Juice (19 page)

“Bravo,” Davis said. “I hope it was the one that came to me two hours ago. Shall we retire to the den?” He beamed upon Helen and Mrs. Newbery. “You ladies make friends, or get drunk, or something.” He rose. “Mr. Harrison,” he said, “I think maybe we can do business.”

12

Up to three o'clock of that afternoon Rhein had felt progressively less like a field general and more like a lieutenant's orderly. By three-ten, however, when Davis had not called, Rhein's need for command decisions—as imperative and instinctive now as his need for Chablis with oysters, or clean linen daily—asserted itself once more. He had pondered; he would, after all, act. He called Frank Farrow again. His fingers bore heavily, firmly, authoritatively on the dial.

Farrow answered immediately, and all his calm, all his capability, all his confidence in man's infinite capacity for self-extrication came over the wire in the one word “Hello.”

“Arthur Rhein here. I haven't heard from Davis. I've been thinking things over.”

“Good. Any ideas?”

“Yes. For example: we can't rely on Harrison. Davis hasn't called back, which makes him an unknown quantity. There remains the judge. Winkelmann. I know him well.”

“Good,” Farrow said. “Though I don't know exactly how effective he can be if Harrison stays stubborn.”

“I don't either. I'm not sure whether there's some legal way he can deny Harrison's foolishness. However—” Rhein paused, and the briefest, most expressive of smiles touched his lips—“I do know that he's up for a federal judgeship.”

“Ah,” Farrow said. “Of course.”

“And of course his appointment would depend on the approval of Dirks for one and the party committee for another.”

“The party committee,” Farrow repeated. “This is slightly complicated now.”

“How so?”

“I had to work through a party committeeman to get at the young cop.” Farrow's voice was tranquil, reflective, recapitulative. “You understand: to reach the police chief first.”

“I understand.”

“It was Luks, Dick Luks, you might as well know.”

“I've met him,” Rhein said. “He's out in that district, Los Pinos.”

“That's right. He was the logical man.” Farrow hesitated. “Trouble is, he wouldn't carry any weight with the judge.”

“No,” Rhein said. “But he would with Dirks. Dirks is the congressman, the top man; he needs the votes, and he has to listen to his district men.”

“You're sure you want to go that far up the ladder?” Farrow was not disturbed; he was asking a simple question.

“Yes,” Rhein said. “I want to get to Winkelmann; this is the best way. You get hold of Luks. He'll call Dirks with a little pressure from below. I'll call Dirks and hit him from above. If there's a way out at all, Winkelmann is forced; he'll have to find it. Right?”

“Right,” Farrow said, who would not have said “Wrong” for the world.

“When Dirks has had a chance to call Winkelmann, I'll call Winkelmann myself. Fair enough?”

“Why involve yourself?”

“I've known Winkelmann for years. Helped him get started.”

“All right,” Farrow said. “You're sure Dirks isn't in Washington?”

“When is he ever?” Rhein asked, and Farrow laughed.

Rhein called Dirks. There was some delay. The secretary wanted him to spell his name. The secretary was not sure that Mr. Dirks was available. Rhein became impatient, but curbed his natural reaction. He waited. Shortly he was rewarded; Dirks boomed greetings.

“This is Arthur Rhein, Clement.”

“I know, I know. How are you, Arthur? Awfully sorry you were kept waiting. My secretary failed to recognize the name.”

“It's all right. I called to ask a favor; I could hardly be angry.”

Dirks laughed uproariously. “What is it, Arthur? Anything at all.”

“You know Francis Winkelmann, don't you?”

“Know him? I've known him for twenty years.”

“All right. Here's the story.”

Congressman Dirks heard the story. He heard it from the beginning, and he heard a bit more of it than Davis had heard; after all, this was on another level. The congressman heard the story and appreciated its implications. Even more, he appreciated the implication that he owed Rhein a favor. After a few years of public life a man learned to appreciate implications. It was not hard, really. The functioning of society was largely a matter of appreciated implications. He had owed, did owe, would owe, Arthur Rhein a favor. Now he could discharge part of the debt. Arthur Rhein would appreciate the implication, and he and Dirks would become even better friends. Give and take.

