Ten North Frederick (58 page)

Joe reached in his pocket and took out a long envelope and laid it in front of Mike. “You want me to look at this?” said Mike.

Joe nodded.

Mike emptied the envelope on the table. “I think I see twenty thousand dollars.”

Joe nodded again.

“Do you want me to put this in my pocket?” said Mike.

Joe nodded again.

Mike smiled. “Joe, don't worry about a dictograph being hidden somewhere. If there's one here, which I doubt, we've said enough already.”

“I haven't said anything in any way incriminating,” said Joe.

“Have it your own way,” said Mike. He got up and went out into the hall and beckoned to Joe to follow him.

“There's no dictograph out here, we can be sure of that,” said Mike. “Don't be too suspicious, Joe. Money changes hands all the time. Now as to this money, I'll see that it gets where it'll do the most good. And I'll time it right. I'll wait till our fellows begin asking about money before they see a cent of this. Is that satisfactory to you?”

“Perfectly.”

“Fine, now let's go back and have another cup of coffee and forget political intrigue.”

Joe laughed. “Mike, you're a wonder.”

“Oh, well,” said Mike, not entirely displeased. “At least you didn't call me a smart Irishman.”

“Only because I forgot to.”

“I like it when people forget that,” said Mike. “You'll be hearing from me in about a month, not before. If it's a big fat no, that'll end it for good. But if it isn't a no, just a perhaps, will you want me to continue trying?”

“As long as there's a good chance,” said Joe.

“I'll almost guarantee you that much. As to this—” he tapped his coat pocket—“you understand you've kissed that good-bye.”

“I understand,” said Joe.

In about a month Mike telephoned Joe: “I'm a day or so late,” he said. “But I just wanted you to know. I told you if there was a big fat no, that'd end it. Well, there hasn't been a big fat no or a little thin one, but I was right. A couple of other fellows think they'd like the same thing you'd like.”

“Are they important?”

“Oh, more or less, but they can be dealt with. I'll call you again in three or four weeks.”

Edith tried to persuade Joe to exact more detailed reports from Mike, but Joe argued against it. “The less we know of Mike's maneuverings at this stage of the game, the better off we are.”

The next call from Mike was a week later than he had said he would be. “Do you remember what you handed me in Philadelphia?”

“Of course,” said Joe.

“How many times would you be willing to multiply it? In other words, is your limit twice that? Two and a half times it? Or five times? What is your outside limit?”

“I'd have to know a lot more than I do know before answering that question,” said Joe.

“I understand. Well, do you want to run into me at the club in about an hour or so?”

“I'll be there,” said Joe.

Mike was reading his New York
Herald Tribune
in a back corner of the reading room. “Why, hello, there, Joe. As the Indians say, long time no see.”

“May I join you for a minute or two?” said Joe.

“Well, we've made it casual,” said Mike. “Have a seat. The fellows want to know this: how much is Chapin willing to spend on the campaign as a whole, and take his chances on the nomination?”

“I could spend a hell of a lot and never get anywhere.”

“Exactly,” said Mike. “But that's what they want to know, and they want me to find out. They won't make a single promise, not a single one. The twenty thousand, that's in the war chest. You're credited with it, but it had no strings attached to it.”

“I fully realize that.”

“They argue this way, Joe. Whatever you contribute, you're going to be taken care of somehow, proportionately to what you give. But they want to know are you going to hold out money in order to get a handshake deal on the particular job you want. If that's the case, they won't do business. You see, voting being what it is, they're not going to shake hands on lieutenant governor if you don't qualify for the ticket. You have to make a strong ticket, and you personally may not make it strong because of where you come from, or your background, or any number of things. That's only right, Joe. That's the way it works in politics. But what they
will
guarantee you is that they'll take care of you, although it may not be lieutenant governor.”

“But that's the job I picked. What else is there?”

“Governor, and United States senator. And you won't get either one of those. A million dollars wouldn't get you senator. Now I don't say you're not going to get lieutenant governor but we're not going to—I say we, I mean they—they're not going to promise you something they may not be able to deliver.”

