Advise and Consent (14 page)

“Mr. President,” Senator Hendershot began angrily, “Mr. President—” But Senator Cooley forestalled him.

“Mr.—President,” he said in his slow, deliberate, opening manner, “again I beseech Senators to contemplate for a moment the spectacle we are making of ourselves here. Who is causing this bitterness and hatred and division among us? Robert—A.—Leffingwell. Who is disrupting the friendly and cordial flow of legislative interchange, so necessary to our country’s welfare? Robert—A.—Leffingwell. Who is turning this Senate into a cockpit of angry emotions? Robert—A.—No, Senator, no, Senator, I will not yield. I see my friend, the distinguished senior Senator from Michigan, the great Majority Leader of this Senate, who has sat beside me—or, rather, I should say, beside whom I have sat—for all these many years, Mr. President, in the greatest brotherhood and love and harmony—he is on his feet, Mr. President, seeking recognition, asking me to yield—still beside me, Mr. President, but oh, what a difference! Now he stands beside me in bitterness and hate, no longer my brother, no longer my companion in this great legislative body, Mr. President, his face contorted with passion, his tongue thickened with hate, and why, Mr. President?” He bent low
toward the Senate, his voice sank far down, and the answer came in a gusty whisper that swept the room: “
Because of Robert A. Leffingwell!
No, Mr. President, I will not yield to my former brother, or to those other great and distinguished Senators whom I see ranged eagerly before me, the great Senator from Illinois, Mr. Knox, the great Senator from Utah, Mr. Anderson, the kindly and always patient Senators from Connecticut and Idaho, Mr. Danta and Mr. Strickland, my able and determined young friend from Ioway, Mr. Smith—no, Mr. President, I will not yield to them for they, too, turn to me faces full of hate
because of Robert A. Leffingwell.
I abominate him, Mr. President!” he shouted abruptly, striking his desk so violently that the ink pot hopped out of its slot and sprayed its contents across his midriff, while the galleries gasped. “I abominate him! He is no good, Mr. President! He is evil, Mr. President! He will destroy our beloved America, Mr. President! I beg of you, Senators”—and both arms rose high above his head in an evangelical exhortation—“I beg of you, if you love our dear country,
reject this man!
” For a long moment he held the pose and then his arms came slowly down.

“And now, Mr. President,” he said softly, turning to Senator Munson with a sleepy little ironic smile, “if my brother the distinguished Majority Leader will permit me, I am an old man, and I should like to sit down.”

And he did so, making no attempt to clean his clothes, but only allowing his coat to fall open a little wider so that all could see his scars of battle.

Of the many courses open to Bob Munson at that moment, he chose the one that long experience told him was best under the circumstances.

“Mr. President,” he said with a calmness that cost him, but he knew he must display it, “I suggest that the Senate return to the regular order of business, the Federal Reserve bill. I ask unanimous consent that the Senate vote on the bill and all amendments thereto at 4 p.m. Monday, the time between now and then to be divided equally between the Majority and Minority Leaders.”

“Without objection,” Harley Hudson said rapidly—and perhaps because the transition of mood was so abrupt, there was none—“it is so ordered.”

“I yield twenty minutes to the senior Senator from Washington, Mr. Welch,” Senator Munson said and sat down, reaching over as he did so to pick up Seab’s empty inkwell from the floor and, without looking at him, replace it carefully in its socket on the desk.

An hour later, after extending Julius Welch’s time for the third time running, he turned his chair over to Tom Trummell again and went back to the cloakroom, just off the floor at the back, still ignoring Seab and going out of his way to avoid Paul Hendershot. There were many times and many occasions in the Senate when a sharp exchange on the floor was followed by backslapping and wisecracking and amicable interchanges that wiped out animosities and soothed bruised feelings; but there were other times when matters went too deep for easy persiflage and the sting was longer dying. This was one of them; Senator Munson was in no mood yet to pretend that what had happened was just a jolly romp among good friends, and obviously the others weren’t either. Seab hadn’t spoken for an hour, and Paul Hendershot ostentatiously turned his back when the Majority Leader started up the aisle. Bob Munson had the sinking, unhappy feeling that comes when something that everybody has been talking about casually as bad suddenly turns out to be actually as bad as everybody has been saying. In the short space of an hour anger had been fortified, resentments had been strengthened, patterns of opposition had been frozen; it was suddenly a different Senate, in relation to Bob Leffingwell and in relation to itself, from what it had been an hour ago; and it seemed an ominous change. He knew he was not alone in this feeling, for there was a certain subdued air about the Senate that came when its members knew beyond all evading that they were really in for it. After the heated exchange of the afternoon, they knew it now, and since the Senate is composed in the main of amiable gentlemen who like each other and had much rather get along together than tear each other apart, the Majority Leader was not the only man who felt glum.