“I'll do what I can,” the congressman said. “I'll call Winkelmann and make it clear that I'd consider this a personal favor.”

“That's very kind of you, to make it personal,” Arthur Rhein said, appreciating the implication.

“Of course,” Dirks said. “Winkelmann's all right then. Don't worry about a thing. Anything else I can do?”

“No, good heavens. I've already asked for too much,” Rhein said.

“Not at all. When will I see you? It's been months.”

“Well, we might make a lunch next week. Will you be in town?” What a question, Rhein thought, and smiled for the first time.

“Yes, indeed,” Dirks said. “I'm researching a highway bill. This is a test area for the whole country, you know.”

“Aha,” Rhein said. “I suppose you swung that. Always pumping federal money into the home district.” Dirks laughed again, genuinely pleased. “I wouldn't mind so much,” Rhein went on, “if so much of that money wasn't mine.”

This time Dirks laughed from the belly. “I don't think you miss it too much.”

“You'll never know,” Rhein said. “Anyway, call me next week. I'll let you know how we come out on all this.”

“Good,” Dirks said seriously. “And of course my name needn't be used again.”

“Of course,” Rhein said. “Goodbye, and thanks again.”

“Quite welcome. Goodbye, Arthur.”

Rhein hung up and breathed deeply. He was struck suddenly by a feeling of warmth for Joe Harrison, which bewildered him. When he had thought about it for a moment he frowned: he had felt gratitude to Harrison because Dirks had just depressed him, with the proposition that men who can be led by the nose are bores.

And finally, half an hour later, Arthur Rhein called Francis Winkelmann. The troops were in position, the reserves were at the ready, air-ground liaison was functioning; now, he felt, the hand-to-hand combat. He smiled when he heard Winkelmann's voice. When this was over he would have Robert open a split of the Perrier-Jouet; perhaps a can of pâté, on Dutch crackers. The afternoon was warm; the bubbles would rise briskly.

“Francis,” he said. “Good afternoon. Arthur Rhein here.”

“Ah, yes, Arthur,” Winkelmann said. “How are you.” And after a perceptible hesitation: “Nice to hear from you.”

“Fine. And you?”

A moment's silence; then: “Excellent, thank you. Enjoying the balmy weather.”

“So was I,” Rhein said, suppressing a laugh. “I thought we might have a drink and dinner later.”

“Drink and dinner? Yes, yes; drink and dinner. You'll have to let me look at my book.”

“Go right ahead,” Rhein said, and waited.

“Hmm, yes,” Winkelmann said at last. “Good. I'm free, all right. Where and when?”

“I thought you might come up here,” Rhein said. “Somehow I don't feel like the noise and trouble of a restaurant; bad service, probably, and then you never know what the kitchen's like.”

“Good idea,” Winkelmann said. “And what time?”

“Come up about eight.”

“All right. Just the two of us?”

“Just the two of us.” Rhein's grin was uncontrollable.

Winkelmann might have sighed; Rhein could not be sure. “All right, then. I'll see you at about eight,” the judge said. “My pleasure,” Rhein said. They disconnected. Rhein's grin faded slowly; he clapped hands once, lightly, and then rubbed his palms together. His eyes shone; his body seemed full of energy, good health. “Robert!” he bellowed, and pushed the call button aggressively.

13

“You understand,” Davis said flatly, “I'm still not sure where my duty lies. If we can pull this off, well and good; otherwise I'm still a practicing lawyer with an obligation to himself and to the man who retained him.”

“In that order,” Harrison said.

“Of course in that order.” Davis smiled. His voice altered. Earnestly, worried, sincere, shaking his head sadly, he said, “You got to look out for number one.”

Harrison laughed. “That's a nice shirt,” he said. “Why don't you get your suit pressed?”

“It was pressed yesterday,” Davis said dolefully. “I don't know what it is with me.” He yawned. “Let's go back to the ladies. You're a stout fellow and a stalwart friend, but you lack a certain
rondeur
.”

“Good,” Joe said. “By now they'll have organized.”

“The league of unfrightened women,” Davis said. “They were organized before you or I ever thought of it. Shaw called it the trades-unionism of women. They're born aware of the enemy. Ultimately they find they must marry him,
faute de mieux
; and they never again find it possible to cherish an illusion. The luckiest of them have men who know how to be selectively silent, who can at least come home and pretend to virtue. Which creates a
modus vivendi
and mutual gratitude.”

