Ten North Frederick (12 page)

Weeks arrived at his apartment in East Seventy-first Street at the end, the noisy end, of a cocktail party. As chance would have it, he was acquainted with none of the eight or ten men and women in the foyer of his apartment, and those who looked at him gave him the blank look that greets the strange late-comer to a party of that sort. He went up the winding stairs to his bedroom. The door was closed. He opened it and a man in his middle thirties was standing beside Weeks's dressing table, changing his clothes. He was wearing a white shirt and a black four-in-hand tie, and the trousers of a tuxedo.

“Oh, hello, Mr. Weeks,” he said.

“Oh, hello, there.”

“Mrs. Weeks said it would be all right if I changed my clothes here.”

“Sure, by all means,” said Weeks. There was an oddly shaped piece of luggage on the floor, besides the calfskin Gladstone on the bed.

“I told her I could work if I didn't wear my uniform, so I brought my tux and changed here.”

“I see,” said Weeks, and he did see. Now he recognized the man as an accordion-player frequently to be encountered in New York and on Long Island.

“Nice party.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Weeks. “I guess I just about made it, myself.”

“This looks good for another hour at least, but I told Mrs. Weeks, I gotta hit the sack early. She understood.”

“Well, I'm sorry I didn't get here while you were still playing.”

“A couple quiet choruses of ‘Rose Room,' Mr. Weeks?”

“No, no thanks,” said Weeks.

“How's Mr. Clark these days?”

“Fine, fine. Couldn't be better,” said Weeks.

“You and Mr. Clark, you're the only ones that can stick me on those old tunes.”

“Well, he's much better than I am.”

“Oh, it's pretty close. You know quite a few he can't remember.”

“Not so many. Would you like a drink before you go?”

“Uh—well, I'll have one with you.”

“Scotch is all I have here,” said Weeks.

“Well, I guess you know I'd rather have Scotch than anything else.”

“I guess we'll have to do without ice,” said Weeks. There was a cut-glass decanter on the dressing table and two glasses. They filled the glasses with whiskey and water from the bathroom faucet.

“All the best, Mr. Weeks.”

“The best,” said Weeks. He drank, and lit a cigarette. “Been to a funeral. I never go to funerals, or I say I never go to funerals. Seems to me I go to a lot of them these days.”

“Yeah,” said the man. His tuxedo was in the Gladstone and he was now in his uniform blues.

“All the way to Pennsylvania and back in one day. Not the best thing for a man my age.”

“Pennsylvania. I've worked in that state all right. Plenty. And my first wife came from there.”

“Is that so?” said Weeks.

“Practically a one-nighter, we'd call it in the band business. Nothing against the girl, but God, her family. God, did they give it to me. But I don't want to talk about that.” He put on his cap. “Shoving off.”

“You've—been taken care of?”

“Oh—yes indeed, thanks. Mrs. Weeks, always there with that check, you know. And always generous.”

“Good. Thanks for coming, and see you soon, I hope.”

“Right, Mr. Weeks. And cheer up. You know.”

“Absolutely,” said Weeks.

The man departed, toting his bags, and Weeks sat down and took off his shoes and put on a pair of cracked patent-leather pumps. The hall door was knocked on and his wife came in.

“Hello, dear,” he said.

“Hello, darling,” she said. She kissed his forehead and cheek. “Are you going to join us, or are you tired? I heard you were home.”

“I may stay up here, unless they know I'm here,” he said. “Say, what's the name of that fellow, the accordion-player?”

“Charley. Charley Bongiorno.”

“That's it. I was almost sure of the first name, but I can never remember the last.”

“I told him he could change here. He's perfectly trustworthy, and nice.”

“Oh, sure. I just couldn't remember his name. Nice fellow. What about dinner? Are there people staying for dinner?”

“I haven't asked anyone. I can.”

“No, no.”

“They'll all be gone very soon, and we can have dinner here, or would you like to go to
21
or some place?”

“I've got a lot of work.”

“I'll get rid of those that are left and we can have dinner by ourselves. Was it an ordeal?”