Joe thought a moment. “I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll go five times as much as I have gone. In plain language, up to a hundred thousand, but with the understanding that that will also be my campaign contribution if and when I get the nomination. In other words, a hundred thousand between now and the primaries, but after that nothing. If my friends want to contribute, all right, but no more from me. If I don't get the nomination, no more contributions for twenty years.”

“Oh, they're not going to like that last part. Do you really want me to tell them that? It sounds as though you were trying to give the orders.”

“Not the orders. The money,” said Joe. “And don't forget, Mike, I didn't say it was my final contribution for twenty years if I
do
get the nomination. I only said that if I don't get the nomination, I'll stop contributions for twenty years. It's like a life membership in a club. I usually give about five thousand a year to the organization. And to tell you the truth, I have been giving it for so long that I could argue that I shouldn't spend anything
like
a hundred thousand to get the nomination I want.”

“What you gave in the past was the contribution of a regular party man. A lot of fellows in your circumstances give that much and more without wanting anything in return. And, Joe, I hate to bring this up, but there's that matter upstate, the thing I took care of with that justice of the peace.”

“I always knew that would be brought up sooner or later.”

 • • • 

A laudatory page-one piece in Bob Hooker's newspaper—two-column measure,
12
-point Ionic on a
14
slug—was so skillfully done that many citizens actually asked Joe Chapin if he approved of Bob Hooker's article. Since Joe had read the piece as soon as it came out of the typewriter, and had reread it in galley proof, the question was not hard to answer. But among the older friends of the Chapin family a publicly active participation in politics was still regarded as a relinquishing of one's privacy. Mr. Taft was said to be a gentleman, Teddy was a gentleman, Woodrow Wilson was probably a gentleman, Gifford Pinchot was a gentleman but a strange one, and there had been other gentlemen who ran for political office, but as a rule, as a good, sound general rule, it was better to stay out of politics when politics meant running for office. It was all very well to be a strong supporter of the party, and to accept, say, a Cabinet office, but it was not all very well to ask people to vote for you. What was to be gained? On the evening that Bob Hooker's Call to Arms was sounded there were, therefore, quite a few older people on Lantenengo Street and South Main who characterized the editorial and its author as “fresh.” They agreed that the party, as Bob Hooker said, needed a man like Joseph B. Chapin, but they were sorry that Bob Hooker had taken it upon himself to specify not a man
like
Joe Chapin—but Joe Chapin!

The telephone at
10
North Frederick began ringing at about six-thirty, and the first calls were politely indignant. But after Edith had told various friends that Joe had seen the editorial, was flattered by it, and felt that if that was where his duty lay . . . On the following day Joe's statement was published. It was a nice combination of modesty and forthrightness.

“I was highly complimented to read the editorial which urged me to campaign for the high office once held by my grandfather and namesake, Joseph B. Chapin. I have always believed that the office should seek the man rather than the reverse. At the same time, I believe that good citizens of whatever party affiliation are becoming increasingly aware of the danger to the American way of life which is now threatening us in the national capital; and it is my conviction that no man or woman can shirk the performance of any task, great or small, which may contribute to the restoration of the fundamental principles on which this country was founded and which have made it great. If it should fall to my lot to be chosen to fight for those principles in a campaign for high office in our beloved Commonwealth, I shall accept the charge and carry our message to the people of Pennsylvania. If this be done, if the people are acquainted with the conditions which are leading us down the road to state socialism, the issue can never be in doubt. Suffice it to say that as an American and as a Republican I shall campaign to the best of my ability.”

In several homes on Lantenengo and South Main and West Christiana, the head of the house was moved to say: “Good for Joe Chapin!”

In Collieryville, in the home of the district attorney, Lloyd Williams, that public servant exclaimed: “Oh, dear.”

“What?” said Lottie Williams.

“Oh, dear. Dear me.”

“
What
?” said his wife. “What are you oh-dearing about?”