“Virtue,” Joe murmured.

“Not
virtus
,” Davis added quickly. “
Virtus
is something else again, and there's no word for it in English.
Arete.
A shame we can't speak visually, in Greek letters. Infinitely more beautiful than our own. Come on.”

Returning, they paused in the doorway and smiled in Falstaffian delight. Helen and Mrs. Newbery were in soft chairs, leaning toward each other over the glass-topped table on which their drinks stood. Helen was smiling, and Mrs. Newbery was speaking rapidly and low.

“We could flip a coin,” Joe said quietly. “Double or nothing.”

“No, no, no,” Davis said, beaming. “I have a much better idea.”

“I'm sure you do.” Joe laughed. “Don't tempt me.”

“Virtus,”
Davis murmured. “I cannot transcend my nature.”

“Peeping Toms!” Helen said. She contemplated Davis, then Joe. “Are you all right, my love?”

“For the moment, yes,” Joe said. “Where are the kids? It's four o'clock.”

“They came in and went out. They'll be back.”

“We have a phone call to make,” Davis said. “With any luck, your husband and I are dining out tonight.”

“You express yourself with a remarkable lack of gallantry,” Helen said.

“I'm covered with confusion,” Davis said humbly. “I'd rather dine here, and then drink brandy all night and listen to Mozart and stare at the two of you. I'd like to spend all my evenings doing that. And all my vacations. I may do a magazine article: ‘The Well-Disordered Life.' I shall point out that happiness is
not
a by-product of the well-regulated life; that it is a condition, a state, attainable in itself; that it has nothing to do with paying one's bills, loving one's children, sleeping from eleven to seven, or drinking warm lemon juice in the morning.”

“He's really a child,” Helen said.

“We'll talk about it later,” Mrs. Newbery said decisively.

“You will not,” Davis said. “I simply have the knack, invaluable to a trial lawyer, of putting myself into the shoes of any cultural type you want to name. The driving executive, the small-town preacher, the Olympic weight lifter, the Southern belle. Unfortunately my true identity, under these shifting palimpsests, is a tiny void, unnoticeable to the commonality. I'd have made a good actor. The Burbage of my time. Where's the phone? There. You sit with the ladies, Joe. Entertain them. Many a tale of derring-do. High deeds in Hungary. Do you know the poem?” He stopped speaking, and for a moment his face was grave, handsome, intensely sad; he looked down at Mrs. Newbery and said, “Someday soon I'll read it to you.” They were all silent, while his emotion seemed to coil and then to leap out at the woman. He laughed uncomfortably and said, “Nonsense. Where's that phone?”

Helen watched Joe to see what had happened. He shrugged briefly and gestured toward Davis. Helen nodded. Mrs. Newbery smiled, and Joe laughed aloud to see the touch of pride in her smile; Davis turned at his laugh and observed them with suspicion. Mrs. Newbery had blushed. Joe felt affection for her; not for the black hair or the milky skin, not for the lively eyes or the estimable body, but for the blush. Man's hope, that blush, he thought; but unfortunately not man's fate.

“Hello, Mr. Rhein,” Davis roared jovially. “Davis here.” A silence. “I've been very busy.” A silence. “Of course. I'm fairly sure now that something can be worked out.” A silence. “I don't want to hear about that, if you don't mind. It's not that I approve or disapprove, simply that I don't want to know.” A silence. “All right. I want us to meet tonight, for dinner.” A silence. “I don't care. This is more important—yes, it is. You and Harrison and me and somebody from Pacific American Insurance.” Silence. “All right then, just the three of us. You're sure you know the ropes about the insurance.” Davis winced and nodded. “Fair enough. I don't care where. Your place? All right. The Century Club. At eight.”

“Hey, Mom,” Dave called, preceding Sally into the room. Joe waved him silent; but Davis had rung off. “Oh,” Dave said.

“Sally Harrison, Dave Harrison, this is Mr. Davis,” Helen said.

Davis shook hands with them.

“That's a nice shirt,” Sally said.