“Well, it was no pleasure trip.”

“How was Edith Chapin?”

“Oh—splendid, of course. Splendid.”

“Aren't you being a little splendid too? About her?”

Weeks smiled. “Touché,” he said. “Edith never liked me and never will, but at least I'll never have to see her again.” Softly he whispered a few bars of “Rose Room.”

 • • • 

The Governor, his private secretary, Henry Laubach, and Mike Slattery were having coffee and homemade doughnuts in the small cardroom at the Gibbsville Club.

“Mike, you're putting me on the spot.”

“On the Chernowski matter?” said Slattery.

“I can't pardon him, and I should think you'd know that. Have you read everything on him?”

“No, I haven't,” said Slattery.

“Have you read
any
of the testimony, or the appeal stuff?”

“No,” said Slattery.

“Whose word are you taking?” said the Governor.

“Legally? A local man. Good lawyer. He said a pardon can be justified.”

“I'm told the contrary,” said the Governor. “Who wants this pardon?”

“A couple of our fellows. It's important, Governor. There's a second-generation Polish vote here, you know. You and I, we're liable to make the mistake of thinking the Poles are just illiterate miners. But that's not so any more. I saw the figures the other day for how many Polish boys are in the armed forces. I mean in this country, Governor. This was an accurate list, compiled from church records, so we didn't lose track of boys that Americanized their last names. We'd like to see Chernowski get a pardon. It'd be a great thing for our side.”

“I'll have to think it over a little more, but I'll be frank with you, I don't want to encourage you.”

“I see,” said Slattery. “What about the Schneider matter?”

“That's the—” The Governor's secretary spoke.

“I know,” said the Governor. “Motor Vehicles. I might be able to do something for you there, Mike.”

“We'd appreciate that,” said Slattery.

“Have we got anything we'd like to take up with
Mike?
” the Governor asked the secretary.

“No, sir,” said the secretary.

“I was afraid of that,” said the Governor. “Mike, you always have everything under control, or nearly always, so consequently when you ask for something it's difficult to turn you down. I'm sorry about this Chernowski business. Now then. When are you and Mrs. Slattery coming to dinner with us at the Mansion?”

“We were hoping we could get you to have dinner with us while you're in town.”

“I have to be in Erie tomorrow, sorry to say, but you thank her for me. How are all your daughters?”

“Fine, thank you,” said Slattery.

“Henry, anything I can do for you?” said the Governor.

“I don't think so, thank you. I'd like to put in an extra word for Mike on the Chernowski pardon, but I guess that's a lost cause.”

“Well, not entirely lost. The man's in for life, so don't give up.” The Governor had a habit of patting his knee rapidly when annoyance was setting in. He now patted his knee rapidly. “Joe Chapin pretty well fixed?”

“Edith'll have over a million,” said Slattery.

“Net?”

“Net,” said Slattery.

“Well, she's lucky. It would have taken that and more to elect Joe to the job I have. Why did he want it so much?”

“The honor,” said Slattery. “And there was a lieutenant governor in his family tree, back in
1830
,
1840
, somewhere around there. Joe had other ideas, too, I think.”

“Such as?”

“What every American boy aspires to,” said Slattery.

“Not this American boy,” said the Governor. “When I finish my term I'm going back to Erie and
stay
there.”

“Don't like to hear that kind of talk, Governor,” said Slattery.

“Mike, you don't have to horseshit me. I want to live a little while longer, watch my grandchildren grow up. I'll have a roomful of souvenirs, and my name on some iron tablets, and I'll be in the record books as Governor. All I have to do is keep out of prison a little while longer and then I can sit back and relax. Any son of a bitch that thinks he'd like to be President of the United States ought to try being Governor of Pennsylvania for a few years. Tom Dewey may like his job, but I don't understand him anyway. So Joe Chapin—did he think he had a chance?”

“He never came right out and said so,” said Slattery.

“I didn't realize he had such ambitions,” said Laubach. “Governor, yes. But President?”

“Well, at least he had as much chance of being President as he did Governor,” said Slattery.

