The Porkchoppers

18

Sadie Cubbin lay on her side in the rumpled bed in room 918 of the Sheraton and watched Fred Mure as he slept and snored. He’s earned it, she thought. He’s given satisfactory service once, twice and sometimes even three times a day for the past four months now so you can’t object if he snores a little when he sleeps.

She reached for a cigarette and lit it and then turned back to watch Mure. I think the first few times he did it to accommodate Don, not me. He fucked me because he knew that Don couldn’t and so it was part of the service, like arranging for the elevator and putting Don to bed at night and getting him to places on time. Too drunk to fuck your wife, boss? Merely another simple problem in logistics except that Fred wouldn’t use a word like that. So that’s all it was at first, just stud service, but now he’s built it into something more and when Don gets through with this election and things get back to where they were before, Fred is going to be a problem. Poor, ignorant, beautiful, cunning, crafty, sexy Fred Mure’s in love with the boss’s wife and she lets him be in love with her because she has to have it. He thinks it’s going to continue like this when Don gets well again after the election. Don must know. Don’t kid yourself, Sadie, of course he knows. That’s why he wouldn’t let them send Fred away, because he knew his wife had to have her share and she wasn’t going to get it from him and she had to get it from somewhere and somehow Fred is no threat to Don. God, what a mess. It was all right before he started drinking this time. No it wasn’t all right, but you could live with it. You got fucked twice a week, sometimes three. Now you get it twice a day, sometimes three. Well, there’s no use worrying about it now. You can worry afterward, after the election. God, I hope Don loses. Please, God, make him lose.

Fred Mure opened his eyes and looked at Sadie. “I was asleep.”

“I know. I was watching you.”

“What time is it?”

“A little after three.”

“I’d better get going. He should be getting back around three-thirty.”

“What’s the schedule for tonight?”

“He’s got two meetings,” Fred said, “one in Calumet and one in Gary.”

“We’d better get dressed.”

Fred Mure smiled at Sadie, turned, and ran a hand over her body. “We’ve got a little time.”

She trembled and then the tremble turned into a shiver. “We shouldn’t, darling,” she said as she wiggled toward him.

At four o’clock that afternoon Donald Cubbin finished reading the memorandum that Charles Guyan had handed him. He looked up at Oscar Imber and asked, “You read it?”

“I read it.”

“What do you think?”

“I think it’s fine,” Imber said. “It’s just the kind of PR program you need, if you had a million bucks to spend.”

Cubbin turned to Guyan who was half sprawled on the couch in the living room of Cubbin’s suite. “How much fat’s in there?”

“Not much.”

“Come on, I never read one of these things yet that didn’t have some frills that could be cut out.”

“You might be able to get by on eight hundred thousand.”

“We haven’t got eight hundred thousand,” Imber said. “We haven’t got nearly that much.”

“We do now,” Cubbin said.

Imber leaned forward in his chair. “What do you mean, we do now?”

Cubbin smiled. “I raised four hundred thousand this afternoon. I can probably squeeze another two hundred thousand out of them. With what you’ve raised we’ve got enough.”

Imber stood up. “Where did you raise that much?”

“Friends.”

“Come on, Don. Where?”

“Walter Penry.”

“Jesus,” Imber said and sat back down, slumping in the chair.

“It’s clean money,” Cubbin said.

“Bullshit,” Imber said.

“Is Penry in on this now?” Guyan said.

“He’s going to help out a bit,” Cubbin said.

“Then you’ve got my resignation.”

“What the hell do you mean I’ve got your resignation?”

“I don’t work with Penry.”

“Why not? What’s wrong with Walter Penry?”

“He’s slimy, that’s what’s wrong with him. He’s the slimiest son of a bitch in the world and I’m not going to take any crap from him or from that creeping Jesus who works for him.”

Imber glanced at Guyan. “You mean Peter Majury?”

“Jawohl,” Guyan said and made a Nazi salute. “You know Majury?”

Imber nodded. “I know him and I know Penry, too.”

“Well,” Guyan said as he rose, “it’s been real.”

“Sit down, Charlie,” Imber said. “Let’s find out about this first. If it’s like you think it is, I’ll go with you.” Imber looked at Cubbin. “All right, tell us.”

“I don’t have to tell you a fuckin thing, sonny,” Cubbin said, his voice rising. “If you want to quit, then quit. Christ, everybody else has run out on me. I’m sixty-two years old, but by God I can still run a campaign if I want to and I don’t need any help from people who quit if they think they’re not going to be the big cheese. I don’t need you guys; I don’t need anybody.”

“Calm down, chief,” Kelly said from his chair in the corner. “Just tell them what Penry told you.”

“You were there, Kelly?” Imber said.

