A President In Peril

Chapter Fifteen I₁ N₁ E₁ F₄ F₄ A₁ B₃ L₁ E₁ (adj) incapable of being expressed or described; inexpressible; unspeakable

Just after returning to my desk in the press room from the session with Mr. Floyd Willman of the FBI, I got a call from Murray on the city desk. “Snap, we’re asking most of our reporters to do extra duty when the candidates breeze through town next week.”

“I was expecting you would, Hal. It’s not the first time, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. Just what’ve you got planned for me?”

“Do you feel up to some night work? We can get somebody to spell you at Headquarters, at least for part of your shift, say from three o’clock on.”

“Sure, why not? I’m always looking for a changepace.”

“Here’s the situation. As you know, the M.E. has always been fond of your feature-writing style, but don’t let it give you a big head. He wants you to roam along the parade route on Madison Street both nights. Work the crowds, talk to people, find out why they like — or don’t like — Truman or Dewey. We’re looking for color, anecdotes, and any weird stuff you might happen to run into.”

“Has a vaguely familiar ring.”

Murray laughed. “I figured it might. We all still remember the piece you did back in ’44 about that parade in the Loop for old Dewey.”

“Oh, yeah, the one about that Red-White-and-Blue Man.”

Murray allowed himself another chuckle. “He had a red, white, and blue suit, a red, white, and blue tie, and a red, white and blue beanie with a propeller on it. And he was carrying one American flag with a second one stuck in his belt just above his butt.”

“And he was also nutty as the proverbial fruitcake,” I put in.

“No surprise there. But what I particularly liked about the piece was that you didn’t ridicule the poor bastard. You quoted him as though he were a serious, thoughtful member of the electorate who was out there showing his enthusiasm for his candidate.”

“It was damn hard not to make fun of him, though, Hal. He told me Dewey had promised him a cabinet position, Agriculture, I think it was.”

“Geez, I don’t remember that from the story.”

“That’s because I didn’t put it in. The poor man was a big enough fool without me making it any worse. As it was, I did quote him saying he felt Dewey would win 40 states and put an end to ‘King Roosevelt the Second’s reign of dictatorship.’”

“Yeah, I remember that the Colonel liked that particular line. Well, now that Dewey’s back, maybe the guy will be around again, too,” Murray said. “Complete with his funny suit.”

“If he hasn’t been put away someplace nice and quiet with a high fence around it where he can have long talks with people who claim to be Napoleon and Queen Victoria and Augustus Caesar.”

“Hell, even if he doesn’t show up, Snap, chances are good you’ll find all sorts of weird and wacky stuff along the parade route.”

“So... have you heard from the FBI yet?” Fergus Fahey asked when I stopped back at his office just to shoot the breeze later that day.

“Oh, yes, indeed I have. I spent a delightful twenty minutes or so with your friend Mr. Willman.”

“No friend of mine. How did it go?”

“About the way you’d expect,” I told him. “He’s not exactly gregarious, is he?”

“Snap, he’s with the FBI. Gregarious isn’t part of their vocabulary.”

“Oh, I know. Actually, he was pretty much the way I expected. He seemed awfully damned interested in my past and whether I’d ever belonged to any lodges, secret societies, or what he referred to as ‘ethnic groups’. I wanted to tell him I’d been with the Ku Klux Klan for the last twenty years, but I decided against it.”

“Good thing,” Fahey observed dryly. “The Bureau isn’t any fonder of jokes than they are of gregariousness.”

“Yeah, well, I got the feeling Willman thought there was something funny about the fact that these Nazi morons chose to call me and send me those little love notes. Like maybe I was somehow sympathetic to their garbage.”

The chief leaned back in his chair. “It’s their job to be suspicious, just like it’s our job. Keep in mind that Willman doesn’t have the advantage of knowing you like I do.”

“Well, I hope that’s the last I see of the guy. He gives me the creeps. Of course, he was none too happy with me from the start; I refused to go to his office for the interview, so he had to come here.”

“Now that’s the Malek I know,” Fahey said, showing the hint of a smile. “I’m surprised you didn’t try to get him to buy your lunch.”

“Not a chance, Fergus. That would have meant I’d have had to spend more time with him.”

“Everything has its price,” the chief observed, turning to his ever-present stack of paperwork as the signal that I was dismissed.

I have never put much stock in clairvoyance or what they are calling ‘extrasensory perception’ these days; but for the rest of the afternoon, I found myself with a vague sense of unease that I could neither explain nor define.

“You seem a thousand miles away, Snap,” Packy Farmer said a few minutes before our shift was over. “It’s a funny time of year to be getting spring fever.”

“I guess my mind is someplace else, I just don’t know where,” I said. “Maybe I just want this damn campaign to be over.”

“Hell, we all do,” Dirk O’Farrell chimed in. “Like you, I’ve been stuck with a night assignment next week. I have to go out to the Stadium Tuesday and back up our political editor on the coverage of Dewey’s speech. The place will be packed and noisy and sweaty.”

“Republicans, sir, do not sweat,” Farmer said. “Democrats sweat. Republicans perspire. Isn’t that right, Antsy?”

“It’s too late in the day for your brand of humor, Packy,” Anson Masters growled as he began packing up in preparation for turning his desk over to the Daily News night man.

That ineffable feeling of anxiety stayed with me all the way home to Oak Park on the Elevated and was still there when I opened the door of the sturdy stucco house on Scoville Avenue.

“How was your day, darling?” Catherine asked as we embraced in the living room. “You seem a little bit distracted.”

I admitted to being somewhat unsettled, and filled her in on the day’s activities as I usually did.

“That FBI fellow sounds like he’d be a real stitch at a party,” she remarked. “How do you feel about those night assignments along the parade route next week?”

“Might be interesting,” I said without enthusiasm, then proceeded to tell her about the red-white-and-blue man from 1944, which was the year before we got reacquainted and married.

“What’s really wrong, Steve?” she said during dinner. “You still seem a little distant. Out with it.”

“That’s what Packy Farmer told me at work. I can’t put my finger on anything specific. But I feel... I don’t know... out of step, somehow.”

“It’s that miserable New Reich business,” Catherine said. “They’ve killed people — or so we think — and made threats regarding the president, and you’re worrying, maybe subconsciously, about what might occur when he comes to Chicago.”

“I suppose you’re right, but I’ve got this feeling — don’t ask me why — that something’s going to happen even before Truman hits town.”

“You, sir, are in need of relaxation. Might I suggest a spirited game of Scrabble — after we wash the dishes, of course?”

“You’ve got yourself a deal, doll,” I told her. “Be prepared to be humbled by a master wordsmith.”

Somebody got humbled, all right. The lady came up with quirky, enzyme, and expel — all in the same game. It was such a rout that I didn’t even challenge her to a rematch.