Nonetheless, if they were in for it, they were in for it, he reflected as he pushed open the swinging glassed doors and entered the cloakroom, and they all might as well get down to business about it. On the tide of this thought he looked about the noisy little room, now jammed with Senators lounging on the sofas, sitting in the chairs, and busy on the telephones, and picked out Powell Hanson of North Dakota and Lafe Smith sitting together at one side. Powell raised a hand in greeting and made room for him on the sofa. Lafe’s greeting was terse.

“That old son of a bitch,” he said. “His able young colleague, am I, betraying what I learned at my mother’s knee, am I? He lost a vote by being so damned smart.”

“Did he?” Bob Munson asked curiously. Lafe paused and then grinned.

“Well,” he said honestly, “maybe not, I don’t know. But he lost a friend, anyway.”

“Did he ever have one?” Powell Hanson asked, and Bob Munson smiled.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “I’m one, his dearly beloved brother and companion. I don’t begrudge Seab his little show; you’ll have to admit it’s about the best in the Senate. And I think in the long run it loses him more than it gains him, so I don’t mind if he wants to put it on. It may help me, when all’s said and done.”

“You’ll need help,” Charles Abbott of New Hampshire observed, coming over and breaking in as was his wont. His face of a very old angel who had taken a detour through hell looked even more raddled than usual today, Bob Munson noted; what in God’s name did Charlie do at nights? It was something everybody wondered and nobody knew.

“You going to give it to me?” Senator Munson asked, and Senator Abbott looked at him with that innocent candor that usually precedes senatorial evasion. This time, however, the answer was surprisingly direct, considering the place and circumstances.

“Are we going to get that atomic sub contract for the Portsmouth Navy yard?” Charlie Abbott asked.

This, Bob Munson knew, was the sort of thing he was going to be running into repeatedly as the Leffingwell nomination progressed, and he might as well set his pattern right now, particularly since several Senators nearby had overheard the challenge and had quieted to listen for his answer to it.

“We’ll have to wait and see, Charlie,” he said crisply. “If you help us, we’ll help you.”

“You help first,” Senator Abbott said pleasantly, but with a little tightening around his eyes.

“Run along, Charlie,” Senator Munson said, starting to turn back to Lafe and Powell. “I haven’t got time to play games today.” Senator Abbott placed a hand tightly on his shoulder.

“God damn it,” he said angrily, “my people need that contract. We have eight hundred unemployed in that town right now, and Portsmouth isn’t any metropolis. That’s a lot of people for a town that size, Bob. The Admin-istration had better come through on this, or by God, there’ll be trouble, not only out there”—he gestured toward the floor—“but up there at the polls. We could lose New Hampshire next year, Bob. It’s changing fast and it’s got troubles.”

“Haven’t we all,” said Bob Munson dryly. Then he moderated his tone.

“See here, Charlie,” he said, looking beyond him at Cecil Hathaway of Delaware and Ed Parrish of Nevada and Rhett Jackson of North Carolina, all of whom were listening intently, “the President is aware of your situation there, and he wants to do the best he can for you, and I think you’ll find Portsmouth won’t be forgotten. But it’s not going to be remembered on any blackmail basis, I give you my word as Majority Leader on that. Now if you want to come in with us on Bob Leffingwell, wonderful, your support will be welcome and valuable. If you don’t, we’ll make out. It’s up to you Charlie. I’ll be hoping to hear from you favorably one of these days soon.”

Senator Abbott looked at him for a long moment, and Senator Munson looked impassively back. The eyes of the Senator from New Hampshire fell first.

“Okay, Bob,” he said, but coldly. “We’ll have to see.”

“I guess we will, Charlie,” Bob Munson said, unmoved, as Charles Abbott walked away. Ed Parrish waved ironically from across the room.

“Another day, another dollar,” he observed dryly; and Bob Munson, aware that here was one vote he could probably count on, laughed out loud.

