The Ninth Wave Page 38

  Notestein held his finger alongside his nose in a strange European gesture. He looked around him, his eyes wide, watering slightly from the martini. Then his fingers touched the soft material of his sport coat, he looked down suddenly and was embarrassed. He grinned at them. But there was a tough, self-sufficient look on his face.

  He's got guts, Hank thought. He's been through the mill. Mike can't scare him. Suddenly, Hank felt better.

  "Terence, tell Hank and Georgia what your friends think about the election," Mike said.

  Notestein put down his fork.

  "Mike misunderstands them," he said. "He thinks they're not friendly. But they're businessmen. They have to calculate. They just can't pour money down a rathole. They don't think Cromwell can beat Daigh. They say Daigh is better known. They say he's got a reputation. They believe that California voters vote for a big reputation, a name, and Daigh's got the name."

  "So they don't want to contribute to Cromwell's campaign," Mike added. He grinned.

  "They can't, Mike," Notestein said. "They're responsible to a board of directors. They have to account for every penny. They just can't throw money away."

  "And they're right," Hank said suddenly. "Cromwell hasn't got a chance. Your friends are smart."

  Notestein smiled at Hank. Hank felt a surge of confidence; or relief.

  "Well, everyone's in agreement," Mike said. "What about you, Georgia? What do you think?"

  "I don't know," she said. "I haven't made up my mind."

  "Look, Mike, be reasonable," Notestein said. "Settle for what you've got. You've managed Cromwell very well. People won't forget it. It will help your law practice. Don't ask anything more than that."

  Mike picked up a salad egg that was flecked with bits of anchovy. He bit it in half, chewed slowly and then put the other half in his mouth. He took a swallow of beer.

  "You don't deserve to know, Terence," Mike said. "You don't really deserve to know how Cromwell will win, but I'll tell you. See, we know a few things about the undecided voters. And they're the ones that will decide the election . . . like always. We know that they're the people who are worried about something. So they hold off, don't make up their mind, keep trying to decide."

  "So what, Mike?" Notestein said. "That's old stuff. But how are you going to find the undecided votes? And what do you do when you find them?"

  "First, you find big groups of people that are worried," Mike said. "You don't worry about isolated individuals; big clots of worried people."

  "Like the old-age people in the primary," Georgia said. "Tell them about that, Mike."

  Mike looked at her and smiled.

  "O.K.," Mike said. "You brought it up, so we'll tell Terence about it. Remember, Terence, in the primary we didn't run much of a campaign. We did that deliberately. We didn't want a lot of excitement. We just wanted a slow, average primary. Because that brings out an almost equal number of Democrats and Republicans. Normally they would tend to favor Daigh because he's better known, and if we hadn't done anything he probably would have won both nominations. But we did something. We talked to Mr. Appleton, one of the old-age leaders who, for some reason, seems dedicated to Cromwell. And very quietly, with no fanfare, we sent each person in the state over sixty years of age a letter."

  "Tell them what the letter said, Mike," Georgia said. She looked at Hank as she spoke.

  "Scared people don't vote for something, they vote against something or somebody," Mike said. "They vote their fears. So the letter, which was signed by Mr. Appleton, didn't even mention Cromwell. It just reviewed Daigh's voting record. In the last paragraph it just raised a doubt . . . a little tiny subtle fear that Daigh might not be for old-age pensions. That's all. And that's the only thing we did during the primary campaign. The only thing."

  "How do you know the letter did any good?" Hank asked. "People might have voted against Daigh for a thousand reasons."

  "Good question," Notestein said. "How do you know the letters worked, Mike?" He looked over the edge of his glass at Mike.

  "Because we had a polling service take a sampling of all people over sixty in the state and see how they voted," Mike said. He grinned. "They voted eight to one for Cromwell. And the letter didn't even mention him. It just raised a doubt about Daigh. That's all it did. Raised a doubt that he might not give them a bigger pension or might reduce the pension they're already getting."

  Unaccountably, for no reason that he understood, Hank felt a tiny gush of terror somewhere in his mind. Mike had just described a simple political trick and suddenly, inexplicably, the leakage of terror started in Hank's mind. For a wild second he tried to reason the matter out. But it did not make sense. Then he looked at Notestein. Notestein was holding the martini glass against his lip and faintly, almost inaudibly, his teeth were chattering against the glass.

  Hank looked down at the white scraped turkey bones on his plate. He turned them over with a fork. Notestein had felt it, too. The terror flowed evenly across Hank's mind; was almost beyond control.

  Then it came to Hank. Mike had just proved that he could do it; he had supplied the final piece of evidence. He had proved the point.

  "That's not enough," Hank said, without thinking, blindly. "You need more than just the old-age vote. You have to pick up five hundred thousand votes to win in the general."

  "That's right," Mike said, and his voice was hard and flat. "And up in an office on the top floor of the Golden State Building, we've got a research staff picking out every group, every locality, every organization that's got something to worry about this year."

