less consistent; almost as if he were an American who had learned an accent.

  "That's it, Mike. Dey want to be reassured. Also, Mike, just as a friend, I tell you something else." Notestein paused, bit the soggy end off his cigar and dropped the moist wad of tobacco in the wastebasket. He lit the cigar and waited until the tip was a round perfect circle of red. "On this Communist thing, Mike, my friends act like pawns. Crazy, wild, excited. Jist on this one thing. I got a theory why dey act that way. Because dey hated Roosevelt and the New Deal and all that government interference with business and when dey were told it was due to Communist agents it was good to hear. Also, Mike, they are scared. Like everyone else. The atom bomb is too big to worry about from day to day . . . but a Communist. Now dere is something you can hate every day in your life. So dey don't worry about the bomb; dey worry about the Communists. That's my theory, Mike."

  "They think Cromwell is a Communist?" Mike asked.

  "Of course not," Notestein said quickly. "But look at 'im. Rich son of a rich family, but always out talking to anarchist and radical groups. Always signing petitions to get Tom Mooney out of jail. Always supporting the newest thing."

  "Terence, your friends are way off base," Mike said. "They ought to calm down and get reasonable. Cromwell's no Communist. They know that. He talks to all those little groups because, taken together, they've got a lot of votes. A thousand Italian anarchists here, a thousand CIO votes there, five hundred longshoremen in L.A. or San Francisco . . . pretty soon you've got enough people to swing an election. You know that, Terence. You get votes wherever you can; the vegetarians, the Bohemian Club, the churches, the Italians, the Portuguese, the sardine fishermen. Your friends think Cromwell is radical because he talks to those little off-beat groups, but he's always been looking toward an election. All those little chunks of votes are what will put Cromwell in."

  "But why not talk to the regular Democrats and Republicans a little?" Notestein asked.

  "Because the Democrats will be for him if he gets the nomination," Mike said. "He doesn't have to talk to them. But those little blocs of votes, those are the real difference in this state."

  "And Cromwell has influence mit them?" Notestein asked. He smiled at the tip of his cigar.

  "Sure."

  "Evidence, Mike? What is the evidence?" Notestein asked.

  Mike stood up and walked to the table. He picked up a briefcase and turned it upside down. A stream of letters poured out on the carpet.

  "Pick any one of them," he said. "Read one."

  Notestein bent forward. The tip of his cigar broke away, the ash fell on one of the letters. He picked up the letter carefully, slid the ash off into the wasetebasket.

  At the top of the letter was a small red and white engraved sailboat. At the left was a list of officers.

  "Dear Mr. Cromwell," Notestein read. "The Executive Committee of the Balboa Yacht Club would like to thank you for your efforts in having the Corps of Army Engineers widen the Eslay Channel. As you know this makes it possible for the members of this club to use their boats throughout the entire year. This means, of course, that our seamanship skills, so valuable in time of war, are not allowed to grow rusty . . . " N
otestein waved the letter in his hand, "and so forth and so on."

  He picked up another letter. It was written on plain white expensive paper with no letterhead.

  "Mr. Cromwell," Notestein read. "We have watched your efforts to restrict the import of Italian prunes with very real gratitude. As you know the livelihood of many hundreds of Californians is dependent upon a healthy prune industry. It occurs to us that we might best reward your fine efforts by making a contribution to some charity or other activity of your choosing." Notestein paused and said, "The 'other activity' is underlined. That means political contributions." He went on reading from the letter. "We hope that you will see fit to oppose H.S. Bill 7320 which is now pending before a House Committee in Washington. This bill would allow importations of fruits in years when our native crops fall below a certain level, but it overlooks the fact that we already have a surplus of dried and canned fruit which should be disposed of. This un-American attempt to flood our markets with . . . and so forth."

  Notestein picked up a handful of the letters and thumbed through them, only glancing at the letterheads. Hank walked over and stood behind him. Some of the letters could be identified by the objects pictured on the letterhead: briar pipes, a tanker moving through the sea, an orange tree in bloom, a bottle of wine, a tiny bicycle. Others were written on plain parchment paper and bore the heavy uniform type of an electric typewriter. Others were written in longhand. Some were from patriotic societies, chambers of commerce, political-action groups. Notestein shuffled them as if they were cards, muttering under his breath.

  Suddenly he snapped the letters straight, neatly arranged them in a pile and dropped them on the floor.

  He looked quickly at Mike and then threw his cigar butt into an ash tray. He took out a fresh cigar.

  "Very good, Mike," he said when he had the cigar lit. His mouth and lips were bored, but through the cloud of smoke his eyes glittered with interest. "But don't kid yourself. It's not enough to win an election."

  "It is enough to win an election," Mike said. "We've made calculations. We know how many people those letters represent. Our figures indicate that with the right kind of a campaign after the primary Cromwell would win."

  "May I see those figures?" Notestein asked. "My friends would be interested."

  "No. You can't see the figures," Mike said and smiled.

  Notestein sighed and leaned back in his chair. He nodded his head.

  "I know, Mike, I know," he said. "I just thought I'd ask."

  Hank noticed that Notestein's language had changed as he spoke. At first he sounded like a newly arrived, harried, nervous Jewish refugee. But gradually the accent and the nervousness had dropped away. Hank realized suddenly that Notestein spoke poorly on purpose. He deliberately played the role of a nervous, grasping, outlandish Jew. He was a kind of antic, overdressed person who would do the difficult and dirty things for his clients that they would not do for themselves. His rich and vulgar clothes were a badge of his competence to do the unsavory things that a gentile executive could not do.