“I was there.”

“What do you think?”

“About what?”

“About what we’re talking about, for Christ’s sake.”

“I think you guys are being childish. All of you. Penry’s come up with some money. He swears it’s clean and no strings attached. He also claims that he doesn’t want anything to do with the PR or the management of Dad’s campaign. He seems to want to work on the opposition, to come up with a few tricks that’ll be dirtier than theirs. Although it’s the first time I’ve met him, I’d say he might be able to do it. I didn’t much care for him.”

“All right, Don,” Imber said, “let’s start all over.”

“You guys want to quit, go ahead.”

“We’re all a little edgy, Don. Just tell us about the money first.”

“It’s just like Kelly said. There’re no strings.”

“How about later?”

Cubbin shook his head. “No. None then either.”

“Who’s putting it up?”

“The money?”

“Christ, yes, the money.”

“I don’t know. Penry said friends of mine.”

Imber shook his head. “What do you think? I mean really.”

Cubbin sighed. “I’d like a drink.”

Imber looked at Kelly who nodded and said, “I’ll get it.” He rose and went into the adjoining bedroom. Sadie Cubbin was seated in a chair, reading a magazine. “How’s it going?” she said.

“All right,” Kelly said, mixing a bourbon and water.

“Is your dad okay?”

“He’ll make it,” Kelly said and went back into the living room and handed his father the drink.

Cubbin took a large swallow. “You want to know what I think, huh?”

“That’s right,” Imber said.

“Well, I don’t have any friends who’re going to put up four or five or six hundred thousand to get me reelected. I don’t think anybody has friends like that. So that only leaves one source that I can think of.”

Imber nodded. “Me, too.”

“What?” Guyan said.

“It’s company money,” Imber said.

Cubbin nodded. “It must be.”

“But you’re not sure,” Imber said.

“What do you mean I’m not sure?” Cubbin said. “I’m damned sure.”

“No, as far as you’re concerned, it’s money from friends.” He looked at Guyan. “You don’t care where the money comes from, do you?”

Guyan shrugged. “I just spend it, but I don’t want Walter Penry or that kneejerk Nazi of his telling me how to spend it.”

“You got Peter all wrong,” Cubbin said in a mild tone. “He’s really quite a liberal guy.”

“I’m not going to argue with you, Don,” Guyan said. “I’m just going to tell you right now that I’m not going to take any orders from either Penry or Majury.”

“But you will take money from them?” Imber said.

Guyan shrugged again.

“What about suggestions and ideas, but not orders?” Kelly said to Guyan.

“If it’s a good idea or suggestion, I don’t care where it comes from,” Guyan said.

“Well,” Kelly said, “from what I heard and saw during my first meeting with that bunch, you’re going to be getting quite a few suggestions and ideas.” He turned to his father. “You’d better play them that tape, chief.”

Cubbin nodded. “I guess I’d better. After you hear this tape you’re going to understand not just why we can use Walter Penry, but why we need him. Why we need him bad. Play it for them, Kelly.”

Kelly Cubbin walked over to the small Sony recorder that had arrived by cab shortly after he and his father had returned from the Hilton. He pressed a button and the sound of the mimeograph machine began.

Cubbin watched the grim expressions that appeared on the faces of Guyan and Imber as the voices on the tape began. I don’t guess they’ve ever played this rough before, he thought. It’s going to get rougher, a lot rougher because Sammy’s out to win and for him that’s everything. Christ, when’s the last time you wanted something so bad that it made you hurt the way Sammy must be hurting? Well, yeah, there was that time then when you wanted to get on that bus to L.A. You wanted that all right, but since then you haven’t wanted much of anything, at least not anything that wasn’t easy enough to get. You want to be reelected this last time, but it won’t kill you if you’re not. You’d probably be better off, you and Sadie. You’ve got to do something about Sadie. Maybe explain to her how after the election’s over it’s going to be okay again. Christ, Cubbin, you can really fuck things up.

When the tape ended, the grim expressions on the faces of Guyan and Imber remained. Imber looked at Cubbin who was wearing a cynical smile. “Surprised?” Cubbin said.

Imber nodded. “What’re you going to do about it?”

“I’m seeing Barnett Tuesday.”

“What’re you going to say?”

“You mean after I stuff that tape down his throat?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know,” Cubbin said, “but whatever it is, I’m going to have a damned good time saying it.”

Imber turned to Guyan. “You’d better tell him about it now.”

“Tell me what?” Cubbin said.

“The wire services have been after me for your answer to Sammy.”

“What’s Sammy saying?”

“He held a press conference in Washington this afternoon.”

“And?”

“He demanded that you resign.”

Cubbin snorted. “Christ,” he said, “I thought he might have said something important.”