  "For example?" Notestein said. His eyes were bright and he had taken the glass away from his teeth.

  "For example, Buellton," Mike said, "The little town of Buellton. A few restaurants, half dozen motels, a few giftshops. Five hundred people of voting age. They all make their living off the traffic that goes past on Highway 101. It runs right through the town. But the state engineers have a plan to bypass Buellton. Make a new freeway that runs a mile south of the town. Every person in Buellton thinks it will ruin the town if the highway is moved. So you suggest to them that Daigh wouldn't object if the highway was moved. You don't have to say what Cromwell would do. You just let them know that Daigh favors moving the highway. That's enough. They won't care what Cromwell stands for. They'll vote against Daigh. And the only person they can vote for is Cromwell."

  "How are you going to let them know?" Hank asked.

  He was hoping that Mike would not have the answer. But he knew that Mike would. His fingers were trembling and he put them under the table.

  "Lots of ways," Mike said. "Maybe you send a liquor salesman into Buellton. You have him mention in a few liquor stores and bars that Daigh is tied up with the asphalt interests and they want the new highway to swing around the town."

  "What if Daigh doesn't have an interest in the asphalt business?" Hank asked.

  "You think I'm going to say that the liquor salesman should say it, anyway," Mike said. "Well, you're wrong. Because what he says has to be plausible. The people in Buellton might check around. So if Daigh doesn't have an interest in the asphalt industry you look around until you find something he has done or said that indicates he would favor the new highway. Like a vote he cast for a highway appropriations bill four years ago that authorized a highway that bypassed a few towns. There's always something. And you have the liquor salesman say that. That's all you do."

  "This takes a lot of money, doesn't it, Mike?" Notestein asked. "To find all these groups and localities with a grievance?"

  "That's right. It takes a big research staff. A lot of college graduates in sociology and agriculture and city and regional planning. You don't have to pay them much, but you need a lot of them. About a hundred and fifty thousand dollars worth. And your friends, Terence, haven't contributed a cent toward that fund. Not a cent."

  Notestein smiled and it was the same, identical smile, except for one thing: it was fawning.

  Hank suddenly had to mov
e. He shifted in his seat and still felt stiff with tension. He saw the waitress pass.

  "Bring me some pie," he said. "Apple pie. A la mode. Vanilla ice cream."

  When she brought the pie, he scooped the entire ball of ice cream into his mouth. It was creamy and sweet. It gushed past his teeth, chilled his throat. It drove back the leakage of terror; his fingers stopped trembling. He looked at Georgia. She was watching Mike.

  "That's a lot of money. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars," Notestein said.

  "Not when you're sure your man is going to win," Mike said. "Then it's very cheap indeed." Mike grinned at Notestein. It was a grin that Hank recognized. It was a grin in which Mike's teeth stayed together and the lines around his eyes did not crinkle. It was a grin without humor.

  All right, Notestein, Hank thought. Stand-by for a ram. Here comes your turn. See how tough you are. You're a big-time operator, you deal with this kind of thing every day. So get ready. Stand by.

  "Terence, you're going to have to give your friends an opinion," Mike said. "You're going to have to tell them who's going to be governor."

  Notestein put the beer glass down. He reached for his lapels, carefully straightened the coat around his shoulders. He smiled carefully.

  "I know, Mike. I know that."

  "It's a hell of a job, being an adviser in politics," Mike said. "Guess wrong once and you're through. I know that, Terence. I sympathize."

  Notestein's eyes dropped, he hunched forward protectively. Hank felt his stomach tighten. He looked at Mike's strong face, the brown planes of his skin and bone, the white teeth, the familiar hands. Mostly he watched the grin.

  "It's always tough, Mike," Notestein said. "I'm used to it."

  "Your friends have got a lot at stake," Mike said. "Taxes, offshore oil, railway fares, utility rates. They can't miss. Not even once. And it would be tough for you, Terence. You being a Hungarian and a Jew. They'd say you didn't understand American politics. If Cromwell wins they'd say they made a mistake trusting your judgment."

  "But I do understand politics," Notestein said. His voice was wheedling.

  Hank watched as Notestein seemed to shrink inside the bulk of his sport coat. Almost as if he were going backward in time, to an older and safer level of existence. Notestein wrung his hands together. He smiled slyly at Mike. His accent thickened and the old European gestures asserted themselves.

  "One thing I really understand is politics," Notestein said. He picked his nose. His fingers flicked across his chin as if he were caressing a beard. He cocked his head. His eyes were wide and unfocused with anxiety.

  "Sure you do, Terence," Mike said. "But it would still be tough to be wrong on the next governor. You don't have your final papers, Terence. Don't be out of a job when they come up for approval. You have to be self-supporting, remember that."

  "But, Mike, what do you give?" Notestein asked and his voice was shrill, feminine, foreign. "They should the money give and you nothing? That's honest? I'd spit, but it's not polite. They need the guarantee. That much money, Mike. That is a lot." He paused and was suddenly abashed. "Spit? That I wouldn't do. Forget that, Mike. As a friend forget that. But what could you give in return for that much money?"