“Oh, I don't like to see a thing like this happen to a nice fellow like Joe Chapin.”

“What's happening?”

He tossed her the newspaper. “Read it.”

Lottie was a slow reader of items longer than four lines, and when she finished Joe's statement she looked at her husband inquiringly. “What are you worrying about? It's an honor, isn't it?”

“It's an honor if you call letting Mike Slattery make a horse's ass out of you an honor.”

“Oh,” said Lottie. “You mean he's not going to get elected?”

“That's some consolation,” said Williams.

“That he won't get elected?”

“That he won't get nominated. At least he won't be making a horse's twat out of himself all over the state,” said Williams. “He's an honest son of a bitch that hated Roosevelt and let himself get sucked in.” He slapped the newspaper with the back of his fingers. “From here I'd be inclined to say that that statement cost Chapin about twenty-five thousand bucks.”

“Really?”

“For openers. That damn Mike Slattery's a real bastard to do this to Joe Chapin. I don't know, God damn it, I'm all for taking it away from the rich and giving it to the rich politician but there's such a thing as common decency. Well—maybe that's asking too much in politics. But he could have done it to Henry Laubach. Or could he? No. Not that cold fish. He's too smart. Not too smart. Too unfeeling. He wouldn't know how to hate Roosevelt the way Joe Chapin does.”

“I don't follow you. You ask yourself a question and then you answer it and then you contradict it.”

“Don't pay no attention to me.”

“How can I help it when you talk like you were delirious? I hope he gets a good kick in the ass.”

“Joe Chapin? Why?”

“Oh, him I don't care about one way or another. But her.”

“What about her?”

“Who does she think she is, looking straight through a person as if I was nothing? You talk about Henry Laubach. There's the cold fish, that Edith Stokes.”

“No.”

“You bet she is.”

“No, I screwed her years ago,” said Williams.

“Yeah, that was when I was the Queen of England. I don't think she has a good screw in her, if you want to know what I think.”

“She has two children,” said Williams.

“That's just getting pregnant. You know darn well what I mean.”

“Well, you never can tell,” said Williams. “She may be just right for Joe.”

“Then I don't think much of him. I wouldn't vote for him, on account of her. She's high-hat enough so's it is.”

“I'll bet you a good dinner you won't get a chance to vote for him.”

“Well, if I did, I wouldn't,” said Lottie.

He was off by himself again. “If I had some common decency about me I'd go and have a talk with him. But would I? He wants it, or else it wouldn't get this far. It's none of my business if he wants to throw away twenty-five thousand bucks. He has it.”

“Over a million, I hear,” said Lottie.

“And I've got myself to look out for. He isn't what you call a real friend of mine. I never went to his house.”

“Fat chance of that,” said Lottie. “I'll bet you never even saw their house. When were you ever on North Frederick Street? I lived over in that part of town for a couple years. I went to school to William Street. Fourth and fifth grade. Maybe it was fifth and sixth. I know I went to fifth at William Street. Fifth I remember. I think I remember fifth because twice five. I was ten years old. But part of the time I was either in fourth or sixth. I know I was ten when I was in fifth. That I do remember. But I'm not sure if I was there when I was
nine
, or
eleven
. I can't make sure whether I had my tenth birthday when I was in fifth or when I was in fourth. I'da still been ten if I had it when I was in fourth because school starts the Tuesday after Labor Day, in September. The Catholics used to start the Friday before Labor Day, or the Friday after. Before. That's right. Before. They always started earlier than we did. They never used to start the same day. And they used to get days off, holy days, but we got Institute Week. We always got off Institute Week and boy were they sore! But then they'd have some day like Holy Mother, or something, and they'd get the day off and we'd have to go. Let's see now, we got the week off for Institute Week. That was five days. The whole week. But they got all those religious days off, must have been five at least. Oh, more than that. And we used to argue. Would you rather have the whole week for Teachers' Institute, or have it a day at a time, here and there, scattered. Which'd you rather have?”