“Amen,” said the Governor. “I guess Mike's right, even though he was being sarcastic. I guess this country's full of guys that secretly wish they could be President. I wonder why I never did. I guess the governorship looked so far away that the White House was way out of sight. You know something? This conversation relaxes me. I'm beginning to realize, really realize, that I actually did fulfill my life ambition. Very relaxing. Yeah, but now I'll start thinking maybe if I'd had an ambition to be President, maybe I could have made that. Gentlemen, you have just seen a man bitten by the presidential bug, and if you call yourselves friends of mine, you'll see to it that I never even get a favorite son nomination. I mean it.”

“We may not respect your wishes in the matter,” said Slattery.

“Now, Mike,” said the Governor. “Now, Mike.”

“The party may need you,” said Slattery.

“Mike, if you don't cut that out I may double-cross you on the Schneider proposition. I want to retire while I can still walk around a golf course and stand up in a trout stream. But imagine Joe Chapin. Gentleman Joe. Did Joe go to Harvard?”

“Yale,” said Slattery. “Penn Law School.”

“Not even Harvard Law School. Always thought of Joe as a Harvard man, but I guess there are quite a few of the same type at Yale. Always polite, trying to have a good time, but always making you think perhaps your fly was open or your necktie was crooked.”

The secretary spoke: “Governor, you asked me to remind you when it—”

“You're right. Gentlemen, a great pleasure to see you again and I wish I could sit here and chew the rag some more, but I have to move along. Henry, drop in when you're over in Dauphin County. Be sure and do that. And Mike, you going to be at that meeting in Philadelphia next week?”

“Oh, sure, the good Lord willing,” said Slattery.

They shook hands and put on their coats. “Reed, get me a copy of Bob Hooker's paper to read in the car. Can we get one downstairs? I don't want to stop at his office, because that'll mean another hour and I want to take a nap in the car.”

“They'll have a copy downstairs,” said Slattery. “The club gets a half a dozen copies. Good-bye, Governor, and thanks again for coming over. I won't say Joe would have appreciated it, but on a more practical basis, it was a good thing for local solidarity.”

“A very fine thing,” said Laubach. “Joe was a real party man, and the rank and file like to see that fact recognized.”

“That's why I did it,” said the Governor. “So long, gentlemen.”

“We'll walk to the car with you,” said Slattery. “It makes us look good, you know.”

“Mike, you're a smooth Irishman,” said the Governor.

“Yep. One of those bright young immigrant boys,” said Slattery. “If you don't look out, pretty soon we'll be running the place.”

“What are you talking about? You do now,” said the Governor.

He waved and was driven away. Slattery and Laubach watched the official limousine until it passed Sixth Street, two and a half blocks away, then they returned to the clubhouse.

“He'll take care of the Schneider matter, but on the Chernowski matter we're licked, and licked good. Somebody else got to him first. That's the kind of thing a man loses sight of when he gets to be Governor.”

“What's that, Mike?”

“The implications, the far-reaching effects. I don't worry about Chernowski's own parish. I leave that to the ward guy. But I could sure use a nice big gesture to show the Catholic vote and so-called foreign vote. You know, Henry, by rights this ought to be a solid Democratic county. Working people. Foreign-born or second-generation. We've been
stealing
this county from the Democrats because we had an organization. But now
they
have an organization and it's on the move. By the way, that fellow in Washington, I hear he's a sick man.”

“So I heard,” said Laubach.

“This Harry S. Truman. I don't know much about him, and you can be darn sure if I don't, the people don't. Colorless. Inconsequential. We can worry about him when the time comes. Meanwhile, I'm asked to deliver without a heck of a lot of help from the Governor's Mansion, and it isn't easy.”

“I appreciate that, Mike,” said Laubach.

“Let's go over and say hello to Billy English,” said Mike.

The old gentleman was sitting in his chair at one of the large plate-glass windows on the street side of the reading room. His arms rested on the chair-arms, his hands hung over the edges of the arms and opened and closed as though he were beating time to silent music.