“I hope so,” he said. Senator Parrish smiled.

“I’m sure of it,” he said. “Pride goeth before a surrender, particularly where Charlie’s concerned.”

“Of course,” Cecil Hathaway remarked, “you may find all of us that difficult too, you know, Bobby.”

Senator Munson smiled, but his reply was pointed.

“I trust you all heard the answer he got,” he said, and Cecil Hathaway grinned.

“How could we help it,” he asked, “when you were so careful to make sure we would?”

Bob Munson laughed.

“You’re just too sharp, Ceece,” he said. “I can’t have any secrets around here.”

“Not from us who know and love you,” Ceece said jovially. “That’s for sure.”

“Tell me,” Bob Munson said as the others turned away and he could concentrate again on his two younger colleagues, “what are you going to do, Powell?”

“I’m for him,” Senator Hanson said promptly, his trim blond head nodding vigorously. “I always have been, as you know.”

“Yes,” Bob Munson said, “one man who’s never had any doubts about Bob Leffingwell. You’re a rarity, my boy.”

“It’s largely a matter of conviction,” Powell Hanson said. “We see things pretty much alike, Bob and I, in spite of the fact that I, unlike him, am not engaged in any sinister plots against the Republic.”

“What got into Paul?” Lafe asked, and Powell snorted.

“He’s always been a damned isolationist,” he said, “he’s never changed.”

“Apparently Indiana hasn’t either,” Bob Munson observed. “They keep sending him back.”

“Yes, that’s true,” Powell said. “Something people forget, sometimes: if our people didn’t like us, we wouldn’t be here.”

“A little truism that is overlooked by some of our higher and mightier publications now and then,” Senator Munson agreed. “I’d like your help on this, Powell, if you’re willing.”

“Gladly,” Senator Hanson said. “I’ll do whatever I can, Bob.”

“Let me know what you hear,” Senator Munson said, rising. “I’m going over to the other cave and talk to Warren Strickland for a minute.”

“Send for us if you need help,” Cecil Hathaway called as he started out the door. Bob Munson laughed.

“I think my passport is still good,” he said.

As he traversed the short distance from his own side across the center aisle past the main door to the Minority cloakroom, he noted that Taylor Ryan was now up and arguing bluntly with Jay Welch on the Federal Reserve bill while Murfee Andrews cast in waspish comments whenever he got the chance. Harley had left the Chair and disappeared somewhere, gracious gray Lloyd B. Cavanaugh of Rhode Island was sitting in for him, and in the Majority Leader’s own chair Tom Trummell had given way to John J. McCafferty of Arkansas, a wispy little old man of eighty-three who always looked as though he would blow away in the next high wind but somehow clung to the well-riveted affections of the people of Arkansas in spite of it. Irving Steinman of New York was sitting in for Warren Strickland in the Minority Leader’s chair, soberly signing correspondence and ignoring the debate as he did so. Elsewhere about the floor Senator Munson spotted Clement Johnson of Delaware, apple-cheeked and bright-eyed, chatting amiably with chunky little Leo P. Richardson of Florida, who was sitting on the edge of his chair and swinging his legs, which were just too short to reach the floor. Dick Mclntyre of Idaho, small, dark and swarthy as befitted his Indian blood, was gesticulating violently to Raymond Robert Smith of California, tall, elegant, handsome, and faintly, just faintly, willowy; Lief Erickson of Minnesota, big, bluff and biting, was talking forcefully to Porter Owens of Montana, small, hostile-looking and obviously unimpressed; and Luis Valdez of New Mexico, young, earnest and bespectacled, was arguing suavely with Seab Cooley’s dark-eyed, dark-visaged colleague from South Carolina, H. Harper Graham. In the galleries above the tourists were thinning out, only a corporal’s guard of wire-service reporters manned the press gallery; the afternoon was wearing on. He pushed open the door of the Minority cloakroom and walked in to be greeted by the usual jocular ribbing that always greeted his rare appearances in that enemy enclave.

“Lock up the silver!” Allen Whiteside of Florida cried in his jolly, plum-pudding way. “We’re being invaded!”

“Under which king, Bezonian?” demanded Verne Cramer of South Dakota lazily from a sofa where he was stretched out full length with a pillow under his head, “Speak or die.”

“The wits they have in the Minority,” Bob Munson said wonderingly. “Why is it they can never get control of the government?”