  "Mike, my friends will be impressed," Notestein said after a moment of silence. He smiled. "Maybe, even, they will support Cromwell. Not publicly of course, you wouldn't want that. But they would want reassurance on one thing. Just one thing."

  "What's that, Terence?" Mike asked.

  Notestein looked at Mike and then around at Hank. He smiled and shrugged his shoulders as if what he were going to say was foolish; he shared his sense of preposterousness with them. He was the picture of the pacifier, the middle man, the compromiser.

  "The Communist thing, Mike," he said. "They're crazy on that. They worry, worry, worry about that. If Cromwell could just make a little anti-Communist statement. Nothing big or dramatic, just a little thing. They'd feel better." He spoke with no trace of accent.

  He stood up and walked to the door. He shrugged in his suit, swaggered slightly. He twisted the big and expensive hat in his hands.

  "We'll think about it, Terence," Mike said.

  Notestein went out the door. The room was silent for a minute.

  "So that's how it's done?" Hank said softly. "So that's how you get a governor elected?"

  "I don't know if anyone else does it this way, but this is the way I'm going to do it," Mike said and grinned. "Usually they do it the way those people are doing it down in the convention hall. I'm trying a different way."

  "Mike, you're crazy," Hank said. "When Notestein reports back to those oil-and utility people, they'll just laugh. You haven't got a chance. Why, my God, you haven't even got the Democratic endorsement yet. And nobody knows Cromwell. They won't give money to an unknown person. And those old-age peoplel Mike, they'll slaughter you. You scared the hell out of them. They'll fight Cromwell like he's poison. I think I'd better go get my bottle of bourbon and start relaxing."

  Mike drank the rest of the beer from his glass. He walked over to a drawer and took out a fresh shirt. He peeled off the damp shirt and draped it over a chair. He put the fresh shirt on. He opened the door. The booming sound of applause drifted down the corridor.

  "Cutler must be giving his speech," Mike said. He closed the door and leaned against it. He grinned at Hank. "Hank, you're just about fifty years too late. You're like all those people down in the hall. They all think that politics is being nice to people; giving them pensions and cocktails and placards and sugary speeches and never offending anybody."

  "You think that the American voter likes to have a candidate that sends a little shiver of fear down his backbone?" Hank asked. "Well, I can tell you he doesn't. He likes a glad-hander, a Jim Farley, a candidate that's old-shoe."

  Georgia licked her lips and then spoke slowly.

  "Hank's right, Mike," she said. "You scared those pension people. They'll fight you."

  Mike buttoned his shirt and began to knot his tie. They saw his grin in the mirror.

  "Maybe so, but I doubt it," he said. "Maybe people don't really vote for the guy they like the best. Maybe they vote for the guy they're a little afraid of . . . someone like F.D.R. who was cool and artistocratic. Or Teddy Roosevelt who despised them. Do you think the voters liked Lincoln or Woodrow Wilson or Washington? Were they glad-handers? Don't kid yourselves. They were cold fish. Just a little awesome; not a lot, but a little."

  "You're nuts, Mike," Hank said. "For a while you really had me worried. But now I think you're nuts. You'll see when we get down on that convention floor. They'll ruin you. But you're all right, Mike. Now how about buying me that quart of bourbon?"

  "Right away," Mike said. "Let's go down to Cromwell's room for a minute. I have to talk to him. You can call room service from there and have them send up a bottle. Get the best."

  When they went in Cromwell's room, Clara was sitting on the sofa. Cromwell was leaning against the bureau. He had a glass in his hand. The room smelled faintly of good sour-mash whisky.

  "Hail, the big fixer arrives," Cromwell said. "The mastermind comes to announce the terms of defeat."

  "Go easy on the bourbon, John," Mike said. "You have to make a speech this afternoon."

  "Not me, Mike. The will of the Democratic Pre-Primary Convention has been plumbed and I have been found wanting," Cromwell said. "Alas, they have gone for Cutler."

  Mike walked over and picked up the bottle of sour-mash. He held it up to the window. It was a quarter full.

  "Don't give him a lecture on drinking," Clara said. She stared angrily at Mike.

  "Not with the whole damned convention marching around and cheering for Cutler, don't give me a lecture on abstinence," Cromwell said. "Now that it's all over, don't start to lecture, Mike." Cromwell hesitated and looked down in the glass. He looked up bewildered. "God, Mike, they're all for Cutler. Tell me, how did you ever think we'd win?"

  "Calm down, John," Mike said. "Cutler's made his play early and it's a good one. He oiled everyone up with free liquor and steaks and confetti. But the votes haven't been cast yet. You're still in the running."

  "Don'
t kid me, Mike," Cromwell said. "It's all over. Cutler's got the convention sewed up. I don't feel badly. It's all right. But I just wonder how you ever thought we had a chance. Come on, Mike. Let us in on the secret."

  "Clara, call up room service and get some coffee," Mike said. "Look, John, Cutler's trying to do it one way. But there are other ways."

  "Don't kid yourself," Cromwell said and his face worked. "I'm a good loser. I know when it's all over. And it's all over." He repeated it, softly, unbelieving. "All over."

  "Look, John, you're going to be nominated this afternoon," Mike said. "And you're going to give the speech we worked out. With just one alteration. You're going to attack the Communists."

  Cromwell laughed. He looked around for the bottle. It was in Mike's hand. He licked his lips, but he did not reach for it.