  "Nothing, Terence."

  "Nothing? Crazy, you've gone crazy."

  "I don't care what they do. Tell them whatever you want. If they don't put up the money someone else will."

  "Don't rush. I didn't say they would not put up the money. Keep calm," Notestein said. His voice went thin and sharp, scratched at Mike's assurance. "Just something to tell them, Mike. Just something to let them know that much money is well spent. Come on. As a friend. What can I tell them?"

  "Tell them that I'll know where the money came from," Mike said. "That's all, Terence."

  Notestein stared at Mike for a moment. He slid out of the booth. He started to walk toward the door, shrunken in his suit, the collar pressing against his ears, muttering to himself. He was almost to the door when he turned suddenly. He dashed back and picked up the check. "My treat," he said. "I treat everybody. Notestein's treat, understand?"

  He grinned at them as he took a bill from his wallet and dropped it on the table. He turned and hurried out of the restaurant. Hank watched him through the plate-glass window.

  Notestein stood on the curb, watching the traffic pour down Wilshire Boulevard. He moved crabbedly into the traffic. For a moment he was caught in the middle of the street, surrounded by the thundering, swift cars. He looked from side to side and once over his shoulder. His face was white and strained.

  Somehow the traffic, the flashing senseless rushing cars reminded Hank of a mob. And something about Notestein's hunched shoulders reminded him d something else. He felt a stab of memory: slight, passing, quickly gone. Something about Notestein reminded him of a day long ago when he had walked beside someone who had an accent. They had walked down an empty street, but it was threatening -- and behind them was a menace. He remembered that the person had black, frightened eyes, and he had muttered in German and behind them had been the sound of ominous, tramping feet. They had escaped somehow . . . but that was all he could remember. Then the memory slipped away.

  Notestein bolted across the street. He stood for a moment at the edge of a large glittering gas station. He was small and hunched, defensive and ludicrous. Then he saw the green phone booth and he scurried toward it. He closed the green folding door behind him and put his hand in his pocket. It came out full of coins that fell from his hands and glittered as they fell. He lifted the receiver and his fingers shoved a dime in the coin slot.

  Hank looked away.

  CHAPTER 29

  The Dream

  She watched him on the bed. It was dark and cool in the motel room, but his body was glistening with sweat. The motel was built on an expensive curve on Santa Monica Boulevard and as the cars came into the turn, their headlights threw hard bands of light into the room for a brief moment. In the flashes of light she could see him, curled up, knees under his chin. Georgia sat in a chair, in the dark, and watched him sleep.

  He's not an easy sleeper, she thought. He grinds his teeth when he sleeps. And that curled-up position is not the way a child sleeps. It was the position a boxer might take when he was felled; unconsciously protective, hands knotted into fists, his breath coming heavily through his nose.

  She would not go to sleep for hours now. She never did. She got up from the chair and walked over to the bureau. She fumbled for a cigarette. In the flashing, uncertain darkness she could see her naked body reflected in the mirror. It was a black reflection with only the curves of her hips occasionally turning white as the light shattered into the room.

  I wonder if he loves me? she thought. If it weren't for the polio I'd know. I keep thinking I'm awkward; that he sees me limp. Once he said he liked the limp.

  She sighed and walked back to the chair by the window. She looked down Santa Monica Boulevard, saw the headlights aim for the window, grow from tiny dots of light to great roaring circles of brightness that veered away into the curve just before they hit the motel. She put the full pack of cigarettes on the arm of her chair. Now that she had started, she knew that she would go through the whole pattern, think it all through again.

  First, she thought about Mike's wife. Once, months ago, she had worried about Connie. She had never seen Connie and Mike never mentioned her. But Georgia was aware of her; waiting for Mike to come home; waiting with the children. At first she had wondered what Connie would be thinking and doing; wondered whether she was anxious.

  And then she came to really disbelieve that Connie existed. Because Mike never mentioned her and because he was never home and because he did not carry a picture of Connie and the children in his wallet; because of all these things, Connie faded in outline and importance until finally she was only a name; not a name that really stood for a person, but merely a name.

  But Georgia did not forget the name. For Connie stood for something. She stood for the fact tha
t Mike could utterly, completely, without reservation, put a person out of his memory. Connie meant that Mike could forget you, could draw away and without the slightest loss to himself leave you abandoned. Connie stood for a puzzled look in Mike's eye that meant that he quite literally did not remember you; that he could, without malice or design, simply force a person below the surface of importance and recognition and remembrance. And once below the surface, Georgia sensed that a person could never drive above it again. Mike did not hate Connie, he was not bored with her, he was not cruel to her. He simply had forgotten that she existed. Georgia wondered, dimly, how Connie existed. And whenever she thought of it she shivered; not for Connie, but for the isolation that was more ominous and frightening than anything that could happen to Connie.